90 AC. King's Landing
King's Landing at night choked in its own stench, blanketed under a heavy shroud of windless fog. Above the city, like a vast petrified monster, loomed Rhaenys's Hill, crowned by the massive dome of the Dragonpit. At this late hour, the majestic structure seemed desolate, yet Corlys Velaryon knew that this impression was deceptive. Behind the thick stone walls, within the labyrinth of deep subterranean tiers, slept the masters of the sky, their slumber guarded by dozens of guards and sullen dragonkeepers whose lives were bound by a strict code.
Corlys slipped silently along the outer wall, blending into the deep shadows cast by the massive pillars. Every movement of his was calculated to the millimeter. He had deliberately chosen the hour before dawn - the time when human alertness flags the most, when even the most duty-bound sentries succumb to drowsiness, and the torches begin to dim, sputtering more acrid smoke than light.
Pausing in a deep niche near a side entrance intended for servants and provisions, Corlys caught his breath. His thoughts involuntarily drifted back to the events of the previous evening, to the very chambers they shared at High Tide where he had left Viserra. Her gaze remained vivid in his memory - a mixture of disbelief, fright, and a sudden, almost desperate flare of hope.
When he had first voiced the question, offering her the chance to become a dragonrider, Viserra had only laughed carelessly. Her laughter, usually bright and flirtatious, had sounded a bit forced then, as if she were trying to shield herself from a joke that was far too dangerous. She assumed her husband was merely trying to entertain her with fair words, or jesting about her family's favorite obsession. But Corlys did not smile in return. He continued to look at her calmly, his purple eyes completely still.
Gradually, Viserra's laughter died away. She froze, peering into his stern, focused face, and the playful mask she so habitually wore before courtiers finally slipped away. She realized that a man capable of performing the ritual that had healed her was, in all likelihood, capable of this as well.
"You have lost your mind, Corlys," she had replied then, in little more than a whisper, pulling a silk robe over her shoulders. "I have always dreamed of this. Every morning, watching Baelon or Aemon rise into the clouds, I felt everything inside me burn away with envy. But even if you have some secret means... if you can truly give this to me... do you have any idea what disaster it will bring upon us both? I know my father. Jaehaerys Targaryen may seem a merciful and wise king, but when it comes to dragons, he is unyielding. He will not look kindly upon the living embodiment of the royal house's sigil falling into the hands of someone who does not unconditionally submit to his will and is not a member of the family. It matters not that I am his own flesh-and-blood daughter. Dragons are the power of the Crown. It is one thing when I am simply a princess at court, and quite another if I, having married outside the family, acquire a monster of my own, capable of burning cities."
Corlys remembered how a faint, barely perceptible smile had touched his lips. There was no disdain in it, only the cold confidence of a man who had long outgrown any fear of the Iron Throne's authority.
"I did not ask you what would please your father, Viserra," he said softly, yet with deep conviction, stepping closer and forcing her to lift her gaze. "The mind of a king is ever the same - they wish to possess all that their hands can reach. I care for only one thing: are you ready to take this step yourself? Do you want to fly upon your own dragon?"
The princess opened her mouth then, intending to object, perhaps to bring forth a dozen more rational arguments dictated by caution, but the words caught in her throat. Confusion flickered in her purple eyes, replaced by a silent but absolutely unmistakable assent. Corlys read the answer before she even had time to fully comprehend her choice.
"Rest," he said, gently touching her fingers in farewell. "I understood your answer without words. I will be gone for a while, so do not raise an alarm. I shall return when the deed is done."
He left her chambers, leaving the maiden entirely alone amidst the luxurious room and dying candles. Immediately after, slipping into one of the dead-end alleys of the castle yard, Corlys channeled his hidden powers. The world around him contracted for a brief moment, space warping with a faint pop, and he apparated directly to the foot of Rhaenys's Hill, leaving the impregnable walls of High Tide far behind.
And now he stood here, at the very heart of Westeros's dragon power. Waiting until a pair of drowsy guards in black cloaks disappeared around the corner, Corlys took a deep breath of the cool night air. His fingers made a brief, barely perceptible motion in the air, and his lips moved soundlessly, weaving the words of a concealment spell. Magic softly enveloped his body, distorting light and muffling the sound of his footsteps. To any random passerby, he became a barely visible mirage, a fleeting tremor in the air that a human eye, accustomed to the gloom, would never notice.
