The Garden Doesnât Know Sheâs Gone
Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Fanfic by MythboundCal
Zeldaâs garden doesnât know sheâs gone.
It still blooms like sheâll be back any secondâlike the sunflowers havenât noticed she stopped humming to them, like the lavender didnât watch her vanish into light.
Link stands at the gate. The wood is soft with age, half-swallowed by ivy. The watering can rests exactly where she left it in Hateno. Rusting. Waiting.
He doesnât touch it.
Not out of neglect.
Just⌠fear.
That if he waters the garden, it might forget herâthat its roots will stop searching for her footsteps, its blossoms will stop blooming in her colors.
So he lets it grow wild.
The basil climbs the wrong wall. The squash vines curl over the porch. The chimes still sing when the wind hits just right, a song no one ever wrote down.
And her gloves still hang on a bent nail by the shed. One turned inside out. He doesnât fix it.
Somewhere beneath the soil are seeds she never named. He wonât dig for them. If they bloom, they bloom. If they donât⌠heâll wait with them.
Today, he sits. The Master Sword leans nearby, but he doesnât reach for it.
The porch creaks under his weight. He watches the marigolds twitch in the breeze, reaching for hands that never come.
The villagers donât ask anymore. Heâs glad.
Because how do you explain a wound that grows flowers?
Even now, he hears her voice on the airâlight, scolding, fond.
âDonât overwater the rosemary, Link. It hates being fussed over.â
He doesnât answer.
Just lets the wind rustle the leaves. Lets the garden carry the silence.
And when a white lily opensâout of season, out of placeâhe doesnât wonder how.
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.ŕłŕż:ｼ pairings: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dragonrider reader
.ŕłŕż:ｼ chapter 1/?
chapter two: HERE
chapter three: HERE
.ŕłŕż*:ｼ wc: 3.4k
.ŕłŕż:ｼ warnings/tags: enemies to lovers (if u squint), targaryen dragonriders, original dragon lore, original noble house, angst, eventual romance, slight mischaracterization, violence, political intrigue, reader has fixed appearance (hair colour and eyes)
.ŕłŕż*:ｼ summary: House Vezarion has never bowed to dragonsâthey were born beside them.
Hidden within the volcanic halls of Mount Vezrith, the ancient dragonriding house has guarded secrets older than Valyria itself. But when Lady Y/n Vezarion becomes only the second rider in history to bond with Vezaryn, the White Flameâthe oldest living dragonâthe realm takes notice.
And so does Prince Aerion Targaryen.
.ŕłŕż*:ｼ an: btw no I'm not dropping my other Aerion fic! I'm simply taking a small break to pursue other fic ideas :) next week I'll be gone away to London, so expect no fic updates then! I'll continue both of these fics after next week ofc
.ŕłŕż*:ｼ
House Vezarion was not built upon Mount Vezrith so much as it was grown into it.
A noble house of the Crownlands, its seat rose from a dormant volcanic peak where stone had long since surrendered to fire. From a distance there were no clean lines, no proud symmetryâonly jagged black basalt and the impression of something ancient half-buried in the mountain itself. The castle did not sit atop the rock; it was part of it, carved through fractured obsidian and natural fault-lines as though the mountain had been persuaded, not forced, to yield.
Within it, heat was never absent. It simply shifted in degree.
The deeper one went, the more the air changedâwarmer, thicker, alive in a way most stone halls were not. And nowhere was that more evident than in the Dragon Galleries.
A vast network of cavernous chambers stretched through the lower spine of the mountain, where dragons did not merely rest, but belonged. Each had its place: basalt nesting basins shaped by centuries of heat erosion, airflow channels cut with careful precision to temper the volcanic currents, and old stone platforms etched with blood-marked sigils from rites that predated most written histories. It was not decoration. It was tradition, hardened into rock.
And always, the descent continued.
Deeper still lay the Ashheart Pit.
