The sea wind howled, carrying with it the sharp scent of salt and brine. Above, black clouds rolled like an army of shadows, and the air was thick with a suffocating, oppressive weight. Somewhere in the distance, a storm was gathering strength, silent but relentless.
Rhaenyra aimed her bow at a nearby sheep. Her amber eyes shone with excitement, but her lips curled in disdain.
"What's the point of hunting these poor, penned-up sheep?" she scoffed. "They're like timid rabbits the moment danger appears—running in circles, caring only about their own hides. And they're not even fast."
She released a sigh, her voice softening with longing.
"One day, I want to ride Syracuse into the wild and hunt shadow lynxes. Now that would be exciting."
Baelon, standing nearby with his bow at his side, chuckled.
"Then you'll have to wait for your dragon to grow up. Until then, these sheep are all you have."
He wasn't interested in the hunt either. With no magic power to speak of, killing a sheep here wouldn't yield him any useful drops. No rare hides, no unique meat—nothing. To him, this was purely an exercise in accompanying Rhaenyra.
Shooting docile sheep was dull, and Baelon's gaze soon wandered. He spotted seabirds circling far above the restless sea, tiny specks dancing in the gray.
One bird in particular caught his attention: a black seabird, stark against the iron-gray sky, as if a drop of thick ink had fallen from the heavens.
Without a word, Baelon raised his bow. The silver arrow in his hand gleamed faintly in the dim light. He took a deep breath, then another, drawing in the rhythm of the sea wind. His eyes locked onto the bird's fluttering silhouette, waiting for the perfect moment.
Gradually, the entire world seemed to fade into shades of black and white, an ink wash painting unfolding before him. The bird remained the only vivid element, sharp and clear in his vision, each feather traced in dark ink.
Baelon's breathing slowed until it matched the pace of the waves. In his mind, he could see the minute tremor of the seabird's wings, the exact angle of its flight.
Now.
His gaze sharpened, and his fingers released the bowstring.
The arrow sliced through the howling wind, cutting a perfect arc through the air before striking true—piercing the seabird clean through the head.
"Amazing!"
"As expected of Prince Baelon!"
The sudden clamor of cheers snapped Baelon from his trance. His bow arm was trembling slightly, but the rush was intoxicating. Every pore felt alive; his muscles buzzed with a joyful tremor, and an unparalleled sense of satisfaction coursed through him.
He quickly nocked another arrow, eager to recapture that fleeting focus.
A knight rode forward at a gallop to retrieve the fallen bird. His face was flushed like a ripe apple, his voice brimming with excitement.
"The Prince struck it right in the eye!"
A moment later, another seabird dropped from the sky like a kite with a snapped string, landing just ahead of the knight.
"Silver Bow Prince!" one of the young attendants called, his tone filled with reverence.
"Divine Archer Baelon!"
The others quickly echoed, their cheers swelling until a dozen voices sounded like a crowd of a hundred.
People in this world loved their nicknames. "The Genius" Baelon had been his previous moniker, but now another was born. At least, he thought wryly, they hadn't gone with "Baelon the Seabird Slayer."
"Ah!"
The sharp cry of pain cut through the cheers. Baelon turned sharply to find Rhaenyra grimacing, her small fingers red and swollen from the bowstring's bite. She stubbornly pulled the string taut again, eyes fixed on a bird high above.
If Baelon could do it, then surely she could too.
It was only then Baelon realized his own fingers were tingling and slightly numb from the force of the draw. A thin trickle of blood ran along the bowstring.
He wanted to tell Rhaenyra to stop before she hurt herself further, but the words caught in his throat. He knew her temper—if he stopped her now, she'd only resist more fiercely. Sometimes, letting her try was the only way to make her yield.
Instead, Baelon fished a handful of shining silver stags from his pocket and handed them to the knight, adding several gold dragons for good measure.
"I'm in a good mood today," he said casually. "Share these with the men—let them celebrate."
The gold coins glittered in the dim light, and the knight's flushed face deepened to nearly purple. He stammered out his thanks like a church bell tolling in a storm.
