Dareon watched with a hint of envy as Seasmoke soared into the sky, releasing its vigorous draconic energy high above Dragonstone with Aemon on its back. In truth, whether it was King Aegon or Prince Viserys, both favored the calm and composed Aemon among the younger generation. Initially, they had even considered letting Aemon try bonding with both Vermax and Dreamfyre.
In the end, though, it was Seasmoke and Aemon who proved a perfect match.
"Woooow!"
Aemon could no longer maintain his composed expression. Clinging tightly to the worn dragon saddle, his excited shout was loud enough for Dareon to hear clearly from the ground.
"Aemon! Don't forget to ask Seasmoke where the Sheep Stealer is!" Dareon shouted up.
Aemon heard him and gently pressed with both hands, signaling Seasmoke to land. "Seasmoke, do you know about the Sheep Stealer?"
Seasmoke sent back a confused impression—it didn't know what a "Sheep Stealer" was. Since Aemon had already earned the dragon's recognition, a natural bond between dragon and rider had formed. This was a power every dragonrider gained after successfully taming their dragon. However, since Seasmoke had lived wild for a long time, it didn't seem to understand much of what Aemon meant.
"One of the other wild dragons on Dragonstone."
Still confused, Seasmoke recalled that including itself, there were three wild dragons on Dragonstone. Which one did Aemon mean? Nevertheless, it descended steadily before Candlelight and Tyraxes. As a dragon hatched during the reign of King Jaehaerys, Seasmoke had grown massive. Judging by size alone, it was approaching Vermax's bulk—larger than Candlelight, and much larger than Tyraxes.
Joffrey looked on wistfully at the dragon that had once belonged to his "father". He knew well that he wasn't of Ser Laenor's blood, but a Strong. Though those who once questioned their parentage had gone silent after the Dance of the Dragons, and King Jacaerys I's capable reign had thoroughly restored the three brothers' reputation—even salvaging some of their mother, Queen Rhaenyra I's, name—there was still a thorn lodged deep in Joffrey's heart.
A thorn named bastard.
That thorn had only dug deeper after the deaths of his two older brothers. He felt he had let down both House Velaryon and his true bloodline, House Targaryen. So Joffrey had shouldered the pressure from the Velaryon branch and married Adam, while also working tirelessly for the revival of the royal Targaryen fleet.
This majestic silver-gray beast had grown even more imposing now. Clearly, Seasmoke still remembered Joffrey—after landing, it glanced at him rather than Tyraxes, then lowered its head.
Aemon sensed Seasmoke's continued confusion and paused to reflect.
Did I not express myself clearly enough?
"It's an old, mud-brown dragon that loves eating sheep."
This time, Seasmoke understood. It tilted its head thoughtfully and, before Aemon could react, broke into a sprint, spread its wings, and launched into the sky.
"Seasmoke, wait!"
"Hey! What's the rush—wait for us!" Dareon shouted, anxious, as Seasmoke showed no intention of slowing. Samantha sighed softly, and Candlelight leapt into the air. A tentacle-like limb scooped Dareon up gently and placed him securely onto the dragon saddle. Dareon hurriedly fastened the straps. "Mother, let's chase them!"
Samantha nodded and gestured to Joffrey to stay behind. Seasmoke and Candlelight would be enough—if Tyraxes joined in, the Sheep Stealer might flee altogether.
Joffrey nodded, pressing his hand against Tyraxes' scales to signal it to remain grounded and wait.
"Seasmoke, wait—wait!" Only then did Aemon realize he'd used the wrong language. He quickly switched to High Valyrian commands. "Seasmoke, stop!"
Seasmoke glanced sideways at its rider but ignored the command and flew even faster.
Aemon had no choice but to cling tightly to the worn saddle as Seasmoke circled Dragonstone's peaks and swept over the ancient castle, startling its inhabitants.
The arrival of Candlelight shortly after brought Aemon some relief. He pressed even closer to the saddle, most worried that the old thing might fall apart midair.
But his fears proved unfounded. With a few powerful wingbeats, Seasmoke glided smoothly into a secluded valley.
Only a patch of cooled black ash remained there.
