Baeron watched Damon's graceful back as he strode away, feeling a sharp ache in his arm where he had pinched himself. His mind wrestled with two opposing urges: the temptation to rest and the determination to push himself harder.
With a heavy sigh, Baeron forced himself to sheath his iron sword and grit his teeth, steeling himself to continue practicing. Training now is far better than losing your life later due to weakness, he reminded himself sternly.
The fatigue and soreness were merely mental barriers. He refused to give himself the excuse of laziness.
Slowly, the sun dipped below the horizon, draining the sky of light and washing it in shades of deepening twilight.
The iron sword Baeron held began to feel heavier and heavier in his trembling hands. Struggling against exhaustion, he took a long, steadying breath and carefully placed the sword on the rack. Leaning his back against the wooden shelf, he let his body relax like a crumbling wall, sinking into exhaustion as his strength slowly returned.
Turning away from the knights who had been watching him train, Baeron swallowed a meatball in one hearty bite. The warmth of the food spread through him like a comforting current, restoring his energy and banishing the aches and numbness that had gripped his limbs.
Refreshed, Baeron felt ready to train again—perhaps even for the rest of the night. But with important plans weighing on his mind, he decided it was best to return to his chambers and rest properly.
For two months, he had quietly studied the patrol routes of the Dragon Guards, memorizing every detail. He had discovered the exact location of Vhagar's lair. Tonight was the night he would receive his gift.
As he passed through the dimly lit corridors, a massive shadow loomed ahead. Baeron looked up just in time to see Wormisol land gracefully on the castle wall, his razor-sharp claws scratching the stone and sending showers of gravel and dust falling like rain.
Seeing this, Baeron quietly turned and left the Red Keep.
The opportunity to assert your will has come again, he thought grimly.
Outside the Red Keep, over a dozen men and women wore the maester's chains, kneeling on the blood-soaked ground. The cruel spectacle was a favorite pastime for many residents of King's Landing. Crowds had gathered around the scene, eagerly watching with morbid fascination.
When Wormisol arrived, the crowd instinctively parted, giving the dragon a wide berth. Their fear was palpable, their faces pale as they watched the towering beast.
Jaehaerys sat high atop Vermithor, his gaze sharp and unyielding, while Otto Hightower brandished his sword and loudly condemned the maesters for their crimes.
Ignoring the desperate pleas and cries from the kneeling scholars, Otto raised his sword and personally executed them, beheading each one as the crowd erupted into cheers.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each severed head rolled to the ground, where grim assistants hurriedly impaled them onto an iron spike standing nearby.
After several strikes of the hammer, the pole was soon strung with the grisly trophies—heads hanging like gruesome candied fruit, some fresh, others in various stages of decay.
One of the unexecuted maesters screamed in terror, begging for mercy, but the chaotic crowd paid no heed to his desperate cries.
Then, at Jaehaerys's command, Wormithor unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, incinerating the headless bodies.
To be honest, Baeron found the scene somewhat embarrassing.
But after two months of witnessing these grim executions, his discomfort had faded considerably. He exhaled deeply and forced a smile, greeting his great-grandfather Jaehaerys with a nod.
Jaehaerys returned the smile, affectionately patting Baeron's head before turning to Otto with a dark expression.
"Is this the last batch?" he asked quietly.
Otto, the new Hand of the King, nodded steadily. "Yes, Your Grace. The remaining scholars who were less culpable have been ordered to don black robes and head for the Wall."
Jaehaerys said nothing more but nodded in approval.
Baeron was struck with curiosity when he realized Otto had personally volunteered to be the executioner during the council meeting.
Otto's smile faltered for a moment before he looked down at Baeron and said softly, "Prince Baeron, Allison mentioned you and Princess Rhaenyra yesterday."
Baeron's brow furrowed slightly as he replied calmly, "Really?"
Allison was Otto's daughter, a twelve-year-old girl with an innocent yet mature charm. Her gentle and thoughtful nature had endeared her to Rainila, and the two had quickly become close friends.
Baeron himself harbored no romantic feelings toward Allison—not because in the original story Alicen became Viserys's successor and stepmother, but because Alicen often spoke to him about her late grandfather in ways that stirred something deep inside.
Was Allison trying to sympathize with him? Perhaps. But Baeron felt little sadness for Old Bay's passing.
If anyone were to steal his home and claim Vhagar before him, that would be true sorrow.
Otto was a master of cultivating his Qi. Despite Baeron's indifferent tone, Otto maintained a gentle smile. "Allison looks forward to meeting you and Princess Rhaenyra."
Baeron nodded silently. Having seen enough excitement for one day, he declined to linger in King's Landing.
He bid a casual farewell to Jaehaerys and made his way toward the castle. When he passed Otto, they exchanged polite smiles and nodded in greeting.
Late into the night, the castle was wrapped in a heavy silence.
Baeron suddenly opened his eyes and silently changed into tight black clothing. His hair was tied back neatly as he slipped into the shadows, moving skillfully toward the dragon's lair.
Under the cover of darkness, flickering torches illuminated the cavernous lair, casting flickering light and long shadows on the stone walls.
Baeron pulled his hood low to conceal his unmistakable silver hair and crouched in a shadowed corner, waiting patiently for his moment.
The distant sound of footsteps approached — a patrol of over a dozen dragon guards marched past.
Baeron held his breath and waited until the last guard passed before flipping silently to the ground and slipping inside the lair.
The darkness inside was absolute, thick enough to blot out his hands before his eyes. But Baeron's night vision allowed him to move confidently over the uneven floor.
Since Balerion's injury in the ruins of Valyria, dragon pits had been constructed in King's Landing to house the dragons safely.
The corridors were wide enough for ten men side by side, spacious for Baeron but narrow for the enormous dragons.
Turning carefully down the curved stairway, he descended deeper into the lair.
He had stuck circles of cloth onto the soles of his leather boots, coated with spiderwebs to muffle every step — he moved with almost supernatural silence.
A sharp smell of sulfur and smoke filled his nostrils, making him swallow hard. His eyes darted carefully around the darkness.
Several enormous dragons made their home here: Dreamfyre, Silverwing, Wormithor, Vhagar, and others.
If a dragon awoke angry, Baeron would be reduced to ash in an instant.
Aemon, Old Bay, Viserys, and Daemon had all begun dragon training as teenagers. Now, at four years old, Baeron found himself blocked and shunned from training dragons by his older cousins. Viserys and Emma had both firmly forbidden him from approaching the dragon's lair.
Failing tonight would only make it harder to get close to the dragons in the future.
Thankfully, Baeron's prayers to the Seven Gods were answered. He quietly reached the passage leading to Vhagar.
The massive dragon lay sprawled on the ground, wings folded tightly. His huge feet were shackled in heavy iron chains, and a thick collar bound his neck.
Baeron let out a long breath and approached slowly.
Suddenly, green eyes snapped open in the dark! Vhagar woke, glaring at Baeron with burning fury.
The dragon's nostrils flared, ready to unleash a deadly breath of fire that could annihilate anything in its path. But as Vhagar recognized Baeron's familiar scent, his pupils contracted.
The chains clattered as the enormous head lowered cautiously toward Baeron.
Baeron did not pull out any weapons or lures. Instead, he raised his hands slowly and placed them gently in front of Vhagar's nose, letting his warm breath brush softly over the dragon's scales.
He thought, somewhat humorously, that taming a dragon was a bit like training a dog — the beast had to become familiar with his scent first.
For a long moment, Vhagar's massive head froze in place, motionless and silent.
Baeron looked up, eyes wide with determination, and stared straight into the glowing green eyes of the ancient dragon.