The sea was calmer than usual that morning.
Vaelon Celtigar stood at the edge of the basalt cliff overlooking the narrow bay that served as Claw Isle's lifeline. The sharp wind from the Narrow Sea bit into his cheeks, carrying the scent of salt and brine, familiar as the blood in his veins. Below, the tide lapped against the jagged rocks like a restless creature, and a lone Lyseni cog drifted toward the docks under a painted sail.
"Spices, silk, or sin," he muttered, the corners of his mouth curling.
"They'll be bringing all three, most like," said Ser Marros Stone beside him, arms folded across his mail-clad chest. The knight was grizzled and broad, his bastard name a relic of his mother's fleeting dalliance with a lesser noble. Loyal to a fault, Marros had been assigned as Vaelon's sworn shield since the boy's first steps.
"You've an eye for ships, my lord," the knight continued.
Vaelon turned slightly. "Not yet. Not until Father says so."
"He listens to you more than he lets on. That's rare for Celtigar men."
It was true. Lord Bartimos Celtigar was not the sort to lavish praise or invite interference in his rule. But over the last two years, something had shifted. Whether it was because Vaelon had survived his strange childhood sickness, or simply grown more confident in his skin, his counsel was no longer brushed aside so easily. It had begun with small matters—advice on storing surplus grain, warnings about taxing the fishermen too harshly, suggestions on rebuilding the western granary. Nothing grand. But small stones made a strong wall.
Vaelon studied the docks below. Sailors unloaded crates under the watch of two guards in scale armor marked with the red crabs of House Celtigar. One of the merchant banners fluttered—blue with a white chalice, the sigil of a known Lyseni spice trader.
"Make sure the cargo is inspected," he said. "The Lyseni sometimes perfume rotten stock to mask the smell. And have Maester Qymond tally the inventory himself. I want an honest ledger."
"As you say, my lord," Ser Marros said, hand to heart.
Vaelon nodded and turned back toward the castle. Claw Keep, as it was informally called, was no sprawling fortress like Harrenhal or Casterly Rock. But it was solid. Its black stone walls were carved from the bones of the isle itself, and the Valyrian steel weather vanes atop its towers still turned after centuries. The halls were damp in winter and the sea mists never quite left the eastern curtain wall, but it was home. And it would be more than that, soon.
He passed the gates with a polite nod to the guards and made for the old solar, where his father spent most of his days. The room smelled of ink, wax, and the faint trace of salt carried in on the wind. Lord Bartimos sat at the long table, squinting at a ledger, his white hair tied back in a simple cord.
"You're early," he said without looking up.
"The Lyseni ship came ahead of the tide. I ordered an inspection."
Now Bartimos did glance up. His eyes were pale and sharp, like bleached stone. "You trust our guards to know saffron from sawdust?"
"No. That's why I sent Qymond."
A pause. Then a grunt that could have meant approval or disinterest. Bartimos turned a page with fingers still stained from ink.
Vaelon stood before the hearth, where a weak fire crackled. "We should rebuild the southern dock."
"It holds."
"Barely. It was made for fishing boats, not Essosi traders. The larger cogs lose half a day waiting for the tide to pull them clear. If we want richer trade, we must be ready for it. The salt toll is stable, but a widened dock and a deeper path through the reef would pay for themselves within two years."
Another pause. Bartimos said nothing, fingers drumming against the wood. Finally, he pushed the ledger aside.
"You speak like a lord."
Vaelon met his eyes. "Then judge me as one."
His father studied him for a moment longer, then gave a short nod.
"We'll send for the shipwrights of Driftmark. If they agree, you'll have your docks."
Vaelon inclined his head in gratitude. It wasn't quite victory. But it was ground gained.
The library of Claw Keep was a narrow hall, windowless save for a small round portal facing east, always slick with condensation. Most days, the place was deserted. The scribes preferred the warmth of the maester's tower, and the books had long been left to dust.
Vaelon had taken it as his sanctuary.
He ran his fingers along the spines of old tomes—titles faded, vellum cracked. He found the one he wanted and opened it carefully.
De Arte Draconis.
The Valyrian script was archaic, some words lost to time or miscopying. But the meaning still burned bright.
"A dragon is fire made flesh," he read aloud. "But fire must be fed. Flesh, fear, and flame."
He turned the page. There were illustrations—some crude, others clearly copies of older, finer work. A stylized egg, ringed by glyphs. A pit of coals. A man surrounded by flame, untouched.
He'd read the tale of Elissa Vaelaros, who had hatched a dragon egg in the fire pits of Elyria. Of the rogue Urron Velaryon, who claimed to have bathed his egg in blood and storm until it cracked. Myths, most said. And maybe they were.
But his blood was Valyrian.
Some nights, he dreamed of fire.
And sometimes, the fire dreamed back.
The next morning brought a raven from Dragonstone. Lord Coryls Velaryon was sending one of his grandsons to serve as a page at court. Vaelon read the letter twice before handing it to his father.
"The Sea Snake grows bolder," Bartimos said with a grunt. "He smells blood in the Driftmark air. Old Vaemond won't last the year."
"And we are caught between the Snake and the Flame," Vaelon murmured.
Bartimos nodded. "As always. Tread carefully. The dragons will dance again, mark my words."
Vaelon said nothing, but the words chilled him.
He spent the day walking the isle, noting the state of the fisheries, speaking to the steward about repairs to the crab traps, inspecting the stonework on the rain-slicked watchtower. The people knew him now. Not just as the sickly boy who had once been confined to his bed, but as a Celtigar in truth. He spoke their names, asked after their families. He gave orders quietly but firmly.
Later, in the solitude of his chamber, he pulled open a chest of Essosi relics. Most were junk—old coins, shattered tiles from Volantis, a half-melted Myrish lens. But one item drew his attention. A fragment of blackened shell, no larger than a fist. Some said it was fossil. Others, petrified horn. But he knew what it was.
Dragon egg. Or part of one.
He turned it in his hand.
There would be more out there. Whole ones. Forgotten in the ruins of Valyria, traded for coin in dusty markets.
He would find one.
And one day, his blood would sing to fire.