The darkness pressed in around him, thick and alive, heavy with the smell of sulfur and old fire.
Baelon stood barefoot upon stone that radiated warmth like a hearth left burning through the night.
Around him, the mountain breathed.
The creature had not moved.
It had only watched.
Then—its great head began to descend.
Its great head lowered with the slow certainty of a mountain shifting.
First came the immense jaw, black as volcanic glass where the moonlight caught its edge, broad enough to swallow a warhorse whole.
Horns and ridges of ancient bone framed its face.
The amber eyes held level with his own, unblinking.
Baelon did not run.
His legs had made that decision long before fear could.
The head lowered further until each hot breath stirred his silver hair, he could make out the cracks between scales the size of shields.
The nostrils alone were wider than his head.
Barely a man’s length separated them.
Baelon tried opening his mouth.”Ly…
lykiri…” The words came out broken.
The fragments of High Valyrian sounded little more than frightened whispers swallowed by the cavern.
The dragon did not move.
Then— Its jaws slowly parted.
Far beyond rows of teeth longer than swords, something deep within its throat awakened.
A single ember.
Then another.
Deep within the dragon’s throat, fire gathered.
The glow spread through the darkness like molten metal flowing beneath black stone.
Orange light washed across him.
Baelon’s heart hammered against his ribs.
Every instinct screamed at him to flee.
He knew, with terrifying certainty, that if he did nothing…
He would die here.
Not as a prince.
Not as a Targaryen.
Simply as a frightened little boy who had wandered where he should never have gone.
His hands clenched into fists.
He drew one desperate breath and shouted with every ounce of strength his small body possessed.
“Lykiri!” The cavern echoed.
Then, louder— “Dohaerās!” His voice cracked.
Still he shouted again, louder than before.
“Lykiri…
ao…
dohaerās!”
Ser Steffon Darklyn moved through Dragonstone with relentless purpose.
The castle had dissolved into controlled chaos.
Torches flared along the battlements.
Guards shouted from tower to tower.
Servants hurried through corridors carrying lanterns, calling the prince’s name into every chamber, every stairwell, every forgotten passage.
The warning bells still echoed through the castle.
Steffon searched through all.
The outer yard.
The sea gate.
The lower galleries Every corner and every shadow.
He rounded another corner at a near run and almost collided with a familiar figure.
The Dragonkeeper, The man still carried heavy buckets of raw meat, though he had clearly abandoned whatever task the evening had held for him.
Steffon recognized him at once.
“You.” The man stopped.
“My lord?”
“Have you seen Prince Baelon?” The Dragonkeeper frowned.
“No.” Steffon drew a breath.
“Prince Baelon is missing.
His chamber was empty.
He cannot be found anywhere in the castle.” The Dragonkeeper’s expression hardened.
Steffon paused.
Something snagged in his memory.
The stand beside the prince’s bed was empty.
His eyes widened.
“The dragon egg…” He heard himself say the words before he had fully understood them.
“It wasn’t there.” The Dragonkeeper looked at him.
Silence stretched.
The Dragonkeeper’s expression changed.
His eyes drifted toward the smoking slopes of the Dragonmont.
The color drained from his face.
He turned toward the mountain without another glance.
“The prince isn’t lost.”
Steffon caught up beside him.
“You think he went below.” The Dragonkeeper did not slow.
“I think…” His eyes lifted toward the smoking slopes of Dragonmont.
“…the prince has gone looking for his dragon.” Steffon felt something cold settle deep inside his chest.
Not panic.
Certainty.
He drew his sword.
“Take me there.” The Dragonkeeper nodded once.
Then both men broke into a run toward the tunnels beneath Dragonstone.
The tunnels descended deeper beneath the mountain.
The air grew steadily warmer.
Sea salt disappeared, replaced by sulfur and hot stone.
The walls no longer looked carved.
They looked melted.
Every surface bore the smooth, glass-like sheen of dragonfire.
Steffon followed the Dragonkeepers without question.
Left.
Right.
Down another flight of worn stone steps.
Then another.
He would never have found the way alone.
The walls bore no mason’s marks.
No chisel scars.
Steffon called into the darkness.
“Prince Baelon!” His voice rolled through the tunnels before returning to him unchanged.
No answer.
Only echoes.
Torchlight spilled across silver scales.
Steffon stopped.
The ancient she-dragon stirred, slowly lifting her great head from folded wings.
Her pale eyes settled upon the newcomers.
It was Silverwing.
“Prince Baelon” Steffon shouted, Still no response.
One golden eye opened.
Then the other.
She regarded them without fear.
Without urgency.
The Dragonkeeper stepped forward.
“Lykiri, Silverwing.”
The dragon blinked once.
Her head lowered again.
Only then did the Dragonkeepers continue.
Steffon did not look away until the darkness swallowed her once more.
The next passage was warmer.
Much warmer.
The Dragonkeeper slowed down.
Not from fear.
Torchlight found bronze.
The light touched enormous overlapping scales, glowing like old coin beneath centuries of soot.
A mountain of living flesh rested within the cavern.
Vermithor.
The old king’s dragon lay coiled upon the cavern floor.
His immense body disappeared into darkness beyond the reach of the torches.
For a long moment…
For a long moment, he remained still.
Then, slowly, his great head rose.
Without any haste.
His amber eyes opened.
Nestled against the great bronze curve of Vermithor’s chest…
Something pale caught the torchlight.
Small and motionless.
Silver-gold hair.
Bare feet.
A child.
Prince Baelon.
Fast asleep.
Both arms wrapped tightly around his dragon egg.
The egg rested against Vermithor’s warm scales.
The dragon did not move.
His ancient amber eyes watched the men standing at the mouth of the cavern.
Curled safely against the Bronze Fury’s warm scales, the little prince slept on.
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