"Morghul?"
Aemond tasted the word as it left his mouth. His tongue clicked softly against his teeth, a sound of faint displeasure that he did not bother to hide. His pale eye narrowed, not in fear, but in calculation.
Death.
That was what the word meant in High Valyrian. Worse still, the Free Cities had twisted the root into darker shapes, whispered by warlocks and grave men, names bound up with curses, blood rites, and shadows that crawled where fire should reign.
A dragon named Morghul was never meant to be gentle.
The Dragonkeepers had spoken of it in low voices, as though the creature itself might be listening. A grey black wyrm, they said, newly hatched but ill starred. Its head was narrow and sharp, its neck ridged like a blade, its scales dull as old iron. Some swore that misfortune clung to it, that its shell had cracked under a waning moon.
Yet for all the muttering, one truth could not be denied.
Among the clutch, Morghul was large.
Not large by the measure of grown dragons, but for a hatchling it was impressive. Broad shouldered. Thick limbed. Its wings already showed promise.
Far larger than Arrax had been.
Aemond folded his hands behind his back, his posture stiff as if daring the world to challenge him.
"Go and try," Baelon said.
His voice was calm, measured, without a trace of mockery. He sat his dragon with the ease of long habit, reins loose in one hand, the other resting against the saddle horn. His gaze never left Aemond's face.
"You have no other choices left."
Aemond's jaw tightened.
Baelon leaned forward slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking. "And remember this. Do not fixate on whether a dragon is ill omened. Men call many things cursed when they lack the courage to face them."
He lifted his chin, eyes sharp as a drawn blade.
"What folk name misfortune is often nothing more than a rider who was not worthy."
Aemond's fingers curled, nails biting into his palms.
"If you are worthy of Morghul," Baelon went on, his voice dropping, "then it will become your strength. If you are not, then you will become meat between its jaws."
He straightened. "Never forget this. Riding a dragon does not make you its master. It means you must honor your partner all the more."
The words struck like cold water down Aemond's spine. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. For a heartbeat, he almost hated Baelon for speaking so plainly.
Then he lifted his head.
"Fine," Aemond said.
His voice was tight, but steady. He met Baelon's gaze without flinching.
"If there is no other path left, then I will stake everything on this."
From the moment he had drawn breath, Aemond had been made of sharp edges. His cruelty toward others was matched only by the merciless standard he held for himself. He did not expect mercy. He did not ask for it.
"Let us go."
They set out once more, descending into the steaming folds of the Dragonmont, eyes searching the broken stone and drifting ash for a glimpse of grey black hide.
They had not gone far when Baelon's dragon stiffened beneath him.
Tyraxes lifted its head, nostrils flaring wide. A low rumble vibrated through its chest.
Baelon drew in a breath.
Rot.
The stench of old blood and charred bone carried on the wind.
Then the mountain screamed.
"RRAAAGH!"
Something burst from the rocks below, a long shape twisting upward in panic. Grey black, slender, its wings flailing unevenly as it fled the slopes. Behind it came a shadow that swallowed the light.
Coal black. Vast. Its wings blotted out the sky, and its eyes burned an unholy green, like corpse fire dancing in a crypt.
Baelon's hand tightened on the reins.
"The Cannibal," he said.
There was no mistaking it. Across all of Dragonstone, only one dragon carried such size and such hunger.
"ROOOAAAR!"
Tyraxes answered at once, its roar cracking through the air like thunder. Its body lowered, scales drawing tight, muscles coiling beneath its hide. Heat rolled off it in waves.
One step closer and Tyraxes would strike.
It was smaller. It knew it. But it did not care.
Size alone had never decided every battle.
Caraxes himself, lean and blood red, had once slain Vhagar, though the victory had owed as much to Daemon's recklessness and Dark Sister's bite as it had to dragonfire.
Baelon's lips twitched.
"Big nephew," he muttered under his breath. "Care for a blade?"
