The Dragonpit, King's Landing.
"Your Grace," Master Rosso asked cautiously, interrupting his thoughts, "how do you wish to distribute the ownership of these three hatchlings?"
"They are young and easily tamed; now is the best time to build a bond. Furthermore..." Rosso paused, lowering his voice.
"Princess Aelynis is due to give birth any day now. She has mentioned her hope of securing a dragon for her child..."
Aemond raised a hand, and Rosso fell silent immediately.
"Let them grow first," Aemond said.
"Hatchlings need time to develop, to learn flight and fire. As for their ownership..."
He paused, his violet eye gleaming.
"I shall arrange that myself."
In truth, Aemond harbored a much bolder ambition. These hatchlings, Sephira, Lumina, and Caesar, along with the earlier Rockfang, Ymir, and Morghul, had been hatched or sustained with his own blood.
They had shared a biological connection with him since the moment they broke their shells.
He didn't need to "tame" them in the traditional sense.
These dragons recognized his authority instinctively, as a hatchling recognizes its parent at first sight.
If his blood truly possessed this power, it meant the future of House Targaryen would no longer depend on the chance of an egg hatching; it would depend on the purity of the bloodline.
Why did the Valyrian Freehold rule half the world? Because the forty Dragonlord families had systems for breeding and training.
If Aemond could rediscover, or rather, evolve, a new way, he could build a Targaryen Empire more stable and enduring than anything Old Valyria had imagined.
"Take good care of them," Aemond commanded.
"Record their growth daily: length, weight, consumption. Report directly to me through Carter or Hal. Do not involve the Grand Maester."
"As you wish, Your Grace," Rosso bowed, his mind racing.
He had spent his life among dragons, but he had never seen a Targaryen to whom the beasts were so naturally subservient.
Aemond turned and walked toward the eastern sector to see Morghul.
The black dragon had been moved to a separate nest because, half a month ago, Vhagar had suddenly turned on him, driving him out of her territory.
The ancient matriarch seemed to have decided her "son" was grown and needed his own lair.
Morghul had been sulking for weeks, but today was different.
As Aemond approached, Morghul was tearing through a freshly slaughtered bull, charring the meat with his breath before devouring it.
Seeing Aemond, the dragon stopped eating and wagged his tail excitedly, his fifteen-meter body casting a long shadow.
The dragon nudged Aemond's chest with his massive snout. Aemond patted the scales of his jaw.
"Good lad. You're growing even stronger. At this rate, in a few years, you'll match Vhagar's size when she was young."
Morghul purred, a hot sulfurous gust of air ruffling Aemond's hair.
"You will be a second Balerion," Aemond whispered in High Valyrian.
Morghul let out a sharp, dissatisfied snort and turned his head away.
Aemond blinked, then realized the slight.
"Forgive me. I was wrong. You are Morghul, unique and peerless."
Only then did the dragon turn back, licking Aemond's face with a rough, barbed tongue.
Aemond didn't flinch.
"Your Grace," Rosso remarked, watching the interaction.
"Morghul's growth rate defies all logic. A normal hatchling grows two or three meters in its first year. Morghul has hit fifteen meters in three years. Next year, he might break twenty."
Aemond knew why. His blood was the catalyst.
"And his appetite?"
"Enormous," Rosso grimaced.
"Five meals a day, at least one sheep per meal. I've had to source livestock from across the Crownlands, but the cost..."
"Gold is not an issue," Aemond interrupted.
"He is my dragon. He eats as much as he wants."
Finally, they moved to the eastern wing, where Sunfyre and Grey Ghost were being kept.
Aemond had ordered them to be separated to avoid conflict, but the scene before him was different.
Sunfyre, the golden dragon, was lounging in the center of the enclosure, elegantly tearing apart a roast pig.
He occasionally glanced toward the corner where Grey Ghost was huddled.
The pale dragon was a shivering wreck. His wounds were still weeping, and he didn't dare look at Sunfyre, let alone approach the feeding trough.
Sunfyre finished his meal with a satisfied, spark-filled belch and returned to his resting area.
Only then did Grey Ghost crawl forward to scavenge the scraps, looking up in terror every few seconds.
Aemond's face darkened. "I ordered them separated. Why are they together?"
Rosso broke into a sweat.
"It was... Prince Aegon. Three days ago, he had himself wheeled down here to see Sunfyre. He ordered us to move Grey Ghost in. He said... he said this dragon hurt him and Sunfyre, and it needed to be taught a lesson."
Aemond closed his eyes and took a breath. Aegon, still petty, still narrow-minded.
"From now on," Aemond said, his voice cold, "none of Aegon's orders are to be followed without my approval. Do you understand? Move them apart immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Aemond walked out of the Dragonpit, the noon sun stinging his eyes.
Hal, his guard captain, stepped forward with a damp towel.
"Your Grace," Hal said.
"Lord Borros Baratheon has arrived. We have settled him in the guest rooms of Maegor's Holdfast."
-----
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