Inside the castle of Tyrosh.
Hugh stood by the window, gazing out at the distant sea.
A week.
It had been a full week since he launched his coup. Over those days, he had barely slept.
There were too many matters to handle, too many people to placate, too many dangers to guard against.
But at this moment, he was in an excellent mood.
Dragonstone had not replied yet, but he knew they would agree.
They had no other choice.
Lucerys and those two girls were in his hands. They were three trump cards that left him in an unbeatable position.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
Ulf pushed it open and entered, a fawning smile on his face.
"My lord, that woman Saera has been brought here."
Hugh turned around and nodded.
"Send her in."
Saera walked into the room.
Her silver hair hung loose and disheveled around her shoulders. Her face was pale, but fury still burned in her eyes.
She stared at Hugh as if she wanted to set him ablaze with her gaze alone.
"Hugh," she rasped, "you traitor. What have you done to my son?"
Hugh smiled.
"Your son is doing quite well. He's sleeping in the room next door."
"He's being attended to by dedicated servants. Eats well, sleeps well. Better than when you were taking care of him."
Saera struggled to charge at him, but two soldiers held her firmly in place.
"Let me go! You bastard! You—"
Hugh stepped forward and slapped her across the face.
Smack!
The blow snapped her head to the side, drawing blood from the corner of her mouth.
But she made no sound.
She merely glared at him with even greater fury.
"Calm down, Saera," Hugh said softly.
"Your son is in my hands. And you're under my control."
"If you still want your son to live, you'd better show me some respect."
Saera's body trembled, but her eyes never wavered.
She spat a mouthful of blood at the floor in contempt.
Hugh looked at her and suddenly laughed.
"You know, Saera, I like that spirit."
"Got plenty of fire."
"Once I've settled everything, I'll marry you."
"Then you'll be my queen, and your son will be my heir."
"What do you think?"
Saera looked at him coldly.
"Keep dreaming."
Hugh shrugged.
"Think whatever you like."
"But right now, I need your help with something."
"What?"
Hugh regarded her calmly.
"I need the secret of dragon taming."
"I want you to teach me how to use it to tame Vermithor."
Saera's eyes widened.
"You've got quite the imagination."
Hugh smiled.
"Your brother Valos managed it."
"So I certainly have what it takes as well."
Saera looked at him, her expression complicated.
"You want me to teach you?"
"That's right."
"And why should I?"
Hugh smiled again, a hint of cruelty in that smile.
"Because your son is in my hands."
"If you refuse, I'll cut off one of his fingers every day."
"When all his fingers are gone, I'll start on his toes. When those are gone, I'll move on to his arms and legs."
"Think it over."
Saera's face turned deathly pale.
She clenched her teeth and remained silent for a long time.
At last, she closed her eyes and nodded.
Over the following days, Saera began teaching Hugh the dragon-taming song.
Its melody rose and fell in strange patterns, unlike any ordinary tune.
Hugh studied it with great diligence, practicing it over and over until every syllable was perfect.
Three days later, he finally decided to test it.
Outside Tyrosh, on a hill beyond the city, Vermithor lay not far from Silverwing.
The bronze dragon's massive body dwarfed even Silverwing, larger by a noticeable margin.
Vermithor lay sprawled atop a rocky outcrop, his eyes closed.
The wounds Vhagar had inflicted upon him were still visible, but they had healed considerably. At the moment, the Bronze Fury was dozing.
Hugh arrived at the foot of the hill with several dozen men.
He ordered them to remain at a distance and began climbing the slope alone.
Ulf nervously followed behind him and spoke cautiously.
"My lord, it's too dangerous for you to go alone..."
Hugh turned and shot him a glare.
"What? Want to come with me?"
Ulf immediately shook his head.
Hugh sneered and continued uphill.
The mountain wind howled around him, snapping his cloak loudly in the air.
Step by step, Hugh climbed toward the summit, drawing ever closer to the dragon.
One hundred paces.
Fifty.
Thirty.
Vermithor opened his eyes.
Those enormous dragon eyes, like two golden lanterns, fixed themselves upon the silver-haired little creature that dared approach him.
There was something very familiar about the scent of that bloodline.
The Bronze Fury did not treat Hugh the way he would an ordinary man.
Then he released a deep growl.
The sound echoed through the valley, shaking loose pebbles and sending rocks tumbling down the slopes.
Hugh stopped and took a deep breath.
Then he began to sing.
Ancient Valyrian flowed from his lips, the melody rising and falling in strange rhythms.
Vermithor narrowed his eyes.
He seemed to understand something.
He did not roar again.
Instead, he simply watched Hugh in silence, a trace of complicated emotion flashing through those golden pupils.
Still singing, Hugh slowly advanced.
Trying to draw closer to the Bronze Fury.
Twenty paces.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Suddenly, Vermithor rose to his feet.
His massive wings spread wide, blotting out the sky.
With a thunderous roar, he unleashed a blast of dragonfire.
Fear gripped Hugh's heart, but he did not dodge.
The flames passed beside him, turning the rocks behind him red-hot.
He could feel the searing heat.
He could smell his own hair burning.
But he did not run.
He climbed back to his feet and continued singing.
Vermithor lowered his head and stared at him with enormous dragon eyes.
There was scrutiny in that gaze.
Not long ago, there had been another little creature.
The reason the Bronze Fury had accepted that one was simple—he had gone too long without a rider.
He loved gentle Silverwing.
But he also yearned for battle. It was in his nature as a dragon.
And there had been another silver-haired little creature he thought highly of as well...
Yet a dragon's pride would never allow the Bronze Fury to submit to that boy.
After all, he disliked his mother's scent—especially that ill-tempered old she-dragon, Vhagar...
Even though Vermithor was Vhagar's eldest son.
Hugh continued singing as he walked forward.
Three paces.
One.
Slowly, he extended a hand and pressed it against Vermithor's snout.
The dragon's breath washed over his face, scorching hot.
Vermithor did not move.
He merely stared at the reckless fool standing before him.
Hugh's song never faltered.
He finished the final verse, then slowly opened his eyes and met Vermithor's gaze.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Vermithor moved.
He lowered his head slightly, allowing Hugh's hand to reach his brow.
Hugh's heart began pounding wildly.
He had succeeded.
He had truly succeeded!
Then, suddenly, Vermithor's nostrils released a sulfurous blast of air as he let out a powerful snort.
The force of the Bronze Fury's breath nearly knocked Hugh backward.
Next, Vermithor threw back his head and roared at the sky.
Then he spread his wings and launched himself into the air.
The Bronze Fury was in a fairly good mood today.
Under normal circumstances, he would have swallowed the man whole long ago.
Left standing on the hill, Hugh was utterly bewildered.
Why?
Why?
Why hadn't he accepted him?!
There had to be something he was missing!
Or perhaps that bitch Saera had secretly withheld something from him!
Rage surged through Hugh.
He had made up his mind.
He was going to let that bitch experience the wrath of a dragon.
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