"Though he was large and old and fearsome to look upon, Grey Ghost would flee at the first sign of a man."
―Archmaester Gyldayn
…
The air on the eastern slope of the Dragonmont was thick with the fumes of sulfur and the faint tang of salt from the sea below. Wyl wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow as he surveyed the black crags and rising plumes of steam, which hissed and spat from fissures in the ancient rock. Far overhead, columns of smoke drifted across a waning sun. The day felt subdued, as if the mountain itself brooded at their intrusion.
He turned his gaze westward, where Vermithor perched in silent vigilance on a broad ledge, bronze scales catching the stray beams of sunlight. The Bronze Fury huffed once at Wyl's attention, then returned to his watch. At the old dragon's side stood Rowenna, cloak drawn tight against the sulfurous breeze. She had not spoken in some time—nothing beyond curt nods and the occasional gesture of direction. Then again, she did not need words to convey authority. Wyl always sensed her keen eye upon him, measuring his every step.
Beyond them, the smoking vent yawned like a wound in the mountainside. Wisps of acrid haze curled out of it, dissipating into the open air. Inside that vent lurked the Pale Drake—the reclusive Grey Ghost, seldom glimpsed by man or dragon. Aemond had led them here to corner and claim him, for the Prince had a use for every living fire-breather. Even the timid ones.
Wyl tore off a piece of salted beef from the strip in his hand. He chewed, almost without tasting, his mind swirling. He was no green boy. But Grey Ghost was a dragon. Timid, but a dragon nonetheless. A creature that valued its freedom over all else, so it seemed. Catching such a dragon was half-luck, half-lunacy. Keeping it? That demanded more than nerves and a stout heart.
He glanced sidelong at the Prince, who stood a short distance away upon a jutting spur of rock, gazing down at the sea. Vhagar waited behind him, ancient and immense. Aemond spoke then—a few low words with Rowenna; something about watch rotations, from the snatch of phrase Wyl caught on the wind—then turned and strode toward Wyl.
The Targaryen's expression was severe, as always, though not unkind. "Figured out how you'll approach him yet?"
Wyl rubbed the back of his neck. "Careful-like, my prince." He gave a small, lopsided grin. "He's cornered up there, and cornered beasts are the most unkind. I'd rather not get roasted on the first introduction."
"He must remain cornered if your attempt is to have any hope," Aemond said. "No matter, do what you must. Vhagar and I will be heading out to fetch some feed for the dragons. Vermithor and Rowenna will remain to bar the lower path. Think you can manage till we return?"
Wyl exhaled. "I will, my prince."
Aemond studied him with that single violet eye, unreadable for a moment, then nodded. "Alright then." A faint trace of something that could have been encouragement ghosted across his lips. "We'll remain here until you've succeeded. Or until the mountain itself falls to pieces, whichever is first."
With that, he turned and made for Vhagar, scaling her back to mount her saddle with practised agility. Wyl stepped back, hand rising to shield his face from the sudden gust of heated wind as the ancient dragon launched herself off the ledge, flapping mightily. The ground trembled faintly. Within heartbeats, they soared high, a silhouette against the reddening sky. Aemond was gone to hunt, just as promised, leaving Rowenna and Vermithor to hold the pass, with Wyl alone to face the Pale Drake.
Wyl swallowed. "well" he muttered under his breath, "I better get to it then."
...
They made a small camp in a hollow of rock that shielded them from the sulfur-laced breeze. Rowenna busied herself rearranging supplies, ensuring the three tents they'd brought would stand firm on the cracked basalt. Night would come soon enough, and the temperatures might drop. Vermithor lay at the perimeter, a living bulwark of claw and fang. The old bronze eyes were narrowed in rest. Wyl, for his part, found a perch on a stone near the meager fire, finishing the last of his beef jerky.
He could still taste the salt on his lips when he made his decision.
Now is as good a time as any. Grey Ghost had gone quiet since they'd cornered him that morning. Perhaps the dragon was spent from his initial panic and might allow an approach. Or maybe not. Still, Wyl's nerves thrummed with a gambler's restless energy. He gave Rowenna a small shrug of his shoulders, as if to say I'm off now, and climbed toward the vent.
Every step up that jagged slope tested both his balance and his resolve. Loose scree threatened to tumble underfoot, and little puffs of steam leaked from cracks in the stone, scalding the air around him. The mouth of the cave lay partly hidden behind a pillar of rock. He paused there, rubbing his hands together. The flesh felt dry and parched from the swirling heat. Beyond, the darkness pulsed with a dull red glow—dragonflame or volcanic embers, he could not tell.
