Within the Dragonpit of King's Landing, the air always carried the stench of sulfur and a thick, bloody reek.
When Aemond stepped into this land shrouded year-round in sulfur and scorched fumes, the four dragons had just finished landing.
Sunfyre flew with great difficulty, yet he still endured the entire journey from Dragonstone to King's Landing.
Vhagar's condition was much better. The ancient dragon's wounds had already formed a layer of blackened scabs. With one claw, she gripped Grey Ghost—this gravely injured grey dragon now trembled beneath her talons like a chick being held fast.
And Lothorne…
Before landing, the black young dragon circled the dome of the Dragonpit three times, its wings fully spread, releasing a sharp, piercing cry, announcing its return to the pit.
When it finally deigned to land, it immediately moved to Aemond's side, its massive jaws brushing against his shoulder, currying favor with its great master.
"Settle down." Aemond patted the scales along Lothorne's neck, his tone carrying a note of indulgent reproach.
"Your Highness."
The voice came from the shadows at the entrance of the Dragonpit.
Hall stood there, with Will and Carter behind him. These three had once been nobodies, yet now they possessed surnames, lands, and noble status.
All of it had been granted by Aemond. From beginning to end, the object of their loyalty had never been the Iron Throne, but the prince who had given them everything.
"How goes the reconstruction?" Aemond asked, not slowing his steps as he walked straight toward the depths of the Dragonpit.
His boots stepped across ash-covered ground, producing faint, brittle sounds.
Will, now the Master of Coin, followed behind him and said with a smile, "As per your requirements, two additional exits are being opened in the Dragonpit."
"At the same time, the central dome will be turned into an open-air space. Only… the construction period—"
"—will take at least two years."
Aemond gave a low hum, which counted as approval.
He had no wish, should anything ever occur, for the smallfolk of King's Landing—incited by others—to repeat the absurd scene from the past, where they used sheer numbers to block the Dragonpit's sole exit and pile dragons to death.
So he prepared in advance. If stirred by those with intent, the dragons within the pit would be able to take to the skies at any moment.
As long as dragons could take to the air, even if the entire city rose in revolt, he could crush them as easily as ants.
"Your Highness, there is one more matter," Hall said in a lowered voice from behind, taking out a scroll from within his robes.
Aemond took it and unfolded it.
By the light of the torches in the Dragonpit, he could clearly see the writing upon it.
It was a list—fifty names, each marked with family, age, and specialty.
"The first selection for the Royal Guard has concluded," Hall said.
"It should have been chosen personally by His Grace, but… His Grace's current condition, as you know."
"The Queen Regent has already entrusted the authority to form this Royal Guard to Lord Gwayne Hightower."
The corner of Aemond's mouth curled faintly.
His mother, Alicent—was she truly so eager to pave the road for Aegon?
Yet his good uncle Gwayne had already sworn fealty to him in secret.
Aemond folded the letter and tucked it into his robes.
He continued walking deeper into the Dragonpit, with Hall and the others following behind.
"This Royal Guard," Aemond suddenly said, "carries more symbolic meaning than practical value."
"It merely shows the Seven Kingdoms that the nobles of the south stand with us."
Hall nodded. "For years, the three northern regions have been excluded from the center of power. The nobles of the Vale, the North, and the Riverlands hold almost no voice in King's Landing."
"Even when His Grace proclaimed Aegon as heir, they merely nodded in acknowledgment, without objection."
"But in stance, they remain neutral," Aemond said coldly.
"The nobles of those three northern regions frequently intermarry in private. They have always maintained a circle of their own."
As they spoke, they reached the western section of the Dragonpit.
Aemond looked at the thick iron chains hanging down from the dome, the other end binding a dragon—Vermax.
The dragon that once belonged to Jacaerys Velaryon was now imprisoned between stone pillars.
Its condition was dire. Its wings were twisted at unnatural angles, its entire body paralyzed.
"Your Highness?" those behind him warned with vigilance.
But Aemond waved a hand and continued forward.
When Aemond approached, Vermax suddenly lifted its head.
Though paralyzed, though on the brink of death, the dragon still erupted with astonishing force the moment it saw Aemond.
It struggled, chains clattering, dust falling from the stone pillars. Then it opened its mouth—
Dragonfire burst forth.
Not a complete flame, but a stream mixed with black smoke and scattered embers surged toward Aemond—fast, narrow, yet deadly.
"Your Highness!" Hall cried out, as the guards behind drew their swords at once.
But Aemond did not move.
He simply stood there, watching the dragonfire rush toward him.
The moment the flames touched his body, there was no burning, no scorching.
A few seconds later, the fire died out.
It became nothing but scattered sparks and drifting smoke.
Aemond stood where he was, completely unharmed.
Yet his upper garment—his plain black shirt—had been entirely burned away.
Revealing his pale skin.
There was not even a trace of redness upon it, much less burns.
The entire Dragonpit fell into deathly silence.
Everyone was stunned, including the veteran dragonkeepers.
They had seen dragonfire burn castles, melt steel, devour armies.
And now, they thought of the legends of those who could not be burned—those whose dragonlord blood had reached its utmost.
Aemond lowered his gaze to his ruined shirt and frowned.
Looking at Vermax, which still seemed eager to try again, he knew this dragon's hatred ran too deep—there was no need to tame it.
He turned to Hall. "Have someone bring me a new one."
Hall was still in shock. It took him two seconds to recover. "Y-yes! At once!"
The quick-witted Will had already removed his own outer garments and trousers, hurrying forward to present them.
Aemond took them and put them on without ceremony.
Only then did Hall find his voice again. He pointed at Vermax, his voice trembling. "Your Highness, this dragon… its hostility toward you is too great. Keeping it is too dangerous. Better to—"
"Kill it?" Aemond finished for him.
Hall nodded. "It is already crippled. It cannot fly, and its fire is no longer a threat."
"Keeping it only wastes food and manpower. Better to—"
Aemond walked up to Vermax. This time, he stood even closer—close enough to smell the foul stench of rotting flesh from its wounds.
Vermax tried to breathe fire again, but only a puff of black smoke came out, followed by violent coughing.
"It is a Targaryen dragon," Aemond said, reaching out to touch the scales on its neck.
The dragon trembled violently, trying to bite him, but the chains restricted its movement.
"Even crippled, it is still a dragon. Keep it well. It will be of use in the future."
"Of use?" Hall did not understand.
Aemond did not explain.
He cast one final glance at Vermax, then turned and left.
When he reached the exit of the Dragonpit, he instructed the captain of the dragonkeepers following behind him:
"Find a way to change its medicine. And give it fresh meat."
"I want it to keep living. Do you understand?"
The captain, Rosso, immediately bowed. "Understood, Your Highness."
Though the paralyzed Vermax was now savage beyond measure, as a dragonkeeper, he had more than enough ways to ensure that this crippled dragon would continue to live.
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