Baelon stood motionless upon the shattered ice, lifting his clawed hands before his eyes and studying the body that had replaced his own.
Scaled. Powerful. And Inhuman.
He turned one hand slowly, watching the light slide across the crimson plates that covered his forearm. His talons flexed, long and curved, each movement accompanied by a faint rasp of scale against scale.
"It actually looks… rather well made," he said at last, his voice rougher than before. He tilted his head, inspecting the ridged pattern along his wrist. "The markings are close to Tyraxes's scales. Closer than I expected."
The words were calm, almost clinical, yet his chest rose and fell more heavily than it should have. After a long moment, he lowered his hands.
That was his judgment.
He had never imagined that he had never truly been human. Not at birth. Not ever.
The realization struck hard, but it did not shatter him. There was shock, certainly, and a cold unease that settled behind his ribs, but it was not unbearable. He found, to his own surprise, that he could accept it.
House Targaryen had always claimed to carry the blood of dragons.
Maegor the Cruel had believed it with a fanatic's certainty. In his desperation for an heir, the king had taken wife after wife, heedless of law or gods. Queen Alys and Queen Jeyne had both given him children that never lived, abominations whispered of behind closed doors and sung of in fearful rumor.
One had been born with both male and female parts, its skin slick with scales.
Another had been a malformed boy, eyeless, with only stunted nubs of wings upon his back.
Baelon exhaled slowly through his nose. Frost steamed from his breath.
Perhaps the dragon's blood had never been only a figure of speech.
A thunderous roar tore through the frozen sky.
Above him, Tyraxes reared back and bellowed, the sound rolling across the ice like a warhorn of the gods. Crimson fire poured from the dragon's jaws in violent torrents, lighting the clouds with blood-red fury.
This time Tyraxes arched his long neck fully, wings spread wide, and unleashed flame in every direction. There was no shelter, no blind corner left untouched. The inferno swept the air clean.
The ice creatures screamed as they burned.
Some tore away pieces of their own bodies, casting them down to smother the flames, but it was a futile defense. Once quenched, the fire flared anew, clinging to them, burning until nothing remained but hissing vapor.
Baelon did not stand idle.
Though he could not yet take to the air, strength surged through him with every heartbeat. The cold that had once crippled him now felt distant, dulled. Close combat was no longer desperation. It was pursuit.
An eagle-shaped creature, its wings shredded by dragonfire, spiraled helplessly downward. Baelon crouched, muscles coiling, then launched himself forward. His claws struck as the thing hit the ice, ripping through its frozen hide with brutal ease.
He straightened, flexing his talons, watching fragments of ice and shadow scatter across the ground.
"This power…" he murmured, curling his claws slowly, feeling the strength in them. His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to awe. "It is monstrous."
The killing cold gnawed at him still, but it no longer pierced to the bone. His movements remained sure. No numbness crept into his limbs. No frostbite stole his grip.
Baelon closed his claws into fists, scales grinding softly.
He might never be human again, but he was alive.
Had he struck the ground like this in mortal flesh, his spine would have shattered. Instead, his transformation had completed mid-fall, the thick scales along his body drinking in the impact and turning death aside.
Man and dragon fought as one.
Within moments, the skies were clear. The last of the eagle-like ice creatures lay broken and steaming upon the frozen plain.
Baelon turned sharply toward Tyraxes and raised one clawed hand. "Enough," he called. His wings twitched with restrained urgency. "We move now. Take the measurements and leave. If the main host arrives, we die here."
He did not linger to savor victory.
Once the air was secured, Baelon climbed onto Tyraxes's back, gripping the hardened ridges along the dragon's spine. He leaned forward and pressed his hand against the warm scales of Tyraxes's neck, urging him onward.
The dragon's breathing was heavy, each breath a rasp of smoke. His muscles quivered beneath Baelon's grip. The inferno had taken its price.
Baelon fared little better.
His clothes were gone, burned or torn away, and only the living armor of his scales kept him from freezing outright. Even so, he could feel his strength thinning, leaking away with every passing moment.
