HUGH HAMMER
The Dragonpit stank of fear.
Hugh stood among the gathered bastards—thirty men and a handful of women, all claiming dragon blood, most lying. He could spot the pretenders immediately: the ones who flinched at every sound, who eyed the exits, who'd clearly never faced anything more dangerous than a tavern brawl.
Sheep. Most of them. Waiting to be slaughtered.
His own blood was real. His mother had told him before she died—a night with a Targaryen lordling, silver coin for silver seed, and nine months later Hugh screaming his way into the world.
He'd grown up in the forges. Learned to shape metal. Learned to endure heat that made lesser men weep.
Dragons are just bigger furnaces. Same principle.
Movement near the entrance caught his attention. A man walked in—unremarkable height, unremarkable build, but something in how he carried himself.
The queen's pet. The one who killed Daemon's assassins.
"Ulf, isn't it?" Hugh stepped forward. Made his presence known. "Heard stories about you."
The bastard met his eyes. Measuring.
"Hugh Hammer. The blacksmith."
"You know me?"
"I know everyone here who matters. You're the only other one who does."
Arrogant. But maybe earned.
"Think you'll claim a dragon today?"
"I think I'll try. Same as you."
"Not the same." Hugh grinned. "I'm going for Vermithor. The Bronze Fury. Second biggest beast alive."
Most men would flinch at that declaration. The queen's pet just nodded.
"Bold choice."
"Bold wins. Careful gets you burned and dead."
"Sometimes careful keeps you alive long enough to win later."
Different philosophy. Doesn't matter. We'll see who's right soon enough.
The dragonkeepers called for order. The trials began.
ULF
The first death came quickly.
A sailor from Driftmark—claimed his grandfather was a Velaryon bastard—approached a small dragon named Morghul. Confident. Cocky.
The dragon's jaws closed around his torso before he finished his introduction.
Blood sprayed across the Dragonpit floor. Screams—his, the crowd's, cut short.
Morghul settled back, licking gore from her scales.
One down.
The second death took longer. A merchant's son who'd paid for a genealogy claiming Targaryen descent. The dragon—Shrykos—didn't eat him. Just burned him where he stood. Took thirty seconds for the screaming to stop.
Two down.
The third claimant made it further. A stable hand with pale hair and violet eyes—could have been legitimate. She approached her dragon slowly, respectfully.
The beast seemed to accept her. Let her touch its snout.
Then convulsed. Thrashed. The stable hand flew across the chamber, hit the wall with a crack that echoed off stone.
Dead before she landed.
Three.
The crowd thinned. Men who'd boasted of dragon blood suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere. By noon, half the claimants had fled.
Hugh Hammer remained. So did I.
We watched each other across the Dragonpit as the bodies were cleared.
He's not afraid. Neither am I.
Different reasons. Same result.
HUGH HAMMER
Vermithor waited in the deepest chamber.
The Bronze Fury. Ninety feet of scale and fire. Old King Jaehaerys's mount, unclaimed since the Conciliator's death fifteen years past.
Hugh approached without hesitation.
Fear is death. Confidence is life. Simple.
The dragon's eyes opened. Ancient. Calculating.
"I'm Hugh Hammer," he announced. Voice loud. Filling the chamber. "I'm here to ride you."
A rumble. Warning.
"I know you've been alone. I know the others fear you. But I'm not afraid." He stepped closer. "I've spent my life in fire. Making steel from ore. I know heat better than any man alive."
Vermithor's jaws opened.
Here it comes.
Fire erupted.
Hugh screamed—not fear, defiance. Rage against the burning. His skin blistered, cracked, bled. The pain was beyond anything he'd experienced.
But he walked forward.
Step by step through the inferno.
When the flame stopped, Hugh stood three feet from Vermithor's snout. His flesh was ruined—burns covering every exposed inch, blood streaming down his face.
He grinned through cracked lips.
"That all you got?"
Vermithor stared.
Then lowered his head.
Submission.
Hugh climbed onto the Bronze Fury's back, half-dead, entirely triumphant.
The crowd outside erupted in cheers.
ULF
I watched Hugh fly his victory lap over King's Landing.
Brave. Insane. Effective.
The burns would take weeks to heal. He'd carry scars for life. But he had a dragon—the second most powerful dragon in the realm.
Which makes him either a valuable ally or a dangerous enemy. Probably both.
Criston Cole appeared at my shoulder.
"Your turn tomorrow."
"I know."
"The council is watching. They need more dragonriders."
"I understand."
"Silverwing has rejected everyone who's tried since Queen Alysanne." Cole's voice carried warning. "She might reject you too."
"She might."
"You're remarkably calm about potential death."
"I've been preparing." I turned to face him. "For weeks. Every day. Building trust. Learning her language. If she rejects me tomorrow, it won't be because I didn't try."
Cole studied me with that warrior's assessment.
"You're not like Hugh. He uses force. You use..."
"Patience."
"Will patience be enough?"
"We'll find out tomorrow."
I walked away before he could respond.
Tomorrow would answer all the questions.
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