Sunlight pierced the sea mist,
and only then did Driftmark, the island of House Velaryon, reveal its silhouette.
Its jagged coastline cut into the waters, and upon it the castle, High Tide, stood atop the cliffs like a towering tree.
The entire island was steeped in the scent of salt and sea wind, as if it were a colossal stone warship that existed within the Narrow Sea, unsinkable and eternal.
Looking down from the heights of the castle, the Spicetown harbor below was packed with more than a hundred Velaryon ships, rising and falling with the leaden-gray waves.
House Velaryon possessed, in this era of Westeros, the strongest navy, and they also possessed dragons.
Now, across the entirety of Westeros, even if the navies of all the houses were combined, they still could not defeat the fleet of House Velaryon.
Even the eastern continent's Free City of Braavos, which possessed the strongest navy of all the Free Cities, harbored deep misgivings toward this rising maritime hegemony forged by Corlys, the "Sea Snake."
At this moment, the king's fleet was preparing to set sail—a formation of ten great sailing ships, their banners snapping sharply in the morning wind.
This funeral for Lady Laena had caused all those who came to attend to depart in sour spirits…
Driftmark, on the eastern shore's beach.
Vhagar lay quietly upon the broad sands outside the dragonpit, like a small mountain piled of dark green and gray stone.
The dragonpit of Driftmark was far too cramped for her; only this stretch of beach could serve as a temporary place of rest.
Her heavy breathing carried a muffled, thunder-like echo. With every exhalation, the surrounding grains of sand trembled faintly—the roar of vast lungs drawing in and expelling air.
Aemond walked toward her, his feet sinking into the slightly cool fine sand.
This was the first time he had seen this colossal dragon in full under the sunlight.
Vhagar's body length exceeded a hundred meters. If those massive, vein-laced wings were fully spread, her wingspan could reach over two hundred meters, her weight like that of a small mountain.
Her current size was second only to that of the deceased "Black Dread," Balerion.
Her scales were dark green mixed with stone-gray. She was the only one of the three great dragons that founded the Targaryen dynasty still alive in this world.
Once the mount of Visenya, wife of Aegon the Conqueror, she was a living history that had endured for more than one hundred and eighty years.
She was also the mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and even great-great-grandmother of most of the dragons still extant among the Targaryens.
Her offspring—Dreamfyre, Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer…
All of these dragons and their descendants traced their bloodlines back to her.
Among the Targaryens, she was privately called "Granny Vhagar," but that affectionate name was itself a dangerous misconception.
Vhagar's temper was as ancient and brutal as her age.
In the original course of events, her great-grandson Arrax was bitten to death by her in a single snap of her jaws, merely for one act of provocative flame.
In the end, riderless, she perished together at the Gods Eye with her blood-kin grandson, the "Blood Wyrm," Caraxes.
Just as her final rider, "One-Eye" Aemond, and Prince Daemon both fell at the Gods Eye.
Standing before Vhagar, Aemond was like an ant.
The dragon was far too old; the membrane covering her eyes was like stone.
Her eyes were closed in slumber.
Aemond stared, slightly dazed.
Suddenly, Vhagar's eye moved. That ashen membrane slid aside, revealing beneath it a golden vertical pupil as large as a grown man.
The dragon's gaze was cold, appraising, fixed directly upon the tiny figure standing before her.
This was the boy who had climbed onto her back in last night's storm, the rider she had chosen.
Being watched by such an eye—by a single pupil rivaling an adult in size—Aemond felt his body tremble beyond his control.
It was not pure fear, but a complex shudder mixed with exhilaration, awe, and the resonance of shared blood.
Targaryen blood surged within him, as if answering this ancient existence.
He locked eyes with those dragon pupils.
Dragons were never merely savage, cruel beasts that recognized only their riders.
The longer a dragon lived, the more cunning its intelligence became.
Aemond could clearly see the scrutiny in Vhagar's eye, even a trace of mockery.
She did not possess the lively vigor of a young dragon; instead, she carried nearly two centuries of accumulated, profound wisdom, a stubborn temper, and memories in which the instinct to kill was as natural as breathing.
Vhagar had once borne Visenya across the Blackwater, flying over the breadth of Westeros. She had taken part in the Wars of Conquest, the Dornish Wars, and the wars between crown and faith.
And now, Aemond was the rider she had chosen.
Every dragon had its own temperament and would choose a rider suited to its nature.
Most Targaryen children began by taming hatchlings, growing alongside their dragons and fostering a blood-bound understanding.
But Aemond was not like them. As the king's second son, living in the shadow of his elder brother, he had once possessed a dragon egg of his own.
Yet even Rhaenyra's three Strongs had dragon eggs that hatched into young dragons, while his egg never hatched.
Only he had nothing, left to endure ridicule and mockery.
Aegon had Sunfyre, and Helaena had tamed the gentle Dreamfyre.
Perhaps it was the original body's deeply buried resentment, that all-or-nothing courage, or some kindred aura that Vhagar could sense, that led this most ancient of dragons to choose him.
