The Dragonpit, King's Landing.
The Dragonpit was forever shrouded in the scent of sulfur and ash.
When Daemon Targaryen descended from the sky riding the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, the Dragonkeepers were already kneeling on the ground.
Their heads were buried deep, not daring to look directly at the Rogue Prince, known for his moody temper and swift violence.
Caraxes, the red, long-necked, bloodthirsty deviant of a dragon, exhaled a cloud of steam as his hideous body slowly crouched down.
Daemon slid nimbly off the dragon's back.
He wore dark red leather armor stained with the dust of travel, his silver-gold hair dancing wildly in the wind whipped up by the dragon's wings.
He patted the scales on the side of his beloved dragon's neck.
Caraxes gave a high-pitched, dolphin-like shriek in response, then slithered toward his cavern lair with a fluid, serpentine grace.
Daemon turned around, his gaze habitually scanning the Dragonpit.
Then, his gaze froze.
Outside the main dome, in the open-air terrace carved into the hill, Vhagar lay prostrate.
That legendary giant dragon was currently dozing with her eyes closed, resting leisurely in the sun.
But it was not Vhagar herself that drew all of Daemon's attention.
It was a black figure beside her massive head, so tiny by comparison.
A dragon.
A young dragon entirely covered in ink-black scales, with a strange dark red luster flowing along the edges of the armor plates.
It was about six feet long, with a slender and fluid build. Its head was slightly large in proportion, but already showed a sharp, predatory silhouette, and a row of small but sharp bone spikes extended along its spine to the tip of its tail.
At this moment, it was curled up beside Vhagar's lower jaw.
One of its forelimbs even rested on Vhagar's rock-like claw, its posture intimate and natural.
And Vhagar, the old grandmother known for being violent and reclusive, from whom even other giant dragons kept a respectful distance, actually allowed this little black fellow to nestle against her.
The airflow from her massive breaths gently brushed over the hatchling's scales.
Daemon's pupils suddenly constricted.
'A black dragon? A pure, unblemished black dragon?'
In the history of the Targaryen family, dragons with pure black scales were extremely rare.
Balerion was the last.
How could there be a hatchling beside Vhagar? And a black dragon at that?
As far as he knew, Vhagar was long past the age of laying eggs and had not produced a clutch for over half a century.
Moreover, given Vhagar's temperament, it was impossible for her to tolerate other dragons getting close, let alone being so intimate.
"Rosso," Daemon spoke, his voice sharp.
Rosso, the Captain of the Dragonkeepers who had been waiting nearby with a bowed head, immediately trotted forward and knelt on one knee.
"Prince."
Daemon did not look at him. His gaze was firmly locked on that black hatchling.
"That dragon," he jerked his chin toward the black shape.
"When did it appear? Where did it come from?"
Rosso followed Daemon's gaze, swallowed hard, and said with obvious caution,
"Reporting to Your Highness... that is Morghul. It appeared beside Vhagar... about half a year ago."
"Half a year ago?" Daemon turned his head sharply, his violet eyes staring at Rosso.
"Vhagar's egg? When did she lay eggs again? Why was no one reported?"
"No... It's not a newly laid egg, Your Highness." Rosso's forehead broke out in a fine sweat as he explained, bracing himself.
"It's... It's a dead egg from fifty years ago."
"A dead egg hatched?" Daemon's brow furrowed tightly, his face filled with disbelief.
It was not uncommon for dragon eggs to petrify and become dead stone.
But for a dead egg to hatch again?
He remembered this dead egg. The stone that Vhagar had laid after Balerion died.
His gaze turned toward the black hatchling once more, the doubt in his eyes gradually replaced by a light mixed with pleasant surprise and possessiveness.
"A dead egg reborn, a black dragon in the world..." Daemon muttered to himself, a smile slowly curling at the corners of his mouth.
"A good omen."
"This must be a sign of the ancestors' blessing, foretelling the arrival of my and Rhaenyra's child, the future Aegon."
"This black dragon... Morghul? An Omen? The name is quite good."
"Yes... It shall be the dragon belonging to my son, Aegon."
However, Rosso's body trembled slightly as he knelt on the ground.
"Prince... I'm afraid... I'm afraid that won't do."
"What?" Daemon's smile froze on his face.
"What do you mean it won't do? I haven't returned to King's Landing for so many years. It seems you've forgotten exactly who I am."
Rosso lowered his head deeply.
"But Morghul... he... he seems to have already... claimed a master."
"Claimed a master?" Daemon asked in disbelief.
"Who?"
There were only so many members of the Targaryen family.
His own sons were too young. Aegon the Elder was on Driftmark.
Rosso seemed to throw caution to the wind and said:
"It's... It's Prince Aemond."
"We have observed for a long time; Morghul only allows Prince Aemond to approach and touch him, and even... obeys his simple commands. Vhagar also... does not reject Prince Aemond approaching both of them at the same time."
"We have all seen it... Prince Aemond... he can simultaneously..."
Rosso's voice grew lower and lower as he said the impossible words:
"Ride two dragons."
"Nonsense!!!"
Daemon flared up in a rage and shouted a sharp interruption.
He grabbed Rosso's collar, nearly lifting the kneeling Captain off the ground.
"One man, one dragon! That is the iron law! The iron law of the Dragonlords of Old Valyria! There has never been an exception! Not even Aegon the Conqueror rode two!"
"What right or ability does Aemond have to... to dare...?"
He was so angry he could hardly speak, his chest heaving violently.
Rosso struggled to breathe, but he didn't dare resist, only explaining intermittently:
"It is absolutely true... Prince... we didn't dare believe it at first... but such is the fact... His Majesty the King... His Majesty also knows of this and has strictly ordered us not to spread the word."
Daemon's face turned from ashen to a terrifying gloom.
He slowly turned his head to look at Vhagar and the black hatchling once more.
A sliver of intense wariness, which he himself was unwilling to admit, grew rapidly in his heart.
'One person riding two dragons?'
He didn't believe in such heresy.
Daemon Targaryen would never believe such an absurd thing; he had to verify it with his own eyes.
He released Rosso and set off, walking straight toward where Vhagar lay.
However, just as he stepped within forty paces of the dragon.
SNAP.
Vhagar, who had been dozing, suddenly opened her eyes!
In those massive, molten gold vertical pupils was a cold warning and absolute rejection.
ROAR!
She raised her massive head. A low rumble like thunder echoed in her throat, and a blast of sulfur-scented heat surged out, blowing Daemon's clothes into a wild dance and nearly making him lose his footing.
At the same time, the black hatchling, Morghul, stood up.
Though still small, it let out a sharp and hostile hiss at Daemon without a hint of fear.
In its open mouth, fine but already sharp teeth glinted coldly, and a faint dark red light flowed deep within its throat.
One large and one small, one old and one young.
The two dragons expressed their attitude in the most direct way: 'You are not welcome here.'
Daemon's steps froze.
Facing Vhagar's blatant threat, even he did not dare to advance further lightly.
Caraxes might be fierce, but a frontal clash with Vhagar on the ground would be suicide.
He stared intently at the black hatchling baring its teeth at him.
Then he looked at Vhagar, who was watching him warily.
Finally, his gaze slowly swept over the Dragonkeepers kneeling in the distance, as quiet as cicadas in winter.
Rosso's words and the dragons' reactions intertwined, forcing him to believe.
It seemed... it was true.
Daemon slowly took a few steps back.
Until he was outside Vhagar's clear warning range.
'One person riding two dragons... unheard of, never before seen...'
He turned on his heel. He had to warn Rhaenyra.
This half-brother of hers was likely far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.
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