Baelon held the spider gland in his hand, its pungent scent lingering in the air. The glossy organ seemed to pulse faintly under the firelight, a prize worth savoring.
From beside him, Vaghar—the great she-dragon—lowered her massive head, nostrils flaring. Her molten-gold eyes locked onto the gland, and her jaws parted slightly as she let out a low, rumbling breath. She wanted it. Badly.
But Baelon, smirking faintly, pulled his hand back before she could snatch it.
The dragon blinked in confusion, her head tilting. Baelon didn't give in. This little contest repeated several times: Vaghar lunged or edged closer, and Baelon withdrew the spider gland each time, just out of reach.
Finally, after several failed attempts, Vaghar seemed to understand. This treasure was not hers for the taking—it was his to give.
When Baelon brought the spider gland out again, she didn't pounce as before. Instead, she lay down, curling her tail around her, and lowered her head onto the ground.
The firelight flickered over her ancient scales, glinting off every ridge and scar.
Baelon's lips curved upward. This was what he wanted—obedience, patience. He lifted the gland high above his head and began to count slowly in Valyrian, each syllable clear and deliberate:
"Mēre… lanta… hen… tova…" — One… two… three… four… five.
Vaghar remained perfectly still, her eyes following the gland but her body unmoving.
Satisfied, Baelon let the smile on his lips widen. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the gland into the air.
In a flash of motion that belied her size, Vaghar's neck shot forward like a striking serpent. Her jaws opened wide, teeth gleaming, and she caught the spider gland midair, swallowing it in a single gulp.
By the fire's glow, Baelon began to walk slowly around the dragon, inspecting her carefully.
A hundred years of wars had left their mark—sixteen holes, large and small, pocked the leathery membranes of her wings. Some were the size of a coin, others as wide as his palm. But now…
Baelon paused, counting carefully. Fourteen. There were only fourteen holes left.
He placed his hand on one wing, fingertips brushing over the area where, in his memory, there had once been a deep wound. Now, the scar was gone. The injury had healed entirely.
He thought back to the story behind that wound…
---
It was in 83 AC when Prince Martell took the throne in Sunspear. Young and full of fire, he had grown impatient with the old Prince's passive approach, especially the humiliating memory of letting the knights of the Seven Kingdoms march into the Red Mountains to deal with the "Vulture King."
Martell longed to restore Dorne's honor, which he believed had been stained. The so-called "Third Dornish War" had not satisfied him, so he lit the spark for a Fourth Dornish War.
The war ended in just one day. The Targaryens won without mercy.
Martell had known he could never win in a direct confrontation against the might of House Targaryen, so he devised a different plan. If he could not defeat them head-on, he would strike where they were weakest—raiding the Stormlands, aiming to capture Cape Wrath.
Instead of marching through the Prince's Pass, he planned something "ingenious." His forces would sail by sea, catching their enemies unprepared. He assembled his fleet at Ghost Hill and Weeping Town, loading his ships with seasoned Dornish spearmen.
But these were not just soldiers. Hidden in the holds were massive scorpion crossbows—the very same weapons that had once brought down the great dragon Meraxes.
If the Targaryens sent dragons to defend, the crossbows would bring them down. Then, their bleached bones would be displayed alongside Meraxes' in Hellholt, a trophy for the ages, a declaration that Dorne's honor was inviolable.
It was a good plan. The problem was simple: Martell's opponent was King Jaehaerys.
Jaehaerys was no fool. His spies in Dorne had been feeding him information for months. And among the pirates of the Stepstones, the mercenaries of Myr, and the coastal bandits Martell had hired, there was no shortage of men willing to sell secrets for a handful of silver.
So while Martell believed he would take the Stormlands by surprise, Jaehaerys had been waiting for him for half a year.
When Martell's fleet finally crossed the narrow sea toward Cape Wrath, the sky split open.
From the clouds descended three dragons—Vermithor, the Bronze Fury; Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm; and Vaghar herself.
Their dragonfire turned the sea into an inferno, ships bursting into flames as men screamed and dove into the water.
In desperation, the Dornish loosed their scorpion bolts. Most clanged harmlessly off thick dragon scales. But Vaghar—larger and slower—became an easier target. One bolt pierced her wing.
It hadn't been a mortal wound, but it had left a deep tear in her membrane.
