Dragonstone.
The volcano, Dragonmont, stood majestic against the sky, smoke billowing from its crater.
"Hiiisss!"
A silver-grey dragon soared freely, circling the mountain as if on a victory lap. The dragon, Silverwing, had been away from her ancestral home for a long time and was reacquainting herself with the volcanic environment she so loved.
Below, on a grassy slope along the eastern coast, winter felt like a distant memory. The island was as warm as spring. Syrax crouched on the grass, tilting her golden head to observe the ceremony unfolding below.
A crowd of people watched in silence around a burning bonfire. At its center, a pair of silver-haired figures stood face to face, their breathing steady in the quiet air. Aemon was clad in a simple linen shirt, white dyed with red patterns, a rope of red wool tied around his waist. His long, silver-gold hair was bound neatly behind his head.
Opposite him stood the beautiful Rhaenyra. She wore a matching garment, a simple wooden circlet on her head from which tassels of gold thread hung at her temples. She looked nervous, her purple eyes reflecting Aemon's handsome face as she pursed her lips.
"Two bloods, born of one," a Valyrian priest in rough linen robes intoned beside them, his voice calm yet powerful as he recited the blessing—the oath—in the Old Tongue.
Aemon took the obsidian dagger and sliced open the palm of his left hand. Rhaenyra then took the bloodied dagger and did the same.
"Two hearts, sharing one fire," the priest continued, his expression solemn as he presided over the traditional Valyrian betrothal. Aemon had refused the Andal ceremony; while it was fine for others, those of the blood of Old Valyria, like Rhaenyra and himself, deserved the rites of their ancestors.
The assembled lords and ladies did not understand High Valyrian and kept a respectful silence. Viserys stood at the forefront, his eyes filled with joy and relief.
"This scene," he murmured, "it is as if I am seeing Old Valyria reborn, witnessing the grand spectacle of dragons dancing as one." He took a deep breath. At that moment, nothing was more precious to him than the couple before him. Alicent held his arm, but her smile was forced and insincere, her feelings a tangled knot of resentment and duty.
As the oath was recited, the ceremony proceeded. Aemon looked at the woman before him and extended his bleeding left hand. Rhaenyra's eyes shimmered like pools of autumn water as she took it. Unlike the wedding rite, the betrothal required no blood on the lips or forehead. The joining of their hands was the signing of the marriage contract. The priest handed them a chalice of black steel, and they each drank half, symbolizing the sharing of all wealth, status, and honor.
"So it is sworn!" the Valyrian priest declared, repeating the words for all to hear.
Clap, clap, clap!
The noble lords finally understood, applauding as if waking from a dream.
"My betrothed," Aemon said softly, a smile gracing his lips.
"My betrothed," Rhaenyra replied, her voice full of affection, her heart sweet as honey.
The ceremony was nearly complete.
"Rhaenyra!" Viserys could no longer contain himself and rushed forward, embracing his daughter and Aemon. He had waited so long for this day. If his late wife, Aemma, could see this, she might forgive some of the mistakes he had made.
"Father," Rhaenyra whispered, her own eyes turning red with emotion.
"It's alright, everything is alright," Viserys said, holding them for a long moment before letting go, patting both their shoulders and nodding with satisfaction. The Hand of the King, Lord Lyonel, stepped forward to support his emotional king. Viserys gave his daughter one last look before reluctantly turning back to the crowd.
Aemon smiled knowingly. His gaze fell upon Lyonel's broad back, and he sighed inwardly. A good man, he thought, but a fool in matters of state.
Just two days ago, both of Lord Lyonel's sons had been imprisoned. The reason was simple. Harwin Strong, drunk in a brothel on the Street of Silk, had been goaded by his companions into speaking recklessly. He claimed Rhaenyra and Aemon had tasted the forbidden fruit, criticizing the princess for losing her virginity as if he had caught his own wife in an affair. He was promptly reported, and Ser Steffon of the Kingsguard arrested him on the spot. The informant, of course, was Larys.