The Central Chamber.
A vast vertical wound in the mountain that opened towards the molten core below. Light from the volcano's heart flickered faintly in the abyss, rising in slow pulses through the shaft, while heat currents drifted upward like breath. Every sound carried hereâdragon calls did not echo so much as multiply, as though the stone itself refused to let them die.
It was a place of judgement, of binding, of old disputes settled not by blade or crown, but by presence alone.
Above it all sat the Court of Cindersâthe Political Hall your house tolerated more than loved.
A circular chamber of black volcanic glass where authority was not granted by a throne, but distributed through rings of seating, each closer or further from the centre depending on favour, influence, and fear. Power here was spatial rather than spoken.
And beneath even that, sealed away from most eyes, were the Vein Vaults. Ancient storage chambers lined with relics of early Vezarion historyâdragon eggs preserved through centuries of failure and hope, obsidian-forged weapons tempered in volcanic fire, and blood-etched records that no maester outside your house had ever been allowed to fully catalogue.
Mount Vezrith did not merely hold history.
It guarded it.
So when House Targaryen proposed a royal feast within its depths, the scepticism that followed was almost instinctive.
â
The common room was warm with emberlight when the matter was raised.
Your family had gathered as they often didâinformal in posture, though never in intent. Maps and correspondence lay scattered across the basalt table, half-forgotten in favour of conversation.
Caelor, your eldest brother at four-and-twenty, sat with the quiet authority that came naturally to him now. Khaerys, the youngest at ten-and-seven, lounged as though the room itself belonged to him, though his attention rarely drifted far from anything worth listening to. Between them, you were the only daughter of House Vezarionânine-and-ten, and already far too used to rooms like this shaping the course of your life.
Your father stood at the head of it all in every sense that mattered. Lord Vaeron Vezarion, forty-nine, head of House Vezarion, and a man whose name carried weight even in silence. Beside him sat your mother, Lady Elyra Vezarion, forty-five, composed in the way only someone raised in the same fire could beâwatching, measuring, never once truly still.
It had not always been this way. House Vezarion had bent the knee to the Targaryens generations ago, not out of weakness, but calculationâan end to bloodshed before it could ever reach their mountain. And yet, even in fealty, they had never allowed themselves to feel small. Not here. Not in Mount Vezrith.
"I still don't trust them," Khaerys said at last, breaking the low murmur of the room.
Your brother did not sound uncertainâonly decided, as he often did.
He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp.
"Did you see the way that prince reacted when word reached him about Y/N and Vezaryn? Aerion Targaryen doesn't look at things like that without wanting them. And you think we're meant to believe he'll walk into our home without bringing that with him?"
Your mother's voice cut in before the thought could sharpen further.
"Khaerys. Enough of that language."
It was quiet, but firm in the way only she managedâmore disappointment than anger, though neither needed to be voiced outright.
Khaerys exhaled through his nose, but fell silent for the moment.
The story he was circling was one everyone in the room already knew.
Vezaryn.
The White Flame.
One of the largest living dragons still known to exist, and by most accounts the oldest that had not yet returned to ash. Bound not to House Targaryen, but to youâsomething that had unsettled more than a few within the realm.
And behind that bond lay the beginning of House Vezarion itself.
Vezar.
The first of your bloodline.
The man who had climbed into a dying volcano during a winter so severe it was said the world itself had gone hungry. Inside, he had found not gold, nor prophecyâbut a white dragon on the brink of death.
He did not kill it.
He stayed.
For forty days, he fed it, tended it, and refused to leave it to die, even as his own survival grew uncertain.
And when the dragon finally recovered, it did something no creature of its kind was ever recorded to have done.
It bled into stone.
Willingly.
Vezar drank.
What followed was not power in any simple sense. It was change. His bloodline altered over generationsâpale hair becoming common, eyes occasionally touched with violet, and an instinct for dragons that no training could ever replicate.
But it came with a cost.
