"We're leaving soon," came the voice from the hall, startling me from my book on the strategies of the Ghiscari empires of old. I put the thing down carefully, wary of tarnishing the time-weathered papers further, and looked over toward the hall, frowning at the brown haired, brown eyed figure leaning in the doorway. He was a young man, tall but wiry, wearing the teal and white colors of House Velaryon.
I cocked an eyebrow at him, but offered a bow of the head regardless. "Then I wish you good fortune in the war, Prince Jacaerys. Just as I did this morning."
The Prince of Dragonstone frowned at my cheek, shaking his head. "Walk with me, Flowers."
Silently, I stood from my desk, carefully put my book away, and did as bade, for one does not reject a prince, especially when they're a lowly scribe of a bastard nature. We walked through the halls of Dragonstone together, past scullery maids and washerwoman, up a flight of thinly curved stairs decorated in obsidian and scale cuttings of stone, until we reached a dais overlooking the island that this castle was named for. It was a glorious site, truth be told. The black-grey slopes of the Dragonmont gave way to the lower fishing towns, rife with activity, where the bite of Blackwater Bay stood stark against the cloudless blue sky overhead. It was a beautiful, impressive sight, one that I was gladdened to be able to take part in from the comforts of the castle.
But more impressive than anything was the sight of the castle courtyard, or more frankly what was in the courtyard, where fan array of beasts of varying sizes were being handled, winged creatures of awe and splendor. Dragons.
Silverwing, Vermithor, Sheepstealer and Seasmoke were there, with their newly determined dragonseed riders at their sides, as were the remaining dragons of the Blacks here on Dragonstone: Syrax, Vermax and Moondancer. Prince Joffrey and his dragon Tyraxes were missing, heading to the North to treat with the Starks of Winterfell. Princess Rhaena had joined Prince Joffrey, taking with her three dragon eggs clutched by Syrax, bargaining tools for the Vale of Arryn, on the way to Winterfell. Prince Daemon and his dragon Caraxes were stationed over Harrenhal, and the princes Aegon and Viserys, along with Stormcloud, dragon of Prince Aegon, had been shipped to Pentos for fostering and protection until the war was over.
The dragons were breathtaking, all of them, and every time I looked at them, my throat constricted with want.
"It puzzles me, Maekar." the prince said, leaning his frame against a ledge of carved obsidian in the shape of a sphinx, also looking down at the wyrms in the yard. "That you did not even attempt to mount one of the dragons when I made the call-to-arms. You know more about the dragons than anybody else; their habits, their roosts, even their preferences of food and when they like to eat it. But when I allowed you seeds the chance to sprout, you remained in the muck. Why? Why would you refuse this offer?"
I hummed, still staring at the beasts from afar. "I admit, I am envious of them. These dragonseeds. The blood of the dragon runs thick in me, it's true. Few can say their own father was a prince of the blood. I think I could have been a rider."
"Then why did you refuse to even try? You would have been able to rise above your bastardly station with one fell swoop."
Tilting my head in his direction, I pondered that thought myself. I had wracked my head over the subject for days, and in the end, though there were many reasons, the most notable answer was as cowardly as it was fair.
Fear.
Few could say they knew what happened after death, and far fewer wouldn't be called madmen or fanatics for speaking of such uncertainties. I, however, was quite certain of at least one thing on the subject: death is not a finality, but instead the start of something new. And I knew this to be fact, for I had already lived one before this, if not more.
The details of my previous life do not matter, and they will not be spoken outside of the seldom. But I remembered much. Indeed, the manner of my death is perhaps the most clear memory of my former life that I still possess.
I died choking on a chicken bone. Embarrassing, I am well aware. But more to the point, the last thing I saw upon closing my eyes for the final time was the spine of Fire and Blood sat atop my bookshelf, the, at the point of my passing, most recent update to George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series, outlining the lore and history of half of the Targaryen rulers, back when dragons were more monster than myth.
And when I awoke, it was in the body of a babe named Maekar Flowers, snugly held in the arms of a young girl of thirteen years, in a dingy little apartment overlooking the streets of Oldtown. This girl, Myrali, was my new mother.
