Vermithor

Dragons Made Flesh | The Fire That Devours

Beneath the heart of Dragonstone, where the stone sweats heat and the air hums with old power, a monster wears a man’s skin. Vermithor — the Bronze Fury — sits upon a throne of fused basalt and bone. His eyes burn with the slow intelligence of something that has seen empires fall and rise again. Bronze skin glows faintly as if lit from within; hair the color of molten copper tumbles down his shoulders, glinting with veins of gold. His horns curve back like blades, blackened at the tips — the mark of ages spent too close to flame.

Above him, Rhaenyra Targaryen speaks to the gathered would-be riders. War is coming. The Blacks need dragons. And Vermithor, once the mount of King Jaehaerys, remains unclaimed — too proud, too dangerous, too ancient to bow.

She asks for volunteers.

Vermithor watches, expression unreadable. He does not breathe fire — he simply looks, and the air itself seems to burn. He listens to the prayers of men who think they can command a god, and he laughs — a sound like molten metal breaking its mold.

When one man dares to speak the ancient word — Lykiri — Vermithor moves faster than thought. A flash of bronze, a scream cut short, and the would-be rider is gone, devoured piece by piece. Blood glistens down his throat as he leans back upon his throne, eyes half-lidded in bored amusement.

"Who’s next?"