In this land, a noble knight's ransom was only 300 gold dragons, and an average knight earned around 50 gold dragons in a year. One gold dragon could feed a common family of four for over a decade.
The crowd's gratitude became even more heartfelt. This was why servants and retainers loved serving Baelon—he was generous and made a habit of rewarding service.
Meanwhile, Rhaenyra loosed her arrow. It flew in a wide arc before plunging harmlessly into the sea, far from its target.
"Never mind, Rhaenyra," Baelon said gently, stepping closer. "You're still small. Keep trying and you'll only hurt yourself."
Her face tightened like an angry kitten's.
"I'm the older sister—don't tell me what to do!"
Baelon smiled faintly. "I'm not trying to stop you for no reason. But if you get hurt and Mother and Father find out, they'll be stricter with you. Then sneaking out to play will be much harder."
"It's me sneaking out—not us!" she shot back. "You can do whatever you want, Baelon. You always can."
He chose not to argue with her. "Rhaenyra, no matter what, your parents and I love you. Can't we talk about these things calmly?"
But his calm words only made her feel a fresh wave of grievance. Her voice trembled.
"Why can't I ever do what I want? Why, when we share the same blood, do you get to do everything, while you're always the center of our parents' attention? Why is the love always flowing to you, never me? Even the servants treat you better."
Baelon frowned slightly. In his mind, the affections of servants were meaningless; they were loyal to coin, not people. And coin was something he had in abundance.
"Rhaenyra, they love you just as much as me. Every year on your naming day, you get as many gifts as I do."
"But I don't care about dresses and jewels! I want daggers and swords! I want to be good at something, anything—and yet you're better at everything!"
Her voice cracked into soft sobs.
Baelon's chest tightened. Perhaps his constant "excellence" had become a shadow she couldn't escape. To her, he wasn't just a brother—he was an unreachable standard.
He didn't want to argue in front of the attendants. Instead, he gently wiped her tears and pulled her into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Rhaenyra."
Her sobbing faltered. A part of her wished he were cruel and cold—then she could hate him openly. But Baelon was excellent, upright, and always kind to her. That made her jealousy feel even uglier.
"I… no, Baelon, I—" She tried to speak, but the apology caught in her throat.
"I know you didn't mean it," he said softly. "No matter what, you are my sister. My blood."
Slowly, she hugged him back, clinging tightly. For a moment, they might have been two children curled together in their mother's arms again.
After a long silence, Baelon patted her shoulder like a patient older brother.
"It's going to rain. Shall we head back?"
"…Okay." She sniffled, rubbing at her eyes.
Baelon turned to the others. "What happened today doesn't leave this place." Then he took Rhaenyra's hand, and together they walked toward the castle.
From Rhaenyra's perspective, Baelon's figure seemed taller than ever. His expression was unreadable.
Inside, Baelon was quietly pleased. He'd accomplished several things today—demonstrated his martial prowess, earned a memorable nickname, and shown himself as a caring brother in front of Rhaenyra and the servants. Word of the event would certainly reach Viserys before long.
Politics, after all, was a long game. Even a sister with a slim claim to the throne could be dangerous if neglected.
Then—
A deep rumble rolled from the clouds, and the wind grew fierce. Baelon thought the storm had finally broken.
"Hissss-gah—!"
The dragon's roar shook the heavens.
Baelon's head snapped up. From within the gray clouds emerged an enormous silhouette. Her green-bronze scales caught the dim light, ridged like mountain ranges. Her colossal head pierced the cloudbank, casting a shadow across the island.
With a single beat of her massive wings, the air churned into a violent gale, dust and pebbles dancing as though in worship of her arrival.
Vhagar.
The oldest and largest living dragon in all Westeros—the Queen of Dragons herself.
Baelon's heart thundered in his chest. He could not look away.
"Seven Gods," he murmured. "She's… magnificent."
Vhagar, named for an ancient Valyrian deity, belonged to Prince Baelon Targaryen—the Spring Prince.