Ash Fever.
A quiet inheritance that thinned your line as often as it strengthened it. Children too saturated with dragon-blood rarely survived infancy. Others burned too easily in the presence of hatchlings.
It was never spoken of lightly.
Your mother broke the silence again before it could settle too deep.
"Stop this, Khaerys."
Not harsh. Just final.
He did not argue further.
That time.
You shifted where you stood, drawing the conversation back before it could spiral into old history and old warnings.
"I think it could be a good thing," you said.
Caelor's gaze flicked to you immediately, scepticism already forming.
You didn't stop.
"It shows we aren't hiding behind Mount Vezrith. We're not afraid to open our doors. If anything, it lets them see what we've always knownâwhat we are. What we've built."
You paused, then added more carefully.
"It's also security. No one walks into this castle without being seen. Without being controlled."
Your gaze moved to your father.
"It's a statement," you finished. "Of power. Not invitation."
Lord Vaeron Vezarion regarded you for a momentâlong enough that the room seemed to hold itself still with him.
Then he gave a single nod.
"I think she is right."
The effect was immediate. Subtle, but there.
Your father did not often repeat himself.
"This is a chance," he continued, "for the realm to remember what House Vezarion is. Especially now that Y/N has bonded with two dragons. No Targaryen can claim that."
"Thank you, father," you said quietly. "Then we send the ravens. To the Red Keep. And to every Great House that still believes its name matters."
"So we will," he replied.
A pause.
"Have the ravens prepared."
You nodded once.
"I'll see to it."
And then you turned.
Not waiting for dismissal. Not needing it.
You found the maester in the rookery.
The chamber was alive with motionâwings shifting overhead, parchment rustling, the constant restless sound of birds that had seen too many winters and too many secrets.
When you spoke, your voice carried without strain.
"Send ravens to the Red Keep," you instructed, "and to every Great House worth the name. They are to be invited to a feast and festivities at Mount Vezrith."
The maester nodded at once.
"At once, my lady."
He moved quickly, ink already being prepared, names already forming into obligations.
You remained where you were as he worked.
Above you, the ravens shifted uneasily, as though they understood more than they should. Heat from the mountain drifted through the vents in slow pulses, warm against stone and feather alike.
One by one, the birds were released.
â
The first replies returned within days.
House Arryn accepted.
House Baratheon accepted.
House Tyrell accepted.
House Tully accepted.
House Stark answered more cautiously, their words measured even in ink, but they would send representatives all the same.
House Lannister accepted with the sort of confidence that felt less like agreement and more like expectation, requesting accommodations befitting Casterly Rockâas though the mountain might bend for their comfort.
Then came the final seal.
House Targaryen.
The wax was blackened red, unmistakable even before it was broken.
The maester carried it into the Court of Cinders without delay.
The chamber fell quiet as your father took it.
Lord Vaeron Vezarion broke the seal himself.
No ceremony. No hesitation.
Only the soft crack of wax giving way beneath his thumb.
His violet-flecked gaze moved across the parchment in steady silence. The kind that made even seasoned councillors forget how to breathe properly.
When he finished, he did not speak at once.
He simply folded the letter once.
Then again.
Precise. Controlled.
Only then did he look up.
"His Grace accepts."
A few of the councillors inclined their heads at once, as though the words had weight enough to require acknowledgement.
"He will come," your father continued, "with members of the royal family."
Khaerys let out a low sound from where he stood near the edge of the chamber.
"Wonderful."
It was dry enough to draw no laughter, and yet no one rebuked him immediately either.
Caelor's eyes flicked briefly toward him, but he said nothing.
For a moment, the room held still.
Even the braziers seemed louder against the black volcanic stone, their flames reflecting in fractured patterns across the glass-like walls.
Your father laid the letter down upon the obsidian table at the centre of the chamber with care that bordered on ritual.
"His Grace does not travel lightly," he said at last. "Nor should we expect him to."