With a confident stride, Corlys passed through the massive wrought-iron gates and ventured deep into the gloom of the Dragonpit's main corridor. From the depths of the subterranean vaults wafted a familiar, incomparable scent: a mixture of sulfur, stale dung, and smoldering ash. This stench terrified ordinary men, but to Corlys, it was entirely familiar.
Moving down the sloping ramp, Corlys continued to analyze his plan, weighing every step. The risk was immense, but the stakes were high. Thoughts raced through his mind of the dragon eggs he had so painstakingly recovered from the fused ruins of Old Valyria during his voyage. He could not give a single one of them to Viserra, and for that, there were two compelling, undeniable reasons.
First, the mysterious and dark blood ritual he had personally performed over the entire Valyrian clutch. That magic, steeped in his own intent and ancient incantations, bound the unhatched creatures inextricably to his blood. The dragons that would eventually crack these stony shells would obey only his children or their direct descendants. To any other person who was not his direct descendant, even one with the purest blood of Old Valyria flowing through their veins, these beasts would remain deadly monsters.
Second, pragmatic politics. The sudden appearance of a tiny, unknown hatchling in the possession of a young princess would immediately provoke a storm of questions at court. The King and his Hand would launch a detailed investigation. Where did the egg come from? Who had managed to wake it to life without the knowledge of the dragonkeepers? Viserra would be bombarded with interrogations, and Corlys himself would fall under suspicion of harboring Valyrian artifacts and practicing sorcery. It would unravel all his long-term plans.
Therefore, only one sensible path remained - Viserra had to claim an already mature, well-known dragon that, for one reason or another, was riderless. Granted, the Targaryen dragons, bred in captivity or on Dragonstone, were inferior in many ways to his own hidden dragons. They lacked the primordial ferocity, the colossal magical might, and, above all, the sharp intellect possessed by his winged monstrosities. However, Corlys knew how to remedy this defect. Through carefully formulated alchemical potions, the recipes for which he had brought out of Valyria, and a few rituals to fortify the flesh, the chosen dragon could eventually draw significantly closer to the level of his own beasts. Its scales would grow harder than steel, and its flame hotter.
Corlys mentally reviewed all the known living dragons.
Balerion, the Black Dread. He was already close to two hundred years old, remaining the largest and most terrifying creature in the known world. Now he resided here, in the Pit, forgotten by all and slowly fading, riderless since the death of Princess Aerea. Corlys dismissed this option immediately. Balerion was too old. His wings had grown heavy, his bones creaked with every movement, and his massive bulk spent most of the time in deep slumber. This dragon was fit only to die in his stone cradle, not for a young and ambitious princess.
Vhagar. The second largest, a formidable veteran of the Conquest who had passed her one-hundred-and-fortieth year. She possessed incredible power, but she already had a rider - Prince Baelon Targaryen, a charismatic and formidable warrior. Due to having a rider, she was also ruled out.
Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. Fifty-six years old, a true colossus among the males, hatched in the thirty-fourth year after Aegon's Conquest. His egg had once been placed in the cradle of young Jaehaerys, and now this dragon personified the unbreakable authority of the King himself.
Silverwing. The loyal and graceful companion to Vermithor, ridden by the Good Queen Alysanne. She was fifty-four years old, hatched in the thirty-sixth year, and her bond with her rider remained unbroken. She, too, was unavailable.
Meleys, the Red Queen. Around fifty years old, an incredibly swift and fierce she-dragon whose scarlet wings could outfly the wind itself. But her rider was already Princess Rhaenys, and their bond was strong.
Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. A fierce, unpredictable red serpent, ready to plunge into battle at any moment. His rider was Prince Aemon Targaryen, the eldest son and rightful heir to King Jaehaerys. This dragon was the living sword of the Crown, ever ready for war.
The Cannibal. A massive, old, and indescribably ferocious wild dragon dwelling on Dragonstone. His very presence inspired terror, for he fed upon the flesh of his own kind, devouring other hatchlings and stealing eggs from clutches. His wild, frenzied nature made him entirely unsuited for Viserra. An attempt to force a bond with him would only end with the princess being torn to pieces at their very first meeting.
Having excluded all these creatures, Corlys concluded that only two real candidates remained.
