"That is a vast green swamp in the heart of the rainforest. The air is thick with mist and heat, the green water plants drifting in the foul, stagnant waters like the hair of corpses. Flourishing shrubs spread across the hidden bog like a carpet, and strange flowers, sweet or fetid, were scattered among them.
The swamp was not very large, perhaps seventy or eighty acres, like a scar upon the rainforest. It might have been the home of the Silver Prince.
Seven or eight swamp dragons or wyverns either soared in the skies or lay sprawled in the waters, passing their days in leisure and freedom.
The largest among them stretched twelve or thirteen meters, similar in size to Little Gold. The smallest was no bigger than a hound, resembling Little Red.
When the Silver Prince let out a long cry, all the wyverns, great and small, rose and responded in unison, their voices filled with both joy and sorrow."
At this point, Old Jonn, thin and gaunt like a crab stripped of its shell, could not help but sigh.
"If they are the Silver Prince's kin, why not bring a few young wyverns back?" Tyrion asked.
Tyrion's wyvern was named Tessa, Old Jonn's was called Silver Prince. Both names carried the weight of unreachable regrets deep within their hearts.
"Do you not hunt?" Old Jonn frowned.
"How could I not? To ride a horse, I even invented a special saddle called the 'Cripple's Savior.'
When I returned from the Wall to Winterfell, I gifted one to young Bran Stark."
As Tyrion spoke, his gaze unconsciously shifted to Old Aemon.
Their eyes met, and both faces showed a trace of melancholy.
Entertaining the queen's brother at the Wall seemed like only yesterday. Yet now, they had reunited at the far end of the world.
Old Jonn said, "If you have hunted, then you should understand the tradition of never harming younglings or pregnant mothers. And what use are hatchlings?
They waste food, have no fighting strength, cannot bear riders. Better to leave them there, as Her Majesty's natural hunting grounds."
"You have a point. But have you found any other wyvern clans?" Aemon asked.
"Yes," Old Jonn sighed. "Seeing that the Silver Prince's kin had no adult dragons, I did not linger and continued south.
After only half an hour of flight, I came upon a swarm of tiny wyverns, no larger than monkeys, their bellies brown.
Though small, they were vicious beyond belief. Hundreds of them were chasing down a python as thick as a beam.
That serpent was thirty or forty meters long, scales glistening, head horned and fierce, like a whale fallen into a lake. It churned the waters into mud and chaos, the swamp drowned in filth.
Yet even so, the little wyverns tore at it, ripping scales and armor, until blood stained half the swamp red.
The sight left me shaken, as though I had stumbled into another world."
Tyrion listened, enraptured, already imagining himself in Old Jonn's place. He asked nervously, "The little wyverns didn't attack you?"
"No," Old Jonn shook his head. "Of the Sothoryos rainforest, I can say three things with certainty: first, it is perilous beyond measure, filled with savage beasts and wildness; second, its plagues are as numerous and frequent as the mosquitoes of the south; third, wyverns are the rulers of the rainforest, with almost no enemies.
As long as one clan does not trespass upon another, there is little war among them."
"Besides the python, what else did you see?" Dany asked curiously.
"Two-meter-long red-shelled centipedes, vultures the size of cottages, black fish with three legs, ape-like creatures that might have been wild men.
The search for wyvern clans was never dull. Even someone like me was enthralled by the marvels of Sothoryos.
But the dangers were too great.
I followed Her Majesty's counsel: drank only my own wine, ate only the dried food from my pack, never shed my armor or removed my helm.
Whether eating, relieving myself, or sleeping, I kept a veil around me. No matter how hot and humid, I did not expose a single inch of skin.
Yet armor always has gaps. One tiny mosquito bit me, and within half an hour I was paralyzed. Another hour, and I thought I was about to die.
It was worse than death itself."
"Thank the gods I never went," the dwarf muttered.
Dany glanced at him and said coolly, "Tyrion, Ser Clinton failed his task, and last time during the trial by combat you ran the wagers, betting that the High Sparrow would die. I lost a million gold coins. Why don't you make another journey to repay the debt?"
"Your Majesty, first time is hardship, second time is familiarity. Besides, you yourself said Ser Clinton gained resistance to the plagues. Better to wait until he recovers—an old hand knows the road." Tyrion gave a sheepish smile.
Even if Clinton suspected the dwarf's cowardice, his own expression remained firm. "Rest assured, Your Majesty. I have experience now. Soon I will find more dragons for you."
Dany's eyes lingered on Tyrion. He noticed, and the relief that had just surfaced on his face vanished. In a rush he cried out, "Oh, Ser, you may not know—Prince Aegon was assassinated, stabbed clean through his left waist, and still lies bedridden!"
"What, the prince was attacked?"
Old Jonn, pale and frail in his chair, suddenly widened his eyes and sat bolt upright.
His hands clenched the armrests, veins bulging across the backs of his hands. His shock and fear were plain.
The dwarf had successfully changed the subject. Dany only gave him a cold glance and a mocking smile before saying, "While you were away, Tyrion grew bolder. He took Aegon to the Garden of Desire every day.
That regular routine gave the assassins their chance.
But you need not worry. Aegon's condition has stabilized. He can walk again.
And I have already avenged them both. That very day, I flew to Qarth. Fire consumed the city, and the Guild of Regret is now nothing but ash."
Despite her words, Clinton could not sit still. He immediately climbed to the second level of the palace to see Aegon.
