Helaena said nothing, simply staring at him with her large, luminous eyes. A silent plea flickered within them, making it impossible for Aemon to refuse.
"You can raise it."
Aemon handed her the rope.
With a soft squeak, Red Rabbit hopped nimbly, its soft belly jiggling like jelly beneath its fiery fur.
Helaena, utterly captivated, gently stroked its fur. "It's so wonderful!"
The fur was as smooth as silk and surprisingly warm, like a small, mobile hearth. Aemon, envious, stepped forward to touch it as well. The Red Keep had never seen such a creature.
"Thank you," Helaena knelt beside Red Rabbit, thanking him softly.
"I'll take it back when you get tired of it," Aemon teased.
Red Rabbit, unlike the golden-nosed rat, wasn't a creature meant for a specific task. It was, however, perfect for looking after children. Perhaps when he had children of his own, Red Rabbit could even help with changing diapers, Aemon mused.
Red Rabbit: ?
At his words, a flicker of vigilance entered Helaena's wide eyes, and she hugged the rabbit tighter. She adored large, furry creatures.
"Swap with you."
Aemon watched the small girl draped over Red Rabbit and heard a whisper as faint as a mosquito's buzz.
"Swap for what?" he asked gently. Helaena was very introverted; it was rare for her to speak first.
"…"
She said nothing, burying her face in the fur of Red Rabbit's neck as if she meant to suffocate herself. Her own treasures were still in her cousin's possession, but she was too shy to ask for them back.
Seeing her struggle, Aemon chuckled and patted her head. "A plump little girl with her plump rabbit." The top of her head was just as soft and furry.
Helaena frowned, shifting her legs on the ground. Not plump!
Aemon laughed. The little girl was angry. Time to leave her to it.
He needed to get back to studying the [Pyromancer's Night Light] and improve his proficiency with the Burning Rune. Time was short and the task was great. He had a premonition that Daemon and the Sea Snake were about to make a major move. The tourney at Riverrun felt like a prelude to something far more significant than their last war in the Stepstones. This would be a conflict that truly shook the realm.
A few days later, at the Dragonpit.
A white-painted carriage drove slowly up the ramp and stopped at the steps of the great bronze gate. The door opened and King Viserys was the first to emerge, followed by Aemon and Rhaenyra, who were looking after the three younger children.
"This is the Dragonpit," Aemon said, his voice filled with an excitement he couldn't suppress as he stared at the immense domed structure.
"You will be frequent visitors here in the future," Viserys smiled, his heart full of hope for his children.
Boom—
The bronze gates slowly groaned open, and a team of Dragonkeepers in coarse linen clothes walked out.
"Your Majesty!" the old Dragonkeeper bowed respectfully.
"Lead the way," Viserys said amiably, without any royal airs.
They had sent word of their visit ahead of time. In a few days, the tourney at Riverrun would begin. Viserys, who suffered from seasickness, had no desire to sail to Gulltown, but he couldn't resist his daughter's persistent nagging. So, instead of a ship, they would ride dragons.
Inside the Dragonpit, the main hall was cavernous and dark.
"The dragons have been fed," the old Dragonkeeper, a man of few words, stated before ordering his men to unfasten the chains.
Hiss!
Syrax was released first. Her topaz scales shone in the dim light, making her look like a ferocious beast wrought from pure gold.
"Wow!" Aegon gasped, his light purple eyes wide with wonder. The golden dragon was truly beautiful.
A small smile touched Rhaenyra's lips. Her brother might be a simpleton, but he had good taste.
Rumble—
Suddenly, the muffled sound of a heavy weight shifting echoed from the depths of the pit, and the stone floor trembled. From the darkness, an immense bronze dragon head emerged, its vertical pupils glowing like molten copper. The first impression it gave was one of pure, majestic power.
The bronze dragon moved with a steady, ponderous gait, its body, well over a hundred meters long, leaving deep claw marks in the stone with every step.
The Bronze Fury—Vermithor.
"You have taken good care of him," Viserys exclaimed. "When my grandfather died, Vermithor was not nearly this large."
"We get along very well," Aemon admitted.
As Vermithor reached the center of the hall, he ignored the keepers' guidance and lowered his neck of his own accord.
"Come on, Uncle," Aemon said, grabbing the rope ladder and motioning for the king to go first.
Targaryens were the family of dragon kings. Even the most placid among them had the blood of the dragon. His uncle currently had two weaknesses: a weak will and a weak constitution. Man and dragon complemented each other. More contact with dragons not only cultivated a rider's courage but was also said to strengthen their Valyrian blood.
"Don't worry, you just need to hold on."
Viserys took a deep breath and, with a hint of anticipation, began to climb the rope ladder. It had been a long time since he had ridden a dragon. Aemon stood guard below, watching as his uncle's movements shifted from uncertain to practiced.
