The Blue-Golden Colossus

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The great upheaval in the North was something Clay remained utterly unaware of, his departure this time marked by the complete absence of any form of communication. Unlike before, he had left no means for others to reach him. After all, even he did not know where to find Daenerys, so how could he have designated a place for correspondence?

After traveling for two days, Clay finally approached Longsister beneath the dim glow of the evening sun. The island stood desolate, untouched by man. Acting under the strict orders of the old lord, the Manderly family had enforced a thorough and uncompromising blockade of the island.

Had it been anyone other than Clay himself, this vessel would never have been allowed to breach the blockade and reach Longsister's shore.

Once he disembarked, the ship set sail again at his command, disappearing swiftly into the sea. At the very least, until Clay returned, the existence of Gaelithox was something best kept hidden. Revealing the dragon's existence would only invite a storm of unnecessary trouble.

Clay wandered briefly along the shoreline but found no trace of Gaelithox. That was no cause for concern—at this hour, the dragon was unlikely to be out hunting. The small cave that once housed the creature certainly could no longer contain it. Clay had no idea where it might be residing these days.

As he made his way deeper into the island, his senses as a witcher became attuned to various suspicious signs across the ground. Most striking of all were the enormous claw marks. Unless some strange new species had taken up residence on the island, there could be no doubt that they belonged to Gaelithox.

He crouched down, gently parting the overturned turf. The claw print left on the exposed soil was vast, nearly half the size of his entire torso. Judging from the scale of this impression alone, Gaelithox had grown far larger than he had anticipated.

Clay wandered for half the day, yet still found no sign of the dragon itself. Dragons, after all, were not creatures one could track so easily by following footprints. Follow the trail for too long, and it might simply vanish into the sky on beating wings, rendering all tracks useless.

With no other choice, he searched for a place sheltered from the wind and built a small fire. He fashioned a simple roasting rack and began cooking the food he had brought with him.

Night had already fallen. The sun, which rose over the Narrow Sea, had now set in the direction of Westeros. From Clay's vantage point, it slipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind only the faintest trace of warmth.

Yet he did not have to wait long. Just as the sun's final golden rays slipped beyond the western horizon, a thunderous beating of wings erupted behind him. Without a doubt, something massive was approaching.

He turned sharply, and what he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

A massive shadow, hued in deep blue and glinting faintly with gold, swept across the sky overhead. The silhouette of the dragon soared past him in majestic silence. After more than two months, Gaelithox once again filled Clay's vision, larger and more imposing than ever.

He had never imagined that Gaelithox could have grown to such a size. The old man's last description, in hindsight, had been quite conservative. This creature, once no larger than a housecat, had now become a behemoth with a wingspan exceeding ten meters.

Only in a world steeped in magic like this one—where Ice And Fire danced in eternal conflict—could such a miraculous transformation occur. In any other world, a being that violated the basic laws of biology so flagrantly would have long since been captured and dissected for study.

Gaelithox, too, had clearly noticed the fire burning on the ground. For a creature that had ruled over this island unchallenged for so long, this was likely the first time it had encountered a human so deep inland. It was about to inspect which foolish soul had wandered into its domain, when it suddenly sensed the presence of its master.

Dragons, by their nature, form a deep bond of dependence and trust with those who raise them. This bond is especially strong when there has been magical communication between the two, as there had been between Clay and Gaelithox.

Though Clay had sent it here when it was still no more than a tiny hatchling, the dragon had understood its master's intent: to hunt freely on this island and to feast on the fish of Bite Bay at will.

Its diet had evolved dramatically since then. From small snakes and lizards to sheep and all manner of large land beasts, and now, whenever Gaelithox spotted the spouting plumes of a whale's breath out at sea, it would dive in a flash. One searing blast of dragonflame would scorch the unfortunate creature's back to cinders.

With razor-sharp teeth and talons like steel, if the prey was close enough to the shore, Gaelithox would flap its mighty wings and drag the catch onto the beach, where it could savor its meal at leisure.

Even if the whale died far from land, it mattered little. A dead whale would not sink immediately. Gaelithox would simply hover above, releasing bursts of flame to cook portions of the corpse little by little. It would then devour each bite, mouthful by steaming mouthful.

The other hunters of the sea, though their senses were set ablaze by the scent of blood, dared not approach to contest the meal. Those that did found themselves turned to ash, their smoldering remains becoming nothing more than appetizers in the wake of the dragon's banquet.

After all, in the presence of the ultimate predator, the lesser beasts could only nibble at charred scraps. Still, they were fortunate this time. At least the food was thoroughly cooked, a rare treat that gave them a change of taste.

When Gaelithox laid eyes on Clay again, it let out a long, echoing roar. With a powerful beat of its wings, its agile body traced a wide arc in the sky before descending swiftly, landing squarely in front of Clay's campfire.

The gust of wind kicked up by the dragon's wings sent sand and dust swirling into Clay's eyes. He lifted a hand to shield his face, momentarily blinded. Deprived of sight, he could only hear a heavy, earth-shaking thud as the great creature touched down before him.

