#oc dragon

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When you open your eyes, you expect to be in Heaven or some kind of afterlife, when the smell hits you.

Smoke.

You're laying down, covered in blood, surrounded by a burning forest. Your memory is patchy, but you do remember just a bear attack, not whatever caused this fire!

You try to pull yourself up, gasping from the pain as you look down and realize the bear got you worse than you remembered, you thought it was going to eat you...

Why didn't it?

It looked hungry, you and your friend weren't threatening, and speaking of which, you couldn't find your friend. You didn't want to think about that.

The forest, still on fire, seemed to be diming, until you hear a woosh and the fires get bigger. You immediately scream, you don't know why. Fear? Panic? Hope someone will hear you? Frustration? Final words? Whatever.

You're surprised when your call is actually heard. But you hear flapping and then large footsteps. Slow, but curious. You try getting to your feet but crumple over them, now back on your stomach.

The footsteps get close enough that you, after a cough, get out. "Please, help me." And then the smoke and wounds finally got to you.

If only you were awake to see who it was. Or what it was.

-------------

Your back in some place warm, but not on fire warm. You can't smell smoke, you feel somewhat less pain, and there's a soft humming from behind you.

You don't really want to open your eyes, knowing you'll either have to pay a terrible hospital bill with also being tramaitized and admitting that your friend is dead, or that you're also dead.

Not a every good situation you were in. But at least you were proven right, that dragons aren-

You open your eyes, a large wing is draped over you, making a makeshift tent, with a scaly creature beside you. You blink a few times, okay, not a hallucanation.

You peak out from the winged tent and see a giant golden dragon, humming a song you don't know, while peacefully resting, yet still awake.

The cave you were in was exactly where your friend was pointing and you would've seen it had you climbed the tree. The place was giant and you could barely see one room.

You had to get out. Even though you were still in a lot of pain, your friend was right about freaking dragons and now, you had to survive one. Who knows why they brought you here?!

But the second you're no longer covered by the wing, the dragon's eyes open and block you. Their full height is much bigger than you first thought, and you stare up at it, mouth agape.

The dragon looked down at you, lovingly. You just looked so confused and adorable trying to comperend her, but you were much too young to try to leaving the nest!

She gently nudged you with her giant snout to go back to bed, but you were frozen in fear.

You mistook the sign of her nudging you as one of wanting to eat you, desperately trying to get up and get out, you fell on your bad leg, completely helpless in front of the giant beast.

But instead of being eaten immediately, as you expected, the dragon just made a clicking noise and nudged you even more. Until you slowly went backwards into your old position.

You were still shaking as the dragon went back to her orginal spot, putting her wings over you, but this time, a little more tightly, and huffed out a sigh that caused smoke to come out of her nose.

You had nothing else to do, but sleep.

-----------

When you woke up, the dragon was still there, but awake and peacefully sitting beside you. You were still in massive pain, yes, but you realized that you had bandages around your torso and leg.

You could stand up but not much else. When the dragon heard you moving around, she just watched you with this sort of proud glint in her eyes like you were just learning to walk.

You winced at every movement, but you were sure you'd be able to at least walk. The dragon didn't seem to mind you moving, so maybe you were safe?

A few steps in, your leg gave out. Before you hit the ground, a scaly tail caught you and more clicking sounds came from the dragon. It clicked more and more as the tail brought you closer to her as she walked around the cave, was it showing you around?

The cave itself was actually pretty cozy. It had a soft breeze but still warm, everything was made of moss and sticks and there was a pile of coals that mimicked an oven.

The place you woke up in was mainly made of moss and had sticks for support, making a giant bed that could easily house you and the dragon that seemed to like you.

It held you high in it's tail, but not too high that you'd be scared (Well, if you weren't being held hostage by a dragon). It made noises that sounded positive the whole time.

When the 'tour' was finished, it curled up again into a sleeping position, still holding you tightly in it's tail.

Oh boy.

-------------

The next few days felt somewhat like a fever dream. You'd wake up, try to walk, make it a few steps, the dragon would catch you, and make soothing clicking noises. The dragon never let you a few steps out of her reach so she could catch you.

Sometimes she'd help you change your bandages. You'd take them off and she'd use one giant talon to gently wrap it around you, making clicking noises the whole time while you just tired not to get slashed by her giant claws.

You were in charge of making meals since the dragon would only burn them. She'd bring back deer or fish and lightly set the coals on fire while you did the real cooking. Your dad used to hunt and your mother taught you how to skin them and cook them.

You felt homesick, but you didn't have much of a choice.

The dragon and you had a system of talking. It could answer yes or no questions with positive or negetive sounds or just nodding or shaking her head.

But you two mainly napped together. You'd sleep in her tail, on her back, on her nose, under her wing, everywhere. There wasn't much to do since she barely let you outside, so you two slept. All the time.

Which was fine, but you were restless. You wanted to go back home, go explore, back with humans. The dragon didn't allow it. Ever. Claiming you were too injuried.

"But I can walk fine! It's just I get tired really quickly!" You argued, it just shook it's head again. "Why?" It titled it's head. "Oh, that's not a yes or no question..." You thought about it. "Is there a reason you're keeping me here?"

It nodded. "Is it to eat me?" It shook it's head and made a sad noise, you didn't mean to offend it. "Uh..." You thought about it. "There really isn't a reason to have me here..."

She made a clicking noise and wrapped you in her tail again, it's way of telling you it wanted to take a nap. It seemed to do that everytime you made it upset, like that one time you almost fell on the fire.

You sighed but didn't fight it, it was kind of nice. The scales weren't scratchy like you thought, they were actually kind of soft. And the dragon kept humming or making clicking noises.

You didn't have the heart to tell her that you should be healed enough to leave in a week or so.

--------------

The next day started out the usual. The dragon watched you walk for a bit, came back with food, and waited while you made it. Then you tried talking to her again, when you got interrupted.

The dragon's head snapped towards the cave's entrance and you heard voices and footsteps. You were exicted and wanted to run out, but the dragon looked scared and you were still injuried. So you waited eagerly.

About 10 or 15 firefighters appeared, all wearing fire-proof suits with hoses and fire exisghusers. They all froze when they saw the dragon. You heard someone whisper 'they're real?!' until the chief came forward.

"Almighty dragon, we need to take back a human you've captured, we're here to offer many things-" He got cut off when the dragon growled and a familar tail wrapped around your waist and lifted you up.

But it was much higher than you've ever been before. You felt your stomach drop. "Help!" You screamed down to the firefighters, who all got ready. "Put me down!" You shouted at the dragon, who promptly ignored you.

You didn't want to hurt the dragon, it was too friendly and kind, so you just kept begging for help while swinging your legs.

The firefighters tried fighting back, but the dragon was too strong. You watched in horror as it breathed fire at them, the whole cave went up in smoke, you began coughing and the tail moved backwards towards a small hole in the ceiling you never saw before.

You swung your legs as the dragon swung at the firefighters, knocking them down like bowling pins, the tail got tighter. "Stop! Please!" You started crying as you watched each the firefighters sent to save you died off.

One by one. Because of you. Because of the dragon. Because of everything that life did to you.

----------------

When the damage is done, the dragon just pushes them off the ledge. They had no chance of survival. You were fully sobbing now. The dragon heard your tears and pulled you back down, clicking loudly.

