The days were growing longer.
Jake couldn't tell how much time had passed since he hatched. He didn't mark days on stone or keep count in his head. But he could feel it in his wings, in his limbs, in the way his tail moved when he ran.
He was getting faster, Stronger. Not yet large, but longer in the body, with a stronger chest and haunches. His wings had grown too, stretched out further now when he stood on the cliffs. The joints didn't ache as much when he opened them. The wind caught beneath them just a little more every day.
He still couldn't truly fly. Not yet.
But now, when he leapt from a ledge, he could glide.
His first controlled glide had come by accident. He had been chasing a gull across a narrow spine of rock that jutted far out toward the sea. The wind was strong that day, howling up from the cliffs and tearing through the pass. Jake had crept close, crouched low behind a boulder, eyes locked on the bird.
He sprang wings flared, jaws open and the gull squawked and flapped upward, slipping just out of reach.
Jake fell but this time, he didn't crash.
His wings caught the air like sails. He tilted forward, instinct taking over. He didn't flap he didn't know how to but he let the wind carry him. For a brief moment, he soared, dipping low over the rocks before landing in a shower of dust and feathers, his claws scraping for balance.
He didn't catch the gull, but that didn't matter.
He had flown almost he spent the next days climbing higher, testing ledges, leaping off where the wind was strongest. Some landings were rough. He bruised his ribs once and cracked a claw on another. But he learned. Every flight taught him something new.
Don't turn too fast. Don't open your wings too early. Use your tail to steer.
There was no one to teach him. No dragon to guide him. But his instincts were sharp, and his human memories gave him perspective.
Jake had watched dragons fly on TV, in books, in games. Now he was one.
And soon, he would truly take to the sky.
He stayed within the southern ridges of Dragonstone, where the stone was more broken and jagged. It made climbing difficult, but it also kept him hidden.
The more he grew, the more he felt it he wasn't alone.
He had not yet seen another dragon up close. But he had heard them.
At night, deep within the mountain, when the wind died down and the island grew still, there were sounds a low thrum, like distant thunder beneath the ground. The scraping of claws on stone. A breath heavier than his own, echoing far down in the tunnels he had never dared explore.
Once, he smelled something unfamiliar. Musky. Hot. Like sulfur and charred leather.
Another dragon.
Old scent not fresh but recent enough to make his stomach knot.
He'd backed away from that tunnel. Turned toward the cliffs again. That night, he didn't sleep.
There were other signs too.
Burnt bones. Crushed rock. A patch of claw marks deep gouged into basalt.
Even the sea birds kept wide circles around some areas.
Jake learned to avoid those places. For now.
He knew the names of the dragons that lived on Dragonstone. Cannibal. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost. Wild ones. Unridden. Untamed.
He remembered what the lore said Cannibal eats hatchlings. Even dragons fear him.
Jake didn't know if that was myth or truth. But he wasn't about to find out.
He stayed south. Alone.
One morning, just before dawn, Jake was perched on a narrow ridge watching the sunrise when the stone beneath him trembled.
Not a full quake not even enough to shift the rocks but a subtle, rhythmic vibration. Slow. Heavy, Footsteps, He pressed himself low, head down, wings tucked tight.
The steps continued, distant but massive. A sound he'd never heard before something with weight. With presence.
Then, a low sound rolled through the stone like a foghorn not a roar, not a scream just a deep, rumbling growl.
Another dragon, and this one was near, he didn't move. He barely breathed.
The sound passed, the footsteps fading. He waited until the sun was high in the sky before he dared to move again.
He couldn't tell how large he was now not compared to others but he had grown too big to squeeze through the tightest crevices he once used. Some of his old tunnels were now blocked to him. He had to find new paths, higher ones, exposed to the sky.
He hunted larger prey now not just rats and birds, but goats and the occasional seal dragged up from the shoreline. His fire was stronger, more focused. He could heat stone with it, blacken bone, cook his kills. Not that he minded raw flesh but sometimes, the heat soothed him.
He slept in a new roost now a hollowed-out shelf of stone beneath a collapsed spire. It was high, wind-blasted, but warm. The perfect vantage point.
From here, on clear nights, he could see the mainland.
He saw lights on the horizon faint glows, flickering like candle flames. Torches. Villages.
Sometimes, if he stared long enough, he saw shapes flying across the moon.
Other dragons. Big ones.
He recognized Caraxes by his serpentine shape. Once, he thought he saw Silverwing graceful, luminous in the moonlight, soaring far in the east.
But they never came close.
They didn't see him, that was good, He wasn't ready to be seen.
Once, in the deepest hour of the night, Jake woke to a smell in the air.
Smoke, Not his own, Different, He stood, tail flicking, nostrils wide, It came from inland. Faint, but rich fire and flesh, deep and earthy. Another dragon had landed nearby. He crept forward. Slowly. Step by careful step across blackened stone. He didn't leave his ledge just leaned forward, peering down the slope.
There, far below a patch of scorched earth. Steam rising. Bones scattered in a ring.
A recent kill, Fresh.
Whoever had done this was gone now but not long gone.
Jake backed away. Silent. Swift.
He returned to his roost and curled in tight, heart thumping like a drum.
He stayed awake until morning.
His body was changing.
He could feel it in his bones, in his chest. The wings were fuller now, the membranes thicker. The fire in him burned hotter. He could hold the heat longer, guide it better. He no longer coughed flame he released it.
He knew what that meant.
He was nearing flight.
Not gliding.
True flight the thought both thrilled and frightened him.
Because once he could fly… he could no longer hide so easily.
He'd be seen the next days were spent in practice.
He climbed higher, found the tallest ridges with wind updrafts strong enough to carry him. He timed his leaps, studied the air, learned when to stretch his wings and when to tuck them.
There were falls. Crashes.
One left him limping for two days. Another bloodied his snout on sharp rock but each time, he got better, more controlled. More confident.
And then, one evening, it happened. The wind was strong. The sun was setting, casting the sea in molten gold.
Jake stood at the highest point of his territory a long, narrow ridge that dropped sheer into the ocean. He spread his wings. Felt the current. The warmth of the dying sun on his back.
He didn't think, He jumped and this time, he flew.
Not for long. Not far. But it was flight — wings extended, tail steering, wind beneath him. He soared in a wide arc along the cliff's face, just above the waves.
He let out a growl not a roar, not yet but full of heat and joy.
Then, with care, he turned, caught the wind again, and landed hard on a lower ledge. It wasn't graceful. But it was his first true flight.
He stood still for a long time, wings still open, letting the sea wind rush through him.
He had done it.
He had flown.
That night, the sky was clear, and the stars shone like glass scattered across black velvet.
Jake didn't sleep.
He lay on the edge of the ledge, watching the heavens, watching for shadows.
None came.
But the air felt different now, Charged, Something was changing.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, another dragon roared.