Claw Isle, 113 AC
The sea moaned low and constant beneath the cliffs of Claw Isle, its voice like a beast gnawing at ancient stone. Vaelon stood wrapped in a cloak of pale grey wool, sea breeze tugging his silver hair back from his face as he gazed down at the crashing waves. Dawn had barely kissed the sky. All was cloud and cold breath, save for the orange glint of his eyes in the dim light.
He had risen early—earlier than the servants, earlier even than his father. Sleep had come fitful, troubled by dreams of wings and fire, of a great beast coiled beneath a mountain of ash, watching him with eyes like molten gold. It was not the first such dream, and he doubted it would be the last.
Behind him, the doors of the eastern tower creaked open. Light footfalls approached.
"You'll catch cold, standing out here like that."
Vaelon turned slightly. It was Maester Varyn, his robes half done and eyes red from sleep. The old man offered a weak smile, his hands buried in his sleeves.
"The cold keeps me honest," Vaelon murmured.
"Does it?" Varyn joined him by the low stone railing, peering down at the black rocks and foaming surf. "Then you must be the most virtuous boy in the Seven Kingdoms. Gods know Claw Isle gives you no shortage of chill."
Vaelon gave a quiet snort.
They stood in silence for a time, listening to the wind claw at the cliffs.
"Tell me, Maester," Vaelon said eventually, "have you ever read much of the Valyrian Freehold? Of their colonies in Essos?"
Varyn's brow rose. "A fair amount. More than most. Why do you ask?"
"I've been thinking on legacy."
"Ah." Varyn nodded, unsurprised. "Still reading The Nine Books of Daenys the Younger?"
"And more besides," Vaelon said, eyes narrowing slightly. "The lost colonies. Elyria. Velos. Tolos. Even cities that no longer exist by name. All burned away or buried. All that remains are bones, ashes, and half-remembered tongues."
"Such is the way of empire," Varyn said quietly. "Even fire gutters, given time."
"But blood does not," Vaelon said. "Nor stone. Not truly."
The maester studied him carefully. "Your father believes in blood as well. But I daresay he sees fire as a thing better left to dragons—and to Targaryens."
"My father is a careful man. Loyal. But fire will come, regardless of what he believes. It always does."
Later that day, Vaelon sat across the solar table from Lord Bartimos Celtigar. A map of Claw Isle lay spread between them—drawn in ink so old the waves were faded to green smears. Pins marked each village, holdfast, and outcropping of significance. But the board was sparse. Too sparse for the future Vaelon envisioned.
Bartimos, clad in crimson and pewter, fingered the edge of the parchment with a furrowed brow. He was a hard man to read, and harder still to sway.
"You wish to dredge the cove?" Bartimos asked, his tone measured.
"I do."
"For what purpose? We have ships enough for what trade we manage."
"And not enough for what we might," Vaelon replied. "The cove is choked with stone and silt. Our harbor can only accept shallow hulls. That limits our partners and yields."
"And your solution is to carve through the sea floor like some Braavosi engineer? You forget yourself, boy."
"I forget nothing. I only ask that you consider what we might gain."
Bartimos leaned back in his chair, regarding him for a long, unreadable moment.
"You speak like a lord."
Vaelon said nothing.
"You are not a lord," his father continued. "Not yet."
"I am aware."
Bartimos stood, rounding the table. His voice lowered—not with anger, but with gravity. "Celtigars do not chase gold like Lannisters or scrabble at every stone like crabs. Our pride is not in coins. It is in name. In blood."
"And what of legacy?" Vaelon met his gaze. "Will you leave our name buried on this isle, or raised to fly with dragons?"
Bartimos did not answer. Not immediately. But something in his eyes shifted.
"Put your plan to parchment," he said finally. "Cost. Time. Labor. Show me it can be done without bankrupting the household."
Vaelon allowed himself the faintest nod. "It will be done."
Over the next fortnight, Vaelon worked from sunrise to candlelight. He consulted with the harbormaster, pored over ship logs, even spoke with crabbers and fishermen who had long sailed the inlets and rocky veins of the surrounding sea. He asked about tides, about shifting sands, about storms and swells.
When his father received the full report, he read it in silence for the better part of an hour. Then he passed it back across the solar table and said only: "Begin."
It was a small victory—but a victory nonetheless.
By mid-autumn, Claw Isle was stirring.
Laborers dragged rock from the shallows with thick chains and brute strength. Pulleys creaked. Ropes snapped taut. Cartloads of silt and stone were hauled daily from the cove. Vaelon oversaw the work with quiet intensity, flanked often by Varyn or Ser Morden, the master-at-arms.
His father did not come to the harbor.
But word reached him nonetheless.
Trade increased by the turn of the season. A Braavosi merchant-ship docked for the first time in two years, its hull deeper than any that had visited in living memory. Goods flowed. Coin clinked.
Bartimos said little of it—but Vaelon noticed the way he lingered longer at the solar table, or the thoughtful way he eyed the ship manifest lists.
The boy was still not lord. But his hand had found the island's pulse.
And it beat stronger.
One evening, while the sea lashed the cliffs and thunder rolled across Blackwater Bay, Vaelon stood again in the eastern tower, staring out into the gloom. He had not spoken of the dream to anyone—not even Varyn. But it haunted him still.
In the dream, the dragon had spoken.
Not in words, not in tongue—but in presence. In meaning. In blood.
He could feel it, still, somewhere out there. Calling.
Calling him.