He felt the heat of a burning forge.
The moment Quentyn’s hand made contact with Vhagar’s flank, that sensation overwhelmed him entirely.
He slowly dragged his palm across the ancient beast’s rough, scarred hide.
Vhagar’s scales were small and tightly interlocked, fused seamlessly with her thick, leathery skin.
They did not feel overly abrasive to the touch, yet Quentyn knew this armored hide could deflect almost any blade or spear forged by men.
A surge of warmth pulsed from his fingertips, racing through his veins and causing his blood to run noticeably hotter.
The indescribable sensation lingered, fading only slowly after he pulled his hand away.
Quentyn’s consciousness briefly sank into the depths of his mind, and he pushed hard against the massive Door.
This time, Quentyn noticed a distinct change.
On the bone-white half of the door, the carving of the shattered moon was glowing softly, emitting a faint, pale luminescence that seemed to cascade downward like liquid fire.
Though the heavy doors still refused to yield an inch, this visual shift confirmed a crucial theory: physical contact with dragons could indeed act as a catalyst to unlock the secrets of his system.
Snapping back to reality, Quentyn grabbed the thick rope ladder and hauled himself up onto the saddle behind Baelon.
The colossal dragon tilted her massive head, fixing a single, piercing yellow eye on Quentyn for a fraction of a second before looking away.
She lowered her hill-like body, coiling her muscles in preparation for flight.
Though nearing one hundred and fifty years of age, she did not yet display the sluggish, perpetual lethargy of Balerion the Black Dread, even if her movements appeared heavy and deliberate.
No ordinary reins could control a beast of such magnitude.
Therefore, much like Balerion, Vhagar’s heavy iron saddle was anchored directly into her scales using specially forged dragonbone pins.
A chaotic tangle of rope ladders and riding chains dangled beneath the saddle, giving the dragon’s back a somewhat cluttered appearance.
The original driving spikes hammered into the dragon’s neck by Queen Visenya were now too deeply embedded in the thickening scales and far out of Baelon’s reach.
He was forced to steer the beast using a combination of saddle levers and newly installed dragonbone reins.
Perhaps she accepts me because the blood of my mother flows in my veins.
Quentyn offered a polite smile, brushing off Baelon’s earlier comment about Vhagar’s unusual fondness.
Baelon did not dwell on the matter.
He painstakingly secured the heavy leather buckles across Quentyn’s chest and lap before strapping himself firmly into the pilot’s seat.
Quentyn noticed that Baelon did not shout commands in High Valyrian to direct the beast.
Vhagar seemed to possess an innate, almost telepathic understanding of her rider’s intent.
The moment they were secure, the behemoth beneath them unleashed a deafening, earth-shaking roar that rattled the very stones of Harrenhal.
A heartbeat later, a sudden, stomach-dropping sensation of weightlessness took hold.
The dragon took to the sky.
Quentyn caught a glimpse of the corner of Baelon’s mouth curling upward in a genuine smile.
Harrenhal shrank rapidly beneath them, transforming from the most colossal fortress in the Seven Kingdoms into a mundane, insignificant square of stone on the horizon.
Finally, as Vhagar breached the cloud cover, the world below was replaced by an endless, rolling ocean of pristine white.
They felt no howling gales.
Somehow, the crippling hypothermia, suffocating wind pressure, and deafening noise that should accompany high-altitude flight did not seem to affect either Quentyn or Baelon in the slightest.
Instead, riding upon the dragon’s back felt remarkably serene.
A comfortable, steady breeze washed over them.
The dragon’s flight was so incredibly smooth that it briefly reminded Quentyn of riding a high-speed bullet train in his past life.
“Quentyn, your words sparked a thought.” It was only after the dragon had leveled out high above the clouds that Baelon finally released his tight grip on the control levers, his expression turning grave.
“Until you mentioned it, the thought had never crossed my mind.
Is it possible that someone has been orchestrating these tragedies in the shadows all along?” “It is merely a theory, Your Grace.” Quentyn let out a slow sigh.
“If Daemon’s fall from the sky was indeed a manufactured accident, the sheer logistical capability required to execute such a flawless sabotage suggests that the mastermind, or the organization behind it, is terrifyingly resourceful.” The Faceless Men?
Baelon blurted the name out, his eyes widening slightly before he caught himself.
“Forgive me,” he added hastily, a note of grim realization in his voice.
“They are a secretive guild of assassins based in Braavos.
Legends claim they can strike without a sound and leave their victims looking as though they died of natural causes.
You are familiar with the Elissa Farman incident, I presume?
The Sealord of Braavos once used the threat of the Faceless Men to cow my father.” Quentyn nodded slowly, feigning a sudden dawn of comprehension.