"Just let me go!" You begged, but she snarled and the tail got tighter. It took you back towards your napping spot, and curlled up like everything was fine.

She was clicking and humming and still holding on tightly to you. You could barely move or squirm, you wanted to leave, but the dragon couldn't lose their child. Never.

The dragon watched you crying and felt only a little guilt. It was humans that abandoned you, she wouldn't let them take you away now that they realized what they had done.

Didn't you remember what happened?

-------------

The dragon flew above the small forest above her nest, she heard the roar of a bear. That was odd, they didn't normally roar like that unless something big was happening.

She swooped down and saw two humans getting attacked. Both were quite small, but she didn't get involved with them. Too dangerous to her kind. But one of the humans ran away. They were quite dumb.

She had no use for this scene, so she just flew away. But then she got this feeling, something like guilt and pity for those two humans.

Even though she knew humans were dangerous, her instints told her not to abandon them. So she flew over. The bear was still attacking you, but you had stopped moving. Without thinking, she blew fire close enough to the bear but not close enough to hurt you.

The bear's tail set on fire and he bolted. Too bad that other human that kept staring at her was gone somewhere already. But you...

You were tiny.

The dragon got angry and chased after the bear, killing it quickly, before flying back up. She flew gracefully until she heard the scream. The broken, scared, gut scream. It sounded like when hatchlings open their eyes for the time without anyone around and panic.

She flew around and saw you on the ground, bloody and in danger and hurt. You poor thing. She was about to go up to you, when a voice came through.

"I knew it! I knew it!" A human's voice came through, a little raspy from the smoke. She turned and saw the human that tried to run. "I knew dragons were real!" They huffed, looking up at her in amazement.

She looked at the human, but then notice them grabbing something on the ground, what were they-

They immediately tried to shoot her. She doged it, of course, but when it almost hit you, who was unconscious, and they didn't even look sorry.

"Stop moving!" They shouted, aiming again. The dragon knocked your friend over, growling, and destoryed that stupid advice they thought would save them.

The groaned and tried to stand up, but fell over again. The dragon growled warningly which made them scramble. "Get them instead! Just not me!" They screamed while throwing a rock at both the dragon and your unmoving body.

How dumb were they? The dragon also took quick work of them, but made the error of not hiding that stupid human's body, because you had woken up.

You were laying on you back but the dragon was behind you, slowly stepping closer, then she heard your whisper. "Please help me." Before going out cold.

She always did want little hatchlings of her own, and that human that seemed to be close to you, was evil. She would take care of you now, and no one would take you away. Dragons are hoarders after all.

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Alrighty! I hope this all good! I'm not too good with all this magic stuff, but I hope someone likes it!

Also, I might upload a little slower than usual but I will answer all requests! Expect a day or two for the whole thing, so PLEASE feel free to send any requests! I love writing them and I'm working on one right now!

Thank you for reading, I love all of you, and see ya!

Morning came gently to Mount Vezrith.

The mountain had no use for the sun. Long before its light reached the black peaks, warmth already stirred within the stone itself. Heat rose through hidden vents as it always had, carrying with it the familiar scent of ash and sulphur that every child of House Vezarion had long since stopped noticing. Somewhere deep beneath the castle, where no daylight had ever reached, dragons shifted in their sleep. Their distant calls rolled softly through the mountain, more felt than heard.

By the time you woke, the castle had already been alive for hours.

From your window, carved into the eastern face of Mount Vezrith, you watched servants crossing the courtyards below like ants beneath banners that stirred lazily in the morning breeze.

Hundreds of them had worked through the night after the feast. Tables had been cleared, rushes replaced, broken cups swept away. Whatever signs remained of the previous evening had vanished before dawn.

Today would belong to spectacle.

Beyond the lower walls, where the mountain levelled into a broad plateau overlooking Blackwater Bay, the lists had been raised. You could already hear the distant ring of hammers as squires made final adjustments to the barriers, whilst stable boys hurried nervous destriers towards their pavilions. Merchants had begun opening brightly coloured tents around the edge of the grounds, laying out ribbons, carved toys, sweetmeats and polished trinkets for the younger children of the visiting houses.

The feast had been for the lords. Today was for everyone.

One of your attendants entered quietly, carrying a basin of steaming water.

"My lady."

You turned from the window. "Has everyone survived Father's hospitality?"

The young woman smiled despite herself.

"So far."

"So he's awake?"

"Oh yes." She hesitated. "He and His Grace have already broken their fast together."

You closed your eyes briefly. "Gods."

"The Seven?"

"No," you sighed, rising from your chair. "The old ones. The new ones. Whoever will listen."

The girl laughed before quickly hiding it behind her hand.

"They've been arguing for nearly half an hour."

"Arguing?"

"So the servants thought."

She began arranging fresh clothes upon the bed. "But Cook says they were deciding whether goats can swim."

You stared. "...Goats?"

"Yes, my lady."

You blinked once.

"They're both drinking already, aren't they?"

"...A little."

—

The breakfast hall occupied one of the eastern galleries where the morning sun poured through tall arched openings cut directly into the mountainside.

Unlike the grandeur of the previous night's feast, breakfast had been laid more simply. Fresh bread still warm from the ovens, smoked fish brought from the bay before sunrise, honeycomb, soft cheeses, fruit from the Reach and enough tea and wine to satisfy whichever vice the morning demanded.

Your father had chosen wine.

Naturally.

King Daeron was laughing so hard he had one hand pressed against the table.

"I'm telling you," the King insisted between breaths, "it climbed into the boat itself."

"No goat has ever climbed into a boat willingly," your mother replied without looking up from her cup.

"It was a determined goat," your father answered.

"It was imaginary."

"That has never stopped determination."

Prince Baelor sat opposite them, wearing the patient expression of a man who had spent much of his life allowing kings to finish stories they ought never have begun.

Prince Maekar looked considerably less patient.

"They've been discussing this," he said dryly as you approached, "since sunrise."

"Not continuously," your father protested. "We stopped to eat."

"And to refill your cups," your mother added.

King Daeron looked up as you reached the table.

"There she is!" He spread his arms dramatically. "The young lady responsible for proving dragons are easier company than lords."

You laughed despite yourself.

"I fear you've reached that conclusion rather quickly, Your Grace."

"I've ruled lords for nearly thirty years." He gestured vaguely with his cup. "The dragons have behaved better."

—

You greeted Prince Baelor with a nod, then Prince Maekar.

The elder prince inclined his head politely.

"My lady."

His manner remained exactly as it had been the evening before. Reserved. Formal. Difficult to read, though not unfriendly.

You had just reached for a slice of bread when another chair scraped lightly against the stone floor.

Aerion.

He had arrived without announcement, dressed far more simply than he had been the previous evening. Dark riding leathers beneath a black and crimson surcoat, silver hair still slightly damp, as though he had only recently finished washing.

He offered greetings to the table.

His father acknowledged him with a nod.

The King waved him over.

Your father simply pushed another cup across the table.

"You look disappointed," Your father observed.

Aerion glanced at him. "Do I?"

"I suspect you expected breakfast to be less... lively."

A faint pause.

"I had not formed an opinion."

"Liar," said the King cheerfully.

Aerion looked at his great-uncle.

"I have said exactly three words."

"Yes."

Daeron grinned.

"And I already know."

Even Aerion looked faintly defeated by that.