Soon after, an anonymous letter arrived at the Red Keep, accusing Larys of torturing prisoners for his own amusement. Before Lyonel could recover from the shock, a second letter came, exposing Larys as the one who had orchestrated the entire plot to frame his brother. The Kingsguard broke down Larys's door and arrested him while he was still celebrating his brother's downfall.
"You should be thankful your uncle is a kind king," Aemon said, taking Rhaenyra's hand and pushing the trivial matters from his mind. The ceremony isn't over yet.
BOOM—
Suddenly, the thick clouds were torn asunder as a dragon as vast as a mountain descended. Its horned head was majestic and domineering, its scales like burnished bronze. Its wide, rock-like wings blotted out the sun.
"HIIISSS—" Vermithor roared, his arrogance shaking the very air.
Aemon and Rhaenyra stepped out from the crowd. Syrax crawled over, lowering herself before her rider. The next moment, Vermithor landed with a ground-shaking thud, his talons digging two deep pits in the grass.
"Go," Aemon smiled, letting go of Rhaenyra's hand.
Rhaenyra gave a soft "Mm," and climbed onto Syrax's back. A traditional Valyrian betrothal would not be complete without the two dragons flying together. There was no bedding ceremony, only a dragon dance. They would fly wherever the wind took them.
Aemon, holding two dragon eggs—one blue-grey, one grey-black—climbed onto Vermithor's back and gripped the saddle ropes.
"HIIISS—" With a powerful downbeat of his wings, Vermithor's immense body lifted from the ground.
"Fly!" Rhaenyra cried, clutching three eggs of her own—one green, one earthy brown, and one purple—as Syrax soared high into the sky. A total of five eggs, the first clutch Syrax had laid upon returning to Dragonstone.
Under the watchful eyes of the nobility, the two dragons entangled and circled, occasionally breathing plumes of fire in a joyful display. It was a true dragon dance. Minutes later, they flew into the clouds and vanished from sight.
At noon, the sun was at its zenith. On the western side of the Dragonmont lay a stretch of rugged, barren sand. Vermithor lay upon the cracked rocks, tearing into a charred sheep. Syrax kept a respectful distance, her vertical pupils fixed on the meal, drool glistening on her jaws.
Between the two dragons, a small patch of farmland had been carved out of the barren landscape. Aemon swung a hoe, carefully breaking up the clumps of soil. Around him was a lush, square wheat field, about an acre in size.
"What do you think?" Aemon smiled, looking at his handiwork with pride.
"You've worked so hard," Rhaenyra said, taking a handkerchief to gently wipe the sweat from his brow like a devoted wife.
"This field is our secret for now," Aemon reminded her. At the center of the plot, a single, yellow-orange wheat stalk stood tall. It seemed to hold the spiritual essence of the entire field, a magical plant Aemon called "Sun-gold Wheat." Its presence influenced the rapid growth of the surrounding crops, and over time, would assimilate them, making them extraordinary. A single stalk of this enchanted wheat could imbue a common harvest with a touch of its magic, granting health and vitality to those who consumed it.
"One stalk of Sun-gold Wheat can enrich an entire acre," Aemon said gently as they walked along the edge of the field. Dragonstone's soil was poor, but with the wheat's influence, the yield could more than double. This single stalk, his betrothal gift to her, was enough to provide for her household.
"Aemon," Rhaenyra whispered, stroking his face, deeply moved.
"Careful, we're being watched," Aemon said seriously. Rhaenyra burst out laughing.
"Remember to check on it often," he said. "This will be your hidden strength. Spiritual plants are incredibly rare, treasures that even the Dragonlords of Old Valyria seldom possessed."
"Don't worry," Rhaenyra said, patting her chest. The high, tight collar of her red-and-white tunic strained against her form. Aemon glanced at it. The clothes were indeed beautiful.
As they walked hand in hand toward Syrax, Aemon's thoughts drifted. He had four more stalks of Sun-gold Wheat in the Vale. The fertile black soil there, enhanced by the plant's magic, could produce incredible yields. Enough for his family, and perhaps some to share with his uncle and even Alicent.
"Aemon, look!" Rhaenyra suddenly exclaimed.
