Baelon stood as quiet as a chicken, head tilted at a forty-five-degree angle in an effort to appear obedient. His purple eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to stir the paternal and maternal love of those glaring at him.
"Baelon! This is far too dangerous! How could you—how dare you—ride Vaghar?!"
Emma wrapped her arms around Baelon tightly, still trembling from fear.
Thump, thump, thump—
An urgent heartbeat pounded against him through her embrace. Hearing his mother's wild pulse, Baelon lowered his head in guilt. His voice was soft, contrite.
"I'm sorry, Mother… Father. I made you worry."
Of course, deep down, he knew—he'd dare again next time.
He reached for both his mother's and Rhaenyra's hands, giving them a gentle squeeze.
"Don't worry, see? I'm perfectly fine. I promise there won't be a next time."
Rhaenyra, eyes still wet, turned her head away and refused to meet his gaze.
Viserys, seeing his son safe and unharmed, let out a long breath of relief.
"Seven Gods above! You nearly scared us to death!"
Baelon was more than just his son—he was the prince of Viserys's prophecy, blessed with the rare gift of a dreamwalker. From his dreams, he could acquire the long-lost secret techniques of ancient Valyria. Viserys was certain his son would one day sit the Iron Throne, spreading the Targaryen name and power across the world with the thunder of dragon wings.
As a Targaryen prince, Baelon was expected to be fearless, but as a father, Viserys could not bear the thought of losing him.
Baelon turned to Grand Baerlon, speaking earnestly.
"The blood of the Targaryens runs through my veins. And with Grandfather by my side, Vaghar was never a threat to me."
Besides, the spider gland he had fed Vaghar earlier wasn't useless—it made this seemingly dangerous ride much safer than it appeared.
"Forgive me just this once," Baelon continued. "I swear, it will never happen again." His eyes met theirs, sincere and unwavering.
"However, accidents can happen at any time!" Viserys's voice hardened. He turned sharply to his attendants.
"From today onward, you are to follow Baelon closely. Under no circumstances is he to approach dragons alone."
The two silver-armored knights bowed, stepping into position behind Baelon. The message was clear—they would be keeping a very close eye on him.
"This is unfair, Father!" Baelon protested loudly. In truth, if he wanted to do something, two knights would hardly be able to stop him. But the idea of being shadowed everywhere was not appealing.
"What's unfair?!" Viserys snapped. The usual softness in his demeanor vanished as he solidified his orders.
Baelon's lips curled into a sly smile. "But Father, you once told me that you rode Melys when you were only nine days old. Were you lying to me?"
He pressed further, "If Father could ride a dragon at just nine days old, why can't I—when I'm already four?"
Viserys froze. That memory was real. His mother, Queen Alysanne Targaryen, had been a fearless and remarkable woman. In 77 AC, just nine days after giving birth, she had wrapped Viserys in swaddling cloth, tied him to her chest, and taken him into the skies on the "Red Queen" Melys. According to her, baby Viserys had shown no fear, smiling the entire ride.
Meanwhile, Grand Baerlon was busy calming Vaghar, who kept opening and closing his mouth as though biting the air.
"It's true," Baerlon admitted, "but it's not the same. Viserys was taken by Melys's rider—your grandmother Alysanne—when she was in control."
Baelon grinned. "But Grandfather, when you first entered the dragon pit, you punched Balerion the Black Dread on the nose! That's how you earned the name Baelon the Brave!"
Balerion—the last living dragon born before the Doom of Valyria—was the largest, most legendary creature to ever live in Westeros. His scales were pure black, and his fire could melt stone, steel, and even turn sand into glass. By the time Viserys became his last rider, Balerion was too old to fly back to Dragonstone from King's Landing. In 94 AC, the Black Dread died of old age.
Grand Baerlon chuckled, then grew serious. "Baelon, everyone has only one life. And your life isn't just yours—it belongs to your parents, your sister… look at how much they worry for you."
"Don't be reckless again, understand?" Viserys quickly added.
Baelon nodded, wearing an expression of pure sincerity—so convincing that no one could tell he was merely brushing off their concerns.
"Yes, I understand."
Baerlon sighed, but then smiled warmly. "Still, I must say… Baelon, you live up to your name—Baelon the Brave."
When he had once punched the Black Dread, a Kingsguard knight had remarked that he was "either the bravest man alive or utterly mad." From then on, the title stuck.
Now, his grandson carried the name with pride.
"As expected of my grandson!" Baerlon's laughter rang out, hearty and full of life.
Baelon glanced at his parents. Seeing their emotions calm, he knew the matter was settled. After all, compared to the daring deeds of his father and grandfather, his little escapade with Vaghar seemed almost mild.
Cheerfully, he reached out and brushed his fingers against Vaghar's massive scales.
"Want to ride him again?" Baerlon suddenly asked.
Baelon's eyes widened. "I do!" He hadn't expected such an invitation after his earlier stunt.
Baerlon swung himself onto Vaghar's back, patted the dragon's side, and extended a hand toward his grandson.
"Come on."
The sun broke through the clouds, casting golden light on Baerlon's silver hair. Baelon looked up and realized the dark skies had cleared—it was, in truth, a beautiful day.
He remembered the history from his knowledge of the "original work." In 101 AC, Grand Baerlon would go hunting in the Kingswood and return complaining of sharp pains in his side. His condition would quickly deteriorate. Five days of agony later, he would die in the Hand's Tower. Archmaester Lunettel—newly arrived at the Red Keep—would dissect the body and conclude that the cause was a ruptured abdomen, though whispers of poison would persist.
Baelon climbed up, seated in front of his grandfather, with Rhaenyra tucked beside him. Vaghar took a few thunderous steps, then spread his wings wide. With a powerful flap, the great beast tore free from the pull of the earth, soaring high into the heavens.
Wind roared past their ears, white clouds kissed their cheeks with cool dampness, and the land below shrank into a miniature world. The warmth of his grandfather's chest pressed against his back—a warmth that, in the near future, would be replaced by the cold stillness of death.
From up here, the world felt endless. They could go anywhere.
Baelon's gaze drifted to Baerlon. A good man, through and through—good son, good husband, good father, good grandfather. Even the realm respected him as a wise and fair ruler. Brave in battle, decisive in governance, skilled at choosing the right people for the right tasks… Even when Baelon had recklessly tried to ride Vaghar, his grandfather had still indulged him, bringing him and Rhaenyra along for the ride.
He patted Vaghar's back. The dragon was mighty, yes—but was he essential to Baelon's plans? Not really. Vermithor, the "Bronze Fury" once ridden by King Jaehaerys, still lived—though old, he was far from weak. The wild dragon Cannibal on Dragonstone was equally formidable. Given enough time, and with Baelon's unique ability to feed dragons rare items from his otherworldly "inventory," he could raise one to surpass even the Black Dread himself.
Still… Vaghar was the prize he wanted most.
His eyes narrowed. Should he warn Grand Baerlon of his impending death?
The wind whistled in his ears. In that endless white noise, one answer rose above all others.
No.
No matter how many reasons he could invent to justify saving his grandfather, the truth was plain—Grand Baerlon's death would benefit him far more. Between his father and grandfather, which ruler would give Baelon more freedom? Which would make it easier for him to claim the throne? The answer was obvious.
And most importantly… if Baerlon lived, Vaghar would never truly be his.
That alone was enough.
He wanted the dragon.
And Baelon Targaryen always took what he wanted..
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