Dale, Summerhall.
A magnificent palace, clad in blue brick and black tile, stood before a grand courtyard paved with white marble.
Clang! Clang!
The crisp sound of hammers striking anvils echoed incessantly, sparks flying like brilliant fireworks.
Bare-armed, Aemon swung his forge hammer with each blow, sweat pouring down his forehead.
"Roar!"
Vermithor crouched in the courtyard, watching the men carrying copper ore back and forth, his dragonfire melting the mountain of ore.
The old head of the Pyrotechnics, with a stern expression, directed the sturdy young men to collect the molten copper.
Using specially crafted wooden-handled steel ladles, they scooped up the molten copper, allowing it to solidify slightly before stacking it neatly beside His Royal Highness's furnace.
Aemon continuously refined and tempered the copper, fusing it into a single piece. He also melted the single bronze bell in his hand and hammered it into the molten copper.
In this repetitive process, the prototype of a bronze throne gradually took shape.
Aemon set down his hammer and drew out a Valyrian poledagger. Following the lines he had long mapped out in his mind, he carved a series of flaming, sturdy inscriptions in an orderly pattern.
With the final stroke, his sturdy upper body seemed as if washed clean.
Aemon breathed a sigh of relief, calming his tense nerves.
Then, on the front of the throne back, he carved the image of a dragon.
Three dragons, varying in appearance and size.
Details like their horns and figures revealed them to represent Vermithor, Silverwing, and Greyshadow.
Three dragons belonging to Riverdale hovered above a lonely mountain bordering a lake.
Clang!
With the forge hammer's twang, an irregularly shaped piece of fire ore was inlaid on the throne's crown.
Under the intense heat, the fist-sized piece of fire ore fitted perfectly, its melted mass flowing out in a thin, fiery red line from top to bottom.
The fire ore hovered above the depiction of the lonely mountain, like a gleaming sun.
The sun streamed a crimson slurry, adding a unique waterfall to the Lonely Mountain.
Combined with the image of dancing dragons, the grand design unfolded with a majestic grandeur.
"How beautiful!"
the old head of the Firesmith Clan was captivated, unable to look away.
The bronze craftsmanship of the High Mountain Clan had stagnated in heavy weapons and richly patterned ornamentation.
This lifelike carving technique was simply unprecedented.
And, for some reason, a fascination arose for the cold throne.
It seemed as if it held an unknown magic.
Noble, mysterious, and majestic.
Aemon didn't stop, but continued carving on the back of the throne.
Two Rune Guards stepped out and dispersed the young men who had stopped working.
No one else was needed here.
On the back of the throne, a small tree was carved with clean lines.
The style was simple, but it was instantly recognizable as the sacred bronze tree from the Lonely Mountain Dragon's Lair.
The sun gradually set.
Ding-dong!
Aemon, exhausted, head-heavy, dropped his Valyrian dagger and slumped down beside the finished throne to rest.
"Give me a glass of honey water." He'd sweated so much, he desperately needed hydration and sugar.
"Your Highness,"
Jansif rushed out of Summerhall, a canteen and towel in hand.
Tump, tump, tump—
Aemon took the canteen and demonstrated the art of guzzling.
"You must be exhausted,"
Jansif's eyes were filled with pity, as she knelt down and carefully wiped the sweat off his face.
"Your own throne must be forged with your own hands,"
Aemon said, his thirst quenched, a carefree smile on his face.
He was actually waiting for Daemon.
However, Daemon had probably returned to Lys to make arrangements and hadn't yet arrived in Riverdale.
Clutching a bronze bell, Aemon was itching to try his hand at crafting.
Reflecting on the fact that his throne room lacked a throne that would be passed down through generations, he decided to forge one himself.
"Look at the results,"
Aemon said, helping the throne to his feet, eager to examine it.
The throne was cast entirely, and the bronze bell, incorporated into it, gave it a slightly emerald hue, resembling ancient oxidized bronze.
The surface is engraved with flaming, sturdy runes.
Not only is it indestructible, it can withstand the test of time.
Targaryens with a strong Targaryen bloodline learn to harness the fire magic within their veins, even invoking the power of burning runes.
The front and back of the chair are carved with depictions of dragons returning to their nests and a bronze sacred tree, respectively. These depict the birth of bronze and fire with exquisite precision.
The throne is enormous, as tall as two people stacked together.
Even on flat ground, a mortal couldn't leap over the armrests to peer into it. Nine steps provide easy access.
"Not bad, huh?"
Aemon was satisfied.
He lacked the noble sentiments of the Conqueror, deliberately threatening the swords forged by the Iron Throne to show future generations that it wasn't comfortable.
Even its exterior is twisted and sinister.
The bronze throne is comfortable overall, its appearance predominantly imposing and majestic.
It doesn't hurt anyone sitting on it, and it doesn't cut anyone.
However, the bronze throne is enormous.
Sitting in the middle leaves the left and right sides empty, creating a sense of loneliness and isolation.
