Only after Daemon allowed his murderous intent to fade did a small trophy materialize within Prince Baelon's consciousness.
[ Fortune turns every thirty years. Never underestimate the potential of the young.
Bronze Tier Achievement
Because of you, Daemon Targaryen, who in his original fate was never cast aside, has tasted the humiliation of rejection for the first time. The destinies of Lady Rhea Royce and House Royce have likewise been altered.
As previously stated, to change the future is a gift that belongs to you alone.
Reward: Dragon Gene Enhancement Potion ]
Do not underestimate this bronze tier achievement.
For Baelon, at this time of his life, its worth rivaled that of a relic sung of in Valyrian legend.
Within the quiet chambers of his mind, a bronze sigil hung suspended in darkness. He regarded it in stillness, and at last allowed himself a slow breath. Exhilaration rose in him, fierce and unrestrained.
At last.
Tyraxes would no longer bear the shameful whisper of deformity.
During the campaigns in the North, Tyraxes had performed worse than even the wild Sheepstealer. In raw strength, he had lagged behind Grey Ghost. The comparisons had not been kind, nor had they been wrong.
Had Baelon not grown beside the dragon since boyhood, had he not felt the pulse of their bond in blood and bone, he might have questioned whether Tyraxes truly carried the blood of a Dragon King.
"Use it," he commanded silently.
At his will, the Dragon Gene Enhancement Potion dissolved into nothingness within his consciousness. In its place, a subtler force took root. No violent mutation wracked the dragon's frame. No sudden tearing of scale or sinew followed.
Instead, the transformation settled deep within Tyraxes' flesh, waiting to unfold in step with his natural growth.
The first enhancement had shaped him across ten years into a monstrous predator of muscle and flame.
This second evolution would carry him further still.
*
Six Years Later, 121 AC
High above Harrenhal, Baelon rode.
The wind tore at his silver-gold hair, casting it behind him like molten sunlight. His pale skin caught the glare of day, and his violet eyes shone with a brightness that seemed almost unnatural. There was beauty in him, but it was edged like a blade, honed and dangerous.
Tyraxes' vast wings beat against the sky, each stroke deliberate, controlled.
Across from him circled two other dragons.
"Six years ago," Baelon called, his voice carrying easily over the wind, "the two of you together could at least make Tyraxes exert himself."
He tilted his head slightly, studying them with a faint, almost indulgent smile.
"Now he scarcely stirs. Have you truly followed the regimen I set?"
Before him, frustration burned hotter than dragonfire.
From the back of Sunfyre, Aegon Targaryen threw up a hand in exasperation. His silver hair whipped across his face as he leaned forward in the saddle.
"How long was Tyraxes six years ago?" Aegon shouted. He jabbed a gloved finger toward the immense dragon. "Now he is longer than my and Aemond's dragon combined!"
At fourteen, his expression was a portrait of disbelief and wounded pride.
Six years ago, Tyraxes had measured scarcely thirty meters from snout to tail.
Now he exceeded sixty.
The enhancement had altered the very rhythm of his growth. What had once been two or three meters each year had become nearly five. In six short years, he had doubled in length.
Of the eight dragons stabled at Harrenhal, only Caraxes, the Sheepstealer, and Dreamfyre approached Tyraxes in sheer scale.
Dreamfyre, born in 23 AC and nearing a century in age, remained the longest of them all.
But length alone no longer determined supremacy.
Combat did.
At thirty meters, Tyraxes had been able to defeat Sheepstealer with difficulty.
At sixty, the matter had changed.
Baelon rested a calm hand against the ridge of his dragon's neck. Tyraxes answered with a low rumble that vibrated through the air itself.
Now, he could endure even the savage fury of Caraxes and remain standing.
"Tyraxes," Baelon murmured within their shared bond. "Bloodflame."
He had no taste for idle chatter.
At a single impulse of will, Tyraxes parted his jaws.
What burst forth was no common dragonfire.
A torrent of dense, blood-red flame cascaded from his maw, not in wild tongues but in a relentless deluge, like a crimson waterfall plunging from the heavens. It burned with such intensity that the very air seemed to warp and scream around it. The blaze did not flicker. It poured, heavy and searing, as though the dragon spat molten stars upon the world below.
With each passing year, as Tyraxes had grown, so too had the heat of that dreadful fire.
What once left charred ruin now clung like living doom, searing flesh to the bone. It was not flame that merely burned. It adhered. It devoured. Even dragonhide would not remain unscarred beneath it.
"Baelon!" cried Aegon Targaryen, his voice breaking into an undignified shout. "That is cheating. You swore there would be no dragonfire!"
The moment Sunfyre glimpsed the crimson inferno, the golden dragon veered sharply aside, wings beating in frantic retreat.
Once, in youthful arrogance, Sunfyre had tested that dreadful blaze and nearly paid for it with his life. Since then, instinct ruled him. He would never again meet Bloodflame head-on.
Beside him, Morghul banked away with ponderous force.
From a safer height, Dreamfyre shifted her course as well, wings adjusting with cautious grace. She had no desire to serve as collateral damage in Baelon's experiments.
Baelon clicked his tongue softly.
"I had hoped to test the Bloodflame's full destructive reach," he said, though his voice carried little true regret. His violet eyes followed the retreating shapes of dragon and rider alike. "Common beasts perish too quickly. And I have no wish to journey north to the Great White Wasteland merely to seek creatures of ice."
Only dragons could endure long enough to serve as worthy measures.
"Enough," Aegon shouted at last, hauling Sunfyre downward in a decisive glide. "We are done with this."
The golden dragon descended in a rush of wind and dust, talons gouging the earth as he landed.
Aemond Targaryen guided Morghul down soon after, his posture stiff in the saddle, jaw set in stubborn pride. Helaena Targaryen followed, Dreamfyre settling with elegant restraint. None of them seemed eager to continue serving as Tyraxes' unwilling test subjects.
With a faint sigh, Baelon guided Tyraxes into descent. The great dragon folded his colossal wings and alighted with far greater control than his size suggested, the ground trembling faintly beneath his weight.
Baelon dismounted and regarded the three of them.
"Do you not understand?" he asked mildly. "The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in battle."
"Battle?" Aegon let himself fall backward into the grass without the slightest trace of princely decorum, one arm flung across his eyes. "What battle? If one awaits us, name it, and I shall fly there at once."
Helaena seated herself more carefully, though she, too, looked exhausted. Aemond remained standing a moment longer before lowering himself with controlled stiffness, pride preventing any true collapse.
"That is right," Aemond said, lifting his chin. "Even if Aegon cannot defeat the three of us alone, together we can defeat him."
Though Morghul was the smallest of their generation's mounts, there was nothing small in her temperament. She did not relish sparring, but in true slaughter she would yield to none.
Baelon stepped forward and rapped each of them lightly upon the head in turn.
"Very well," he said, amusement softening his expression. "You are all exceptional."
Over the past six years, under his steady guidance, the shadows that once clung to their natures had begun to thin.
Aegon remained mischievous, but the reckless edge had dulled. His laughter no longer courted disaster.
Aemond still burned with intensity and pride, yet that fire no longer turned inward. In Baelon's presence, his trust was absolute.
And Helaena…
The dream-laden girl had grown brighter with each passing year. No longer withdrawn, she carried herself with a quiet warmth that eased the air around her. Baelon had seen to it that she took proper meals and rest, no matter her wandering thoughts.
A faint softness now rounded her cheeks, lending her a gentle radiance.
She no longer resembled a fragile prophetess awaiting tragedy.
She looked, instead, like a princess cherished and fiercely protected.
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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