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The fire burned all through the night, continuing until dawn broke over the horizon.
When Lord Wyman, breathless and anxious, finally pushed open the door, he was instantly driven back two steps by the choking smoke that rushed out.
His eyes were filled with ash and soot, and his nostrils burned with the pungent stench of burnt matter. The tension already weighing heavily on his heart grew even heavier, pressing down with suffocating force.
But then, as he focused through the smoke and embers, he saw it. Lying amidst the grey-black ashes was a human figure, its form covered in soot. Perched on the figure's chest, however, was a creature unlike anything seen for a century—a blue-gold being, coiled protectively.
The momentary confusion was shattered as the creature stirred. Awakened by the light and noise, the newborn blue-and-gold being opened its golden eyes, scanning the unfamiliar man who had stepped into the room. The next instant, sensing danger, it spread its wings—lake-blue with streaks of brilliant gold—and let out its very first cry in this world.
A dragon. It was a dragon.
Though small and youthful, this creature was not of ordinary flesh and blood. It was like something crafted by the gods themselves. Before Lord Wyman stood a dragon, a being long thought extinct in Westeros for over a hundred years.
Its cry, though still faint and tender, made Wyman instinctively withdraw the step he had just taken. A feeling unlike anything he had ever known exploded in his chest—an overwhelming joy, raw and uncontrollable.
His grandson… he had succeeded!
The small blue-and-gold dragon tried its best to spread its wings. Its tiny jaw opened wide, revealing rows of delicate, razor-sharp teeth standing upright.
Despite clearly recognizing the size difference between itself and the human before it, the hatchling was doing everything it could to appear fierce, determined to protect the one lying beneath it.
Lord Wyman found himself at a loss.
He was not alone in this. No one in the world today had any experience communicating with a dragon. Faced with a creature that had clearly taken on the role of guardian, the old man stood frozen, unable to think of a solution.
Then, he heard a violent fit of coughing.
"Cough… cough… cough…"
It was not the fire that had rendered Clay unconscious, but the dense smoke. He had never expected that even with all four windows of the round tower thrown open, the smoke would still reach such an unbearable concentration.
He had already lost a great deal of blood, and his magical energy had been nearly depleted. Even the powerful lungs of a witcher could not withstand such strain. And so, he had collapsed.
It wasn't until the smoke began to dissipate with the arrival of morning that his body started to recover. Though he had not yet awakened, it was only because his body still needed time to heal.
The sound of his grandfather's footsteps, mixed with the dragon's cry, finally pulled Clay out of unconsciousness. Feeling the dust clogging his nostrils, he began to cough violently.
The small dragon coiled on Clay's chest suddenly felt its master's body trembling beneath it. It immediately turned its head, its golden eyes full of confusion as it looked at Clay.
After a bout of coughing that cleared his airways, Clay wiped the ash from his face and finally opened his eyes. What greeted him was a sight that stunned him into silence.
A pair of large golden eyes stared back into his own. And in that instant, he felt something strange, as though a faint voice had touched his mind.
"You're awake?"
He stared for half a minute, eyes wide, while his mind slowly caught up. Then, as understanding dawned, his joy erupted. He sat up abruptly and gently scooped the small dragon from his chest, holding it in his palms with both reverence and awe.
This… this was his dragon.
Clay examined every inch of the little creature with intense concentration. The craftsmanship of this being was divine. Its body was covered in a dense pattern of blue scales, each one glinting like gemstones. Golden patterns ran across its body, outlining its bones and joints, while its long, slender neck curved with the grace of a serpent.
"Um… Clay."
Lord Wyman finally spoke softly, reminding his grandson that he was still there.
The moment he had laid eyes on the dragon, his heart had settled. But now, that emotion, that heated excitement, surged through him once more. This was a dragon.
Regardless of its effectiveness on the battlefield, the symbol of a dragon carried unmatched political weight. The Targaryen dynasty had vanished only a little more than a decade ago, yet everyone in Westeros had known an unspoken truth for nearly three centuries—the dragon marked the blood of a true king.
Just then, the small dragon leapt from Clay's hands and landed on his shoulder, its tail curling protectively around his neck. It fixed its eyes on the old man and let out a low growl of warning.
Clay was puzzled. Somehow, he could faintly sense what the dragon was thinking. Raising a hand, he gently stroked the creature's back and whispered softly, "It's alright. He's my grandfather. He's on our side."
Those were words meant for the dragon. But they made the old man smile wryly.
Strangely enough, the little dragon seemed to understand. It let out a gentle, purring sound from its throat and curled itself into a tiny ball on Clay's shoulder, finally relaxing.
Once he had calmed the dragon, Clay turned his attention back to his grandfather.
The two locked eyes in silence for a long moment. Then, simultaneously, smiles broke across both their faces. The smiles widened until they were both laughing heartily, the sound echoing through the stone walls of the tower.
A dragon.
No words could ever truly express their emotions in that moment. The Manderly family, like the Targaryens before them, had now taken a step closer to the realm of the gods—a family of dragonlords.
When the great dragon finally spread its wings to soar into the sky, the Lannisters and all others would do well to prepare themselves. They would be nothing more than well-roasted offerings, gifted to the Seven as tribute.
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"Grandfather, has Father already departed on his campaign?"
Clay, his head now shaved clean, sat in the old man's study. No one knew he had come here.
He had just stopped his grandfather from letting the dragon have a taste of Arbor wine. Rubbing his temple in exasperation, Clay finally asked the question weighing most heavily on his mind.
What surprised him most was the way the dragon wrinkled its nose and glanced back at him. Somehow, that look carried a sense of grievance, as though Clay had just ruined something it had been looking forward to.
For some unknown reason, an image formed in Clay's mind—a scene from the future. He would come to visit his dragon not with meat, but with several barrels of fine wine.
The dragon would bite onto the rim of the barrel, stretch its neck, and gulp down the contents in a single breath. Then it would glance at him with a look of quiet satisfaction. That look would say it all: You understand me, Master.
Quickly shaking off that strange thought, Clay finally heard his grandfather's reply.
"Yes. They set sail yesterday evening. If the wind is favorable, they should be nearby by tonight. Under the cover of darkness, they'll launch a surprise attack. If it goes well, the battle might be over in just a few hours."
Hearing this eased Clay's mind slightly. The White Harbor fleet held overwhelming superiority over the forces on the Three Sisters. Twenty warships, each carrying a full company of soldiers, would strike in the dead of night. There was little chance of defeat.
Meanwhile, the little dragon, now less wary of the old man, began exploring the study like a curious child. It hopped and fluttered around the desk, fascinated by everything it saw.
Knowing full well that dragons ate cooked meat, Clay had already cut a piece of steak from his grandfather's platter. The little one had devoured it so quickly that its eyes had gone glassy from satisfaction.
Watching the energetic hatchling, Lord Wyman narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and asked, "Boy, have you thought of a name for it yet?"
He had his doubts about his grandson's naming skills. If Clay could not come up with a name worthy of a creature like Balerion, the old man was ready to claim the right to name it himself.
But Clay had already made up his mind.
"Its name is Gaelithox."
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Let me just say this—this name, GAELITHOX, is a true and proper name drawn from the ancient Valyrian pantheon. It belongs to the same noble lineage as Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar. The name Gaelithox carries divine meaning: it represents the god of fire, stars, moon, sun, and dawn. At the very least, it is far more cultured—cross that out—far more elegant-sounding than the names Daenerys ever came up with, wouldn't you agree? (hands on hips)!
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[Chapter End's]
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