Chapter 4
128, Harrenhal
Harry sighed as the deafening roar echoed through the ruins of Harrenhal, the vibrations running through the very stones beneath his feet. He had heard of the dragons before; of course, great-winged beasts, symbols of power and conquest, beasts bound to the will of one of the so-called great families. But hearing about them and experiencing their presence firsthand were two entirely different things.
It was, in his opinion, a terrible idea.
Muggles, because that’s what they were, no matter how much magic they thought they wielded, had no business keeping dragons. They weren’t Parselmouths, weren’t capable of truly understanding the creatures they sought to control. They could train them, of course, the same way one might train a dog, through force, repetition, and rewards. But a dragon wasn’t a dog. A dog couldn’t melt a castle with a breath or turn a battlefield to ash in the blink of an eye.
This was why keeping dragons without the ability to actually speak to them was foolish. Dangerous. Suicidal, even.
Harry moved swiftly through the ruins, his steps silent against the broken stone, as another earth-shaking roar split the sky. He didn’t need to get close to know what was happening; he could hear it, feel it in the air. Even before seeing the battle, he could smell the burning wood and scorched earth.
Then, through the gaps in the crumbling walls of Harrenhal, he saw them.
Two massive beasts, locked in a deadly dance above the waters of the Gods Eye.
The first dragon was colossal, larger than any Harry had ever seen. Her scales, dark as an old bruise, shimmered in the dim light, hints of deep blue-green only visible when the firelight caught them just right. Her wings stretched wide enough to blot out the sky, her presence suffocating, as though the air itself bowed beneath her power. When she roared, the sound tore through the night, a deep, ancient bellow that rattled his very bones.
Opposing her was a leaner dragon, red and black, all sinew and sharp angles. Where the first was raw power, this one was speed and precision. His wings sliced through the air like a blade, his deep-throated shriek vibrating with fury and defiance. His crimson scales glowed darker where fire reflected against them, giving him the look of something molten, a creature born from flame itself.
They met in a violent clash above the lake, their roars shaking the heavens. The larger dragon moved with the weight of her years, slow but unstoppable, while the red one was relentless, darting around her like a living weapon, every movement sharp with mad determination.
Harry’s gaze flicked to the riders atop the dragons, barely visible against the chaos of fire and wings. He didn’t know them, didn’t particularly care. Nobles, most likely. Lords, kings; whatever they fancied themselves. Their endless wars had never interested him, nor the bloodlines they clung to as if they made them gods among men.
Then one of them jumped.
Harry hadn’t meant to shout.
It was instinct, an involuntary reaction to the sheer madness unfolding before him.
The rider had leaped from the red dragon, sword in hand, aiming to strike down the man on the larger beast’s back. A suicidal move, reckless, desperate. In the space of a breath, Harry saw it all: the blade arcing downward, wind whipping against the figure’s armor, the other rider just beginning to turn, realizing too late that death was already descending upon him.
“Oi! What the bloody hell are you doing?!” Harry bellowed.
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.
The rider, halfway through his lethal strike, flinched. Just enough. The blade, meant to pierce through the man’s skull, instead drove through his lower chest. A sickening crunch followed as both riders, their dragons locked in death throes, plunged toward the water below.
For a heartbeat, everything was eerily silent.
Then the impact came.
The she-dragon hit the lake like a falling mountain, her massive form sending waves surging outward, swallowing the smaller dragon in the chaos. Water erupted skyward, steaming as dragonfire hissed and died beneath the surface. The riders vanished beneath the churning depths.
Harry’s breath caught. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to interfere.
And yet…
He was already moving, his body acting before his mind could catch up. His boots hit the rocky shore before he ripped them off and ran straight into the water. It was cold, bitterly so, but he barely felt it as he waded in, deeper and deeper, until the lake swallowed him whole.
He had to get to them before it was too late.