Suffice it to say, my early life in Westeros was an odd affair. I struggled to accept this second life, that I had been born at all, let alone in a world of brutal fiction, and even felt a certain amount of dysmorphia whenever I saw my reflection in a bucket of water or the odd glass pane, not recognizing that which I had known for nearly thirty years. Where my hair was once brown and beginning to thin with age, it was now silver-gold and lusciously thick. Where my eyes were once laughing and blue, they were now haunting and violet. Where I was once short and stocky, I was now tall and… well, also stocky. Perhaps the only thing I recognized to have shared with my old body were the freckles racing over my torso and arms and face, though the skin they sat atop was of a healthier coloring than I was accustomed to still.
But over time, those struggles of self shifted. I had, after great exertion, accepted the truth for what it was, and chose to embrace this new chance. This new life. I played in the streets with the children of Oldtown, did what I could to help my young, haggard mother with her work as a Citadel cook, and looked for means to make a name for myself, unlikely though that was given my young age. I would often take to the ports and offer myself to assist dockmasters with their works, with the hope of finding an apprenticeship when I neared my coming of age, hoping to turn our economic tide by eventually becoming a merchant.
Then, as if to spite me for my intentions, upon my ninth name day, after a great torrent of rain and heavy ocean wakes had me return to our home earlier than the norm, I came across my mother, now a woman of twenty-two years, fearfully sitting across a tall man that held to my colorings.
It was then I learned. I had always known I was a bastard and felt no shame for it. Flowers was a common enough name in Oldtown, what with House Hightower being so populace a family, as well as the many knights and lords and such that would pass through the harbor. I knew my mother bore me by laying with a highborn man and thought nothing more of the matter.
I did not know he was a prince.
Vaegon Targaryen was his name, the seventh child of the Old King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and the Good Queen Alysanne Targaryen, their fourth-born son. Being a boy with little interest in martial pursuits, dragon claiming, or line growing, but with a strong brain and bookish nature, it was almost a natural progression that he take the path of a maester once he came of age. King Jaehaerys had heirs and spares aplenty regardless, and though many lords and ladies were saddened by his departure to the Citadel, if only because of the courtly power they would gain with his name, few remembered he existed after only a handful of years away. And Vaegon thrived in the Citadel, even becoming the archmaester of mathematics and economics, bearing the mask, rod, and ring of yellow gold.
My siring came when many other bastards were born, during the Great Council of 101 AC. King Jaehaerys' heir at that point, Baelon Targaryen, had died from a burst belly, and the king knew not who to name as his next heir from his grandchildren, the daughter of his firstborn son or the son of his secondborn son. So, he called Vaegon forth from the Citadel, for his sound and educated advice.
My mother had been part of Vaegon's traveling party to King's Landing, the daughter of his taste tester. I do not know the circumstances of their coupling, nor did I ever desire to learn, but when I was introduced to this violet eyed man and told that he was my father, my immediate reaction was disgust.
My mother was thirteen when she had me, and twelve when she was bedded. Vaegon had been thirty-eight. Even in Westeros, where the term age of consent was as foreign as the Dothraki language, twelve was considered too young.
Disgust turned to hatred, however, when I was informed, just moments after learning his identity, that I was being shipped off to Dragonstone, to apprentice under Maester Gerardys who oversaw the castle. Princess Rhaenyra had fallen with child, and Prince Vaegon felt it best to offer the maester of Dragonstone an assistant with blood ties to the ruling family. It was a rare opportunity, I was told, to apprentice under such a man. I was to learn much of the lessons of a lord, as well as the duties of a scribe and the tasks of a castellan, granted an education rare for any not of a lordly station, and be allowed to care for, presumably, the future king of Westeros.
Honestly, I would have been happy with this proclamation, ecstatic even, had it not been for the ultimatum demanded of me by my sire.
"My seed spread strong and grew into a Flower," he said, sounding horribly annoyed for it. "And I will do right by that. But you belong where the seeds of my family are meant to be, boy. I'll not have my disgrace near. Nor will you ever come here again. Swear it."
Had he said anything else, anything at all, I think I might have been able to forgive him for his actions against my mother. But the truth was plain; though he offered me a boon, it was solely to keep me away from him and the Citadel and from ruining his reputation further. The oath he demanded of me was a hard one, for not only was I to leave Oldtown and never return, but my mother was also to remain. My mother and I were close, caring deeply for each other on a level seldom seen, and to leave her from then on hurt to even consider.
