Baelon lay flat against the warm earth, the endless grasses of the Dothraki Sea whispering around him.
A few feet away, a narrow tributary of the great Sarne cut a gleaming ribbon through the steppe, its waters murmuring over stone and reed as it wound lazily eastward.
Beside him, Helaena rested on her back in the tall grass, her pale hair fanning around her like a spilt veil.
She watched the sky with a soft, absent expression, her eyes tracing the drifting clouds above.
Now and then, the wind teased strands of her hair across her cheeks, and she brushed them away with a small, contented hum.
A little farther off, Dreamfyre lay curled upon the ground, her pale blue scales shimmering softly with each slow rise and fall of her breath.
Her wings were tucked tight to her sides, talons kneading the earth in small, lazy movements as she dozed.
"Brother," Helaena murmured at last, turning her head toward him, "how much farther is this place you're looking for?"
"Not much longer," Baelon replied, still half-lost in the sky. "We're already deep into the Dothraki Sea. One more flight and we should be there."
It had been two days since they'd left King's Landing, and during those two days, Baelon had come to a very important realisation.
They were very, very fortunate to have dragons.
The thought struck him with more force now than it ever had in Westeros.
Only now, crossing a land so vast it swallowed the horizon, did he understand how two children could dare venture so far from home.
Dragons were wings, shelter, fire, and strength. They lifted the pair across foreign ground, shielded them from danger, and carried them farther in hours than any horse could in a day.
And they could also—
KRRAAAAKH!
A thunderous roar split the sky.
Baelon jolted upright. He knew what that roar meant. Stumbling to his feet, he clutched his protesting stomach.
Beside him, Helaena rose to her knees, pressing a hand to her middle as hunger twisted through her as well.
Above them, two immense shapes descended from the clouds, bronze and silver, circling once before plunging toward the grass with great beating wings.
The bronze dragon landed first, its impact sending a tremor through the ground. With a grunt, Vermithor dropped his catch at Baelon's feet: the limp, blood-slick body of a horse.
It was a tall, lean creature and different from those Baelon had seen in Westeros. It was not a horse bred to carry heavy knights into combat.
No.
These were born for unending gallops across the Great Grass Sea. Its coat had been a glossy reddish-brown, though much of it was now darkened and matted.
Speechless, Baelon stared at Vermithor, who stared right back as if awaiting praise.
'Well… I suppose this is what I get for asking a dragon to hunt for me,' he thought, throat tightening with something between gratitude and resignation.
His stomach growled loudly enough for Dreamfyre to flick an eye open.
As much as he was reluctant to eat a horse, it seemed like it was inevitable.
There wasn't much choice. Either they ate this or sent the dragons out again, wasting time they couldn't afford to lose.
Baelon placed a hand on the great bronze snout and whispered, "Kirimvose, Vermithor." Thank you, Vermithor
Vermithor rumbled deep in his chest, nuzzling his head gently against Baelon's palm.
A strange warmth spread through Baelon at the contact.
In Westeros, he had rarely been able to stay long with Vermithor; the dragon pit was a cramped, stifling prison for a creature of such immense size, and Baelon often allowed Vermithor to fly free while he remained in the Red Keep.
But now?
Two days of flying together, sleeping beside Vermithor beneath the open sky, feeling his breath stir his cloak at night…it was different. So different.
Their bond felt as if it were knitting itself tighter, thread by thread, with every shared hour. Vermithor was no longer just a mount or a symbol.
He was becoming something else entirely. A presence Baelon understood in ways he hadn't realised he could. A companion, not simply a dragon.
And Baelon felt, quietly, that Vermithor understood him better, too.
"Baelon…" Helaena's voice wavered with a quiet confusion as she stepped beside him. "You're not telling me we're eating this, are you?"
She looked between him and the slain horse with a peculiar, conflicted gaze. She held neither disgust nor horror, but a kind of sad puzzlement.
"Perhaps…" Baelon muttered, giving an awkward cough as he tore his eyes away. "It's not like we have much of a choice…"
Helaena pressed her lips together, shoulders rising with a small breath before she stepped forward.
