SKRREEEEAAAAAAAAH!
The sound tore across the endless grass like a blade.
With his boots planted firmly in the thick swaying grass of the Dothraki Sea, Baelon lifted his eyes to watch the antelope charging straight toward him.
The beast ran with wild abandon, froth flecking at its lips, its mind so clouded with terror that it no longer distinguished its own surroundings.
Behind it, Vermithor's bronze shadow swept over the plains.
Baelon tightened his grip on his sword. Scenes like this had become familiar in the three months since he left Westeros.
Normally, an antelope would veer away from a lone human long before closing this distance. But with a dragon's roar shaking its bones, instinct had shattered into blind panic.
And panic begets opportunity...for the hunter at least.
Baelon inhaled. The breathing technique that had become second nature spread through his limbs.
His heart steadied, his hands loosened, his vision sharpened until every blade of grass stood still as he entered a state of absolute focus.
Then, just as the creature hurtled within a few strides—
It faltered.
Its foreleg plunged into one of the shallow pits Baelon had dug earlier and covered with loose grass.
The antelope lurched sideways, momentum turning against it.
And, Baelon was not one to pass on this chance.
Whzzzz!
The air sang along the steel as he moved.
To him, the world seemed to stretch into slow motion.
He stepped forth diagonally. Blade raised. Eyes still.
As its neck swung into the perfect angle, Baelon's blade flashed.
Baelon could soon feel the animal rush past him, bringing a rush of wind that kissed his skin.
Unlike before, a shallow cut was traced across its artery.
Thump!
The antelope crashed to the ground.
The impact snapped Baelon out of the calm haze. He exhaled, lowering his sword as he turned to the collapsing creature, watching the life drain from it in a thick scarlet pool.
"I did it…" He whispered.
He had killed dozens before, but this was the first time everything had been perfect. No strain in his wrists due to poor technique. No wasted movement from panic. Just perfection.
A roar rolled over the grasslands.
BRUUMMMMHHH!
Then, Vermithor landed beside him, great bronze wings folding in. The dragon nudged him with his massive head, hot breath washing over Baelon's shoulder.
Baelon laughed softly and stroked the warm scales.
"Rybas drīvī." Well done.
He truly had grown closer to the dragons in these past months, closer than he ever had during the years in Westeros. He had managed to glean each of their personalities.
Vermithor, despite his age, was spirited. Hunting thrilled him, and flight invigorated him, but nothing delighted him more than setting things ablaze.
Fire was his sport, and destruction his joy. Truly, Baelon expected nothing less, considering their first encounter.
Silverwing, though elegant and soft-sheened in appearance, was hardly calmer; she revelled in arson nearly as eagerly as Vermithor.
Dreamfyre, gentle Dreamfyre, was the calmest of the three. Long confined within the dragonpit, she cherished her newfound freedom.
She spent hours in the sky with Helaena, wheeling through the clouds with no destination at all, only the joy of motion and the open blue.
Baelon crouched beside the fallen antelope and began working with practised ease. He drained the blood first, then sliced off clean cuts of meat.
The dragon watched expectantly, but Baelon fed Vermithor only the remains, the parts too tough or too small for useful rations.
Vermithor snapped them up but hardly looked satisfied. Still, Baelon ignored the greedy dragon.
He was no fool; he had given Vermithor plenty of time to hunt by itself.
When it returned, Vermithor smelled as if he had swum in an ocean of blood.
The Bronze Fury was just being greedy.
Another roar echoed across the plains.
KRAAAUUGH!
A majestic silver dragon spiralled downward, Silverwing landing in a graceful flurry of wind and dust.
"Ābrar ēdruta?"Did you eat your fill?
Baelon called to her. Silverwing gave a short, throaty roar as her jaws parted slightly, revealing the dark red smears between her teeth. Clearly, Baelon had his answer.
Thankfully, Silverwing was more honest than his own bronze coloured bond.
Baelon wiped his hands and approached Vermithor's side, where a large leather pouch hung securely from the saddle rings.
He slid open the flap and placed the newly-cut meat inside. It joined the assortment already there, pieces charred at the edges, burned by Vermithor's overeager flames during earlier hunts.
With a practised motion, Baelon tightened the straps, then grasped the saddle grips.
He swung himself up onto Vermithor's back, settling into place.
"Soves!" He shouted.
HRRAAAASH!
The Bronze Fury roared and leapt into the sky.
***
Having landed, Baelon dismounted from Vermithor. He reached for the small pouch strapped along the saddle's flank, untying the leather cord and rummaging through until his fingers brushed woven fibres.
Pulling it out, he could see it clearly for what it was.
A basket. Simple and sturdy.
Helaena had crafted it a month ago using the tough green vines they'd stripped from a collapsed garden wall.
