"Sheepstealer's savagery in battle would earn him a fearsome reputation, though he fought but seldom."

―Archmaester Gyldayn

…

The wind screamed past Nettles' ears as Vhagar descended toward the Wendwater. The ancient beast's wings beat slow and heavy, each stroke churning the air like a storm at sea. From her perch behind Prince Aemond, Nettles clutched at the leather straps, her knuckles white. Every muscle in her body strained against the terrible force of the descent.

She dared a glance downwards and immediately regretted it. The trees below looked like bristling pins, the river a coiled silver snake winding through the forest. Aemond rode as if born to the saddle, his back straight, his one eye fixed on the horizon. He seemed oblivious to the gale that whipped Nettles' face and hair.

When at last they descended, the landing was as abrupt and decisive as the prince himself. Vhagar's immense claws tore into the earth of the clearing, scattering moss and twigs as though the forest itself was inconsequential. Hastily, Nettles slid from the saddle, her trembling legs betraying her confidence, or lack thereof.

She looked up to see Aemond dismounting in a single, fluid motion, his cloak trailing behind him as he strode forward without hesitation. "Come," he commanded in a tone brooking no argument.

Nettles hesitated but followed, her boots crunching against the undergrowth. The air in the forest was thick and damp, the scent of rain mingling with the earthy aroma of moss and bark. It might have been pleasant under different circumstances, but here, in the prince's shadow, it felt oppressive. The trees closed in around them as they walked, their branches forming an intricate lattice above that filtered the weak sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at a clearing unlike any Nettles had ever seen. The charred remains of trees stood as stark blackened sentinels, and the ground was a mosaic of fire-scorched earth and patches of stubborn grass. But what drew Nettles' attention were the bones. They lay in haphazard piles, some bleached white by the sun, others still blackened and splintered.

The stench of old ash hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Nettles wrinkled her nose but stepped forward, curiosity prickling at her. She crouched beside a pile of bones, brushing her fingers over the charred remains. Sheep, perhaps. Maybe cattle. The shapes were indistinct, melted together like wax figurines left out in the sun.

A strange unease prickled the back of her neck. She realised then the woods around the clearing were too quiet. No birdsong, no rustling of leaves, only the faint whisper of the distant river. Even the air seemed wrong, heavy and stifling, as if holding its breath.

"What is this place?" she asked, her voice quieter now. She glanced back at Aemond, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching her with an inscrutable expression. His gaze lifted then and Nettles followed it—

A great shadow moved at the edge of the woods.

Her breath caught in her throat. The creature emerged from the darkness, slow and deliberate, its orange eyes gleaming like embers.

A dragon.

It was massive, and though smaller than Vhagar, Nettles would later wonder how it managed to hide itself in those woods. Its scales were a mottled brown and grey, blending seamlessly with the bark of the trees and the ash-covered ground. Smoke curled from its nostrils, and its maw glowed faintly, a pit of firey death that grew brighter as the moment passed.

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"Fuck—"

"Laodikio! Lykirī!" Aemond hissed, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. The beast paused and turned to face him, hesitating as the glow in its maw dimmed. The prince's voice had changed as he spoke, taking on a cadence that Nettles could not place. It was deeper, resonant, layered with something seemingly beyond human.

Aemond stepped forward, his expression calm, his movements deliberate. He spoke again, this time his tone firm but almost... tender. "Ziry iksis lo hen Valyria. Bē issa nādris iksis gaomilaks, emā jorrāelagon iksā. Emā vējī, rhaenagon jorrāelagon syt naejot kesan jaelāzma zirȳla."

(You are a creature of Valyria. Fire is your blood, and you are loved. Be still, beloved of fire, for I have brought you a rider.)

Nettles perfectly understood the language—Aemond had made certain of that during their gruelling lessons—but it was not just the meaning of the words that struck her. It was the way the dragon reacted. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she feared it might ignore him. But slowly, ever so slowly, the fire in its maw dimmed until it finally disappeared. The beast's golden eyes shifted, focusing on her.

Nettles glanced at the prince only to meet his expectant gaze. She swallowed hard, her feet moving before her mind could catch up. She stepped forward slowly, the crunch of charred bone beneath her boots echoing in her ears. The dragon lowered its massive head, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed her. The air that rushed out of its nostrils was hot and foul, carrying the stench of sulfur and death.

For a moment nothing happened, but when it exhaled again, the sound was low and guttural. It took her a moment to realize the beast was laughing at her.

"Oh, you think this is funny?" Nettles snapped, her apprehension melting into indignation. "Bloody giant lizard thinks it's clever, does it? Laugh all you want, but I'll—"

The dragon nudged her with its snout, sending her stumbling back. She glared at it, her fists clenched.

And then, impossibly, Sheepstealer lowered his head to the ground, his wings folding against his sides. The gesture was unmistakable: submission.

Nettles blinked, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing. She turned to Aemond, who stood with his arms crossed, a single brow arched impatiently.

"Well?" he drawled. "We don't have all day."

Her lips parted, a retort forming, but she thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to Sheepstealer. With a deep breath, she placed her hand on one of the dragon's ridges and hauled herself onto his back. The scales were rough and warm beneath her fingers, and she gripped tightly, her heart pounding in her ear.

"Wait—" Nettles cried, but the dragon shifted beneath her. Without warning, the great beast lumbered forward, his wings unfurling. Nettles barely had time to brace herself before they were airborne, the ground falling away in a dizzying rush. She clung to the dragon's back, her fear giving way to exhilaration as the wind tore at her hair and filled her lungs.

And then she began to laugh. It started as a shaky chuckle, born of terror, but quickly grew into something else. Elation. Freedom. Power.

She was still laughing as Sheepstealer soared higher, the wind whipping her hair into a wild tangle. For the first time in her life, Nettles felt unbound.

She laughed until the tears came, and even then, she could not stop.