If he sat only to one side, it would be as if he were giving up the throne, unworthy of a king.
It was a small warning he left for his descendants.
In the end, does the cold throne give people a sense of accomplishment, or is an ordinary chair at home more comfortable?
Jansif clasped her hands together, a look of excited admiration on her face, mentally preparing to offer more sincere compliments.
"Prince..."
Just as she was about to say this, Aemon yawned and waved, interrupting her: "Move the throne into Summerhall. I'm tired and need to go to bed."
Jansif's face froze, a hint of resentment rising in her eyes.
Aemon ignored her and, instead of heading to Evergreen Hall, his chambers, he returned to the Halls of Plenty to rest.
As everyone knows, people sleep better where they work.
"Roar—"
Vermithor, too, felt tired. His massive body curled up like a small mountain, his eyes closed as he breathed steadily.
Joining the smith's forge had been beneficial.
He constantly refined his control over the dragon's flame, tempering his irritation that arose without cause.
Dragons capable of this were likely rare.
This indirectly demonstrated the close bond between dragon and rider, enabling such tacit cooperation.
The next day.
At dawn, Aemon walked to the foot of the Lonely Mountain and picked up a random stone to carve.
Lacking a chisel, he used a Valyrian dagger.
The dragon's claws, curved, were perfect for outlining details.
The dragon's fangs, straight, were essential for the main carving.
With meticulous attention...
Aemon quickly carved a stone dragon.
Not satisfied after a quick inspection, he picked up another stone and started carving again.
He couldn't help but feel a little restless about the impending decisive battle.
He'd use this method to calm his nerves.
He'd give it to his uncle later, hoping he'd like the new figurine.
"Prince, there's news from King's Landing," a Runeguard arrived.
"What's it?"
Aemon said, not even looking up, intent on carving.
The Runeguard hesitated, "It's the King. He's riding Princess Rhaenys's dragon, heading for the Vale."
Aemon paused, a smile in his eyes.
As expected, only when faced with a major change would the family's members change.
He'd even alarmed his uncle.
"Go down,"
Aemon pondered for a moment, then continued carving.
Meleys was the fastest dragon, and not counting rest stops, it only took a day and a night to travel from King's Landing to the Vale. He hoped Daemon would arrive early for the appointment.
"Daemon, it's time to settle our feud,"
Aemon muttered.
His duel with Daemon, though described as a paternal feud, was more of a performance.
Well done.
From now on, the family will be more united, and many things can be put aside.
However, this play is performed with one's life.
As he carved, Aemon paused, his gaze darting towards a bush.
After a single glance, he was no longer distracted.
In a blink of an eye, it was the next day.
Aemon returned to the foot of the Lonely Mountain, carving the stone again.
Meleys hadn't come, and neither had Caraxes.
"My Prince, another group of Myrish refugees has arrived. Would you like to speak on stage?"
Maester Mukun, climbing across the gravel, offered to start a conversation.
"No,"
Aemon refused bluntly.
Such a small matter could be handled with a proper reception, temporary housing, and plots of land.
"Yes, my Prince,"
Maester Mukun hesitated, then reluctantly retreated.
He tried to persuade His Royal Highness to reconsider, but it was clear he couldn't.
Time slipped by.
It was dusk.
The sun was setting, and fiery clouds obscured the view.
A pile of dragon-shaped stone carvings lay haphazardly at Aemon's feet, leaving little room for him to step.
"Hiss... Gah..."
A sharp, piercing dragon roar suddenly erupted, like a thunderbolt from the blue sky.
Aemon looked up, holding a half-finished stone dragon sculpture.
Judging by its appearance, it was none other than the sinister-looking Caraxes.
Boom—
a scarlet dragon, its body as long as a snake, burst through the mist, flapping its broad, powerful wings as it approached Riverdale with a determined purpose.
"Finally,"
Aemon twisted his aching shoulders, stood up, and stretched vigorously.
"Hiss—"
Suddenly, the forest on the other side of the Lonely Mountain shook, and a majestic bronze dragon slowly rose to its feet.
"Hiss!"
"Hiss—"
A warning roar echoed from the Lonely Mountain's dragon nest, and a silver-gray dragon head emerged from the dark cavern.
Simultaneously, a sharp hiss echoed from the shores of Long Lake.
A fleeting, pale grayish-white dragon silhouette flashed through the fiery clouds on the horizon.
As if sensing the coming battle, the usually lazy Silverwing awoke from his slumber. Even the wild dragon Greyshadow, far away in Myr, returned alone.
Aemon, feeling calm, headed for the Long Lake.
Of the three dragons, Vermithor followed slowly behind, his massive bulk crushing the rocks and shrubs along the way.
Silverwing flew from its nest, landing on the summit of the Lonely Mountain, wings spread wide.
Greyshadow darted through the clouds for a moment before spotting Aemon at the shores of the Long Lake and silently alighting beside him.
At that moment, every house in Riverdale was shuttered. Men leaned over windows, anxiously gazing out, while women and children knelt in devout prayer.