But, in the end, no matter how upset I was or how much I pled for an alternative course, be in it another land or a differing role or for my mother to follow, Vaegon's mind was set, and I was willing to infer that, should I reject his offering, that son or not I would not live long. His cold, unflinchingly pragmatic nature made him an ideal maester of economics in that sense.
And so, upon accepting his offering, I was ushered away by a guard of his knowing and sent off to Dragonstone by way of the Rose Road. I was prepared to be disappointed.
As luck would have it, there was little disappointment to be had. I was given more food than I'd had as of yet and was offered comfortable quarters in the royal wing. It was also helpful that Maester Gerardys was a very different man when compared to Vaegon. Short and stout but full of life, Gerardys was an extreme talent in the art of healing, and quite open to helping to commonfolk out with birthings and sicknesses when unneeded by his Targaryen overlords. My tutelage with Gerardys was beyond beneficial, and our bond was strong.
More to the point, he allowed me many freedoms. I was allowed to spend my free time as I chose, so long as it was beneficial in some manner. Be it studying tomes unneeded, parsing through the castle for secrets, or even taking up new skills, such as painting or smithing or alchemy, I was at peace. In fact, through Gerardys, and through Dragonstone as a whole, I had begun experimentation into the development of concrete.
It was somewhat awkward to create, considering I never knew the recipe for the stuff, save for that limestone and ash were somehow involved. I didn't know much of anything regarding manual labor really, and it took years of trial and error to produce something to start with. From there, through much perseverance, as well as an inclination towards random factoids from my love of Jeopardy, I was able to piece together a working recipe using the volcanic ash from the Dragonmont for stability.
Alas, concrete was not made the norm in building as I'd hoped it would be. In fact, nobody really used it, even on Dragonstone, where it was discovered and able to be made plentiful due to the volcanic ash. No matter what Maester Gerardys and I said, people were stubborn, and Queen Rhaenyra, though she was still a princess at the time of the creation of concrete, was probably the most stubborn person I'd ever met in either of my lives. Undeniably beautiful and worthy of her epithet as the Realms Delight, Rhaenyra was a pretty picture. But simple stubbornness did not do her justice; she was steel, and if she chose not to bend, she simply would not.
And what care did she have of a new building material brought about by the bastard cousin of her kingly father? In her mind, the builders knew best when it came to building, and if they had no desire to make use of concrete, then that was that, neatly sidestepping the simple fact that if she'd simply ordered it, they would make use of the stuff.
Suffice it to say, I did not have the greatest of relationships with the queen. I was cordial with her, for anybody that wasn't was likely to lose a tongue, but I could not truly say that I liked her.
Her sons however, them I liked.
Which neatly returned me to the present, taking in the Prince of Dragonstone and his contemplation of me. I feared not being burned alive in the dragon-claiming process, for I knew that there was life after death, but the shifting of the song that was to come. I was not fool enough to believe that my existence did not cause ripples in the intended story of the world, but my preference was to risk my life with as little change as possible so that I might live a longer life this time around.
That said, I still planned on trying to claim a dragon.
"Though I did not claim one of the dragons in the yard, there are others to be had," I said, fiddling with the sleeve of my robe, a nervous habit developed over the years.
Jacaerys raised both brows my way. "Truly? There are only two free dragons remaining, and their names tell their own tale: the Cannibal and the Grey Ghost. One is known for eating everything that approaches, including dragons, and the other is known for rarely being spotted. Some even think the Ghost is just a superstition, a trick of the mind brought about from staring at the steam of the Dragonmont for too long. I am inclined to believe them. Unless you mean to smuggle yourself into King's Landing and make for the Dragonpit?"
I smiled secretively his way. "Well, I can speak it plainly, if only to wean you off such theories. The Grey Ghost is quite real, and I know where he roosts."
The eyes of the prince lit up. His eyes were always alight when speaking of dragons. "You do?" he asked, excited. "Some of the smallfolk trekked what seemed like the whole of the Dragonmont looking for him to claim. There were no signs."
I nodded, sharing his excitement. I was twelve years his senior and had been allowed to take part in the education of him and his brothers upon his sixth nameday, when I was halfway through my eighteenth year. While histories and numbers never truly held his interest, we shared a bond on our mutual fondness for dragons, and we would often have deep conversations on the subject in the presence of Vermax. Jacaerys was a good lad, never caring of my bastard nature. In his mind, it was the blood, not the name, that made the difference. Had he been the Prince of Dragonstone years earlier, I probably would have been given an opportunity to claim a dragon in peacetime on my own merit.
