Only after Sheepstealer had fully yielded did Tyraxes finally withdraw his massive head, lifting the hind claw that had pinned the wild dragon's belly into the churned earth.
Even when Tyraxes stepped away entirely, the mud-brown dragon did not stir. Sheepstealer lay sprawled in the muck like a fallen hill, breath slow and measured, as still as stone beneath the open sky.
At last, Sheepstealer rolled onto his side. Yet there was no surge of violence, no snapping of jaws or lash of tail. He simply lay there, wings slack, posture unmistakably subdued.
Perched between the ridges of Tyraxes' back, Baelon frowned.
"Do you want me to dismount?"
His voice carried a hint of uncertainty as he rested one hand against the warm scales beneath him. Through the bond they shared, he could sense Tyraxes' intent clearly enough. The dragon's thoughts were firm, and edged with something like expectation.
"Rrrh."
Tyraxes lowered his great body, folding his limbs and spreading one wing wide. The membrane stretched taut, forming a sloping platform. With careful precision, he eased Baelon downward.
Baelon exhaled, accepting the wordless command. There was no sense in arguing with a dragon who had already decided.
He slid from Tyraxes' wing and landed lightly on the ground. Mud clung to his boots as he straightened and turned his gaze toward Sheepstealer.
Step by measured step, Baelon approached the wild dragon.
Sheepstealer lifted his head at once, yellowed eyes narrowing as they fixed upon the small figure drawing nearer.
"Gah?"
The sound was low and uncertain, more curious than threatening.
Smells good.
The thought drifted through Sheepstealer's dull awareness. During the brutal submission moments before, the dragon had been too overwhelmed to notice anything beyond pain and dominance. Tyraxes' presence had drowned out all other scents, his dragon musk sharp and commanding.
Now, with Baelon separated from Tyraxes, a faint sweetness lingered in the air. Warm. Alive. Familiar in a way Sheepstealer could not name.
The dragon's head dipped lower, bringing his gaze level with Baelon's. Their eyes met.
Baelon did not falter. His shoulders remained squared, his stance calm, hands open at his sides. He felt no fear, only a strange, gathering pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks.
"This is…"
The words slipped from him unbidden.
For several heartbeats, man and dragon stared at one another in silence. Then Baelon felt it, faint but undeniable. A thread tugged into place, thin as spider silk, stretching from his mind to Sheepstealer's.
It was not the profound, soul-deep bond he shared with Tyraxes. That connection was intimate and equal, a constant exchange of thought and feeling.
This was something else entirely.
If his bond with Tyraxes was a private council between partners, then this felt like a hall filled with voices. And Baelon stood at its center.
He could sense Sheepstealer clearly. Hunger. Caution. A grudging respect. And beneath it all, an awareness of authority pressing down upon him.
Not companionship. Obedience.
"Eeng. Eeng."
A familiar cry echoed from above.
Baelon looked up just as a pale gray shape wheeled through the clouds. Slender and ghostlike, Grey Ghost circled the clearing, wings beating in tight, nervous arcs.
The smaller dragon did not descend. He merely watched the two far greater dragons below, uneasy and hesitant, unwilling to land while such power lingered so close.
"Come down, Grey Ghost," Baelon called, lifting one arm. His voice softened, and he spoke in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue rolling easily from his lips.
Grey Ghost's wings faltered for a moment, then steadied. Slowly, cautiously, he descended, touching down several dozen paces away.
As Baelon turned back, he caught Tyraxes casting the smaller dragon a sideways glance. It was brief, dismissive, and edged with disdain.
Understanding dawned.
"You did not use Dominion on Grey Ghost," Baelon said quietly. His brow furrowed as he looked back at Tyraxes. "Did you?"
Tyraxes' head turned away. The massive dragon gave a low rumble, neither denial nor apology.
Baelon let out a breath and rubbed a hand across his face.
"…Of course."
Only now did the truth settle fully in his mind.
Dominion was not something Baelon himself imposed. It was Tyraxes' judgment that mattered. Tyraxes chose which dragons were worthy of subjugation. Only after such a dragon had been personally broken and brought to heel would Baelon be able to form a Dominion Pact.
