The dragons of Dragonmont

When Dragonstone emerged from the morning mist over the Narrow Sea, the first thing Aegon noticed was the smell of sulfur in the air.

It was the scent of a volcano, the scent of Valyria, the scent of a homeland etched into the blood of House Targaryen. This island was neither as orderly and austere as Blackstone Keep on Claw Isle nor as heavily fortified as the Red Keep in King's Landing. It had been born from a volcano. Dark volcanic rock formed its bones, warm steam rose year-round from cracks in the stone, and Dragonmont lay at the island's center like a sleeping beast. Gray-white smoke perpetually shrouded its summit, where the dragons made their lairs.

The castle followed the contours of Dragonmont. Ancient Valyrian reliefs covered its walls, towers, and gates, dragons and flames winding across the black stone. Even after more than a century of wind and rain, they still radiated the awe-inspiring majesty of the ancient Valyrian Freehold.

As the fleet slowly entered Dragonstone's harbor, Syrax gave a long, joyful cry. This was where she had been born, where she nested, the home etched into the blood of every dragon of House Targaryen since the Doom of Old Valyria.

Her enormous golden wings whipped up a gale as she rose once more from above the flagship's mast. She circled the harbor three times, her golden scales gleaming brilliantly in the morning light like a fallen sun.

Sunfyre immediately answered with a clear, ringing cry. Astonishing strength burst from his small body, and a beat of his wings sent him after her. This was his first visit to Dragonstone, his first glimpse of the true Dragonmont. His golden eyes brimmed with excitement and curiosity as he swooped above and below Syrax, like a child who had finally come home.

"Those two are even more eager to get home than we are."

Rhaenyra stood at the bow, watching the two dragons play in the sky, a heartfelt smile lifting her lips. There was none of the aloofness she had shown at the feast on Claw Isle, none of her worries about King's Landing or prospective suitors. There was only the pure ease and freedom of a dragonrider.

She slipped an arm around Aegon's shoulders to keep the harbor wind from knocking him over. Her purple eyes gazed toward Dragonmont, shining as though they held all the starlight over the Narrow Sea.

Leaning against her, Aegon looked up at the two dragons, an indescribable emotion stirring in his chest. This was where House Targaryen's history in Westeros had begun.

More than a hundred years ago, Aegon the Conqueror had set out from this island with his sisters and three dragons. They had crossed Blackwater Bay, landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, and conquered the Seven Kingdoms with dragonfire and swords, founding the Targaryen Dynasty that endured to this day.

This was the cradle of dragons. However magnificent the Dragonpit at the Red Keep might be, it was still a cage that imprisoned them. Only Dragonmont's volcanic caverns, only this unbounded sky and sea, were where true dragons belonged.

The fleet docked with little commotion. Tyland Lannister had already sent a raven ahead to notify Dragonstone's acting castellan. The harbor guards stood waiting in formation, and when Rhaenyra and Aegon stepped onto the dock, they dropped to one knee to salute the kingdom's heir and its Targaryen prince. None dared raise their heads to look directly at the two dragons circling behind them.

The Cargyll brothers led the guards in clearing a path. Willem Fell followed with Aegon's pony, his hand resting on his sword hilt as his wary gaze swept their surroundings.

Alyn Celtigar stayed close beside Aegon, carrying his cloak. Though his head was lowered, he took in everything around them from the corners of his eyes, like a cautious young wolf.

Larys Strong limped along at the rear with his cane. His gray eyes swept toward Dragonmont before settling on Rhaenyra and Aegon's backs. As always, the corners of his mouth curled into his signature smile, unnoticed yet full of meaning.

Everything in Dragonstone's castle had already been prepared. The acting castellan had reserved the Sunrise Suite at the heart of the castle for Rhaenyra and Aegon. A roaring fire in the room's hearth drove away the island's damp chill, and the windows faced Dragonmont. They needed only to look up to see the circling dragons.

But Rhaenyra hardly stayed in the castle at all.

After lunch, she took Aegon's hand and led him out to Dragonstone Yard. Syrax lay basking in the sun. At Rhaenyra's approach, she immediately raised her head and affectionately rubbed it against her palm. Sunfyre ran about the yard, occasionally sniffing the volcanic rock beneath him or calling toward distant Dragonmont, too excited to keep still.

