He came to the pit at first light.
No one expected him to arrive so early.
His mother had told him on many occasions that the dragons cared not how early or late he came for their lessons.
They were creatures of whim and fire, bound by no mortal schedule.
If none of them felt like accepting him as their rider, he would remain dragonless.
Yet Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not persistent.
I must.
He was the blood of Old Valyria, a son of House Targaryen.
A dragon was his birthright.
Without a dragon, he was nothing.
Without a dragon, he might as well be a commoner dressed in princely silks.
I’m not a prince at all.
Dismissing his escort at the entrance to the Dragonpit, he traversed across the vast cavern, the soft crackle of sand the only sound echoing around him.
The silence was immense, broken only by the distant rumble of slumbering beasts from the depths below.
Though the Dragonkeepers acknowledged his presence as was due, they kept to their duties with bowed heads, their eyes averted in that careful way that suggested they did not quite know what to make of him.
No sooner had he descended on one of the wooden benches than he fished out his scrolls and started reciting the dragon commands they’d learned last week.
He poured over each letter and syllable till the Valyrian glyphs were seared into his eyes, and he could see them floating in the torchlight flames above him.
The words became a mantra, a prayer, a desperate hope that if he just learned enough, practiced enough, and proved himself enough, a dragon would finally deem him worthy.
That is how his brother found him hunched over like a crone, nose buried in parchment, his thin shoulders curved with the weight of his obsession.
“Early again, aren’t you?” Aegon forced through a yawn, his breath sour with the remnants of last night’s wine.
Aemond drew a breath and counted to three, mustering all his patience.
The familiar irritation prickled at the back of his neck.
“As are you, for a change.
Shouldn’t you be buried under the covers at this hour, snoring like a hog?”
Aemond expected his brother to clip him behind the ear.
It would have been familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
Instead, Aegon groaned and collapsed on the bench beside him, limbs sprawled like a lazy stork.
Somehow, the dismissed jab aggravated Aemond more.
The lack of reaction felt like indifference, like his words didn’t matter enough to merit a response.
“Believe me, dear brother, I would.
But Mother insisted I be on time.
‘A prince must be mindful of his duties,’ she said.
”
Aemond snorted.
The resentment overflowing in Aegon’s nasal crow was unseemly.
His brother had everything a dragon, the freedom to be reckless, the luxury of not caring—and still he complained.
“As well she should.
You must start taking these lessons more seriously.”
A loud whine filled the chamber, and Aemond could feel his brother squirming in the seat beside him.
The wood creaked beneath his restless shifting.
“Gods, must you heckle me as well?
I already received enough scolding from Mother.”
“Not enough to change your behavior, it seems.” Aemond rolled a scroll shut and discarded it aside in favor of a new one.
The parchment was warm from his fingers, the words already blurring together.
When the wood beneath them cried against Aegon’s frustrated grip, Aemond’s skin pricked up, preparing for the blow.
But it didn’t come.
“I’m here, am I not?” his voice dropped, losing its petulant edge.
“Should I congratulate you on the bare minimum?”
“I didn’t ask for this!” he protested.
When Aemond dared to look, the disinterested annoyance was gone.
His cheeks were sunken, his pouty lips pressed into a firm line—brimming with resentment.
There was something raw in his eyes, something almost wounded.
“I didn’t ask to be the first-born, to be nannied and pushed into being a princeling.
Can’t I just live my life in peace?”
For a moment, Aemond stared.
He’d always known that under that veneer of callous apathy was a deep-seated hurt.
However, Aegon had always done his best to hide it.
To drink it away, to joke it away, to fuck it away in the brothels of Flea Bottom.
*Perhaps Mother’s scolding has truly gotten to him this time.*
He understood why perfectly.
The weight of expectation was a crushing thing.
Aemond felt it every day, pressing down on his shoulders, squeezing the air from his lungs.
“No, you cannot.
Neither of us can.
Not while they live.”
His brother opened his mouth to speak, but the commotion coming from the entrance bade him stop.
Jacaerys Velaryon strode into the pit, two guards hot on his heels.
His half-nephew seemed especially pleased today, a mischievous grin plastered all over his pudgy face.
His cheeks were flushed with excitement, his brown eyes bright with some secret glee.
“Aegon, Aegon!” the infuriating idiot screeched, rushing over to his brother.
Aegon responded to his giddiness instantly and leapt up to greet him, his earlier melancholy forgotten.
