Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

In an instant, the dragons erupted into a frenzy, their roars echoing across the sea for miles.

"Skreee!"

Silverwing's silver slitted eyes gleamed as it descended closer to the ground, its interest piqued by the mangled corpse of the fallen dragon.

Many of Silverwing's eggs had been devoured by the Cannibal. Now, it was time for vengeance.

"Skreee!"

The other dragons grew increasingly restless, occasionally casting their eyes toward Vermithor, as though awaiting the king's command.

"It's all up to you now, Vermithor."

Aemon, seated firmly on the bronze dragon's back, patted its metallic scales, pride swelling in his chest.

Vermithor's slitted eyes narrowed slightly before it parted its massive jaws.

"Dragonfire!" Aemon shouted.

"Skreee—"

Vermithor let out a thunderous roar as a stream of molten bronze fire shot into the sky, splitting the thick clouds above.

At once, the assembled dragons reacted, their primal instincts ignited.

Silverwing was the first to act. It landed lightly on the ground, immediately sinking its teeth into the Cannibal's abdomen.

"Skreee!"

The Sheepstealer, having forgotten its injuries, eagerly joined in. The brown, wiry dragon tore off a chunk of flesh and swallowed it whole.

The two juvenile dragons—one golden, one cobalt blue—dove in as well, greedily claiming their share of the feast.

The ritual following the slaying of a dragonslayer could not be complete without this grisly banquet.

"Skreee!"

Syrax hovered nearby, circling anxiously. Her rider was still on her back, preventing her from joining in.

"Put me down, Syrax," Rhaenyra murmured, her expression dazed.

Though she didn't fully understand what was happening, she knew better than to stop her dragon.

Syrax landed promptly, and Rhaenyra slid off her back. The golden dragon immediately shouldered aside one of the smaller dragons, tearing into the Cannibal with a ravenous hunger.

At the foot of Dragonmont, the dragonkeepers who had been frantically searching for their missing charges stumbled upon the scene of the dragon ritual.

They froze, dumbstruck.

Then, one by one, they fell to their knees.

Thump! Thump!

Dozens of dragonkeepers prostrated themselves, their faces flushed with awe and reverence.

"The glory of Old Valyria… it has returned!"

An elderly keeper, trembling with emotion, whispered in a quavering voice.

Among the ancient Valyrian records he had studied, only a few mentioned rituals like this—primal, ancient ceremonies tied to the dragons.

But to witness it with his own eyes was nothing short of a spiritual awakening.

As the feast progressed, the Cannibal's corpse grew increasingly mutilated.

"Skreee!"

Silverwing licked its jaws clean and withdrew, leaving the remains for the others.

One by one, the other dragons reluctantly stepped away, their hunger sated.

The Sheepstealer, always opportunistic, seized one last chunk of flesh before retreating to the outskirts of the gathering.

High above, Aemon observed the ritual with a sharp eye.

"It's your turn, Vermithor," he whispered.

The final act of the ritual was meant for his dragon alone.

"Roar!"

Vermithor soared in a wide arc around Dragonmont, its mighty wings scattering the lingering stench of death and cleansing the air.

Then, it descended with a deliberate grace, landing beside the Cannibal's desecrated body.

Aemon leaned forward, watching intently as Vermithor sniffed the corpse.

Suddenly, the bronze dragon's fangs sank into the Cannibal's intact neck. Its jaws tightened, crushing the blackened scales and splintering the bone.

Crunch!

With a tremendous heave, Vermithor lifted the Cannibal's severed head high into the air.

Splurt!

Thick, steaming blood erupted from the neck stump, drenching both dragon and rider.

The boiling liquid soaked Aemon, the acrid smell filling his nostrils.

"Argh!"

Aemon squinted against the deluge, raising an arm to shield his eyes. His golden-silver hair, now drenched, began to curl and steam.

"Vermithor, you absolute bastard!" Aemon shouted through gritted teeth, his voice tinged with both annoyance and amusement.

The dragon ignored him, letting the Cannibal's headless body fall to the ground with a resounding thud.

"Dragonfire!"

Vermithor unleashed a final stream of molten bronze fire, incinerating the Cannibal's remains in a blazing pyre.

"Cough… damn, that was hot!"

Aemon wiped the blood from his face, grimacing at the lingering heat. His clothes clung to him, and his once-sleek hair now hung in scorched tangles.

"Are you okay?!"

Rhaenyra's panicked voice reached him as she sprinted toward Vermithor.

"What do you think?" Aemon quipped, half-laughing despite his discomfort.

In truth, he had narrowly avoided serious injury. His Valyrian blood and exceptional physique had spared him from being seared alive.

But the spectacle had left everyone watching in awe.

"The Dragonslayer Aemon!"

A shout rose from the dragonkeepers, echoing their reverence.

"The Dragonslayer, riding a dragon… Aemon Targaryen, warrior descended from the gods!"

The cries spread among the onlookers, filling the air with fervor.

Aemon, perched atop Vermithor, rolled his eyes. "What nonsense are they yelling now?"

The voices were distant, muffled by the altitude, but their enthusiasm was palpable.

"Are you hurt?" Rhaenyra's worried tone cut through his thoughts.

Aemon glanced down at her, his expression softening. "I'll live."

Their gazes met, unspoken words passing between them.

"Humph!"

Rhaenyra huffed, crossing her arms.

By now, the other dragons had taken flight, each letting out a low growl of acknowledgment as they departed.

Vermithor held its head high, basking in their deference.

Aemon patted his dragon's neck, his voice firm yet affectionate. "Well done, old friend."

Tidehead Isle

A deep, rumbling growl echoed across the rocky shores as Vhagar, a massive green dragon, lay sprawled on the ground.

Lanna Velaryon, dressed in a flowing white gown, gently stroked the ancient dragon's snout.

"Time to eat, Vhagar," she murmured.

Vhagar's weary eyes blinked slowly, its ancient body barely stirring.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind swept through the bay.

Vhagar's head shot up, its nostrils flaring as it detected the presence of other dragons.

Lanna turned, her gaze following the sky.

Two great dragons—a gleaming bronze and a silvery-gray—soared side by side over the horizon.

"It's Aemon," she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. "He's awakened Silverwing."

She bit her lip, a mixture of admiration and jealousy flickering in her eyes.

Fifteen Days Later—The Vale

In the quiet chambers of Runestone, Aemon sat at his desk, quill in hand.

"Time to begin the first five-year plan," he murmured, determination lighting his gaze.

His freshly cropped hair—a necessity after the dragonblood incident—added a sharpness to his appearance.

On the parchment before him, bold words took shape:

Develop the River Valley.

Secure alliances through marriage.

With a firm stroke of the pen, Aemon sealed his resolve.