Driftmark, the island of House Velaryon, revealed its contours.
The jagged coastline was carved by the sea, and the castle upon it—Tide's Tower—rose from the cliffs like a great tree.
The entire island breathed salt and sea wind, a monolithic warship standing in the narrow sea, never to sink.
From the heights of the castle, Sweetport Sound was dotted with more than a hundred Velaryon ships, undulating across the leaden-gray waters.
House Velaryon commanded the strongest fleet of Westeros, and they possessed dragons.
Across the Narrow Sea, on the eastern continent, lay the Kingdom of the Three Daughters—Braavos, Pentos, and Myr in jest, called "the Three Bitches" by the Valyrians.
As ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, King Viserys was obliged to support his cousin, the Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and even the royal fleet was under Velaryon command.
Even if all the family fleets combined across Westeros, they could not defeat House Velaryon's navy.
Even the Free City of Braavos, with its own powerful fleet, feared the rising maritime hegemony forged by Corlys, the Sea Snake.
At this moment, the royal fleet prepared to set sail: ten galleons, their flags flickering in the morning wind.
The funeral for Miss Laena had scattered all those who had come for her…
Crow Island, on the eastern coast:
Vhagar lay like a hill of dark green and gray stone upon the wide sand, resting behind her dragon's shelter.
The dragon's lair on Crow Island was far too small for her; only this beach could serve as a temporary refuge.
Her heavy breaths rolled like thunder, each inhale causing the surrounding sand to tremble—like the roar of gigantic lungs drawing in air.
Aemond approached, stepping onto the cool, fine sand.
It was his first time seeing the dragon fully in the sunlight.
Vhagar measured over a hundred meters in length, and when her massive, veined wings were fully spread, the wingspan exceeded two hundred meters, her weight like that of a hill.
Once, she had carried Visenya, wife of Aegon the Conqueror, who had lived for over 180 years.
She was also mother, grandmother, great-grandmother to many of the living Targaryen dragons.
These dragons and their descendants were soaked in her bloodline.
The Targaryens secretly called her "Grandmother Vhagar," though the nickname belied the danger she posed.
Her temperament was as ancient and ruthless as her age.
In the original histories, her great-granddaughter Arrax had been bitten to death after only a provocation of fire.
Standing before Vhagar, Aemond felt like an ant.
The dragon was too old, and the ocular membrane covering her pupils was stone-like.
She closed her eyes and appeared to sleep.
Yet the dragon's pupils were cold, fixed, and watching Aemond intently—the teenager who had climbed onto her back during the storm the previous night, chosen as her rider.
Under such a gaze, one's pupil seemed to grow adult-sized, and Aemond felt his body tremble involuntarily.
It was not mere fear, but a complex shiver, mingled with awe, reverence, and the resonance of blood.
He stared into the dragon's eyes.
Dragons were not merely fierce beasts recognizing their riders—they were cunning and wise.
The older the dragon, the greater its craft.
Aemond clearly saw the gaze in Vhagar's eyes, even a hint of amusement.
She lacked the liveliness of a young dragon, but had accumulated nearly two centuries of deep wisdom, stubbornness, and a lethal instinct.
Vhagar had flown across the Blackwater from Dragonstone, over Westeros, participated in the Conquest, the Dornish Wars, and the War for the Crown and Faith.
And now, Aemond was her chosen rider.
Most Targaryen children began with young dragons, growing alongside hatchlings to cultivate a silent bond of blood.
But Aemond, as the king's second son, did not live in his elder brother's shadow—he had his own dragon egg.
Even the three strong children of Rhaenyra had dragon eggs, which hatched dragons, but his dragon egg had not.
He, who had nothing, was mocked and scorned.
Aegon had Sunfyre, and Helena had tamed Dreamfire.
"Vhagar!" he called.
But Vhagar remained unmoved, staring at him.
Suddenly, her massive head shifted slightly, and her tongue flicked out, covered in barbs, sharp as daggers.
Aemond's heart quickened.
As a dragonrider, he knew that cowardice or hesitation could displease an old dragon.
The spiked tongue lightly grazed the scar on his left cheek from yesterday's fight, and blood flowed freely.
Aemond allowed the blood to run down his face.
Vhagar's tongue swept away the drops and slowly drew them back into her mouth.
It seemed she was testing his blood.
Her gaze fixed on Aemond, her golden vertical pupils narrowing like a viper preparing to strike—extremely dangerous.
He had a clear premonition: if he were not her chosen rider, she would have swallowed him whole.
But why…
Why was his blood so important to her?
Before he could think further, Vhagar inhaled deeply, her chest expanding like bellows, and an orange-red light spread between the scales.
Aemond did not flinch. He stepped forward, blood still running down the left side of his face, and whispered clearly in Valyrian:
"Dohāeris, Vhagar. Sovēgon isseli."
(My dragon, Vhagar. Fly with me into the sky.)
Her scales were rough as stone, muscles rippling beneath like mountains capable of destroying all.
He began to climb.
The morning breeze blew from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and freedom.
Aemond hesitated, and the old dragon turned her neck, her huge head pivoting toward him with a low growl.
Then Aemond looked at the dragon's pupils.
On the beach, half-buried in the sand, lay a dragon egg.
Memories surged—this was the last egg laid by Vhagar after mating with Balerion, the Black Dread, fifty years prior.
She had entrusted it to Aemond.
Aemond and Vhagar did not speak plainly—they built a silent understanding.
As in the original tale, he had to submit to the old dragon's nature and fully respect her.
But Vhagar's strength and killing instinct made her the master of the battlefield.
Dragons were emotional, albeit weaker than humans, but utterly real.
Aemond slid along her back and approached the dragon egg.
It was heavier than he had imagined, cold and hard as stone, the surface edges long blurred.
He carefully placed it into the dragon saddlebag.
No further commands were needed.
When Aemond mounted again, Vhagar roared, shaking the sand.
Her wings unfurled like two massive shadow-clouds, blotting out the morning sun, the blood-red veins visible across the membranes.
Her powerful hind limbs braced like mountains, sand sliding off her flanks like a waterfall.
Aemond gripped the saddle ropes, feeling the tension in every muscle beneath him.
The cold wind hit his face, carrying the salt of the sea and the breath of freedom.