Aemond drew in a deep breath and called out loudly in the Valyrian tongue: "Vhagar!"
But Vhagar remained unmoved, continuing to size him up.
Suddenly, her massive head shifted slightly, and she extended her tongue. Its surface was covered in barbs, each one as sharp as a short dagger.
Aemond's heart clenched tight.
As a dragonrider, he knew well that any cowardly retreat might displease this ancient dragon.
Vhagar was savage in temperament, and cunning like an ancient spirit.
That barbed tongue lightly scraped across the wound on his left cheek. The scratch left by last night's melee had only just scabbed over, and blood immediately seeped out.
Aemond allowed the blood to run down his cheek.
Vhagar's tongue tip curled, swept the beads of blood away, and then slowly withdrew back into her mouth.
She seemed interested in his blood?
Savoring that blood, Vhagar stared at Aemond, her golden vertical pupils contracting like a venomous snake before a strike—dangerous to the extreme.
Aemond had a clear premonition: if he were not the rider she had chosen, he would already have been swallowed whole.
But why…
Why did she care so much about his blood?
Before he could think it through, Vhagar suddenly drew in a deep breath. Her chest expanded like a bellows, and an orange-red glow spilled from between the seams of her scales.
Aemond's entire body went taut—this was the sign of dragonfire about to be unleashed!
A wave of heat rushed toward him, the reek of sulfur so thick it was nearly suffocating.
The firelight in Vhagar's throat flared sharply.
But the dragonfire did not strike Aemond.
A torrent of dark green flame burst forth, aimed at a stretch of reef fifteen meters to his right.
The fire lasted a full ten seconds, heating the rocks until they glowed red and shattered. Seawater splashed over them with a piercing hiss, sending up great clouds of white steam.
Then, as if merely testing her strength, Vhagar snorted, and two streams of black smoke blasted from her massive nostrils.
Aemond did not retreat. He stepped forward. Blood was still flowing down his left cheek, the entire left half of his face smeared with gore, yet he paid it no mind and spoke clearly in a low voice in Valyrian: "Dohaeras, Vhagar. Sovegon isseeli."
(My dragon, Vhagar. Fly with me to the skies.)
A deep rumble rose from the depths of Vhagar's throat, like thunder rolling through distant mountains, and she slowly lowered her head.
Aemond reached out and pressed his hand against the scorching scales along the dragon's neck.
The touch was like rough stone armor. Beneath the scales, muscles rose and fell like mountains, containing power enough to destroy everything.
He began to climb.
This was not an elegant mount, but a savage conquest. He grasped the edges of the scales, his boots searching for purchase on the slick surface, the wound on his left cheek throbbing sharply with each exertion.
Sweat mixed with blood and dripped from his jaw.
When he finally straddled the familiar hollow at the base of the dragon's neck—the place where Queen Visenya, Baelon the "Spring Prince" (his grandfather), and Lady Laena had once sat—he panted, his fingers digging deep into the gaps between the scales.
The morning wind blew in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and freedom.
But Vhagar did not move.
As Aemond wondered why, the old dragon suddenly twisted her neck. Her massive head turned toward him, and she let out a low growl.
Following her dragon's gaze, Aemond looked toward that stretch of beach. There, half-buried in the sand, stood a dragon egg.
Memories surged forth. This was the last egg laid fifty years ago, after Vhagar had mated with the "Black Dread," Balerion.
But it had never hatched. As time passed, it had gradually turned to stone and was believed to be long devoid of life.
She was demanding that Aemond take this dragon egg with him.
Between Aemond and Vhagar there was no perfect communion of minds, but rather a relationship of cooperation.
Just as in the original course of events, Aemond would still need to accommodate the temper of this ancient dragon and could never fully control her.
Yet Vhagar's sheer power and instinct for slaughter alone were enough to make her the master of any battlefield.
Dragons possessed emotions—fainter than those of humans, but real all the same.
For this very reason, the Greens had never allowed Vhagar to face off against dragons born of her own line, fearing unpredictable consequences.
As for "Granny Vhagar," when it came to dragons of the grandchild and great-grandchild generations, she showed absolutely no regard for kinship.
Aemond slid down from the dragon's back and walked toward the egg.
It was heavier than he had expected. The shell was cold and hard like stone, its surface patterns long since blurred.
He carefully placed it into the dragonrider's saddlebag.
No further command was needed. When Aemond mounted the dragon's neck once more, Vhagar let out a roar that shook the beach.
Her wings snapped open, like two vast clouds of shadow blotting out the morning light, the veins within the wing membranes clearly visible in the sun.
Her powerful hind limbs heaved her mountain-like body upward, sand cascading from her flanks like waterfalls.
Aemond gripped the saddle straps tightly, feeling every muscle of the great dragon tense beneath him.
Cold wind rushed toward his face, carrying the sharp salt of the sea and the scent of distant freedom.
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