The Wings of the Dragon, Over the Narrow Sea

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Many years later, after he had become a seasoned and respected captain, Ruen Leslie would boast countless times to his friends that he was the first to discover the Empire's largest dragon—Gaelithox.

Although no one ever took his words seriously—such tall tales were far too common in the Empire under the reign of Emperor Clay Manderlay—what they didn't know was that, in truth, he was right.

…

When Clay was roused from sleep by the burning heat of Gaelithox' body, it was already past nine in the morning. There was nothing to be done about it. The dragon, like his master, was a great lover of late mornings. Given the chance to sleep in, neither man nor beast could be stopped.

After quickly washing up, Clay stepped before Gaelithox. The enormous creature, clad in scales of blue and gold, stared at his master stupidly. Clearly, the dragon had yet to fully awaken. Its eyes shimmered with the haze of sleep and confusion.

"Gaelithox, lie down. I'm taking you somewhere fun. You must be sick of this wretched little island by now, aren't you?"

Clay waved his hand downward at the dragon, beckoning him to lower his body. Gaelithox was not yet at his full size, but even so, mounting him was no longer as simple as climbing onto a horse.

The dragon stared blankly for a few seconds, evidently not quite grasping his master's intention. And how did Clay know that? There was no need to ask. The dragon's face was surprisingly expressive, and the bewilderment there was clear for all to see.

Dragons were not born with the instinct to let humans ride them through the skies. Such behavior had to be taught. Unfortunately, Clay's High Valyrian was atrocious. Apart from barking out "Dracarys," he couldn't manage anything else.

So began a half-hour of fumbling gestures and unspoken frustration. Clay tried everything he could think of until, at last, Gaelithox seemed to understand. The great blue-gold beast folded his wings and slowly lowered himself to the ground.

It would be a mistake to assume this meant he was meek or obedient. A dragon's gentleness only extended to its master. When it came to prey or enemies, they would reveal their true nature—the supreme predators atop the food chain, majestic and merciless.

Stepping onto the dragon's left wing, Clay pushed himself up with practiced strength and settled firmly on Gaelithox' back. The dragon's body radiated warmth, his scales smooth as polished stone, while the raised ridges along his spine provided reliable handholds for balance.

After adjusting his position, Clay gave the dragon's back a firm pat and spoke softly.

"Fly, Gaelithox."

This was, after all, a creature born to the skies. At the sound of his master's command, Gaelithox straightened at once, powerful legs driving against the earth. The ground trembled beneath his strides as he thundered forward, building momentum with each powerful step.

His vast wings began to beat. The membranous folds rose and fell with tremendous force, stirring up a gale that swept across the ground, lifting clouds of dust and debris into the air. At first, Gaelithox wobbled slightly, still unaccustomed to the added weight on his back, but he quickly adjusted.

And then, at last, Clay rode his dragon into the sky!

The roar of the wind filled his ears. Gaelithox soared swiftly, and with each thunderous cry from his open jaws, excitement blazed through him.

At last, he was free from that barren land. In the past, Clay had forbidden him from leaving, and the dragon had obeyed—his magic-born instincts compelled him to follow his master's commands. But even dragons longed for freedom. He had yearned to see a world beyond that desolate isle.

"Higher, Gaelithox. Let's go higher."

Now mounted upon the back of his dragon, Clay needed no elaborate commands. His thoughts flowed seamlessly into Gaelithox', and the dragon understood without another word.

Under the sunlight, the dark blue scales gleamed like a field of jewels, each one fine and lustrous. Gold streaks traced across his back like molten light, glowing resplendently as the sun bathed him in warmth.

With a single powerful beat of his wings, Gaelithox lifted his head and surged upward, climbing swiftly toward the clouds that crowned the sky.

Clay had a reason for ordering such altitude. If they flew too low, there was a risk that his own fleet—tasked with patrolling and enforcing the blockade over the Bite—might catch sight of Gaelithox. And that could not be allowed. As he had said before, the existence of dragons would inevitably become known to the Seven Kingdoms, but that moment had not yet come.

Riding what was arguably the fastest means of travel in this age, Clay soared out of the waters of Bite Bay in less than half a day, entering the cerulean expanse of the Narrow Sea.

His first planned destination lay on the far side of the sea—Pentos. There, within the city, some interesting individuals awaited him. Chief among them was the magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, a man well known for his close ties to the spider. This was the very same Illyrio who had tirelessly supported the false Aegon Targaryen in his bid for the throne.

Clay could not help but wonder how the portly governor would react when a full-grown male dragonrider descended from the skies and landed before him.

At present, Daenerys was either within Slaver's Bay or en route to it. That was the likeliest scenario, assuming the continent of Essos had not already been engulfed by war.

Clay surmised that the ongoing wars in the Seven Kingdoms would not, for now at least, affect Daenerys's movements on the faraway continent. Not directly, and not immediately.

This journey of his was not solely for the sake of discussing with Daenerys the eventual reconquest of Westeros. More importantly, he intended to build a power base of his own here in Essos.

