The Dragonpit, at midday
The carriage came to a steady halt, and King Viserys I stepped down from the cabin with Queen Alicent's support.
On his other side, Princess Helaena gently held her father's arm.
The king's hand trembled slightly—not from physical weakness, but from excitement he could scarcely contain.
Black dragons had rarely appeared since the Doom of Valyria.
Among dragonkind, black dragons were the most savage and violent, their combat power unrivaled.
At present, the only black dragon left in the world was the wild dragon notorious for devouring hatchlings—the Cannibal—who laired on Dragonstone, untamable by any hand.
As for Prince Daemon's red-and-black "Blood Wyrm," though fierce and warlike, it could not truly be counted as a pure black dragon.
From the depths of the Dragonpit came the sharp, wet sound of flesh being torn apart.
The Kingsguard had already dismounted and formed ranks, and Aemond arrived on horseback as well.
"Your Grace, this way." Dragonkeeper Captain Rosso stepped forward to lead them, lowering his voice. "The little one is beneath Vhagar's wing."
The first thing to come into view was Vhagar's massive side, like a range of mountains.
Beneath the legendary old dragon's half-unfurled left wing, there seemed to be a moving shadow.
Within that shadow, a lump of black writhed ceaselessly. It was no larger than a hunting hound, yet its scales were a deep, lightless black. Its head was buried as it tore at the blood-soaked chunks of meat the dragonkeepers pushed toward it with long poles.
"Mother Above…" Alicent whispered a prayer, tracing the seven-pointed star across her chest.
Helaena, however, was unusually quiet. She only widened her violet eyes, watching Aemond.
Viserys took a step forward, almost forgetting to breathe.
At that moment, Vhagar turned her head.
Her molten-gold great eye slowly rolled, sweeping over the tiny figures below, before finally fixing upon the offspring beneath her wing.
A low, rumbling sound issued from the old dragon's throat, the scales along her neck lifting slightly—an instinctive, protective response.
Aemond stepped forward at once.
"Lykiri, Vhagar." (Be calm, Vhagar.)
He called softly in High Valyrian.
Vhagar lowered her head, white vapor carrying the scent of sulfur billowing from her nostrils. Aemond reached out and stroked the mother dragon's rough scales, once, then again.
The old dragon's agitation gradually subsided.
Just then, the hatchling stopped tearing at the meat.
It lifted its small head, smeared with blood. Dark red vertical pupils—rimmed at the edges with an exceedingly fine ring of gold—stared straight at Aemond.
After a brief hesitation, the hatchling clumsily braced its newly born, still-weak limbs, spread its wings, and staggered a first step toward Aemond.
Viserys narrowed his eyes. "He recognizes you?"
Aemond turned his face slightly. "He hatched today, Father."
"Anything that can move is likely new to him."
"New?" The king shook his head. "Dragons are most sensitive to scent."
"Once a rider forms a bond with a dragon, other dragons lose interest in that rider."
"But the look in this hatchling's eyes…"
"That is not curiosity. It is more like recognizing a master."
When Vhagar saw her offspring approach Aemond, she showed no reaction. The old dragon closed her eyes, lowered her head, and settled into rest.
The hatchling took a few more steps forward, nearly stumbling, yet somehow managing to steady itself.
It lifted its head, its dark red eyes locked tightly onto Aemond. From its throat came an urgent, sharp clacking sound, as if calling to him.
Aemond looked at the hatchling and crouched down.
The black hatchling lunged straight into his arms, tiny claws hooking into his clothes, its head rubbing against his chest.
The unbelievable sight made Viserys's pupils contract sharply.
Dragonkeeper Captain Rosso moved closer at once and murmured a few words into the king's ear.
Viserys's brow furrowed deeper and deeper, his withered fingers tightening around the scepter.
"Everyone except Aemond, withdraw."
The crowd obeyed and retreated.
In that moment, only father and son remained.
"Aemond," Viserys said with confusion, "give me an explanation."
He pointed at the black hatchling. "A dragonrider can bind only one dragon in an entire lifetime."
"This has been an iron law since the Age of Valyria, never once broken."
"Vhagar has already chosen you."
"And yet now this hatchling is showing you this kind of… this kind of attachment."
Aemond fell silent for several breaths.
"Father," he finally spoke.
"As for the mysteries of dragons, even the dragonlords of ancient Valyria did not dare claim complete understanding."
"I do not know what is happening either."
He paused. "But when I touched this little one, I could feel what he feels—hunger, curiosity, and… closeness."
"He also seems able to sense what I am thinking."
"What do you mean?" Viserys asked, finding it hard to believe.
"Perhaps our blood has resonated, Father." Aemond lifted his head.
"Vhagar has not opposed this little one approaching me either."
"That is impossible…" Viserys murmured to himself, yet his feet moved forward despite him.
Vhagar's eyes snapped open.
Molten-gold pupils fixed on the king.
A low growl welled up in the old dragon's throat—a warning.
Viserys froze in place, his hand still extended in midair.
"Lykiri." (Be calm.)
Aemond's voice sounded once more.
Vhagar's agitation eased, but her gaze never left the king.
The hatchling, however, poked its head out from Aemond's arms and let out a shrill hiss toward Viserys, baring tiny, sharp teeth.
The meaning was unmistakable.
Viserys withdrew his hand. The expression on his face shifted—shock, confusion—before settling into something more complex.
He looked long and hard at his second son, the son who always managed to take him by surprise.
The king let out a long sigh.
"Give him a name, Aemond," he said, some strength returning to his voice.
"You tamed him—or rather, he chose you. That is your right."
"Lothorne," Aemond answered without hesitation, the High Valyrian word leaving his lips.
"Lothorne…" Viserys repeated softly. "In the old tongue, that means an omen?"
"That is correct." Aemond gently set the hatchling back on the ground. The little one stumbled back toward the pile of meat, yet still turned its head to look at him from time to time.
"His very existence may itself be an omen."
"An omen…" The king rolled the word over in his mind.
After a long while, he turned away.
"Return to the Red Keep."
On the carriage ride back, Viserys reclined against the cushions, his eyes closed in thought.
A dragonrider can bind only one dragon in a lifetime…
Had this iron law truly been broken by Aemond?
Or had something in Aemond's bloodline changed—some form of blood magic hidden within the blood?
Viserys recalled the ancient legends passed down through his family.
The earliest Valyrians had been nothing more than a band of refugee shepherds, until they encountered dragons among the Fourteen Flames.
Some said they tamed the dragons. Others said they created blood magic, using it to fuse dragon blood with their own, and were thereafter regarded by dragons as kin…
Those Valyrians who possessed the blood of dragonriders were called dragonlords—forty dragonlord families.
The other Valyrians, who lacked the blood to ride dragons, became the nobility of that newborn empire.
Thereafter, much of the eastern continent was conquered, expanded, and enslaved by Valyrians who commanded dragons.
These secrets were buried with the Doom of Valyria centuries ago.
Only House Targaryen escaped the catastrophe, thanks to the prophecy of Daenys the Dreamer.
They fled with their dragons and dragon eggs to the western continent—Westeros—and ultimately made their seat on Dragonstone.
Then came generations of Targaryen recovery and consolidation.
A little over a hundred years ago, the Targaryens began their conquest of the Seven Kingdoms.
Under the pressure of dragons, the kings of the Seven Kingdoms were forced to bow their heads, remove their crowns, and become the present Lords Paramount of their realms, swearing fealty to and acknowledging Targaryen rule over Westeros.
And now, in this world, only House Targaryen still possessed dragons—and the blood that could ride them…
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