Stealing Clouds?

The sun sank westward, staining the sky rose-red.

Baelon's depleted mental energy recovered, and he was full of life again.

That was the good thing about being a child: boundless energy and a quick recovery.

He studied Vermithor closely, marveling at his enormous size.

Vermithor now measured a full 140 meters long, and his wingspan blotted out the sky, broad enough to cover a town.

His gleaming bronze-gold scales looked like a brilliant yellow river of stars in the sunlight.

Even the smallest scale on the dragon's body was now large enough to serve as an iron half-helm, covering Baelon's upper body.

Baelon drew the blue steel dagger at his waist, slender and sharp, forged by the finest smith in King's Landing.

He aimed the dagger at Vermithor's toe and swung hard, hacking the blade against a small scale.

Sparks scattered everywhere.

Vermithor stared at his rider in bewilderment.

Baelon exclaimed in wonder, holding the dagger up to the sunlight to examine its rolled edge.

A notch had appeared in the once-smooth blade.

His attempt to give Vermithor a pedicure had failed, costing him a dagger instead.

He met Vermithor's enormous eyes and frowned slightly.

Those eyes were as big as lakes, large enough to drown ten Baelons.

The eyes were too big. Meraxes, after all, had died from a shot to the eye.

Should I get Vermithor some goggles?

Vermithor swayed his huge tail, striking the rock face like a battering ram with a thunderous rumble.

"I haven't had a proper flight with you yet."

The saddle's ropes had long since snapped under Vermithor's explosive growth, leaving countless broken lengths dangling loosely from his body.

Once they returned to King's Landing, refitting the saddle would probably be a nerve-racking undertaking for the Dragonkeepers.

Baelon simply pulled the saddle off and wound three or four arm-thick ropes around his shoulders.

Vermithor stretched out a wing and rested it on the ground, forming a slope before Baelon.

He began climbing, using both hands and feet, as though scaling a warm volcano.

He climbed over the tough wing membrane, a vast leaf whose raised bones resembled veins.

He climbed over the folds and ridges of dragonhide, mountain ravines etched with the years.

Baelon reached the summit and, atop its broad, undulating heights, tied himself to Vermithor with hemp ropes.

"Fly, Vermithor," he said softly.

Baelon named no destination. "Anywhere you like."

Beneath the vast blue sky lay the bountiful earth.

Whether it was the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea or Asshai in the Shadow Lands.

There was nowhere in the world he and Vermithor could not go.

Vermithor gave a long, low call and crawled a few steps, emerging from the narrow rock walls.

The dragon freely spread his sky-blotting wings. One heavy beat raised a gale that carried him soaring upward.

His enormous wings cut off the daylight, and night fell without warning.

Everyone in Dragonstone Castle looked up at once.

Countless people stood rooted to the spot.

The guards on the towers trembled, staring stiffly at the unfamiliar dragon.

The Painted Table Chamber.

Viserys leaned halfway out the window, his eyes trembling violently and his heart pounding.

Was that Vermithor?!

He had grown almost half again as large!

Screams and cries rang in Viserys's ears. "Seven above!"

Many on Dragonstone recognized Vermithor.

"Just this morning, he was still..."

"How did he suddenly get so big?!"

Fear spread through the crowd.

Viserys's gaze shifted, and he shouted almost without thinking, laughing, "This is a Targaryen gift!"

"A gift rarer even than that of a dragonrider!"

"The Seven love Baelon and have bestowed this honor and gift upon him!"

The crowd gradually calmed.

So that was it. That made sense.

As for whether it truly was a blessing from the Seven, they dared not think too deeply.

Vermithor flew purposefully southeast as Baelon spread his arms, his silver hair streaming freely.

His face shone with excitement as he eagerly played out a meme.

In halting Valyrian, Baelon asked with a laugh, "Vermithor, why are you heading that way? Who's over there?"

Who's got you so interested?

Vermithor rumbled softly. Through the bond between dragon and rider, his intelligence allowed him to vaguely understand his rider's meaning.

Baelon narrowed his eyes, enjoying the wind caressing every strand of his hair.

The sky was clear and bright, the wind vast and sweeping.

At that moment, he allowed anything to happen.

Through his two-way link with Vermithor, a faint message came.

Something in that direction really was drawing the dragon.

Southeast, huh.

