Deep within the Dragonpit, atop Rhaenys's Hill in King's Landing.
Aemond stood in the southern hatchery chamber, his black boots resting on the warm ground.
Before him were three specially constructed stone nests for hatchlings.
Each nest had been arranged to mimic, as closely as possible, the volcanic environment of Valyria.
Three newborn dragons writhed within them.
The first was deep red. Its scales, under the firelight, looked like flowing blood, each plate gleaming with a metallic sheen.
She was the smallest—but also the most active. With tiny claws, she scratched at the edge of the nest, trying to climb out.
When Aemond approached, she lifted her head. Her amber eyes burned in the shadows like fire.
She opened her mouth, revealing a row of needle-like teeth, and let out a sharp, childish hiss.
"A temperamental little thing," Aemond said softly as he stepped closer.
The crimson hatchling—now clearly a female—sniffed the air.
Tilting her head, she fixed her amber gaze on Aemond's hand—especially the tip of his index finger.
Yesterday, during the wedding, it had been bitten open. The wound had just closed, yet a faint trace of blood still lingered.
She recognized that scent—the very first smell she had sensed upon breaking from her shell.
As Aemond drew nearer, she hissed again.
Aemond paid it no mind. He crouched and extended his hand.
The hatchling lowered her head, feigning obedience. She cautiously leaned in, touching his fingertip with her cold nose.
Then—suddenly—she snapped her jaws open, sharp teeth lunging for his finger!
But Aemond was faster.
His hand moved like lightning. Fingers closed tight, gripping the hatchling's neck with precision.
Clean. Decisive. Without hesitation.
Seized at her vital point, the hatchling let out a shrill, agonized scream. Her hind legs flailed wildly in the air, tail thrashing.
"Behave," Aemond said.
She struggled for a few seconds, then gradually stilled.
She glared at him—anger and confusion mingling in her eyes—but she had been subdued. The difference in strength was overwhelming.
Aemond released his grip.
The hatchling tumbled back into the nest, stumbling awkwardly.
She hissed unwillingly, flapping her still-underdeveloped wings in an attempt to fly.
But she had been hatched for less than a day. Her wings were too soft. She could only flop about like a clumsy hen before collapsing again.
Watching her ridiculous display, Aemond couldn't help but laugh.
He reached out again.
This time, the hatchling had learned. She didn't attack immediately.
Just as Aemond's hand was about to touch her, her body suddenly stiffened. With a dull thud, she collapsed into the nest, limbs twitching twice before going completely still.
Playing dead?
Aemond raised a brow.
He leaned in for a closer look.
The hatchling's body was rigid—even her eyelids didn't move.
This little thing… had it been scared to death?
He extended a finger and lightly poked her belly.
The next instant, the hatchling sprang back to life, opening her mouth to bite his finger again!
But this time, she didn't use her teeth.
Instead, her tongue—covered in fine, tiny barbs—wrapped around his fingertip, greedily sucking.
She was drinking the blood seeping from his wound.
Aemond froze for a moment—then laughed in irritation.
This red hatchling really was… shameless.
"Enough." He tapped her head.
She grumbled in dissatisfaction, but at the look in his eyes, she obediently retreated to the side.
The other two hatchlings had long since caught the scent of blood.
The silver one—her red eyes like two drops of congealed blood in the shadows—had slowly crawled closer.
She stopped beside Aemond, lifting her head. She stared intently at the trace of blood on his finger, curious, but unlike the red one, she did not lunge forward.
Aemond crouched and used his right hand to touch the silver hatchling's back.
She did not resist—but neither did she respond. She simply stood there, silently watching him with unblinking crimson eyes.
The third was a dark-gold male, his scales shimmering with a rich, luxurious hue.
He was neither as lively as the crimson hatchling nor as quiet as the silver one.
He stood at the center, head held high, golden eyes fixed on Aemond.
Aemond reached out.
The dark-gold hatchling neither retreated nor approached.
He allowed Aemond's hand to rest atop his head, feeling the warmth and strength of that palm.
Then suddenly, he opened his mouth. Deep within his throat, a point of orange-red light ignited.
A small burst of sparks shot forward.
The flame was so weak it didn't even travel far before extinguishing, leaving only a few wisps of smoke in the air.
The meaning was clear.
I can already breathe fire.
He lifted his head and let out a young yet proud hiss.
This time, Aemond truly smiled.
Not the earlier irritated laugh at the red hatchling—but genuine appreciation.
"A proud little thing," he said, his fingers gently brushing over the dragon's head scales.
He squeezed a few drops of blood from his fingertip—this time deliberately reopening the wound.
He fed the dark-gold hatchling first.
Unlike the crimson one, he did not suck greedily. Instead, he extended his tongue and tasted the blood with calm restraint.
Next, Aemond fed the silver hatchling.
She lowered her head and lightly licked, then raised it to glance at him once more.
The crimson hatchling had already grown impatient, jumping around in the nest, letting out aggrieved hisses as if complaining:
What about me? What about me? I want some too!
Aemond glanced at her—and ignored her.
The little red hatchling grew even more frantic, flapping as she tried to climb out of the nest—only to fall again.
She lay there, letting out pitiful whimpers, her amber eyes watery as she looked at Aemond.
"You're quite the greedy one," Aemond remarked.
But in the end, he still extended his hand, letting her lick the remaining blood from his fingertip.
She immediately perked up, licking with audible enthusiasm, tail wagging like a dog.
After feeding them, Aemond stood and turned to Rosso, the Dragonpit's steward, who had been waiting nearby.
"These three dragons," Aemond said, "I will name them personally."
Rosso bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Their names will be recorded in the lineage of dragons."
Aemond pointed to the crimson female. "She is called Alekrax."
Then to the silver female: "She is called Lumina."
Finally, to the dark-gold male: "He shall be called Caesar."
Rosso took out a parchment scroll and charcoal pen, recording the names.
Aemond looked at the three hatchlings, already calculating in his mind.
The Greens now had eleven dragons:
Four fully grown giants—Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Sunfyre.
Two young dragons—Lothorne and Grey Ghost.
Five hatchlings—Rockfang, Ymir, Alekrax, Lumina, and Caesar—all hatched by his own hand.
As for the Blacks…
They had six adult dragons: Rhaenyra's Syrax, Daemon's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, and the three from Dragonstone—Silverwing, Sheepstealer, and the riderless "Bronze Fury," Vermithor.
Plus three hatchlings—Moondancer (Baela's), and two newly hatched ones.
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