Bonus - 100 Stones
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King's Landing. Rhaenys's Hill.
The Dragonpit loomed like a beast of stone and mortar, a vast dome roofing half the hill. It was a cavernous arena designed to house the might of House Targaryen.
Yet for Vhagar, the space had grown too small.
Her mountain-sized body could no longer squeeze through the main entrance without scraping scales against stone.
She spent her days stretched upon the open terrace carved into the hillside specifically for her bulk.
Along the terrace edge, Dragonkeepers in fire-resistant leathers stood under strict orders. Awe and fear were plain on their faces.
Before this Mother of Dragons, they dared approach only at feeding time, trembling as they wheeled carts of livestock toward her maw.
The rest of the day, they kept their distance.
Vhagar was ancient. The years had granted her a size no other dragon could match, and a torpor almost as heavy as her body.
Most hours she slept, each breath a rumble from beneath the earth, reeking of brimstone.
Only the scent of blood and raw meat could coax her to wake, to reveal those molten-gold pupils, feed with slow deliberation, and then sink back into slumber.
But today was different.
When Aemond climbed the hill with his three squires, Vhagar was awake.
The old dragon had raised her fore-body, her thick neck arched high.
Her gaze was fixed intently upon a dusty, fossilized egg lying in the sand.
A continuous growl rolled in her throat like grinding tectonic plates. Between her scales, an ever-brightening dark red glow pulsed, betraying the inferno rising within.
Fwoom.
The next instant, a jet of dark green flame, so concentrated it looked nearly black, burst forth, swallowing the stone egg whole.
"Seven save us…" murmured Elrin Haigh. He took a half-step back, all color draining from his face.
He had watched knights win glory in tourneys, but he had never stood before such raw, unalloyed ruin. The wave of heat struck him, turning his knees to water.
Alec Hightower clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stand fast.
House Hightower prided itself on wisdom and lineage, yet before such power, he felt his learning and birth were lighter than dust.
So this is the dragon Aemond commands…
The faint contempt in his heart turned instantly to dread. The Targaryens' beasts were beyond the reach of ordinary men.
Even the steady Garth Lannister held his breath, his golden eyes reflecting the fire, stunned into silence.
Far off, the Dragonkeepers ducked behind cover, watching the old dragon warily.
Even the oldest captain among them had never seen Vhagar so intent on scorching a lifeless stone.
At that moment, Vhagar cut off her flame.
She seemed to sense something. Her colossal head turned, molten eyes locking onto Aemond.
ROAR!
A hot wind of sound battered him, whipping his cloak and silver hair violently.
Aemond lifted his gaze. His violet eyes met the dragon's without flinching.
He felt no fear. Into that inhuman stare, he walked forward and laid a hand on her rugged scales.
Vhagar shot out her tongue. Its barbed surface rasped, restrained yet forceful, across his palm.
Blood welled instantly.
"Your Highness!" the captain of the Dragonkeepers cried out.
The squires gasped.
Those small noises irked Vhagar. She shifted her gaze to the ants standing behind Aemond.
Ants that daily brought her food, yes, but ants nonetheless.
A sullen rumble rose in her throat, thick with brimstone. Flame poised in her gullet.
"Quiet."
Aemond lifted his unhurt hand.
All stir ceased.
Vhagar stilled. Her vast eyes flicked from him to the egg, now glowing dusky red beneath its coating of sand, and then back to his face.
'My blood?'
Reading her gaze, Aemond understood.
Without hesitation, he clenched his bleeding fist and walked toward the still-smoldering egg.
The nearer he came, the fiercer the heat radiating from the shell, the residue of dragonfire.
Vhagar lowered her head, watching.
Before the egg, Aemond pressed his blood-smeared palm to its surface.
Hiss.
The blood did not slide away or boil off. It seemed drawn in, vanishing into the mottled gray ridges.
Veins of dark red spread like a web across the stone, flaring in fleeting, ancient sigils before fading.
She means to use me as a catalyst, he thought. To hatch the whelp inside.
Silence clung to the terrace. Every breath was held at a sight none could fathom.
Just then, a clear cry rang from above.
A sleek form of silver and blue glided down, scales shimmering like pearl and moonlight, Dreamfyre.
Folding her wings, she gave Vhagar soft, low calls.
Vhagar answered with a short, weighty rumble.
Between the two, mother and daughter, old blood bonds stirred. Dreamfyre had been Vhagar's first hatchling, nearly a century ago.
Helaena slid from the dragon's back.
She wore white riding leathers stitched with silver, glinting in the sunset. Her pale-gold hair was wind-tossed, her cheeks flushed from the high cold.
Then she saw Aemond, his hand blood-streaked upon the egg.
"Aemond!"
She hurried forward, ignoring the bows of the attendants. She caught his wrist and studied the wound.
Her brows knit in worry. "What are you doing? Why hurt yourself?"
His eyes stayed on the egg. "Helaena, it feels alive."
She followed his gaze. The egg looked as dull and dead as ever.
Yet, as she stood there, she too sensed it, faint but stubborn, a pulse of life from deep within the stone.
"It answers me," he said.
He could feel a bond forming, quiet and ancient, between him and the shell.
"Don't do this again," she murmured, inspecting the cut on his palm.
"A little blood," he answered softly, turning to her.
"It's nothing."
"Won't you come back to the Red Keep with me?" she asked.
"I'll stay a while," he said with a faint smile.
"There's more to finish."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. She departed with her ladies and guards, her figure fading into the tunnel.
Alone beside the egg, Aemond still felt the faint beat beneath the shell.
Thump-thump.
Once, twice, again.
He was certain: the lifeless egg had woken to his blood.
Were Targaryens not bound to one dragon alone?
'May be because i am not Aemond, my soul is not connected to any dragon yet'
He looked up at Vhagar; the old dragon's gaze rested on him, heavy with expectation.
Could blood wake dead eggs? What else might it do?
As the sunset washed Rhaenys's Hill in dark gold, heavy steps sounded upon the stone, many feet approaching.
Aemond turned to look.
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