Your mother hid a smile behind her cup. The conversation drifted naturally after that. Not towards politics. Not immediately. Instead they spoke of horses. Of weather. Of the tourney.

At some point during breakfast you had looked around the Hall and noticed Prince Daeron—the son of Prince Maekar—had not been present.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon became the topic after someone remarked that he'd apparently attempted to arm wrestle three household guards before retiring the previous evening.

"He won," your father said.

"He cheated," your mother corrected.

"There are rules?"

"There were after he started."

Baelor laughed quietly.

"I've always found Lord Baratheon remarkably consistent."

"In what regard?" you asked.

"He has never once allowed dignity to interrupt a good evening." Your father raised his cup. "A philosophy worth admiring."

"Not encouraging," your mother replied.

—

By the time breakfast ended, the mountain outside had transformed.

The roads below Mount Vezrith had filled with people. Knights rode towards the lists beneath streaming banners. Musicians tuned fiddles and harps beneath colourful awnings. The smell of roasting meats drifted upwards on the wind. Children darted between merchant stalls carrying little carved dragons made from polished obsidian.

Somewhere below, someone had begun singing.

Not professionally.

Loudly.

Badly.

Khaerys appeared behind you just then, adjusting the sleeves of an embroidered doublet.

"You've all started without me."

"You've only just woken," Caelor observed, appearing from another corridor already dressed in half-armour.

"I was resting."

"You were asleep."

"I was preparing mentally."

"For what?"

Khaerys flashed an effortless grin. "The ladies."

Caelor looked heavenward.

"You see?" he muttered.

"I did ask your mother whether we could leave him with House Baratheon."

—

By the time breakfast had given way to morning, the mountain had emptied itself.

Not entirely, of course. Mount Vezrith never truly emptied. Servants still hurried through its countless passages, dragons still slept beneath its foundations, and the halls still echoed with voices carried strangely through volcanic stone. Yet the heart of the day had moved outdoors, following the sun onto the broad plateau that spread westward from the mountain.

The tournament grounds had transformed overnight.

Where there had been bare earth the previous afternoon now stood rows of brightly coloured pavilions bearing the banners of every great house in the realm. Crimson stags snapped in the breeze beside silver falcons. Golden roses stirred against the wind, whilst the direwolf of Winterfell watched over them all with silent dignity. Beyond them flew the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its red banners standing proudly beside the white dragon of House Vezarion.

The lists occupied the centre of it all.

Fresh sand had been spread between the barriers, smooth save for the hoofprints left by squires exercising nervous horses before the contests began. Armour gleamed beneath the morning sun. Lances stood neatly stacked beside the marshal's pavilion, each one waiting to be shattered before the day was done.

The galleries were already filling.

Smallfolk had gathered since first light, their chatter rising like birdsong across the plateau. Noble houses occupied the higher seats carved into the mountainside itself, shaded beneath awnings of black and crimson cloth that kept the worst of the summer sun at bay.

Musicians wandered between the crowds, filling the pauses before the tourney with lively tunes played upon fiddles, pipes and drums.

Somewhere nearby a troupe of mummers had already attracted a crowd of children, whilst further down the slope a pair of fire dancers rehearsed amongst themselves despite the daylight making their craft rather less impressive.

For a single morning, Westeros seemed almost... peaceful.

You stood beside your family near the foremost gallery overlooking the lists.

Your father rested both forearms upon the carved basalt railing, studying the gathering crowd with quiet satisfaction.

"I'll admit," he said after a time, "I expected fewer people."

Your mother looked across the grounds. "I expected more."

"You always do."

"It saves disappointment."

"It also makes you impossible to surprise."

She glanced sideways at him. "You managed yesterday."

"I did."

"You and His Grace nearly convinced the kitchens to prepare swimming goats."

Your father looked almost offended. "It was merely a discussion."

"It was nonsense."

"It was inspired nonsense."

Before your mother could answer, King Daeron's voice drifted across from the adjoining gallery.

"It was an excellent discussion."

The King appeared moments later, dressed far less formally than he had been the previous evening. Though richly clothed, he had exchanged court robes for a riding cloak fastened simply at one shoulder, and looked all the more comfortable for it.

"I still maintain," he continued, "that the goat deserved the boat."

Your father nodded gravely.

"Exactly."

Your mother closed her eyes for the briefest moment.

"I fear the realm rests upon uncertain shoulders."

"The realm," the King replied with a broad smile, "has rested upon worse."

That earned a laugh from almost everyone nearby.

Almost.

Prince Maekar merely folded his arms. "You are both behaving like squires."

"Squires have considerably less authority," Daeron answered.

"Which explains why they make better decisions.

"Prince Baelor cleared his throat delicately.

"I believe the herald is about to begin."

"A shame," said the King. "We'd nearly solved the goat."

—

The sound of approaching horses drew your attention away from the galleries.

Another group of riders had arrived from the lower road, their cloaks marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

A young man followed close behind the royal party, carrying himself with an easy confidence that spoke more of habit than arrogance. His hair, lighter than most men's but darker than the bright silver worn by many of his kin, stirred in the breeze as he removed his riding gloves. There was something open about his face, a warmth that sat easily beside the unmistakable features of Old Valyria.

As soon as he dismounted, he handed the reins to a waiting squire before making his way directly towards the royal pavilion.King Daeron saw him first.

"There he is." The warmth in the King's voice was unmistakable. "My grandson finally remembers where he was expected."

The young prince bowed respectfully.

"My apologies, Grandfather."

His gaze shifted towards your father.

"My lord."

Then...

Towards you.

He stepped forward, offering a courteous inclination of his head. "My lady."

There was no arrogance in the gesture. No expectation. Simply good manners.

"I am Prince Valarr."

"I know who you are."

A smile touched his face.

"I suspected you might."

His expression became more earnest.

"I wished to apologise."

You looked at him curiously.

"For what?"

"For missing your feast."

His shoulders lifted in a small, apologetic shrug.

"I was returning from Duskendale with Lord Hayford and did not reach Mount Vezrith until long after midnight."

"I heard as much."

"I would have preferred to arrive sooner."

"I doubt the feast suffered for your absence."

"Perhaps not." His smile widened. "But I still regret it."

You found yourself smiling in return. "It is forgiven, Your Highness."

"Valarr will do."

Before you could answer, Khaerys appeared from seemingly nowhere, grinning broadly.

"Careful," your younger brother said. "She starts accepting apologies, she'll expect one from me next."

"You owe rather more than one," Caelor replied from behind him.

"I've been told."

"Frequently."

—

A trumpet sounded across the grounds.

Long.

Clear.

The conversations surrounding the galleries gradually faded.

The marshal of the lists rode into the centre of the field upon a tall grey courser, his voice carrying remarkably well across the assembled crowd.

"My lords!"

Silence settled.

"My ladies!"

More faces turned towards him.

"By the grace of His Majesty, King Daeron of House Targaryen..."

The cheering began before he had even finished.

"...and under the hospitality of Lord Vaeron Vezarion, let this day's tourney commence!"

The roar that answered him rolled across the plateau. Children clapped. Lords applauded politely. Smallfolk shouted with far greater enthusiasm.

The first competitors began leading their horses towards the lists.

Steel flashed brilliantly beneath the morning sun. Names were announced one by one.

"Ser Donnel of Duskendale."

Cheers.

"Ser Roland Rowan."