A map surfaced in Baelon's mind. Along the way, they would pass Tyrosh, the Stepstones, Lys, and Volantis.

They would cross the Smoking Sea, where there were also the ruins of Old Valyria...

Huh?

Wait!

"Oh, fuck!"

Baelon's eyes widened, and in his panic, even a habitual curse from his previous life slipped out.

He kept shrieking, "Turn around!"

"Turn around!"

Vermithor roared, the attraction urging him onward.

Baelon grew utterly serious. "Turn around right now!"

"Vermithor!"

Vermithor's King's Engine was running, a constant rumble sounding in his throat.

In the end, the bond forged by overcoming trials beside his rider, bleeding together, and facing death together overpowered that mysterious attraction.

The dragon braked sharply in midair, twisting like a swirling south wind before beating his wings in the opposite direction.

Baelon breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

That scared me to death. I was only saying that bit about going anywhere.

Look at you, Vermithor. Why'd you take it seriously?

I was only joking.

Over the vast sea.

Like a storm plunging from above, the dragon swooped down and skimmed low over the water, raising towering waves.

Amid the flying spray, like snow filling the sky, boy and dragon cried out in delight.

Dragon roars and laughter echoed freely between heaven and earth.

Rolling clouds and mist swept across an unbroken mountain range.

Baelon recognized the mountains embracing the Vale: the Mountains of the Moon.

Watching the clouds churn over the Vale, he suddenly had an idea. "Vermithor!"

Vermithor descended a little, leveling with the great banks of mist.

He spread his sail-like wings, beating them again and again to stir up great winds.

The gale howled, trapping hundreds of meters of cloud and mist in one corner of the mountaintops. They rolled and surged, yet could not cross the mountains.

The enormous dragon swept up wind and clouds, like a god commanding the gale, like a natural catastrophe.

Baelon could no longer contain himself and burst into peals of delighted laughter.

Playing on this Targaryen account of his, he could not imagine what kind of badass could keep from laughing aloud!

Baelon shouted, "Dragonfire!"

Vermithor obeyed, climbing a little higher before breathing a tremendous jet of flame more than fifty meters long.

At its leading edge, tongues of fire rolled across the sky with loud cracks and roars.

The heat dispersed the clouds and mist that shrouded the Vale year-round, exposing sheer rock faces and deep valleys in the blazing light.

"Vermithor!"

What a powerful dragon.

What a handsome dragon!

Who said this dragon's sulfur smell stank?!

Baelon took a long, deep breath, drawing it straight into his lungs!

This sulfur stench... pfft, no, this sulfur fragrance was fantastic!

Vermithor spiraled upward, his wings beating the air as fierce winds churned the clouds.

Baelon looked down. Everything was tiny.

He saw seven slender white towers and the towering Giant's Lance.

The castles of the Vale, the layers of mighty fortifications its people took pride in, everything human civilization had built throughout the ages!

The Mountains of the Moon, shaped by the earth, the natural defenses of those lofty peaks!

Castles built with all humanity's strength stood against natural defenses shaped over ten thousand years.

Everything lay beneath the dragon's feet as Vermithor flew lightly over it all.

The sudden appearance of an enormous dragon, and the night descending from the sky, plunged the Eyrie into uproar.

Jeyne Arryn's lips turned pale as she stared blankly at the beast circling high above.

Ser Royce could not utter a word.

Reason told him that the dragon visiting the Vale must have a Targaryen rider and would not readily attack them.

But instinctive terror left Ser Royce rigid.

In the silence, Jeyne Arryn spoke. "Why isn't the dragon landing?"

"What is he going to do?"

Above the Vale, layers of clouds surged like tides.

Following Baelon's wishes, Vermithor stirred the air at will, sending clouds and mist drifting with the wind.

Clear, bright sky appeared through a gap in the clouds, and gradually, the gap widened.

Under the eyes of the Vale's people, Vermithor swept up the sea of clouds, driving the rolling mist before him as he sped south.

He left the people of the Vale stunned and speechless.

The people of the Vale stared at the bright, cloudless sky for who knew how long.

Suddenly, someone shrieked, "The dragon stole our clouds?!"

"Shut up!" Earl Rhea Royce shouted, but her hands were still trembling slightly.

Ten thousand meters above the ground.

Baelon and Vermithor swept along with the thick clouds, riding the wind as they sped toward King's Landing.