Still, a dragon was a dragon and opportunity was at hand. I'd tame one during wartime for advantage all the same as peacetime for merit.
"The signs weren't on the caverns of the Dragonmont that the other dragons preferred, my prince, but on the shores of Dragonstone itself, nearer to the ports." I explained. "It has everything to do with diet. The Grey Ghost has a taste for fish more than the red meats the other dragons prefer, and thus never took to roosting on the western or southern slopes of the Dragonmont like the others did, where grazing livestock would roam. Instead, he lived on the other side of the island, on the eastern bank, desolate of grass but plentiful in sea life."
I'd spent years looking into this. Ever since deciding to try my hand at dragon taming when the time came, I scoured for information on the Grey Ghost, as well as the secret tunnels of the Dragonpit in King's Landing. My plan was simple: get a dragon that wasn't being used during the Dance. That meant one of the remaining wild dragons, or one of the chained dragons that had lost their riders, such as Shrykos, who was hatched by the young Prince Jaehaerys, son of Aegon II Targaryen, recently murdered in the incident known as Blood and Cheese, the final nail in the coffin that inflamed this conflict into civil war. For the Greens, at least.
The Grey Ghost was simply going to be my first attempt.
"Then we must make haste!" Jacaerys exclaimed, smiling brightly. He grabbed me by the wrist and tugged me towards the stair, leading me toward the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me, Prince Jacaerys?" I asked, bewildered, huddling along. Jacaerys stood half a foot sorter than I, and his grabbing me did not make walking comfortable.
"To Vermax! He may be young, but he can carry two passengers for short flights, and to a dragon, flying from either side of the Dragonmont is short. We'll go and find the Grey Ghost, and I'll finally be able to say I've seen all the dragons still living."
"W-Well," I stuttered. "I am happy you are so enthusiastic, but my intention was to wait until after you and the seeds had left. They've been practicing their riding for weeks, and I did not wish to disturb your military plans."
"Then you'll stay behind," Jacaerys decided, tugging me into the courtyard. Knights of grand colors and ladies of splendorous beauty were crowded around the hulking dragons and their riders, intent on watching the spectacle of their leaving. "You'll be the island's defense and practice your riding every chance you can. Perhaps Baela and Moondancer will have their first flight with you. But that depends only on your ability to tame the Grey Ghost. If he rejects you, would it not be best to have a dragonrider ready to be of aid before you are roasted?"
…He made a fair point.
Grousing, I could not find anything wrong in his words. "Fine, my prince. We will try things your way. We'll need some coin though. My plan involved copying what was done with Sheepstealer, only I'd bargain with fish instead of sheep."
"They will be happy to yield their ways to their prince!" Jacaerys boasted.
At that, I let out a snort. "Please tell me you are japing."
He smiled a wan thing my way, rolling his eyes, letting me know that yes, he was. "Of course I am. Nothing loses you the love of the smallfolk faster than taking away their coin, or what makes them coin in this case. I always have some gold in my purse, and I always carry my purse wherever I go."
Well, I couldn't fault him for being sensible. That was part of the reason why I liked him so.
We made way through the dragons, and I had to keep myself in check in their presence. Caraxes was nearer to Vermithor's size than I had expected, and Sheepstealer was slenderer than I remembered. His rider, a Dornish looking woman named Nettles, eyed me with a sly smile from the side of her mount.
Approaching Vermax, Jacaerys hopped atop his back. When he was settled into his saddle, he proffered his hand down for me to take. Nervously, I approached Vermax's flank, quietly taking in the cyan scales of the dragons hide, mottled with white. Truly, naming this creature after the Valyrian god of the sky was appropriate with his coloring. I knew this beast, and he knew me, but there was still something special about approaching a dragon, that intimate knowledge that one wrong move would be the end of your life.
Then, steeling myself, I took Jacaerys's hand and hauled upward, quickly wrapping my arms around the younger boy, finding purchase just around the middle of Vermax's back. Once settled, Jacaerys snapped the reigns of his saddle, and with a running start, Vermax brought us into the sky.
Flying was an experience difficult to put into words, but certainly, from the perspective of the Valyrians, it was understandable why they considered themselves to be living gods. Nothing makes a man feel more powerful than to be above his fellows, in quite the literal fashion, thanks to the presence of dragons. That only made the humility of Jacaerys all the better, as the future king of Westeros. The wind buffeting our bodies, the cool clouds above, the world below like ants to a boot – dragons made men greater than they could hope to be, and I felt blessed to have the chance to tame one.
