"Your Highness," Steward Rosso asked cautiously, interrupting his thoughts, "how do you wish to assign ownership of these three hatchlings?"
"You should know that young dragons are easier to tame—this is the best time to form a bond."
"And…" Rosso paused, lowering his voice as a reminder.
"Princess Alyn is about to give birth…"
"The princess once mentioned she hopes her child could have a dragon…"
Aemond raised a hand. Rosso immediately fell silent.
"Let them grow first."
"Hatchlings need time to develop. They need to learn to fly and breathe fire. As for ownership…"
He paused, violet eyes flickering.
"I will arrange that myself."
In truth, he had an even bolder idea.
These hatchlings—Alekrax, Lumina, Caesar, along with the earlier Rockfang, Ymir, and Lothorne—had all been assisted in hatching with his blood.
From the moment they broke their shells, they had formed a blood-bound connection with him.
He did not need to tame them in the traditional sense.
Because dragons hatched with his blood recognized his authority from birth.
Like chicks imprinting on the first creature they see.
If this were true—if his blood truly held such power—what would that mean?
It would mean that his future descendants…
Would possess dragons that could be stably propagated.
No longer needing to wait for eggs to hatch naturally—blood alone would be enough.
Dragons born this way would grow close, pass from generation to generation, obedient as limbs.
Why had the Valyrian Freehold ruled half the world?
Because forty dragonlord families all had dragons—many dragons—and possessed systematic methods for breeding and taming them.
Those methods had long been lost.
But if he could rediscover them—or rather, evolve a new method…
A Targaryen empire.
Not the Seven Kingdoms. Not a mere imitation of the Freehold.
But something greater—perhaps something more enduring.
Bound by blood.
A kingdom that would never fall.
This was what he should do.
He should take House Targaryen to heights it had never reached.
"Take good care of them," Aemond ordered at last.
"Record their growth daily—length, weight, food intake."
"Report to me every half month."
"Do not go through the maesters. Report directly to my men—Carter or Hall."
"As you command, Your Highness." Steward Rosso bowed, a complicated look flashing in his eyes.
He had served dragons all his life.
Never had he seen a Targaryen so intimately accepted by so many dragons.
Dragons were sensitive creatures.
One rider, one dragon—that was the tradition.
King Viserys had once ridden the Black Dread, Balerion.
Yet even then, it lasted less than a year before the Black Dread died of old age.
After that, Viserys never bonded with another dragon.
But in Aemond, that iron rule seemed broken.
Charm?
Or his bloodline?
Rosso could not help but think that the Targaryen blood in him had reached its pinnacle.
Aemond was special.
Perhaps too special.
But as Dragonkeeper, that was not something he should question.
Even though they dealt with dragons daily, they themselves did not possess the blood to ride them.
Perhaps feeding them every day would keep them from attacking.
But when hungry or agitated, they were still extremely dangerous.
Aemond turned and walked deeper into the Dragonpit.
Next, he would go see Lothorne.
The black dragon had already been placed in a separate nest.
The reason was what had happened half a month ago.
His mother, Vhagar…
Had suddenly warned Lothorne outside the Dragonpit and driven him out of her territory.
The old dragon seemed to think her son had grown up—and should fend for himself.
Lothorne had sulked over it for quite some time.
The last time Aemond visited, the dragon had pressed his massive head against his chest, letting out low, mournful whines like a child abandoned by its mother.
But today was different.
When Aemond approached, Lothorne was sprawled over a freshly butchered cow carcass, roasting it with fire while devouring it.
Hearing footsteps, Lothorne lifted his head.
Blood stained his black scales, and his golden eyes glowed like lanterns in the dim light.
The moment he saw Aemond, he stopped eating, stood up, and wagged his tail excitedly.
The tip of his tail scraped against the stone wall, shaving off a layer of dust.
He had already reached fifteen meters in length.
He walked up to the railing, lowered his head, and gently nudged Aemond's chest with his massive skull.
Lothorne restrained himself carefully, but Aemond didn't mind, reaching out to stroke his head.
"Good lad." Aemond patted the hard scales under his jaw. "You've grown even stronger."
"At this rate, in a few years, you'll match your mother Vhagar's size in her youth."
Lothorne let out a satisfied rumble, a small puff of sulfur-scented heat escaping his nostrils.