Sensing something, Seasmoke climbed once more before even landing, circling the valley—now littered with blackened ash and sheep bones—twice. Even Dareon and Samantha, riding in on Candlelight, could hear the rage in Seasmoke's roars.
Aemon felt it all the more clearly.
He was sure he had just received a barrage of furious insults from Seasmoke—none of which he could even repeat. The only word he dared say aloud was:
"Coward."
Dareon sighed in disappointment. It seemed they had underestimated the Sheep Stealer's cunning and caution. Perhaps the moment it sensed two great dragons taking to the skies over Dragonstone, it had flown off at once.
Seasmoke descended into the center of the valley in a fury. Still seething, it opened its maw and unleashed a torrent of golden-red flame, sweeping from one end of the valley to the other. The former den of the Sheep Stealer was scorched beyond recognition before the furious dragon finally bowed its head, allowing Aemon to dismount.
"Well done, Aemon." Dareon had barely jumped off Candlelight before running over to his cousin and giving him a friendly punch, gazing with envy at the magnificent, powerful Seasmoke.
"Your dragon's the biggest in the family now."
Dareon muttered this with a hint of disappointment.
"No, Your Grace. Even if I were astride the 'Bronze Fury' itself, I would still honor my oath—to His Majesty the King, to you, and to the whole family. It has nothing to do with the size of the dragon beneath me," Aemon said calmly.
"Your Grace, you could try with Dreamfyre."
That was Aemon's second sentence.
Daeron froze for a moment, then a look of delight bloomed across his face. Of course—Aemon had tamed Seasmoke, which meant House Targaryen now had a controllable, fully-grown dragon. With Seasmoke, Stormcloud, and Candlelight, his father, mother, and uncle wouldn't have to worry about Dreamfyre's volatile nature anymore.
"Dreamfyre…" Samantha pondered a moment. "We'll need to suppress her ferocity together. Aemon, you've only just bonded with Seasmoke—can you manage it?"
Aemon nodded. "Rest assured, Your Grace. My brothers and I all studied the dragonbinding commands and lore under Father. We may not yet match Your Grace and His Majesty in working with dragons, but we can hold our own in a confrontation with Dreamfyre in the dragonpit."
He added,
"Besides, Caraxes will help us subdue her."
Samantha nodded in approval.
While the people of Dragonstone were celebrating Aemon's taming of Seasmoke…
In the dragonpit of King's Landing—
Syrax lay sprawled lazily, eyeing Prince Aegon as he slowly approached.
The prince was still uneasy before this massive yellow-jade beast. As Queen Rhaenyra's companion, this dragon had only participated in two battles throughout her life—once as bait in the campaign against Canibal, and again during the riot in King's Landing, where she incinerated mobs of rioters.
She had never fought another dragon one-on-one. And after Queen Rhaenyra's death, Syrax had barely flown at all, her rare flights few enough to count on one hand. She spent her days coiled in the massive, spacious cavern of the dragonpit, the floor slick with protective slime from dragon eggs—content to stay there forever.
She was still immense, though compared to the rapid growth of other dragons, her girth seemed to be expanding the fastest. The polish of time had made her yellow-jade scales look almost gentle, and even her gaze toward humans was unusually mild.
Her lair was filled with dragon eggs. Dragonkeepers, along with King Aegon and Queen Samantha, would regularly take some away, but many remained stored within.
Unfortunately, none had hatched.
Even so, Prince Aegon continued to approach the hefty dragon with the utmost caution.
Syrax tilted her head, letting out a soft whimper. Prince Aegon flinched slightly but still stretched out his hand and spoke in High Valyrian: "Syrax, be calm. Lower your head."
Syrax paused, seeming to ponder the words, then—surprisingly—complied, gently lowering her massive head.
Prince Aegon smiled. He placed a hand on her snout. "Syrax, I am Aegon—named for the Conqueror. My grandmother was your last rider, Rhaenyra Targaryen."
Syrax nudged him gently, making the handsome young man stumble slightly. But she made no aggressive moves, and Aegon felt no hostility from her.
Perfect.
