Under the illumination of the dragon flame, the land below Dragon Mountain was shrouded in pitch darkness, silent and eerie.
At first glance, the area seemed completely empty, as if life had been drained from it.
It wasn't until a pair of dark green eyes suddenly lit up in the gloom that Baelon realized the truth.
That was no ordinary pair of eyes.
They belonged to the Glutton — a dragon whose entire body was as black as scorched charcoal, blending seamlessly with the night. In darkness, he was nearly invisible, a predator born to hunt unseen.
The Glutton was the most powerful of the three wild dragons that roamed without a master. His reputation was one of horror and bloodshed.
He fed not only on livestock or game but also on his own kind. Dragon corpses, newborn hatchlings, and even unhatched eggs were all part of his grisly diet. Ferocious, brutal, and cunning, he was called the Glutton for a reason.
In the original histories, no man or woman had ever tamed him. Many had tried, especially ambitious Targaryens seeking to add such a fearsome beast to their house's power. None survived.
His lair, it was said, was filled with more than a dozen skeletons — all that remained of Targaryens burned alive by his dragon flame.
Tonight, the Glutton was here for the scent of spider glands — rare organs that dragons found irresistibly delicious. The massive beast crouched low, greedily devouring the strange prize with wet, tearing bites.
But he was not alone.
From the darkness above, a huge dragon with muddy brown scales descended, circling warily.
This was the Sheep Thief — another of the wild trio. Though smaller than the Glutton and less ferocious in temperament, the Sheep Thief had caused more human casualties than his larger counterpart.
Wherever shepherds tended their flocks, the Sheep Thief would appear without warning, swooping down to snatch away mutton in his powerful jaws. Those shepherds unlucky enough to cross his path often met a fiery end themselves.
Now, drawn by the same intoxicating scent of the spider glands, the Sheep Thief lingered in the sky, reluctant to leave. He could sense that this strange meat would be good for him.
But he also knew the danger. The Glutton ruled the dark skies, and to approach too boldly could mean death.
Circling carefully, the Sheep Thief bided his time, looking for the perfect moment to snatch a share.
The Glutton, however, had no intention of sharing. He let out a bone-shaking roar, his green eyes flashing with warning. Then, without hesitation, he lunged upward, jaws wide, biting at the Sheep Thief's wing.
Caught by surprise, the brown dragon screeched in alarm and beat his wings furiously to gain height. The sudden attack startled him so much that he fled rather than fight, retreating higher into the night sky.
Baelon, crouched in hiding, couldn't help but feel disappointed.
He had been ready to witness a battle between dragons — a clash of teeth, claws, and flame that would light the mountain like day. Instead, the Sheep Thief had chosen the safer path and fled.
The Glutton watched his rival vanish into the distance but made no move to pursue. Instead, he returned to the ground, folding his wings neatly against his sides, and resumed tearing apart the spider glands, swallowing in huge, messy gulps.
Baelon sighed quietly. Still, seeing two dragons in one night was already a rare sight. But a thought nagged at him.
Two of the wild dragons had appeared… where was the third? The Gray Shadow — the last of the trio — was nowhere to be seen.
When the Glutton finally finished his feast, he raised his head to the sky and let out a deep, resonating howl before taking flight, his wings beating the air with the force of a storm.
Only when the dragon was gone did Baelon emerge from his cramped hiding place in the rocks.
"Worth the trip," he murmured to himself.
He turned his gaze toward the cemetery on Dragonstone.
In Westeros, the dead were usually buried. But for Targaryens, there was a unique honor — cremation by dragon flame. To be burned in the fire of a dragon was considered a privilege, and their ashes were buried in the royal crypts here on the island.
Maester Arryn had died a worthy death. Baelon made a token prayer, murmuring that the old man might find peace in the Stranger's arms.
But Baelon had not come here for prayers.
---
The Treasure Hunt Among Ancestors
With his torch planted firmly in the ground, Baelon surveyed the rows of carved tombstones. This was not his first time digging among his forebears — but tonight, he had a special target.
