Leaving (Part One)

Sunlight pierced the sea fog,

and only then did Tidepool Island, the island of House Velaryon, emerge into view.

Its jagged coastline cut through the water, and atop it stood High Tide, its castle rising above the cliffs like a towering tree.

The entire island was steeped in the scent of salt and sea wind, like a gigantic stone warship that sailed the Narrow Sea and would never sink.

From high in the castle, Spiceport below came into view, with over a hundred ships of the Velaryon fleet moored there, bobbing on the lead-gray water.

In this age, House Velaryon possessed the strongest navy in Westeros, and even had dragons.

They had long fought the Three Whores Kingdom across the strait, on the Eastern Continent—also known as the Three Daughters or the Triarchy, though the Velaryons mockingly called it the Whores.

For years, the two sides had vied for the Stepstones, suspended between the Eastern and Western Continents, each seeking dominion over the Narrow Sea and control of trade between the two continents.

In the end, the Three Daughters Kingdom was forced to sue for peace by the dragon-owning Velaryons, who seized the Stepstones and secured a temporary peace.

As ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, King Viserys had no choice but to support his cousin, the Velaryon "Sea Snake" Corlys. He had even entrusted the Kingdom Navy to House Velaryon.

Now, even if every other family's fleet in all of Westeros joined forces, they still could not defeat the Velaryon navy.

Even Braavos, the Free City with the strongest navy on the Eastern Continent, was wary of the new maritime hegemony forged by the "Sea Snake" Corlys.

At that moment, the king's fleet was preparing to set sail. It consisted of ten great ships, their banners snapping in the morning breeze.

The funeral for Lady Laena had left everyone who attended at odds with one another...

On the eastern shore of Tidepool Island,

Vhagar lay quietly on the wide stretch of sand outside the dragon lair, like a small mountain built of dark green scales and gray stone.

The dragon lair on Tidepool Island was far too cramped for her. Only this stretch of beach could serve as a temporary resting place.

Her heavy breathing rumbled like distant thunder, and each exhalation made the sand around her tremble faintly. It was the roar of enormous lungs drawing breath.

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

It was the first time he had seen the dragon in full beneath the sunlight.

Vhagar was over a hundred meters long. If she fully spread those enormous, veined wings, her wingspan would exceed two hundred meters. She weighed as much as a mountain.

Only the late Black Death, Balerion, had been larger.

Her scales were dark green mixed with stone-gray. She was the only one of the three dragons that had founded the Targaryen dynasty still alive.

She had once been the mount of Visenya, wife of Aegon the Conqueror, and had lived for more than a hundred and eighty years—a living piece of history.

She was also the mother, grandmother, maternal grandmother, and even great-grandmother of most of the dragons still living among the Targaryens.

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

Those dragons, and their descendants, all carried her blood.

The Targaryens privately called her "Granny Vhagar," but the affectionate name was dangerously misleading.

Vhagar's temper was as ancient and savage as she was.

In the original story, she had devoured her great-granddragon Arrax over a single provocative burst of dragonflame.

In the end, after losing her rider, she would perish with her blood-related grandson, the Blood Wyrm Coraxes, in Gods Eye Lake.

Just as her last rider, One-Eye Aemond, and Prince Daemon would both fall at Gods Eye Lake.

Standing before Vhagar, Aemond was like an ant.

The dragon was so old that a stony membrane covered her eyes.

She slept with them closed.

Aemond stared at her, momentarily dazed.

Suddenly, Vhagar's eye moved. The limestone-gray membrane slid aside, revealing a golden slit pupil as large as an adult human.

The dragon's gaze was cold and appraising as it fixed on the tiny figure standing before her.

This was the boy who had climbed onto her back in last night's storm—the rider she had chosen.

Under the gaze of that eye, whose pupil alone was as large as a grown man, Aemond felt his body tremble despite himself.

It wasn't pure fear, but a complicated shudder of excitement, awe, and a resonance with the blood in his veins.

Targaryen blood surged through him, as if answering the call of this ancient creature.

He gazed into those dragon eyes.

Dragons were not merely savage, cruel beasts who recognized only their riders.

The older a dragon grew, the more cunning wisdom it possessed.

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

She did not possess the lively vigor of a young dragon. Instead, she had accumulated nearly two centuries of deep wisdom, stubbornness, and memories of killing as instinctive as breathing.

Vhagar had once carried Visenya over Blackwater Bay and across all of Westeros. She had taken part in the wars of conquest, the Dornish Wars, and the Faith Militant Uprising.

And now, Aemond was the rider she had chosen.

Every dragon had its own personality and chose a rider whose nature suited its own.

Most Targaryen children began with a hatchling, growing up alongside the young dragon and developing an unspoken bond through their shared blood.

But Aemond had not. As the king's second son, he lived in his elder brother's shadow, though he had once had a dragon egg of his own.

