Chapter 315: Taming the Dragon

Viserys' voice was hoarse and weak, yet it carried an unyielding determination.

"Roar ..."

Vermithor's icy, vertical pupils locked onto the Targaryen who dared to command him.

Viserys inhaled sharply, meeting the dragon's gaze head-on, his heart pounding violently in his chest.

Vermithor's eyes flashed with anger, and his massive head moved closer, radiating searing heat.

"Everyone, back off! Don't get caught in the wave!" Viserys shouted urgently.

The dragon's head continued to approach, and the heat wave forced the Dragonkeepers back, scattering them like leaves. The sheer power of Vermithor, with just a slight toss of his head, sent more than a dozen Dragonkeepers flying, their bodies crashing to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Seeing his guards fall, Viserys' anxiety turned to rage. He shouted again, "Vermithor, obey!"

As he spoke, his blood surged with heat, flowing into his raised palm. He had barely mastered the "Forbidden Magic Spell," enough to tap into the small reservoir of magic within his blood.

Buzz...

Magic power coursed through his hand, turning his palm crimson and forming a dragon-shaped imprint.

Vermithor's head breached the final line of defense, stopping just a few meters from Viserys. Man and dragon locked eyes, the dragon-shaped imprint reflecting in Vermithor's icy pupils.

Vermithor's furious advance halted, his eyes flashing with a touch of doubt amidst the fury.

This strange sensation, both familiar and unfamiliar, made the dragon pause.

Seizing the moment, Viserys spoke through gritted teeth, "Vermithor, where is my child?"

His eyes darted between the dragon and the grotto, but there was no sign of his third son, Aemond.

Vermithor cocked his head slightly, the doubt in his pupils deepening.

Dragons were intelligent, but communication with humans was difficult. Vermithor didn't understand the Targaryen's question.

Zira!

Viserys' face turned pale as his magic power waned, the dragon seal flickering out.

In an instant, Vermithor's anger surged back. His dragon's maw opened wide, and he let out a deafening roar, his fury unrestrained.

"Roar!!"

Vermithor's roar echoed through the night, shaking the very ground beneath them.

Viserys faced the dragon's gaping maw as a scorching, acrid wind blasted him, causing him to stagger and nearly fall. His long silver hair whipped wildly around him.

With a crunch, the buttons on his silk robe snapped apart, and he was blown backward by the force of the gust, flailing like a kite with broken strings.

In that critical moment, Viserys' mind went blank, his survival instincts overpowering his fear and hesitation.

Raising his palms high, he summoned the last of his magical energy, closed his eyes, and roared, "Vermithor, obey!"

He didn't know why he shouted it, but it was what he felt compelled to say to assert control over the dragon.

The dragon seal reappeared, its power commanding Vermithor's attention.

Vermithor paused, his roar echoing like a cold-blooded butcher's call.

Viserys, overwhelmed and exhausted, collapsed, supported by the Dragonkeepers who rushed to his aid. He struggled to stay conscious.

For a long time, the cavern fell silent.

Viserys, dizzy and weak, slowly opened his eyes.

A pair of cold vertical pupils met his gaze, and a bronze-scaled beast with a long neck loomed before him.

Vermithor lay on his haunches, his wings supporting him as he climbed the rocky terrain. His pupils scrutinized Viserys intently.

The dragon mistook him for another would-be tamer, like the silver-haired boy, Aemond.

Viserys panted heavily, his eyes locking onto the dragon with a mix of fear and determination. "Vermithor, submit to your king!"

His original mission on Dragonstone was to tame a dragon. Facing Vermithor's fury, he had no choice but to follow through.

"Roar ..."

Vermithor growled low, his body inching closer, his head aimed directly at Viserys.

The dragon sensed an inexplicable pull from the man before him.

In the depths of Vermithor's eyes, a memory surfaced—a reflection of a long-bearded old man with silver-gold hair. The old man's face was noble, even in old age, and he carried a heroic aura.

This was King Jaehaerys I, Vermithor's first and only master.

Jaehaerys' sister, Rhaena, had placed a dragon egg in his cradle. The dragon that hatched from the egg was Vermithor. They had been together for 69 years, facing countless trials and tribulations.

"Roar!"

Recalling his long-gone rider, Vermithor's rage surged. He raised his head and roared, golden Dragonfire slicing through the dark night.

When he lowered his head again, his eyes were filled with scrutiny and disdain for Viserys.

"Vermithor," Viserys called out, waving away the Dragonkeepers. He stood alone, his knees weak but unyielding.

