Departure (Part 1)

Sunlight pierced through the sea mist, and Tidepool Island, the seat of House Velaryon, finally revealed its silhouette.

The jagged coastline cut into the sea, and the castle atop it, High Tide, stood upon the cliffs like a towering tree.

The entire island was saturated with the scent of salt and sea breeze, resembling a massive, unsinkable stone warship adrift in the Narrow Sea.

Looking down from the heights of the castle, the Spiceport below was filled with over a hundred ships of the Velaryon fleet, bobbing on the lead-gray surface of the water.

House Velaryon possessed the strongest navy in Westeros during this era, and they also possessed dragons.

They had long been locked in a struggle with the Three Whores Kingdom (also known as the Triarchy, though the Velaryons mockingly referred to them as the Whores) from the Eastern Continent across the strait.

The two sides had fought for years over the Stepstones, which hung between the Eastern and Western Continents, each attempting to seize hegemony over the Narrow Sea and control the trade between the two continents.

Ultimately, the dragon-wielding Velaryons forced the Triarchy to sue for peace, seizing the Stepstones and establishing a temporary truce.

As the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, King Viserys had no choice but to support his cousin, Corlys the Sea Snake of House Velaryon, even going so far as to entrust the Kingdom Navy to them.

Today, even if all the naval forces of every house in Westeros were combined, they could not defeat the navy of House Velaryon.

Even Braavos, the Free City with the strongest navy on the Eastern Continent, feared this rising maritime hegemony forged by Corlys the Sea Snake.

At this moment, the King's fleet was preparing to set sail. It was a flotilla of ten great galleons, their banners snapping in the morning wind.

This funeral for Lady Laena had left everyone who attended it disgruntled and departing on poor terms...

On the beach of the eastern shore of Tidepool Island.

Vhagar lay quietly on the vast expanse of sand outside the Dragonpit, like a small mountain built of dark green and gray rock.

The Dragonpit on Tidepool Island was far too cramped for her; only this stretch of beach could serve as a temporary resting place.

Her heavy breathing carried the resonance of muffled thunder, and every exhalation caused the surrounding sand to tremble slightly—the whistling sound of massive lungs inhaling and exhaling air.

Aemond walked toward her, his feet sinking into the cool, fine sand.

This was the first time he had seen this dragon in her entirety under the sunlight.

Vhagar was over a hundred meters long, and if those massive, vein-streaked wings were fully extended, her wingspan could reach over two hundred meters, her weight comparable to a small mountain.

Her current size was second only to the late Balerion the Black Dread.

Her scales were a mix of dark green and rock gray, and she was the only one of the three dragons that had founded the Targaryen dynasty still alive in the world.

Once the mount of Visenya, wife of Aegon the Conqueror, she was a living history that had survived for over a hundred and eighty years.

She was also the mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and even great-great-grandmother to most of the Targaryen dragons currently in existence.

Her offspring, Dreamfyre, Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer...

These dragons and their descendants all trace their bloodline back to her.

The Targaryens privately call her "Granny Vhagar," but this affectionate nickname is a dangerous misnomer.

Vhagar's temper is as ancient and brutal as her age.

In the original plot, her great-grandson Arrax was bitten to death by her in a single snap, all because of a provocative burst of flame.

In the end, having lost her rider, she would perish alongside her blood-related grandson, the "Bloodworm" Caraxes, in the Gods Eye Lake.

Just as her final rider, "One-Eye" Aemond, and Prince Daemon both fell at the Gods Eye Lake.

Standing before Vhagar, Aemond felt like an ant.

The dragon was so old that the nictitating membrane covering her eyes was as hard as rock.

She slept with her eyes closed.

Aemond stared, somewhat dazed.

Suddenly, Vhagar's eyes moved; that stone-gray membrane slid away, revealing golden, vertical pupils the size of a grown man beneath.

The dragon's eyes were cold and scrutinizing, looking straight at the tiny figure standing before her.

This was the youth who had climbed onto her back during the storm last night, the rider she had chosen.

Being watched by such an eye—a single pupil comparable to the size of an adult—Aemond felt his body tremble involuntarily.

It was not pure fear, but a complex shiver mixed with excitement, awe, and the resonance of blood.

Targaryen blood surged within him, as if resonating with this ancient existence.

He stared into those dragon eyes.

A dragon is never just a ferocious, brutal beast that only recognizes its rider.

The longer a dragon lives, the more cunning its wisdom.

Aemond could clearly see the scrutiny in Vhagar's eyes, and even a hint of playfulness.

She did not possess the lively vigor of a young dragon; instead, she held nearly two centuries of accumulated, profound wisdom, a stubborn temper, and a memory of the instinct to kill that was as natural as breathing.

Vhagar had once carried Visenya across the Blackwater Bay and spanned the entirety of Westeros; she had participated in the Conquest, the Dornish Wars, and the Faith Militant Uprising.

And now, Aemond was the rider she had chosen.

Every dragon has its own personality and will choose a rider that matches its temperament.

Most Targaryen children begin by taming a hatchling, growing alongside their dragon to forge a bond of blood.

But Aemond was not like them. As the King's second son, living in the shadow of his elder brother, he had once possessed his own dragon egg.