The first was Sheepstealer - a fully mature, large, and hardy dragon of a mud-brown hue. In age, he was roughly a contemporary of Vermithor, and in size, he was barely inferior to the King's dragon. He nested on the slopes of Dragonstone and was distinguished by a relative indifference to humans, so long as they did not attempt to take his food.
The second option was Dreamfyre. She was fifty-eight years old, having hatched in the thirty-second year for Princess Rhaena Targaryen. She was a beautiful, majestic she-dragon with scales the color of the pale dawn sky and silver crests. Her first rider had died in the seventy-third year, and since then, for seventeen long years, Dreamfyre had languished in the gloom of the Dragonpit, knowing neither the warmth of a human hand nor the freedom granted by the sky.
Both options seemed promising, but Dreamfyre possessed one colossal advantage that outweighed everything else. She was a female. Sheepstealer, on the other hand, was a male. For Corlys, who looked decades into the future, this was of decisive importance. If Viserra were to tame Sheepstealer, then down the line, when they had children, Corlys would have no way to explain the appearance of dragon eggs in their castle. Males do not produce clutches. But if Dreamfyre became her faithful companion, any appearance of new eggs on Driftmark could easily and elegantly be attributed to the she-dragon's own nature. No one in King's Landing would harbor suspicions if Rhaena's old mount suddenly laid a clutch under the care of her new rider.
That was precisely why Corlys was here now, in the capital, making his way into the darkest depths of the Pit, instead of heading to the misty shores of Dragonstone for Sheepstealer.
He descended smoothly, lower and lower, passing through wide corridors hewn directly into the bedrock of the hill. The walls here were coated with a thick layer of soot, and the rare oil lamps barely dispelled the darkness. Corlys moved soundlessly, his boots of soft leather making no noise. However, as he passed one of the large offshoots where isolated, iron-reinforced pens were located, he suddenly came upon a massive grate.
Behind it, bound by heavy chains forged from the finest steel to the massive stone floor, rested Meleys. The Red Queen was asleep, her huge head resting upon her folded wings, but it must be admitted that the senses of dragons surpassed any human conception. Moreover, finding himself in the deep inner tiers where the likelihood of encountering guards dwindled to zero, Corlys allowed himself to relax slightly and loosened his invisibility charms.
Meleys snapped her head up instantly. Her copper and scarlet scales scraped against one another with a dry, quiet rustle, and her huge amber eyes with vertical pupils flared in the darkness like twin torches. She drew in a sharp, loud breath through her nostrils, and Corlys knew: she recognized his scent, which she had committed to memory during their previous encounter.
To any other man, even an experienced dragonkeeper, the sounds that followed would have seemed merely a series of dangerous, vibrating clicks, low growls, and a hissing exhalation that sent a trail of hot ash drifting across the floor. But Corlys, possessing a rare gift - Parseltongue - understood everything perfectly.
"This two-legged one again..." Meleys rumbled, giving her massive head a slight toss that caused the links of her chains to clank dully. "I remember this scent. He came with my rider. Smells of the sea, of storms, and of something very ancient... a strange little human. Why does he wander here in the dark? And why does he not smell of fear, like those nonentities who bring the food?"
The she-dragon took a short step forward, as far as the length of her tether allowed, and snorted with irritation, exhaling two thin streams of gray smoke from her nostrils.
"Accursed cave..." she continued her mental lamentations, shifting her gaze from Corlys to the stone vaults. "To sit here again, chained to these cold stones. And for what? To wait until my two-legged one deigns to remember the sky and comes to tug at the chains? Foolish two-legged ones. They cannot fathom the agony of imprisonment."
Corlys, not in the least intimidated by her formidable aspect, took a step forward and approached the very edge of the pen's grate. A faint, ironic smirk played upon his face. He tilted his head slightly and spoke, emitting quiet, hissing and sibilant sounds that to an outside observer would have seemed a serpent's whisper, but to the Red Queen rang clearer than any human speech.
"You know, Meleys, you are rather endearing in your grumbling when you think no human can understand you," he said softly in Parseltongue.
The dragon's massive head jerked back sharply. Her amber eyes widened to their limits, her vertical pupils narrowing to slits. She froze completely in place, staring at Corlys with an expression of pure shock. The wings upon her back half-unfurled convulsively and immediately flapped, kicking up dust from the floor of the pen.
