The volcanic breath of Dragonstone never stopped. It filled the air day and night with a thin, eggy warmth that clung to the skin like sweat. Jake had grown used to it. The stink of sulfur, the faint hiss of steam escaping through hidden vents, the constant low thrum beneath the earth it was his heartbeat now. He had lived here long enough to stop questioning it. He didn't remember exactly how long it had been since his rebirth. Months, certainly. Long enough for the novelty of his new form to fade, replaced by the slow rhythm of survival.
He was still small. No larger than a big mastiff, with a leaner body and wide, awkward wings he had not yet learned to fully master. His claws were sharp, but not yet fearsome. His tail was still a whip rather than a club. The black and red scales covering his body had grown tougher, more pronounced along his spine and legs, but his chest and neck were still soft in places. The fire inside him burned brighter now, but it came in fits, flashes. A warm build-up in his throat that sometimes sputtered into smoke, sometimes burst in a short flare of red-orange flame. He could not hold it long. He could not yet use it with confidence. Not yet.
But his instincts had sharpened.
Jake knew every rock and ridge of the lower cliffs now. He'd marked out three safe hollows and a small cave near a fumarole where the heat made the stone floor warm all through the night. He was still too small and weak to challenge for real territory, and he knew it. Something in his new body warned him, like a primal whisper in his blood: stay hidden. For now, at least.
He had seen signs of others. Great gouges in stone, old bones with scorch marks, and the occasional shed scale the size of a man's hand. The other dragons were real. They lived here somewhere above, deeper in the caldera or beyond the cliffs. Jake hadn't seen them with his own eyes, but their scent lingered in the air like a warning. It told him everything he needed to know.
They were older. Bigger. And if they found him before he was ready, he might not survive.
So Jake stayed low. He hunted seabirds and rodents, once even stealing a fish from an eagle's nest high above the cliffs. He'd scuttled down the crags with the wriggling thing in his jaws, wings flared out for balance, nearly tumbling the whole way. His favorite prey were the fat, sluggish lizards that basked near the steaming vents they were easy to catch and rich in oil, which seemed to strengthen his fire after he ate them.
He didn't fly. Not really. He could jump now, strong enough to leap from rock to rock, his wings half-spread for balance. Sometimes he would glide, stretching his wings wide to float down short slopes, or catch a breath of warm air that let him coast a few feet farther than before. Once, he managed a short lift-off from a ridge and landed with only a minor stumble, tail flicking to steady himself. It felt like a triumph. But it was still far from true flight.
The nights were the hardest. Alone in the dark, curled on warm stone, his thoughts would drift. Not memories not exactly but feelings, scraps of his old self. He could no longer remember his old name clearly, but he remembered the room where he used to sleep. He remembered the posters on his walls Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion his pride, his obsession. Now he was the thing he had once worshipped. The irony wasn't lost on him, even if the edges of his human memories had blurred.
There were other signs that his body was changing beyond size. He felt things he didn't have words for. Sometimes, in the still of morning, he would stop moving entirely, listening not with ears, but with his bones. The mountain spoke in vibrations. Whispers. Old voices in the stone. Not speech, not truly, but a kind of rhythm, like heartbeat and breath. He didn't understand it. Not yet. But he felt drawn to it. As if something beneath the mountain waited. Watching.
And then, one dawn, everything changed.
Jake had risen early. The air was damp, the kind of morning that made his scales feel sticky. He padded along a narrow ledge above the eastern cliffs, sniffing for birds or the lizards that warmed themselves here. He paused at a familiar overlook, one where the wind blew strong off the sea and sometimes carried scents from farther inland.
That's when he felt it.
Not smelled. Not heard.
Felt.
A ripple through the air. A pressure, sudden and deep, pressing into his chest like a silent drumbeat. His head snapped up. Wings flared. He crouched low, half-hidden by a sharp outcrop, eyes scanning the sky.
Then he saw it.
Far off, near the peak of the mountain a shadow.
It moved slowly, like a drifting storm cloud, vast and deliberate. A shape that blotted out the morning light in its path. Wings broader than a ship's sail. A long neck, a tail like a living whip trailing behind. Too far to make out color or detail, but the silhouette alone chilled him.
A dragon.
A real one.
And it was close.
Jake didn't move. He didn't breathe. He curled tighter into his rock, watching as the massive shape circled once, then vanished behind the volcanic spires. No sound reached him, no roar or wingbeat. Just silence and smoke.
He stayed frozen for what felt like hours. When he finally uncurled, his muscles ached from the tension. But his heart beat faster not with fear, but excitement.
It was the first time he'd seen one. Really seen one.
A dragon like the ones he'd only imagined. And it had been magnificent.
He returned to his cave slowly, more cautious than ever. That evening, he ate only a single lizard and didn't hunt farther from his roost. He lay curled tight in the warm stone, watching the fading light outside with narrow eyes.
The dragon hadn't seen him. That was good. He wasn't ready.
But he would be.
He had to be.
Because something had changed that day. The scent of dragon was stronger now, carried on the wind more frequently. The low hum in the rock had grown louder. And the sky above Dragonstone seemed more crowded each morning, more filled with ash and winged shapes far overhead.
Jake remained small, yes but he was not weak. His fire was still growing. His wings were still learning. And deep inside, he knew: his time would come. Slowly. Cautiously. Quietly.
But it would come.
The fire in him stirred more each day. Not just heat, but will. Purpose.
He would stay hidden for now. He would not climb higher than the low cliffs. He would not roar. He would not challenge. Not yet.
But in time, they would hear him.
In time, the dragons of Dragonstone would feel him.
A shadow in the smoke. A spark in the mountain.
Waiting.
——
Enjoy ❤️