The transition was so swift, so complete, that Aemond almost wondered if the vulnerability he had glimpsed had been an illusion.
The brief glimmer of sympathy Aemond had had for him shriveled and died.
“Slow down there, Jace, do you mean to plow through me?”
“Guess what I got?”
“What?”
“No, guess!”
His brother rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know, rocks?
Dragonglass?
A chambermaid’s small clothes?”
Though Jace laughed, his face showed clear signs of discomfort at his brother’s jape.
The laughter was too loud, too forced.
“No, stupid.
Look!” His half-nephew thrust his hand at Aegon.
When his brother brought the small black shape to his face to examine it, Aemond realized what it was.
The object was slender and dark, carved from some polished stone that gleamed dully in the torchlight.
“Is that a whistle?” he absentmindedly asked.
“Not just any whistle.
This one is a special Valyrian whistle.
It’s supposed to make a sound only dragons can hear.”
Aemond frowned, casting a glance at his scroll.
He couldn’t recall any of his books mentioning such a thing.
The texts he had devoured spoke of dragon horns and blood magic, of the ancient binding rituals of the Freehold.
Nothing about whistles.
Aegon seemed just as skeptical.
He turned the object over in his hands, examining it with a critical eye.
“Right.” His brother handed the slender black flute to him.
“And what do you mean to do with it?
Annoy Vermax till he sets your face on fire?”
Jace made a face, his nose wrinkling.
“No, it won’t.
The whistle is supposed to make him obey me.
It’s how Valyrian dragonlords used to command their dragons.”
“No, they didn’t.” Aemond couldn’t resist jumping in.
The words came out sharper than he intended.
“They used magic horns, not whistles.
And blood magic, along with Valyrian commands.
Your whistle will do nothing to him.”
The face Jace made set Aemond’s blood to boiling.
His half-nephew’s lip curled, his eyes narrowing with that particular brand of smug superiority that only the dragon-riding could bestow.
“Pft, what do you know?
You don’t even have a dragon.”
To make things worse, Aegon smirked too and elbowed him.
The casual dismissal was worse than any insult.
It was as if Aemond’s very existence was a joke to them, his struggles a source of entertainment.
“He’s right, brother.
Perhaps you should leave dragon training to actual dragon riders.”
The two shared a shrill laughter and headed deeper into the pit, their voices echoing off the stone walls.
Aemond watched them go, his hands trembling with barely contained fury.
The scroll in his grip crumpled, the precious Valyrian glyphs distorting beyond recognition.
An eternity passed before he had calmed himself enough to follow.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and his palms bore the crescent marks of his nails digging into his flesh.
As usual, the dragon keepers made them recite the standard commands, taking care to correct their tone and pitch whenever they wavered.
Once he was satisfied with their knowledge, Head Keeper Maerys beckoned one of the acolytes to bring a dragon from below.
The trap door groaned as it opened, releasing a wave of heat and the acrid scent of dragon.
Naturally, they started with Sunfyre.
“Watch how it’s done,” Aegon proclaimed, straightening his back.
With a flick of his wrist, he motioned forward, his posture radiating false confidence.
“Māzigon!”
Sunfyre raised his head, slits of molten amber sparking to life.
Even in the dimness of the pit, the brilliant yellow of the dragon’s scales shone like newly mined gold.
It gracefully edged forward, claws kicking up sand, each movement fluid and predatory.
“Good.
Dohearīs.”
A low rumble resonated from his chest as he cocked his head at his brother.
*Mayhaps he’ll disobey.* Aemond thought bitterly.
*Mayhaps the beast will finally see what a fool his rider is.*
Not a moment later, the beast bent its neck so the two of them were at eye level.
Sunfyre’s golden gaze was inscrutable, ancient, and utterly indifferent to the petty squabbles of men.
The smirk on Aegon’s face was sickeningly smug.
“Now, dracarys!” Scarcely had the word left his lips than a blast of golden flame lit up the cavern.
The wooden sitting bench was consumed by the inferno, disintegrating into a pile of charred wood in a matter of minutes.
The flames licked at the stone walls, casting dancing shadows across the gathered faces.
Aegon released a strangled laugh, while Sunfyre chirped in satisfaction.
Both Jace and the Keepers clapped, their applause echoing through the vast chamber.
“Thank you, thank you!” his brother bowed, his earlier melancholy entirely forgotten.
“I’ll be here all day.”
“Very good, my prince.