Your mother reached for the parchment.
Her movements were unhurried, exact. When her eyes scanned it, they lingered only briefly before she set it down again.
"Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar accompanies him," she observed.
Khaerys gave a soft whistle. "The Hammer and the Saint," he murmured. "That should make for an interesting evening."
Your mother glanced at him. "You mistake solemnity for dullness."
"I usually do," he replied without shame.
A faint, reluctant curve touched her mouthâgone almost as soon as it appeared.
Then your father continued.
"Their sons ride with them."
The shift in the room was immediate.
Not loud. Just... heavier.
Caelor straightened slightly. "All of them?"
"So the letter states."
Khaerys leaned back a fraction in his chair. "Seven save us."
"Those prayers will not be answered here," Caelor said flatly.
"They may still be whispered," Khaerys returned.
Your mother ignored them both.
"Separate them," she said calmly. "Not as titles. As men."
Her gaze moved first to Caelor.
"Prince Baelor?"
"The realm's favourite," he answered without hesitation. "Honourable. Controlled. The sort of man lords trust because they understand exactly what he is."
"And Prince Maekar?"
"Disciplined," Caelor said. "Proud, but measured. The sort of man who counts every step before he takes it."
Your mother gave a small nod. "Reasonable."
"And His Grace?" she asked.
You spoke first. "King Daeron is underestimated."
Khaerys looked towards you.
"By whom?"
"By those who think peace is easily won."
Your father regarded you thoughtfully.
"Go on."
"He inherited a realm divided against itself. Dorne was scarcely welcomed into the kingdom, the great houses mistrusted one another, and yet the realm has known peace."
"Not perfect peace," Caelor remarked.
"No," you agreed. "But peace nonetheless."
Your mother inclined her head.
"A king who understands that every battle avoided is as valuable as one won."
"Some call that weakness," Khaerys muttered.
"Only men who've never had to rule," your father replied.
Your mothers attention shifted to you.
"And his sons?"
You considered it.
Not from ignoranceârather from memory, rumour, and the sort of courtly whispers that always reached even stone-carved halls like yours.
"Daeron," you began, "is said to prefer books to swords... and wine to both."
Khaerys snorted immediately. "I like him already."
You did not look at him.
"And Aegon?" your mother asked.
There was a brief pauseâshorter than the others, but deliberate all the same.
Khaerys shrugged. "The youngest."
"That is not an answer," Caelor said flatly.
"It is all there is," Khaerys replied. "He's a boy. Quiet, from what I've heard. The sort people forget to look at twice."
Your father's gaze sharpened slightly.
"People often regret that," he said.
Silence followed the words, heavier than it should have been for something so simple.
Your mother folded her hands.
"Aegon Targaryen," she said, as though testing the name. "The least spoken of... is often the one shaped most carefully."
No one contradicted her.
"And Aerion..."
The name settled differently in the air.
Even Khaerys stopped smiling.
It was your father who spoke first.
"He is dangerous."
No embellishment. No uncertainty. Only fact, spoken as if it had already been tested and confirmed.
Your mother folded her hands.
"There are men who are ruled by anger," she said quietly. "Others by pride. Prince Aerion is governed by bothâand neither yields easily."
Khaerys shifted slightly. "I've heard the stories."
"So has every court from here to Dorne," Caelor replied.
Your gaze returned to your father.
"The tourney at Ashford," you said.
A single nod.
"The realm remembers," he agreed.
And so did you.
Prince Aerion Targaryen.
Silver-bright in every tale told of him. Handsome enough to be written into songs, cruel enough that those same songs often ended in hesitation rather than verse. A man spoken of carefully, even by those who claimed not to fear him.
And then there had been Vezaryn.
The White Flame.
News had reached Mount Vezrith months earlier that the ancient dragon had bound itself once moreâto you. Not to Valyrian blood in the traditional sense, not to House Targaryen, but to House Vezarion.