Strength first. Submission after.
Only then came command.
In contrast, Grey Ghost had never needed such treatment. The shy, elusive dragon had attached himself willingly, drawn more by comfort and familiarity than power.
"He does not need it," Baelon murmured as he approached Grey Ghost.
He laid a hand upon the dragon's narrow snout, fingers brushing cool, smooth scales. Grey Ghost leaned into the touch at once, eyes half-lidding, a faint chirring sound rising from his throat.
Timid. Gentle. Almost painfully affectionate.
Baelon smiled despite himself.
Truth be told, his strength now far exceeded what he had once imagined. Tyraxes alone was terror enough to cow any foe. Sheepstealer was a living weapon. And Vhagar, ancient and dreadful, remained beyond even that.
He had no need of a juvenile dragon in battle.
Grey Ghost lifted his head slightly and glanced past Baelon, his eyes drifting toward Tyraxes. His wings twitched.
There was something there. Unease. And beneath it, a flicker of resentment.
"What are you even jealous of?" Baelon muttered, casting a look over his shoulder. "You are not the same as him."
Tyraxes' emotions brushed against his own, sharp and unmistakable. Possessive. Irritated.
Baelon stepped closer to his great dragon, pressing his palm against the warm scales of Tyraxes' cheek. He stroked downward, slow and deliberate, letting the bond between them steady both their hearts.
"You are my partner," Baelon said softly. "My first and greatest. You always will be."
Tyraxes' breathing eased. The tension in his posture loosened, wings settling more comfortably at his sides.
Only then did Baelon turn his thoughts toward his next goal.
The Cannibal.
Yet no matter how thoroughly he searched Dragonstone, the ancient terror eluded him. Caverns lay empty. Cliffs bore only old scorch marks. Days turned into weeks, and still there was no sign.
At last, after half a moon of fruitless effort, Baelon accepted the truth.
The Cannibal would not be found.
Reluctantly, he departed Dragonstone, Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost following in his wake. Tyraxes remained apart, as he always did, circling far above until they neared their destination.
Harrenhal rose from the mists like a wound in the earth, blackened towers clawing at the sky.
"Make ready sufficient food for Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost," Baelon commanded upon his return. His voice carried authority now, sharp and unyielding. "From this day forth, the Dragon Guard will deliver live stock to their lairs three times each day."
The orders spread quickly.
Baelon personally led the two dragons to their new homes.
Grey Ghost's lair lay closest to the castle, nestled low among the broken stone where warmth could be carefully controlled. Sheepstealer's lay farther west, beyond the walls, upon a wide plain where herds of sheep would be loosed to roam and be hunted at will.
As for Tyraxes, nothing had changed.
He remained within the Gods Eye, south of Harrenhal, where ancient magic lingered thick in the air. No other dragon was permitted to approach. Only Syrax had ever been allowed there, and only briefly, as a guest.
Baelon had long since accepted it as Tyraxes' domain.
Grey Ghost explored his new lair with barely restrained delight. The space was vast, carefully carved and reinforced, far finer than the crude hollow he had once claimed on Dragonstone.
The floor was layered with enormous carpets imported from Myr, thick and impossibly soft. Along the walls, fire crystals were set into stone, glowing faintly and radiating steady warmth.
Westeros was cold and damp, no place for dragons to thrive. Baelon had spared no expense to ensure otherwise.
Grey Ghost sprawled upon the floor, wings half-spread, tail curling lazily across the carpet. He released a series of pleased chirrs, rolling slightly as if savoring the unfamiliar comfort.
"Eeng. Eeng."
Baelon chuckled under his breath.
Moments later, Grey Ghost rose and padded toward him. Carefully, almost reverently, the dragon extended his tongue and gave Baelon's cheek a slow, gentle lick.
Baelon froze.
Then sighed.
His face and hair were soaked in foul-smelling saliva.
"…Good boy," he said at last, wiping his face with his sleeve, resignation plain in his voice.
It was no different than keeping a hound or a cat.
Only the tongue was larger.
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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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