He swallowed, then took a single step into the vent's threshold. "Grey Ghost," he called softly, voice trembling a bit more than he'd have liked. "Easy, friend. I mean no harm." He forced calm into his words, recalling half-remembered lines from old Valyrian commands. "I have… come for you."
A swirl of dust eddied at his feet. For a moment, nothing else. He edged deeper, eyes straining. Then a shape—pale, serpentine—shifted in the gloom. The acrid stench of dragon overcame the smell of sulfur. Wyl's breath caught.
The Pale Drake. Longer than he'd imagined, though not so thick-bodied as Vhagar or even Seasmoke. Scars marred his flank, souvenirs from skirmishes unknown. Huddled at the far recess of the vent, he had nowhere to run but no intention of going quietly.
Wyl spread his hands, dropping to a knee as if to appear smaller. A trick learned from his days as a huntsman: hopefully, dragons read gestures as well as stray hounds. "You're safe," he murmured. "Safe enough. I only want to—"
Lightning erupted from the darkness. A rolling, white-hot roar, tongues of flame lashing out in a searing wave. The heat singed the hairs of Wyl's forearms before his mind even registered the attack. He threw himself backward onto the rocky slope, scraping his elbow raw. The smell of burnt cloth swirled.
He heard his own yelp echo off the vent's walls. Panic stung him, a surge of fear so profound he almost turned and fled. But he forced himself to stay low, to scramble back out onto the slope rather than run blindly downslope. No sense in tumbling into a crater, or giving the dragon another angle for a second blast.
Grey Ghost shrilled, a high, anguished cry, then withdrew deeper into the gloom. The furious glow of flame flickered and died. Silence followed, broken only by Wyl's ragged breathing.
Moments later, he found himself half-crouched on a ledge outside, gasping for air. The stone beneath him was warm enough to burn, but he barely felt it. He'd almost been roasted. All for a parley that lasted three heartbeats. "Well," he muttered hoarsely, "that went splendidly, didn't it?"
He risked a glance back. Steam choked the entrance. He could see no sign of the Pale Drake, though the reek of singed leather lingered near the threshold. He's not calm, not in the least.
Footsteps clattered from below. Rowenna appeared behind a jagged boulder, crossbow braced, scanning for danger. Vermithor rumbled from afar. She met Wyl's eyes, her expression stony, but worry flickered there too. "You're not dead, then."
"Not for lack of trying," Wyl quipped with a shaky grin. He patted out a patch of smoldering cloth on his sleeve, wincing at the blistered spots along his wrist.
Rowenna lowered the crossbow, glancing up at the vent. "How is he?"
"As fine as a cornered dragon can be," Wyl said. "He spat fire and dashed back. He's… frightened." He let out a breath. "I don't want to push too hard."
She nodded. "So. Slow and steady, then?"
Wyl made a face. "Slower. I'll have to coax him, let him get used to my smell, my presence. Show him I'm not here to… to pin him in chains." A small, bitter laugh. "Gods, I'd hate this, if I were him."
A pause. Rowenna's eyes softened, ever so slightly. "It's what Aemond wants."
"I know. I'll do it. I just—" He flexed his throbbing hand, the skin angry red from near-scorch. "I just might get crisped in the doing."
She turned her gaze to the swirling clouds above. "We all might. This is war, Wyl. The Prince has need of you."
He fell quiet. Yes, he thought. War. Aemond's war. The blockade. Braavos. Stepstones. It felt so distant here, on a mountain of smoke and rock. Yet it was the reason they'd come. A reason that left him torn. I don't want to fight a war, I only want to serve my prince. But there was no separating the two now.
By the time they returned to the camp's small fire, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in muted oranges. Aemond was not yet back. Vermithor still lay watchful, massive jaws parted slightly in the heat. Wyl sat down, exhaustion creeping into his limbs. The flare of panic still thrummed in his chest, but behind it, a strange new resolve. I'll do it. I have to.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, more to himself than anyone. "Tomorrow, I'll try again."
Rowenna poked at the embers, silent. Overhead, the mountain's breath hissed and groaned, a promise of uneasy nights to come. Despite the sting of his burns, Wyl felt a thread of determination wind through him. He glanced toward the vent, now only a dark silhouette against a bruised sky. Yes. We'll see each other again, Grey Ghost, he thought. Just… please don't roast me before I've made at least a bit of progress. That would just be embarrassing.