“But what possible motive would the Faceless Men have to strike at Daemon?” Quentyn highly doubted the Faceless Men were responsible.
In the original timeline, Jaqen H’ghar was heavily theorized to have been hired by Littlefinger to assassinate Eddard Stark in King’s Landing to sow chaos.
Yet all the famed assassin managed to do was infiltrate the Night’s Watch recruits and nearly burn to death in a cage.
Later, at Harrenhal, Jaqen was practically powerless against the organized military might of Tywin Lannister.
This strongly suggested the Faceless Men had little true foothold in Westeros, nor did they possess the god-like capability to perfectly stage a dragon-riding accident mid-flight.
Baelon fell into a heavy silence.
“Regardless,” Quentyn continued smoothly.
“If their initial strike failed, and if this individual or cabal is truly as cautious as we fear, they will currently be scurrying into the deepest shadows like frightened rats, or severing their own tails to survive like cornered lizards.” “So we must…
prepare to counter whoever dared to harm my son, and perhaps…” Baelon trailed off, unwilling to voice the darker implications of his own thoughts.
Guided by Quentyn’s subtle nudges, a deep-seated paranoia was beginning to take root in the prince’s mind.
For the first time, he found himself genuinely questioning whether the tragic, untimely deaths of his siblings had truly been the will of the gods.
He dared not bring these terrifying suspicions to King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, fearing the heartbreak would shatter his aging parents.
He would have to use this opportunity to investigate from the shadows.
Is there truly no way to be certain?
The massive dragon beneath them suddenly let out a low, mournful keen.
Even Quentyn could hear a profound, ancient sorrow echoing within the beast’s rumble.
Quentyn silently filed that detail away in his mind.
“We can only fortify a completely secure environment and patiently bait them into overplaying their hand,” Quentyn advised calmly.
“Dragonstone?” Quentyn nodded.
“If their ultimate target is the dragons themselves, they will inevitably turn their eyes toward Dragonstone.
If their target is the royal bloodline, their spies will infest King’s Landing.
By ensuring one of these locations is an absolute fortress, we force the wolves to shed their sheep’s clothing and bare their fangs if they wish to strike.” Baelon remained silent, chewing on the logic.
Quentyn felt a quiet satisfaction.
In truth, he had no idea if a grand conspiracy actually existed.
But even if the enemy was entirely fictitious, inventing a faceless boogeyman would inject a healthy dose of fear into House Targaryen.
And a fearful Targaryen was far easier to predict and manipulate than a complacent one.
Baelon’s thoughts spiraled.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne were old; the Stranger would claim them soon enough, just as age was slowly claiming Balerion the Black Dread.
Once they were gone, the number of active dragonriders in House Targaryen would plummet to a mere two.
Could two dragonriders truly protect the entire legacy of their house?
Baelon did not know the answer.
Vhagar landed smoothly within the massive cavern of the Dragonpit.
Daemon and Gael were already waiting in the shadows below.
The moment Quentyn’s boots hit the dirt, he was practically apprehended by Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard and hustled into a waiting carriage.
The fiercely impatient Daemon did not even allow Quentyn a moment to catch his breath before dragging him aboard the merchant cog Wanderer.
Quentyn did not even have the chance to offer Prince Baelon a proper farewell, let alone sneak into the deeper caverns to lay eyes upon the slumbering Black Dread.
It was a profound pity.
Quentyn had fully intended to brush his hand against Balerion to see if contact with the oldest living dragon could force the Door open a fraction more.
“Hah.” Daemon boldly slung his arm around Quentyn’s neck, hopping on his good leg as he braced himself against the biting sea breeze rolling off Blackwater Bay.
“It’s a damn shame my father refuses to let me fly Caraxes yet, or I could have taken you up myself.” “Is your leg fully healed?” Quentyn cast a highly skeptical glance at Daemon’s limb.
He knew the residual tissue damage from his magical healing should take at least a fortnight to knit completely, and a full half-year to regain peak bone density.
He had intentionally slowed the process; he had no desire to be hounded by the Citadel’s obsessive scholars over an instantaneously miraculous cure.
“It doesn’t matter, I can just lash myself to the saddle.” Daemon pointed a thumb at his chest without a hint of hesitation.
“Besides, aside from a bit of an itch and feeling slightly weak, it feels exactly the same as always.” “Address me as Uncle,” Quentyn quipped with a dry smile.
Daemon scoffed loudly, shoving Quentyn’s shoulder.
“Piss off, Quentyn.” Quentyn swept his gaze across the busy deck.
Princess Gael, unable to stomach the harsh, salty stench of the sea breeze, had retreated to the captain’s cabin to rest, heavily guarded by Ser Clement Crabb.