"What?!" her voice was drenched in a wave of genuine astonishment. "You... you speak? You understand my words? Gods of ash and bone, this two-legged one makes the sounds of the True Speech! How is this possible? I have lived so many years among these pale, two-legged worms, and they know only how to shout their ridiculous commands in a twisted tongue, tug at chains, and bring meat. Not one of them has ever answered me in the language of the nest!"
"I am the only one of my kind in these lands," Corlys replied calmly. "Well, perhaps my future children will inherit this trait as well. So you are in luck, Red Queen. Your grievances have finally been heard."
Meleys leaned toward him slowly, with evident wariness and burning curiosity, extending her immense scaly snout. She stopped a hand's breadth from the iron bars, continuing to noisily sniff his face and garments.
"The only one..." she echoed, her fury replaced by a watchful interest. "A strange creature."
"I do not know if you remember," Corlys interrupted with a light chuckle, "but I truly know how to scratch a dragon's neck properly, and I am well-acquainted with what brings pleasure."
Without waiting for her response, he confidently reached his hand through the wide bars of the grate. His palm settled onto the hot, rough skin right at the base of her powerful jaw, where the large plates yielded to smaller, more sensitive scales. Corlys began to rub the spot with a steady, forceful rhythm, making circular motions with his fingers.
Meleys squeezed her huge eyes shut at once. From her chest erupted a deep, vibrating rumble, like the crashing of boulders in the mountains blended with the contented purr of a gargantuan cat. Her long neck involuntarily extended, offering itself to his fingers, while her massive tail lashed forcefully from side to side, striking the stone wall with a dry thud.
"Oh... yes... right there..." she lamented blissfully, surrendering entirely to the sensation. "A little higher... toward the crest... Oh gods, how incredibly good that is. Your palms... they are definitely warmer and stronger than those of my rider's sister... More... harder..."
Yet this moment of weakness did not last long. Suddenly, Meleys seemed to catch herself. She jerked her head back sharply, tearing away from his hand, and snorted loudly, restoring a proud and independent expression to her snout. Her eyes narrowed once more, and regal notes crept into her voice.
"Enough!" she snarled, though her nostrils still quivered with pleasure. "I am Meleys, the Red Queen! Only my rider and her little sister, who smells of the sun, have the right to scratch my neck. You are not my rider, two-legged one. You are merely... a guest. An overly insolent guest."
Corlys laughed heartily, a rolling sound, not at all offended by her sudden shift in mood. He stepped back slowly from the grate, wiping his palm against the hem of his dark cloak, which bore a faint smudge of gray dragon soot.
"As you wish, Your Grace," he said with a shallow bow in Parseltongue. "It was good to see you, Meleys. I promise that next time, I shall only scratch you with your consent."
He turned and continued on his way, walking deeper into the corridor. Behind him, echoing from the pen, the muffled, irritated grumbling of Meleys could still be heard.
"Strange... utterly mad two-legged creature..." she muttered, settling back onto the stone floor. "He is not afraid of me at all. It irritates me... yes, it definitely irritates me. But his scratching... well, it must be admitted, he does it rather well."
Corlys descended further, to where the air grew drier and hotter, and the stench of sulfur thickened to such an extent that an ordinary man would have gasped for breath. These were the deepest, most isolated tiers of the Dragonpit, reserved for those dragons that currently lacked masters and whose presence required strict containment. Finally, passing through several half-ruined internal arches, he stopped before colossal wrought-iron gates, behind which lay the pen of Dreamfyre.
Corlys stepped closer and peered through the massive steel bars. What he beheld caused his heart to tighten slightly with a pang of pity.
Deep within the vast pen hewn from the rock, chained to heavy anchors, rested Dreamfyre. Her appearance was sorrowful and majestic all at once. Despite her fifty-eight years, this she-dragon was noticeably smaller than Vermithor or even Silverwing, though she surpassed them both in age. Corlys understood the reason for this stunted growth perfectly. Seventeen years. Seventeen long, uninterrupted years of confinement within these stifling, enclosed walls without regular flights, without the chance to spread her wings against a sea storm, without hunting in open expanses. The Dragonpit, built by men for safety, had become a slow-killing prison for her, stifling her true potential. Her once dazzlingly blue scales appeared dull beneath a layer of dust, and the silver crests along her back looked slumped.
