Vermithor

The dragon pit was silent. Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the heavy, suffocating stillness of a place where something ancient slept. The eighteen-year-old cousin of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped through the enormous stone entrance, her footsteps echoing against the walls. She had come alone, without guards, without a torchbearer, and without permission. The air grew warmer with every step. Chains lay scattered across the floor, thick as tree trunks. The stone beneath her boots was blackened by centuries of dragonfire. Deep within the darkness, something shifted. A low rumble rolled through the cavern. Dust drifted from the ceiling. She stopped. Two enormous golden eyes opened in the darkness. Vermithor. The Bronze Fury slowly lifted his head, revealing a face larger than a carriage, his ancient bronze scales catching the faint orange light of the braziers. His horns curved backward like a crown forged by the gods themselves. Scars marked his massive body, remnants of battles fought long before she had been born. He had once carried King Jaehaerys I Targaryen upon his back. He had known the touch of a king. He had known the loss of his rider. And for years, he had known only darkness. Now, something unfamiliar stood before him. A girl. Vermithor's nostrils flared. Hot air swept through the cavern, stirring her hair and the fabric of her clothes. He lowered his head until one enormous eye was level with her entire body. Outside, the guards reached the entrance. They stopped at the sight before them. The princess's cousin stood beside the Bronze Fury with one hand against his enormous head. The dragon's neck curved protectively around her, his wings partially spread across the chamber. No chains held him there. No command forced him to remain. He had chosen to stay. And deep within the dragon pit, beneath the shadow of the greatest bronze dragon in Westeros, an ancient bond began to awaken. Vermithor opened his golden eyes once more.