The next morning, two hours before the lowest ebb of the tide.
Aeron walked barefoot across the exposed rocky beach, a linen bag strapped to his back.
The bag contained all his preparations: crushed sea-stone flowers, a roll of clean cloth torn from old clothes, a small skin of fresh water, a salted fish bought with a silver coin his mother had given him, and the dragonbone dagger he had carried since childhood—the hilt inlaid with a faded dragon scale, a gift from his mother when he was very young.
The entrance to the cave at Ghost-Tooth Rock lay at the base of the outermost rock pillar, requiring one to wade through waist-deep, bone-chilling seawater to reach it.
Aeron stripped off his trousers and tied them atop his head, took a deep breath, and stepped into the water.
A sharp sting.
It was not the cold, but something else—the moment the seawater touched his skin, the burning sensation in his chest intensified sharply.
It was as if these waters were saturated with the resonance of dragon blood.
After fifty paces, the space suddenly opened up—
A massive natural cavern.
The torchlight barely illuminated the path ahead.
In the center of the platform lay the dragon.
Aeron held his breath.
Even curled and prone, its form far exceeded the size of Aeron’s dilapidated wooden shed, though its full extent remained hidden.
Yet, what was most striking was not its size, but its raw, untamed nature—a stark contrast to the dragons on Dragonstone, so carefully tended by House Targaryen.
Its scales were a muddy brown, like silt settled for years at the bottom of a riverbed, dull and lusterless.
They possessed no metallic sheen, only a dull, earthy brown hue, with dried seaweed and barnacles clinging to their edges as if they had never been cleaned.
The scales varied in size, with some areas showing signs of shedding, revealing the lighter flesh beneath.
Most shocking of all was its right wing.
Near the shoulder joint, a laceration extended from the base of the wing membrane, stretching over two feet in length.
The edges of the wound were encrusted with a grayish-white, hardened layer that shimmered with fine crystals under the torchlight—a crust formed by the salt of the seawater.
Pus oozed from the fissures in the crust, emitting a sweet, cloying, putrid stench.
The dragon suddenly opened its eyes.
Its eyes were a pale yellow, like aged amber, the pupils contracted into thin, vertical slits in the gloom.
There was no docility or submissiveness in those eyes, only wild vigilance and pain.
Aeron recalled the description in Fire and Blood: Sheepstealer was an “ugly, mud-brown wild dragon” with dull scales, a lean, medium-sized frame, and an appearance of chronic malnutrition.
The dragon before him fit the description perfectly—it was truly not beautiful, perhaps even ugly.
Its scales were lusterless, its body marked by various scars, and the wound on its right wing made it appear all the more wretched.
Yet, it was still a dragon.
A wild fire still burned within its pale yellow eyes.
Aeron set down the torch and spoke in valyrian: “I will not harm you.”
The dragon pushed itself up on its forelimbs, a low, warning growl rumbling in its throat.
The sound echoed through the cavern, shaking loose fragments of stone from the stalactites above.
Yet, it did not attack immediately.
Aeron approached slowly—one step, two steps.
When the distance closed to ten yards, the dragon suddenly snapped its jaws open, revealing dagger-like black teeth, and a blast of searing air erupted—not Dragonfire, merely a warning breath, reeking of sulfur and blood.
“Your wound is festering,” Aeron said, not retreating.
“Those salt crystals are preventing it from healing.”
He gestured to the dragon’s right wing, then held up the waterskin and the herbs.
The dragon stared at him for a long time.
Its pale yellow, vertical pupils shifted from Aeron’s face to the herbs in his hand, and finally to his silver hair—the most distinctive mark of House Targaryen.
Perhaps due to the resonance of their bloodlines, or perhaps because the pain of the wound was simply too great, the dragon eventually lowered itself back to the ground, spreading its right wing slightly to reveal the hideous laceration.
A tacit permission.
Aeron took a deep breath and stepped forward.
As he closed to within an arm’s length, the cloying, putrid stench washed over him.
Beneath the layer of salt crystals, yellowish-white pus oozed from the fissures.
Deep within the wound was embedded a shard of black obsidian from Dragonstone—a remnant of the injury the wild dragon had sustained while fighting for territory, the fragment still lodged within its flesh.
Aeron opened the waterskin and slowly poured the fresh water over the wound.
“ROAR—!”
The dragon’s body shuddered violently, causing the entire cavern to tremble.
It jerked its head up, the mud-brown scales on its neck bristling, pain and fury flashing in its pale yellow eyes.
Its claws gouged deep into the rock, emitting a harsh, scraping sound.
Yet, it did not attack Aeron.
It merely endured.
Aeron quickened his pace.
The fresh water washed away the surface pus and blood, revealing the full extent of the salt crust.
He carefully scraped it away with a wooden sliver—grayish-white crystals flaked off, falling to the ground with a faint crunching sound.
The cleaning process lasted for a quarter of an hour.
The dragon remained taut, its muscles twitching in agony, occasionally letting out a suppressed whimper.
Once the salt crystals were cleared, the wound revealed raw, crimson flesh.
Aeron quickly applied the sea-stone flower herbs and bound it with the cloth strips.
Throughout the process, the dragon kept its gaze fixed on him, the flickering torchlight reflected in its pale yellow, vertical pupils.
Once the medicine was applied, Aeron retreated five paces and placed the salted fish on the ground.
“A gift of greeting.”
The dragon lowered its head to sniff the salted fish, then regarded Aeron with a gaze that was almost human in its scrutiny.
After a long moment, it dipped its head and began to tear into the fish.
Its massive jaws easily crushed the bones, the sound of its swallowing echoing hollowly through the cavern.
Aeron knew this was only the beginning.
This mud-brown wild dragon would not trust him after a single cleaning.
But he now had an opportunity—a chance to forge a bond with the dragon before anyone else discovered it.
He gathered his belongings, preparing to leave.
As he reached the cave entrance, he glanced back.
The dragon was watching him.
In its pale yellow eyes, the vigilance had lessened, replaced by a trace of confusion and curiosity.
Aeron nodded, then turned and slipped into the passageway.
Emerging from the cavern, the daylight outside made him squint.
The tide had begun to turn, the water already lapping just below the entrance.
He waded back to the rocky beach, when he suddenly noticed—
Footprints.
They were not his.
They were hoofprints, along with the boot prints of several men, extending from the eastern rocky beach.
They had circled the cave entrance before turning back.
Daeron’s men had already been here.
Time was tighter than he had anticipated.
Aeron gripped the hilt of his dragonbone dagger and gazed toward High Tide.
The storm was coming.