"You will become the second Black Dread," Aemond said with certainty in High Valyrian.
Lothorne suddenly snorted in displeasure and turned his head away.
He was angry.
He didn't like that.
Aemond froze for a moment—then understood.
"Alright, alright." He wrapped both hands around Lothorne's jaw.
"My mistake. You are Lothorne—one and only."
Only then did Lothorne relax.
He turned back and gently licked Aemond's face.
The barbs on his tongue scraped painfully across his skin, but Aemond didn't flinch.
This was how dragons showed affection.
At the side, Steward Rosso watched the scene and couldn't help but speak.
"Your Highness… Lothorne's growth rate… defies all reason."
"Normal hatchlings grow only two to three meters in the first few years. Once mature, about one meter per year."
"But Lothorne… in just three years, he's already fifteen meters."
"At this rate, he may exceed twenty meters next year, and the year after…"
Aemond knew exactly why.
Because he had been feeding Lothorne his own blood.
Since the day he hatched—once a week, without fail.
That blood had accelerated his growth.
"How is his appetite?" Aemond asked.
"Astonishing." Rosso forced a smile. "Five meals a day. Each meal at least the size of a sheep."
"I've already sent people across the Crownlands to purchase livestock, but the prices…"
"Money is never the issue," Aemond cut him off.
"He is my dragon. He eats as much as he wants."
Lothorne seemed to understand, letting out a hiss toward Rosso.
Did you hear that?
I eat as much as I want.
Make me unhappy, and I might just eat you too.
Rosso shuddered and bowed.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He knew full well—this young Lothorne possessed near-human intelligence and cunning.
If he didn't see Aemond for too long, he would deliberately cause trouble, injuring Dragonkeepers just to provoke Aemond into coming to calm him.
More terrifying than Vhagar.
At least with the old dragon, as long as her hunger was satisfied, she would sleep quietly.
Watching the prince interact with Lothorne, Rosso hesitated before speaking again.
"As for Sunfyre and Grey Ghost… there seem to be some issues."
Aemond's eyes turned cold.
He patted Lothorne's neck, and the dragon obediently retreated to his nest.
Then they headed toward the eastern section of the Dragonpit.
Inside that nest, both Sunfyre and Grey Ghost were present.
Not long ago, the two had fought a bloody battle on Dragonstone.
Sunfyre was injured.
Grey Ghost was gravely wounded and captured.
By all logic, they should have been housed separately to prevent further conflict.
But what Aemond saw was this—
The golden, radiant Sunfyre lay on the ground, slowly tearing apart a whole roasted pig.
He ate elegantly, occasionally glancing toward Grey Ghost in the corner.
Grey Ghost curled up in that corner, wounds still seeping blood.
He kept his head low.
He didn't dare look at Sunfyre.
Nor did he dare approach the shared feeding trough.
When Sunfyre finished eating, he let out a satisfied, spark-filled belch.
Then he rose, dragged his injured body back to his resting area, lay down, and closed his eyes.
The entire time, Grey Ghost didn't dare move.
Only after Sunfyre fully settled did Grey Ghost cautiously inch toward the feeding trough.
Looking at the scraps.
He ate quickly, nervously—constantly glancing back at Sunfyre.
Grey Ghost had always been shy, somewhat reclusive.
After the death of his bastard rider, even more so.
Aemond's expression darkened as he turned to Rosso.
"What is this?"
"Did I not order them to be separated?"
Rosso broke into a sweat.
"It… it was Prince Aegon."
"Three days ago, he had himself wheeled here to see Sunfyre… and ordered Grey Ghost moved here as well."
"He said this dragon harmed him, harmed Sunfyre… and needed to be taught a lesson."
Aemond closed his eyes and drew a slow breath.
Aegon was still the same.
Foolish. Narrow-minded. Ruled by emotion.
Aemond spoke coldly.
"From this moment on—"
"Any orders from Aegon…"
"Without my approval, are not to be carried out."
"Understood?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And separate them again."
"At once, Your Highness."
Aemond turned and left.
As he stepped out of the Dragonpit, the midday sun was so bright it made him squint.
"Your Highness." Hall, the captain of the guard waiting outside, stepped forward and handed him a damp cloth.
Aemond took it, wiping his face.
"Has Borros Baratheon arrived?"
Hall replied, "He has. We've arranged for him in the reception chamber of Maegor's Holdfast."
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