She reached down, brushing her fingers gently over the horse's muzzle. Its once-warm nostrils were already cooling in the breeze.
"It's a shame," she murmured.
Baelon opened his mouth, seeing this, "I can handle the corpse if it bothers you—"
But Helaena shook her head immediately, pale hair shifting with the wind.
"No. I'm fine," she said, voice soft but tinged with determination. "This is the law of the world, isn't it? One creature's meal is another creature's life. There is no right and wrong in it."
Her hand lingered on the horse's muzzle a moment longer before she withdrew it.
"If I want to stay by your side and truly live freely," she continued, "then I have to learn how to survive in the real world."
Baelon hesitated, studying her before acquiescing to her request.
However, should she feel significant discomfort, he would be the first one to make her sit out this one.
"But… you mentioned the Dothraki greatly respect their horses. If they found us, would they not form enmity with us?"
"It's either that or us starving," Baelon sighed. "And honestly, the reason I picked our new home to be in the Dothraki Sea is that we are the people who fear the Dothraki the least. Any other settlement might have bows powerful enough to threaten us or even scorpions to threaten our dragons. But the Dothraki have neither. Compared to everything else out here, they're… manageable."
He knelt beside the carcass, pulling the small dagger from his belt. The blade looked pitifully small compared to Vermithor's kill.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
Helaena swallowed once, then nodded.
Seeing her agree, Baelon made the first cut at the throat, opening the artery with an unsteady hand.
Hot blood spilt over his fingers immediately, steaming against the cooler afternoon air. The metallic scent rushed up at him, causing his stomach to lurch, as he clenched his teeth hard enough to hurt.
He had smelled blood before, but never this much. Never this fresh. He could almost taste it in the air.
Beside him, Helaena had gone pale. Her lips trembled faintly. But she did not step away.
She knelt beside him, hands tightening into fists on her skirt, forcing herself to remain present.
Together, they worked.
Baelon slit down the belly carefully, and Helaena held the hide taut with trembling fingers so he could peel it back.
The blood pooled darkly on the grass, soaking into the earth. The sickly-sweet smell of opened organs filled the air. Still, they pressed on.
They scraped meat from the ribs, cut the backstraps cleanly, and separated the good cuts from the unusable.
With each step, his resolve hardened ever more.
They were adapting. They had to.
Once the meat was prepared, they gathered dry grass and brush, arranging it into a small fire pit.
Dreamfyre stepped closer, tilting her pale blue head.
"Just a little flame," Baelon looked to Helaena, who nodded, whispering to her dragon.
Soon, a soft wave of fire washed over the pit. The brush ignited instantly, a warm orange glow flickering across their bloodstained hands.
They placed the cuts on a makeshift spit of branches, turning them slowly as the fat crackled and the smell of roasting meat rose into the air.
When the meat was cooked, they set aside their portions, and Baelon gestured toward the carcass remains.
"Kisās." Eat.
Hearing that the dragons descended eagerly. Bones, hooves, scraps of hide, everything vanished under claws and jaws alike.
Once the dragons were satisfied, Baelon and Helaena carried their food to the river. Kneeling by the flowing tributary of the Sarne, they dipped their hands into the cold, clear water.
Red spiralled away from their fingers in thin ribbons.
Baelon scrubbed until the water around him ran clean. Beside him, Helaena did the same.
Behind them, the dragons bent their great necks to the river, drinking deeply.
When finished, they settled down on the grass, curling near each other, wings folding neatly as the long day's exertions caught up to them.
Baelon and Helaena sat together on the riverbank, the roasted meat warm in their hands, the evening breeze cool on their freshly washed skin.
Across the vast plain, their dragons dozed in contented silence as their riders ate.
Baelon bit into the roasted meat, working his jaw until he managed to swallow it.
It was hardly pleasant, dry, and tasted more of smoke than meat, but it filled the emptiness in his stomach.
Across from him, Helaena gnawed at her own portion, teeth sinking in only a finger's breadth before the stubborn meat refused to part. Her brow tightened, lips twisting in growing irritation.