But next time, be sure to tell him to burn the actual target.” Keeper Maerys pointed to the cloth stickman they’d set up feet from the bench.
It stood untouched, a silent mockery.
“I was being creative.”
“Or not aiming at all,” Jace commented, earning a jostle from Aegon.
“Let’s see you do better then.”
In a few quick strides, the bottom trap door opened and a shadow appeared from below.
The two younger acolytes corralled Vermax forward with their sticks, the fledgling dragon hissing every time the wood prodded his flesh.
Its scales were a dull green, unremarkable and muddy.
Though the little thing was two times smaller than Sunfyre and half as pretty, it had a mean streak that could rival even the famed Vhagar herself.
Its eyes burned with a feral intelligence, and its tail lashed back and forth like an angry cat’s.
Aemond thought it appropriate.
*An ill-tempered runt for an ill-tempered runt.*
It was all someone like Jacaerys could hope to hatch.
“Vermax!” his half-nephew announced, straightening his back.
“Dohenīs.”
“Dohearīs, my prince.
It’s Dohearīs,” the Keeper said, clearing his throat, his weathered face pinched with barely concealed impatience.
“Right, yes.
Dohearīs!”
The little runt completely ignored him, continuing to paw at the sand with annoyed fury.
It snuffled at the ground, searching for something edible, utterly unconcerned with the boy trying to command it.
“Here, Vermax, listen to me.” Jace snapped his fingers, drawing closer to the beast.
To Aemond’s chagrin, the animal turned away and lazily flapped its wings, sending a cloud of sand into Jace’s face.
“Valyrian, my prince.
You must use the commands.
It’s the only way they respond.”
“I know that,” Jace snapped, his lips pursed into a scowl.
Sand clung to his lashes, and he wiped at his face with furious, jerky movements.
“Dracarys, Vermax, dracarys.
Now!”
The command seemed to catch the dragon’s attention.
It cocked its head in Jace’s direction, its orange slit eyes narrowing.
They all waited for the flames to pour from its jaws—instead, all the beast did was cough up a charred bone.
It clattered to the ground, and Vermax immediately pounced on it, gnawing with single-minded determination.
Aegon doubled over in laughter, and Aemond just about followed suit.
The sound tore from his throat, raw and unguarded, surprising even himself.
“Impressive.” His brother teased.
“We almost got a second Harrenhal.”
“Shut up, I was just warming up.”
“Louder, my prince.
You must speak louder and with more conviction,” Keeper Maerys chided as his fingers picked at the burn scar marring his chin.
“A dragon will not obey you like a dog.
You must earn its submission.
And you can only do that if you show strength.”
“It would also help if you said the right words.” A high-pitched voice rang behind them.
Aemond whirled on his feet in time to catch two dark shapes entering the pit.
The unmistakable flash of a white cloak revealed one of the arrivals as a king’s guard.
The other, smaller shape trotted after him, arms crossed firmly on her chest.
Jace’s sister did not look happy.
“I know which words to say,” his half-nephew retorted, shooting Lucera a fierce grimace.
His cheeks were still flushed with embarrassment.
“If you did, Vermax wouldn’t be digging for rats right now.” She returned the grimace with equal ferocity, pointing at Jace’s dragon—it was trying and failing to nibble on a rock, like some half-witted kennel dog.
Aemond smirked.
Despite himself, he found his lips twitching upward.
“You’re late, Princess,” Keeper Maerys chastised, greeting the Kingsguard that had come in with her.
It was Ser Steffon Darklyn, his white cloak pristine, his expression stern.
“Forgive us, Ser.
The princess was occupied with other duties.”
“She had to go dancing, you mean,” Jace teased, that grimace transforming into a most hideous grin.
“It was needlework, if you must know.”
“Even worse.”
Lucera puckered her lips, her eyes narrowing with irritation.
The gesture made her look remarkably like her mother.
“I’d like to see you do it.”
Jace and Aegon shared a laugh.
“Why would I?
I’m the prince.
I don’t have to waste my time on silly woman things.”
She whirled on her feet, shooting him a look that could have melted steel.
The fire in her eyes was pure Targaryen.
“Right, a real prince you are.
And yet you still can’t get your dragon to so much as light a hay pile on fire.”
Pink splotches blossomed on Jace’s cheeks, spreading down his neck.
His hands balled into fists at his sides.
“Can too!
Vermax!” his nephew stepped forward.
