Month 1 — Day 1
The dragon was… pathetic.
Rider stared at the tiny crimson creature stumbling across the sealed chamber like a drunk toddler lost at a banquet. Its wings were too small, its tail unsteady, and its claws clicked uselessly on the stone floor.
Vaetrix — that was the name Rider had chosen after weeks of studying Valyrian relics — tripped for the third time and squeaked, a pitiful sound somewhere between a bird's chirp and a cat's mewl.
"This," Rider muttered, "is supposed to be a fearsome predator? It can't even stand properly."
The dragon turned toward him and chirped again, as if offended. Then it toddled forward, tripped, and sprawled face-first before scrambling awkwardly into Rider's lap.
Rider sighed, half-amused, half-bewildered. "You're supposed to be fire and blood. Terror of the skies."
Vaetrix yawned — a tiny, fanged yawn — and curled up like a kitten, its warmth seeping into Rider's chest.
Fantastic. I hatched a dragon that acts like a cat.
Still, as he looked down at the fragile thing nestled against him, something stirred deep inside. Not pride exactly — something older, something ancient. This is mine. I made this. I brought the impossible to life.
The dragon's belly growled.
"Right. Food."
He offered dried meat. Vaetrix bit, failed, and let out a wounded little whine.
Rider frowned. "You can't eat? How did wild dragons survive infancy?"
He flipped through half-remembered scrolls in his mind. Valyrian mothers… pre-chewed food for their hatchlings.
He looked at the meat. Then at the dragon. Back at the meat.
"…dammit."
He chewed a chunk of raw meat, grimaced, and spat it into his palm. "This is disgusting. You better appreciate this."
Vaetrix devoured it with delight, chirping happily.
"Yeah, yeah, enjoy it," Rider muttered. "My dignity's gone."
---
Month 1 — Day 15
Feeding Vaetrix became a full-time job.
Every few hours, the creature demanded food — chirping, scratching, and glaring until he complied. Rider hunted fish, chewed meat into paste, and smelled permanently of blood and guts.
But it worked.
Vaetrix had grown from kitten-sized to small dog-sized, scales darkening into deeper shades of crimson. The once-flimsy wings now folded with purpose. The eyes — molten gold — gleamed sharper each day.
Progress.
"You're expensive," Rider complained, gutting another trout by the campfire. "Fort Despair barely feeds people, and I'm running a luxury buffet for you."
The dragon chirped proudly, flicking its tail as if to say and I deserve it.
Rider sighed. "We need a system. You need to hunt without me babysitting you."
He thought for a while — then remembered the hot springs three miles away, filled with fish and untouched by poachers.
"Come on," he said, standing. "I'm taking you somewhere."
---
Month 1 — Day 20 – The Hot Springs
It took two grueling hours to get there. Vaetrix tired quickly, forcing Rider to carry him like a squirming bundle of scales and claws.
But when they finally reached the steaming pools, it was worth it. Mist rose like smoke, curling around the jagged rocks. The air shimmered with heat.
"This is yours," Rider said softly. "Hunt. Swim. Grow. No one else comes here."
Vaetrix dipped a claw into the water, chirped, then dove in headfirst — vanishing in a splash of steam. Seconds later, it emerged with a fish in its jaws, triumphant and proud.
Sunlight danced over wet scales. For the first time, Rider saw the faint shape of what Vaetrix might become — a true dragon, radiant and alive.
He sat on a rock, smiling faintly. "You're getting there. And now I don't have to haul fish every day. Perfect."
---
Month 2 – The Money Problem
By the second month, the treasury bled dry.
Rider sat at a cracked desk, counting coins by candlelight. Thirty-seven gold pieces. That was all that remained of Stormhearth's fortune.
Feeding Vaetrix — 15 gold a month.
Fort repairs — 20.
Wages — 12.
Supplies — 18.
Sixty-five out. Zero in.
He stared at the math until the numbers blurred. "We're broke. Again."
He drummed his fingers against the table. "Time to sell history."
He and his men scavenged the ruins for Valyrian relics — obsidian shards, melted coins, fragments of engraved armor. They sold them in secret through Kastor, the smuggler who asked no questions but always took a share.
It wasn't glory, but it kept them alive.
"As long as the ruins last," Rider muttered, "we survive."
---
Month 3 – First Wings
By the third month, Vaetrix was the size of a hound and endlessly restless.
He chased birds, climbed trees, and eventually — one fateful afternoon — slipped from a branch.
Wings flared. Air caught.
And the dragon glided.
Rider froze, then laughed out loud. "You have wings!"
For days afterward, they trained in the clearing. Climb, leap, crash, repeat. Each time, Vaetrix lasted a heartbeat longer in the air.
By sunset, both were bruised and exhausted. But Rider couldn't stop smiling.
Progress.
---
Month 4 – Flying Lessons
The wind howled across the cliff's edge.
"This is insane," Rider muttered. "You ready?"
Vaetrix crouched beside him, wings spread, golden eyes bright with challenge.
"Alright then. We jump. You fly. I try not to die."
They leapt.
For five breathtaking seconds, they soared. Wind roared past Rider's ears, his heart hammering with wild exhilaration. Then gravity reclaimed them.
They hit the hot spring with a crash that sent waves over the rocks.
Rider surfaced, laughing through his coughs. "We did it! Again!"
By the end of that week, Vaetrix could fly half a minute at a time — gliding steady, carrying Rider short distances.
Hope returned to Fort Despair — and to Rider's chest.
---
Month 5 – Resources Running Thin
Captain Kane met him outside the armory, face grim. "Your Grace, the hunters say the woods are emptying. What are you using our food for?"
Rider's eyes hardened. "For something that will save us all."
He paused, then added, "You'll see tomorrow."
---
Month 6 – Dracarys
Six months after the hatching, Vaetrix spanned thirty feet of wing and twenty of body. Muscles coiled beneath armored scales, and its roar shook the stones of Fort Despair.
But there was one problem — no fire.
Rider tried everything: chants, runes, mock hunts. Nothing worked.
Then he found a line in a Valyrian text: "The young dragon learns flame through hunger."
So he withheld food.
Day 1 — smoke curled weakly from its nostrils.
Day 2 — growls of anger filled the chamber.
Day 3 — desperation burned in its eyes.
Rider dragged in a deer carcass. "Fire first. Then food."
Vaetrix hissed, teeth bared. The air shimmered. A spark flickered in its throat — then ignited.
A burst of heat swept across the stones.
"Yes!" Rider shouted, tossing the deer forward. "That's it!"
For two weeks they trained — flame for food. Discipline through hunger.
By the fourteenth day, Vaetrix unleashed a jet of fire so pure it blackened the courtyard walls.
Rider stood before it, sweat on his brow and pride in his chest.
"Dracarys," he whispered.
Vaetrix answered with a roar that shook the mountains, flame spiraling into the sky like a newborn sun.