The dragonpit of King's Landing always reeked of sulfur and the sea.
The smell was stronger than usual when Aemond Targaryen stepped onto the ash-covered ground. The great dome loomed above him, its massive bronze doors thrown wide to admit the returning dragons.
Four dragons had just landed.
Sunfyre had flown the entire distance from Dragonstone with clear reluctance. The golden dragon's wounds were healing, but his flight was still labored; each wingbeat seemed to cost him effort.
Vhagar was in far better state. The old dragon's injuries had scabbed over with black crust, and she had carried Grey Ghost in her claws for most of the journey. The pale dragon now lay trembling beneath Vhagar's massive foreclaw, looking like a chicken caught by a hawk.
And Lothron…
The young black dragon had circled the pit's dome three times before consenting to land. His wings were fully spread, and he loosed a piercing, long cry—a proclamation of his return to the dragonpit.
When he finally descended, he went directly to Aemond. His massive jaw pressed against the prince's shoulder, nuzzling like an overgrown cat.
«Calm yourself,» Aemond murmured, patting the scales of Lothron's neck. The dragon's affection was a burden, but not an unwelcome one.
«Your Highness.»
A voice came from the shadows near the pit's entrance.
Ser Hal Belmore stood there. Behind him were Will Simons and Carter Gessant—three men who had once been nobodies but now bore surnames, lands, and titles.
All given by Aemond. Their loyalty had never been to the Iron Throne, but to the prince who had raised them up.
«How proceeds the reconstruction?» Aemond asked. His stride did not pause; he walked directly into the pit's depths. His boots crunched on the ash-covered floor.
Will, now Master of Coin, fell into step beside him.
«As you commanded, we are opening two new exits from the pit,» he said, smiling. «The central dome will also be made into an open space, but the construction will take time… at least two years, perhaps more.»
Aemond grunted his satisfaction.
He remembered the tales of the Dance—how a mob had once stormed this very pit, blocked the single exit, and butchered the dragons within. He would not let that happen again. If the pit had multiple exits, if the dragons could always reach the sky, no mob would ever trap them again.
«Your Highness, there is another matter,» Hal said from behind. He lowered his voice and produced a scroll.
Aemond took it. Unrolled it.
In the torchlight of the pit, he read the names. Fifty of them, each followed by family, age, and skills.
«The first selection for the Praetorian Guard is complete,» Hal said.
«It should have been chosen by His Grace the King himself, but… well, Your Highness knows the situation.»
«The Queen Regent has given Lord Galvin Hightower the authority to raise this guard.»
Aemond's lips curved.
Mother. Always so eager to pave Aegon's path.
But Galvin Hightower was already his man, secretly sworn to him. The guard would serve its purpose—whoever chose its members.
He folded the scroll and tucked it into his sleeve.
They walked deeper into the pit. Hal and the others followed.
«This Praetorian Guard,» Aemond said suddenly, «is more symbol than substance. A show for the Seven Kingdoms, to prove the southern lords stand with us.»
Hal nodded. «The three northern kingdoms have been excluded from power for years. The lords of the Vale, the North, and the Riverlands have almost no voice in King's Landing anymore.»
«When His Grace named Aegon his heir, they acknowledged it. They did not object. But their loyalty remains… neutral.»
«Neutral,» Aemond repeated. Cold. «Those northern lords marry among themselves. They keep their own councils. They wait to see which way the wind blows.»
---
As they spoke, they approached the western wall of the pit.
Aemond looked up.
Thick iron chains hung from the dome, their ends wrapped around a dragon pinned between massive stone pillars.
Vermax.
The dragon who had once belonged to Jacaerys Velaryon.
His condition was terrible. His wings were twisted at unnatural angles; his whole body seemed broken, paralyzed. He lay on the ash like a discarded toy.
«Your Highness?» Hal's voice was cautious. The men behind him tensed.
Aemond waved them back. He walked forward alone.
When Aemond approached, Vermax's head snapped up.
Paralyzed though he was, dying though he might be, the dragon erupted with fury the moment he saw the silver-haired prince. He thrashed against his chains; the iron links screamed; dust rained from the stone pillars.
Then he opened his jaws.
Dragonfire erupted.
Not the full flood of a healthy dragon—Vermax was too broken for that. But a stream of black smoke and scattered flame rushed toward Aemond. Narrow. Unfocused. But still deadly.
«Your Highness!» Hal cried. The guards behind him reached for their swords. The Dragonkeepers shouted.
Aemond did not move.
He stood there, watching the fire come toward his face.
The flames struck him.
And passed.
Through him.
For several seconds, the fire washed over him. Then it guttered out, becoming scattered sparks and smoke.
Aemond stood unharmed.
But his shirt—the simple black linen shirt he wore—was gone. Burned away entirely.
It revealed pale skin beneath.
Skin that was not even red. Not blistered. Not scorched.
Just… skin.
The pit fell into dead silence.
Men stared. Dragonkeepers, knights, guards—all of them stared.
They had seen dragonfire melt stone. They had seen it turn steel to slag. They had seen it consume armies.
But they had never seen a man stand in it and live.
The Dragonkeepers remembered the old legends. The tales of the unburnt. The blood of the dragon kings, pure and strong enough to resist the flames.
This is proof, they thought. Proof that the blood runs true.
Aemond looked down at his ruined shirt. Frowned.
He glanced at Vermax, still straining against his chains, still trying to find the strength to burn him again. The hatred in that dragon's eyes was absolute.
There is no taming this one, Aemond thought.
He turned to Hal. «Have someone bring me a new shirt.»
Hal was still staring. It took him two full seconds to respond.
«Yes… Yes, Your Highness! At once!»
Will Simons had already stripped off his own coat and shirt. He stepped forward, offering them.
Aemond took them. Put them on. They fit well enough.
Hal found his voice again. He gestured at Vermax.
«Your Highness, this dragon… his hatred for you is absolute. It is too dangerous to keep him. Perhaps we should—»
«Kill him?» Aemond finished the thought.
Hal nodded. «He is useless. He cannot fly. He can barely breathe fire. Keeping him alive costs food and men to guard him. It would be simpler to—»
Aemond walked toward Vermax again. Closer this time. Close enough to smell the rot of the dragon's wounds, the sickly sweet stench of dying flesh.
Vermax tried to breathe fire again. Only black smoke emerged, followed by a wracking cough.
«He is a Targaryen dragon,» Aemond said.
He reached out. Touched the scales of Vermax's neck.
The dragon shuddered. Tried to bite him. The chains held.
«Even useless, he is still a dragon. Treat him well. He may yet prove useful.»
«Useful?» Hal was confused.
Aemond did not explain.
He looked at Vermax one last time. Then he turned and walked away.
As he approached the pit's exit, he spoke to the Dragonkeeper captain who followed.
«Find a way to dress his wounds. Give him fresh meat. I want him alive. Do you understand?»
The captain—a grizzled old man named Rosso—bowed at once.
«I understand, Your Highness.»
Difficult, he thought. But possible. A paralyzed dragon can be kept alive, if one is careful.
And the prince has commanded it.