For now, no one had looked too closely into his identity, giving Cole some much-needed time to relax.
His days followed a simple routine—accompanying Princess Shireen and then taking the white dragon on adventures around Dragonstone, always careful to stay away from prying eyes.
Over the past week, the white dragon had grown to the size of a large goose. Recently, however, its rapid growth had begun to slow. Whenever Cole connected his mind to the dragon's, he could feel an instinctive yearning for the skies.
A creature of the land could never teach a bird to fly—let alone a dragon.
He had stood at the edge of Dragonstone's steep cliffs countless times, hearing an almost taunting voice in his head whisper that the only way to fly was to jump. Yet, every time he approached the edge and looked down, fear gripped him.
A newly hatched dragon knew no fear—but Cole was human, and he did. He would not risk the dragon's life so recklessly.
From the moment the white dragon hatched from its stone-like egg, Cole had suspected something.
He had Valyrian blood.
The realization had first struck him when he discovered he was unharmed by fire. He recalled that Daenerys Targaryen was called "The Unburnt," but aside from some resistance to heat, most Valyrians were not truly immune to fire.
Perhaps his Valyrian blood granted him some resistance to high temperatures, but there had to be something more. Something about his soul—his very existence in this world—felt altered. He had sensed it even back at the Wall, when he realized he wasn't particularly affected by the cold either.
It wasn't true invulnerability, just an unusual tolerance—his boiling point and freezing point seemed unnaturally high.
Great strength. A connection to time. Resistance to both fire and ice. And now, a dragon.
The perks of being a traveler from another world seemed generous.
Yet, for all those supposed blessings, he had nearly died from an infected wound. If not for the lightning that acted as an unexpected defibrillator, he would have been fish food at the bottom of the sea.
He had heard many stories of people being struck dead by lightning, but how many had been brought back to life by it?
Unlucky enough to be nearly killed by an arrow—yet lucky enough to float from the Trident to the Narrow Sea, only to be struck by lightning and miraculously survive. The odds were slimmer than winning the lottery.
Cole couldn't shake the feeling that he had inadvertently disrupted something, and his only true blessing was the little white dragon.
His dreams had been filled with cryptic visions—chaotic prophecies, whispers of "blood and fire," and an ominous sense of fate balancing on a knife's edge.
He wasn't sure if they meant anything or if they were just remnants of his past life's knowledge tangled with fevered hallucinations.
The white dragon climbed onto a boulder, at least six feet above the ground. This was the training ground Cole had chosen.
Standing on the edge of the rock, Cole peered down. The drop was daunting for the young dragon, but with its wings to slow the fall, it wouldn't hit the ground too hard.
Gritting his teeth, the little dragon leapt—
—And promptly crashed into the earth.
It hadn't even managed to spread its wings.
Cole sighed. Fortunately, dragon bodies weren't fragile. Even in its infancy, he could already feel the strengthening of its scales. According to records, when a dragon matured, its scales became as hard as steel—growing tougher with age.
The return of dragons signaled the resurgence of magic.
Just as the seasons of summer and winter fluctuated, so too did the tides of magic. In an age where gods disappeared and magic withered, dragons had vanished.
The thought unsettled Cole. Magic was an enigma, something both awe-inspiring and terrifying. He shuddered at the memory of how Stannis had used the red priestess to kill Renly with blood magic.
It was a dark stain on Stannis' honor. The act made him seem like a man willing to do anything for the throne.
Yet, in truth, Stannis was not a man driven by ambition—only by duty. To him, law was absolute, and sinners deserved punishment, no matter the means.
If Eddard Stark had been a man of honor, then Stannis was a man of law. And the law was often cruel.
This height wasn't enough for Cole to truly learn how to fly. Only from a great enough altitude could he spread his wings and soar without restraint.
Did that mean Baelon Targaryen had to jump off a cliff?
Cole found himself standing at the cliffside once more, staring down at the crashing waves below. If he failed to take flight, only death awaited him.
No. He had to do this himself.
His violet eyes flashed, clearing his momentary hesitation.
Princess Shireen remained absorbed in her books, her fascination with Cole's tales of the White Walkers still fresh in her mind.
Could he leave now? Cole wondered. Perhaps he could try—but he needed an excuse.
"Your Highness Shireen, have you heard of dragonglass?" Cole asked suddenly.
"Dragonglass?" Shireen looked up, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
Cole nodded. "The records of the Night's Watch mention that dragonglass is a crystal infused with magic. The Children of the Forest once used it to craft weapons, and it's said that those weapons can kill White Walkers."
"Are there still dragonglass deposits?" Shireen asked.
"Yes. Quite a lot, in fact—right here on Dragonstone." Cole felt a little guilty, like a mischievous uncle tricking a child. "If Your Highness wishes, I can retrieve some for you."
"Can you?" Shireen asked, her voice tinged with excitement. To her, dragonglass probably sounded as fantastical as dragons themselves. But she was gentle by nature—she would never demand it.
"Of course," Cole assured her.
Under the pretense of fulfilling the princess's request, Cole procured a sturdy hemp rope from the storage room and used Shireen's name to easily secure permission to leave the castle. In truth, Shireen had little awareness of the influence her name carried.
She was kind and obedient, spending her days within the keep, lost in books, her face marred by greyscale scars. That, too, was a form of protection.
With the rope slung over his shoulder, Cole made his way toward the coastline.
The white dragon was far away, and the path to him was treacherous—layered with jagged rocks, sharp edges, and unstable footholds. Some places offered no ground to stand on at all.
When he finally reached the dragon, an unexpected warmth settled in his chest. He hadn't felt this kind of trust—this sense of belonging—since leaving the Wall.
Cole studied the little white dragon carefully. From his violet gaze, he took in the slight ridge of a budding horn on its forehead, the spines that melded seamlessly into its growing scales.
Its silver-white armor gleamed under the sun, and its eyes, like polished blue gems, shimmered with an almost knowing light.
The dragon was him. And he was the dragon.
The moment Cole's hand brushed against the white dragon's scales, he understood—this dragon was different. Their souls were intertwined, nearly one and the same.
If Cole were to die, the white dragon would perish with him.
Taking a steadying breath, he secured the rope around the dragon's feet, tying the other end to a large rock. He wasn't sure how other dragons learned to fly, but he knew one thing for certain.
He had to conquer this cliff.
Because this was where the dragon's journey to the skies would begin.
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