The water churned violently around him as the two massive dragons thrashed, their agonized cries echoing through the ruins of Harrenhal. Even injured as they were, they were still forces of nature, fire and fury given form, their pain making them unpredictable and dangerous.
Harry knew he had to act quickly.
He reached for his holly wand out of habit before hesitating. No, this required more power, more precision. With a swift motion, he pulled out the Elder Wand instead.
“Sorry about this,” he muttered, flicking the wand through the air.
The magic poured out of him, latching onto the writhing dragons, and, in the blink of an eye, their massive forms shrank down until they were small enough to fit in his hands. A strange silence followed, almost as if even the air itself was trying to comprehend what had just happened.
Harry caught the tiny dragons before they could hit the water, cradling them gently in his palms.
“Easy now,” he murmured, his voice slipping into Parseltongue instinctively. “You are safe. I will not harm you.”
The tiny dragons stiffened, their golden eyes flickering with something beyond pain, confusion, shock, perhaps even the barest hint of recognition. They understood him.
No human had ever spoken their tongue before.
Still, they were too weak to react beyond that, their injured bodies trembling in his grasp.
Setting them carefully against his chest, Harry turned his focus to the riders. Two men, both pale-haired and bloodied, barely clinging to consciousness. Nobles, he assumed distantly, though he didn’t particularly care. They were just two more fools who thought they could control dragons.
With a lazy flick of the Elder Wand, he levitated their limp forms out of the water, letting them hover weightlessly before him.
He let out a slow breath, dragging the wet strands of hair from his face as he stared at the surrounding scene, the ruined castle in the distance, the shattered lake, the scent of blood and fire still lingering in the air.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, already exhausted. “What have I gotten myself into this time?”
With a practiced flick of his wand, Harry set up his tent, watching as the small, unassuming structure expanded in defiance of natural laws. The exterior looked modest, just a simple canvas tent, but inside… inside was something else entirely.
The entrance opened up to a vast, cozy space, far larger than anything that could logically fit within the tent’s physical dimensions. The air was warm, carrying the scent of aged wood and faintly burning candles. Soft, well-worn furniture filled the main room, plush armchairs and thick rugs giving it a welcoming, homey feel. Several rooms branched off from the main area, each one serving its own purpose: living quarters, a kitchen, a library. But tonight, only one room mattered.
The healing room.
Harry stepped inside, the air shifting from warm and inviting to crisp and sterile. The space was clean and orderly, bathed in soft, neutral tones, light grays, whites, and beiges. Shelves lined the walls, holding neatly arranged medical supplies, glass jars filled with potions, bandages stacked with meticulous precision, and trays of finely crafted silver instruments. The bed linens were crisp and cool, perfectly prepared for their unexpected occupants.
With great care, he levitated the two injured men onto separate beds, making sure they were stable before turning his attention back to the dragons still cradled in his arms.
They were both impossibly tiny now, shivering from pain and exhaustion, their golden eyes flickering between fear and confusion. They had never known a human who spoke their tongue, never encountered someone who handled them with such care.
Harry ran a careful hand down their small, scaled forms, his voice slipping back into Parseltongue without thought.
“Rest,” he murmured softly. “You are safe here.”
The dragons hesitated for a moment longer before finally going still in his hands, too weak to fight him.
He exhaled deeply, already exhausted from the night’s events.
Now came the hard part, figuring out what the hell he was going to do with them.
Harry worked quickly, his mind running through each injury with clinical precision. He had to prioritize.
The younger platinum blond, the one with the stab wound, was in bad shape, but he had a couple of hours. The wound was deep, but it had missed anything immediately fatal. That gave Harry a little time.
The older one, though… He was worse off. Hitting the water from such a height was like hitting stone. Internal bleeding posed a very real threat, and Harry didn’t know the extent of the damage without a full diagnostic. He had less time.
And the dragons… The dragons were in the worst shape of all.
