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"Dragon! A dragon is coming!"
The shout burst from the mouth of a young man with silver hair, shattering the quiet of the little fishing village and turning it into a hive of excitement.
"It looks like the Bloodwyrm. That's Caraxes!"
An older man spoke up, addressing the growing crowd.
"No mistake about it—that's definitely Caraxes. Among all the Targaryen dragons, only he has that long, serpentine shape. His rider must be Prince Aemon. It has to be him—he's come back!"
As the dragon drew steadily closer to Dragonstone, the villagers finally confirmed both the beast's identity and that of its rider.
The commotion below did not affect Prince Aemon high above. Seeing the island ahead, he gently lowered Caraxes's altitude and steered the great beast toward the eastern shore.
The Bloodwyrm flew low, skimming just above the ground as he swept across the island and finally reached the easternmost sea-facing peak.
Atop that black crag stood a brooding castle, shaped like a colossal dragon crouched on the summit—Dragonstone Castle itself.
Dragonstone had been built using the advanced Valyrian stoneworking techniques that were lost after the Doom. This made the castle utterly unique among all the strongholds of Westeros.
Constructed entirely of black stone, its towers had been carved into the shapes of dragons, while dozens of grotesque gargoyles served as battlements along the walls.
Almost every design in the castle paid homage to dragons. Smaller draconic figures framed the doorways, stone claws protruding from the walls held torch sconces, massive stone wings sheltered the smithy and armory, and curving dragon tails formed arches, bridges, and outdoor staircases.
Aemon spared little attention for the familiar sight. Guiding Caraxes with practiced ease, he brought the dragon down directly into the castle's central garden—the famous Aegon's Garden.
The garden was filled with the pleasant scent of pine. Tall black trees rose all around them. Wild roses grew alongside towering thorny thickets, and cranberries sprouted from the muddy patches of ground.
Thankfully, Caraxes was still relatively young. From snout to tail he measured just over thirty meters, and his long, slender body took up far less space than a bulkier dragon would have.
The moment the Bloodwyrm settled, Aemon climbed down nimbly from his back. Ser Eligar Scars, the master-at-arms of Dragonstone, was already waiting in the garden with several guards.
Seeing the prince dismount, Ser Eligar quickly led his men forward.
"Prince Aemon, it has been too long. Welcome back to Dragonstone."
Aemon smiled warmly as he walked toward the knight.
"It has been a while indeed, Ser Eligar."
Aemon's voice was like a spring breeze, and Ser Eligar could not help but feel a surge of excitement. This was the effect Prince Aemon had always had on people—kind yet wise. To many, he seemed the most fitting heir to the Iron Throne.
Ser Eligar bowed deeply before speaking again with a broad smile.
"My prince, you must be tired after such a long flight. I saw you approaching and already had hot water and food prepared. Would you like to bathe first and wash away the dust of the road before eating?"
Aemon did not refuse the thoughtful offer. He knew the castle well and feared no threats here. He had been Prince of Dragonstone since 62 AC—nearly twenty years now. Most of the people and arrangements on the island were of his own making.
In the early years of his marriage, he and his wife, Jocelyn Baratheon, had lived here. Only in recent years, as King Jaehaerys grew older and began gradually transferring power, had Aemon taken up residence in the Red Keep.
Dragonstone was not strange to him. It felt like home.
"Ser Eligar, even after all this time you still know me too well," Aemon laughed. "I haven't enjoyed the hot springs of Dragonstone in quite a while. Come, lead the way—I'll have a proper soak."
"Yes, my prince."
Pleased that his suggestion had been accepted, Ser Eligar fell into step behind Aemon as they entered the castle proper.
Dragonstone sat atop a volcano, so hot springs were the one thing the island never lacked. When the Valyrian masons built the castle, they had constructed a magnificent bathhouse fed by natural thermal waters. Dragonriders always needed to wash thoroughly after flying—Caraxes's strong scent had a way of clinging to anyone who spent hours on his back.
"Ahhh… that's the stuff."
A short while later, Aemon lay submerged in the steaming pool inside the bathhouse, letting out a long, contented groan of pleasure.
He had barely settled in when Ser Eligar returned with several servants, each carrying a silver tray.
The knight picked up a wine jug from one of the trays, poured the deep red liquid into a crystal goblet, and personally handed it to the prince.
Aemon accepted it without ceremony and drained the cup in one go. A satisfied expression spread across his face.
"Is this wine made on the island?" he asked, looking at the few drops left in the goblet. "It's quite good."
"Yes, Your Highness," Ser Eligar replied proudly. "These vines come from the vineyards you ordered planted during your time here. When you returned to King's Landing, the grapes had only just been set. Now they produce fine fruit every year. We harvest them when they ripen and age the wine. What you're drinking now is from the very first batch."