"It's Sunfyre's first visit to Dragonmont. I doubt he'll be able to settle down." Rhaenyra smiled and stroked his head, then looked toward the smoke-wreathed mountain and gave Syrax a few quiet instructions in High Valyrian.

Syrax rumbled a response and gently nudged Sunfyre with her head before spreading her wings and slowly taking flight. Sunfyre immediately stopped running and looked up at her, delight filling his golden eyes. Without waiting for another instruction from Rhaenyra, he beat his wings and followed. The two dragons flew toward Dragonmont, one behind the other, their golden shapes gradually disappearing into the volcanic smoke.

"I told Syrax to take him to spend a night in Dragonmont's caves." Watching them disappear, Rhaenyra lowered her head to speak to Aegon, her voice full of tenderness. "Dragons should grow up in Dragonmont's caves, not that cramped Dragonpit in King's Landing. Let him get to know his home and meet his own kind."

Aegon looked up toward Dragonmont and nodded firmly. He knew all too well that dragons were creatures of freedom. The longer they were confined in cages, the more vicious their tempers became, while the power in their blood gradually dwindled.

The slaughter of the Dance of the Dragons was not the only reason the Targaryen dragons had gradually died out in the dynasty's later years. The sunless Dragonpit in King's Landing was another culprit.

Sunfyre should grow up on Dragonmont and soar between the sky and sea, not be shut inside the Dragonpit to await the inevitable struggle of blood and fire.

That night, even the wind over Dragonstone carried the cries of dragons. Aegon lay beside Rhaenyra, listening to the faint roars drifting from the depths of distant Dragonmont. There were Syrax's low responses, Sunfyre's clear cries, and older, mightier voices that sounded like echoes from a hundred years ago.

He knew those were Vermithor, Silverwing, and the riderless dragons of Dragonmont answering the calls of their own kind.

Rhaenyra slept peacefully with him in her arms. Here on Dragonstone, on land that belonged to the Targaryens, she had finally cast off the weariness and wariness of their journey. She was no longer the kingdom's heir, hemmed in by suitors and marriage alliances, but simply a dragonrider who had flown since childhood, an elder sister protecting her little brother.

At first light the next morning, Rhaenyra set out with Aegon. They took few attendants, allowing only Arryk Cargyll, Willem Fell, and Alyn Celtigar to follow at a distance. The two shared a white horse as they traveled along the winding mountain path toward Dragonmont.

The path was paved with volcanic rock. The higher they climbed, the stronger the sulfur smelled. Warm steam rose from cracks in the stone, condensing into banks of white mist in the cold morning air. Dragon claws had worn the rocks beneath them smooth. Huge dragon scales lay scattered beside the path, along with rock faces scorched black by dragonfire.

Halfway up the mountain, a deafening dragon's roar suddenly came from a cave ahead. It was neither Syrax nor Sunfyre.

The roar was mighty and ancient, carrying the overwhelming presence unique to a century-old dragon. It made even the rocks beneath their feet tremble, and the horse pawed the ground uneasily, refusing to take another step.

Rhaenyra dismounted and lifted Aegon down from the saddle. Taking his hand, she walked toward the enormous volcanic cavern. Its entrance was taller than the Red Keep's gates, its dark opening like the gaping mouth of a beast. A deep red glow shone within, the lingering heat of the volcano below. As they reached the entrance, a wave of scorching air struck their faces, mingling sulfur with the scent of dragons and filling them with awe.

Aegon held his breath and looked into the depths of the cavern. Two dragons lay there.

One was bronze, his body as enormous as a small mountain. His scales gleamed like ancient bronze in the cavern's fiery light, and a pair of vast brown wings lay folded against his sides. His claws resembled curved blades forged from obsidian, each as thick as a grown man's arm. Even lying motionless, he radiated a suffocating presence, as though his body filled the entire cavern.

This was Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, the mount of Jaehaerys I and the second-largest living dragon in Westeros, surpassed only by Vhagar.

As the dragon who had grown up alongside the Old King, he too was nearly a hundred years old. He had witnessed the Old King's prosperous reign, the Great Council of 101 AC, and the Targaryen Dynasty's most glorious years.