Their bodies bore deep puncture wounds inflicted by claws meant to kill. Blood seeped sluggishly from their injuries, and their breathing was shallow. They were fading fast.
Harry flicked his wand, spelling several blood-replenishing potions into their stomachs. The effects weren’t immediate, but their bodies would absorb the potions quickly enough.
Then, without a second’s hesitation, he set to work.
He started with their internal injuries, using a careful combination of magic and precision spellwork to remove the pooling blood and repair damaged organs. It was delicate work; one wrong move, and he could make things worse.
Having ascertained they were out of immediate danger, he turned his attention to their external wounds. A few muttered words, and essence of dittany seeped into the deep gashes, the potent healing agent sizzling softly as it encouraged the wounds to close.
Finally, he carefully wrapped their bodies in bandages, ensuring the wounds stayed clean and protected.
He sat back, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair.
Two dragons stabilized.
Now, onto their riders.
Harry barely spared the two men a glance as he worked. They were muggles. Worse, these muggles were inbred. He had seen enough of that brand of stupidity among blood purists and Death Eaters back in his own world. He had no patience for it.
Still, he wasn’t about to let them die, not when he had already saved them.
He started with the older one, his injuries from the fall severe but manageable. Using a careful combination of potions and magic, he mended the worst of the internal damage, sealing ruptured organs and knitting torn muscles back together.
Then, he moved on to the younger man.
First, he cast a Blood-Replenishing Charm, ensuring the man wouldn’t bleed out on him. Then, with a wave of his wand, he scoured away the grime and filth coating his body. It was disgusting. How had they even let themselves get this bad?
Harry clicked his tongue in irritation before casting Arresto Momentum on the blood surrounding the wound, slowing its flow so he could work.
With slow, practiced care, he removed the sword, his magic ensuring the wound didn’t worsen as he pulled it free. He checked the damage, yes; the blade had pierced the intestines. If left untreated, it would’ve caused a slow, agonizing death.
Sighing, he began the meticulous process of sealing the wound shut, weaving his magic carefully to ensure it healed properly. Once satisfied, he closed the outer wound and coated it in a layer of essence of dittany, watching as the flesh slowly knit itself back together.
But he didn’t heal them completely.
No, they needed to feel some of that pain. Not enough to risk reopening their wounds, but enough to remind them that they weren’t invincible. He had seen too many reckless fools do something stupid the moment they were back to full strength. These two could suffer a little.
His work done, Harry conjured a chair beside them and slumped into it, exhaustion creeping up on him. He barely had time to register the warmth of the fire crackling in the corner before his eyes slid shut, and he drifted into sleep.
Daemon Targaryen groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, the familiar haze of pain and confusion clouding his thoughts. His body felt heavy, his muscles sore from the battle and the subsequent fall. His mouth was dry, and his head swam in the disorienting fog of unconsciousness.
He blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the soft, golden light streaming through the cracks in the tent’s fabric. The air smelled faintly of herbs and antiseptic, a clean, sterile scent that made his senses recoil. This wasn’t the battlefield. This wasn’t the Gods Eye.
He was somewhere else. Somewhere unfamiliar.
The surrounding room was cozy, almost unnaturally so. Warm, earthy tones covered the walls, and shelves crammed with jars and bottles lined the room; in his blurry state, he couldn’t recognize most of them. There was a faint hum of magic in the air, a quiet, pulsing energy that seemed to settle over the room like a gentle blanket.
He turned his head and saw his nephew, Aemond, lying in the bed next to him, breathing shallowly, still unconscious but seemingly unscathed by the chaos of their duel. Daemon cursed under his breath, frustration bubbling to the surface. He had missed his mark; his sword had pierced Aemond’s stomach instead of delivering a fatal blow to his head. The thought of it gnawed at him. He had been so close to ending the rivalry, but now his nephew was still alive, still breathing. He could feel the bitter sting of failure in the pit of his stomach.