Even Rhaenyra's three Strong boys had been granted eggs that hatched into young dragons, yet his own egg had remained cold.

Only he had nothing, left to be mocked and ridiculed by others.

Aegon had Sunfyre, and Helaena had tamed the gentle Dreamfyre.

Perhaps it was the deep-seated resentment buried within his predecessor's heart, that desperate, all-or-nothing courage, or some scent of kinship that Vhagar could detect, which led this oldest of dragons to choose him.

Aemond took a deep breath and shouted in Valyrian:

"Vhagar!"

But Vhagar remained unmoved, eyeing him intently.

Suddenly, her massive head shifted slightly, and she extended her tongue. The surface was covered in barbs, each one as sharp as a short dagger.

Aemond's heart tightened.

As a dragonrider, he knew that any cowardly retreat could earn the old dragon's disdain.

Vhagar was brutal in temperament and as cunning as an ancient spirit.

The barbed tongue scraped gently across the wound on his left cheek; the scratch from last night's brawl had only just scabbed over, and blood instantly began to seep out.

Aemond let the blood trickle down his cheek.

Vhagar's tongue lapped up the droplets, then slowly retracted into her maw.

She seemed quite interested in his blood.

As she tasted the blood, Vhagar stared at Aemond, her golden slit pupils contracting like a viper about to strike—it was incredibly dangerous.

Aemond had a clear premonition: if he were not the rider she had chosen, he would have been swallowed whole by now.

But why...

Why was she so fixated on his blood?

Before he could fathom the reason, Vhagar suddenly inhaled deeply. Her chest expanded like a bellows, and an orange-red glow spilled from between her scales.

Aemond's entire body went rigid. This was the precursor to a blast of Dragonflame!

A wave of heat washed over him, the scent of sulfur so thick it was nearly suffocating.

The fire in Vhagar's throat flared bright.

But the Dragonflame was not directed at Aemond.

A torrent of dark green flame erupted, aimed at a cluster of reefs fifteen meters to Aemond's right.

The fire lasted for a full ten seconds, scorching the reefs until they glowed red and shattered. As seawater splashed against them, it hissed sharply, sending up great billows of white steam.

Then, as if merely testing her strength, Vhagar snorted, two plumes of black smoke billowing from her massive nostrils.

Aemond did not flinch. He stepped forward. Blood was still streaming down the left side of his face, leaving the entire half of his visage stained and smeared, yet he paid it no mind. He whispered clearly in Valyrian:

"Dohaeras, Vhagar. Sovegon isseeli." (Serve, Vhagar. Fly with me.)

A low rumble emanated from deep within Vhagar's throat, like rolling thunder in the distance, and she slowly lowered her head.

Aemond reached out, pressing his hand against the scorching scales on the side of the dragon's neck.

The texture was like armor made of rough rock; the muscles beneath the scales rose and fell like mountain ranges, harboring the power to destroy everything.

He began to climb.

This was no elegant mounting; it was a brutal conquest. He gripped the edges of the scales, his boots searching for purchase on the slippery surface, and the wound on his left face throbbed with every exertion.

Sweat mixed with blood dripped from his jaw.

When he finally straddled the familiar depression at the base of the dragon's neck—the spot where Queen Visenya, the Prince of the Dawn Baelon, and Lady Laena had all once sat—he gasped for air, his fingers digging deep into the gaps between the scales.

The morning breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and freedom.

But Vhagar did not move.

As Aemond stood in confusion, the old dragon suddenly twisted her neck, turning her massive head toward him and letting out a low growl.

Then, Aemond followed the direction of her dragon-eye. On the beach to that side, half-buried in the sand, stood a dragon egg.

Memories flooded back. This was the last egg Vhagar had laid fifty years ago, after mating with the Black Death, Balerion.

But it had never hatched. As time passed, it had gradually petrified and was considered to have no life left in it.

She was demanding that Aemond take the dragon egg with him.

The bond between Aemond and Vhagar was not one of telepathic connection, but rather a partnership.

Just as in the original story, Aemond had to accommodate the temper of this old dragon, unable to fully control her.

Yet, Vhagar's power and instinct for slaughter were, in themselves, enough to make her the master of the battlefield.

Dragons have emotions; though thinner than those of humans, they are real.

It was precisely for this reason that the Greens had never pitted Vhagar against the dragons of her own offspring's generation, fearing the unpredictable consequences.

As for Granny Vhagar, when it came to her descendants—the dragons of the younger generations—she was utterly indifferent to family ties.

Aemond slid down from the dragon's back and walked toward the dragon egg.

It was heavier than he had imagined, its shell as cold and hard as stone, the patterns on its surface long since worn smooth.

He carefully placed it into the dragon saddlebag.

There was no need for further commands; as Aemond climbed back onto the dragon's neck, Vhagar let out a roar that shook the beach.

She spread her wings abruptly, like two massive clouds of shadow obscuring the morning light, the veins within her wing membranes clearly visible under the sun.

Her powerful hind legs pushed up her mountain-like frame, and sand cascaded down her sides like a waterfall.

Aemond gripped the saddle ropes, feeling every muscle beneath him tense.

A cold wind rushed into his face, carrying the salt of the sea and the scent of distant freedom.