There, father and son met. One old, one young. One face pale as a ghost, the other sickly green as a demon. Both gaunt, weak, trembling. They clung to each other, like two tangled roots, speechless, tears choking them. It was tender, yet heartbreaking.
"Little Imp!" After a brief moment of warmth, Old Jonn suddenly turned, glaring at Tyrion. "Aegon, such a pure and vigorous boy, has been ruined by you!"
"I—" Tyrion shrank his neck, wanting to retort, but no words came.
Greyscale infection, because he had taken Aegon to the rite of passage, indulging too wildly. The assassination, because he had offered him "a king's pleasure," giving the killers their chance.
Yet it seemed that misfortune had run its course. Days later, both Aegon and Old Jonn regained their health.
Old Jonn resumed his training, preparing to face the green hell once more. Aegon found Big Black again, and poured out his sorrows, recounting every torment of the assassination attempt.
Winter had come. Old Aemon, skilled in reading the stars, began climbing to the pyramid's top each day, observing the heavens through his stargazing lens.
That night, after finishing his work, he once again saw Aegon leaning against the wall under Balerion. His brow furrowed as he walked forward and said:
"Aegon, do you know that Dany's 'cargo ship plan' is about to begin?"
"Aunt is preparing to act against New Ghis?" Aegon suddenly understood.
Stepping closer, Aemon caught sight of Blackfyre at Aegon's waist. Lowering his gaze, he said gently, "This time Ser Clinton did not bring back a wyvern. Yet with war about to break out, every bit of strength must be used."
"So what?" Aegon didn't understand his meaning.
"Even Ser Mormont has subdued a shadow-drake. Only the oldest gray-green swamp dragon remains. You can't keep treating it as a backup. Strength must not be left idle," Aemon said in a deep voice.
Aegon's expression changed as he cried out, "But Aunt promised it to me!"
"Yes, she did. But as the only grown male of House Targaryen, even if you can't contribute much, at the very least you shouldn't drag your aunt down, right?" Aemon's expression was solemn, though his tone was as gentle as always.
Aegon's face flushed as he argued, "I fought in the battle at Tolos. I even killed two city guards!"
"Yes, you were very brave, worthy of the name Aegon." The old maester nodded approvingly.
"Maester, what are you trying to say?" Aegon suddenly calmed down, staring firmly at the old man before him.
"Give the old wyvern to another knight. Wait for the next batch of wyverns to serve as your reserve."
"The old dragon is fifty meters long, several times larger than Balerion. It's the mount of Banny, commander of the Matarys Wyvern Riders. Clearly, even Matarys himself doesn't have confidence in finding a stronger beast," Aegon said with a frown.
"That's true. But the more that is the case, the more it proves how useful it will be in the coming battles."
Seeing Aegon's conflicted face, Aemon's eyes flashed as he said meaningfully, "In terms of sheer strength, the old green dragon is not much weaker than a true dragon."
"Dragon…" Aegon tilted his head back to look at the sleeping Balerion. Dejected, he said, "Maester, tell me, why does Balerion ignore me? He clearly understands human speech. I've told him of my ambition to claim the Iron Throne, of the sorrows in my heart. Why can't he show me even a little sympathy?"
"Taming dragons, like learning magic, also requires talent. Many Targaryens never had dragons. Some were even eaten by them," Aemon explained.
"But I'm certain I have talent! You know the prophecy—that the dragon has three heads."
The logic was hard to refute. Aemon could only say weakly, "Then keep building your bond with Balerion. In ten or even eight years, he'll surely respond to you."
"Ten or eight years?" Aegon screamed in despair.
"That is the normal course. Many Targaryens slept with dragon eggs from infancy. When the eggs hatched, they grew up together, one human and one dragon. Even so, a fourteen-year-old dragonrider is extremely rare."
"You're not lying to me?" Aegon grew more desperate.
"If you don't believe me, ask Tyrion. He's a dragon expert," Aemon said impatiently.
Tyrion was indeed obsessed with dragons and an expert in the field. So was old Aemon!
The foolish Aegon really went to ask him.
"By and large, Maester Aemon isn't wrong," Tyrion said hesitantly. "But most of those ten-plus years are spent in childhood, when their will and temperament aren't yet mature, so they can't subdue a dragon. Your Grace… it might take you more than ten years."
In truth, the dwarf wanted to say outright that Aegon had no talent at all. But he feared the prince would fly into a rage and beat him.
"You think I have no talent?" Aegon said coldly.
He wasn't stupid. He could read it in the dwarf's expression.
"Well… people say my manhood has magic in it. I also wanted to learn sorcery, but I had no talent for that either." Tyrion spread his hands.
"The dragon has three heads!" Aegon gritted his teeth.
"Your Grace, be realistic. There are twenty dragon heads now, and there will be more in the future. Wyverns are dragons too!"
"Wyverns are dragons too…"
Aegon's face shifted through many expressions before he suddenly made a firm decision in his heart.
The next day, Aegon said his final farewell to Balerion: "If you ignore me again, I'll go to the old green dragon instead!"
Balerion didn't bother to glance at him.
On the third day, Aegon said, "This time I mean it. If you ignore me, I really will make a pact with the old wyvern."
Balerion still ignored him.
On the fourth day, Aegon stood before Balerion and swore, "Please, give us one last chance to be together. This is the final chance! I swear it's the last time!"
Balerion wanted badly to bite him, but reason held him back.
(End of chapter)
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