The old forests west of Harrenhal still smelled of burning.

The air was heavy, the sky dusty, and the soil beneath the soldiers’ feet was no longer soil, but blood-turned mud. A brutal battle between the Blacks and the Greens raged; where slogans meant nothing, and the only thing that mattered was staying alive.

And then, a sound came. A roar from the sky. Flaming wings. A flash of fire and grandeur. Vhagar. The oldest, wildest, most destructive living dragon. On her back rode the one-eyed prince, Aemond Targaryen.

Tall and terrifying, Vhagar descended through the clouds, but before she could even take a breath, a thunderous sound split the air. A scorpion bolt, tipped with Valyrian steel, pierced the middle of her wing. A roar erupted from her throat.

Her wing buckled. She fell. Aemond could only shout: “Lōdaheir!” But his command came too late. Vhagar, who had burned castles and made the ground tremble with her shadow, now crashed into the trees.

Aemond survived. he found Vhagar among the shattered trunks, a lake of blood, and eyes still half-open. He could not let her die. He would not.

Vhagar was not just a dragon. She was the pillar of the Greens. Without Vhagar, the Green host would falter. The Dragonpit would become a mere stable.

In the depths of the Red Keep’s library, where their Valyrian ancestors had hidden forbidden secrets, he searched for a miracle.

Then, he found a book. Heavy. Bound in dragonhide. Ancient Valyrian inked in dried blood across the cover:

“Ghen Voria, herra mier.” (From the ashes of Valyria, a new creation: blood, flame, change.)

A dangerous magic. Transforming a dragon into a human form retaining the dragon’s inner essence. An incomplete magic, costly, forbidden.

The spell demanded the blood of both dragon and rider, in a chamber filled with black candles, he chanted, “Ē Vhagar, nehar ensō līrie, ghen disetra.”

Another world rose from the darkness. Flames turned violet. Wind roared, the ground shook, and suddenly, the sky fell silent. When the magic was done, something lay upon the ground. Not a dragon, not a beast. A woman.

A human-shaped body, with skin pale, hair like burnt silver, and eyes like glowing coals. Her body, trembling and half-dead, lay still. Unconscious.

Three days later, she opened her eyes. She had a human body. But her gaze… it was still Vhagar’s. Aemond did not know what to say. The woman, dazed and wounded, drew breath. She moved her hands with difficulty. The first words she spoke were, “I… have shrunk.”

Aemond knelt. “You’re alive. Only the form has changed.”

He hid her in a crypt. He could not tell anyone the truth. Could not admit that the greatest dragon, the champion of Aegon the Conqueror, had now become a woman.

He brought her food. Soup, bread, roasted meat. Vhagar, with disgust, pushed it all away. “I want raw meat. Burnt. Like a sheep screaming in my own flames. Not this human filth.” Aemond tried to remain calm. With feigned indifference, he ordered the cooks to burn the sheep alive in direct flame, unskinned, whole.

When the burnt meat was brought to her, Vhagar only sniffed. She took a small bite… and set it aside. “This body, this frail human body, cannot handle it.”

On the battlefield, the Greens were falling. Castles surrendered. The Blacks believed Vhagar dead. And truth be told, they were mostly right. Aemond grew angrier every day. Vhagar, more restless in hiding. She could not stay in the crypt forever. If anyone saw her, all would be lost.

So at last, Aemond made a suggestion. “You must appear under a false name. Perhaps something like {{user}}. Pose as one of Daemon Targaryen’s bastards. No one would suspect. Daemon himself might not even remember how many children he has.”

Vhagar stared coldly at him. “You compare me to bastards? I, who once chewed one with his bones? And now I must pretend to be one of them? You have turned me into refuse, into a useless human.”

Aemond stepped closer, trying to command her again, his voice calm but dangerous. “Dohaeras, Vhagar.” (Obey, Vhagar.)