The Targaryen family had a saying passed down through the ages: "A dragon has only one head."
It wasn't just a metaphor—it was an absolute truth.
At any given time, a dragon recognized only one Dragon Rider as its master. The bond between a dragon and its rider was forged through instinct, trust, and blood. Once that bond was made, the dragon would serve with unwavering loyalty, rejecting all others.
Likewise, a Dragon Rider could only command one dragon at a time. Even Daenerys Targaryen, the fabled Mother of Dragons—prophesied to hatch three petrified eggs and return dragons to the world—rode only Drogon. The other two, Viserion and Rhaegal, while loyal, never accepted another rider in her place.
If someone dared to mount a dragon that already had a master—whether they were Targaryen or not—they risked being bathed in dragonfire so hot it could melt stone.
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"Vaghar, calm down!"
Grand Baerlon shouted urgently in Valyrian, his voice carrying over the courtyard as he tried to soothe the massive she-dragon.
The great beast shifted uneasily, her massive scales catching the sunlight, smoke curling from her nostrils.
Baerlon's heart pounded. He scrambled up the dragon's side with surprising speed for a man his age, desperately trying to reach the reckless figure climbing toward the saddle.
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"Baelon!"
Rhaenyra's voice cracked in terror, almost strangled in her throat as though an invisible hand had gripped it. She wanted to scream, to run forward, to do something, but her body felt frozen in place.
On the dragon's towering back—higher than the city walls—two figures were climbing: one large, one small. The smaller figure, Baelon, was steadily closing the distance to the saddle.
Rhaenyra, heedless of her own safety, rushed toward Vaghar. She had no idea what she could possibly do if she reached the dragon, but she could not stand by and watch her kin risk his life so foolishly.
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Baelon, however, was completely oblivious to the chaos behind him. He moved like a nimble monkey, using both hands and feet to ascend the knotted rope that hung along Vaghar's side. His eyes locked on the saddle—the symbol of supreme power—his breath quickened.
Faster. Faster.
The great mountain beneath him trembled as Vaghar shifted her weight.
Like a predator disturbed from her rest, the ancient dragon slowly rose, turning her massive head. Her movement sent a shudder through the ground.
The rope swayed violently. Baelon lost his footing for a moment, his boots scraping against the dragon's armored scales, and slid dangerously downward.
From below, Grand Baerlon's voice barked his name, but Baelon acted quickly. He pulled a small pouch from his belt and took out a spider gland—a sticky, resinous substance known for its strong adhesive qualities. Smearing it onto his hands and boots, he clung to the rope as though fused to it, then resumed climbing with renewed determination.
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Baelon knew the story of how Aemond Targaryen, years earlier, had claimed Vaghar after her previous rider, Laena Velaryon, had died. That bold act had given Aemond unmatched prestige and power.
Baelon wanted the same.
For years, he had coveted Vaghar, the oldest and most fearsome dragon in the realm. He would not let anyone—anyone—seize her after Grand Baerlon's death.
The spider glands he had fed Vaghar before weren't charity. He had done it to win her favor, to make her accustomed to his scent, his voice, and his presence. So when the day came, she would accept him as her rider without resistance.
And that day, Baelon decided, could be today.
---
But before he could reach the saddle, a sudden tug wrenched him backward.
A weight dragged at his shoulder, choking him. Glancing down, he saw the corner of his black cloak clenched tightly in Grand Baerlon's fist.
He cursed himself. Wearing the cloak had been pure vanity—a foolish way to look imposing while attempting the climb. Now it was his undoing.
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"Baelon, stop!" Baerlon's voice thundered above the whipping wind. His other hand gripped the rope like iron. "If you want to ride a dragon, I can take you! But mounting Vaghar alone is suicide!"
Baerlon knew his dragon well. Despite her age, Vaghar was no gentle grandmother. She was fierce, cunning, and vindictive, never forgetting a slight. Even as her bonded rider, Baerlon had to handle her with care—every command given in firm Valyrian, every approach calculated.