His hand reached out, fingers grazing the edge of his sword, Dark Sister, resting across the chest at the end of the bed. A momentary flicker of relief washed over him; at least his weapon was near.
His gaze drifted to the figure sitting nearby. At first, he thought it was another figure in the room, someone waiting to tend to him. But as his eyes focused, he realized the person before him was no ordinary healer.
A man, tall and slender, with wild black hair pulled back into a loose, messy bun, his features sharp and striking in a way that seemed almost too perfect to belong to someone of this world. His face held an air of calm determination, and his eyes were closed in quiet concentration as he sat beside the beds.
A strange outfit clothed the man; unfamiliar yet practical, perhaps designed for healing, it featured deep, muted colors and layers of well-worn yet impossibly neat fabric. He wore a long, flowing cloak draped over the back of a nearby chair. The healer’s posture was relaxed but guarded, as though ready for anything.
Daemon’s vision flickered for a moment, disoriented, and he struggled to remember how he had gotten here. How long had he been out? He tried to sit up, but winced at the pain that shot through his body.
His gaze narrowed, anger slowly creeping back in as his mind cleared. Who was this stranger? And why had they saved him?
The man’s presence didn’t sit right with him. Too calm. Too… different. Yet Daemon had to admit, there was something oddly familiar about the way he moved, like he had seen it before, somewhere in his memories. The way the man’s eyes were so eerily intense, watching everything without saying a word. It reminded him of something, someone, perhaps.
But before he could formulate any more questions, the figure slowly stood and moved toward them, and Daemon stiffened. His hand unconsciously curled around the hilt of his sword.
The mysterious healer didn’t flinch, merely continuing his task, as though nothing Daemon could do would rattle him. He couldn’t help but wonder just who this man was, and what role he would play in the game Daemon had no intention of losing.
Daemon’s gaze snapped back to the healer as he noticed the man’s eyes, those piercing emerald eyes. They glowed with a quiet intensity, the kind that seemed to look straight through him. The color was almost unnatural, shimmering with something ancient and unsettling, and Daemon couldn’t help but stare at them for a moment longer than necessary.
His anger flared anew, the frustration of his failed strike still fresh. His grip tightened around the blankets, and his voice, rough from disuse, came out in a demand. “Kill him,” Daemon ordered, nodding toward Aemond’s bed. “Finish what I started. Put an end to the brat’s life. I will not suffer him for much longer.”
He had expected the man to flinch, to recoil at his command. Perhaps even offer some form of resistance. But instead, the healer didn’t bat an eye. In fact, there was a look of mild shock in the man’s eyes, as though Daemon’s words were an absurdity in the face of what had just happened.
To Daemon’s surprise, the healer leaned down toward him with an almost amused expression, before giving him a gentle, almost playful smack to the back of his head. “Sweet Circe,” the man muttered under his breath, as though he was speaking to himself more than Daemon.
Daemon’s eyes widened in confusion. Sweet Circe? Who in the hell was Circe, and why did this healer speak as though he were familiar with gods and curses upon this world?
Before Daemon could fully process his words, the healer straightened up and gave him a look that spoke volumes, one of both frustration and disbelief.
“I didn’t spend my time healing you, you, only to be told by some indignant, highborn, inbred brat to kill someone. Especially when I already healed your sorry self and your… whatever level of relative he is.” The healer’s voice was calm, but there was a bite to it, a sharp edge that surprised Daemon, considering the man’s serene demeanor up until now.
Daemon’s jaw tightened, the insult stinging him in ways he hadn’t expected. He had grown accustomed to being the one who held power in his presence, not the other way around. Daemon was irked by the healer’s lack of intimidation.
The man’s words seemed to rattle Daemon for a second, and his mind briefly reeled at the “inbred” remark.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Daemon growled, but there was a noticeable shift in his tone. He was used to intimidating those around him with words alone, but this one, this strange man, was different. He had a certain quality, something elusive and almost beyond Daemon’s comprehension, that made him uneasy.
