Logar spent the better part of the day hiking the slopes of Dragonmont exactly as Silver Denys's son had suggested, yet he didn't spot a single wild dragon.
Figures, he thought. Only three of the beasts lived on the whole island—Grey Ghost, Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal—and each guarded its own territory like a jealous king. Random luck wasn't going to cut it.
He wasn't in a rush. He'd try again another day. As he started back down the rocky path, a deep dragon roar rolled across the sky.
Logar looked up. A dark silhouette wheeled overhead, growing larger until he recognized the pale-green scales and pearl horns.
Baela and Moondancer.
"You again?" he called out, surprised. Ever since he'd landed on Dragonstone, the fiery princess had been sneaking glances at him every chance she got. He was positive she was still plotting payback.
"This island belongs to my family," Baela answered coolly as Moondancer landed in a swirl of hot wind. "I go where I please."
She slid off the young dragon's back looking far too pleased with herself.
Her violet eyes flicked to the mud caking Logar's boots. "My brother says you want to claim Vermithor and you've been scouting wild dragons to study their habits first?"
"Not 'study,' exactly," Logar corrected, his gaze drifting to the smaller dragon behind her. "Just learning how they behave. Moondancer looks small, but she flies higher than I expected. Impressive."
"Of course she does." Baela puffed up with pride and gave the dragon's lazy head a pat. "My Moondancer is the best. She'll only get bigger and fly even higher."
Logar wasn't interested in the princess showing off. He shook his head. "The dragon I choose has to be more than just fast in the air. It needs real size, real power—something I can ride into battle and use to crush my enemies."
Baela smirked at first, then her eyes sparkled with a sudden idea. "You're hunting wild dragons? I'm bored out of my mind right now. What if I let Moondancer carry you up to the peaks of Dragonmont? You game?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Logar laughed—then narrowed his eyes, instantly suspicious. "But why help me? A princess riding around with one of the queen's new lords… that breaks every rule in the book."
"I don't give a damn about rules." Baela looked down at him from Moondancer's back, chin high. "Jace and Rhaena are always glued to Mother's side. Aegon, Viserys, and Joffrey are too little and just follow me around like ducklings. There's no one fun to play with, and I'm dying of boredom in that gloomy castle."
Logar had to admit she had a point. The girl had always done exactly as she pleased.
"But you have to promise me one thing first," she added.
"What?"
"Take me to the taverns and brothels in the fishing village. I've never been to any of those places! Just show me what goes on inside and I'll fly you straight to the wild dragons."
There it is. Her real motive finally crawled out.
"No deal." Logar spread his hands, already regretting the conversation.
He wasn't afraid of being accused of kidnapping a Targaryen princess, but this girl was trouble wrapped in silver hair. Take her anywhere near those places and gods only knew what chaos she'd stir up.
Besides, what was there to see? Drunk sailors, whores, and men betting on cockfights. If anyone recognized Baela, the entire island would erupt.
"I'll wear a disguise. I'll behave," she pressed, eyes wide and pleading. Then her expression hardened. "If you refuse, I'll tell Mother you assaulted me on the ship and stole my maidenhead."
Logar's eyes flew wide. "I never touched your maidenhead!"
One wrong word and the freshly minted Lord of the Stepstones would be dragged before the queen and carved into pieces.
"Heh. You owe me." Baela's cheeks flushed pink at the memory of being lifted one-handed that day on the ship.
In the end, Logar gave in. It was risky, but as long as no one recognized her, it should be fine.
Baela practically bounced with glee. She sent Moondancer back to the dragon pit, tied her silver hair up tight, pulled on a heavy cloak, and tugged the hood low. She grinned, clearly proud of her new look.
Logar, however, was less than thrilled at having fallen into her trap. He stared at her spotless face for a second, bent down, scooped up a handful of mud, and smeared it across her cheeks before she could dodge.
"What are you—?!" Baela sputtered, now looking like a filthy street urchin.
"You're too clean," he said flatly. "If you're coming with me to places men go, remember your new role—you're my squire. I don't tell you to speak, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?"
Baela looked ready to stab him, but the promise of forbidden adventure won out. She bit her lip and nodded.
True to her word, she stayed quiet after that, head down, trailing behind him like a proper servant as they headed toward the fishing village on the edge of Dragonstone.
The village was loud and alive—fishermen shouting, dockhands unloading cargo, smallfolk gossiping about the latest bastard who'd tried to claim a dragon. The air smelled of salt, fish, and cheap malt beer.
Logar led Baela down a narrow alley and pushed open the door of a dockside tavern.
The stench hit like a wall—sweat, sour ale, roasting fish. Dim oil lamps lit crooked wooden tables where shirtless sailors laughed, argued, and slammed tankards.
Baela shrank back, clutching the hem of Logar's cloak. Her hood slipped; he calmly tugged it back into place.
They took a corner table. Logar raised a hand. "Two mugs of the weak stuff."
The barkeep slid over two cloudy tankards.
Logar pushed one toward Baela and muttered, "You wanted this. Drink up and we leave. Not a word."
She gave a tiny nod, eyes darting around the room, then quickly looked down, both small hands wrapped tight around her mug.
Logar had just taken a sip when a familiar voice boomed across the tavern.
"Hey, Sea Burner!"
He turned and inwardly cursed. Of all people…
Ser Robert Quince—Queen Rhaenyra's most trusted knight—stood in the doorway, beaming.
"Lord Logar, what brings you to a dive like this?" Quince frowned at the grimy surroundings. "This swill is for dockhands and sailors. Come to my quarters—I've got proper wine."
"No need, ser. Just unwinding." Logar kept a firm hand on Baela's shoulder to stop her from bolting. "What about you?"
"Wonderful news!" Quince's face lit up. "Sea Smoke—the dragon that once belonged to Laenor Velaryon—has returned to Driftmark and been claimed by a bastard named Addam! The Blacks have another dragonrider. I was just on my way to tell Lord Corlys and Her Grace!"
"That's… lucky for him," Logar said, a flicker of genuine envy in his voice.
But the feeling passed quickly.
Addam claiming Sea Smoke was always meant to happen.
Logar's own road would be different. He would carve his own legend—one no one could hand him on a silver platter.