Baelon's face softened. Whilst a bit unpleasant to look at, it was lovingly made, and that alone made it precious.
He opened it and laid several cuts of fresh meat inside before covering them neatly with cloth. When he turned to leave, he tossed one last word skyward.
"Bēgor." Above.
Both dragons lifted their heads, huffing warm plumes of steam before launching skyward. Their wings beat against the forested clearing with enough force to send leaves skirling across the earth.
Baelon watched them climb, higher, higher and ever higher, until they were no more than two distant shapes circling the sun.
Hidden from most eyes now, but close enough to plummet down at a moment's call should he need them.
Baelon adjusted the basket in his grasp and headed into the trees.
This pocket of the Dothraki Sea was unlike the endless plains stretching in every direction.
Here, the grassland surrendered to a dense woodland where oaks, elms, and pale-barked river trees grew thick around wandering streams.
Sallosh itself might have been left to decay, but the surrounding region bustled with life.
And Baelon had been right to assume people lived here. Hidden among the forests and river valleys were scattered settlements.
They were small, wary, and fiercely private. He had approached several, only to be met with closed faces and shuttered doors once they realised he did not speak their tongue.
Helaena, soft-hearted as ever, had warned him against using dragons to force cooperation. And though it would have been effective, Baelon restrained himself for her sake.
Still, perhaps she had a point. Hiding their dragons for now would be for the best.
Eventually, he found one village that suited his needs, close enough to Sallosh, at least willing to listen and…it had someone very useful for him.
Baelon stepped onto the path leading into the settlement and eventually saw the village once again.
It was comprised of rough cottages built from pale timber, roofs layered with overlapping bark and dried reeds.
Fallen leaves carpeted the ground, and the air held the lingering scent of sap and smoke.
A group of men stationed near the outer posts spotted him instantly. One shouted, and the rest retreated into the village, footsteps quick and nervous.
Moments later, the gates opened.
A woman stepped out. Pale-skinned, almost ghostly against the dark woods, with bright blue eyes that caught the light even at a distance.
Her hair fell in loose silver-blonde waves. Despite being touched by age, she was striking still.
She approached until she stood at a respectful distance before him and bowed her head. When she spoke, familiar words filled the air.
"Rytsas, ābrazȳrys Baelir." Greetings, Lord Baelir.
"Nysēra." Baelon inclined his head, speaking her name.
Weeks of cautious contact had built some measure of trust between them.
He knew little of her past beyond what she had volunteered: once a pleasure slave from Lys, sold to a Khal by a Pentoshi merchant; now a resident of this remote woodland village.
How she escaped, why these villagers allowed her to stay, those were matters she refused to share.
Baelon never pressed her. She spoke High Valyrian. For him, that alone was enough.
"Ziry istan mazōtan?" Did you bring what I asked for?
Baelon asked.
"Yn." Of course.
She motioned for several villagers to step forward. Cautiously, they approached with wooden crates bound in twine and set them down before standing behind her.
Nysēra opened them one by one as she spoke.
"Ēdruta." Resin.
"Sīrenka." Goat milk.
"Vēlīr." Wool.
Inside were several leather pouches filled with the goods, clean, well-packed, properly sealed.
Satisfied, he lowered the basket from his arm and lifted the cloth covering.
Fresh meat, generous cuts, rich in colour and unmistakably valuable to people who had to hunt for every scrap.
Nysēra's eyes widened, the faintest glimmer of hunger and awe crossing her face. The villagers behind were not so different, their gaze devouring the meat before them.
Their exchange was quick, and no longer hesitant. Goods for meat. Cooperation for survival. Each benefitting the other.
Once their trade was done, Baelon turned back down the forest path. The woods grew quiet again, his steps alone rustling the underbrush.
He listened, half hoping to hear someone following him, half expecting the usual silence.
Nothing.
He sighed, almost disappointed.
"A bit boring…"
Stories he'd read as a child told of protagonists chased by desperate villagers, bandits hungry for coin, treasure hunters driven mad by envy.
Reality, it seemed, was far duller.
These villagers might have curiosity, but not foolishness. They knew fresh meat meant either great skill or great numbers.
Regardless of which category he fell into, he was not something they could provoke.
'A wise choice,' Baelon mused. If they truly dared to do something, they would have to answer to a certain pair of arsonists…
Whoosh!
Vermithor descended first, the air rolling with heat from his mighty wings. Silverwing followed, landing with a gentle thud beside him.
Baelon placed the newly acquired goods into the saddle pouch on Vermithor's flank, tightening the straps.
Then, he issued the only command needed:
"Sōvēs." Fly.
Both dragons surged upward once more, and Baelon mounted Vermithor as they rose, the forest shrinking beneath them as they set off toward Sallosh.