More cheers.

"Prince Valarr Targaryen."

The royal banners stirred as applause echoed around the grounds. Valarr accepted it with an embarrassed smile before mounting his horse.

"He rides well," your father observed quietly.

"So I've heard," you replied.

"He'll need to."

Another name followed.

"Prince Aerion Targaryen."

The applause changed. Not louder. Different. Some cheered. Others murmured amongst themselves. Reputations travelled faster than ravens.

Aerion emerged from beside the royal pavilion astride a magnificent black destrier that tossed its head impatiently as squires adjusted the prince's shield.

Unlike Valarr, he acknowledged neither applause nor whispers.

His armour was dark steel chased with silver, polished enough to catch the sunlight without becoming ostentatious. Across his shield, the red three-headed dragon seemed almost to move as he guided his horse towards the end of the lists.

For a brief moment, his eyes lifted.

Across the distance.

Across the gathering.

Until they found yours.

Not by chance. Deliberately.

He held your gaze for only a heartbeat.

Then lowered the visor of his helm.

The world disappeared behind polished steel.

Beside you, Khaerys let out a low whistle. "I almost feel sorry for whoever draws him first."

Caelor folded his arms.

"I don't."

"You think he'll lose?"

"I think," Caelor said evenly, "he'll make certain the other man remembers meeting him."

The herald raised his staff. The first pair of knights guided their horses into position. Lances were lowered.

The crowd leaned forward as one. Even the wind seemed to still itself.

Then—

The horn sounded.

The sharp note rolled across the tournament grounds, and with it came a thunder of hooves.

The first pair of knights burst from opposite ends of the lists, lances levelled beneath their arms. Dust flew behind them as their destriers gathered speed, the ground trembling beneath the weight of horse and rider alike.

The impact came in the space between two heartbeats.

A splintering crack echoed across the plateau as both lances shattered against shields. One rider lurched violently in his saddle, fighting to recover his balance, whilst the other remained seated with little more than a jolt running through his shoulders.

The crowd roared its approval.

Beside you, King Daeron leaned comfortably against the carved railing overlooking the lists, one hand resting upon the pommel of the ceremonial sword at his side.

"There is always something satisfying about the first pass," he remarked. "Sets the blood stirring."

"It reminds every knight present that armour is less comfortable than they remembered," your father replied.

The King laughed.

"That as well."

Below, the unhorsed knight struck the ground with enough force to drive a cloud of dust into the air. Before anyone could mistake the silence for tragedy, the man rolled onto his back and raised one gauntleted hand.

The applause doubled.

"He'll be sore tomorrow," Caelor observed.

"He'll be lucky if he's only sore," Khaerys answered, folding his arms across his chest. "I watched Ser Gawen train yesterday. The man's built like an ox."

"An ox with a lance." Caelor added.

Your mother gave both sons a pointed look. "Perhaps neither of you should announce that quite so loudly whilst the poor man can still hear you."

"He'll forgive us."

"If he wins."

Khaerys grinned.

"If he wins, he won't remember we said it."

Another pair rode. Then another. The morning settled into the familiar rhythm of a proper tourney. Trumpets announced each tilt, hooves shook the earth, and every shattered lance was met with cheers from one side of the lists or the other.

Children perched on the stone walls separating the galleries from the lower paths, craning their necks for a better view. Merchants wandered through the crowds carrying trays of roasted almonds, honey cakes and steaming meat pies, whilst musicians played whenever the lists fell briefly quiet between bouts.

For all the grandeur surrounding it, there remained something wonderfully simple about a tournament.

Men climbed onto horses. Charged at one another. Fell off. Then did it all again.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon seemed particularly delighted by this arrangement.

"Now that," he declared as another knight was launched cleanly from his saddle, "is what I came to see!"

A Reach lord sitting nearby chuckled. "You don't favour the finer points of chivalry, my lord?"

"I favour gravity."

Laughter rippled through the gallery.

"It has yet to disappoint me."

Even your mother smiled.

The morning wore on.

One by one, the first competitors were eliminated, their broken lances discarded beside the lists until a growing pile of splintered ashwood lay scattered near the marshals.

Eventually, only a handful remained.

Prince Valarr amongst them.

You found yourself watching him with quiet interest.

He rode well. Not spectacularly. Not recklessly. There was a patience to him that reminded you faintly of Prince Baelor. He never seemed eager to impress the crowd. Instead, he allowed his opponents to make mistakes, meeting each charge with measured precision rather than brute force.

Twice he broke his lance cleanly across another knight's shield. Twice he remained perfectly seated afterwards.

King Daeron nodded approvingly.

"His father taught him well."

"Prince Baelor teaches by example," your father replied.

"So he does."

Your gaze drifted across the lists.

Aerion had yet to ride. He waited near the far pavilion astride his black destrier, helmet resting beneath one arm whilst a squire adjusted the buckles of his vambrace.

Unlike the other competitors, he watched every tilt. Not casually. Studying them.

His expression gave nothing away, but there was an intensity about him that reminded you less of a tournament knight and more of a hunter waiting for the right moment to loose an arrow.

Almost as though the joust itself interested him less than the men riding in it.

The marshal's voice carried across the grounds.

"The next tilt!"

Two names followed. The first belonged to a knight of House Rowan. The second—

"Prince Valarr Targaryen."

A fresh round of applause swept through the galleries. Valarr lowered his visor and guided his horse towards the northern end of the lists.

Across from him, Ser Alester Rowan settled his lance beneath his arm.

The horn sounded.

Both riders sprang forward.

The first pass was clean.

Valarr's lance exploded against the Rowan shield in a shower of splinters, whilst his opponent's strike glanced harmlessly from the prince's breastplate.

Neither man yielded.

The crowd applauded enthusiastically.

"A good hit," your father remarked.

"It was," agreed Prince Baelor quietly.

The second pass came faster. Both riders committed fully this time. Their horses reached one another with astonishing speed.

Crack.

Another pair of lances shattered.

Ser Alester rocked violently backwards.

His horse stumbled half a pace beneath the sudden shift in weight.

Then—

The Rowan knight toppled from the saddle.

He struck the earth hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. For a heartbeat, the crowd fell silent. Then the knight raised his hand.

The silence dissolved into cheers.

Valarr immediately reined his horse around, dismounted without waiting to be announced the victor, and crossed the lists to offer the fallen knight a hand.

You noticed it before anyone commented.

He could easily have celebrated. Instead, he checked the other man was unhurt.

Baelor smiled faintly. "There." He nodded towards his son. "That is the victory worth remembering."

Your father inclined his head.

"A knight first."

"A prince second."

"A rare order."

"It was his mother's doing."

As the Rowan knight accepted Valarr's help to his feet, the applause returned—not for the victory itself, but for the gesture afterwards.You found yourself smiling.

"I understand why people speak well of him."

Prince Baelor happened to overhear. "I shall tell him you said so."

"I would rather you didn't."

"Why?"

"He'll become insufferable."

Baelor laughed softly. "I assure you, my lady, he is far too sensible for that."

Before the conversation could continue, the marshal stepped once more into the centre of the lists. His voice rang out across the tournament grounds.

"Our next competitors..."

A deliberate pause.

"...Prince Aerion Targaryen..."

A murmur swept through the galleries almost immediately. Even those who had been more interested in their wine than the tourney looked up now.

