99 AC
When Prince Baelon was still grieving the stillborn death of his grandson—Viserys's son, poor thing—another gut punch landed: Princess Gael's baby had died shortly after birth. Two tiny Targaryens gone in a matter of days. The Red Keep, which usually hummed with gossip and dragon-related chaos, fell deathly quiet. Even the servants whispered.
Now, I did think about stepping in. According to what I knew (thank you, System™), Gael would soon spiral into despair and take her own life. That knowledge itched at me like a flea in my collar. Could I save her? Should I?
After an exhausting internal debate—and a very long stare at my own reflection—I decided not to meddle. It wasn't an accident that claimed her; it was grief, deep and hollow. And let's be honest: if I'd tried to console her, and then she still jumped from the tower the next morning, Queen Alysanne might have fed me to her dragon. Or worse—given me the look. You don't survive the royal stink-eye.
I even briefly thought of using the event to get knighted. You know, the classic heroic save-the-princess arc. But then I remembered: I didn't have the coin, the armor, or even a horse. What was I going to do, ride into a tourney on a borrowed mule wearing chainmail made of cooking pots?
Besides, no one was throwing tourneys. Westeros was in mourning. The old King Jaehaerys was still alive, but mostly in bed and heavily medicated. Lords weren't lining up to host jousts under the shadow of dragon grief. No one wanted to be the fool who laughed too loud while the royal family was weeping—especially when they had actual dragons to enforce their mood. I mean, who wants a visit from your local nuclear lizard?
So I decided to bide my time. The great tournament of 103 AC—when Viserys would be crowned—that would be my stage. Hopefully I'd have a sword and a horse by then.
Just as I was congratulating myself for being so mature and strategic, Prince Baelon summoned me. Off we went to the Kingswood, accompanied by six Targaryen guards and one Kingsguard who looked like he'd been forged from old oak and bad decisions. I didn't catch his name, but when you wear the white cloak, people assume you're important even if you've got the charisma of stale bread.
We rode until I saw it: a mountain that moved. No, not a metaphor—Vhagar. The she-dragon. The living legend. The size of a small castle. My brain short-circuited.
Baelon walked up like she was a particularly big dog and said, "Kessa, Vhagar." That meant "How are you?" in Valyrian. Fourteen years here, and finally my Valyrian studies paid off. I almost wept.
He climbed into the saddle, said, "Soves"—fly—and off they went.
Watching Vhagar take to the skies was like watching a mountain sprout wings and say, "You thought physics mattered here? Cute."
She soared. Trees bent. Birds fled. I stood there, open-mouthed, thinking, This place is insane.
In our world, we had magic too, we just called it the Internet. Little silicon chips let us talk across oceans and watch cats play piano. Here, they just raise their hands and summon fire-breathing megafauna. Same ambition, wildly different execution.
Baelon returned after about thirty minutes, looking lighter, as if the grief had been singed off by dragonfire. I followed him back, still trying to process the fact that I'd just met Vhagar, and she didn't eat me. Good day, really.
As she disappeared into the clouds behind us, I looked back. The mountain was gone—but the awe wasn't.