“Dracarys!”
The beast snorted, orange slits narrowing.
Then, he hissed and spat snot at the ground.
The globule landed with a wet splat, and Vermax immediately began sniffing at it, apparently fascinated by his own creation.
“Nice fire.
A bit too wet though.” Lucera grinned, her expression triumphant.
“Shut up, that doesn’t count.
I wasn’t ready!”
“By the looks of it, you’ll never be ready.
Keeper, bring Arrax up.”
The robed man spat phlegm.
“No, Princess.
You missed our command recital.
I can’t let you…”
Without missing a beat, Lucera fired off each command in rapid succession, her voice not wavering once.
The Valyrian rolled off her tongue like water, each word perfectly formed, each syllable precisely pitched.
Jace’s face twisted into a grimace, and he crossed his arms on his chest.
Against his better judgment, Aemond’s lip curled into a smile.
“I can also recite you the Bear and the Maiden Fair in High Valyrian, but I don’t think the dragons would care for that.”
The Keeper sighed and motioned for his acolytes.
Again, a low rumble reverberated through the pit as the trapdoor creaked open.
Half a breath later, a pale shape burst through the hole, pearlescent wings flapping.
“Do hear this, Arrax, do hear this!” The acolytes shrieked.
One of them was yanking on the chain shackled around the pale dragon’s leg, trying to force it to land.
That only made it scream harder, its cry echoing off the stone walls.
“Ilagon!”
“Get the chains off him; he doesn’t like it.” Lucera frowned at the Keeper, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.
“We get them off; he flies away.
Your dragon is too rowdy to stay unchained, Princess.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Jace jeered, Aegon chuckling behind him.
“Shut up!” she hissed and stepped forward.
“Arrax, kesīr!”
In a second, the wild thrashing ceased.
The dragon’s head snapped right, and it narrowed its silvery slits at her.
Curiously, it didn’t land.
It hovered there, wings beating slowly, regarding her with an ancient, patient intelligence.
Kessa, jurnegon is a.
Dohearīs.”
A strangled hiss burst from the beast’s jaw, and it yanked on the chain again, aiming right at Lucera.
The two acolytes holding him stumbled but held fast, their faces red with exertion.
“Sagon dāez, dracarys!”
With a loud shriek, a blast of silver fire shot through with blue burst from the animal’s jaw.
The strawman erupted in seconds, the flames illuminating the pit in a flash of brilliant white.
The heat was intense, washing over them in a wave that made Aemond’s skin prickle.
Keeper Maerys grunted in approval, “Good, Princess, good, now get him…”
His words caught in his throat when the beast shrieked again, yanking hard on the chain.
The acolytes bellowed commands, their voices cracking with panic, but the dragon wouldn’t listen.
It hissed and spat a white ball on the iron, the metal glowing orange where it had struck.
In half a breath, the pit erupted in chaos.
The acolytes stumbled back, ducking to avoid the sparks of fire.
The chain slipped from their hands in a clamor of metal, clattering against the stone floor.
The dragon ascended in a blur of silvery wings, chirping and screaming as it flew laps around the domed pit.
Its pale form was a streak of light against the darkness, impossibly fast, impossibly beautiful.
Aemond stared at the display wide-eyed, so enraptured he didn’t even notice hands on him.
The sheer power of it, the wild, untamed glory of the creature, stole his breath.
“Behind me, children, now!” Ser Steffon commanded, stepping in between him and the dragons.
The Kingsguard’s hand was on his sword, his body tense and ready.
Arrax’s flight had stirred up the other two dragons into a frenzy, and they were taking turns belting shrieks at each other.
Sunfyre’s back frills were raised, a clear threat display to the acolytes trying to keep him from taking flight.
His golden scales shimmered with barely contained fury.
Aegon was nearby too, screaming commands over the acolytes in a bid to get his dragon to calm down.
When he moved to mount him, Steffon wrestled him away, shoving him so hard he fell on his back with a loud thud.
The air left his lungs in a whoosh.
Jace was not doing better either.
He was cowering behind Keeper Maerys, ceaselessly blowing his Valyrian whistle.
As predicted, the shrill squeak coming out of that thing did nothing but annoy Vermax.
The beast was snapping at the Keeper’s staff as the old man struggled to corral it down the trap door into the dragon lairs.
Only Lucera seemed unbothered by the mess.
She laughed and cheered, watching her dragon fly about the dome.
