The Dragonpit, King's Landing.
Rhaenys's Hill, King's Landing. Deep within the Dragonpit.
Aemond Targaryen stood in the nursery of the southern sector, his black leather boots stepping across the warm stone floor.
Before him were three specially crafted stone nests, arranged to mimic the volcanic environment of Valyria. Three newborn dragons squirmed within.
The first was a deep crimson, her scales shimmering like flowing blood with a metallic luster.
She was the smallest but also the most active, her tiny claws scraping at the edge of the nest as she tried to scramble out.
As Aemond approached, she lifted her head, her amber eyes glowing like burning embers in the shadows.
She opened her mouth to reveal rows of needle-like teeth and let out a sharp, high-pitched shriek.
"Prickly little thing," Aemond murmured, leaning in.
The crimson hatchling, clearly a female, sniffed the air. She tilted her head, her amber eyes locking onto Aemond's hand, specifically the tip of his index finger.
The wound from the wedding ceremony had just closed, but a trace of nearly imperceptible blood-scent lingered.
She recognized it, the first scent she had known upon breaking her shell.
As Aemond reached out, she feigned a submissive posture, lowering her head and cautiously touching her cold snout to his fingertip.
Then, she lunged, her tiny jaws snapping toward his finger!
But Aemond was faster. His hand moved like a lightning strike, fingers closing precisely around the hatchling's neck.
The movement was clean, practiced, and without hesitation.
Caught by the throat, the hatchling let out a piteous squeal, her hind claws scratching the air and her tail lashing out.
"Behave," Aemond said.
The hatchling struggled for a few seconds before going still. She stared at Aemond with a mixture of fear and resentment, but she had been mastered; the gap in strength was too vast.
Aemond released her, and she tumbled back into the nest. She hissed indignantly, flapping her underdeveloped wings as she tried to take flight, but she was barely a day old.
Her wings were soft, and she could only flutter clumsily like a flightless hen before falling over again.
Aemond watched the spectacle and chuckled. He reached out again.
This time, the hatchling had learned her lesson and did not attack. Just as his palm was about to touch her, she suddenly went rigid and flopped over in the nest, her limbs twitching twice before she went completely still.
Playing dead? Aemond raised an eyebrow. He leaned closer, observing her.
She remained stiff, not even blinking.
'Did I scare her to death?'
He extended a finger and poked her belly.
A second later, the hatchling "resurrected," snapping her jaws around his finger! However, she didn't use her teeth this time.
Instead, she wrapped her tongue, covered in tiny, rough barbs, around his fingertip, greedily licking at the trace of blood seeping from the reopened wound.
Aemond was stunned for a moment before being moved to an exasperated laugh.
"You truly are... shameless."
He patted the hatchling's head. She gave an unsatisfied grumble but retreated to the side.
The other two hatchlings had smelled the blood.
The silver one, with red eyes that looked like two drops of congealed blood, crawled over slowly.
She stopped beside Aemond and stared intently at the blood on his finger, but unlike the crimson one, she did not lunge.
Aemond knelt and stroked her back; she didn't resist, but she didn't respond either, her red eyes unblinking.
The third was a dark gold male, his scales gleaming with a magnificent, somber luster. He was neither as frantic as the red nor as quiet as the silver.
He stood tall in the center, his golden eyes fixed on Aemond.
Aemond reached out. The golden hatchling did not flinch or approach. He allowed Aemond's hand to rest on his head, feeling the warmth.
Then, he suddenly opened his mouth, and a spark of orange light flickered deep in his throat!
A small puff of embers erupted, dying out before it could travel far, leaving a few wisps of smoke in the air.
The message was clear: 'I can already spit fire.'
Aemond gave a genuine smile of appreciation.
"A proud little thing."
He squeezed a few drops of blood from his fingertip, deliberately opening the wound further.
He fed the golden one first, who licked the blood with a dignified, measured pace. Then the silver.
The crimson hatchling was already beside herself with impatience, jumping up and down in her nest and letting out aggrieved shrieks as if to say,
'What about me?! I want some too!'
Aemond ignored her for a moment, making her even more frantic until she whimpered piteously. Finally, he let her lick the remaining traces.
She licked until her tail wagged like a puppy's.
Aemond stood and turned to the Dragonpit Master, Rosso.
"These three," Aemond said.
"I shall name them myself."
"As you wish, Prince," Rosso bowed.
"Their names shall be entered into the chronicles."
Aemond pointed to the deep red female. "She is Ishtar."
To the silver female: "She is Lumina."
And finally, to the dark gold male: "He is Caesar."
Rosso recorded the names on parchment.
Aemond watched them, calculating his strength.
The Greens now possessed eleven dragons: four adults (Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, Sunfyre), two young dragons (Morghul, Grey Ghost), and five hatchlings (Rockfang, Ymir, Ishtar, Lumina, Caesar), all hatched under his care.
On the Black side... they had six adults: Rhaenyra's Syrax, Daemon's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, along with the escaped Silverwing and Sheepstealer, and the riderless Vermithor. Plus three hatchlings, including Baela's Moondancer.
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