The deck was swarming with rugged sailors, and notably, several deckhands and runners sporting striking silver-gold hair.
“The Wanderer belongs to Magister Regio of Pentos.” Daemon leaned in closer, dropping his voice.
“Pentos boasts a fair number of silver-haired maidens, and I’ve heard they have a taste for darker-skinned girls from the Summer Isles as well.
Their bed-skills might not match the legendary whores of Lys, but they’re a damn sight better than the ugly old hags haunting the Street of Silk in King’s Landing.” Daemon puffed out his chest, rotating his shoulders in a highly exaggerated attempt to flex pectoral muscles that had yet to fully develop.
After delivering this crude assessment, he threw a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure Gael had not wandered back onto the deck.
After all, when they first boarded the cog, Gael had bravely suffered through intense seasickness just to sit on the deck beside Quentyn, thoroughly engrossed in his tales of Essosi history and myth.
While Daemon could tell Gael was struggling to grasp the political nuances, it was clear her parents had sheltered her so fiercely that her education had been severely stunted.
“Magister Regio?” Quentyn dug through his memories, searching for the name.
He drew a blank on the lore, but the name echoed faintly from a recent conversation in this life.
“I heard whispers that the Magisters’ Council in Pentos intends to nominate him as a candidate for the Prince?” “That is exactly why he is so desperately kissing my grandfather’s boots.” Daemon sneered at the mention of the ‘Prince of Pentos’.
“He has no desire to have his throat slit.” This is an opportunity.
Quentyn seized the thread instantly.
The political structure of Pentos was notoriously bizarre.
Founded as a Valyrian colony, it had poorly copied the political framework of the Freehold.
The forty most prominent families elected a council of Magisters, who in turn elected a Prince to serve for life.
In name, the Prince was the supreme ruler of Pentos.
In reality, absolute power rested with the Magisters.
The Prince was merely a gilded scapegoat, a sacrificial lamb they placed on a pedestal.
Whenever the harvest failed or a war was lost, the Magisters would publicly execute the Prince to appease the gods.
This meant that no Magister with a shred of sanity ever wanted the title.
They would ruthlessly expend their fortunes bribing and blackmailing their peers to avoid the nomination.
And that desperation was exactly the leverage Quentyn needed.
“What are you plotting now?” Daemon poked Quentyn in the ribs, noticing the sudden, calculating silence.
“You’re always drifting off to scheme about one thing or another.
By the gods, brother, we are only thirteen.
Stop acting like my father.
No, stop acting like my grandfather.” “I am the heir to Harrenhal.
I must secure Harrenhal’s future.” Quentyn let out a long breath, a sudden, profound wave of isolation washing over him as he stared into the sea breeze.
“Alright, alright…
let’s talk about something actually interesting.” The Wanderer had sailed past the isle of Driftmark.
On the eastern tip of the island, the magnificent new castle of High Tide, constructed at exorbitant cost by the legendary mariner Corlys ‘The Sea Snake’ Velaryon, stood proudly atop the cliffs.
Its pale stone and silver-crowned towers gleamed brilliantly under the midday sun.
A flash of crimson scales pierced the clouds, descending rapidly toward the beautiful keep.
The smoking volcanic peak of Dragonstone was already looming on the horizon.
“Quentyn, how much do you know about the wild dragons of Dragonstone?” Daemon leaned in close, his eyes gleaming with a manic excitement.
“Wild dragons?” Quentyn arranged his features into a perfect mask of polite confusion.
Though his grasp of the Fire & Blood history was not absolute, he knew that during the Dance of the Dragons over thirty years from now, three untamed dragons haunted the island: the Cannibal, Sheepstealer, and Grey Ghost.
“I knew it!” Daemon slapped his own thigh in triumph, only to wince sharply in pain, requiring a long moment to catch his breath.
“As far as I know, there are currently seven wild dragons roosting on Dragonstone that have never known a rider.” Daemon held up his hand, counting them off on his fingers.
“When I claimed Caraxes, I heard the Dragonkeepers boasting that they had managed to corner ‘Topaz’.
She’s a feisty little female.
It took them days to drive her back into the courtyards, and she even left us three fresh eggs for our trouble.” “Then there’s that ugly mud-brown beast.
I heard it hatched even earlier than Caraxes.
It loves ambushing the local flocks, so the Dragonkeepers just call it ‘Sheepstealer’…” Quentyn listened patiently as Daemon rattled off the names of the known wild dragons, speaking as if he had memorized their habits by heart.
The beautiful “Jade”, the aggressive “Whaler” who allegedly fought with sea beasts, and the clumsy “Rotten Tooth”.
“And finally, there are the two most vicious, ancient, and massive wild dragons on the island.” Daemon suddenly dropped his voice to a hushed, reverent whisper.