Dragonstone was always shrouded in a perpetual gloom. The sea surrounded the island on all sides, and the horizon seemed forever painted in muted shades of gray. The air was damp and heavy, clinging to the skin like an invisible mist, and the salty tang of the ocean lingered in every breath.
When I pushed open the weathered wooden door, the hinges gave a faint creak. At once, a musty smell of mold and age drifted out, sharp and stale, mixed with something older—an indescribable scent that seemed to belong to dust, forgotten parchment, and the passage of countless years.
The room was small, almost cramped, the kind of space where every corner seemed to have absorbed the memories of its occupant. Books were stacked at the foot of the bed and on the bed itself, some leaning precariously against each other, their spines worn and faded.
On a battered brown desk, itself piled with more books, lay one particular volume left open. The leather cover was cracked, the pages slightly curled from the island's dampness. I stepped closer and read the title embossed in uneven gold letters: Dragons, Dragon Worms, and Pterosaurs: Their Unnatural Evolutionary History, authored by Brother Bass—the same monk who had once overseen the construction of the great dragon pit and, according to stories, was responsible for imprisoning Balerion, the Black Dread, within its massive stone walls.
Beside the book stood a rusted candlestick, its iron base pitted and rough with years of neglect. The candle on top was half-burned, its wax hardened into jagged drips that clung to the metal like frozen tears. I touched it with my fingertips—it was cold. Clearly, it had not been lit for some time.
I began a quiet search. Flipping through the open book first, I checked between the pages for any hidden notes or letters but found nothing. I did the same for the other books stacked on the desk and bedside table, running my fingers along the edges in case something had been slipped inside. Still, nothing.
The drawers were empty save for a faint layer of dust. Under the bed, I found only a forgotten pair of worn slippers. Even under the pillow—where some might hide a cherished letter—there was nothing.
When I finally looked up, I took in the entire room again. It was an ordinary bachelor's quarters: neat, unremarkable, and absent of any personal trinkets that might betray its occupant's inner life.
Outside, the wind picked up. The sea breeze rushed through the half-closed shutters, making the windows rattle softly.
And then—
A faint sound. Breathing.
It came from directly behind me.
I turned sharply. Standing in the doorway was Maester Arlin. He had returned without a sound, his pale eyes fixed on me. I hadn't heard a single footstep, and for a man of his age, his silence was unsettling. His posture was straight, his expression unreadable.
I slowly set the book back down on the desk, careful to make no sound. It landed with a whisper against the wood.
Leaning casually against the backrest of a chair, one hand resting lazily on the arm, I met his gaze. My stance was calm, as though I were the one receiving him rather than intruding.
After all, Dragonstone belonged to the Targaryens. This keep, this room—every stone of it was part of my family's legacy. I had lived here from my youth, and though the maester had spent many years in service, the truth was that this place had never been his.
The silence between us stretched, long enough for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs to become painfully loud. I turned a page in the open book with deliberate slowness, the crisp sound slicing through the stillness.
At last, it was Arlin who broke the silence. His voice was even, but edged with disapproval.
"Prince, what may I do for you? I think… picking locks is not a skill one would expect from a prince."
For all his age, Maester Arlin was not easily rattled, but he was a man who respected hierarchy—and my rank forced him to speak first.
I smiled faintly. "Maester Arlin taught me for a few days, so I can consider you a teacher of sorts. You don't have to be so formal with me. Please, come in and sit."
The broken lock still dangled loosely in my hand, yet I showed no embarrassment over it. If anything, I seemed more at ease than he was.
Without another word, Arlin entered and sat stiffly on the bed. His eyes were on me, weighing my every movement.
I did not answer his implied accusation. Instead, I gestured toward the book. "I heard the Citadel once dismissed Brother Bass's work as full of errors and wild conjectures. What do you think?"
Arlin's gaze flicked to the cover, and his voice was measured, almost slow. "Brother Bass offered… a unique perspective. Most people believe dragons are divine beings, embodiments of power, invincible. But Bass argued that dragons were not born of nature. He believed they were monsters, created by the fusion of Valyrian blood magic and unnatural breeding."
His tone carried no emotion, only fact. "According to him, dragons should never have existed in the natural order."
I nodded, intrigued. "If that's true, then dragons are miracles. To create life—that is the realm of gods. Perhaps dragons are the Valyrians' greatest gift, left to us by divine hands."
My fingers traced the book's spine. "Such wondrous creatures," I murmured, almost to myself. Then, lifting my eyes, I asked, "Do you think they shouldn't exist?"
The question made something in Arlin's eyes tighten. His pupils narrowed, and for the briefest moment, his heartbeat seemed to pause. "That is not for me to decide," he said finally. "Whether a dragon lives or dies is beyond my will."
His gaze sharpened. "Prince, even the mightiest dragon can be tamed by a Targaryen—by you. Tell me… how fare your dragon eggs?"
At that, a shadow passed over my expression. My brow furrowed, and a trace of sadness settled there. "They are the same as ever—unchanged. I do not know when they will hatch. Perhaps… they never will."
"You could tame another dragon."
I didn't answer immediately. My silence seemed to ease some unspoken tension in Arlin, but a flicker of unease still danced in his eyes. He was studying me too closely now, his mind working behind that calm facade.
Then, almost as if struck by inspiration, he said, "There is a suitable dragon here on Dragonstone."
I raised a brow. "My, you speak boldly today, Maester. But the wild dragons here are dangerous."
"Not the adults," Arlin replied smoothly. "A young one. Gray Shadow, they call it. Its scales are the color of morning mist—so pale they seem to vanish in fog. It favors fish and is said to dwell in a smoking cave on the eastern slope of Longshan."
He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth softening. "You could lure it out with fish, then tame it."
"My father and mother forbid me from approaching the volcano," I said, though I did not completely hide my interest.
"Imagine it," Arlin pressed. "You riding into the castle on dragonback—who would not be proud? The danger would be worth the glory."
I studied him for a moment. I had thought him cautious, a man who would weigh every risk before speaking. But his sudden encouragement felt almost too eager, too… deliberate. Did he truly think I was a child to be baited by dreams of heroism?
Still, I feigned hesitation. "Isn't it too dangerous?"
"You are of pure Targaryen blood," he said with quiet conviction. "If you cannot tame a young dragon, no one can."
His words had the ring of challenge. After a pause, I allowed a small smile. "Very well. I'll go tonight—quietly."
A glimmer of satisfaction lit his eyes. Every Targaryen, he must have thought, is arrogant when young.
"But," I added, my tone turning playful, "I'm a little afraid, Maester Arlin. Will you stay with me tonight?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Ah, this…" He hesitated, clearly intending to refuse.
"I won't dare go alone without you," I interrupted, my voice light but leaving little room for argument.
Arlin was silent for a heartbeat, then sighed. "…Fine. I'll go with you."
"Splendid!" I said, rising from my chair. "Then it's settled. We'll meet tonight."
The matter of checking the ring could wait until later—there was time enough before evening.
As I reached the door, Arlin called after me. "Prince, this is a secret between us. Let us surprise the others with your triumph."
I nodded. "A fine idea. See you tonight, Maester Arlin. Rest well. I wouldn't want your old bones slowing me down."
His smile stiffened at that. If you think me too old, perhaps you shouldn't ask me to come at all, his eyes seemed to say.
But aloud, he simply replied, "Until tonight, my prince.."
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