Excited now, Prince Aegon slowly withdrew his hand and moved toward the hanging ladder attached to her saddle.
Syrax watched him with interest, but made no effort to stop him. Instead, she lazily stretched and slumped to the ground, lowering the saddle area to make it easier for Aegon to climb up.
Outside the lair, where Stormcloud lay coiled behind him, King Aegon could only shake his head and smile wryly.
Taming Vermax had nearly cost him his life. But in front of Syrax, this massive yellow-jade beast offered no resistance at all—in fact, she rather docilely accepted Prince Aegon and even let him mount her back.
King Aegon couldn't make sense of it.
Maybe the difference lay in the dragon?
Only the Seven might know.
The news of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Prince Aegon Targaryen taming Seasmoke and Syrax spread like wildfire across Westeros, and soon reached the Free Cities as well.
The fall of Tyrosh and the centralization of power in Lys had rekindled both the fear and desire for dragons in the Free Cities. Braavos remained relatively calm, but the steady stream of envoys arriving by ship at Dragon's Nest and King's Landing spoke volumes.
In Volantis, the Elephants' ruling archons initiated a fresh round of purges. Over the past thirty years, the Elephants had leveraged their influence in the Volantene Senate to suppress the Tigers—employing assassination, defection, bribery, political pressure—every tactic imaginable. One by one, Tiger nobles who had once purchased land from House Vaelarys were swept off the stage of history.
And yet, the Tigers barely fought back. It was as if they were letting themselves be trampled.
This perplexed—and troubled—the Volantene archons.
They had their suspicions. They had guessed the reasons behind the disappearance of so many young Tigers, and the quiet but persistent resistance that still lingered.
So the archons of Volantis's Elephant faction compiled a thorough record of all families within the Black Wall who claimed descent from the Blood of the Dragon, listing their names and physical descriptions—and sent that list to King's Landing and Dragon's Nest.
Under the iron fists of two true dragonlord houses, many Valantene infiltrators in Westeros were exposed. What awaited them was the sword, exile—or the dragonflame they had so long yearned for.
"Damn it."
In the basement of a tavern on Ghaston Grey, a silver-haired man with an unkempt beard slammed his fist on the battered table. But there was nothing else he could say. In the end, he simply grabbed the mug of strong ale on the table and gulped it down in great swigs.
They had been stuck on this gods-forsaken little island for years.
Yet there wasn't even a flicker of success in sight. Maelor was a complete failure—life of comfort had completely sapped his ambition and courage. When they tried to secretly recruit him, he had only one attitude:
He drank the fine wine they offered. Slept with the women they sent.
Everything else—Maelor didn't know, and didn't want to know.
They had watched Maelor grow from a dejected youth into a dejected drunk of a middle-aged man.
And they themselves had aged from young men dreaming of riding their own dragons into world-weary men fluent in the Common Tongue.
Forget dragons—they hadn't even been graced by a single breath of dragonflame.
Until the woman they brought finally became pregnant with Maelor's bastard. Which house was she from again? The bearded middle-aged man tried to recall. It didn't matter. The important thing was—she was pregnant.
That was enough.
"Has our ship arrived yet?"
"Probably not coming." The man who had dyed his hair and beard purple to pass as a Tyroshi gave a wry smile as he poured another mug of bitter, heavy beer for his companion—or rather, his former master, now friend.
The ruins of Tyrosh were now under the control of House Vaelarys. A governor from House Justicar ruled over the reborn city. After the Baratheons had fully annexed the Stepstones, the region had been redistributed among Stormlander knights and lords, who dutifully governed the barren lands.
For a time, piracy had quieted down.
"The Silver Fleet has stepped up patrols over the Summer Sea. Your house is being crushed again by those damned Elephants. Damn it all."
"It was to be expected," the man muttered, downing yet another mug of ale with bitterness.
"Gods, this stuff is foul. Right—what about the child?"
"I found a local wet nurse to care for him," said the purple-bearded man, finally allowing a smile to spread across his face.
"He is our hope."
---
If you can, support me on pa treon:
Pa treon. com/ RightTranslations (No spaces)
Up to 75chapters ahead.