The reaction across Westeros had been immediate.
Some called it omen. Others, blasphemy. Most simply watched and waited.
But Prince Aerion had not been among those who waited quietly.
A man like that did not accept that something he considered his world's heritage could choose elsewhere.
Your father broke the silence again.
"I care little for court whispers. Whether the prince arrives with admiration or resentment is irrelevant."
"It becomes relevant the moment he steps into our halls," your mother replied.
He did not dispute her.
Caelor's hand rested briefly against the pommel of his dagger. "Then we make certain he remembers he came here as a guest."
"No," your father said.
The word cut clean through the chamber.
Every head turned slightly.
"We will ensure," he continued, "that he has no reason to forget where he stands."
His gaze moved across each of you in turn.
"Khaerys."
Your brother sighed. "I know what you're going to say."
"You do not."
A pause.
"No unnecessary provocations," Khaerys said at last. "No scandals. No... diplomatic disasters."
"That was not my concern."
A faint grin tugged at his mouth anyway. "It usually is."
Your father ignored him entirely.
"You will remember that every knight, lord, and prince who enters this mountain will judge House Vezarion by your conduct."
"I understand."
"Caelor."
"I'll oversee the guard rotations," he replied at once. "Gate security. Patrol routes. The Vein Vaults will be doubled."
"The Dragon Galleries?" he added after a moment.
"Remain sealed unless escorted by our own blood."
"Understood."
Finally, your father's attention settled on you.
The shift was subtleâbut present.
Not command.
Trust.
"And you."
You lifted a brow. "I assume I am to receive the shortest instruction of all."
"You are."
Even your mother glanced at him then.
"You will do what you always do."
Khaerys let out a quiet laugh. "That sounds ominous."
"No," your father said, still looking at you. "She will speak plainly. Ride openly. And remind every guest exactly what House Vezarion is."
Something unspoken settled into the room at that.
Not comfort.
Recognition.
Your mother studied your father for a long moment.
"They will not come only to observe," she said. "Half will come to measure us. The rest will come hoping we fail to meet expectation."
"Then let them measure," your father replied. "They will find nothing lacking."
Khaerys shifted where he stood by a basalt column. "So we're truly doing this. Inviting half the realm into a volcano and trusting they don't collapse from heat or fear."
"No one forces them to descend," your mother said calmly.
"They will," Caelor replied from the edge of the chamber. "Curiosity always outweighs caution where lords are concerned."
"That," Khaerys muttered, "is the most depressing truth I've heard all day."
Your father stepped away from the table.
The sound of his movement ended the discussion more effectively than any command.
"Enough," he said. "Preparation does not falter because men choose to speak too much."
And just like that, it was done.
Not resolved.
Decided.
â
The days that followed moved differently.
Mount Vezrith did not change so much as it tightenedâevery corridor carrying purpose, every chamber adjusted to expectation. Servants learned quickly where they could stand, and more importantly, where they could not.
Guests would see only what was permitted.
Only what was controlled.
The Dragon Galleries were sealed deeper than usual, sigils reinforced, passages watched not only by guardsâbut by silence itself. Even seasoned knights avoided lingering too long near the older tunnels where heat rose in slow, living currents from the stone.
You rode Caelthys once during that time.
Not for spectacle.
Because he would not settle otherwise.
His wings carved through the lower volcanic currents of the mountain, where heated air moved like breath through carved vents. Beneath you, the Ashheart currents pulsed faintlyâconstant, ancient, alive.
And deeper stillâ
You felt it.
Not sight. Not sound.
Presence.
Vezaryn.
The mountain itself seemed to remember him.
Caelthys faltered mid-flight for a heartbeat, wings tightening instinctively, before you steadied him with a quiet hand along his neck ridges.
"Easy," you murmured. "It's only him."
But even you did not sound entirely certain.
And thenâ
The day came.