And in the next instant, a thought echoed unmistakably in his mind. The meaning was simple, clear, and filled with unrestrained excitement.

"Master, look! You came to see me!"

As the sand settled and the air cleared, Clay lowered his arm just in time to find an enormous dragon head lowering toward him. There was no denying it—Gaelithox was a sight to behold.

The dark blue scales had now grown in fully, sleek and strong, stretching from the sharp point of his snout all the way down his long neck. A single line of golden markings ran through the length of that midnight hue, gleaming faintly even in the darkness of the night.

Clay could feel the intense heat radiating from the creature before him. Part of it came from the high temperature of the dragon's breath, but a more pervasive warmth pulsed from Galesoth's body itself. Dragons, after all, bore an inner fire not just in legend, but in truth.

According to records, dragons in the wintertime, particularly during cold and windless nights, would seem as though they were wrapped in mist, their bodies giving off such fierce heat that smoke would appear to rise from their very skin. It was said to be a strange and awe-inspiring sight.

Gazing at the mighty being before him, Clay felt a surge of pride rise in his chest. Look closely, everyone. Just look at this dragon. This massive, magnificent creature—it's mine!

The dragon's great nostrils flared as he leaned down to sniff at the flatbread Clay had placed on the grill. The sharp inhalation stirred the campfire into a wild dance, flames flickering under the force of the displaced air. From the stirrings in his mind, Clay gathered another message from Gaelithox—but this time, the tone bore a note of disdain.

"This stuff edible? Doesn't smell tasty at all…"

Clay could only roll his eyes. While it was true that both dragons and humans preferred cooked food, Gaelithox's preferences had clearly grown very narrow. The creature seemed to find an almost excessive delight in roasted meat, but as for anything else, he could not be bothered to care.

"All right, all right. You eat your food and I'll eat mine. Let's not get in each other's way."

Clay gave a light push to Gaelithox's enormous head. Had he stayed silent, he suspected the dragon would have gone on to discuss which part of a whale was the tastiest to share next.

And so, the man and the dragon conversed in their own way, and eventually, Gaelithox settled his massive body beside Clay. The long neck curled onto the ground, his enormous head resting near Clay as if in quiet companionship.

Leaning against the dragon's warm side, Clay looked up at the night sky, where stars shimmered in an endless sea of dark. He knew that tomorrow marked the beginning of a new journey. He and Gaelithox were about to set off for Essos, stepping into the next chapter of their tale together.

He felt the steady warmth radiating from the dragon's body. Perhaps it was the infusion of his own magic that had accelerated Gaelithox's growth, but whatever the cause, his dragon had grown at a remarkable pace. In Clay's memory, Daenerys's dragons would be only slightly larger by now. Even so, they could not hold a candle to Galesoth's sheer size.

That was a good thing. Dragons were proud, majestic creatures, and only great power could bring them to heel. If Clay were to arrive with a dragon barely larger than a warhorse, one that merely sufficed for riding, then he would not command much awe or fear.

He did not know where Daenerys was at the moment. The situation across Westeros had changed dramatically because of his interventions. The timelines across both continents had become muddled beyond recognition. He could no longer discern exactly when things were unfolding in Essos.

This moment, however, was his one window of opportunity. Right now, all of Westeros was focused on the siege of King's Landing. From his seat in White Harbor, he had a rare chance to leave the continent without drawing attention. If he waited too long, such a chance might never come again.

His palm brushed gently along Gaelithox's long neck, tracing the golden-veined scales where bone and membrane met in intricate formation. With each stroke, the dragon's body relaxed further, the delicate parts of his anatomy slowly lowering, signaling complete ease.

Gaelithox had eaten far too much at dinner. Though he had been visibly excited to see Clay and had rubbed his great head against him with affection, the dragon now looked unmistakably drowsy.

His jaws parted first with a deep belch, followed by a very distinct yawn—the kind only a dragon could produce. Then Gaelithox curled in on himself slightly and extended his massive wings to cover both himself and Clay. He was ready to sleep.

"What a lazy beast. Such a shame I still lack the complete methods of dragon taming from the Valyrian Empire. Just look at you right now—stuffed and already sleeping."

Clay reached up to touch the dragon's long horns. These were the sharpest bones on Gaelithox's skull, two prominent, deadly curves that crowned his head. Depending on the dragon's lineage, others might possess rows of smaller spikes or bony ridges along the spine and snout.

As it stood now, Gelysos's role on the battlefield was more symbolic than practical. During Aegon's Conquest, the reason three dragons had been able to sweep through the Seven Kingdoms unopposed was because they were fully grown. Compared to hatchlings or young drakes, adult dragons were as different as clouds were to stone.

It was said that Aegon's mount, Balerion—the famed Black Dread of the Seven Kingdoms—had lived into the reign of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator before finally succumbing to the limits of age, passing away within the dragonpit at King's Landing.