The Cannibal hovered, wings beating slowly. It did not rush forward. For all its savagery, it was no fool.
It was a wild thing that had survived by learning a simple truth.
Fighting the strong brought wounds.
Eating the weak brought growth.
That was how it had grown so large.
"ROOOAAAR!"
The Cannibal answered Tyraxes's challenge with a roar of its own, a sound thick with threat rather than fury.
The two dragons faced one another, fire building in their throats, the air between them taut as a drawn bowstring.
Then gold flashed through the smoke.
Syrax swept in from the direction of the castle, her wings catching the light. Upon her back, Rhaenyra leaned forward, eyes wide, hair streaming loose.
At the sight of her, the Cannibal veered away. It circled once, a vast dark spiral against the clouds, then vanished into the heights.
Rhaenyra let out a breath she had been holding. Her hand pressed against her chest as she guided Syrax closer.
"Gods," she said, her voice shaken despite herself. "That was too close. Why is there a wild dragon of that size on Dragonstone? It is nearly as large as Caraxes."
Syrax gave a low, uneasy croon. Compared to the Cannibal, she looked small, barely more than a third its length. Only Terracx could have matched it at all.
"Be thankful nothing came of it," Baelon replied. His tone was light, but his eyes remained watchful. "If blows had been traded, Tyraxes might not have prevailed."
He paused, then glanced downward.
"There was a wounded young dragon just now. I did not see where it fled."
Rhaenyra leaned to one side, peering down through the steam.
"There," she said, lifting her arm to point. "Aemond has already found it."
Baelon followed her gesture.
Below them, amid broken stone and blackened earth, Aemond stood alone.
Before him crouched Morghul.
The hatchling was no larger than a foal, its body lean from hunger. Several wounds marred its hide, not the deep gouges of claws but the raw scrapes of a desperate flight through stone. Its chest heaved as it hissed, neck craning, jaws parted to show small but very real teeth.
Aemond did not advance.
"Wait," he called, lifting one hand. His voice carried clear. "Do not move. Throw the lamb here."
At his order, the Dragonkeepers approached, careful and slow. One of the guards hefted the carcass and tossed it forward.
The smell of blood filled the air.
Morghul's head snapped toward it. Its eyes, dark and sharp, fixed on the offering.
Like all hatchlings, it was starving.
Dragonstone was poor land. The mountain belonged to the great beasts. The young survived on scraps, on rats and birds, barely enough to keep their fires burning.
A lamb was a feast beyond imagining.
"Easy," Aemond said. He crouched slightly, making himself smaller. His hand remained visible, palm open. "Easy, Morghul. I mean you no harm."
He seized a haunch of meat and hurled it forward with all his strength.
Morghul crept closer, nostrils flaring. It sniffed once, twice, then lunged.
Three savage bites. Bone cracked. Flesh vanished.
"I have more," Aemond said.
Hope surged through him, sharp and almost painful.
Again he threw meat. Again Morghul came closer.
Each time the distance shrank.
"One more step," Aemond thought. His breath came shallow. "If this fails, I die."
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out.
His fingers brushed grey black scales, warm beneath his touch.
His heart thundered.
Morghul paused. Its head tilted. It glanced at him once, unreadable, then returned to feeding as if nothing had happened.
Aemond let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
This hatchling had been meant for Jaehaera, the daughter of Aegon and Helaena. Fate, careless as ever, had placed it before him instead.
And from the look of it, the bond might take.
Bonding a hatchling was far easier than claiming a grown dragon. There was no flight. No test of fire and sky. Morghul was far too small to bear a rider.
Above, Baelon circled once on Tyraxes.
"It seems he will succeed," he said.
"Hmph." Rhaenyra turned Syrax away, her expression cool. "We shall see."
As she departed, Morghul finished its feast.
The hatchling lifted its head and studied Aemond for a long moment.
Then it lowered its neck.
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