Lothron

Dragonpit, Noon

The carriage came to a halt, and Viserys I stepped out with Queen Alicent's support.

On his other side, Princess Helaena gently held her father's arm.

The King's hand trembled slightly—not from frailty, but from barely contained excitement.

Black dragons had rarely been seen since the Doom of Valyria.

Black dragons were the most savage and violent, their combat prowess unmatched among dragonkind.

The only black dragon left in the world now was the wild dragon known as Grey Ghost, which lurked on Dragonstone—untamable, infamous, a devourer of young dragons.

As for Prince Daemon's red-and-black Blood Wyrm, fierce and battle-hungry as it was, it could not truly be counted as a pure black dragon.

From deep within the Dragonpit came the crisp sound of flesh being torn.

The Kingsguard had already dismounted and formed ranks, and Aemond arrived on horseback.

"This way, Your Majesty." Dragonkeeper Commander Rosso stepped forward to lead the way, lowering his voice: "The little one is right under Vhagar's wing."

The first thing to catch the eye was Vhagar's mountain-like silhouette.

Beneath the legendary old dragon's half-spread left wing, a shadow seemed to shift.

Within that shadow, a black mass writhed constantly, no larger than a hound, its scales deep and dark, head buried as it tore at the bloody meat chunks the Dragonkeepers pushed in with long poles.

"Holy Mother above..." Queen Alicent whispered a prayer, her fingers tracing the Seven-pointed star over her chest.

But Helaene was unusually quiet, her violet eyes wide, fixed on Aemond.

Viserys stepped forward, almost forgetting to breathe.

Just then, Vhagar turned her head.

Her molten-gold great eyes rolled slowly, sweeping over the tiny figures below, and finally settled on the offspring beneath her own wing.

A low rumble came from the old dragon's throat, the scales on her neck rising slightly—the instinct of a creature protecting its young.

Aemond stepped forward at once.

"Lykiri, Vhagar." He called softly in Old Valyrian.

Vhagar lowered her head, sulfur-scented white smoke pluming from her nostrils. Aemond reached out and stroked the old dragon's rough scales, once, then again.

The old dragon's agitation gradually subsided.

At that moment, the young dragon stopped tearing at its meal.

It lifted its small, blood-smeared head, dark red vertical pupils ringed with a fine thread of gold, staring straight at Aemond.

After a moment's hesitation, the young dragon clumsily pushed itself up on newborn, weak limbs, spread its wings, and staggered its first step toward Aemond.

Viserys narrowed his eyes: "It knows you?"

Aemond turned his head: "It only hatched today, Father."

"Anything that moves must be novel to it."

"Novel?" The King shook his head. Dragons were most sensitive to scent.

"Once a rider bonds with a dragon, other dragons lose interest in that rider."

"But the look in this young dragon's eyes... that's not curiosity. It's more like recognizing its master."

Vhagar watched her offspring approach Aemond without any reaction. The old dragon closed her eyes, lowered her head, and rested.

The young dragon took a few more steps, nearly falling, but steadied itself.

It craned its neck, dark red eyes fixed on Aemond, letting out urgent, sharp clicking sounds from its throat, as if calling out.

Aemond looked at the young dragon, then crouched down.

The black young dragon threw itself straight into his arms, tiny claws hooking into his clothes, its head rubbing against his chest.

This unbelievable sight made Viserys's pupils contract.

Dragonkeeper Commander Rosso approached at just the right moment, whispering a few words into the King's ear.

Viserys's brow furrowed deeper and deeper, his bony fingers tightening around his scepter.

"Everyone except Aemond, withdraw."

The crowd withdrew as ordered.

Now, only father and son remained.

"Aemond," Viserys said, puzzled. "Give me an explanation."

He pointed at the black young dragon: "A dragonrider can only bond with one dragon in a lifetime."

"That is an unbroken law since the age of Old Valyria."

"Vhagar has already chosen you."

"And now this young dragon shows you this... this attachment."

Aemond was silent for a few breaths.

"Father," he finally spoke.

"Even the Dragonlords of Old Valyria dared not claim to fully understand the mysteries of dragons."

"I don't know what happened either."

He paused. "But when I touched this little one, I could feel what he felt—hunger, curiosity, and... closeness."

"He seems to sense my thoughts as well."

"What do you mean?" Viserys asked, incredulous.

"Perhaps the bloodline resonates, Father." Aemond looked up.

"Vhagar didn't object to this little one approaching me either."

"That's impossible..." Viserys muttered, yet his feet carried him forward against his will.

Vhagar's eyes snapped open.

Molten gold pupils fixed on the King.

A low growl rumbled in the old dragon's throat—a warning.

Viserys froze mid-step, his hand still outstretched.

"Lykiri." Aemond's voice rang out again.

Vhagar's agitation subsided, but her gaze remained locked on the King.

The hatchling, however, poked its head out from Aemond's arms and let out a sharp hiss at Viserys, baring tiny fangs.

The meaning was clear—rejection.

Viserys withdrew his hand, his expression shifting—shock, confusion, and finally settling into something complicated.

He looked deeply at this Second Son, always so full of surprises.

The King let out a long sigh.

"Give him a name, Aemond," he said, his voice regaining some strength.

"You tamed him—or rather, he chose you. That is your right."

"Lothron," Aemond answered without hesitation, the Old Valyrian word rolling off his tongue.

"Lothron..." Viserys repeated softly. "In the ancient tongue, that means 'omen'?"

"Indeed." Aemond gently set the hatchling back on the ground. The little creature stumbled back to the pile of meat but kept glancing back at him.

"His very existence may be an omen."

"Omen..." The King savored the word.

After a long moment, he turned.

"Back to the Red Keep."

On the carriage ride back, Viserys leaned into the cushions, eyes closed in thought.

A dragonrider bonds with only one dragon for life...

Had Aemond broken that iron rule?

Or had Aemond's bloodline mutated—was it blood magic hidden within the veins?

Viserys recalled the ancient legends passed down through his family.

The earliest Valyrians were nothing more than a refugee shepherd people, until they encountered dragons among the Fourteen Flames.

Some said they tamed the dragons; others said they created blood magic, fusing dragon blood with their own, so dragons would see them as kin...

Those Valyrians with dragonriding blood were called Dragonlords—or rather, the Forty Dragonlord Families.

And the ordinary Valyrians without dragonriding blood became the nobles of this newborn empire.

After that, most of the Eastern Continent fell to Valyrian conquest and enslavement under the might of dragons.

These secrets were buried centuries ago with the Doom of Valyria.

Only House Targaryen survived, thanks to the prophecy of Daenys Targaryen, the Dreamer.

They fled with their dragons and Dragon Eggs to the Western Continent—Westeros—and eventually settled on Dragonstone.

Then came generations of Targaryen recovery.

Over a hundred years ago, the Targaryens began their conquest of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Kings of the Seven Kingdoms bowed under the shadow of dragons, setting aside their crowns to become the lords of their respective regions, swearing fealty to Targaryen rule over Westeros.

Now, in this world, only House Targaryen possesses dragons—and the dragonriding bloodline.