"Your Grace," Chief Rosso ventured cautiously, interrupting his thoughts, "how do you wish to apportion the rights to these three young dragons? You must know that young dragons are easily tamed—now is the perfect time to establish a bond."
Rosso paused, lowering his voice as he reminded him, "Princess Helaena is soon to give birth... Her Grace once expressed her hope of acquiring a dragon for her child..."
Aemond raised his hand, and Rosso fell silent.
"Let them mature first. Young dragons need time to grow, to learn to fly and breathe fire. As for their bonds..." He paused, his violet eye gleaming. "I will arrange it myself."
In truth, he harbored a bolder idea.
These young dragons—Arrax, Light, and Gold—had hatched from his blood, as had Stonefang, Ymir, and Lothron before them. They had been bonded to him since breaking their shells. He did not need to tame them in the traditional sense, for these young dragons, quickened by his own blood, were born recognizing his authority. Like hatchlings that imprint upon the first creature they see as a parent.
If this were true—if his blood truly possessed such power—what might it mean?
His descendants, inheriting his line, would have stable dragon breeding. No more waiting for eggs to hatch by chance; they could be quickened by blood alone. These dragons would be bonded to their riders from birth, passed from generation to generation, like fingers of a hand.
Why had the Valyrian Freehold ruled half the world? Because forty dragonlord families possessed dragons, bred systematically, domesticated across generations. Those arts had long been lost. But if he could rediscover them—no, evolve new methods...
A Targaryen Empire. Not merely Seven Kingdoms, not a pale imitation of the Freehold, but something greater, and perhaps more enduring. A perpetual realm founded upon bonds of blood.
He must do this. Raise House Targaryen to heights never before achieved.
"Care for them well," Aemond commanded at last. "Record their growth daily—length, weight, feeding. Send a man to report to me every fortnight. Not through the maester—directly to my men, Carter or Hal."
"Yes, Your Grace." Chief Rosso bowed, a complex light flickering in his eyes.
He had served dragons all his life and had never seen a Targaryen who could draw so many dragons so close. Dragons were highly territorial creatures; tradition held that one man bonded with one dragon. King Viserys I had ridden Balerion the Black Dread in his youth, yet even that had lasted only a year before the old dragon died of age. After Viserys, he had never bonded with another dragon.
But Aemond seemed to break that iron law. Was it charisma? Or something in his blood?
Rosso could only conclude that the Targaryen blood within him had reached some extremity. Aemond was exceptional—perhaps too exceptional. But as commander of the Dragon Guard, it was not his place to question. Though he worked with dragons daily, he possessed no dragonlord blood. He could feed them without being attacked, perhaps, but when hungry and irritable, they remained deadly.
---
Aemond turned and walked deeper into the dragonpit.
Next, he would see Lothron.
The young black dragon had been housed in a separate lair. The reason: half a moon past, Vhagar, his mother, had suddenly grown territorial, warning Lothron away and driving him from her domain. The old dragon deemed her son grown enough to strike out on his own. Lothron had been sulking for some time. When Aemond last visited, he had pressed his massive dragon head against his rider's chest, keening softly like a child abandoned by its mother.
But today was different.
As Aemond approached, Lothron lay atop a heap of freshly slaughtered cattle carcasses, breathing fire to roast them as he feasted. Hearing footsteps, he lifted his head, black scales smeared with blood, golden eyes like twin lanterns in the dim light.
The moment Lothron saw Aemond, he abandoned his meal, rising and lashing his tail excitedly. The tip scraped against the stone wall, gouging a layer of dust.
He was already fifteen meters in length.
He came to the railing, lowered his head, and gently nudged Aemond's chest with his great snout. Lothron remained careful and restrained, but Aemond did not mind—he stroked his dragon's head.
"Well done," Aemond said, patting the hard scales. "You have grown stronger again. At this rate, in a few years you will match your mother Vhagar's size when she was young."
At this, Lothron rumbled contentedly, wisps of sulfurous smoke curling from his nostrils.
"You will be the second Black Dread," Aemond said in High Valyrian, smiling.
