Logar never expected her to be so bold. Somehow he'd ended up the one being pursued.
"You already have a betrothed," he grumbled.
"Who says having a betrothed means I can't like someone else?" Baela's cheeks were still flushed, her eyes sparkling with playful aggression. "Besides, Jace has always treated me like a little sister. We're a lot more innocent than you're imagining."
"Enough. I'm taking you back," Logar cut her off. Today's events had spiraled too fast; he felt like he'd stepped into a dangerous mess.
Being liked by a beautiful princess like Baela felt good, sure—but with the Blacks and Greens at full war, if word got out that he'd seduced the queen's daughter, Rhaenyra might have his head for destabilizing the royal line.
Then again… in the stories he remembered, Prince Jacaerys didn't have long to live. Who knew?
"I don't need you to escort me." Baela looked like a kid who'd finally gotten her long-awaited toy, eyes curved into happy crescents. "Actually, I didn't tell you—I've known every tavern and brothel around here for ages. I even know the quickest way back to the castle."
"I have to go. Remember what I just said—don't make me share you with any other woman."
She licked her lips one last time, savoring the lingering taste of their long kiss, then turned and slipped into the alley behind her, vanishing in a blink.
Logar rubbed his forehead, suddenly remembering that, according to the Black councillors, Princess Baela had always been a wild tomboy despite her pretty face. He'd fallen straight into her trap.
"Looks like I need to claim a dragon as fast as possible," he muttered, staring in the direction she'd disappeared. "At least then, if the queen finds out I stole her daughter, I can fly the hell off Dragonstone!"
He shook his head with a helpless laugh.
...
Later, Logar returned to his quarters.
One of his men reported that Prince Jacaerys had come looking for him again. The bastards who'd arrived from King's Landing had already started entering the dragon pit to try claiming dragons. If Logar was interested, he could join them.
Logar shook his head.
Those men had no preparation whatsoever—they were just charging straight into the pit on pure luck, betting a dragon would take pity on them. It was no different from buying a lottery ticket. Completely unreliable.
He remembered the stories clearly: most of the bastards sent into the pit died horribly. In the end, only Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White actually succeeded.
He had no interest in joining that suicide lottery. Instead he went straight to Grand Maester Gerardys and asked to purchase several ancient tomes on dragon behavior.
Gerardys was extremely polite to the newly titled lord. When he learned Logar wanted to claim a dragon, he even recommended the single most important book:
Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History by Maester Barth.
Barth—once a lowly blacksmith's son, later raised by Jaehaerys the Conciliator to become Hand of the King—was one of the most learned men Westeros had ever known.
Logar treated the book like treasure. He went straight back to his chambers and devoured every page.
The text described dragons in fascinating detail. They had no fixed sex; their gender shifted like living flame. Their true weakness was the eyes, not the underbelly as most legends claimed—the scales on a dragon's belly were just as thick and hard as those on its back and flanks.
Even more startling was a piece of history the Citadel had deliberately downplayed:
Dragons were not products of natural evolution. They were magical constructs forged by Valyrian blood magic.
Early Valyrians had been nothing more than nomadic tribes until they discovered firewyrms and long-winged wyverns in the Fourteen Flames. Using blood sorcery, they crossbred and reshaped the two creatures into the obedient, fire-breathing behemoths that would carry forty dragonlord families to dominion over an entire continent.
Then came the Doom—a cataclysmic volcanic eruption that wiped the Freehold from the map in a single day. Only House Targaryen, who had already fled to Dragonstone with their dragons, survived.
All that ancient glory reduced to ash. A single bloodline clinging to a lonely island. The irony was almost cruel.
Logar read late into the night, completely absorbed.
...
The next morning, true to her word, Baela arrived on Moondancer and took Logar up to search the sheer cliffs of Dragonmont for wild dragons.
It was Logar's first time riding a dragon. The thrill drowned out everything else.
He ran his hand over the warm, scaled body beneath him and felt the powerful, steady heartbeat—like war drums inside a living furnace. The sensation was utterly unreal.
Moondancer wasn't thrilled about carrying two riders and flew a little clumsily at first.
Luckily Baela had bribed her earlier with extra food and promised to personally scrub her scales later. Only then did the young dragon reluctantly spread her wings and climb into the sky.
"Hold on tight!" Baela called over the wind, clearly enjoying herself. "Moondancer's working hard with both of us. Don't fall off!"
Riding together like this, Baela was buzzing with excitement. She wanted payback for all the times he'd teased her, so she suddenly urged Moondancer into a sharp dive, hoping to see Logar panic.
Logar barely noticed her little prank. His eyes stayed locked on the ground below. Only when the castle shrank to a tiny black speck did he finally relax a little.
Dragonstone was large, but if anyone spotted the princess sneaking out with the newest lord to hunt wild dragons—especially flying right over Jacaerys's head—there would be hell to pay.
At this point Logar stopped being polite. He wrapped his arms around the small princess in front of him and scanned the steep volcanic cliffs on either side.
They were flying near the crater now. The air reeked of sulfur, and hot gusts rolled over them, drying their skin.
The rock faces were dark gray-black volcanic stone, jagged and sharp. Sparse drought-resistant grass and gray-black moss clung to the cracks. The higher they climbed, the barer the slopes became—only scorched, smoke-blackened boulders remained.
Sunlight baked the hot stone until the wind itself felt like fire. Moondancer, however, seemed to love it; every few seconds she sniffed the sulfur-rich air with obvious delight.
"Where the hell are the wild ones?" Logar muttered after several wide circles with nothing to show for it.
If this trip came up empty, he'd have no choice but to grit his teeth and walk straight into the dragon pit to face the great beasts like Vermithor and Silverwing.
"Look there!" Baela suddenly cried, pointing at a deep hollow in the cliff face near the summit. "That looks like a nesting ledge!"