Everyone knew that a dragon war, long overdue for decades, was about to erupt in the Riverdale.
From the displaced civilians of the Vale to those converted from the mountain clans, all secretly cheered His Royal Highness on.
Only he was worthy of the title King of the Vale.
He would bring peace and stability to his people, and make their lives more prosperous than ever before.
Long Lake.
Daemon circled the jade-like Dale twice before landing Caraxes on the shores of the Long Lake.
Maintaining a distance of a hundred yards from Vermithor, the two dragons glared fiercely at each other.
Silverwing and Greyshadow danced in the sky, surveying the perilous scene below.
"Hiss... Gah..."
Caraxes roared, wings spread wide, flames flickering between its teeth, ever vigilant against the three dragons surrounding it.
Aemon asked calmly, "Are you sure you want to challenge me to a dragon-on-dragon battle?"
"Chih..."
Daemon scoffed, his voice nonchalant. "You can control three dragons; that's your skill."
He had no choice.
This challenge was undeniable.
Victory or defeat would determine his honor and disgrace.
"For the sake of fairness, I will not attack you,"
Aemon said calmly. "Vermithor, versus your Caraxes."
He needed a battle of equal strength, a battle worthy of legend.
Three dragons attacking and encircling them would only turn the battle into a hunt.
That would be pointless.
Daemon's eyes darkened, believing they were being contemptuous.
But that was exactly what he wanted.
No one wanted to face three dragons simultaneously unless absolutely necessary.
Without further ado, the two climbed onto their dragons' backs.
Aemon sat in the saddle, hesitated for a moment, then securely fastened the chain around his waist.
He double-checked that the chain opened easily, feeling reassured.
Daemon didn't do that.
Clad in black steel armor, his clan sword, Dark Sister, slung at his waist, he had some unknown plan.
Then, simultaneously, the two dragons soared into the air.
"Hiss... Gah..."
Caraxes soared swiftly, his form like a lithe worm, vanishing into the clouds.
"Hiss—"
Vermithor was older and larger, but no less swift, his massive brown wings carrying incredible explosive power.
In a matter of seconds, he caught up with the red phantom.
The attack was sudden, with the force of thunder.
Caraxes let out a piercing scream, turned around, and unleashed a stream of blood-red dragon flame, striking Vermithor head-on.
Boom—
Vermithor tilted his head slightly, and the dragon flame struck the side of his neck, erupting in a burst of fire mingled with thick smoke.
"Return it, Vermithor!"
Aemon's body swayed slightly, his gaze fixed on the bloodworm that continued to rise.
Vermithor entered combat mode, rage surging from his heart, and an inexplicable power surged through his body.
The moment he was damaged, he opened his mouth and unleashed a stream of dragon flame like molten copper.
The two dragons, one high and one low, glared at each other.
Caraxes scrambled to avoid the dragon's flames, which brushed against its scarlet wings, leaving several mottled holes in the membrane of its left wing.
"Hiss... Gah..."
It roared in pain, and at its rider's command, it vanished into the thick, fiery clouds.
"The same trick again,"
Aemon sneered, unmoved.
Vermithor roared in fury, its dragon flames continuously pouring out, dispersing the crimson clouds overhead as it soared.
The power of Bronze Fury was perfectly demonstrated in this moment.
The next moment,
Caraxes was exposed, and in the last rays of the setting sun, it lunged fiercely at Vermithor's side.
Unleashing astonishing force, it clashed with the bronze dragon, engaging in a grappling battle.
"Bite it, Caraxes!"
Daemon practically growled, gripping the saddle handles tightly with both hands.
This duel was a battle for the future.
Losing would forever bind him to his brother's throne, a life of melancholy.
He was determined to win!
The only way to defeat a battle-hardened, peak-level dragon was to engage in the most intense and brutal close combat.
He bet the dragon, unseen in this world, would panic and expose its weaknesses.
However, he was wrong.
"Bite it, Vermithor!"
Aemon laughed wildly, his excitement overwhelming as he unleashed the power of the Binding Spell.
"Shhh!"
Vermithor clearly grasped the command. The moment the dragon lunged, he flipped his body to face it, biting the shoulder blade right before his mouth.
There was a snap, and something shattered.
Caraxes raised his head and screamed, his ferocity unleashed. Taking advantage of his slender neck, he bit the bronze dragon's neck.
He intended to strangle it further, but the dragon's bite was limited to the shoulder blade. No matter how long he stretched his neck, he could only bite the base of the neck.
The solid bronze scales were extremely harsh, and his first bite failed to penetrate. Only with continued force did the black fangs sink into the burning flesh.
Its sharp dragon beak wasn't strong enough to bite through Vermithor's thick neck.
Instead, Vermithor easily broke through its defenses, tearing away at the scarlet wings where they connected to its shoulder blades.
It was getting late, and the sun was fading into silence.
The lake lay still, like a vast, flattened steel moor.
Dragon blood flowed freely, spilling onto the lake, boiling the water and sending up white smoke.
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