Beside him lay a silver she-dragon. Her scales shone like polished silver, gleaming softly in the firelight. As the dragon who had grown up alongside Good Queen Alysanne, she was noticeably smaller than her mate Vermithor, yet remained graceful and majestic.

Seeming to notice the movement at the cave entrance, she slowly raised her head. Her pale purple eyes turned toward them with no hostility, only a hint of gentle curiosity.

This was Silverwing, Good Queen Alysanne's mount and Vermithor's lifelong mate.

Like their riders, they nestled closely together, their enormous bodies entwined and their wings overlapping. Though their riders had been dead for nearly a decade, they still kept watch over each other here on Dragonmont, never parting.

Rhaenyra stopped and went no farther. She bowed slightly to the two dragons and offered a quiet greeting in High Valyrian, her voice filled with respect for both the dragons and her forebears.

Vermithor slowly opened his eyes. His enormous brown gaze settled on them, and he gave a low roar without much hostility, a response of sorts.

Silverwing gently shook her head and made a soft rumbling sound in her throat, as though greeting the descendants of an old friend.

"This is Great-grandfather's Vermithor, and Great-grandmother's Silverwing," Rhaenyra whispered into Aegon's ear, her voice carrying a faint trace of awe and longing. "They rode these two dragons over every inch of the Seven Kingdoms, north to the Wall, south to Oldtown, east to the Stepstones, and west to the Iron Islands. They ruled together for nearly fifty years, bringing the Seven Kingdoms their longest peace and greatest prosperity. These dragons stayed with them all their lives."

Looking at the two dragons nestled together in the cavern, Aegon felt an indescribable pang of melancholy. Jaehaerys and Alysanne had been the Targaryen Dynasty's greatest king and queen. Their love and reign had become an enduring legend in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet their descendants would kill their own siblings and kin for the Iron Throne, and even the dragons they had left behind would become instruments of slaughter in the blood and fire to come.

He knew their future all too well. In less than twenty years, Vermithor would be ridden by a blacksmith's bastard, Hugh Hammer, while Silverwing would be tamed by the white-haired Ulf, who loved drink more than life. These two dragons, witnesses to a golden age, would become accomplices to two great traitors. On the battlefield at Tumbleton, they would burn the armies of the Blacks with dragonfire, then seek to usurp the throne of the Greens, only to meet miserable ends.

Two vile bastards would one day defile these dragons laden with glory. At the thought, Aegon's fists silently tightened. His gaze slipped toward Rhaenyra, who held his hand beside him, and a chilling phrase surfaced in his mind: The Sowing of the Seeds.

Just then, two familiar dragon cries came from deep within another nearby cavern. Syrax emerged from the darkness on the other side, her golden body gleaming in the firelight. Sunfyre followed close behind, curiously rubbing his small head against her neck. At the sight of Aegon, his golden eyes instantly lit up. He ran happily toward him and rubbed his enormous head carefully against his body, afraid of hurting him.

Rhaenyra smiled and stroked Syrax's nose, then looked down at Sunfyre as he fussed affectionately around Aegon. Her eyes filled with tenderness. "It seems he's very happy here."

They did not linger in the cavern. After bidding Vermithor and Silverwing farewell once more, they turned and left, following the mountain path farther into Dragonmont.

Rhaenyra had also taken Aegon to see a dragon other than Syrax and Sunfyre in King's Landing's Dragonpit. That was Dreamfyre, who would one day belong to Helaena. She had once been the mount of Princess Rhaena, the aunt of Aegon's grandfather, Prince Baelon. Gentle by nature, she lacked the ferocity of the other dragons even when chained. But Dragonstone clearly had far more dragons than King's Landing.

Along the way, they even encountered one or two young, riderless dragons. They poked their heads out curiously at the sight of Aegon and the others, only to shrink back in fear of Syrax's imposing presence.

Only when they reached a sheltered valley did Aegon finally see her.

She was a young she-dragon. Though a little larger than Sunfyre, she was still considerably smaller than Syrax, yet exceptionally agile and graceful.