To be candid, the Unsullied were a particularly promising option. Beyond their unparalleled discipline and prowess as infantry on the battlefield, they were also ideal for guarding the royal palace. In that respect, they were second to none.

Slaver's Bay, the principal source of Unsullied, would become his production line for elite soldiers—a reservoir from which he could draw a steady stream of powerful reinforcements. If the slavers knew what was good for them, Clay would acquire Unsullied at mere cost. But if they proved obstinate and foolish, then they would come to understand the meaning of a dragon's wrath.

After flying out of the Bite Bay, Clay instructed Gaelithox to descend. After all, remaining at such a high altitude for prolonged periods was far from pleasant. On a dragon's back, one had to rely entirely on one's arms and legs to stay mounted. At high speeds, there was none of the thrill that came with skimming across the sea's surface.

However, decreasing speed and altitude brought with it increased exposure. But Clay no longer cared. He had already left behind the traditional boundaries of Westeros. Even if he were to be spotted now, no one could trace it back to Clay Manderly of White Harbor.

As they flew onward, the ever-energetic Gaelithox began searching the sea below for its breakfast. Hunting a massive whale would be too troublesome, and besides, should the dragon miscalculate and toss its rider into the ocean, that would spell disaster.

So the gluttonous beast, whose appetite nearly rivaled that of its master, had to settle for the next best thing and turned its attention to smaller, easier-to-capture creatures instead.

Clay knew exactly what this incorrigible foodie had in mind. With a resigned sigh, he allowed Gaelithox to dip lower, gliding just above the surface of the sea. As the dragon's pace eased, Clay finally loosened his grip, drew out his waterskin, and took a deep, refreshing swig.

Gaelithox's long, sinuous neck curved like that of a seabird and plunged suddenly into the water. When it rose again, a large fish with a whipping tail thrashed madly in its jaws. A splash of seawater struck Clay full in the face, flung upward by the fish's tail, prompting him to smack Gaelithox lightly in irritation.

After this minor replenishment, the dragon seemed somewhat reinvigorated and ready to resume the journey toward the destination his master had set. But they had barely flown a short distance before something caught the dragon's eye, a small black dot on the distant horizon, and it promptly alerted Clay to the anomaly.

As they drew nearer, Clay was finally able to make out the shape more clearly. If he was not mistaken, that should be a Braavosi-style merchant vessel.

During his travels across Essos, Clay had boarded such well-built, large-capacity merchant ships on several occasions. With just one glance, he was able to identify the type.

Clay remained calm and composed, utterly unfazed by the sight before him. The sailors and their captain, however, were in a state of collective shock. From the lowest deckhands to the highest-ranking officers, every man stood frozen, staring skyward in stunned disbelief. They could scarcely trust their own eyes, and more than one began to wonder if exhaustion or the glare of the sea had conjured a waking dream.

Among them was First Mate Ruen Leslie, his mouth hanging open as he stared, unblinking, at the titanic form soaring ever closer across the waves.

In terms of size, Gaelithox was only slightly smaller than the towering Braavosi ship. Yet its presence alone was enough to inspire both awe and terror in the hearts of all who beheld it.

"May the Merling King protect us... What in the seven hells is that?" the captain muttered, half to himself.

Ruen heard his captain's murmured question. Though every man aboard had already guessed the answer in their hearts, even if it defied all logic, the sight before them was unmistakable. No matter how fantastical it seemed, no one could mistake the legendary creature gliding through the skies.

"A dragon, Captain. That's a dragon. There's no doubt about it."

Ruen answered firmly, even though he himself could hardly believe his own eyes. Everyone knew dragons had vanished from the world for over a century. And yet, here they were—a merchant vessel just returning from Westeros—and they were witnessing a dragon with their own eyes?

"Captain, what should we do? We... we've have got no idea how to deal with a dragon."

Realizing that his captain was still in a daze, Ruen raised his voice, calling out in urgent concern. The man, his face weathered red by years of sea wind, blinked and finally returned to himself. After only a brief moment of hesitation, he shook his head.

"Don't talk nonsense, Ruen. We don't even have ballistae on board. Do you really think we could pose any threat to a dragon?"

He stared at the approaching beast with a complex expression and let out a bitter chuckle.

"Right now, all we can do is get on our knees and pray that this dragon, wherever it came from, won't bathe us in fire from the sky."

It's not that the captain was a coward. If it were a pirate ship coming to plunder them, the captain would have stood his ground without the slightest hint of fear. On this voyage, he had even hired a company of sword-wielding guards for protection. If it came to boarding and close combat, it would simply be a matter of whose blade was sharper.

But a dragon was another matter entirely—a foe that so clearly exceeded the limits of this world's rules. Against such a being, there was only one course of action—to raise the white flag and begin praying without delay. With luck, the dragon might lose interest after a passing glance and continue on its way, leaving them unharmed.