Even Rhaenyra's three Strongs had dragon eggs, and hatched dragons, but his egg had never hatched.

He alone had nothing, and was mocked and ridiculed for it.

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

Perhaps it was the deep-seated resentment of his original self, his all-or-nothing courage, or some kinship Vhagar had sensed in him that made the oldest dragon choose him.

Aemond took a deep breath and called out in Valyrian:

"Vhagar!"

But Vhagar remained still, studying him.

Suddenly, she moved her enormous head and extended her tongue. It was covered in barbs, each one as sharp as a dagger.

Aemond's heart clenched.

As a dragonrider, he knew that any cowardly retreat might displease the old dragon.

Vhagar was savage by nature and as cunning as an ancient spirit.

Her barbed tongue lightly scraped the wound on his left cheek, a gash from last night's melee that had only just scabbed over. Blood began to seep from it at once.

Aemond let the blood run down his cheek.

Vhagar's tongue curled around the droplets, then slowly withdrew into her mouth.

Did his blood interest her?

She seemed to be tasting it. Vhagar stared at Aemond, her golden slit pupils narrowing like a viper's before it struck—dangerously.

Aemond had a clear sense that if he were not the rider she had chosen, she would have swallowed him whole by now.

But why...

Why was she so interested in his blood?

Before he could figure it out, Vhagar suddenly drew a deep breath. Her chest expanded like a bellows, and an orange-red glow seeped between her scales.

Aemond tensed all over. This was the prelude to dragonflame!

A wave of heat surged toward him, and the stench of sulfur grew so strong it was nearly suffocating.

Fire blazed in Vhagar's throat.

But the dragonflame did not strike Aemond.

A torrent of dark green flame burst forth, aimed at a patch of reef fifteen meters to Aemond's right.

The flames lasted a full ten seconds, scorching the reef until it glowed red and cracked apart. Seawater splashed over it with a piercing hiss, and a great cloud of white steam billowed upward.

Then Vhagar snorted, as if she had merely been showing off. Two streams of black smoke poured from her enormous nostrils.

Aemond did not retreat. He stepped forward, blood still running from the wound on his left cheek, staining the entire left side of his face. He paid it no mind and spoke clearly in Valyrian:

"Dohaeras, Vhagar. Sovegon isseeli." (My dragon, Vhagar. Fly with me into the sky.)

A low rumble rose from deep in Vhagar's throat, like thunder rolling over distant mountains, and she slowly lowered her head.

Aemond reached out and pressed his hand against the scorching scales on the dragon's neck.

They felt like rough stone armor. Beneath them, muscles rose and fell like mountains, holding enough power to destroy everything.

He began to climb.

This was no graceful mounting. It was a brutal conquest. He gripped the edges of her scales, searching for footholds on the slick surface with his boots. The wound on his left cheek throbbed with every exertion.

Sweat and blood dripped from his jaw.

When at last he swung himself astride the familiar hollow at the base of the dragon's neck—the place where Dowager Queen Visenya, Prince of the Dawn Baelon, his grandfather, and Lady Laena had all once sat—he was panting, his fingers digging deep into the gaps between her scales.

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

But Vhagar did not move.

As Aemond wondered why, the old dragon suddenly twisted her neck and turned her enormous head toward him, letting out a low growl.

Following her gaze, Aemond looked toward that stretch of beach. There, half-buried in the sand, stood a dragon egg.

The memory came to him. This was the last egg Vhagar had laid, fifty years ago, after mating with the Black Death, Balerion.

But it had never hatched. Over time, it had become petrified, and was thought to be lifeless.

She was asking Aemond to take the dragon egg with him.

Aemond and Vhagar did not share a bond of perfect understanding; theirs was a relationship of cooperation.

Just as in the original story, Aemond had to accommodate the old dragon's temper. He could not fully control her.

But Vhagar's strength and instinct for killing alone were enough to make her a master of the battlefield.

Dragons had feelings. They were fainter than human emotions, but real all the same.

For that reason, the Greens had never let Vhagar fight dragons born to her own children, for fear of unpredictable consequences.

But Granny Vhagar showed no mercy to the dragons of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren.

Aemond slid down from Vhagar's back and walked over to the egg.

It was heavier than he had imagined, its shell cold and hard as stone, its patterns long since blurred.

He carefully placed it in the dragonrider's saddlebag.

Without needing another command, Vhagar let out a roar that shook the beach as Aemond swung back onto her neck.

Her wings spread suddenly, two vast clouds of shadow blotting out the morning light. The veins in their membranes showed clearly beneath the sun.

Her powerful hind legs lifted her mountainous body, and sand poured from her sides like a waterfall.

Aemond gripped the saddle straps, feeling every muscle in the dragon beneath him tense.

The cold wind struck his face, carrying the briny taste of sea salt and the scent of freedom in the distance.