Whew-

Vermithor leaned forward, snorting heavily.

Viserys ducked to avoid the heat, and the dragon's head nudged him, forcing him to stumble back several steps.

Amusement flickered in Vermithor's eyes as he stepped forward, golden Dragonfire glowing in his maw.

The dragon seemed to be giving him a chance, a test of worthiness.

A dragon chooses its rider.

Vermithor had sensed the difference between Aemond and Viserys. Aemond had looked at him with lust for power, a weak man's desperate desire to become strong.

But Vermithor was inherently strong and unwilling to lend his power to fulfill a weakling's insignificant wish.

Vermithor's throat rumbled with a low, threatening growl, its vertical pupils fixed coldly on Viserys. Despite feeling the kingly grace and dominance radiating from Viserys, it was but a fraction of what its previous master had commanded. Still, the strength and authority were enough to warrant a test.

Viserys halted in his tracks, his heart racing as he saw dragonfire building in the creature's maw. He knew from his training never to show fear in the face of a dragon. Steeling himself, he raised his chin and locked eyes with Vermithor, determined to appear fearless.

Time dragged on. Viserys, drenched in sweat and trembling, maintained his gaze. His pupils reflected the bronze dragon, unwavering despite the mounting pressure.

Finally, Vermithor extinguished the dragonfire and settled down, its eyes shifting from the image of its former rider, Jaehaerys, to the shadow of Viserys. The dragon's growl softened, and it flicked its head in annoyance, raising a cloud of dust.

"Vermithor, fly me in a circle," Viserys commanded, moving closer with determination. He saw the dragon's hesitation as an opportunity. If Vermithor hadn't attacked or fled, it meant there was a chance to mount.

Ignoring the dragon's agitation, Viserys placed his hand on its scales and began to climb. Two loyal Dragonkeepers rushed forward to assist, but Viserys snapped, "Stand down! I don't need help climbing my own dragon."

The reprimand spurred him on, and with newfound strength, he scrambled up Vermithor's back. The dragon roared and launched into the air, its powerful wings flapping as it ascended rapidly.

Viserys nearly slipped, clutching desperately at the dragon's scales. With no saddle or ropes, he stretched his limbs and gripped the scales tightly, trying to stabilize himself. He wedged his feet into small gaps between the thick scales, finding some semblance of balance.

Boom! Vermithor, not content with a simple flight, spewed golden dragonfire and dove sharply. Viserys, engulfed by the flames, let out a primal scream.

The searing heat scorched his skin, igniting his hair and beard, burning holes in his clothing. Yet, as a Targaryen, he was born with a resistance to fire. The fire was intense, but not as deadly as Cannibal's smoldering breath.

As they soared through the flames, Viserys' skin blistered, and his whiskers burned away. But he clung on, protected partially by Vermithor's massive head and back scales. Below, Dragonkeepers watched in horror, their king taken by the dragon.

"You, go back to the castle and report this! The rest of you, follow me!" the commander shouted, directing his men to chase after Vermithor and Viserys.

In moments, the clearing emptied. Birds scattered, and the deep grotto fell back into a deathly silence.

Suddenly, fragmented footsteps echoed through the grotto, accompanied by the sound of panting and grunting. Utilizing the torches abandoned by the Dragonkeepers, a disheveled Aemond emerged, clutching the stone wall for support.

Gone was the composed young man who had first entered. His clothes were tattered, his pants torn, and his elbows and knees were scraped raw, revealing bloody abrasions. The only intact piece of clothing was a green cloak, now riddled with holes.

Enduring the pain, Aemond stumbled out of the grotto and surveyed the chaotic scene with a sinking heart. He looked up to see a majestic dragon silhouetted against the night sky, spewing golden dragonfire.

"Vermithor!" he cried, his voice thick with sobs. The dragon he had pinned his hopes on, the dragon meant to change his fate, was now out of reach.

"Bastard! I won't give in!" Aemond shouted defiantly. Wiping away his tears, he turned and sprinted back into the grotto, determined to find another dragon. He remembered that Dragonmont housed more than one dragon. Without Vermithor, there was still its mate, Silverwing.

As he turned, the night cast a massive shadow over the grotto. Oblivious, Aemond ran with his head down.

"Roar..." A piercing dragon roar echoed, and the shadow descended swiftly, pouncing on the silver-haired boy in front of the deep grotto.

Caught in a strong gust of wind, Aemond looked back in shock, his eyes wide with terror.

"Don't!..." he screamed, his voice trailing off into the darkness.

(Word count: 1,554)