However, if it chose to unleash its fury, even a single breath of dragonflame would suffice. A wooden ship like theirs, drifting helplessly in the vast sea, would stand no chance. Every soul aboard, without exception, would be reduced to ash or hurled into the ocean, destined to become nothing more than food for the fish.

Clay had no precise knowledge of Pentos's location, only a general sense of the direction. It was not as though he could build a global positioning system in this world, so he could only rely on general intuition and broad estimations.

As it happened, he had come across a free guide along the way. Clay decided he might as well fly down and ask a few questions. After all, he had already prepared an entire wardrobe of identities and aliases. No matter who he spoke to, no one could possibly link him back to the heir of House Manderly in White Harbor.

In short, everything was under control!

However, as Gaelithox shifted from fighter mode into a hovering helicopter posture, and Clay cast a casual glance down at the ship beneath them, something immediately struck him as odd.

Everyone on board, every last soul, was kneeling on the deck with their heads bowed low, clutching their skulls as if in pain. What in the world was this? Some kind of strange seafaring ritual?

Clay knew well that sailors often held to all manner of bizarre maritime customs. As the young lord of White Harbor, he had heard countless tales of such oddities, and during his travels across Essos, he had even witnessed a few himself. Yet never before had he encountered such an... outrageous display.

He remained seated atop the dragon's back, silent and unmoving. The steady, thunderous beat of Gaelithox's wings stirred a wind that made the men below tremble. In the stories passed down by the Braavosi, dragons were rarely cast in a noble light.

At last, Clay began to realize that this was not some eccentric maritime rite. These sailors were simply terrified—completely petrified by the presence of his Gaelithox. With a helpless sigh, he leaned forward slightly and shouted toward the deck below:

"Braavosi friends below, lift your heads. Don't be afraid. There's nothing to fear here."

Upon hearing these sudden words—clearly spoken in the voice of a man—the first instinct of Ruen, was to mentally curse in outrage.

Who do you think you are, telling me to lift my head? The dragon's wings are practically brushing against our faces. If I move even a hair too fast, we'll all be roasted alive…

His grumble hadn't even finished echoing in his mind when he instinctively turned his gaze toward the deck—and his expression froze.

In the blink of an eye, his head snapped upward, and he stared, stunned beyond belief, in the direction from which that youthful voice had come.

He was not alone. The ship's captain and a few of the bolder sailors—those who hadn't wet their trousers in fright—had the same reaction. All of them had assumed that this was a wild dragon, one without a master. After all, the last dragonlord family of dragonriders, the Targaryens, had been wiped out more than a decade ago. There should no longer be anyone in the world capable of commanding such a beast.

And yet, now, there was a figure atop the dragon's back.

Impossible!

What this implied was self-evident. The Nine Free Cities scattered across the eastern shores of the Narrow Sea had lived in trembling submission beneath dragon rule for thousands of years. They had barely managed to survive the fall of the Valyrian Freehold, only to continue bowing beneath the weight of the surviving Targaryens and their dragons.

And now, here it was again—a dragon, and more than that, a dragonrider. It meant that the bloodline of the Dragonlords had not been extinguished.

This was not a trivial revelation!

With great difficulty, Ruen looked up toward Clay's face. He did not recognize the young man, and there was no sign of the iconic silver hair or violet eyes, yet none of that mattered. His reverence was undiminished, for the man upon the dragon's back was no mere mortal.

A dragonrider—this was the dream of every man, a legend whispered in sleep and longing!

Seeing someone finally raise their head, Clay exhaled quietly, a subtle breath of relief escaping his lips. Good. At least there were still a few among them with the courage to look up. That would spare him the trouble of unnecessary waiting.

He issued a gentle command, and Gaelithox descended slightly, lowering himself until one clawed foot rested carefully on the sturdiest section of the ship's railing. The motion allowed the dragon to relax while also bringing Clay within easier speaking distance of the crew below.

The ship groaned in protest as the dragon's immense weight pressed down upon one side of the hull. With Gaelithox's colossal form balanced there, the vessel creaked and strained beneath the burden. Fortunately, the hold was packed tightly with cargo imported from Westeros. If not for that vital counterweight, the entire ship might have tipped and capsized under the pressure.

After searching for a moment, Clay spotted a bearded man who seemed calm enough to speak with. He pointed at him directly and asked:

"Friend from Braavos, I trust you would be very willing to tell me where I might find Pentos. Am I right?"

The moment he was singled out, Ruen flinched. After hearing Clay's words, he nodded so furiously that those nearby could hardly believe their eyes.

Within his heart, Ruen Leslie muttered,

So this mysterious dragonrider seeks Pentos. Heh. I wonder how their Prince of Pentos will react when a dragon appears before him. Will he lose control of his bladder?

As for Ruen himself, a seasoned old sailor who had spent countless years riding the waves and weathering storms, there was little he could do in the face of such overwhelming dragon might. Right now, all he could manage was to fight back the urge to wet himself.

Everything else was beyond his concern!

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