Reputations had a way of commanding attention.

The marshal continued.

"…and Ser Harrion Buckwell."

Across the field, Aerion settled his helm upon his head in one smooth movement.

The visor came down with a metallic click.

His black destrier pawed impatiently at the earth, snorting as though it sensed its rider's mood.

Unlike Valarr, Aerion did not acknowledge the crowd.

He lowered his lance. Turned his horse towards the lists. And became utterly still. There was nothing theatrical about him.

No flourish. No wave. No attempt to stir applause.

Yet the moment Prince Aerion Targaryen lowered his visor, the air itself seemed to tighten around the lists, as though the world recognised what it was about to witness and chose, for once, to pay attention.

His destrier pawed at the ground, restless beneath him, black as riverstone and twice as unwilling to stand still. A groom stepped in too close and was rewarded with a sharp snap of teeth that made the man retreat at once. Aerion did not so much as glance in his direction.

He was already moving. Not forward.Not yet. Only settling into himself, as though the act of riding the lists was something that required a man to become less like a man and more like something precise, something inevitable.

Across the galleries, conversation faded into something quieter. Not silence—Westeros did not do silence well—but a collective holding of breath.

You felt it before you saw it. The shift in attention. Your father noticed too.

"He rides like he expects the world to move first," Lord Vaeron said quietly.

"It usually does," your mother replied.

King Daeron gave a soft laugh beside them. "Or breaks trying."

Prince Baelor's gaze remained fixed on the lists.

"He is focused," he said simply.

"That is one word for it," Caelor muttered.

Khaerys leaned forward slightly, elbows on stone. "I still think he enjoys the attention more than he admits."

"No," your mother said at once. Her tone carried no sharpness, only certainty. "He does not enjoy it."

A pause.

"He endures it."

That distinction, for some reason, lingered.

Below, Aerion guided his horse into position at the far end of the lists.

Ser Harrion Buckwell mirrored him on the opposite side. A solid knight, experienced, unremarkable in every way that mattered until a lance was in his hands. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, settling into the rhythm of his saddle.

A man preparing for a contest.

Aerion did not mirror him. He simply waited.

And then—

Across the field, his head turned.

Not much. Just enough. Enough that you knew he was looking for something that had nothing to do with the knight opposite him.

You did not move. You did not need to.

The distance between you and him was too great for anything so obvious as acknowledgement, and yet it felt, irritatingly, as though he had found you anyway.

His gaze held for a fraction longer than it should have.

Then—

The visor dropped again. The world narrowed. The horn sounded.

The charge began. It was not elegant. Not in the way Valarr's had been. Valarr rode like a man who expected to be watched. Aerion rode like a man who expected to end things.

The two horses thundered down the lists with growing violence, hooves striking the sand so hard it seemed to rise in waves beneath them. Lances lowered in unison, the wood trembling slightly under the strain of control.

And then impact.

The sound was not simply wood breaking. It was something closer to punishment.

Ser Harrion's lance struck Aerion's shield and shattered almost instantly, splinters flying wide as though the wood had been insulted into violence. Aerion's own strike followed a heartbeat later, perfectly placed, clean and unforgiving.

Buckwell's armour rang like a struck bell.

The knight wavered in his saddle.

Held.

For a moment, it seemed he might remain mounted. Then his horse took one step too far, and the balance was lost.

Ser Harrion fell. Hard. The breath left him in a visible rush as he hit the ground, dust rising around him in a dull cloud.

For a heartbeat, there was no sound from the crowd. Then it came. Not applause at first. A reaction. Something uncertain, as though even seasoned knights were measuring what they had just seen.

Aerion did not raise his lance. Did not turn in triumph. He reined his horse in a tight circle and dismounted in one smooth movement, as though the act of victory required no announcement.

He crossed the sand. Helped the knight up without ceremony.

A pause.

A nod. Then he stepped back. Only then did the galleries react properly.

Louder now. Less hesitant.

You found your eyes lingering longer than you intended. Not on the strike. Not even on the fall. But on the way he had not looked at the crowd once it was done.

"Brutal," Khaerys said lightly.

Caelor grunted. "Efficient."

Your father watched Aerion return to his position. "He does not waste motion."

"He does not waste anything," your mother corrected.

That, too, felt like it meant more than it should.

—

The tilts continued. One after another.

Valarr's name was called again later, and again he rode with that same steady composure, breaking lances cleanly, acknowledging victories with nothing more than courtesy. When he passed Ser Harrion afterwards, he inclined his head as though they were equals still, regardless of sand or steel.

It earned him cheers that grew warmer with each pass. Even Lord Lyonel Baratheon seemed impressed.

"Decent boy," he called from somewhere below.

"Doesn't act like he's made of dragonglass!"

"High praise," a Reach lord muttered.

"It is," Baratheon replied. "I've known worse glass."

But Aerion did not ride again immediately. He remained on the edge of the lists, watching. Waiting. And every so often—just briefly—you would catch it again.

That shift in his attention. Not towards the crowd. Not towards the knights.

Towards you.

It was never long enough to be called obvious. But long enough that it could not be mistaken for accident either.

You disliked how aware of it you were becoming. And disliked even more that it did not seem to fade.

—

By the time the sun had begun to lower slightly, the tournament had become something looser, less formal. The sharper edge of competition dulled into repetition. Knights laughed more easily between tilts. Squires ran freely with water skins and broken lances. Even the spectators had settled into comfort, as though the day belonged to them now rather than the outcome.

Music drifted up from below again, slower this time. Not for dancing. For listening.

Your mother had stepped away briefly with one of the castle stewards, leaving you beside your father and brothers as King Daeron argued cheerfully with Prince Maekar about whether it was possible for a horse to recognise its own reflection.

"It would depend on the horse," Daeron insisted.

"It would depend on the sanity of the rider," Maekar replied.

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only relevant one."

Your father laughed softly into his cup.

"They are worse together than apart."

"They always have been," your mother said, returning just in time to hear the end of it.

Then her gaze shifted slightly.

Downwards.

"To the lists," she added.

You followed her eyes instinctively. Aerion had dismounted again. He stood alone near the edge of the field now, helmet tucked beneath one arm, the other resting loosely at his side. He was speaking to no one. Not even his horse, which had been led away.

And yet—he was not still. Not really. There was something restless in the way he watched the remaining knights. Like a man waiting for a moment that had not yet decided to exist.

And then, again—

His eyes found yours.

Khaerys noticed first. "Oh," he murmured, far too quietly to be polite.

Caelor followed his gaze. His expression shifted slightly. Not concern. Not amusement. Something more measured.

Your mother did not look away from Aerion.

Neither did your father.

Daeron, however, simply smiled faintly beside them.

"Ah," the King said softly, as though recognising a pattern he had seen before in younger men.

"Blood always finds its own questions eventually."

The horn sounded again below. Calling the next pair. Aerion finally broke his gaze. Turned. Walked back towards the lists. But not before the smallest pause—just enough to acknowledge that the moment had happened at all.

—

Light bled slowly from the sky, caught in the jagged teeth of the mountains, turning black stone into something bruised and molten at the edges. The tournament grounds began to change with it. Torches were lit along the carved walkways. Braziers were brought out in clusters near the lower galleries. Music, once bright and brash, softened into something slower, more deliberate.

The joust had ended some time before.

What remained of the day belonged now to the mountain itself.