But the moment Corlys drew near, the ancient instincts of a great apex predator took over. Dreamfyre caught the intruder's scent instantly. Her massive head, adorned with sharp, elegant horns, snapped upward. From the depths of her throat erupted a perilous growl that set the small stones beneath the Sea Snake's feet to trembling. She stared at him with her pale, icy-blue eyes, which burned with the resentment and fury of an imprisoned dragon.
"Who dares?" Her voice invaded Corlys's consciousness, but unlike Meleys's grumbling and animated manner, Dreamfyre's speech sounded haughty, arrogant, and yet incredibly bitter. "Who dares disturb my rest, mortal worm? I cannot abide even those pale, two-legged creatures that bring me half-rotten meat, and you... you come empty-handed. Why are you here, nonentity? To gawk at my fall?"
The she-dragon parted her jaws threateningly. Corlys watched as a bright, ominous blue-white flame began to kindle deep within her throat, between rows of teeth sharp as daggers. The air around the grate instantly turned searing hot.
Corlys did not retreat a single step. He stood straight, shoulders squared, his face remaining entirely serene. Once more he spoke in Parseltongue, drawing from his throat intricate, sibilant sounds filled with inner confidence and peace.
"Calm your wrath, Dreamfyre," he said, his voice sounding soft. "I come to you in peace. And I have not come to make sport of your confinement. I have brought you that which I believe you long for more than anything else in the world."
Dreamfyre snapped her jaws shut. The gathering blue flame died, leaving only a thin wisp of acrid smoke to escape through her teeth. She went still, tilting her head to the side, and stared at him with genuine interest, utter astonishment plain in her gaze.
"You... you speak to me?" Her voice grew slightly quieter, though it lost none of its regal pride. "You understand my speech, human?"
"I understand you just as I do any of your kind," Corlys replied, taking another half-step toward the bars. "Your tongue is no secret to me."
The she-dragon extended herself forward slowly, bringing her elegant, blue-scaled snout close to the iron bars. She took a deep, lingering breath, flaring her wide nostrils and drinking in his scent. Her icy eyes narrowed.
"Strange..." she whispered, and a note of profound reflection crept into her voice. "Never before have I encountered humans such as you. Those who come here smell only of fear, sweat, and old leather. But from you... from you emanates the aroma of true flame. You smell of dragon, mortal."
"In all likelihood, that is the scent of Meleys," Corlys chuckled, shaking his head. "I have just passed her pen and had a brief conversation with her."
"No," Dreamfyre cut him off, a distinct note of disdain in her voice. "I know full well how that hot-tempered scarlet girl Meleys smells. Her scent is superficial, lingering only upon your garments. But from the depths of your being emerges a different imprint. Thus smell only those riders who possess their own true dragon. A powerful dragon. Where is it?"
Corlys could not help but be surprised by her discernment. His eyebrows arched slightly. He had not expected a she-dragon who had spent so many years in isolation to retain such razor-sharp instincts, capable of picking up such subtle nuances.
"You are correct," he admitted, inclining his head slightly. "I have a dragon of my own. My dragons dwell far from here. But I am curious: how were you able to gauge its strength based purely on my scent?"
"We all possess our own unique imprint," Dreamfyre replied, her voice carrying a trace of patronizing wisdom. "By it, all may be known: age, fury, purity of blood, and the strength of the flame. Your dragon... I know it is not, the scent is foreign to me, not of those hatched within these wretched walls. Yet its power is immense. It is hot, dense. It resembles the scent of that insufferable, ever-snarling Vermithor... or perhaps your dragon is even stronger than he."
"My dragons are rather stronger than Vermithor," Corlys stated calmly, without empty boasting, but with absolute certainty.
Dreamfyre took another short breath, as if double-checking her senses, and then something akin to respect flickered in her eyes.
"You bear the mark of three..." she said slowly. "Three distinct dragon aromas have soaked into your skin. But one of them... the very first, the strongest... stands out most vividly."
"You are far wiser than I anticipated when I made my way here," Corlys remarked, a spark of genuine approval lighting his eyes. "And that makes you even more valuable to me than I initially thought."
"What are you speaking of, human?" The she-dragon gave an irritated twitch of the silver crest on the nape of her neck. "You mentioned you came with an offer. Enough riddles. Speak, what is it you want in my prison?"
