Vhagar's massive head loomed above, resembling a Tyrannosaurus Rex in sheer size and presence. But unlike other dragons with their majestic crests and sharp horns, Vhagar's head was devoid of spikes and ridges. The smoothness of its skull did nothing to diminish the overwhelming sense of dread it radiated.
Under the dragon's immense shadow, Baelon felt his breathing quicken. A heavy, primal fear—something deeper than mere intimidation—settled in his chest. His throat was dry, and an instinctive urge to step back rose unbidden.
His foot lifted. Then stopped.
No. He clenched his jaw. I must not retreat.
If he panicked now, if he turned tail at the first sign of danger, then how was he any different from the man he had been before traveling through time? This was his second chance—his only chance—and he had sworn to himself that he would not waste it. He wanted to achieve something monumental, to leave his mark on history. Never again would he live the kind of life where he was overlooked, mocked, and forced to beg for favors because his parents were ill.
He forced his fists to tighten, his legs to steady. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head and met the dragon's eyes—those massive, devilish orbs glowing faintly in the dark.
When facing a wild beast, one must never turn their back. Doing so was an invitation to be hunted. The same rule applied to dragons. More than that, each dragon had its own temperament and preferences for riders. Vhagar, in particular, favored the brave and fearless.
During the day, Baelon had the reassurance of Big Baeron's presence. But now, he stood here alone—truly alone—before this living force of nature.
Vhagar lowered its head. Baelon's breath caught in his throat. For one terrible moment, he thought it was over.
But then… the dragon's eyes half-lidded. With a deep, almost bored exhale, Vhagar lay its head back down and closed its eyes again.
Baelon stood frozen. The tension that had wound itself through his body like steel wire felt suddenly absurd. This entire exchange, this razor's edge between life and death, had been… one-sided. The dragon had barely regarded him as anything worth noticing.
Yet that was the very reason for his fear—because if Vhagar had chosen otherwise, it could have ended him in an instant. He was Targaryen, yes, blood of the dragon, closest to the gods themselves. But at the end of the day, he was still just a man. And men could die.
If only… he thought, staring at Vhagar's sleeping form, I had power greater than a dragon's.
The system gave him certain advantages—items, synthesis, resources—but those powers were not truly his. They came from somewhere else. If the system vanished tomorrow, so would his abilities.
Whether it was the dragon or the system, both were external forces. And external forces were fragile. Without dragons, even Targaryens had been slain by swords, assassins, or poison. Without the system, he was nothing more than an ordinary man.
If he died, he died. No second chances.
Even something as small as synthesizing a straw rope required subterfuge—pretending to pull weeds before he could work his magic. And lately, he had grown arrogant. Restless. Always busy, yet not truly stronger—physically or mentally.
And now, here he was, sneaking alone at night to meet a dragon that wasn't even his. It was reckless. Foolish.
It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. The rush of pride from synthesizing the rope faded completely. Wordlessly, he tucked the straw rope into his storage space.
From his pack, he pulled out the chunk of mutton he had taken from the sheep earlier. He placed it before Vhagar's mouth. The dragon cracked one eye open, regarding the meat with mild confusion. This wasn't the sort of food it was used to.
"Vhagar! Dragon flame!" Baelon barked.
The dragon exhaled through its nostrils, the sound carrying an unmistakable note of disdain—as if mocking his audacity.
Baelon's heart didn't waver. He could tell already that this gesture wouldn't win Vhagar's favor. His feeding attempt had failed. The meat would be wasted, and his supplies diminished.
For now, Vhagar was still Old Baelor's mount. The old man's cause of death was unknown, but Baelon knew one thing: he would not interfere prematurely. Feeding Vhagar now only strengthened someone else's power.
It wasn't worth it.
He took a deep breath. The system was still new to him. There would be time for bold moves later—time to act when the odds were in his favor. For now, the important thing was to let events unfold. Maester Runetell had arrived in King's Landing; it was time to subtly urge Old Baelor back to the city… and towards his inevitable fate.
Baelon gave Vhagar one last look, his gaze steady. The burning admiration in his purple eyes faded, draining away like the tide. Lately, he realized, he'd been far too obvious in his longing for the dragon.
No matter. What was his would be his, no matter how long the road or how many twists fate devised.
With that, he turned and vanished into the night, his red cloak fluttering before disappearing entirely.
---
At the base of the valley, Baelon raised his axe high.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Each swing crashed into the tree trunk, the sound reverberating through the silent valley like the beat of a war drum. After dozens of strikes, the sapling gave way and toppled. Two smooth logs of identical length and thickness fell beside him, along with a single orange-yellow fruit.
Obtained: Wood ×2
Obtained: Holly Berry ×1
Obtained: Branch ×1
Baelon didn't pause. He moved from tree to tree, chopping down more than twenty small trunks in quick succession. Strangely, he felt no fatigue. The valley floor was mostly hard rock, but he took out a pickaxe and began hacking away, carving out a shallow pit barely ten centimeters deep.
From his pouch, he pulled the holly berry and placed it in the hole. He sprinkled a light layer of soil over it—just enough to cover it, like seasoning a dish with salt.
A miracle occurred almost instantly. From the rocky ground, a slender green shoot burst forth, rising and stretching until it stood a full meter tall.
[Remaining growth time: 4 days]
Baelon's eyebrows lifted. If trees could grow in four days, how fast could crops grow? That was worth testing. This, he thought, was the true reward of the night.
He kept chopping, the repetitive motion almost meditative. By the time he stopped, he had felled a hundred saplings. He straightened, rolling his shoulders and patting his lower back in mock relief. The entire valley was now dotted with neat rows of one-meter-high saplings, their trunks pale against the moonlight.
Obtained: Wood ×161
Obtained: Branch ×100
He had noticed earlier that tree size determined how much wood it yielded, but every sapling dropped exactly one branch. Branches, of course, were vital for crafting weapons and tools—axes, shovels, spears.
Instead of rushing to synthesize anything, Baelon took out pen and paper and recorded his experiment.
[Seed Growth Environment Test]
1. Planted on bare rock
2. Planted with thin soil cover
3. Planted with no soil cover
4. Planted with exactly 1g soil
Results: Only methods 2 and 4 produced growth. The amount of soil had no effect on growth speed.
Satisfied, Baelon decided to try planting wheat next. Tomorrow, he'd take some grains from the kitchen and see how the system handled crop farming.
His magic power nearly drained, Baelon climbed back to the top of the valley. But instead of heading to bed, he drew his sword and shrugged off his cloak. With quick, precise cuts, he sliced the fabric into four strips. He filled each with stones and tied them to his wrists and ankles with the rope he had synthesized earlier.
The rope's strength surprised even him. He slashed at it several times with his sword, and it didn't fray in the slightest.
Then he lifted his sword again—slowly, awkwardly. The added weight made his normally smooth sword movements clumsy. His arms trembled under the strain.
But Baelon didn't stop. Facing the sea breeze, he repeated the sword forms the Knight Professor had taught him. Stroke by stroke, movement by movement, he drilled himself—each cut slower than the last, but each executed with focused intent.
Somewhere in the darkness, waves crashed against the shore. In that lonely night, the sound of steel slicing the air mixed with the endless rhythm of the sea...
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)