And to those who knew how to use it.

The invitation had been subtle—no proclamation, no formal announcement. Only servants moving quietly between the gathered lords, speaking in low tones, guiding them away from the open air and towards the inner terraces carved into the mountain's western face.

A place not meant for tournaments.

Not meant for court. Something older. More Vezarion than anything else the realm had seen that day.

You arrived last. Not delayed. Not late. Deliberately so.

The chamber had been hollowed from the mountain's own heart, an open amphitheatre carved into black basalt that curved inward like a watching eye. Narrow streams of molten light from deep volcanic fissures ran in thin lines along the floor, contained behind old stone channels that pulsed faintly with heat. Above, the rock arched high enough that the sky was only a suggestion—visible in fractured slits where torchlight failed to reach.

The great houses had been brought here carefully.

Not all of them. Only those permitted.

Targaryens stood together near the central tier. Baratheon had claimed a lower bench already, Lord Lyonel looking distinctly pleased with the arrangement of food and wine that had followed him even into a mountain. Tyrells occupied the left, already speaking softly among themselves. Lannisters sat further back, watching more than they spoke.

And your family—yours was everywhere without appearing to move. Your father at the centre, your mother beside him, Caelor and Khaerys spread like opposing edges of the same blade.

Aerion. He stood slightly apart from the others—not because anyone had excluded him, but because that was where he seemed most comfortable.

When you entered, the noise of the chamber did not stop. It shifted. Conversations bent slightly around your arrival, as though the room itself had adjusted its attention without requiring instruction.

Your mother gave you a brief look.Your father, a nod.Khaerys, a grin that suggested he already knew what was coming.

And Aerion—aerion did not move at all.bBut his attention settled on you immediately. Not sharp this time. Not guarded. Simply present.

—

The first sound was not music.

It was rhythm. A slow, measured pulse from deep within the chamber as drums were struck somewhere unseen. Not loud enough to dominate the space. Just enough to give it structure. Torchlight shifted as attendants moved through the tiers, dimming some flames while strengthening others until the entire cavern breathed in uneven light.

Then you stepped forward.

The silence that followed was not sudden.

It was earned.

You wore Vezarion ceremonial dress—light enough to move with you, structured enough to suggest something deliberate rather than decorative. White feathers layered across the fabric caught the torchlight in soft shifts, arranged to mimic scalework along your shoulders and arms. The lower garments were cut for movement, for dance more than courtly stillness, the lines of them designed to fall and lift with each step rather than conceal it entirely.

Your hair had been braided tightly in the old style—Vezarion knots interwoven with faint silver threads, binding it in patterns that echoed dragonbone scripts carved into the earliest basalt walls of the mountain.

You did not look like a courtly performer.

You looked like something shaped by the same fire that built the castle itself.

The first movement was slow. Measured. A story told through posture before motion.

The tale of Vezaryn. Not as myth. Not as beast. But as something that remembered the world before men learned to name it.

Your arms lifted, and the feathers along them caught the firelight in broken white flashes, like scales turning beneath water. Your steps followed the lines of molten channels beneath the floor, tracing paths that only made sense if one had grown up inside this mountain.

The music deepened. A low, resonant hum joined the drums. And the chamber seemed to respond.

Aerion had not looked away.

Not once.

At first, it was the same scrutiny he gave everything. Measured. Assessing. As though trying to understand structure beneath appearance.

But it shifted.

Slowly.

Unwillingly.

The more you moved, the less it looked like performance and the more it resembled something remembered rather than learned.

Something older than court. Older than houses. Older even than dragons as they were spoken of in songs.

"You planned this," Khaerys murmured somewhere near your father.

"I did not," your father replied.

"Then someone did."

Your mother's voice was quieter. "No," she said. "This is hers."

—

The rhythm changed. Faster now. Your movements sharpened, becoming less ritual and more invocation. The chamber's heat rose slightly—not enough for comfort to break, but enough to be felt. The molten lines in the floor seemed brighter now, reflecting the motion above them.

And then—

A pause.

Stillness.

The entire amphitheatre held its breath again. Aerion shifted for the first time. A fraction. As though drawn forward without moving.

His hand tightened briefly against the stone railing in front of him. You did not look at him. Not directly. But you knew where he stood.

That awareness threaded through the performance itself, unspoken and unacknowledged.

The final movement began.

Slower again.

Deliberate.

Your arms opened outward, not in surrender but in declaration. The feathers along your frame caught the torchlight in full, turning you for a moment into something almost spectral—white and gold and ashlight moving in a shape that did not belong fully to any one world.

The last note of music held.

Then broke.

Silence.

For half a heartbeat, nothing happened.

And then—

A sound from above. Not the chamber.The mountain itself. A deep, resonant cry rolled through the carved stone, so powerful it seemed to vibrate through bone rather than air.

The crowd reacted before thought could follow.

Heads turned upward. Even the Lannisters broke their stillness. Even Baratheon stopped mid-drink.

Aerion's gaze lifted last. Because he already knew. The wind changed. Not metaphorically. Physically. A rush of heat and force poured through the fractured openings in the cavern roof, torch flames bending violently sideways as something vast moved beyond the stone.

And then—Vezaryn passed overhead.

Not entering. Not descending.

Simply crossing the open fractures of Mount Vezrith like a force of nature given shape.

White scales caught what little light there was and returned it in fractured brilliance, like moonlight shattered across obsidian. The sheer size of him turned the chamber's scale meaningless for a moment—everything reduced to something small beneath him.

The cry echoed again.

And then he was gone.

Not vanished. Perched. Somewhere far above the chamber, upon the highest ridge of Mount Vezrith, his presence settled like an ancient judgement watching over everything beneath him.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Then broke.

Not into speech. Into sound.

Applause came first. Then voices. Then something like laughter from relief, disbelief, awe—all tangled together.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon was the first to speak clearly through it.

"Now THAT," he declared, "is a proper ending!"

No one argued.

But Aerion did not clap immediately. He remained still, gaze still fixed upward where Vezaryn had gone, as though trying to reconcile what he had just witnessed with everything he thought he already understood.

When he finally looked back down—It was to find you already watching him.

Not performing now. Not moving. Just standing in the fading heat of the chamber, feathers settling, breath steady.

There was no distance left in the look this time. This was direct. Not the careful distance of courtly observation. Not the brief, accidental crossings of gaze from across a crowd. Not even the charged stillness of the lists.

This was recognition. Aerion took one step forward before he seemed to realise he had done it. You noticed. Of course you did. The chamber was still full of noise—applause still breaking in pockets, voices rising again as people returned to themselves—but between you and him, it might as well have been stripped away entirely.

"You do not look surprised," he said at last.His voice carried easily in the stone chamber. Low. Controlled. Not loud enough to demand attention, but never needing to.

"I am not," you replied.

That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not amusement, exactly. Something closer to curiosity that he did not bother hiding.

"Most people usually are," he said.

"Most people have not grown up under a mountain that breathes fire."

A pause.

"Fair," Aerion answered.

He stepped closer again—only slightly—but enough that the space between you was no longer abstract. It had a shape now. A weight.

Up close, he looked less like the version of himself that existed in rumour. Less sharpened. Less untouchable.

Not softer.

Just real.

"You ride like you have something to prove," you said.

A beat.

Then, "Do I?"

It was not defensive. It was genuinely asked.