"I have already told you," Corlys said, stepping right up to the bars and looking straight into her pale eyes. "I am capable of giving you what you desire most. I have come to restore your freedom."
Dreamfyre froze. For a moment, absolute silence reigned within her pen. She scrutinized his face, searching for any trace of deceit or mockery, but the man's expression remained unreadable.
"Freedom?" Her voice trembled, carrying a tempest of long-festering pain, hope, and fierce disbelief. "Freedom from these walls? From these chains? You lie, human. Humans never give anything for nothing. What will you demand in exchange for my freedom?"
"And why are you so certain I must demand something in return?" Corlys asked with mild irony.
"Because it is in your nature," she replied bitterly and sharply, baring her upper row of teeth. "You small, fragile creatures always seek to subjugate that which is larger and stronger than yourselves. My first rider, Rhaena... she loved me, yes. But even she kept me on the leash of her will. So do not spin me tales of selflessness. State your price."
"Very well," Corlys agreed, judging that honesty was the best instrument in this case. "I am prepared to free you from this pen, which became your cage after Rhaena's death. I am prepared to give you a new home on Driftmark, where no one will ever dare to chain you. You shall fly as much as you wish, hunt over the open sea, and rest beneath the open sky. In return, I ask of you one thing. You must accept my wife, Viserra Targaryen. She is the daughter of your first rider's brother, the same blood flows in her veins. Allow her to become your new rider. Bind your fate to hers."
Dreamfyre recoiled sharply, her wings striking the walls of the pen with a loud crash, and a loud, furious hiss erupted from her throat.
"Never!" she cried in a fury. "I am Dreamfyre! I alone, and only I, have the right to decide who is worthy to mount my back! You wish to buy my loyalty for your woman? You want me to become a mount for yet another pale girl who will tug at my reins?"
"Listen to me closely," Corlys's voice dropped quieter, but it carried such icy, unyielding power that the she-dragon involuntarily fell silent, listening. "Viserra is worthy of you. She will not keep you on a leash. She, just like you, suffocated within the walls of this city under her father's watch. You are more alike than you think. Furthermore, in exchange for this alliance, I promise you my personal protection. No man in Westeros, be it the King himself or all his hosts, shall be able to bind you in these chains while I live. On my island, you will be fed the finest choice meat, and most importantly... through ancient magic, I shall make you stronger. Your body will reclaim the size lost during the years of captivity, your scales will harden, and your flame will grow hotter than in the days of your youth."
The word "magic," spoken by Corlys with a specific, profound intonation, caused Dreamfyre to freeze. Her icy eyes focused on him once more, but now something else could be read in them - an awakening interest, long dormant at the very bottom of her memory.
"Magic..." she repeated slowly. "True magic of blood and stone... Balerion... the old Black Dread... a long time ago, when the rest of us were still young, he would tell us tales. He said that in our distant homeland across the great sea, humans knew how to work incredible things through magic. They made us vast as mountains and immortal as the rocks themselves. But here... here that magic has waned. The two-legged ones have forgotten it. You claim you possess it?"
"I do possess it," Corlys assured her firmly. "And I shall prove it through deeds. Your new life on Driftmark will surpass anything you could have imagined. But in return, I require only two things from you. First, you allow Viserra to become your rider and treat her with respect. Second, you never, under any circumstances, kill humans or touch livestock within the territory of Driftmark. You will have no need to worry about sustenance, you will be fed to your heart's content. What say you, Dreamfyre?"
Dreamfyre lowered her head, sinking into deep contemplation. Her nostrils rhythmically exhaled thin wisps of smoke, and her heavy tail slowly rasped across the floor. Years of darkness versus freedom, magic, and the boundless sky, even with a new rider upon her back. The choice for a proud creature was obvious, yet her regal pride demanded final clarifications.
"Where is this home of yours, of which you speak so sweetly?" she asked at last. "Where is this island?"
"If you permit it, I shall show it to you right now," Corlys replied, taking a step toward the bars and extending his hand, palm up. "Do not be frightened, and do not attempt to resist what is to come. It will cause you no harm."
The she-dragon hesitated for a second, and then slowly, with an obvious internal effort, brought her immense snout close and allowed his palm to settle upon the hot scales just above her nostrils.