Together, we made way to down to the one of the eastern ports, where goods were ferried from Essos. We purchased three wicker baskets of fish, enough to sate the appetite of one of the larger dragons as an afternoon snack, and flew further eastward. From above, we could make out the outcropping of steam-toting vents, small shoots of magma constantly flowing a slow pace out of them, year by year increasing the landmass of Dragonstone inch by inch.
Vermax roared at the behest of Jacaerys, and a sibilant hiss was his response, near a cave stowed beneath a cliff. As Vermax descended, that hissing became all the louder, and when he landed, it turned into an agitated roar that rippled the waves of the sea. Our target was here.
"Keep Vermax away," I told my prince, dismounting. "Far away. The Grey Ghost is shy, but territorial like any dragon, especially so far out from the others. I fear that they might perform a death dance should he get too close."
"Then it is ideal that you decided to tame him now," Jacaerys said. "Sheepstealer was no easy mount to train combatively, and the Grey Ghost will likely be all the more tricky. Hopefully, with the seeds and I departed, working him will be made more manageable."
"Hence why I intended to wait," I drolled, untangling the rope holding the fish to Vermax's belly. Vermax was a genuinely patient dragon, with a temperament almost reminiscent of Dreamfyre. Jaecaerys had done well with his mount.
"Good luck then, my friend." Jacaerys said, before urging his mount to fly away. They circled overhead, keeping a watching eye on my actions, but in the end, I was essentially left to my own devices.
Taking a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, and entered the cavern with my fish at the ready.
It was a dark cave, misty with steam, with the scent of the salty sea and bloody remains overloading my senses. Stalactites and stalagmites littered the entrance, looking like a great gaping maw of patchwork stone.
And in its center, my target stared my way.
The Grey Ghost was a smaller creature than I had anticipated, though larger than Vermax by a fair margin; roughly the same size as Queen Rhaenyra's Syrax. His scales were a light grey color that kept him perfectly camouflaged in this steam filled cavern, and his wing membranes and horned appendages were colored a darker, more menacing grey, akin to smoke. His eyes were red like wine, and as he bared his teeth, I glimpsed a pale-white fire brimming from beneath those black daggers.
I could not help but exclaim. "You're perfect," I breathed, awed beyond expectation.
And with those words, the Grey Ghost reared back, closing his mouth with a loud click. Curiously, he tilted his head to the side, and I was gladdened to know he understood my words.
Dragons were not intellectual in the sense that a human was, but they were far superior to dogs when it came to understanding commands and language. With the right upbringing, a dragon could come to know the tongues of man to great effect.
His knowing my words clarified another curiosity I had held: his origin. Obviously, being a dragon, the Grey Ghost called Dragonstone his home, and was hatched here, for nowhere else in the known world could boast such. But wild dragons rarely survived on the island, what with the Cannibal skulking about. The Grey Ghost must have been a hatchling raised by House Targaryen that escaped captivity before a rider could approach him.
Likely, this happened during the early reign of King Viserys. Without an heir, Prince Daemon was the Prince of Dragonstone, and though the Rogue Prince was a surprisingly able administrator when push came to shove, one of the reasons this designation was so important, especially in this day and age, was the responsibility of looking after the dragonlings. Prince Daemon spent much of his time in the Red Keep however, leaving his tasks on Dragonstone to lesser leaders, and accidents unspoken were said to have occurred. Bandits found footing, traders grew bold with their products, tax collectors became greedier than the norm, and now, it seemed that even dragons had escaped.
Bravo, Prince Daemon. Bravo.
"I come with gift, o' might dragon," I said, bringing the baskets closer. I lined them up, the one with the smallest amount of fish closer to the Grey Ghost, and the one with the largest nearer to me, the middling sized basket between them.
Tentatively, flicking his tongue out, the Grey Ghost approached the offerings, his movements causing the cave to rumble with sheer weight. Sniffing the fish, he appeared to mull over accepting before concluding there was no harm, and attacked his afternoon snack. The basket lasted longer than I could have thought possible, for the Grey Ghost ate his fish one at a time, as if testing his offered gifts with great hesitancy. When the fish of the first basket were finished, he let out something similar to a hum, and looked to the remaining fish with more interest.