The healer raised an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, before he moved away, as if Daemon’s words meant little to him. It was clear that this man had no intentions of fulfilling Daemon’s request. No, it seemed like he had his own agenda, one Daemon would need to figure out if he was to understand this baffling situation.
“You want him dead?” the healer asked, his voice no longer angry but strangely resigned, as though the idea of doing what Daemon requested was beneath him. “You’ll have to get someone else to do it. I don’t do that.” He took a step back, eyes glinting with an almost mysterious amusement.
Daemon watched him, fury simmering beneath the surface. Who was this man? And how had he managed to get under Daemon’s skin so easily?
“Then why save us?” Daemon finally demanded, his words heavy with suspicion. “Why heal us? What’s your game here?” His eyes narrowed, studying the man’s every movement, searching for any hint of a lie.
The healer’s gaze softened, and for a moment, Daemon almost thought he saw a flicker of something genuine, something not so detached. But it passed quickly, replaced by the same unreadable calm.
“Because I can,” the man said simply, his voice quiet but with an undercurrent of something else, something Daemon couldn’t quite place. “And because you’re not the ones who deserve to die here today.” He glanced back at Aemond, still unconscious, his words laced with something Daemon couldn’t grasp.
“Not the ones,” the healer repeated, almost as though to himself. “But you,” he added, looking back at Daemon, “You’re not entirely blameless either.”
Daemon opened his mouth to retort, but the healer’s words had already sunk in deeper than he cared to admit. Something in his chest tightened, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the sharp pang of uncertainty.
This man… was not what Daemon expected.
And that, more than anything, worried him.
As Aemond’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing he felt was pain, sharp, burning, and all-consuming, like fire coursing through his veins. He groaned, struggling to make sense of his surroundings as he blinked into the dim light. The strange healing room, the sterile but calming atmosphere, it was all so foreign to him. His body ached, his head throbbed, but as he focused, his first thought wasn’t of his own suffering.
“Daemon…” he rasped, voice raw, turning his head toward his uncle, still lying beside him. His gaze immediately flickered to the bed across from them, where the large, imposing figure of his dragon was missing. “Where the fuck are the dragons?” His voice was thick with confusion and frustration, eyes wide with growing panic.
Daemon’s head shot up at the sound of his nephew’s voice, his lips pulling into a scowl. He had only just started to process his own confusion about the strange healer and the even stranger situation when Aemond’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.
Before Daemon could respond, the healer sighed loudly, clearly exasperated. “No thanks, no gratitude,” the healer muttered under his breath, but his hands were already moving deftly, a flick of his weird stick, that had suddenly appeared there. Without warning, the healer placed two tiny, miniature versions of the dragons on the table between Daemon and Aemond.
Both Targaryens froze in utter disbelief, eyes widening in horror. The dragons, Vhagar and Craraxes, were reduced to the size of a hand, their once mighty forms now a mere fraction of their original size. They lay unconscious, their bodies slightly curled up like young hatchlings, bandaged and wrapped in the same pristine white bandages that covered their riders.
Daemon’s chest tightened with disbelief and fury; his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The once fearsome creatures, now nothing more than small, fragile things, barely able to even twitch their wings.
Daemon’s face contorted with rage, and before he could stop himself, he bellowed, “Witchcraft! This is witchcraft!” He lurched forward, fists clenched at his sides, his voice thick with disgust. “What kind of sorcery have you used on my dragon? What have you done?!”
Aemond, who had been staring at the smaller form of Vhagar, was paralyzed in horror. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as he saw the familiar golden eyes of his dragon, now dimmed and fragile in her smaller state. A shiver ran down his spine as he scanned the bandages over her form. She was hurt, badly. But what in the Seven Hells had happened?
