Sunlight pierced the heavy sea mist.
Only then did Driftmark, the ancient seat of House Velaryon, reveal its true silhouette.
A jagged coastline carved the sea, and atop the chalky cliffs stood High Tide, rising like a great tree of pale stone.
The whole island was steeped in salt and sea wind, a stone warship that would never sink, forever stationed in the Gullet of the Narrow Sea.
From the castle heights, the harbor below, Spice Town, held more than a hundred Velaryon warships bobbing on the lead-gray waves.
House Velaryon possessed the mightiest navy in Westeros, and they had the dragons to match.
Across the strait lay the so-called Kingdom of the Three Daughters, or the "Three Whores," as the Velaryon sailors dubbed the Triarchy of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh.
For years, the two powers had fought over the Stepstones, those broken isles suspended between Essos and Westeros, striving to choke the trade routes.
In the end, the Sea Snake had won. With fire and steel, Corlys Velaryon had forced the Triarchy to sue for peace.
Even King Viserys had been forced to entrust the Royal Fleet to him.
Now, even if every other House in the Seven Kingdoms combined their navies, they could not break the wooden wall of the Velaryons.
Even Braavos, the Titan across the sea, feared this new maritime power.
At this moment, the King's own squadron, ten great galleys, was preparing to sail, banners snapping in the morning wind.
Lady Laena's funeral had ended in bitterness, and the court was fleeing the tension.
But on the eastern beach of Driftmark, a different power stirred.
Vhagar lay like a hill of dark green and ash-gray stone upon the broad sands outside the Dragonpit.
The cavernous pit of High Tide was too cramped for her; only the open shore could serve as her lair.
Each heavy breath rumbled like distant thunder. Grains of sand quivered as her vast lungs drank the air.
Aemond walked toward her across the cool, fine sand.
For the first time, he saw the dragon.
Vhagar stretched hundreds of feet from snout to tail.
When her veined wings unfolded, they would span nearly twice that, casting a shadow that could swallow a town.
Her weight equaled a small mountain.
Only the late Black Dread, Balerion, had ever grown larger.
Her scales were dark green mottled with bronze and stone-gray.
She was the last living remnant of the Conquest, the last creature who had seen the Doom of Valyria's legacy firsthand.
Once the mount of Queen Visenya, she was a living chronicle of 180 years of fire and blood.
She was mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother to almost every dragon now alive.
From her line came Dreamfyre, Vermithor, and Silverwing.
The Targaryens spoke of her fondly as "Grandma Vhagar," but the endearment was a dangerous lie.
Her temper was as ancient and savage as her years. Legends claimed she had once snapped the neck of a hatchling for a single defiant hiss.
Before her, Aemond felt no larger than an ant.
The dragon was so old that her inner eyelids had turned stony and opaque.
She slept, eyes sealed, looking like a ruin of Valyria itself.
Aemond stared, half-tranced.
Suddenly, the eye stirred. The stony membrane slid aside with the sound of grinding rock, revealing a golden, vertical pupil the size of a grown man.
The gaze was cold, appraising, and fixed solely on the tiny figure before her.
To stand beneath that eye sent an involuntary tremor through Aemond.
It was not simple fear, but a mingled thrill of awe, exultation, and blood-deep recognition.
The blood of Old Valyria sang in his veins, resonating with the nuclear heat radiating from the beast.
He met the dragon's stare.
Dragons were more than savage beasts. The older they grew, the more cunning they became.
Aemond could read the scrutiny in Vhagar's gaze, perhaps even a touch of mockery.
She lacked the frantic energy of the younger dragons, but two centuries had left her shrewd, stubborn, and as casual about killing as she was about breathing.
Vhagar had borne Visenya across the Blackwater. She had burned the Dornish sands. And now, she had chosen Aemond.
Most Targaryen children bonded with hatchlings, their souls growing together.
But Aemond, the second son, had lived in the shadow of the cradle-eggs that never hatched.
He had been mocked by his brother, by the Strongs, by the court.
Now he had the god of war.
Aemond drew a deep breath and shouted in High Valyrian:
"Vhagar!"
Vhagar did not stir. She merely studied him.
Suddenly, her massive head tilted. A tongue slid out, its surface lined with barbed hooks, each as keen as a dagger.
Aemond's heart clenched, but he stood his ground.
A dragonrider knew that fear was an insult to the beast.
The barbed tongue rasped across the wound on his left cheek.
The stitches from the night before held, but the scab split.
Aemond let the blood run.
Vhagar's tongue curled, catching the drops, tasting the copper.
Her golden eyes narrowed, the slits contracting like a viper's before the strike.
Aemond knew with icy clarity: 'She Knows, I am not him. How am i still alive?'
She savored the blood. Perhaps she tasted the grief, the rage, and the ambition in it.
Then, Vhagar inhaled. Her chest ballooned, and a deep orange glow illuminated the gaps between her scales like magma beneath the earth.
Aemond tensed.
Heat rolled over him, the stench of sulfur thick enough to choke a man.
Light blazed in Vhagar's throat.
But the flame did not come for him.
Fwoom.
A torrent of dark green fire burst forth, striking a jagged reef fifteen paces to his right.
For ten full seconds, the blaze roasted the stone until it glowed molten crimson, seawater hissing into blinding steam.
Then, as if satisfied with the test, Vhagar snorted, twin plumes of black smoke curling from her nostrils.
'Does she not care'
Aemond stepped forward. Blood still streaked his face, staining his shirt, yet he spoke softly in Valyrian:
"Dohaeras, Vhagar. Sovegon isseeli." (Serve, Vhagar. Fly with me.)
From her throat rolled a low thunder. Slowly, she lowered her massive neck.
He pressed his palm against the burning scales.
They were rough as stone armor, the muscle beneath shifting like tectonic plates.
He began to climb.
It was no elegant mounting; it was a brutal conquest.
He seized the edges of her scales, boots scrabbling for purchase, his cheek wound throbbing with every exertion.
Sweat and blood dripped from his jaw.
At last, he straddled the hollow at the base of her neck, the seat once claimed by Queen Visenya, by Baelon the Spring Prince, by Lady Laena.
The morning wind off the sea carried salt and freedom.
Yet Vhagar did not move.
Puzzled, Aemond felt the old dragon twist her neck.
Her huge head turned back toward the sand, a low growl rumbling in her chest.
Following her gaze, he spotted it half-buried in the dune: a single dragon egg, stone-cold and fossilized.
Memory surged, fifty years ago, Vhagar had laid a final clutch after mating with Balerion.
This was the last remnant of the Black Dread's line, unhatched and turned to stone.
She wanted him to take it.
Aemond slid down the side of the dragon. He walked to the egg.
It was heavier than he expected, cold and hard as rock, its scales worn smooth by decades of sand and time.
Carefully, he stowed it in the saddle pouch.
No word was needed. As he remounted, Vhagar roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of High Tide.
Her wings unfolded like vast shadow-clouds, the veins glowing translucent in the dawn light.
Powerful hind legs drove downward, and with a rush of displaced air that knocked the sand into a frenzy, the mountain took flight.
Aemond gripped the leather straps, feeling the raw power coil beneath him.
The cold wind struck his face, sharp with brine and the promise of fire.
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