Her scales were a deep cobalt blue, like the deepest waters of the Sunset Sea. Her claws, crest, and belly scales shone like polished copper foil, glowing warmly in the sunlight. She skimmed low over the valley, her wings moving as lightly as a breeze. The dragonfire spilling from her mouth was a beautiful cobalt blue, drawing a brilliant arc through the air.

It was Tessarion, the future Blue Queen, the mount of his youngest brother, Daeron Targaryen, who had yet to be born.

Watching the blue dragon dance through the air, Rhaenyra smiled and lowered her head to speak to Aegon. "Her name is Tessarion. She's a very gentle she-dragon, hatched only a few years ago, with the mildest temperament. If the dragon egg in your cradle had taken too long to hatch-if Sunfyre hadn't broken out of his shell-you probably would have had to choose between her and Dreamfyre for your mount."

Aegon barely reacted, but Sunfyre, following beside them, gave a series of whines. He was plainly jealous.

But Aegon's attention had already settled entirely on the blue dragon overhead, complicated emotions surging through him that he could scarcely conceal.

He knew the Blue Queen's fate all too well.

During the Dance of the Dragons, she would accompany Daeron on campaigns north and south. At the Battle of the Honeywine, she would descend from the sky to save Mund Hightower's army, securing a crucial victory for the Greens.

At the Second Battle of Tumbleton, Daeron would be killed, and she would fight alone against Seasmoke, ridden by Ser Addam Velaryon, and Vermithor, who had once again become riderless.

Yet even battered all over and with her wings torn apart, she would refuse to retreat. In the end, she would bleed out in a valley until, at sunset, Billy Bar Emmon would shoot her on Earl Benjicot Blackwood's orders, ending a life as young as her rider's.

Aegon had always felt deep sympathy for this beautiful dragon. In his heart, she was no different from her destined rider, his brother Daeron, who would not be born for another three years.

Comparisons could be infuriating, after all. Beside the ambitious Aemond, Daeron seemed truly loyal and dependable.

Unlike his eldest brother Aegon II, debauched and tyrannical in the original story, or his second brother Aemond, ruthless and vicious, the youngest, Daeron, was the humblest, most courteous, and best loved of the three brothers of the Greens.

He was clever and brave, yet he would still be swept into his family's struggle of blood and fire, dying amid the chaos at Tumbleton at fifteen, without even a body left behind.

In Fire & Blood, Maester Gildayn had posed the question: "Who can know the heart of a dragon? Did the Blue Queen act out of simple bloodlust? Or did this she-dragon wish to help a companion? If so, whom did she wish to help? Some claim that the bond between dragon and rider runs so deep that the beast shares its master's loves and hatreds. But whom would Tessarion's rider regard as a friend, and whom as an enemy? Could a riderless dragon truly tell the difference?"

But Aegon firmly believed she could.

She was simply loyal to her rider, to that gentle, courteous young prince.

They carried the same Targaryen blood, yet one day they would stand on opposing sides in a fight to the death over the Iron Throne. A bitter ache rose in Aegon's chest. He looked toward King's Landing, a trace of coldness slipping into his eyes.

He thought of Aemond, still in the Red Keep in King's Landing. One day, he would ride Vhagar, slaughter his nephew, and ignite the Dance of the Dragons. For now, he was still an infant in swaddling clothes, yet his mother Alicent's indulgence had spoiled him beyond restraint.

Of course, Aegon, the very culprit behind Aemond receiving so much more affection from Alicent than he had in the original story, would never mention why.

After all, Aemond had only been born last year and was probably still in his cradle. How could he be "lawless" or "arrogant and overbearing"? Wasn't that simply a judgment his elder brother Aegon had made based on his impressions from the original books and show?

Of course, Aegon knew perfectly well that his impression of Aemond's arrogance came only from his memories of the books and show. But he did not care. All he could think about now was making sure he taught that wayward little brother a proper lesson when they returned to King's Landing, so he would understand who the true dragon of House Targaryen was, and who ought to obey the rules.

Tessarion seemed to notice their gazes. She circled low over the valley once and gave them a clear, ringing cry, then beat her wings and flew deeper into the valley, her blue form gradually disappearing among the mountains.

Holding Aegon's hand, Rhaenyra turned and started down the mountain. Syrax and Sunfyre flew low overhead, one on either side, steadily guiding them along the way.