#dragon!au

Fear fear fear. 

Your face came into view through the small opening of your door. 

“Helaena? What’s wrong?” 

Always soft. Soft-soft. Soft tone, soft hands, soft eyes. Helaena shook her head, cradling Jaehaerys and Jaheara closer to her, looking toward the darkness of the hall. 

“The rats, they’re everywhere.” She didn’t mean for her tone to be so distressed. But as you look toward the hall to verify her words, before opening your door to let her and the twins in, she knows it was the right decision to come to you. You listen. 

You help situate the twins into smaller beds you kept in your room. It’s not unusual for Helaena and the children to come and hide in your chambers those days. Her head swimming with visions and nightmares. And Aegon keeps undermining her fears. That makes your blood boil.

Warmth, safe. 

Helaena’s head is clearer when you wrap your arms around her, gently keeping her steady near the fireplace, rubbing a hand to her back. 

No questions asked, no lust or need or obligations. Just peace, quiet, and safety. 

Rhaenyra: 

Rhaenyra and her dragon spirit, Syrax, are in sync most of the time. They think alike and feel alike. A harmony rarely seen within the shifters. For one very tiny difference: you. 

Syrax liked you much more than she liked Daemon. Caraxes was not included in this debate, however. She never let Rhaenyra forget about that preference. This was the only discord the shifter and her spirit ever had with each other. 

‘Where. Jorrāelagon.’ The thunderous voice of Syrax boomed in Rhaenyra’s head as she sat at the head of her council table. She only rubbed her forehead. Syrax knew pertinally that you were not to attend the council meeting, as you were not part of this effort of war; you were only a victim of the destruction of the Targaryen family in two colourful clans. A growl made Rhaenyra shiver as Daemon stood next to her.

‘Want. Jorrāelagon.’ Syrax would not be appeased without you, and the council would not have you while they are discussing. Rhaenyra shook her head, soothing Syrax to the best of her ability, promising that the meeting would be short. A chuckle made Rhaenyra lift her head toward Daemon with a small frown. 

“Needy.” Was all he said, a teasing grin on his lips. Rhaenyra smiled back at him, and Syrax growled inside her head. 

‘Not. Needy.’ 

Daemon: 

Daemon and Caraxes are symbiotic. If anything, Caraxes gives Daemon more space than he’d truly need (or should have), but as their interests are exactly the same, neither really care. 

Nose buried in the juncture of your neck, wings covering the both of you from the pesky light filtered through the curtained windows. Daemon couldn’t remember when the night had ended for him. Too much wine and passion to truly remember, the echoes of his name whispered wantonly, making him smile against your skin. The thought of waking you up with his mouth crossed the Prince’s mind, but a shadow darkened it. 

The image of your peaceful face, lips puckered in a tired pout, crossed his mind, a memory from a previous morning. Caraxes was pleading for your rest. 

“Byka azantys needs to restore their strength.” Daemon agreed after a moment, and more memories shoved in his mind’s eyes. He could feel the spirit inhabiting his body purr, nearly letting it get out. But he managed to keep it under wraps. 

Aemond: 

Aemond is not the type to overlook his dragon spirit when it speaks to him. And Vhagar was an old spirit. She mostly didn’t speak anymore, some words escaping her when she felt other types of communication would be too difficult, but her feelings were always strong and always just right. 

Aemond woke up with the feeling of something important missing. Like he was falling down an eternal pit and something wasn’t there. His only remaining eye not used to the darkness in which he held his room, the prince patted blindly at the bed, searching for you. 

Empty. Dread filled his heart. 

Empty rooms, empty heart, gone-gone-gone. You’d gotten tired of him. Aemond rose from the bed, hazily grabbing a shirt to cover, fixing the patch on his face, but he couldn’t make a step before the cavernous voice in his head spoke, quieting the panicked riddle mind he had been listening to. 

‘Hush, īlva qēlos iksos daor tolmiot.’ 

A dagger had made it’s way to his hands, and Aemond had no recollection of when it happened. The door of the room opened, and his wide eye turned to you. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked, and Aemond felt the shame burn through his spine, making its way until it reached the base of his neck. 

“You were gone.” He gruffed out, somehow. Pathetic, vulnerability was a weakness. 

“I’m right here.” You told him, tugging him toward your bed, opening your arms for him to bury into. His tail wrapped around your legs; he hadn’t felt it shift out. In his mind, he heard a comfortable sigh before sleep took him again. 

Jacaerys: 

Vermax is young and enthusiastic. If Jacaerys seems calm, under the surface, he’s probably battling Vermax’s claim toward a higher price. But they stay united most of the time. 

It had taken some time for Jace to realize that he’d been nesting. Pillows recovered from other rooms, fabrics bought at high prices in markets, jewels and perfume hoarded and kept jealously in his room, the prince hadn’t thought it weird, at first. Baela had an impressive collection of books in hers, after all. Jace only caught the weirdness of his behavior when you refused to follow him into his chambers as you landed in Dragonstone. After weeks of being away. 

The whine he’d let out wasn’t his own. Pure distress that had you taken aback and then coddling him, worried. And he hadn’t liked that much better either. 

‘Not good enough. Disgrace!’

And Jace couldn’t help but feel ashamed about the thoughts his spirit had shared with him. What wasn't good enough? He was trying to piece together the wails his dragon spirit was making in his mind whilst still trying to listen to the words you were saying, patting his arms. 

“... greet your lady mother and Lord Daemon. We can’t just lock ourselves away like we please!” 

‘Why?’ Huffed Vermax in his head, getting restless, wanting out of his little prison. Jace fought to keep control of his body. He managed to keep it, mostly, wings stretching out of his back, flapping angrily in retaliation. 

“Why? We’re betrothed, and you’d be chaperoned.” He countered, siding with his spirit, wanting answers, walking you back toward the castle from the dock. Flying wouldn’t leave much room for conversations. 

Vocabulary :

Jorrāelagon : Love

Byka azantys : Little soldier

īlva qēlos iksos daor tolmiot : Our star is not far.

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