Corlys closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his mental faculties and applied legilimency. Breaching the mind of an ancient, mighty dragon proved to be a task of colossal difficulty. Dreamfyre's mind was a raging ocean of primal emotions, fragments of old memories of flight, the scent of blood, and an endless, suffocating melancholy. It felt akin to trying to hold back a ship plunging at full speed with one's bare hands. Corlys felt large drops of sweat break out upon his brow, and blood pounded in his temples. He knew that had the she-dragon shown even a shred of mental aggression at that moment or attempted to raise shields, her will would have simply incinerated his own mind. But she kept her promise and remained open.
Dreamfyre shuddered through her whole body as the alien, human will slipped softly yet confidently into her consciousness. At first, she wanted to snarl upon feeling the intrusion, but then Corlys's calm, deep voice echoed within her thoughts.
"Look..." he said inside her head, unfolding bright, vivid images before her. "I am showing you the way."
An incredibly distinct picture flared within the she-dragon's consciousness. First, she saw the familiar outlines of Dragonstone - black volcanic rocks washed by salty waves. She remembered the path to this island perfectly, having been there countless times in the past. Then, Corlys's mind's eye directed her attention slightly to the right, guiding her across the narrow strait to the neighboring island.
"Here is Driftmark," Corlys's voice continued to resonate. "Look upon it through my eyes."
Dreamfyre saw a green island sprawling amidst the blue sea. Before her mind's eye flashed the bustling streets of Spicetown, the grand contours of High Tide castle, and, most importantly, the colossal, spacious dragon lair Corlys was erecting on his lands. It was a place designed for rest, not as a prison.
And at the very end of this mental journey, Corlys showed her Viserra. The princess's image flashed into the dragon's mind like a brilliant stroke: her silver-gold hair whipping in the wind, her proud bearing, and that very same hidden fire within her purple eyes, longing so desperately to break free.
"She is waiting for you," Corlys said softly. "She shall become your wings upon the earth, and you her strength in the sky."
With that word, Corlys abruptly severed the mental link and yanked his hand away from her snout. He staggered, breathing heavily and gripping an iron bar of the grate to keep from collapsing under the sudden wave of weakness. Dark spots swam before his eyes for a moment, but he quickly mastered himself.
Dreamfyre slowly opened her eyes. Her breath grew rapid and deep. The images this man had shown her left an indelible mark upon her mind. The dream of a spacious island and an unshackled sky banished the last remnants of doubt.
"I... I have seen your home, human," she spoke, her voice vibrating with impatience. "And I have remembered the woman. There is truly something of my Rhaena in her appearance... Very well. I shall fly to your island. Now - fulfill your promise. Free me from these cursed chains!"
Corlys straightened, took a deep breath, and thrust out his right hand, aiming his open palm at the massive steel chains binding the she-dragon's legs and neck. His eyes narrowed, his features hardening in concentration. He channeled his magical power, directing a concentrated pulse of telekinesis straight into the metal.
The air between his palm and the chains rippled with piercing, light-distorting waves. In the next second, a gruesome, grinding rumble echoed out. An unseen, colossal physical force slammed into the steel links. The thick metal, forged by the capital's finest smiths, began to deform, twisting and groaning as if kneaded by invisible, gargantuan fingers. It looked as though the she-dragon herself was tearing through her bonds under the influence of an incredible internal impulse.
With a deafening crack like a cannon shot, the first link snapped, shattering into fragments. The second followed, then the third. The heavy ends of the severed chains crashed onto the stone floor with a resounding clang, kicking up sparks and dust.
Sensing the long-awaited lightness, Dreamfyre snapped her head up and unfurled her colossal, pale-blue wings. This time, she felt none of the now-familiar resistance from the tension of the steel cables.
"At last!" Her triumphant cry nearly deafened Corlys. Her voice was drenched in the primal euphoria of a creature reclaiming its liberty. "Freedom! Away, wretched iron! Soon I shall meet your woman, liberator... We shall see if she is as fine in the sky as she is in your thoughts. I hope Viserra proves a worthy rider for me!"
The she-dragon wasted not another second. She cared nothing for caution or stealth. Drawing a deep breath of hot air into her lungs, she turned and threw her entire mass forward, rushing out of the pen and heading up the main corridor toward the exit of the vaults. Her powerful claws left deep furrows in the stone floor slabs with a terrible scraping shriek, and her wings - tucking and unfurling - scraped against the walls, bringing down chunks of soot-blackened stone.
