The Passion of a Thousand Suns | Aemond Targaryen

Twenty one: the black queen

DRAGONSTONE

ZHURONG

Zhurong roared, scattering the birds perched on the trees, fleeing the great beast as he soared over the Dragonmont.

Pale grey steam emitted from the hot vents of the active volcano, smoke rising from its peak. It was perplexing to think he spent decades in a lair under dark caverns, bones and steel littering his cave. The dingy cavity composed of skeletons made of humans who ventured too far and dragon hatchlings too weak to survive in the wild was all he remembered from his old life.

That and the loneliness.

Mother forbade from feasting on the dragons bonded to her father's kin, despite how tasty they appeared.

From time to time, Zhurong felt an urge to fall back to the moniker of the Cannibal. Fear tasted just as delicious.

Yet he obeyed mother, only because she fed him the plumpest sheep and made sure to massage his left hind when it grew sore.

Mother respected his need for quiet, when the company of humans and dragons alike grew too strenuous, still wary from their sharp weapons and cruel teeth.

Mother gave him a name.

He was unbothered at first. He never had a name, never needed one. The dragons residing on the mount snarled and snapped, their shrieks a mere annoyance than threatening. Yet they had names. The humans who came and went from the mount had dragons of their own and names that belonged.

Mother blessed Zhurong with a name.

A lifetime companion.

So when Zhurong's dragonrider tore at her neck and shredded her lips until it bled, he gave a roar, a warning.

He sensed her worry, the sting of betrayal, a wound festering in her chest.

Mother left and the mother who returned lacked light in her eyes. Where was her grin, her shout of laughter? Where was that silver haired boy, the one mother liked? He disappeared. Mother was sad. Mother was lonely. He loathed when mother was lonely, much like when he was a hatchling, alone, surviving.

"Calm, Zhurong." Mother yelled above the wind.

He huffed.

"Over the sea, go."

Spreading his wings, Zhurong navigated to the waters, careful to tuck his limbs towards his chest, lest he spray mother when they neared the ocean.

He had no concept of time, only that his wings needed rest and another plump sheep or two to fill his belly, perhaps he'll steal a batch from the herds below the mountain.

Mother need not know, he thought mischievously.

Finally, mother called to descend.

Landing with poise and elegance, Zhurong shook his limbs and curled his tail around his body, laying his head on the grass.

A short nap. Then sheep.

"Thank you, Zhurong." Mother patted his snout. "I'm sorry to tire you out. I'll request for sheep to be brought to you."

He purred.

"Yes, you like that, no?" Mother chuckled. "Greedy little thing."

Zhurong chose mother.

Mother was kind. Warm. Generous.

Mother was his rider. He claimed mother, as she claimed him.

Her steel was to defend and protect, not to hurt Zhurong. Her words to spread light, not to bathe Zhurong in darkness, as he once spent decades living under.