The Grey Ghost then made for the middling basket. This time, he went through it quicker, though still far slower than I ever would have expected a dragon to eat. The smell of fish guts now overpowering that of the sea.
Finally, after what had to be fifteen minutes of slow, methodical consumtion, he approached the third basket. From this distance, he was close enough to touch. If only I reached out. The thought was tempting… but temptation had a habit of biting me in the ass. Staying my hand, I instead waited for the dragon to finish his meal.
When the Grey Ghost had ended his feast, it felt as if over an hour had passed. He lifted his head and stared at me, red eyes meeting purple.
"I would ride you," I told the dragon. He shifted at those words, somehow scrunching up his nose in a manner that didn't appear threatening, only perturbed. "Blood and death come for your home, dragons will dance and fire will follow, and I intend to have no part in such madness. I doubt you want to be involved either. Allow me to ride you, and I promise you, with every fiber of my being, upon my very soul, that we will leave. We will live."
And with those words, a chill went through the beast before me.
There was no true guaranteed way to claim a dragon, no ritual of sharing blood nor the proving of an unburnt nature before a beast that was judge, jury, and executioner all. Dragon taming, like the taming of other beasts, was a matter on understanding the personality of the dragon one wished to tame in particular.
This was why wild dragons were so rare to be tamed. The personalities of dragons that had been previously ridden were better recorded and or young hatchlings were far more malleable. Rumor had it that prior to Prince Aemond taming Vhagar, he'd researched Queen Visenya, Prince Baelon and Lady Laena with an almost obsessive compulsion, who had been the previous riders of the great dragon. The reason Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer were able to tame Silverwing and Vermithor was because Ulf actually knew how to read and concluded that the dragons would only take riders if both were taken at the same time, such was their bond. Addam Velaryon had spent much of his time since his legitimization with his grandfather Lord Corlys, and learned the nature of Seasmoke through him.
Each dragon had a tick, something that made them unique. No dragon looked perfectly alike, and no dragon acted perfectly alike. When somebody understood those differences, that somebody, regardless of being Valyrian blood, had a chance at taming a dragon.
And I knew the Grey Ghost better than any other man alive. I knew his shy nature, realized his origin, and understood the true reason he roosted so far from the other dragons of the island.
The Grey Ghost was a coward.
Mind, a coward dragon was still a dragon, and wouldn't hesitate to burn a man out of existence if appropriately offended. Or just in the mood for a bit of mischeif. But fighting other dragons? Now that was where the issues of my prospective mount lied.
The Dragonmont was host to what could only be described as semi-regular territorial disputes among the roosting dragons. Dominance was in their nature, and Dragonstone had never before been host to so many dragons in its existence. With the Dance of Dragons now in full swing, dragon fights would no longer just be a dispute of territory, but would now be a struggle of life and death, winner takes all.
So, naturally, the Grey Ghost, being a dragon of a shy, quiet nature, was not about that life.
And here I was, offering him an out to what was more than likely going to be his death.
With my intentions made clear to the great beast before me, I felt it appropriate to give in to that temptation from before. Without hesitation, for dragons understood body language better than they did words, I lifted my hand and slowly reached for his muzzle. The Grey Ghost went stock still, black pupils turning into thin slits as he stared down my approach appendage, and I knew in that moment that if I faltered, my hand would be gone.
Slowly, almost delicately, my hand the rough scales of the Grey Ghost's snout, and as we locked eyes with one another, a shudder ran through the body of the dragon before me. For a single, pulse-pounding moment, the beast before me appeared to weigh its options. His lips drew back with a snarl as I ever-so-gently nudged my hand along his jaw.
Then, with a tentative movement, he lowered his nape to the ground, closed his eyes, and allowed me to do as I would.
He had accepted.
Adrenaline filled my core as I made my way around his body, never letting my hand leave his scales, stopping at his flank, where his shoulder was perfectly poised for climbing. With little effort, for I understood the importance of exercise, queer though my routine was to those that saw me in action, I vaulted atop the neck of the Grey Ghost and settled myself between a pair of particularly spikey plates.
The Grey Ghost stood, and with a heave of effort, ran towards the entrance of the cave, his steps scattering those spikes of stone that had made this roost so menacing to see. His wings extended, and before I knew it, the sky was before me, the wind was mine, and we were flying.