An incredible commotion erupted instantly within the depths of the Dragonpit. The dragonkeepers and guards stationed on the upper tiers awoke to a horrific rumble and vibrations that shook all of Rhaenys's Hill. Alarm horns sounded, accompanied by the panicked shouts of men, the tramping of hundreds of feet, and the clatter of steel. The keepers, clad in their boiled leather armor, spilled into the corridors in droves, trying to discern what was happening. When a colossal, enraged blue she-dragon burst from the darkness of the lower ramp at full speed, pure terror gripped the men. Some attempted to shout commands in High Valyrian, brandishing long, iron-tipped prods and tossing heavy capture nets, but Dreamfyre did not even spare them a glance. With a single short buffet of her wing, she swept three guards from her path, sending them flying into the nearest wall, and pressed on with her rapid ascent.
Corlys, cloaking himself once more in his invisibility charms, followed at a leisurely, safe distance behind her, watching the magnificent chaos unfold.
Before long, Dreamfyre reached her final obstacle - the main exit of the Dragonpit. Looming before her were colossal oak gates bound in thick sheets of iron, barred by several massive crossbeams. The dragonkeepers, gathered on the safe galleries above, watched with bated breath, hoping the impregnable barrier would hold the furious dragon back.
But Dreamfyre had plans of her own. She stopped a few paces from the gates, planted her powerful legs wide, and lowered her head. Her chest swelled to an unbelievable size. In the next breath, her jaws parted, and a colossal, roaring torrent of blue-white flame erupted from her throat.
The fire was so intensely hot that the surrounding air instantly turned into a scorching hell. A solid wall of dragonflame slammed into the iron plating of the gates. Within mere moments, the metal began to rapidly shift color: from dark gray to a dull red, then to bright orange and nearly white. The oak core of the gates behind the plating instantly disintegrated into ash, sending up billowing clouds of black smoke.
Seeing that the dragon was entirely uncontrollable and that the heat of her fire was beginning to melt even the stone projections, the dragonkeepers lowered their prods and fled in panic into the inner passageways, running for their lives. No one harbored any further foolish notions of standing in the way of this primal power.
Dreamfyre ceased her onslaught of flame. The weakened, red-hot gates barely hung from their melted hinges. The she-dragon took a short step back, then rammed the remnants of the barrier with the full force of her massive chest. With a deafening screech and crash, the iron sheets ruptured, the beams shattered into splinters, and the massive leaves of the gates flew outward, crashing onto the stone plaza before the Dragonpit.
The she-dragon stepped into the open in triumph. She paused on the threshold of her former prison, greedily drinking deep of the night air. The air of King's Landing was far from perfect - it was thoroughly choked with smoke from hundreds of smithies, the stench of ordure from Flea Bottom, and the smell of rotting fish from the wharves. Yet to Dreamfyre, who for the past seventeen years had seen only the gray stone of her cell and breathed the stagnant, sulfurous fumes of the vaults, this foul city air tasted sweeter than the purest, freshest sea breeze. She spread her massive wings, now swept clean of dust, their scales shimmering like noble silver in the pale moonlight.
"Well then, woman of my liberator..." her final, pride-filled message resonated within the mind of Corlys, who had already slipped noiselessly outside through a side breach. "We shall see if you are truly worthy to be my rider. I am flying to meet you."
The she-dragon made one powerful, shattering leap. The ground beneath Rhaenys's Hill gasped and shuddered one last time. Dreamfyre beat her gargantuan wings, kicking up a fierce gale that scattered the fragments of the gates across the grounds, and soared into the night sky above the capital.
Rising to a bird's-eye view where the wind blew wild and free, Dreamfyre threw her head back and unleashed a deafening, triumphant, furious roar. Filled with the glory of reclaimed freedom, the sound echoed across the rooftops of King's Landing, making the window panes of the Red Keep rattle plaintively and waking thousands of smallfolk in terror within their beds, well aware that a new, untamable power had just been born in the skies of Westeros.
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A/N
Read ahead on P@treon!
• Navigator Tier: 4 advance chapters & images.
• Master of Ships Tier: 6 advance chapters & images.
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