Vermithor

A few days later.

Everyone watched the pitch-black dragon fly across the sky.

The shepherd accepted the silver stags with both hands and brought news that Sheepstealer was eating sheep in the valley.

Of the wild dragons on the Dragonmont, only Grey Ghost, a small fry, remained.

Baelon watched the Cannibal vanish into the clouds, reluctant to look away for a long time.

The Cannibal was so handsome. He looked so much like Balerion the Black Dread.

Baelon shouldered his light pack, which he had prepared long ago. It held only one useful item for taming a dragon.

The unwashed nightclothes his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, had worn the longest.

With the pack on his back, he said goodbye to Viserys and set out for the Dragonmont, brimming with ambition.

He had originally had even more unorthodox dragon-taming techniques in mind.

For instance, "borrowing" a tiny bit of his ancestor Jaehaerys's ashes and rubbing them over his body.

Smack!

Baelon slapped himself on the spot, shaking that depraved method out of his head.

Despicable!

Filthy!

How could he use such shameless methods to pollute Westeros's wholesome dragon-taming environment?!

Armed with the dragon-taming strategy of Viserys the "Young and Vigorous King," carrying the sacred relic of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and bearing in mind the dragon-riding guidelines compiled by generations of Dragonkeepers.

Baelon climbed the rugged, craggy Dragonmont in high spirits.

Huge rocks lay stacked in layers, making the going fairly easy.

Vermithor was nothing!

Watch me win him over with ease.

He slipped into a massive, arched cavern.

People on Dragonstone had once seen Silverwing burst out of this entrance.

The cavern was broad and deep.

The farther he went, the dimmer the light became.

Baelon lit a thick candle, holding its gold candlestick.

He lightened his footsteps and slowly felt his way along the wall. The hard stone pressed painfully against his hand.

In the silence, the slightest sound was amplified. His breathing and footsteps sounded especially clear.

He did not know what lay ahead.

Whether he could find Vermithor, or whether a blast of dragonfire might suddenly erupt from somewhere.

The darkness, deathly silence, and uncertainty cooled his soaring ambition.

He lifted his left foot, set it down, lifted his right, and kept moving forward.

After an unknown length of time, the air brushing his face grew warm.

Baelon exhaled. He did not know whether he was imagining it.

His Targaryen blood gave him resistance to high temperatures far beyond that of ordinary people, but it also made him less sensitive to changes in heat.

The farther he went, the hotter it became.

A sulfurous stink drifted through the air, like burning leather or plastic, growing stronger and stronger.

It not only smelled foul but stung his eyes as well.

The candle flame danced wildly. Baelon's hand was shaking badly.

He took several deep breaths and continued forward.

At last, light appeared at the end of the cavern.

With one hand against the wall, Baelon felt his way forward, holding the candle in the other.

Suddenly, he stopped.

Heavy, long, even breaths announced the presence of an enormous beast ahead.

A dragon lay just ahead.

Was it Vermithor? Or Silverwing?

Baelon did not know. He silently repeated the Dragonkeepers' words to himself. Don't retreat. Don't be afraid!

As the Seven were his witnesses, no matter how frightened he was, he would not take a single step back!

His gaze firm, Baelon held his trembling palm over the candle flame.

When he lifted his hand, only a wisp of smoke remained beneath his unharmed palm.

He set down the candlestick and charged toward the end of the cavern.

Take a chance, and a bicycle could become a motorcycle!

Let's see which dragon I draw!

My luck!

It's always been unbelievably good!

His view suddenly opened up!

An immense cavern appeared before him, its rocky walls blackened by dragonfire.

A glimpse of bronze scales and claws filled his vision.

In the center of the cavern, a bronze dragon slept soundly.

Faint daylight fell over his enormous body, allowing Baelon to see the beast in full.

His body was as massive as a mountain, his bronze-gold scales gleaming in the weak daylight. His wings were folded against his sides, their tips covered in hooked claws.

Vermithor!

The dragon of his dreams!

Suddenly!

The dragon's eyes snapped open!

The bronze dragon awoke with a low, displeased growl.

Baelon instinctively held his breath.

He froze, his heart pounding so fast it seemed about to leap out of his throat.

This feeling... could it be!

The enormous, fearsome head stretched out, slowly approaching Baelon.

The cavern rumbled and shook as Vermithor crawled forward.

Low growls echoed through the cavern, shaking loose showers of small stones.

Scorching breath washed over his face.

The sulfurous stink rushed straight into his nose!