Mount Vezrith did not feel alive so much as aware.
Every stone, every corridor, every seam of volcanic glass seemed to anticipate movement that had not yet arrived. The mountain had always been awake in its own wayâbut now it was listening.
You stood alone while attendants finished preparing you.
The dress lay before you like something forged rather than sewn.
Ivory silk, light enough to move with breath itself, layered so it shifted rather than clung. It was designed not for courtly fragility, but for heatâfor a place where fire was not metaphor but environment.
Gold chainwork traced your back, fastened with precision, old Vezarion patterns catching the firelight as you moved.
And above itâ
Not a crown.
Never quite that.
A fitted lattice of fine metal and dark stone, shaped to sit along your hair and temples like something half-born from ritual rather than ornament. When light struck it correctly, faint violet shimmered through the set stonesâechoing what lived quietly in your blood.
When you looked at yourself, you did not see softness.
You saw inheritance.
â
Your older brother met you in the corridor.
A single look was enough.
"You will be watched."
"I know."
"That will not change the fact they will stare longer than they should."
"They were always going to stare."
A faint breath left himâsomething between approval and resignation.
Khaerys appeared further down the corridor moments later, leaning against a carved pillar like he had been there the entire time.
"If the Targaryens were hoping to feel superior upon arrival," he said lightly, "that plan has already failed."
"Try not to provoke them," Caelor said without turning.
"I never provoke anyone," Khaerys replied. "I merely respond creatively to poor judgement."
"That is exactly what I said."
Uou passed between them.
"Come," you said. "Let us not keep the realm waiting on its own arrival."
â
The Dining Hall was already full.
Not crowded.
Positioned.
Every great house arranged with intent, banners hanging against volcanic glass that reflected them like deeper, darker versions of themselves.
Your father stood at the highest permitted point of the hall, watching without expression.
Your mother stood beside him, composed as ever, eyes moving slowly across the gathered lords as though she were already recording their futures.
When you enteredâ
The room changed.
Not silence. Not awe.
Something more restrained.
Attention tightened. Measured.
You descended without haste.
White against black stone.
Gold catching emberlight.
Every step deliberate, every movement aware.
And for a brief moment, the hall understood something without being told:
You were not decoration. You were not ceremony. You were Vezarion.
Your older brother took his place without speaking.
Khaerys lingered somewhere behind you, already scanning the room like it was a story waiting to misbehave.
And youâ
You stopped only once.
At the threshold where the Targaryens would soon be brought forward.
The air was warmer here. Closer. As though the mountain itself leaned inward to listen.
In the distance, horns sounded.
And House Targaryen began to arrive.
â
°ââ.ŕłŕż*:ｼ
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With all the Kickstarter orders at last on their way, Iâm happy to say that Dragons: Wild and Domestic is now available in my shop! If you missed out on the Kickstarter, now is your chance to welcome an irresponsible number of dragons into your hearth and home. The little pocket dragon enamel pin and a digital copy of the book are also available.
I think one of my favorite things about Dragon Age is what they really leaned into for dragon lore.
Like I will always be sad that after da2 we never saw drakes again and they were kinda displaced from lore. But thatâs a whole separate thing.
Itâs that if the dragon has wings it is always female. Has been since dao. Thatâs why in lore it was always argued that the old gods werenât true dragons - and is even spoken by Tevinter and early Orlesian Chantry scholars that they were spirits that took the form of dragons. (Iâmma go into this more later maybe in a separate post. Honestly the foreshadowing and building they had for the old gods in place since dao/da2 made me feral when playing datv. Especially considering they originally werenât intended to be dragons)
I digress, something that I think is always forgotten by the fandom is: if it has wings itâs a female dragon. It cannot be a male dragon aka drakes. Drakes die at a century if not sooner because theyâre killed by great bears, wyverns, other drakes, hunters, etc. lots of things out there to kill a drake tbh.
