"No man had ever claimed Grey Ghost."
―Archmaester Gyldayn
…
By the third day, the very stones beneath Wyl's feet seemed as weary of his presence as he was of theirs. The smoking vents huffed and sighed at all hours, and the mountain's cliffs offered little comfort save a merciless wind that chapped his lips and stung his eyes. His burns had all but healed to an angry pink, but the deeper wound—Grey Ghost's stubborn, skittish refusal—still gnawed at him.
He stood near their makeshift camp, gazing up the slope where steam and ash belched from the dragon's lair. The skies overhead were a bleary wash of cloud, the sun hidden behind drifting smog. Rows of jagged basalt framed the vent in question—a deep cleft from which Grey Ghost had not ventured once since that ill-fated blast of fire two days prior.
In truth, the poor beast was starving.
Wyl could see it in the drag-marks along the cave floor, how seldom the creature shifted. The occasional hiss or restless scuffle told him Grey Ghost was still alive but refusing to emerge, too terrified of the watchers outside. On the first day, that fear had manifested in scorching flame. On the second, it had turned to sullen silence. By this morning, Wyl heard only ragged breathing whenever he crept close.
He exhaled. Damn all Targaryens, he thought, though not without a wan note of irony. And their scaly pets, too. Yet he pitied the Grey Ghost. Cornered. Hungry. A proud creature brought low. He knew that feeling, in some dim sense.
Behind him, a muffled grunt drew his attention. Aemond stood at the far edge of camp, Dark Sister in hand, carving thick slabs of whale meat off a monstrous flayed carcass Vhagar had hauled back at dawn. Its colossal mass dwarfed their camp, enough to feed Vermithor and perhaps the smaller Ghost for days. But for now, lumps of that reeking blubber lay in piles on the stone.
Rowenna crouched near Vermithor, her expression impassive as she monitored the beast's feeding. Vermithor tore into the carcass's hide with savage relish—yet the Bronze Fury never removed his single-minded watch from the vent above. Any moment Grey Ghost might dare an escape, and Vermithor would be ready. So it had gone for three tense days.
"Wyl," Aemond said suddenly, not pausing his blade. "Come here."
Wyl complied, stepping over twisted lumps of greasy flesh. The stink was enough to turn his stomach, but he kept his composure. Aemond gave him a brisk nod, then slashed free another meaty hunk dripping crimson. "Take this," the prince commanded, thrusting it forward. "Carve it smaller if you must."
"Aye." Wyl took the chunk, the weight of it near to dislocating his shoulder. Gods, but it stank. Warm from rot, oily, blackish. He tried not to gag as he set it down on a flat rock. For the dragon, he reminded himself. It's all for the dragon.
Aemond wiped his blade on a rag, violet eye flicking upward. "He refuses to emerge. Then carry the meal to him. Let hunger do the persuading." His tone was mild, almost bored.
Wyl nodded and complied. He hacked at the blubbery mass for what felt like ages, shaping a piece large enough to tempt a dragon but small enough to drag up the slope. Whale sinew parted reluctantly, squirting foul juices across his boots. He almost retched. The prince watched, unblinking, until at last Wyl hefted the slab in a sling of canvas netting. Whale's blood pattered upon the stone, forming a slick trail behind him.
"Don't tarry," Aemond said. But that was all.
...
Halfway up the slope, Wyl paused to catch his breath. I'll never complain about salted beef again, he thought sourly. The stench made his eyes water, and the bundle weighed more with each step, as though mocking him. You want to feed a dragon? Suffer for it. Crouching near a jag of basalt, he felt the heat intensify from a nearby vent. Smoke curled around him, stinging his throat.
He pressed on, following the same route he'd memorized by day two: a zigzag path to avoid the deeper crevices where steam might scald him unawares. In time, he reached that all-too-familiar mouth of gloom—the cave entrance where Grey Ghost lurked. The dragon had hissed at him earlier in the dawn, a feeble protest.
Today, silence.