Lothron suddenly snorted in displeasure, pulling his head away. He was angry. I do not wish to be the second anything.
Aemond blinked, then understood. "Forgive me, forgive me," he said, cupping Lothron's jaw. "My fault. You are Lothron. The only Lothron."
Only then did Lothron relent. He turned his head back and gently licked Aemond's face with his tongue. The barbs on the dragon's tongue scraped his cheeks painfully, but Aemond did not flinch. This was a dragon's way of showing affection.
Nearby, Chief Rosso watched this scene and could not help but speak. "Your Grace, Lothron's growth rate... it defies all reason. Ordinary young dragons reach two or three meters in their first years, then roughly a meter each year thereafter. Lothron... in three years, he has reached fifteen meters. At this rate, he may break twenty meters by next year, and..."
Aemond knew why, of course. He had fed Lothron his own blood once a week since the day he broke his shell, without fail. That blood accelerated his growth.
"How is his appetite?" Aemond asked.
"Prodigious," Chief Rosso said with a wry smile. "Five meals a day, at least one sheep per meal. I have sent men to purchase livestock across the Crownlands, but the cost..."
"Gold is never the concern," Aemond interrupted. "He is my dragon. He may eat what he wishes."
Lothron seemed to understand, rumbling at Rosso. You heard him. I eat what I want. Annoy me, and I might eat you too.
Rosso shuddered and bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."
He knew well that young Lothron possessed an almost human cunning and mischief. When Aemond had been away too long, Lothron would deliberately cause trouble, harming dragonkeepers to provoke Aemond's attention. Compared to Vhagar, this was far more troubling—the old dragon, satisfied with her daily meals, slept peacefully and bothered no one.
Watching the prince converse with Lothron, Rosso hesitated before speaking. "Sunfyre and Grey Ghost... there seems to be a situation."
Aemond's expression cooled at this. He patted Lothron's neck, and Lothron retreated contentedly to his lair.
They proceeded to the eastern section of the dragonpit.
Here were housed Sunfyre and Grey Ghost.
The two dragons had fought bloody battles at Dragonstone not long ago. Sunfyre had been wounded; Grey Ghost, gravely injured, had been captured. Logically, Aemond had ordered them kept apart to prevent further conflict.
But now, Aemond beheld this scene:
Sunfyre, the golden dragon, lay on the ground, methodically tearing apart a whole roasted suckling pig. He ate with elegance, his amber eyes occasionally flicking toward Grey Ghost in the corner.
Grey Ghost lay curled in a corner, his grey scales still weeping blood from unhealed wounds. He kept his head low, not daring to look at Sunfyre, let alone approach the common feeding trough.
Sunfyre finished his pig and belched contentedly. He rose, dragged his wounded body back to his resting area, lay down, and closed his eyes to rest.
Throughout this, Grey Ghost did not dare move.
Only when Sunfyre was fully settled did Grey Ghost creep cautiously toward the trough. He looked at the scraps. He ate quickly, nervously, glancing constantly toward Sunfyre.
Grey Ghost had always been timid. This shy, solitary wild dragon had grown even more fearful since the death of his bastard rider.
Aemond's face darkened as he turned to Rosso. "What is this? Did I not command they be kept apart to avoid provocation?"
Sweat beaded at Rosso's temples. "It... it was Prince Aegon, Your Grace. Three days past, he had himself brought in his wheeled chair to see Sunfyre, and then ordered us to move Grey Ghost as well. He said that dragon had harmed him and Sunfyre, and needed to be taught a lesson."
Aemond closed his eye and drew a long breath.
Aegon. Still so foolish. Narrow-minded. Emotional.
He gave the order: "From this moment, any command from Aegon regarding the dragons is not to be obeyed without my approval. Do you understand?"
"I understand, Your Grace."
"And separate them again."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Aemond turned and departed.
As he passed through the gates of the dragonpit, the midday sun was so bright he squinted.
"Your Grace." Captain Hal, waiting outside, stepped forward and offered him a damp cloth.
Aemond took it and wiped his face, then asked, "Has Borros Baratheon arrived?"
"He is here, Your Grace. We have installed him in the guest hall of Maegor's Holdfast."