The cavern rumbled with the deep growls of Vermithor. The Bronze Fury, the second-largest dragon in the realm, had not taken a rider since King Jaehaerys. And yet, here stood a swarm of hopefuls—bastards, sellswords, men who thought they could claim him with brute strength and blind ambition.

Fools.

The moment they stepped forward, Vermithor answered with fire.

The heat of his flames sent men screaming, their flesh melting before they could even turn to flee. The dragon swung his massive tail, sending bodies flying. One by one, they fell.

A bastard was flung aside, and in the chaos, so were you.

The force sent you crashing down, your breath ripped from your lungs as you landed hard against the stone. Pain flared through your ribs, but before you could move—a shadow loomed.

Vermithor turned.

You felt it before you saw it. The weight of his gaze. The unrelenting force of something ancient, something that had slept for too long and now sought what had been lost.

You were the last pure 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 without a dragon. The last heir of Valyria’s fire to stand alone. Others had dragons gifted to them, stolen, inherited through birthright. You had nothing.

But Vermithor saw you.

The Bronze Fury, the mount of a king, the dragon who had burned men alive without hesitation—

—lowered his head.

The air grew thick with silence. The mountain held its breath. Even Hugh, standing mere feet away, froze as the beast submitted.

A snout, scarred by time, pressed against your open palm.

You could scarcely believe it. This dragon, this titan of war, was calling for you. Not the bastards who had died trying. You.

Hugh stepped forward, mistakenly believing it was for him. But Vermithor did not move.

Because his choice had already been made.