Vermithor opened his enormous mouth, exposing two or three rows of sharp, massive teeth, each longer than Baelon's arm.

Fear was a human instinct before such a beast.

Vermithor brought his enormous mouth closer, then closed it, merely sniffing Baelon's scent.

No one could stand before a dragon without fear.

That warm breath could freeze the blood of the bravest knight!

The enormous head and the tiny human formed a stark contrast.

Baelon trembled all over.

This feeling...

This was what it felt like to fall in love!

A broad smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he stared unblinkingly at Vermithor.

What a powerful, captivating creature!

What a beautiful beast!

Hot blood surged from his heart, rushing through every part of his body.

Baelon was utterly bewitched by this dragon, caught in an unnamed frenzy.

At this moment, there was no fear in his heart.

Because.

He had fallen in love with Vermithor at first sight.

Baelon thought that perhaps he truly was a Targaryen.

"Vermithor."

Reason dictated that he should wait a few seconds, letting the dragon grow accustomed to his scent.

Then he should offer some dried meat to build a little rapport.

But from deep within him rose a strange, sickly intoxication with the dragon.

That obsessive feeling urged him to step forward of his own accord.

Vermithor's head stilled, his nostrils flaring as a familiar scent flowed into them.

The dragon lowered his head. A silver-haired figure was reflected in eyes the size of portholes.

That figure approached him resolutely.

Vermithor watched Baelon quietly, without moving.

Baelon advanced, one step at a time.

In a daze, he thought of many people.

Decades ago, had his father Viserys and his uncle Daemon also approached mountain-sized dragons like this, step by step?

His yet-unborn brother, the young Aemond, had seen the sleeping Vhagar and had not retreated. Only a burning desire had driven him toward the dragon.

A century later.

Aerion "Brightflame" Targaryen, who swallowed wildfire, firmly believing it could turn him into a true dragon!

Aegon V Targaryen, who brought about the tragedy of Summerhall in his effort to bring dragons back.

Now Baelon was almost pressed against Vermithor's mouth, heavy breaths brushing his face.

At this distance, if the dragon opened his jaws or breathed dragonfire, he would have absolutely no escape.

Dragonfire hung before his face. He himself had walked toward destruction, step by step.

Yet a shuddering ecstasy welled up within Baelon, and he felt his very soul tremble.

So.

He truly was a Targaryen.

Baelon eagerly raised both hands and wrapped his arms around Vermithor's snout, as though throwing himself into his mother's embrace.

Warm, rough, damp...

He let out a satisfied sigh.

To burn with fervor for dragons.

To become intoxicated by this destructive magnificence!

To go mad for dragons!

It was the destiny of every Targaryen!

Vermithor suddenly stirred. He rested his head on the ground, his eyes fixed intently yet docilely on Baelon.

Baelon raised his head. In the deep cavern, man and dragon gazed silently at each other.

A wondrous feeling arose between man and dragon.

He seemed to have formed some sort of connection with Vermithor.

So easily?

There had been no arduous taming after facing danger.

Baelon felt excited and found it absurd.

I haven't even done anything yet?!

Just because of my bloodline, I've gained Vermithor so easily?!

Is this the power of Targaryens in their prime season?

Vermithor seemed to sense his excitement. His pupils suddenly contracted, and he lifted his head with an excited roar.

The dragon's roar was like rolling summer thunder. The entire Dragonmont trembled!

That wild, almost divine presence captivated Baelon.

He thought he had fallen utterly and completely in love with Vermithor.

He saw his own reflection in Vermithor's eyes.

Baelon did not know whether this sudden love came from his Targaryen blood's fervor for dragons in this life.

Or from his dragon-loving furry soul from his previous life.

Was it because of the power dragons represented, the power to break every shackle?

Or humanity's instinctive fascination with death and danger?

But in that exchanged glance, Baelon decided his own ending.

If, in the end, he remained a mortal doomed to die, then he would not die in bed. He did not want a peaceful death.

He wanted to perish by a dragon, his body consumed by dragonfire.

Only that would be worthy of a Targaryen.

Baelon grasped the dust-covered rope tied to Vermithor's side and began to climb.

Vermithor gave a low growl and lowered his enormous body.

As Baelon climbed, he looked forward to reaching Vermithor's back and soaring into the sky.

His first flight.

Suddenly.

"Roar-"

A resonant dragon's roar rang out from the depths of the cavern.

Hanging from Vermithor's side, Baelon looked toward the sound.