Male dragon life stages:
Egg -> dragonling -> drake
Where as female dragons donât even reach adulthood till theyâre a century old. So their brothers are already gone from the nest and dead by the time theyâre ready to leave and find dens of their own. Often very far from where they were born.
In contrast to drakes, female dragon life stages:
Egg -> dragonling -> Adult dragon (100) -> High Dragon (100+) -> Great Dragon (no clue what age they hit this stage)
So by the time a female is ready to breed, she has likely no siblings to accidentally fall into. Their chance of inbreeding is extremely low (canât say this about griffons rip). Which is such an excellent point of world-building for them.
The lore overall has been consistent on that fact. Which was for the longest time why I really thought that the old gods werenât true dragons - or that Tevinter pulled a patriarchy and mislabeled them (which even if they had been spirits they would have absolutely been projecting perceived gender into spirits since they are sexless/gender neutral.)
I loved that da really stuck to the âfemales are large and more colourful and stronger than the malesâ for their dragons. That it was something that didnât change throughout the whole series even when they did simplify their behavior/dynamics by removing drakes. I will continue to dream about how when dragons came back to Thedas, roaming packs of drakes became an issue for people.
That sure high dragons were the more flashy problem. But then you also had to worry about a smaller, stealthier version of them skuttling through your pasture and frying up your livestock to take back to the sleeping high dragon and her brood. That nobles were having to patrol lest the merchants were beset upon by the elemental breathing harem a high dragon had surveying her lands while she rested up.
Orlais and the Avvar probably had an advantage here on being prepared to deal with them because of wyverns. A leg up at most tbh.
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There is a section in Eldest when Eragon and Saphira are approaching Du Weldenvarden, with Arya and the dwarven guards, and thereâs this line from Saphira
âAye. Here the legends of old still bestride the earthâ
Now plenty of humans use âayeâ. Dwarves too. It just means âyesâ. But Eragon, Roran, Brom, and other carvahall villagers are the ones who use it most, seconded by Orik. Iâll keep an eye out for it but Elves donât use it as far as I can remember, Arya might have at some point, my memory is foggy, but sheâs lived among humans and dwarves for 70 years, so it makes sense if she does. But this is the only occurrence I can think of where a dragon uses it. And while we donât meet many dragons, so it could be more widespread, it also makes perfect sense in the lore that Saphira would pick up speech patterns from Eragon. Sheâs a dragon. Proud and Regal. As she says sheâs âancient in her thoughtsâ but sheâs still got a few words from Eragon and perhaps even occasionally slipping into a peasants accent, just like how Eragon gets drunk and somehow starts speaking with a dragons voice at the party following the battle of Farthen Dur. Donât forget that Eragon was the one who taught Saphira most of her language. I just find the concept wholesome and slightly funny. We always think about how Eragon is influenced by Saphira, but we shouldnât forget that Saphira is influenced by him too.
Hello! One thing I've never understood is why people, even fans, claim that Aemond 'stole' Vhagar from Rhaena. From my understanding dragons are not owned and you cannot inherit a parent's dragon just because. Dragons are thinking creatures who choose their own rider, it's not the rider that picks out what dragon they want like they're picking a horse. A dragon cannot be stolen. Vhagar chose Aemond yet people can't seem to accept that?
You are right, anon.
Dragons choose their riders. Anyone can try to claim one, but the final decision belongs to the dragon. It is basically: you ride, or you die. Vhagar was not property sitting around waiting to be inherited like a necklace. Rhaena did not automatically own her because Laena had been her rider.
Aemond did not âstealâ Vhagar. He took a massive risk, approached the largest living dragon, and Vhagar accepted him. That is the lore. That is how dragon bonding works.
The fan reaction to this is once again emotional reasoning, not logical or factual reasoning. People feel like Vhagar should have belonged to Rhaena, so they act like that feeling is canon. It is not. They are coping because the facts and lore do not match their emotional reality.