Wyl set the whale meat on a stone shelf just shy of the threshold. "Alright, friend," he murmured, voice softer than the hush of steam. "You've got to eat." He pulled the net open, letting the slab slump free, its juices pooling. Please let me keep my face intact, he thought. "You must be hungry."
No reply came from the darkness.
He edged the meat a bit closer, using the tip of his boot to nudge it. "Look, I'm not— I won't hurt you." Gods, I must sound a fool, Wyl thought. But so be it. "Just eat. Please. Or you'll starve."
His words were swallowed by the cave's breathy hush. For a long while, nothing stirred. Wyl's arms shook with the strain of hauling the meat. He licked chapped lips, waiting for an ember's glow or the hiss of another flame. Nothing. If the Pale Drake lay deeper in the cave, he made no sign of approach.
Wyl closed his eyes, feeling the mountain shift beneath him. I have to push it further inside. Risk. Always risk. He crouched, braced his hands beneath the whale chunk, and shoved it beyond the threshold, letting it slide into the dimness. The rancid stench wafted back at him, thick as tar.
Then he backed away, heart pounding, until he stood a safer distance on the ledge. He tried to slow his breathing. If the beast came for the meat, he'd see it.
Time passed in dragging minutes. Wyl's legs soon ached from standing there, half-crouched behind a rock. The sun overhead grew hotter. His shirt clung with sweat, and the reek of whale turned worse by the minute.
Still, no sign.
Finally he let himself slump onto a stone. "Seven be good," he mumbled. "Is it dead?"
He debated crawling in to check, but the memory of dragonfire scorching his eyebrows dissuaded him. Instead, he rummaged a waterskin from his belt and took a few desperate swallows. The dryness in his throat persisted.
Then, a sound. Gentle, scraping. Scale on stone.
His breath caught. He's moving. Wyl strained to peer into the gloom, glimpsing only shifting shadows. A whiff of movement. A faint growl—indecision, or threat? Another scrape.
Wyl's heart hammered. Then, out of the darkness, a slender muzzle emerged, pale as bone. Two luminous eyes flitted over the hunk of whale. Grey Ghost let out a ragged exhale, as if uncertain. So hungry, yet so wary.
He withdrew once… then returned, muzzle parted. Abruptly, with a snarl, the dragon clamped jaws around the blubbery morsel. The ripping noise set Wyl's teeth on edge. Whale gore splattered, and Grey Ghost skittered backward into half-shadow, devouring the chunk in desperate gulps.
A smile broke unbidden across Wyl's lips. Not quite triumph. Relief, more like. He's eating. Thank the gods, he's eating. For a few moments, the only sounds were the wet tearing of flesh and the dragon's heavy panting. Then the Pale Drake withdrew further, leaving behind only congealed blood and scraps of cartilage.
Wyl exhaled the breath he'd been holding. He slid from cover, taking a few careful steps near the mouth of the cave. The dragon had retreated out of sight again, but the tension in the air felt… different. Less aggression. More wariness.
"All right," Wyl murmured. He crouched, not quite daring to cross the threshold. "That was good. Right, buddy? You'll get more in a moment, I swear. We'll sort this out."
A faint hiss flicked from the darkness, not hostile, not welcoming. Wyl decided that was answer enough. He rose, turning carefully so as not to spook the creature. Step by step, he retreated down the slope, heart thrumming with cautious elation. It's something. In these last three days, hope had been a scarce commodity. But now he had it, small though it was.
At the base of the slope, Rowenna looked up from sharpening her dagger. She cocked an eyebrow in question. Vermithor's molten eyes fixed on him too, curious.
Wyl found himself laughing, breathless. "He ate," he said, hardly able to believe it. "He bloody ate."
The corner of Rowenna's mouth quirked—her version of a grin. "Huh," she managed. Then, in a quieter tone, "You're making progress."
"Let's hope so." Wyl turned to cast one last glance at the cave. The vents still hissed, but in his mind, that sound no longer felt quite so ominous. Maybe tomorrow the pale bastard will let me a tad closer.