He swallowed hard, the horror overtaking his initial shock, and he found himself muttering in a strained voice, “Vhagar...” His throat felt dry, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out but stopped short of touching her tiny body. She looked so delicate now, so fragile. The terrifying, destructive power she once wielded was nowhere to be found. He could barely recognize her in this shrunken form, and the sight twisted something deep inside him.
“What did you do? You better explain yourself!” Daemon’s voice was a low growl, an undercurrent of danger in every word as he yelled profanities at the man.
Aemond didn’t seem to hear him. His focus was entirely on Vhagar, his mind reeling. “What the hell did you do to her?” he demanded, his voice trembling with both fear and anger. His eyes flicked back to the healer, who was watching them both with an air of almost casual indifference.
The healer’s expression remained unchanged, though his eyes flickered with annoyance. “It’s not witchcraft,” he muttered, tapping his wand against his leg in irritation. “It’s magic, healing magic, if you’d care to actually appreciate it. You should be grateful I didn’t just leave you all to die. They’re still alive, aren’t they?”
Daemon’s face twisted with skepticism. “Alive? You call this alive?” he spat, motioning toward the miniature dragons. “What have you done to my dragons, my Caraxes?!” His voice cracked with both disbelief and fury.
The healer sighed again, clearly fed up with their theatrics. “If you’d shut up long enough to listen, I’ll explain,” he said, his tone turning sharp. “I’ve shrunk them to a manageable size to heal them more effectively. They’re badly wounded, and if you’re too impatient to understand the magic involved, then you’ll have to deal with the consequences.” He leveled a pointed look at Daemon. “Just be grateful they’re alive.”
Daemon’s hands clenched into fists, but Aemond’s shaky breath drew his attention back to the smaller version of his dragon. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. The rage inside him was still burning, but the fear he felt for Vhagar overshadowed everything. He swallowed hard again, his gaze never leaving her tiny form.
“What will happen to them?” Aemond asked, his voice quieter now, though it still trembled. He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he needed to know. “Will they… grow back to their full size?” He couldn’t fathom what kind of magic had caused this. How could anyone shrink a creature so large, so powerful, and not destroy them in the process?
The healer’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, as he gazed at the two tiny dragons. “They’ll recover in time,” he said, his voice a little less irritated now. “If you don’t waste my time with demands and nonsense, they’ll heal faster. But they’ll need care. The bond you share with them is crucial to their recovery. That is the only reason I’m letting a pair of muggles near two dragons.”
Daemon sneered at the healer’s words, but Aemond, still staring at Vhagar, simply nodded, his eyes wide with the strange mixture of awe and fear. The thought of caring for her in this state, of nursing her back to health as a tiny, vulnerable creature, felt almost surreal. But he knew, deep down, that he would do whatever it took to see her whole again.
For a brief moment, the tension in the room hung thick, a delicate balance between rage and hope. Daemon’s anger simmered, but the sight of Aemond, vulnerable, shaken, and torn between his anger and fear for Vhagar, kept him silent.
What had this strange healer truly done to them?
The hour passed slowly, the tension in the air thick and palpable as Daemon and Aemond both kept a watchful eye on their dragons. Caraxes, the fiery red beast, slowly stirred first, his amber eyes flickering open with a dazed expression. His wings twitched weakly, a slow recovery from the trauma of their fall. Daemon’s heart lurched, a mixture of relief and concern clouding his mind as he observed every minute detail of his dragon’s behavior. His gaze flicked to Vhagar next, who had also begun to stir, though more slowly, with Aemond curled protectively around her, his hand gently resting on the dragon’s scaled neck.
Aemond’s face was tight with concentration as he stayed close to his dragon, his eyes flickering between her tiny, injured form and the healer. The healer was busy muttering to himself, but his eyes constantly shot glares at the two Targaryens, clearly annoyed with the pair of them for being so close to their dragons.
Aemond, growing tired of the healer’s attitude, finally broke the silence. “How do you know how to help dragons?” he asked, his voice sharp but careful, an undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his words.