Balerion had lived for over two hundred years. Dragons, being magical creatures that defied the very logic of nature, would continue to grow until the day they died, provided they had sufficient food and space to do so.

One could reasonably surmise that during the height of the Valyrian Empire, there were dragons even larger than Balerion. Perhaps not just one, but an entire host of them.

Perhaps, to those Dragonlords of old who had mastered the ancient and secret arts of dragon-taming, Balerion's size might have been seen as merely standard. Anything smaller could have been deemed underdeveloped.

When it came to the Valyrian Empire, there was another mystery that Clay simply could not make sense of. The fall of such a vast and mighty empire was, by every measure, an event that defied all logic and common sense.

Setting aside everything else, take the survivors for instance. It was now widely known that of the more than forty Dragonlord families, only House Targaryen remained. And even then, they could scarcely be considered survivors in the true sense, for they had departed Valyria before the doom fell, relocating their entire household.

It was widely said that the Valyrian Freehold had been built atop the Fourteen Flames, a chain of volcanoes. When the Doom came, all fourteen erupted simultaneously, reducing the once-great and awe-inspiring Freehold to ash and rubble, plunging the grand empire into the annals of history in the blink of an eye.

That was the story passed down by word of mouth, accepted almost universally as truth—the version of history most readily embraced. Yet the more one pondered it, the less sense it seemed to make. The deeper the thought, the more cracks began to show in the tale.

First of all, setting aside how the leader of House Targaryen supposedly foresaw the coming disaster, what of the other forty or so dragonlord families who perished in the cataclysm? These were not ordinary mortals traveling on foot. They were dragonlords, bonded to winged beasts of fire and scale, capable of soaring through the skies at will.

Yes, perhaps the volcanoes truly did erupt all at once. Perhaps the devastation was so vast that the very continent cracked and buckled beneath the strain. But could an event of such colossal scale really occur in a single instant? Was it truly believable that the earth's tectonic plates could split as easily as paper?

Even if every dragon happened to be dozing in its lair when disaster struck, it was hard to believe they wouldn't have had even a second to react. As long as they could take flight, they should have been able to flee, shouldn't they?

Clay refused to believe that the dragonlords of Valyria had been so stubbornly loyal to their empire that they chose to perish with it. Just look at how smoothly the Targaryens had escaped. No hesitation, no regrets—just a quiet, efficient retreat!

And what about all the lands the Valyrian Freehold had conquered? Its dominion had stretched far and wide, with its borders reaching distant, far-flung regions. Was it truly possible that not a single dragon or dragonrider had been stationed away from the capital? That none had been posted to remote territories?

Yet the current reality was this: the volcanoes beneath the Freehold had erupted, and then, in a single night, every dragon and every dragonrider vanished. Along with them, the overwhelming majority of the empire's population disappeared without a trace.

Judging by the scale of destruction, Clay couldn't help but feel that this was no mere natural disaster. It was as if the place had been struck directly by something from his previous life—something like "Tsar Bomba," the pinnacle of explosive terror crafted by the old Soviets.

No matter how he looked at it, this didn't seem like a calamity caused by any ordinary force of nature or the folly of mankind. For the empire to be obliterated so thoroughly, to such an incomprehensible extent, was nothing short of unfathomable.

Clay was convinced: he had to go to the ruins of the Valyrian Freehold and see for himself. There were simply too many unanswered questions, too many secrets buried in the ash and stone. He could not, would not believe that a single volcanic eruption could bring down a civilization so immense.

Nowadays, almost every written record of Valyria's history has vanished from the world. Only a few fragments might remain, tucked away in the forgotten corners of the Citadel or preserved within the libraries of a few grand city-states scattered across Essos.

As for the stories that continued to circulate by word of mouth, Clay had little faith in them. In his eyes, if there was any explanation that made sense—however ridiculous it might sound—it was that some god or divine being had descended and intervened directly. That seemed both the most absurd and, paradoxically, the most plausible answer.

"I really wonder what else I'll end up finding in Essos. What do you think, Gaelithox?"

As he spoke, Clay reached out and gently patted Gaelithox on the head. But the only reply he received was the steady rhythm of the dragon's breathing, accompanied by the soft rumble of its snores. Clearly, this gluttonous beast had already slipped into a deep and contented slumber.

Clay chuckled quietly to himself. It seemed that the answers he sought could only be found on the far side of the Narrow Sea, somewhere across that ancient, waiting continent. Whether it was his inevitable meeting with Daenerys, the last living Targaryen, or the forgotten truths buried in history's dust, everything awaited Clay Manderly's arrival.

Sleep now. Tonight, he was sure he would have a good dream. It was said that those born with the blood of the dragonlords would often dream of dragons. These visions were known as "dragon dreams." He wondered—would he be graced by such a dream tonight?

Clay gazed up at the vast sky, his eyes following the stars that glittered like diamonds scattered across the heavens. His thoughts drifted gently, and the weight of sleep slowly pulled him down, soft and irresistible.

At some unknown moment, he too drifted off into slumber.

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