And now… that wound was gone.
---
Baelon stepped back, marveling at the thought. Just half a day's worth of resources, and she's already healing like this.
The possibilities made his blood race. If he continued raising her well, she could surpass even Balerion the Black Dread.
He took a deep breath, then leaned his back against her warm flank. Reaching into his pack, he retrieved a tinderbox and candle. Then, with a sudden motion, he hurled the lit torch in his hand into the sea.
The flame spun through the air before striking the black water. It hissed and died instantly.
Baelon watched the darkness swallow it.
In the Hunger Games world, players who spent the night in darkness—without a light source—would be killed instantly by some unseen force. It didn't matter how strong they were. The only safety came from staying in a lit area.
Baelon didn't know if that rule applied here, in this strange reality. But since binding himself to the system, he'd never risked it. Every night, he lit six or seven candles before sleeping, making sure shadows never had a place to settle.
The thought of dying silently in the dark was one he had no desire to test.
Tonight, the sky was black. No moon, no stars. Only endless darkness pressing in from all sides.
Baelon kept his eyes fixed on the black void beyond the edge of the firelight. Every muscle was tense, every breath measured.
He gripped the tinderbox tightly in one hand, ready to strike a spark at the first sign of danger.
If something truly did emerge from the darkness, and if even a dragon couldn't protect him… he would light the candle without hesitation.
If the darkness birthed monsters, then so be it. The system had given him great advantages; it was only natural it came with dangers. He could adapt. He would simply carry candles everywhere he went.
And perhaps… get his hands on a Valyrian steel sword. They said Valyrian steel could cut through magic itself. The Targaryens owned two such blades—perhaps he could claim one.
The wind howled through the night, carrying with it the steady rhythm of Vaghar's breathing. For long minutes, that was all he heard.
Then—
A sound.
A shriek, high and thin, like nails dragged across metal. It sliced through the wind and seemed to pierce directly into his bones.
Baelon's heart clenched.
It's here.
He pressed himself against Vaghar's side, straining his eyes against the dark. Nothing moved. Yet the shriek grew closer, carried on the wind.
He raised the tinderbox and candle to his lips, ready to ignite them.
Then, without warning, Vaghar reared back and roared.
Her jaws gaped wide, and a torrent of fire erupted from her throat, the sudden blaze lighting up the night.
For the briefest moment, Baelon saw it—
A shape, humanoid but wrong. Its body was entirely black, like a living shadow. It stood just within the darkness, and the instant the dragonfire touched it, it vanished deeper into the void.
Vaghar arched her neck, wings trembling as she prepared to take flight in pursuit.
Baelon's mind raced. Dragonfire can hurt it… That was invaluable.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out another spider gland, tossing it in front of Vaghar. The familiar treat calmed her, keeping her from charging into the dark.
But the reprieve was short.
The shriek came again—closer this time.
Vaghar's eyes narrowed. Her pride as the sky's apex predator flared to life. Something dared to challenge her.
The muscles in her throat tightened. Her chest swelled. Then she unleashed another blast of fire, hotter and brighter than before. The pillar of flame roared into the darkness, illuminating the black figure as it was caught mid-lunge.
This time, the creature didn't escape.
It screamed—a sound so sharp Baelon's teeth ached—and the dragonfire consumed it. Its shadowy form writhed, melting into a thick, tar-like substance.
It reminded Baelon of wax melting under a candle's flame.
He stepped forward as Vaghar let the last of the fire die from her throat.
"Good girl," he murmured, feeding her the spider gland. "You're incredible."
They waited in silence after that. His magic recovered to full strength. No other monsters came.
Finally, Baelon lit a candle and crouched to inspect the black puddle the creature had become.
It was slick and cool to the touch, with a faintly distorted human face rippling across its surface. It squirmed faintly when pressed, releasing a wet duang sound.
A system prompt appeared before his eyes:
[Demon Fuel]
Baelon's expression tightened. Demon Fuel?!
The instant he touched it, his mental value plummeted. He yanked his hand back, scowling.
Vaghar sniffed the puddle, then turned away in disgust.
Baelon sat back on his heels, candlelight flickering over the black slime.
Whatever these things were, the darkness hid more than just shadows.
And tonight, he had barely survived meeting it.
60 more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29).