He followed her pointing finger. Syrax was lying on her side, revealing a belly covered in beautiful topaz scales. Cradled there were the five dragon eggs, arranged in a tight circle.
Crack!
One of the eggs had a fissure on its shell. It shook gently.
"The eggs! They're about to hatch!" Rhaenyra whispered, crouching down quietly. Aemon joined her, moving closer to the nest.
"Hiss?" Syrax tilted her head, her vertical pupils full of disdain. Why are they so close to my belly? I should swat them with my wing.
Crack!
The egg shook more violently as the cracks spread.
"Aemon, come closer!" Rhaenyra's eyes flashed with joy. Aemon sat cross-legged and carefully picked up the egg. A hole broke open, and a tiny dragon head emerged.
"Hiss~~" the hatchling cried, stretching its neck.
Aemon held the egg high. Syrax climbed to her feet and looked at the small creature, moving aside to let the sun shine down. Aemon smiled as the young dragon slowly crawled out of its shell. The man and the hatchling seemed to be bathed in a sacred halo of light.
Dusk. The Hall of the Stone Drum Tower.
Viserys sat on the throne, his face majestic. Ser Harrold's voice boomed: "By order of the King, Aemon of House Targaryen is hereby named Protector of the Vale and Warden of the East! Furthermore, he is named Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm!"
Aemon, holding the young dragon, bowed to his uncle in thanks. He hadn't wanted the title of Regent, but Lord Lyonel, his face grim, had practically begged him to accept it as penance for his sons' actions. The king had been merciful, dismissing Harwin back to Harrenhal and allowing Larys to remain in King's Landing for his own protection. In return, Lyonel had pledged men for the royal navy and a sum of gold large enough to repair Harrenhal.
Aemon sighed. The conditions for becoming regent had been too good to refuse. He was granted autonomy in the Vale, a large tract of land by the Gods Eye as part of Rhaenyra's dowry, and funds to build his own fleet of two thousand men. Who could refuse that?
Rhaenyra shot him a look, despising him for taking advantage. You used to say I was trouble. Now you marry me, and my dowry is a kingdom. So you are content to live off me.
"Well, we are one family now," Viserys interrupted their silent exchange, his eyes falling on the baby dragon in Aemon's arms. "You are betrothed today, and this little one has hatched. Its birth is a sign of great fortune. You two brought it into the world; give it a name."
"Arrax."
"Vermax."
Aemon and Rhaenyra spoke at the same time.
"Who should I listen to?" Viserys asked, amused.
"Vermax."
"Arrax."
They spoke in unison again. Rhaenyra finally turned her head and conceded. "Arrax," Aemon said, claiming the right to name it. He knew this dragon.
The names of Syrax's children were significant. Syrax was a Valyrian goddess of fertility, and her three subordinate gods were Vermax, god of enlightenment; Arrax, god of war; and Tyraxes, god of the earth. The names were prophecies.
Viserys frowned slightly at the name Arrax, a harbinger of war.
"We should be going," Alicent said, glancing at the sky. Seeing Rhaenyra's happiness made her deeply uncomfortable.
"Of course, my dear. You have had a long day," Viserys smiled, and they departed. Rhaenyra took the hatchling, Arrax, to the dragonkeepers.
Aemon stared out the window at Blackwater Bay, his eyes deep as the sea. The Sea Serpent had declared himself Archon of Tyrosh. War was coming. Johanna had written that her Black Rose merchants were now operating in King's Landing and would soon spread to the Triarchy. Be patient, Aemon warned himself. The displaced lords of Tyrosh would not give up. The best time to intervene would be after the war had truly begun.
"Lord Lyonel," Aemon said, turning from the window, "is there any news from the Three Daughters?"
"The internal strife in Lys is fierce; several magisters are dead. Myr has sent troops, apparently to attack Tyrosh. And Tyroshi mercenaries are looting everywhere. I've heard the Evenstar of Tarth has requested aid from Storm's End."
Aemon listened carefully, absorbing the information. He made a decision. He would wait three months before considering sending troops. First, he would wait for that old fox, the Sea Serpent, to make his move.
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