"The view is certainly better from a dragon's back," Viserys panted slightly as he settled into the saddle. He was no novice. When he was just a month old, his mother, Alyssa, had flown him around King's Landing on the back of Meleys, the Red Queen. As he grew, his father, Baelon, often took him and Daemon riding on Vhagar. He had even been the last rider of the fearsome Balerion, the Black Dread. Though he had only flown Balerion once, his identity as a former dragonrider was undeniable.
"Give me Helaena," Viserys called down, catching his breath. From his perch in the saddle, more than ten meters off the ground, he felt no dizziness, only the strain of the climb. Ascending the backs of massive, adult dragons like Balerion, Vhagar, and Vermithor was a five-minute ordeal.
"I'll hold you," Aemon said, gripping the little girl's waist and placing her on the rope ladder. Helaena's eyes were clear as she began her slow ascent.
On the other side, Rhaenyra helped her two half-brothers onto Syrax's back, securing them with the safety chains of the saddle before mounting herself. The journey from King's Landing to Riverrun was a long one. Alicent had stayed behind in the Red Keep to nurse the baby, so Aemon had suggested they bring the three younger children to see the world.
"Dragon!" little Aegon cried, gripping the handles at the front of the saddle with delight.
"Aemond!" little Aemond shouted, sitting in the middle and nodding excitedly. They had seen dragons before, but this was the first time in their lives they would touch and ride one.
"Don't move," Rhaenyra warned them seriously. "And shout if you get scared."
She and Aemon were each carrying two passengers, though Aemon's dragon also bore the considerable weight of their father. Rhaenyra had chosen her two half-brothers. Besides being small and light, she had her own reasons for the arrangement. She wanted Aemond with her.
Little Aegon, at eight years old, was restless and disobedient, not at all like his quiet and well-behaved younger brother.
"When can we have our own dragons?" Aemond asked cautiously from his place in front of her.
"When you are older. Perhaps much older," Rhaenyra said lightly.
Aemond looked downcast. "Why did you bring us to ride with you?" he asked. Introverted children were often sensitive. He could sense that his older sister did not love them; this felt more like a duty she was fulfilling. He wasn't dissatisfied—on the contrary, he preferred this way of interacting. In the chivalric tales and the teachings of the Seven, responsibility was a paramount virtue.
"Mother says you are not a good person," Aemond said, his head bowed, as if wanting to know the truth of the matter for himself.
Rhaenyra's feelings were a mix of pity and frustration. "That is a matter between your mother and me. It has nothing to do with you." Alicent's methods of raising her children were hardly admirable.
"Oh," Aemond said, disappointed.
"But I brought you to ride my dragon to broaden your horizons," Rhaenyra added, a proud smile touching her lips. "We are Targaryens. We are of the dragon. There are experiences your mother can never give you."
Aemond seemed to understand. His legs clamped the black leather saddle tightly, and his small hands rubbed Syrax's topaz scales with profound curiosity.
"They get along well," Viserys observed from Vermithor's back, looking down at the much smaller Syrax. He hugged his little daughter and laughed happily. "Brothers and sisters. This is how it should be."
He worried that his children would turn on one another after he was gone. But that was a concern for another day. More pressing was the matter of Alicent's children's upbringing. It was a laughable irony: he was a king of the dragon-lord dynasty, yet he had no dragon of his own. His wife, Alicent, a daughter of Oldtown, was educating their children solely in the "foreign" beliefs of the Faith of the Seven. The children had not taken to the old ways, and none had managed to hatch the dragon eggs placed in their cradles. As a result, his eldest son, Aegon, was eight years old and had never even been this close to a dragon. The fact that Rhaenyra was willing to take on the draconic education of her younger siblings was a solution to his immediate problem.
"Uncle, have you ever thought about claiming another dragon?" Aemon asked suddenly.
Viserys was startled by the question and fell into deep thought.
"If you have the inclination, there is a suitable dragon in this very pit," Aemon said softly. His Highness had a small plan. Looking at the entire family, his uncle Viserys was a stabilizing force. His authority as king kept the family's ambitions in check. Aemon hoped from the bottom of his heart that he would live a long life. If he remained, the family would have its pillar.
"No," Viserys sighed after a moment. "It's best to forget it."
Aemon didn't press the matter. "Dreamfyre has been riderless in this pit for decades," he said with a note of regret. "I wonder how long she will wait for her second master."
"Leave her for the children," Viserys said, his smile returning. "I am old. A dragon for me now would be nothing more than an ornament." He had never been a man who loved conflict. If he had been, he wouldn't have chosen the ancient and dying Balerion. The family's claimed dragons were few, and taming one meant one less for the next generation. He had many descendants, and there were only four ownerless dragons of their line—a perfect match for Alicent's four children.
One should not lay claim to a dragon they do not intend to ride.
Indeed, Viserys not only planned to leave Dreamfyre and the two adolescent dragons on Dragonstone for his children, but he also had his eye on Silverwing, who had migrated to the Riverlands. A rider could only be bonded to one dragon; that was the iron rule. His nephew had somehow convinced Silverwing to fly with him, but it was not a true bond. That, too, was a dragon waiting for a rider.
