The Dragon's Lair, King's Landing
The Dragon's Lair in King's Landing was forever steeped in the acrid scent of sulphur and ash.
When Daemon Targaryen descended from the sky upon Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, the dragon's riders already sank to their knees, bowing their heads in deference, not daring to meet the gaze of the so-called "rogue prince," infamous for his temper and cunning.
Caraxes, the red-and-black terror, expelled a gout of sulfurous breath as his massive form settled into the lair.
Daemon slid carefully down the dragon's back, clad in dark crimson leather armor dusted with ash. His long silver-gold hair whipped wildly in the wind stirred by Caraxes' wings. He patted the dragon's coarse-scaled neck, and Caraxes gave a low, rumbling growl in response before stepping cautiously toward the enormous cavern that was his domain.
Daemon's violet eyes swept the lair as was his habit. And then they froze.
Outside the main den, atop the bulging belly of Vhagar, lay a tiny figure. A black dragonling curled beside her massive jaw, one forelimb resting against her stone-like claw in a natural, intimate pose.
Vhagar, ancient and fierce, known for her solitary disposition—even shunning other dragons—allowed the little black creature near, the warm exhalations of her nostrils brushing gently against its scales.
Daemon's pupils constricted sharply. Dragons of pure black scales were exceedingly rare in Targaryen history.
Beside Vhagar, a black dragonling? How could such a thing exist?
"Lothron," Daemon muttered.
Rosso, commander of the dragonguard waiting nearby, immediately knelt. "Your Grace."
Daemon did not look at him, eyes still fixed on the black dragonling.
"This dragon," he said, lifting his chin toward the creature, "when did it appear? Where did it come from?"
Rosso swallowed, and with cautious deference replied, "Your Grace… this is… Lothron. It appeared beside Vhagar roughly half a year ago."
"Half a year ago?" Daemon swung his gaze sharply to Rosso, violet eyes blazing. "Vhagar's egg? When did she lay again? Why was I not informed?"
"No… it was not freshly laid, Your Grace." Rosso's brow glistened with sweat as he continued carefully.
"It… it was a dead egg, fifty years old."
"Dead eggs hatch?" Daemon's brows knitted. His face was etched with disbelief. Dragon eggs sometimes petrified, sometimes died—but dead eggs hatching?
His late wife, Laena, had carried Vhagar's dead egg once… but such a thing defied reason, the very laws of dragonkind.
His gaze returned to the black dragonling, and doubt in his eyes slowly gave way to a mixture of wonder and obsession.
"A dead egg reborn… a black dragon in the world…" Daemon murmured, the corner of his lips twitching into a faint, feral smile. "A good omen."
"It must be a sign of ancestral blessing, a herald that the next Aegon will emerge as Rhaenyra's and mine."
Yet Rosso trembled slightly as he knelt, lips tight.
"Your Grace… Prince… I fear… I fear not."
"What?" Daemon's smile froze. "You cannot tell me?"
"I have not been to King's Landing in many years… Perhaps you have forgotten me?"
Rosso bowed his head deeply. "But Lothron… it seems he already… knows the Lord."
"Knows the Lord?" Daemon's voice sharpened with suspicion. "Who is it?"
So many Targaryens… who could possibly command a dragon?
Rosso's answer came openly, without hesitation:
"Yes… it is Prince Aemond."
"We have all seen… Prince Aemond—he… he can command two dragons at once…"
Rosso's voice fell lower and lower, almost a whisper:
"Two dragons at once."
"Preposterous!" Daemon roared, furious.
"One man, one dragon! That is the iron law! The iron law of dragonlords since the dawn of Valyria! There have never been exceptions!"
"What can Aemond do? How dare he… how dare—" Daemon was too angry to form words, chest heaving violently.
Rosso dared not resist; he could barely breathe under Daemon's wrath, only able to murmur:
"It is true… Your Grace… at first we could not believe it… but it is so."
Daemon's expression shifted from steely calm to terrifying darkness.
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping over Vhagar and the black dragonling Lottern, jealousy burning within him, raw and unacknowledged.
One man… commanding two dragons?
He could not believe such insolence. Daemon Targaryen, who had never entertained such absurdities, would see it with his own eyes.
Vhagar lifted her massive head, a low thunderous roar rumbling from her throat, sulfurous heat billowing forth, forcing Daemon to dance uneasily, almost off balance.
His steps were nailed to the spot. Even in the face of Vhagar's immense threat, he did not dare advance lightly.
Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, might fear no opponent, but face to face with Vhagar, death was a certainty.
His gaze flicked between the black dragonling, baring tiny teeth, and Vhagar, watching him warily. Finally, it swept over the kneeling dragonguard, silent as cicadas.
One man commanding two dragons… Daemon had never heard of such a thing before.
And Rhaenyra would need to be reminded—her half-brother was far more dangerous than they had ever imagined.