You studied him for a moment longer than politeness would normally allow.

"No," you said finally. "I think you ride like you already know the answer. You just do not care who agrees with it."

That landed differently.

His gaze narrowed slightly, not in offence—but in interest, as though you had placed a hand on something under armour.

"That is a dangerous reading of me," Aerion said.

"Is it wrong?"

"No," he admitted after a moment. "But it is incomplete."

A flicker of something passed between you— acknowledgement, perhaps. Or the beginning of understanding neither of you were willing to name yet.

Behind him, the chamber continued to come back to life. Laughter, movement, servants weaving through clusters of nobles carrying wine and food, the sound of a world insisting it still existed.

But Aerion did not turn back to it.

Neither did you.

"You watched," he said.

It was not a question.

"Yes."

"From the galleries."

"Yes."

A pause again.

"And?" he asked. The simplicity of it almost made you smile.

"And nothing," you replied. "You ride well. That is all."

"That is not what I meant."

"I know."

That finally drew something closer to a reaction—his mouth barely shifting, as though he was deciding whether to accept your refusal to elaborate or push against it.

He did neither.

Instead, he said, "The dragon."

Of course he did.

Your expression did not change, but something in the air did.

"Yes," you said.

"You control it like it is... expected."

"I do not control Vezaryn," you corrected evenly.

"That would be foolish."

Aerion's gaze held.

"You guide him," he said instead.

A beat.

"Yes," you admitted. "When he allows it." That, at least, seemed to satisfy something in him.

For the first time, he looked away—not from discomfort, but as though filing the information somewhere more permanent than memory.

"I have seen dragons," he said after a moment.

"Have you?" you asked.

That made him glance back at you. A faint edge of something—dry, almost amused.

"Yes," Aerion said. "They are usually smaller."

"That is not a flaw," you replied.

"No," he agreed. "It is not."

Then, quieter, almost as if he disliked the direction of his own thought—

"Yours is not."

The simplicity of it made the words heavier than they should have been. You did not respond immediately.

Instead, you studied him again, properly this time—not as a prince, not as a competitor from the lists, but as a man standing too close in a chamber carved from volcanic stone, speaking about something that most people only ever dared to whisper about.

"You are not what I expected," you said finally.

That earned a slight tilt of his head.

"And what did you expect?"

"Louder," you said. "Or crueler. People usually pick one."

A pause.

Then, "I can be either," Aerion replied.

Not a threat. A fact.

But then, after a moment—

"I do not find the need here."

Something in that answer shifted the balance again. Subtle, but real.

The distance between you did not close further, but it stopped feeling like distance in the usual sense. More like a line drawn deliberately, both of you standing just on either side of it.

"You are staying for the night," you said.

It was not phrased as a question.

"Yes."

"Mount Vezrith does not sleep comfortably for most men."

"I am not most men," Aerion said.

"No," you agreed softly. "I have noticed."

That drew his attention fully back to you again. Longer this time. Uninterrupted.

And for once, neither of you looked away first.

The noise of the chamber swelled again behind you—wine being poured more freely now, laughter loosening in the way it only ever did when people believed the formalities of the day were properly behind them. Someone had begun playing music again, softer than before, more private. The sort of tune that belonged to late nights and poor decisions.

Aerion's gaze held yours a moment longer than it should have. Then he shifted first. Not away. Just aside, as though acknowledging the world existed again.

You should have let it end there.

You didn't.

"Aerion."

He paused.

Not fully turning back yet. Just enough to show he was listening.

There was a fraction of expectation in it now. Controlled, but present. Like he had decided not to decide what you meant yet.

You stepped closer.

The feathers of your ceremonial dress caught the torchlight as you moved—white layered against white, designed to echo scale and wing more than fabric. It made you feel, in this light, less like something dressed for a court and more like something that had briefly stepped out of a story and forgotten to return to it.

"The night will go on like this for hours," you said, glancing briefly towards the gathered nobles. "And I have no interest in listening to Lord Baratheon explain, again, why every problem in Westeros could be solved with heavier drinking."

From somewhere nearby, as if summoned by insult alone, a distant laugh boomed.

Aerion's mouth twitched.

A near-smile. Almost there, but not quite.

"That sounds like a detailed philosophy," he said.

"It is his only one."

That earned it properly this time—something small, but real. Not amusement for the sake of politeness. Actual reaction.

Then you tilted your head slightly, as though considering something of no great importance.

"I am taking Vezaryn back down to the Dragon Galleries."

That got his attention properly. Not dramatically. Just cleanly.

"You are doing what?" Aerion asked.

You kept your expression steady.

"Before the mountain settles for the night," you continued, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world, "he prefers the lower heat channels. The Galleries are quieter after performances. It is routine."

A pause.

Then, more carefully—

"You are telling me this now."

"I am telling you because you are still here," you replied.

That was not strictly an answer to his point, and you both knew it.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion exactly—more in recalibration. As though trying to decide whether you were offering him something or simply informing him of your absence.

"And why would I need to know that?" he asked.

You glanced past him briefly, towards the crowd again, where the noise was only growing looser with every passing moment. Caelor had already been pulled into some discussion with a Reach lord. Khaerys was, by the look of it, laughing far too loudly at something involving a half-empty cup. Even your parents were momentarily absorbed—your father mid-conversation with the King, both of them clearly several steps beyond sober restraint.

"You do not," you said simply. "Unless you want to come."

That landed differently.

Aerion did not answer immediately.

Which, for him, was almost as revealing as speech.You added, lightly, "Unless the Prince of Dragonstone is afraid of walking beneath a volcano in the dark."

A flicker.

There it was—barest edge of something sharper.

"I am not afraid," he said at once.

"I did not say you were."

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"You implied it."

That time, you did smile. Just slightly.

"Did I?"

He watched you for a moment longer. Then his gaze dropped—just briefly—to the feathers draped along your shoulders, the way they caught and returned the firelight like shifting bone-white scales.

"You are still dressed for that performance," he said.

"I did not have time to change," you replied.

That, at least, was not entirely untrue.

Aerion exhaled softly through his nose—almost a laugh, though he refused to give it full shape.

"And your dragon?" he asked.

At that, your expression softened in a way that had nothing to do with performance.

"He will come when I call him," you said. "Or not at all. He decides most things for himself."

"Convenient arrangement."

"It works."

A beat.

Then you turned slightly, just enough to indicate movement rather than command it.

"Well?" you asked. "Are you coming, or are you going to stand here pretending you are not curious?"

That, finally, broke something in him. Not resistance. More like resignation to the fact that resistance was becoming increasingly pointless.

Aerion stepped forward.

"Lead," he said simply.

—

The noise of the celebration fell away as you left the upper terraces.

Not suddenly.

Mount Vezrith did nothing suddenly.

It faded behind you in layers—music thinning into echoes, voices becoming indistinct, light breaking into narrower, more deliberate lines along carved basalt corridors.

The air changed first. Warmer. Heavier. Alive in a way the surface halls never fully were.

Aerion walked beside you without speaking at first, though you were aware of his attention on everything—the way the stone curved inward naturally rather than being forced, the heat vents embedded into the walls, the faint glow of mineral veins running through the rock like veins beneath skin.

"You build your world around it," he said eventually.

It was not quite a question.

"Yes," you replied. "It was never the other way around."

That seemed to satisfy him.

