(The Skies over Blackwater Bay, 120 AC)
Flying Vhagar, they said, was like riding a storm. Flying Meleys was like riding an arrow.
Flying Vermithor was like riding a continent.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen clung to the massive, jagged spines of the dragon's neck, his body pressed flat against the heat of the scales. The wind at this altitude was brutal, a freezing gale that whipped tears from his eyes, but he didn't feel the cold. He was burning up.
His left arm, the one the fire had kissed, was a throbbing agony. His tunic was fused to his skin in places. He was thirsty—a deep, desert thirst that made his tongue feel like sandpaper.
But he was alive. And he was powerful.
Below him, the Gullet was a smear of blue ink. The ships were specks of dust.
Altitude: 3,000 feet.
Speed: Estimating 60 knots.
Status: Terminal exhaustion.
Aeryn closed his eyes for a second, letting the "Hum" of the dragon resonate through his chest. It was a deep, brassy vibration, like a great bell that had just been struck. Vermithor wasn't erratic like Caraxes. He was steady. He was heavy. He moved with the inevitable momentum of a landslide.
He knows where we are going, Aeryn realized. He remembers the way home.
Vermithor was returning to the Dragonpit. To the city he had ruled for decades under the Old King.
Aeryn forced his eyes open. Ahead, piercing the smog of the city, were the three hills of King's Landing. The Red Keep sat on Aegon's High Hill, a cluster of pale red stone that usually looked imposing.
From up here, it looked like a sandcastle. Something a child could kick over.
Aeryn leaned forward, whispering into the gap between the bronze plates.
"Naejot, Vermithor!" (Forward!)
The Bronze Fury let out a roar. It wasn't a screech. It was a boom of thunder that rolled over the water, announcing their arrival to the capital long before their shadow fell upon it.
...
(The Red Keep, The Outer Yard)
King Viserys stood on the battlements, wrapped in furs, staring out at the sea. He had been there since dawn. His face was grey, his eyes hollowed by sleeplessness.
"No word?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"No, Your Grace," Otto Hightower said softly, standing a respectful distance away. "The Gold Cloaks are scouring the city. But the boy... he is small. And the city is large."
"He is gone," Viserys wept, clutching the stone rail. "My brother has taken him. Or the Sea Snake. They have taken my boy to hurt me."
"We do not know that, Your Grace—"
BOOM.
The sound hit the castle like a physical blow. The windows in Maegor's Holdfast rattled. The guards on the walls flinched, looking up at the sky in panic.
"Thunder?" Otto asked, looking at the clear sky.
"No," Viserys whispered, his eyes widening. "Not thunder."
A shadow swept over the city.
It started at the River Gate, swallowing the sunlight, and raced across the streets of Flea Bottom like an encroaching night. The smallfolk in the streets stopped and looked up, screaming, pointing.
A massive shape blocked out the sun.
It was not the lean red whip of Caraxes. It was not the golden grace of Sunfyre.
It was a mountain of bronze.
"Gods be good," Otto gasped. "Is that...?"
"Vermithor," Viserys breathed, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer. "It is the Bronze Fury. But... why? Who...?"
The dragon did not head for the Dragonpit. He banked sharply, his wingspan casting the entire outer yard of the Red Keep into darkness. The wind from his descent kicked up a storm of dust and grit, forcing the Kingsguard to shield their eyes.
With a crash that cracked the flagstones, Vermithor landed.
The earth shook. Horses in the stables screamed and bolted. Guards drew their swords, terrified, as the beast folded his wings. The dragon was immense—significantly larger than any dragon currently in the capital, save for Vhagar who was miles away.
Vermithor let out a hiss, steam billowing from his nostrils. He turned his great head, surveying the courtyard with golden, judging eyes.
Silence fell over the castle.
Viserys, supported by Ser Harrold Westerling, limped down the stairs into the yard. Queen Alicent appeared from the holdfast, her face pale, holding Helaena's hand.
And then, Daemon Targaryen emerged.
The Rogue Prince stepped out of the armory, Dark Sister at his hip. He looked annoyed by the disturbance. He looked at the dragon, and for the first time in years, the smirk fell from his face.
Daemon knew this dragon. He had grown up in its shadow.
"Vermithor," Daemon murmured, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Who was foolish enough to wake him?"
The dragon lowered his neck.
A silence so profound it felt like suffocation gripped the court.
From the nest of spines on the dragon's neck, a small figure slid down.
He hit the ground clumsily, his legs giving way. He stumbled, falling to one knee, but forced himself up.
He was a ruin.
Aeryn's grey tunic was burnt away on the left side. His skin was angry red, covered in soot and blisters. His hair was singed. He looked like he had walked through a furnace.
But his eyes—his violet eyes—were clear. They were cold.
Aeryn stood up, swaying slightly. He patted the snout of the monster behind him. Vermithor rumbled, a sound that vibrated in everyone's chest, warning them not to approach.
"Aeryn?" Viserys choked out, stepping forward, ignoring the guards who tried to hold him back. "Aeryn... my boy..."
Aeryn looked at the King. He didn't smile. He didn't run to be hugged.
"I went for a walk, Uncle," Aeryn said. His voice was raspy, damaged by the smoke. "I found something you lost."
He gestured to the dragon.
Viserys fell to his knees, weeping openly. "You... you claimed him? The Old King's mount?"
"He claimed me," Aeryn corrected softly. "We came to an understanding."
Then, Aeryn turned his head.
He looked past the King. He looked past the Queen. He locked eyes with Daemon.
Daemon Targaryen stood frozen. He was looking at his son—the son he had called a worm, the son he had ignored for seven years because he smelled of the Vale.
And now, that son stood in the shadow of the second largest dragon in the world. A dragon that Daemon himself had never dared to challenge.
Aeryn saw the shock in Daemon's eyes. He saw the calculation. And for the first time, he saw something else: Caution.
The "Monster" wasn't laughing anymore.
Aeryn took a step toward his father. Vermithor shifted behind him, his teeth gleaming, mirroring the boy's aggression.
"You said I was made of stone, Father," Aeryn said, his voice carrying across the silent yard.
He held up his burnt, blistered hand.
"You were wrong. Stone cracks."
Aeryn lowered his hand.
"I am Bronze. And Bronze melts... only to be forged into something harder."
Daemon didn't speak. He couldn't. The political reality of what had just happened was crashing down on him. The "useless" third faction just became a superpower.
Aeryn turned back to the King. The adrenaline was fading now. The pain was coming back, a tidal wave of agony. The world began to spin.
"Uncle," Aeryn whispered, his knees buckling. "I think... I think I need a Maester."
He collapsed.
Before he hit the ground, Vermithor let out a roar of distress, snapping his jaws at anyone who dared move.
"Back!" Harrold Westerling shouted to the guards. "Do not provoke the beast!"
But Viserys was already there. The King, weak and ailing, scrambled across the stones and gathered the small, soot-stained body into his arms.
"Get the Maesters!" Viserys screamed, his voice cracking with a fierce, protective panic. "Mellos! Orwyle! Get them all! If he dies, I will hang every one of you!"
As Aeryn drifted into darkness, the last thing he saw was not his uncle's tear-streaked face.
It was the golden eye of Vermithor, watching over him. A guardian that would never laugh at him. A guardian that would burn the world if he asked.
Safe, Aeryn thought as the blackness took him. Finally safe.