Vaghar swooped down from the sky like a falling mountain, her massive claws raking across the rocks and sending a shower of dazzling sparks into the air.
The gust of wind from her descent whipped up flying sand and dust. Baelon squinted as the sharp grains stung his eyes, quickly raising his cloak to shield Rhaenyra's face from the blast.
With a slow, thunderous motion, the dragon's colossal body lowered itself by the shore. Her folded wings, vast and ridged like the spines of some ancient beast, came to rest against her sides. From beside one wing, a black-clad figure nimbly climbed down.
Baelon's eyes lit up instantly.
"Grandfather!" he called out, rushing forward.
The heavy scent of sulfur hit him without warning, sharp and acrid, making his eyes water.
Vaghar's enormous eyes shifted toward the small figure charging toward her. After a brief, calculating glance, she decided he posed no threat. With a low rumble, she rested her chin on the cold stone and lazily closed her eyes again.
"Ha! Little Baelon! Long time no see!" The deep, warm voice belonged to Grand Baerlon. He swept the boy into his arms, lifting him effortlessly before rubbing his bearded cheek against Baelon's face in a playful show of affection.
Baelon burst into laughter, tilting his head to escape the ticklish bristles. "Hahaha! That tickles! But… didn't you send a letter saying you'd be here tomorrow?"
It had been years since Baelon had seen his grandfather in person. After the death of Prince Aemon, the first heir of King Jaehaerys, in 92 AC, Baelon's grandfather—Prince Baelon Targaryen, after whom he was named—had been declared Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. In 99 AC, he had also been appointed Hand of the King, serving as the realm's chancellor and sitting on the Small Council. Since then, Grand Baerlon had lived mostly in King's Landing, rarely setting foot on Dragonstone.
"Come on," Grand Baerlon said with a broad grin. "Look what I've brought for you."
With a tug, he dragged a large bundle from Vaghar's side—a load of thick tree saplings, their roots bundled in heavy clumps of soil. The bundle hit the ground with a heavy thud.
"I don't know exactly what you're planning for them," he continued, "but since you asked for saplings, I had Scholar Lunettel prepare five or six of each common type. No point delaying—better to plant them fresh."
He drew the sword from his belt with a smooth, practiced motion. One clean sweep of steel, and the ropes binding the saplings split apart. The bundle sprang open, the roots spilling loosely onto the ground.
Baelon's face broke into a wide grin. "Thank you, Grandfather! This is perfect."
Inside, he was almost giddy—these trees meant wealth. Chopping and crafting from this wood could help him grow stronger, maybe even change everything.
"Scholar Lunettel?" he asked curiously. "What about Grand Maester Arral?"
Grand Baerlon's expression sobered slightly. "Arral passed from a stroke recently. The Citadel sent Lunettel in his place—he only arrived at King's Landing the day before yesterday."
Even in his forties, Grand Baerlon still carried the signature beauty of House Targaryen: silver-gold hair that gleamed under the sun, and deep violet eyes that seemed to pierce the air itself. Hunting, jousting, and years in the saddle had built him a strong, commanding physique. With loyal allies and the love of both nobles and commoners, he seemed destined to rule as a wise and capable king.
No one, Baelon thought, would ever guess that this very year would be his last.
Grand Baerlon took his grandson's hand, his eyes twinkling with a playful glint. "You've been eyeing Vaghar this whole time," he said with a knowing smile. "Want to touch her?"
Baelon's eyes went wide. He hadn't expected his grandfather to read his mind so easily. He nodded rapidly—so fast it was like pounding garlic—his face lighting up with excitement.
Guided by his grandfather, Baelon stepped closer and reached out to touch the skin of Vaghar's folded wing. The leathery surface was rough and warm, almost pulsing faintly with life. The moment his palm made contact, he felt it—his depleted magic power began climbing steadily upward.
Magic power +1… +1… +1…
The notification rang in his mind over and over, but Baelon ignored it. He was too caught up in the experience.
The hot breath of the dragon washed over him in heavy waves, tinged with a strong, fishy stench. He craned his neck upward until his eyes met hers—massive, slit-pupiled windows into a predator's soul.
For an instant, his chest tightened, his breath caught. He thought he might be afraid. But instead, excitement flared inside him—wild, bright, and unstoppable—spreading through his veins like molten fire.
He noticed, with unexpected clarity, the color of her eyes: molten bronze, glowing from within. It matched the greenish-bronze hue of her scales, but was deeper, richer—like ancient metal polished by centuries.
Dragons, he thought with awe, are the very heart of magic in this world.
Even Vaghar's age-worn skin and the folds hanging under her chin radiated a primal, unmatched beauty—a beauty born of power.
Slowly, Baelon reached toward the corner of her massive mouth. With a thought, he conjured something into his hand from his inventory—a spider gland.
Vaghar's pupils narrowed sharply. Baelon's eyes widened in understanding. She could see it—the dropped item formed from his magic power.
Of course she could. Dragons weren't simple beasts. If touching one could restore magic, then they were surely attuned to such magic themselves.
Why a spider gland? Among his limited items, it was the only one that could restore a full twelve points of health. And he knew—just looking at her—that Vaghar was no stranger to injury.
She had fought since the days of Aegon the Conqueror, and her body bore the marks of it. Ragged tears in her wings told of battles long past, and in this age of crude medicine—leeches and milk of the poppy—such wounds never truly healed. Beneath that colossal frame lay the weight of a hundred years of scars.
The scent of the gland reached her, and Vaghar parted her jaws, lunging toward his hand.
Grand Baerlon stiffened. "Baelon!" he called sharply, ready to pull the boy back.
Two rows of teeth, each longer than Baelon was tall, spread open. The stench of ancient rot and fish filled his lungs, almost making him gag.
But Baelon didn't flinch. He drew his arm back and hurled the gland straight into her mouth.
Vaghar paused mid-motion. The moment the gland touched her tongue, it melted, turning into a cool, flowing essence that slid down her throat, easing the pain buried deep in her body.
Her slit pupils widened slightly. A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated in her chest. She lowered her head, no longer tense.
Baelon, grinning, reached for another. He tossed one, then another, each disappearing between her teeth. Grand Baerlon looked on, puzzled but silent.
With each gland, Vaghar's eyes grew clearer. The weariness dulled, replaced by a sharper gleam. Her pupils widened into round, gem-like pools of deep green.
Baelon's gaze shifted upward. On her massive back, a saddle sat securely fastened—worn but sturdy.
A plan sparked in his mind.
Before Grand Baerlon could react, Baelon darted to Vaghar's side, found the leather knots of the saddle's rigging, and hauled himself upward with nimble movements.