"Uncle, hold on tight," Aemon reminded him. With a shared understanding, Vermithor began to climb out of the Dragonpit. The simple prince did not know that his second dragon was already being coveted by his uncle.
Neither uncle nor nephew noticed Helaena staring silently into a dark corner of the pit. It was the entrance to a dragon's lair.
It's not time yet, she thought, pursing her lips.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor let out a deafening roar, spread his great bronze wings, and launched into the sky. Syrax followed closely behind, her golden body surprisingly agile as she soared into the air, her flight accompanied by the joyful screams of the boys on her back.
In the waters around the Stepstones, the screams were of terror.
Near the island of Bloodstone, the defenders flew the banners of the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen and the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, representing Daemon and the Sea Snake. The attacking fleet was a chaotic mix of sigils, mostly mercenaries from Myr and Tyrosh.
"Hiss!"
A pale silver dragon dove through the clouds, bathing a pirate ship in a torrent of flame.
"Dragonflame!" Laenor Velaryon roared, his silver-grey armor spattered with blood.
Boom—
Seasmoke moved with lethal grace, retreating after a single fiery breath, weaving between the densely packed ships with ease. Already, many of the enemy vessels were burning. Terrified of the dragon, the mercenaries could not mount a successful assault on the beaches of Bloodstone. The sea was red with blood and choked with corpses.
As the sun began to set, the battle subsided. Laenor slid from his dragon's back, nearly collapsing from exhaustion.
"Careful," a mature-faced young man said, steadying him.
"Thank you. I'm fine," Laenor forced a smile. He had been fighting day and night, and his body was at its limit. Even Seasmoke's appetite had diminished.
He made his way to Bloodstone's red brick fortress—Castle Darry. It was not a large or grand castle, but its three-story walls were strong. Inside, in the first-floor hall, Corlys and his brother Vaemond were gathered around a sand table, planning their strategy.
"Father," Laenor said, dragging his tired body into the room.
Suddenly, a shadow passed over the dusk clouds as a long, serpentine dragon of scarlet red descended.
"Daemon has returned," the Sea Snake said, nodding to his son before turning his gaze to the horizon.
Caraxes slowed, his broad, dark red wings catching the air as his slender body landed almost vertically atop Castle Darry. His wings angled forward to support him as he stretched his long neck and lowered his head. Daemon, clad in black steel armor with a dragon-wing helm and a bright red cloak, leaped from his back. He removed the helmet, revealing his blood-stained, silver-gold hair. His handsome face was a stiff mask of fatigue.
"Myr and Tyrosh have put aside their hatred for each other. We can barely hold them back," Corlys said, his expression grim.
"It's worse than that," Vaemond sneered. "The Dornish have entered the fray. We are attacked from all sides, caught in a desperate situation."
At this, the strategists in the room fell silent. The original plan had been simple: take advantage of the "War of the Three Daughters" between the Free Cities to occupy the Stepstones and establish a base. But Corlys and Daemon had privately agreed to intervene in the conflict, hoping to profit from the chaos. They had backed Lys against Tyrosh and Myr. But the moment a third party intervened, Tyrosh and Myr had immediately allied to fight the outsiders.
The Free Cities were rich, and those two, with their thriving slave and mercenary trades, were richer than most. They had sent an overwhelming force to surround the Stepstones, cutting off logistical support from Driftmark. They could afford to throw away the lives of mercenaries in endless waves.
Daemon's side had two dragons, a powerful advantage. But the enemy's resources were simply too vast. The dragons could endure, but the men could not.
"We must find a way out of this," Corlys's eyes were dark. "This war cannot be sustained." He had thought the Velaryon treasury was bottomless, yet their wealth was vanishing into the war effort as if thrown into the sea.
"The mercenaries under Daemon's command have deserted," Vaemond said, looking at Daemon with open sarcasm. "We have only two thousand of our own sailors left. It's not enough." Every time Daemon formed an alliance, it seemed he ended up fighting alone.
Daemon glanced at him, his grip tightening on his helmet.
"We are discussing strategy," Laenor snapped, not giving his uncle any quarter. "If you wish to lay blame, we can do so after we return home."
"Am I not discussing the situation?" Vaemond's voice rose in frustration. In his opinion, they should have withdrawn their troops long ago. The war between the three cities had only just begun; Corlys and Daemon had entered the fray too early and gained nothing.
"Enough! This is not the time for infighting!" Corlys said in a deep voice. "The fortifications on the Stepstones are strong. We have dragons. We are in an unassailable position. We must wait patiently for an opportunity."
He looked at Daemon, who remained silent in the corner. Daemon's eyes flickered, his mind already racing with calculations. Vaemond was right about one thing. The Stepstones were too poor to support a loyal army on their own. They could only ever be a stepping stone to something greater.
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