Her voice rose above the chaos, bright and delighted.
At one point, the swift creature descended, snatching something off the sands.
Flicking its talons upward, its prey flew up, allowing the dragon to blast it with fire.
The rat was consumed in an instant.
In two quick bites, it swallowed the remains and landed with a satisfied chirp.
Its pale chest puffed out with pride.
“Princess, no!” Ser Steffon hissed, hand on his sword hilt.
Lucera ignored him entirely and rushed to meet the dragon.
The thing was as tall as a show pony, slender and sinewy, with a wingspan that could cast a shadow on half of a small house—or devour a skinny girl of seven.
But the beast never struck.
Instead, it bent its neck unprompted and leaned into Lucera’s touch, allowing her to stroke its muzzle.
A deep rumble of contentment vibrated from its chest.
“Gods be good, child, do you mean to kill us?” Keeper Maerys waved his hands frantically, his saggy skin turning an ugly shade of red.
Spit flew from his lips.
“Don’t be silly; he wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
He just wanted to fly for a bit.”
“Your mother shall hear of this, Princess.” Ser Steffon chastised, his voice tight with barely contained fury.
“That was careless.
Your brother could have gotten hurt.”
“I’m fine!” Jace announced, a loopy smile on his face.
“The whistle broke, though.” He held up the shattered remains of his precious trinket.
“Your uncles as well!”
“I’m not!” Aegon whined, hand rubbing at his ass.
He glared at Ser Steffon with wounded dignity.
Aemond rolled his eyes.
“It’s a bruise; you’ll heal.”
“This whole place could have caught fire!” Ser Steffon continued, square jaw tight.
“It wouldn’t have.
Arrax wouldn’t have done anything without my say-so.”
No sooner had she said that than the dragon nipped at her dress.
The silk tore with a loud rip, and the animal thrashed it about as if it were freshly killed prey.
Lucera gasped.
“Arrax, no, give that back!” She reached for the chunk of cloth, her fingers grasping at empty air.
Blessedly, the dragon took that as an invitation to play tug of war.
It spun her around in a circle, chirping happily, before Lucera’s grip failed her, and she collapsed to the ground with a yelp.
“That’s it, take the beasts below,” Ser Steffon demanded, his voice brooking no argument.
Keeper Maerys shot him a look but summoned his acolytes to obey nonetheless.
They descended on the dragons with chains and staffs, corralling them toward the trap doors.
“Princess, you will come with me to see your mother.
At once.”
Lucera pouted, rising to her feet in a huff.
The silken blue dress she wore was destroyed—torn at the hem and covered in ash.
Her hair had come loose from its braids, wild and tangled.
“That’s not fair!
I didn’t do anything!”
“Ha ha, you’re in trouble again.” Jace quipped, rubbing dirt off his cheeks.
His grin was insufferable.
Aemond had the indescribable urge to pelt him with a rock.
“Now, Princess.”
She whined more, but Ser Steffon would not be gainsaid.
In two quick strides, he dragged her out of the pit, sulking, and promised to send Ser Criston to fetch the rest of them later.
Her protests echoed down the corridor, growing fainter and fainter.
Aemond stood frozen, taking in the dimness around him.
The stench of burnt straw and dragon breath hung in the air, the heavy smoke stinging his eyes.
His brother was still whining and clutching at his backside like a child, while the acolytes forced Sunfyre into the lairs.
The dragon’s golden eyes glowed in the darkness, fixed on them with ancient malice.
He couldn’t help it—he started laughing.
He laughed and laughed till his sides hurt from the effort and his lungs ran out of air.
The sound echoed off the stone walls, wild and unhinged.
Aegon was gaping at him dumbfounded, while Jace squinted, jaw working between his teeth.
“What’s so funny?” his half-nephew demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion.
“Everything.
In fact, I’d say that was rather fun,” he announced, dusting off his doublet.
His fingers came away stained with grey ash.
That was it—fun.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had fun during these lessons, if he ever did.
It was always a stifling race to prove himself, to get everything right.
A desperate, clawing need to be enough.
All while resenting the fact he lacked the one thing the others had.
*I should thank her.*
He and Lucera had spoken only a handful of times during feasts and family dinners, but he still felt the need to congratulate her on her spectacle.
She had been fearless, unapologetic, and everything he wished he could be.
“Well, Jace, I suppose we finally know who the real dragon master is.” He grinned and went for the exit, his heart lighter than it had been in months.