Aemond Targaryen could hold his head high after the day's triumph. He stood straighter than he ever had, chin lifted, one hand resting on the stone balustrade as he looked down toward the Dragonmont. The bond had been forged. Morghul had accepted him.
Morghul could not compare to Prince Aegon's Sunfyre in sheer bulk, nor could its scales rival that famed golden brilliance which caught the sun like molten coin. Yet Morghul was his dragon. That truth settled in Aemond's chest like a warm, steady flame, burning away years of quiet resentment and unspoken shame.
Nearby, King Viserys watched his son with a conflicted expression. His fingers worried the edge of his sleeve, rubbing the embroidered dragons as if for reassurance. He had never truly believed Aemond would succeed. The boy had been dragonless for so long that Viserys had resigned himself to disappointment. Now astonishment lingered in his eyes, mingled with a faint guilt that he had ever doubted.
Yet when the conversation turned to darker matters, that fragile pride drained from his face.
"The Cannibal," Viserys said quietly, his voice heavy as he exhaled. He lowered himself onto a stone bench, shoulders slumping as though the name itself carried weight. "I have heard the rumors as well. I even spoke of it with Princess Rhaenys Targaryen."
He clasped his hands together, knuckles whitening.
"She flew patrols over Dragonstone for a time, mounted on Meleys. She never glimpsed the black terror. I convinced myself the beast had finally abandoned the island." His mouth tightened. "I did not consider that it might simply be hiding."
The thought clearly unsettled him. Viserys stared at the ground, as if expecting scorched stone to answer his fears.
The Cannibal was no hatchling and no half starved drake. It was a fully grown monster, vast and ancient, a dragon that had fed upon its own kind. As a feral beast hardened by endless battles, it struck with ruthless instinct rather than rider bound restraint. Viserys wanted no part in provoking such a creature. His reign had been built on peace, not gambles against nightmares.
Baelon listened without interrupting. He stood with an easy posture, hands folded behind his back, expression calm. When he spoke, his tone carried quiet confidence rather than bravado.
"There is little cause for alarm, Your Grace," he said. He inclined his head slightly, meeting Viserys' gaze without challenging it. "The Cannibal may be formidable, but it is still a lone wild dragon. We are not lacking for strength."
As he spoke, he gestured lightly, counting on his fingers.
"We have Vhagar, Caraxes, and Meleys. We also have Syrax, and Tylraxes. One beast cannot stand against so many."
In Baelon's mind, House Targaryen already possessed overwhelming might. Even Caraxes alone would be a terror to any wild dragon. Add Tyraxes to the field, and the outcome would be decided in moments.
Viserys shook his head, slow and firm. His lips pressed together before he spoke again.
"No," he said. "The Dragonkeepers have reported fewer signs of the Cannibal of late. Fewer carcasses. Fewer scorched cliffs. The dragon troubling the island now is Sheepstealer."
He glanced toward the distant hills, eyes narrowing.
"It has been bold. It steals livestock from the fisherfolk and shepherds. Always sheep. Always close to the villages."
The king shifted uneasily. He knew the Cannibal too well, at least by reputation. He would not gamble with lives when another threat was closer and more immediate.
"I will not have you courting death for the sake of pride," Viserys added, his voice softening but losing none of its resolve.
With that, the matter was settled. The king rose with effort, leaning briefly on his cane before straightening. He called for his family, his guards, and his household.
The purpose of the journey had been fulfilled. His children had faced the dragons, and bonds had been formed. Though the path had not gone exactly as planned, the result could not be denied.
After a single day of rest, Viserys and his family departed Dragonstone for King's Landing, sails vanishing into the gray horizon.
Baelon remained behind.
Gray Ghost had disappointed him. The dragon had been elusive, timid, unwilling to meet his gaze or his will. Since he was already on Dragonstone, there was no reason to leave matters unfinished.
There were other dragons.
Sheepstealer would be next.
With Viserys gone, Baelon became the highest authority on Dragonstone. At his command, the Dragonkeepers and soldiers spread across the island, searching cliffs, valleys, and pastures for signs of the brown scaled thief.
It took only a few days.
A fisherman arrived at the castle breathless and wide eyed, cap crushed between his hands. He spoke of a dragon crouched in the fields, of sheep vanishing in screaming clouds of ash and wool.
Baelon paid the man generously for his losses, pressing silver into his palms without hesitation.
Then he mounted Tyraxes.
The flight was swift. Wind tore at Baelon's cloak as the crimson dragon cut through the sky, wings beating with controlled power. When they reached the field, Sheepstealer had not yet departed.
The wild dragon lay sprawled upon the grass, jaws working methodically as it chewed. Torn fleece littered the ground like fallen snow, stained dark where blood had soaked into the earth.
Berlon narrowed his eyes.
"So this is you," he murmured, leaning forward in the saddle. "Larger than the stories suggest."
Sheepstealer was long, perhaps sixty or seventy meters from snout to tail. Its neck and tail stretched unnaturally, giving it the illusion of even greater size. In truth, its torso was thin and starved, a body built for survival rather than dominance.
Its scales were ugly, a muddy brown that drank in the light instead of reflecting it. Its wings hung loose against its sides, membranes stretched thin over bone.
"Tyraxes," Baelon said, his voice steady. He placed one gloved hand against the dragon's neck. "Down."
The descent was smooth and controlled. As they closed the distance, Sheepstealer's head snapped up.
The roar that followed shattered the quiet, a raw and startled bellow.
Sheepstealer scrambled to its feet, wings half unfurled, eyes fixed on the descending intruder.
When it realized Tyraxes was shorter, its posture shifted. It spread its wings wide and puffed its chest, attempting to appear larger than it was.
Tyraxes answered with a roar of its own, deeper and far more confident.
With a single brutal beat of its wings, the crimson dragon lunged.
Sheepstealer tried to take flight, but the timing was wrong. Tyraxes struck mid movement, slamming into it with crushing force and driving it back into the earth.
The wild dragon shrieked in panic. Flames burst from its jaws, orange and yellow, licking uselessly against Tyraxes' armored scales.
Tyraxes did not yield.
Its foreclaws pinned Sheepstealer's wings. One hind claw pressed into the soft flesh of its belly, the other locked down a rear leg. The weight was unbearable.
As the pressure increased, Sheepstealer's frantic resistance faltered. Its eyes shifted, no longer wild with fury, but filled with desperate longing.
Tyraxes ignored it.
Its jaws parted. Blood red fire coiled behind its teeth, heat warping the air.
The wild dragon froze.
Even dragonfire could wound another of its kind. This was something far worse.
Sheepstealer went still.
From above, Berlon watched, satisfaction flickering across his face. Tyraxes was built for moments like this. Swift domination. Relentless force. End the fight before it could become a war of endurance.
Prolonged battles would doom it. Its muscles demanded more than its heart could easily give. That imbalance was its weakness.
Victory had to be immediate.
Tyraxes lowered its head and roared, the sound thick with menace.
Sheepstealer did not answer.
Instead, it stretched its neck and bared its throat, exposing the most vulnerable part of its body.
Among dragons, there was no clearer gesture.
It was surrender.
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