A low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. Helaena's head snapped up, her pale eyes narrowing in a glare.
"Oh, hush," she muttered.
Baelon's grin only widened. He reached for the dagger lying beside him.
Earlier, he had rinsed the blade clean in the river's cold flow, then held it over the last flickers of their fire until the metal glowed faintly
"Take it," Baelon offered the knife instead, placing the hilt gently into her palm.
Helaena curled her hand around the grip, lifted the meat, and pressed the edge through its tough surface.
The blade slid in cleanly, splitting the fibres that her teeth could not. She carved off a small chunk and then popped it into her mouth.
Her expression shifted as she chewed, first strained…then resigned.
"How is it?" Baelon asked.
Helaena swallowed, wrinkled her nose, and nodded with grudging acceptance.
"Not great…" she admitted. "But it's a step in the right direction." Her gaze softened. "Besides… It's our first meal that we made together." A small smile tugged at her lips.
For a moment, neither spoke. They simply sat there, two exhausted children on a lonely stretch of earth, sharing a small victory between each other.
The night deepened around them as the siblings chewed their tough, imperfect meal side by side. And, soon, it was time to rest.
The three dragons settled gradually across the vast grass plain.
Dreamfyre curled her pale blue bulk to the east, wings folding like shimmering silk over her sides.
Silverwing took the western flank, silver-white plates catching faint moonlight as she rested her head atop her forelegs.
Vermithor, the largest and warmest of the three, lay to the south, as smoke drifted idly from his nostrils with each heavy exhale.
Together, the dragons formed a ring around Baelon and Helaena, a loose circle of living flame and flesh that shielded them from wind, beasts, and the endless dark of the steppe.
Baelon lay on his back in the soft grass, staring up at the star-lit sky. The rising heat from Vermithor's scales washed over him in gentle, rolling waves, warming his skin and banishing the desert chill.
Helaena lay curled against him, her head resting on his chest, her soft hair spilling loosely across his throat.
Now and then, a strand would tickle his jaw, and he could feel the brush of her breath through his shirt with every exhale.
One of her hands rested atop his ribs; the other was tucked close beneath her chin.
After a comfortable silence, she murmured, "Brother… can you tell me about our new home? You called it Sarnor?"
She shifted slightly, her hair brushing along his collarbone as she looked up. "But I've never heard of such a place."
"That's not surprising." Baelon kept his gaze on the sky. "The Kingdom of Sarnor was an ancient realm that once flourished along the banks of the Great River Sarne. It's people called themselves the Tall Men. In their time, they stood beside giants of Essos: The Valyrians, The Ghiscari Empire…"
He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "But the Doom of Valyria, doomed more than just the Freehold, as what followed was called the Century of Blood."
Helaena listened quietly, her fingers absently curling into the fabric of his tunic.
"In less than a century," Baelon continued softly, "the ancient kingdom of Sarnor fell to its knees. Wave after wave of migrating Dothraki khalasars descended upon them. Their cities were razed, their people slaughtered or taken as slaves. Almost nothing remains today."
His hand drifted into Helaena's hair, stroking gently as he spoke. "Only the city of Saath endured, with its people claiming to have descended from Sarnor. Its sister city, Sarys, was not so fortunate."
"So…" Helaena whispered, eyes half-lidded with sleep, "are we going to Sarys?"
"That isn't impossible," he admitted. "But Sarys lies too close to Saath. Too many people. Too many eyes. If we are to live freely, it must be somewhere isolated…uninhabited, yet fed by fresh water. A place we can rebuild slowly, safely."
She yawned softly and curled closer, her legs tucking against his side. "Are there many places like that?"
"Oh, plenty." Baelon huffed with a tired smile. "The Dothraki left behind more abandoned cities than they ever settled. But only one really interests me."
His breathing steadied, the warmth of the dragons and the softness of Helaena's weight drawing him toward sleep. His eyes fluttered shut as the night wrapped around them like a blanket.
"It was a city that went by a great many names, but it had only one true name…" He whispered, his words fading into the vast, whispering dark of the Dothraki Sea.
"…Sallosh."