The sea was ever restless around Claw Isle, crashing against the jagged cliffs like the roar of some ancient beast. The castle loomed atop the island's spine, its stone towers etched by salt and storm, standing defiant above the narrow beaches and rocky coves below. The scent of brine filled the air, and gulls wheeled high above as the tide clawed greedily at the shoreline.
Vaelon Celtigar opened his eyes to this world anew, though the room was unfamiliar and his limbs were frail. He lay in a grand but cold bedchamber, its windows shuttered and fire burning low. Silken sheets covered his thin frame, and beside him sat a maester with a pinched face and a nose like a knife.
"He wakes," the maester murmured. "Seven be praised."
The man turned and stepped away, calling down the corridor in a clipped tone. Vaelon tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey. Everything felt... wrong — distant. His limbs were stiff, his throat dry. The light in the room danced strangely, as if refracted through a different lens.
He remembered dying — that much was certain. A different world, a different name, fading in a haze of regret and fire. And now...
He was here.
"Claw Isle," he whispered hoarsely. The name came unbidden, and yet it was real. It filled his chest like breath. A place from storybooks in his old life. A place of dragons and blood.
The door creaked open, and an older man entered, broad-shouldered and grim. His hair was thinning and silver, his beard neatly trimmed, and he wore a surcoat bearing a red crab on sea-blue — the sigil of House Celtigar.
"My son," said Lord Bartimos Celtigar, voice low but not unkind. "You gave us quite a scare."
Vaelon blinked slowly. The man was real. Solid. The details flooded into his mind — names, titles, memories not wholly his own, merging with what he once was. The body he now occupied was that of Vaelon Celtigar, heir to Claw Isle, firstborn son of Bartimos. Ten-and-two years of age.
"I remember... the fall," Vaelon said, testing the voice. It was younger than he expected, but clear. "The cliffs near Old Tower. I slipped."
His father nodded grimly. "Your horse panicked. You broke your leg and struck your head on the rocks. For three days, you barely stirred. Maester Othwyn feared the worst."
"I dreamed," Vaelon whispered. "Of fire."
Bartimos's stern features softened. "Then perhaps the fire of the Celtigars still burns in you, boy."
Vaelon studied him — this man of faded Targaryen descent, loyal to the Crown, proud of old Valyria. In another life, he might have dismissed Bartimos as a footnote. Now, he was his father.
And in this fragile new beginning, Vaelon had a purpose.
A Week Later
Recovery was slow, but Vaelon walked again, with help. His mind, however, was sharp. Sharp enough to note the poor condition of the east docks, the crumbling seawall on the southern edge, and the underutilized copper mines near the island's spine.
"Father," he said one morning in the solar, while seated near the hearth with a ledger across his lap. "May I speak plainly?"
Bartimos arched a brow. "You always have. Why stop now?"
Vaelon smirked faintly. "Claw Isle is rich in potential. We mine, yes, but inefficiently. We trade, but without leverage. Our fishing villages bring in coin, yet the roads connecting them are barely passable in rain. I think we can do better."
"You've barely stood on those roads since your fall."
"I've read the reports, walked the walls, and spoken with those who labor under our banner. The island bleeds slowly, but it bleeds."
Bartimos regarded him for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair.
"And what would you do?"
"I would consolidate the smaller mines under one master to increase output. Refurbish the docks so that Essosi traders see us as a viable port. Rebuild the eastern causeway with stone instead of timber. And — when the time is right — send a trusted man across the Narrow Sea to search the markets of Lys, Volantis, and Tyrosh."
Bartimos narrowed his eyes. "And what would he search for?"
Vaelon closed the ledger and met his father's gaze.
"A dragon's egg."
The silence hung thick in the air. Outside, the wind moaned against the glass. Bartimos studied his son for a long time, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
"You speak of fire and blood as though it were a merchant's ware."
"I speak of our blood," Vaelon said. "You've told me the tales. We descend from Old Valyria. Our house bears the marks — silver hair, purple eyes... or in my case—" he gestured to his golden-orange irises, "—a flame of our own."
Bartimos rose slowly. "You are young. And foolish."
"But not wrong."
"No. Not wrong." The older man stepped toward the hearth, his hands behind his back. "Do you think you are ready to lead, boy?"
Vaelon stood as best he could, one hand gripping a carved chair.
"No," he admitted. "Not yet. But I will be."
Bartimos turned slightly, eyes glinting.
"Then begin. You may oversee the repairs to the eastern docks — with Master Runnor's supervision. If you fail, you will do it twice. If you succeed... we will speak again."
Vaelon inclined his head. "Thank you, Father."
"Don't thank me yet." Bartimos's voice was sharp as the sea wind. "You seek dragons and fire — but fire burns as easily as it warms. I will not see my house ruined by a boy with dreams."
Vaelon's smile returned, faint and measured.
"Nor will I," he said.