Belgarion was tired, so tired. He sighed as he stood on a hillside on the Isle of the Winds, looking out at the stormy sea. Garion was more than ready to give up his throne to his son Geran, but he was afraid the boy wasn't ready. Garion sighed again as he pondered how he could ready his heir, or who he could trust to delegate responsibility to in the meantime.

In his mind, the King of Riva heard the whisper of magic being done. He spun around, wincing as his bones creaked. A boy stood there on the hillside, a boy in his young teens. Beside him was a – what was it? It looked like a small dragon. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Garion asked harshly.

"I'm Eragon and this is Saphira," the boy said simply.

"Why are you here?" Garion asked again.

"I am here because you are old and I am young, because you are weak and I am strong." Eragon started forward towards the king, who slowly stepped back.

"What do you want, Eragon?"

"It's not what I want. It's what the people want." Eragon flung himself on Garion, who desperately tried to free himself. But Eragon had been right – while he, Garion, was old and feeble, Eragon was in the prime of his life. As Garion struggled, Eragon said,

"The people don't want an old, weak ruler. There needs to be new blood on the throne, a strong ruler, one whom everyone loves."

"I am loved," Garion panted.

"Would you care to prove that? Would you like to see just how many of your followers will quickly turn over to me if I take the throne?"

"You – will rule – over my dead body," the king gasped, trying to pry Eragon's fingers away from his throat.

"So be it, then."

And Eragon and his dragon Saphira stood on the hill, overlooking their new city. All thoughts of the old king left their minds, and they happily descended to the cheering of the crowds. And those who remembered the old king with fondness and not contempt spoke out in protest, and tried to explain, but no one listened, because he had been old and weak, and Eragon was young and strong.