And Baelon? Baelon had mocked her earlier by pretending to throw food before attempting to climb her back without permission. To a dragon, that was no different than shoving your head into her jaws and begging to be eaten.
---
The cloak pulled Baelon downward.
Vaghar's sudden movement drew attention from the castle. Viserys and Queen Emma emerged, their expressions instantly twisting into shock and fear at the sight before them.
Emma's voice broke into sobs. "Baelon, my child! Please—please come down, I beg you!"
Baelon's grip faltered for a moment. Guilt pricked him, seeing his family so distressed.
But then he hardened his heart.
A quick pain is better than a slow one. If he succeeded now, their fear would be short-lived. If he hesitated, someone else might take what should be his.
---
In one swift motion, Baelon drew the dagger from his waist and sliced through the cloak. The severed fabric fluttered away as he tossed the weapon aside.
Then, with both hands free, he resumed his climb, faster than before.
---
The wind roared in his ears. His hair whipped wildly. And then—
Huge, jagged fangs loomed before him, each the size of a sword. Vaghar's molten eyes locked on him, and deep in her throat, fire churned like a living thing.
"No! Vaghar!" Grand Baerlon's desperate shout barely carried over the wind.
---
Baelon's response was calm, almost calculated. "Here you go."
With one hand, he hurled a spider gland directly into her open maw.
The effect was immediate.
The dragonfire died in her throat, replaced by confusion. Her instincts screamed to destroy the intruder who dared insult her majesty. But her cunning told her something else—this was the same human who had given her that remarkable substance before, the one that soothed her old wounds and made her feel… stronger.
Vaghar hesitated. Her great head tilted slightly.
---
But instinct was a stubborn thing. A century of battle-honed pride demanded that she not let this trespass go unanswered. Her jaws opened once again, flames gathering in the depths.
And yet… the warm, healing sensation from the spider gland lingered.
For the first time in decades, Vaghar seemed caught between two urges: burn the intruder to ash—or let him live in exchange for more of this strange gift.
---
Baelon seized the moment.
He lunged upward, gripping the saddle's handle and planting his feet firmly against her scales. With a powerful push, he hauled himself onto her back.
At last.
He sat astride her massive form, the dragon's spine blotting out the sky. From up here, the ground seemed impossibly far below. A thrill surged through him, mingled with triumph.
In this world of primitive weapons and fragile kingdoms, dragons were the ultimate power—flying fortresses, living nuclear weapons. And now, he was on one.
---
"Look at me, Vaghar!" Baelon's voice was deep, commanding, as he gripped the saddle's handle.
The great dragon turned her head, her amber eyes reflecting his small figure. Slowly, she opened her mouth.
Baelon was ready. He quickly tossed another spider gland inside.
Vaghar closed her jaws, savoring the morsel. Then she opened her mouth again.
---
"Shut your mouth, Vaghar!" Grand Baerlon barked, climbing up behind Baelon. He pulled the boy into a tight hold, protecting him with his own body.
Baelon was about to feed her another gland when he suddenly paused.
Something wasn't right.
If Baerlon was here, then technically Baelon was riding Vaghar with her master present. That meant the dragon had no reason to attack. And yet—she was still opening her mouth wide.
Baelon peered into her throat. There was no glow of dragonfire.
---
A thought struck him. Tentatively, he tossed another spider gland in. It melted instantly on her tongue.
Vaghar swallowed, tilted her head back, and then… opened her mouth again. Her gaze fixed on him, unblinking.
Baelon's lips twitched. Was she… begging?
Could it be that this terrifying, ancient dragon had figured out that opening her mouth earned her more spider glands?
---
He almost laughed—almost. But there was no time.
From the distance, Viserys and his father were galloping toward them, their shouts carrying faintly on the wind.
Baelon didn't know what would happen next. But one thing was certain—he had climbed onto the back of history's most fearsome dragon… and she hadn't killed him.
Yet..