The healer’s response was quick and blunt, though his voice carried the slightest edge of annoyance. “Found a boy and a dragon after they’d fallen into the water and saved them, about a year ago.” His words were vague, like he didn’t want to give away too much. But the way he said it, the way his eyes hardened for a split second, made Aemond pause.
Aemond’s mind immediately drifted, the words sticking in his mind. A boy and a dragon, saved from the water... It sent a chill down his spine, and he couldn’t help but remember the incident with Lucerys and Arrax. They had never found their bodies after Vhagar had taken them down, dropped them into the sea without a second thought.
The thought of it made Aemond’s throat tighten. Had someone, this healer, perhaps been involved in the recovery? The notion of someone saving a boy and a dragon from the water... it gnawed at him. It was possible, but also impossibly strange. Arrax and Lucerys had gone down, but no one had ever recovered their bodies. What if they’d survived? What if they were out there, somewhere, alive?
Aemond glanced down at Vhagar’s sleeping form, his heart aching at the thought of his nephew’s death still haunting him. If someone had found them, maybe there was hope… maybe there was a chance to understand what had really happened to them.
Daemon, ever the sharper observer, was staring at the healer now, suspicion flickering behind his gaze. He hadn’t missed the healer’s hesitation, nor the mention of the boy and the dragon. There was more to this story than the healer was letting on, and Daemon wasn’t about to ignore it.
“That’s a vague answer,” Daemon grunted, his eyes narrowing. “A year ago, you say? What exactly do you know about that boy? About the dragon?” His voice had an edge of distrust, his posture stiff and guarded. Daemon was not a man to ignore oddities, and this situation had too many of them.
The healer remained silent for a moment, but Aemond could see his jaw tighten. He wasn’t willing to divulge more, at least, not without being pressed.
The room fell into a tense silence again, the only sound being the soft rustling of the dragons stirring, slowly coming back to themselves. Aemond’s mind kept circling back to his question, and a gnawing suspicion lingered in his chest. Could it be that the boy the healer referred to... had been someone he knew? Someone from his past?
Aemond’s gaze returned to the healer, and then back to Vhagar, her breathing steady now. The questions loomed, unanswered, and a shadow seemed to pass over him.
“Who was that boy?” Aemond asked, his voice quieter this time, almost a whisper, as he tried to piece the fragments of information together.
But the healer’s gaze turned cold, almost dismissive. “A boy,” he replied shortly, as if the answer was inconsequential. “The dragon was hurt, and I helped. That’s all you need to know.”
Daemon wasn’t satisfied. “A boy...” he murmured under his breath, turning the words over in his mind, trying to find some connection. “Who did you say saved him?”
Aemond wasn’t sure if the healer was hiding something or simply didn’t care to divulge more. Either way, it left him feeling unsettled. And the longer the silence stretched, the more that question about the boy gnawed at him.
He thought back again to that day, the chaos, the horror. Vhagar’s attack, Lucerys’ fall, and the uncertain waters where Arrax had vanished. He thought of the boy and the dragon saved by this healer, a boy who could be anyone, but a boy who, in Aemond’s mind, might have been involved in what happened.
And if that was the case... then this healer knew far more than he was letting on.
Aemond’s thoughts were interrupted as Caraxes, now fully awake, gave a soft rumble, his head rising slightly as his fiery eyes met Daemon’s. The dragon’s injuries were still severe, but he was alive. And so, too, was Vhagar.
“Daemon...” Aemond whispered, his voice almost drowned in his thoughts. “What if...” He trailed off, unsure how to voice the doubt forming in his mind.
Daemon met his nephew’s eyes, understanding the unspoken words that hung between them. What if Arrax had survived? What if the boy the healer had saved was someone they knew? The questions hung heavy in the air, and for the first time in a long while, Aemond didn’t know what to believe.
And Daemon... Daemon wasn’t about to let this mystery go unanswered.