He avoided the newest grave — that of Queen Alysanne, his great-grandmother. She could wait for last. There was one tomb in particular that called to him.
Aegon the Conqueror. The founder of their dynasty, the man who had united Westeros under one crown. Baelon's great ancestor.
"Family property," Baelon whispered with a smirk. "You can't call it grave-robbing if it's from your own kin."
Without hesitation, he drove his shovel into the soft earth. The blade bit deep, and with a strong heave, he pried open a small hole.
A glint of red rolled out — a ruby the size of a clenched fist, gleaming in the torchlight.
Before he could snatch it up, the earth trembled faintly, and something pale began to emerge. Wrapped in the tatters of a burial shroud, a ghostly figure floated upward, its face shadowed but unmistakably resembling Aegon himself.
Baelon froze for a heartbeat.
"No way… there really is a ghost."
The spear in his hand materialized instantly. Instinct overrode any thought of greeting.
The ghost drifted closer, its movements slow, lacking the commanding presence of the warrior-king it once was. Still, the moment it appeared, Baelon felt his mental strength drain like water through a sieve.
A pity. If this spirit had retained Aegon's intelligence, it could have been invaluable — a ghostly adviser, capable of passing unseen through walls and gathering information no living spy could.
But this… this was no wise old ancestor.
The pale glow flared briefly, and Baelon felt a stabbing chill rush through his body.
HP -15
His eyes widened in disbelief.
The ghost had attacked first.
"Fine," he growled. "I tried to be friendly. I gave you the chance to be useful. But if you're just a hostile wisp with no brain… even if you're Aegon himself, you're going down."
The spear shot forward. The ghost hissed soundlessly as the tip tore through its ethereal form. Ghosts were resistant to physical weapons, but the creature's sluggish reactions gave Baelon the upper hand.
It was a slow, methodical exchange — a turn-based battle, almost comical in its rhythm. The ghost could only attack every so often, draining another 15 HP, while Baelon struck three times in that gap, each hit chipping away 10 HP from the phantom's health.
With careful timing and a few healing ointments, Baelon kept himself at full strength. Ten strikes later, the ghost let out a hollow wail and burst apart like a popped bubble.
White motes of light flowed into Baelon's body.
At once, his mind felt sharper, clearer. His vision shifted — every blade of grass, every distant tree, every crack in the tombstones became sharp and vivid, even in the moonless dark.
A message appeared before his inner eye:
Congratulations! You have obtained Night Vision.
Baelon's grin widened.
"So ghosts drop abilities too, huh?"
---
One Ghost Down, Hundreds to Go
His eyes swept across the vast cemetery. Hundreds of Targaryens lay buried here, stretching back centuries. How many of them might rise as ghosts if disturbed? And if each one only had about 100 HP… he could hunt them all.
Reaching down, he picked up the ruby.
Obtained: Magic Ruby ×1
Baelon chuckled. Rubies like this could be used for powerful crafting — amulets of rebirth, fire wands capable of setting anything ablaze.
"Ancestor, you still care about me after all these years," he said with mock sentiment, wiping a theatrical tear from his eye. "A gift and a power-up? Truly, family is everything."
He set to work again, shovel biting into another mound.
---
The Strange Relics of the Dead
The first reward of his next dig made him pause.
Obtained: Second-Hand Dentures ×1
Baelon stared at them. "...Nope." He tossed them into his pack anyway. Who knew? Maybe they'd come in handy.
Obtained: Rotten Wire ×1
Obtained: Melted Marble ×1
Baelon frowned. Not every ancestor was generous, apparently. Some only left behind useless junk. But he wasn't about to quit.
With night vision sharpening his every movement and the memory of that ruby burning in his thoughts, he kept digging. The crypts were deep, the night was long, and there were many more "family heirlooms" to claim before dawn.
more chapter available in p@tréøñ(Atoki_29)