If he lost control of this form, the cold would claim him swiftly.
Dragon blood could ward against flame. It offered no mercy from ice.
"South," Baelon said, leaning closer, his hand tightening in Tyraxes's scales. "We cross the Wall first."
Tyraxes answered with a low, rumbling growl and beat his wings. The air cracked as he surged skyward, turning south toward Last Hearth.
Not long after they vanished into the clouds, the ice began to stir.
From beneath the snow, crab-like shapes crawled forth, drawn by the echoes of battle, their many eyes fixed upon the scorched ground left behind.
They were not small creatures.
Each crab was two or three times the size of an ordinary one, nearly as large as a human head. Their shells gleamed a translucent ice-blue, crystalline and faintly luminous beneath the pale northern sun, as though sculpted from living frost rather than flesh.
Those at the front advanced with care. Their many legs moved in slow, deliberate patterns, pincers lifting and lowering as they tested the air. Beady eyes swept the scorched ice where dragonfire had raged only moments before.
Danger?
They paused. Listened and watched.
At length, whatever instinct guided them seemed satisfied. One by one, they turned and scuttled back toward the rear of the formation.
There, looming in utter stillness, waited something vast.
The giant crab towered four to five meters high, its body stretching more than ten meters from claw to tail. Though it lacked wings, its sheer mass rivaled that of the Grey Ghost itself. Its shell was darker than the others, a deep sapphire hue shot through with veins of glimmering frost.
The smaller crabs gathered before it, pincers clacking in a low, rhythmic cadence. Their movements were subtle, almost ritualistic, as though each twitch and scrape carried meaning.
The giant's eyes, enormous and gem-like, burned with cold intelligence. It did not move as it received their report, but nothing escaped its notice. The direction of scorched ice. The lingering heat in the air. The path carved through the clouds where Tyraxes had flown.
When the message was complete, the lesser crabs withdrew, melting back into the snow.
For a long while, the giant crab remained motionless, staring northward.
Then, with ponderous inevitability, it turned its massive body away.
The Wall still stood.
The descendants of fire to the south were not yet weak.
This was not the time.
Far to the south, beneath warmer skies, Princess Helaena Targaryen faced her first true trial as a dragon-tamer.
The gates of the Dragonpit loomed before her, dark and unyielding. Stone gargoyles watched in silence as her escort came to a halt. The clink of armor echoed faintly through the air.
"I am terribly sorry, Princess," the young dragonkeeper said. His hands twisted together as he spoke, eyes flicking past her to the armed men at her back. "Without direct orders from His Majesty, we cannot open the gates."
He swallowed and hurried on, as though afraid of the silence that followed. "If you would seek the king's permission first, I swear the pit will be opened at once. We will comply fully."
His discomfort was plain. Sweat beaded at his brow despite the cool air, and his shoulders were drawn tight, bracing for a storm that had not yet broken.
By law and custom, he could not yield. Opening the Dragonpit without royal command was unthinkable.
And there were other questions he dared not voice. Princess Helaena was meant to be at Harrenhal. Instead, she had returned to King's Landing at the head of armed men, speaking openly of taming dragons.
To many eyes, it looked perilously close to treason.
Helaena regarded him quietly. Her hands were folded before her, fingers still, her expression serene. Only the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed any tension.
"I understand your position," she said at last. Her voice was gentle, steady, carrying neither threat nor plea. "I have no wish to place you in difficulty."
She inclined her head, a small, gracious gesture.
That was all.
She offered no argument. No command. No appeal to blood or birthright.
For her, whether the gates opened by consent or by force was of little consequence.
The dragonkeeper let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. His shoulders loosened, and a trace of relief crossed his face. He bowed quickly, convinced the princess had chosen to withdraw.
He was mistaken.
In the next heartbeat, a figure behind Helaena moved.
A knight stepped forward with sudden, explosive speed. His armor was jet black, polished to a mirror sheen. Upon his breastplate was emblazoned a great black heart, stark against the dark steel.
The dragonkeeper had time only to turn his head.
The knight's gauntleted fist fell like a smith's hammer.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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