Or at least, he did not press further.

The passage narrowed as you descended, the torchlight becoming less necessary the deeper you went. Here, the mountain provided its own illumination—faint, molten threads of light running through channels carved long before either of you were born.

"You said you let it roam," Aerion said after a while.

"Vezaryn?"

"Yes."

"He does not belong in a cage," you replied.

A pause.

"That is not what most lords would call it," he said.

"Most lords do not have dragons large enough to decide what cages are."

That earned a quiet glance from him.

"Fair," Aerion said again.

The word seemed to be becoming a habit.

You turned slightly down a final stair cut into the rock, where the air shifted again—noticeably warmer now, carrying the deep, familiar pulse of the Dragon Galleries beneath.

"He will not appear immediately," you said as you walked. "He rarely does when there are strangers below."

"I assumed as much," Aerion replied.

"Do not take it personally."

"I will try," he said dryly.

That got another small smile from you—quick, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Then the corridor opened.

The Dragon Galleries spread beneath you in layered darkness and firelight.

And for a moment, even Aerion did not speak. The scale of it always did that to people. Even those who thought they were prepared. Even those who had seen dragons before. The galleries stretched into the mountain like carved memory—vast caverns connected by basalt bridges and volcanic—lit corridors, where heat rose in steady, breathing currents from deeper fissures below. Light came not from torch alone, but from the mountain itself—molten glow trapped in stone channels that ran like rivers beneath the architecture.

Aerion stepped forward slightly.

"You live like this," he said quietly.

"It is not living," you replied. "It is Vezarion."

That made him look at you again.

Properly.

Not as a prince measuring a house. Not as a rider assessing another's strength.

But as a man trying—unsuccessfully—to categorise something that refused to sit neatly in any of the boxes he understood.

The galleries opened out around you in layered stone and shadow, where the light softened immediately into something quieter than the upper halls. Here, flame was controlled. Not wild braziers or courtly displays, but steady torches set into basalt recesses and long candle clusters placed along carved ledges. Their glow pooled across the black rock in warm gold, catching on mineral veins and turning the walls into something that seemed almost fluid when you did not look directly at them.

The heat was constant, but not oppressive. It breathed rather than pressed.

Aerion slowed without meaning to.

You noticed. Most people did. Few admitted it.

"This is where you keep them," he said at last.

"Where we live with them," you corrected gently. "There is a difference."

His eyes moved across the vast space—arched tunnels branching into deeper caverns, nesting basins carved into basalt where dragons had once slept or still did, heat channels glowing faintly beneath the stone like veins of a larger creature.

"And they allow this?" he asked.

You gave a faint hum of amusement.

"They do not 'allow' anything," you said. "They decide not to burn it down."

That earned you a glance. A real one.

"You speak of them as though they think like men," Aerion said.

"They think better than most men," you replied without hesitation.

That, finally, made something shift in his expression—interest sharpening, curiosity deepening into something more attentive.

Not disbelief. Reconsideration.

You stepped down onto the first of the basalt walkways, your feathers brushing softly against your arms as you moved. The low light made them shimmer faintly, as though they carried their own memory of flight.

Aerion followed.

Carefully.

Not because he lacked confidence, but because the space demanded it. Every step here felt observed, even when nothing moved.

"You are not worried I will fall?" he asked.

"You would have to be careless to fall," you said.

"And I am not?"

A pause.

You glanced back at him.

"No," you said simply. "You are not."

The words settled between you and Aerion without softness, but without challenge either. Just certainty.

For a moment, he did not move. Then, as though deciding something he would not name even internally, he followed you deeper into the chamber.

The Dragon Galleries widened again here, opening into a quieter basin of stone where the heat rose in slow, steady waves from fissures beneath the floor. The light was softer in this part of the mountain—less torch, more glow from within the rock itself. It painted everything in shifting amber and dull gold, turning the black basalt into something almost warm to the eye, even if it remained cool underfoot.

A narrow ledge curved along the edge of the chamber, carved deliberately flat. Not ceremonial. Practical. A place meant for watching, waiting, or simply being still while something vast moved elsewhere.

You sat first without ceremony.

Aerion followed a moment later, slower, as though still measuring whether the ground would accept him.

It did.

Silence settled properly now.

Not the silence of distance, or politeness, or withheld words—but the kind that came when nothing external demanded attention and the only thing left was the presence of the other person.

Far above, faintly, the mountain breathed.

Aerion rested his forearms loosely on his knees, gaze forward into the cavern rather than at you.

"This place changes the way sound behaves," he said after a while.

"It remembers," you replied.

A brief glance from him.

"That is not an answer most maesters would accept."

"They are welcome not to live here," you said.

That earned the faintest trace of amusement again—there and gone quickly, like a spark refusing to become flame.

You leaned back slightly on your hands, feathers brushing the stone behind you. In this light, they no longer looked like costume or performance. They looked like part of the place itself, as though the mountain had decided to shape you in its own image.

Aerion noticed.

Of course he did.

"You spoke earlier," he said, "as though Vezaryn and the mountain were... familiar with one another."

"They are," you said simply.

"And you are not concerned by that familiarity?"

"Should I be jealous of stone and fire?" you asked.

That time, his mouth did tilt properly.Just slightly.

"No," he said. "That would be unreasonable."

"Then we agree on something."

The quiet between you returned again, but it had changed shape. Less guarded now. Less formal. The kind of silence that did not require filling, because neither of you felt compelled to perform within it.

Aerion shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to look at you properly again.

"You are not what I expected," he said again.

You let out a small breath through your nose almost a laugh, but not quite.

"You said that already."

"I did."

"And yet you are still here," you replied.

That made him pause.

"Yes," Aerion said.

No explanation. No defence. Just acceptance of the fact.

A distant sound rolled through the galleries then—low, deep, not quite a roar, but close enough that the stone beneath you seemed to acknowledge it. The torches along the far wall flickered in response, their flames bending briefly as though something had passed too close to the world above.

Aerion's attention shifted upward immediately.Instinctive.

"You feel that," you said.

"Yes," he admitted.

"That is him," you added calmly.

Aerion looked back at you.

"He is awake?"

"He is always awake," you corrected. "He just chooses when to remind us."

That answer, for once, did not earn a quip.Instead, Aerion leaned back slightly against the stone behind him, exhaling slowly.

"I understand now why men write songs about dragons and never agree on what they are," he said.

"Because they are never speaking about the same thing," you replied.

Then, quieter—

"And what are you speaking about?" He asked.

You hesitated only briefly. "Family."

That landed differently. Aerion did not respond immediately. When he did, his voice was lower than before.

"That is not what I would have expected you to say."

"I did not ask you to expect it," you said.

A faint pause. Then, almost carefully—

"What would you have expected?" you asked him.

He considered that. Long enough that it almost felt like he might refuse to answer.

Then—

"Power," Aerion said. "Control. Something that belongs to you because it must."

You turned your head slightly toward him. "And you think that is what I have?"

"I think," he said, "that most people would want you to think they do."

A silence followed. Not heavy. Just present.

You studied him for a moment. Then you said, "You do not speak like most people."

Aerion glanced at you. "No," he replied. "I have been told."

That, finally, drew something closer to real warmth from you—not loud, not obvious, but there.

"You are difficult to read," you said.

"And you are not?" he asked.

A faint smile.

"Less so than you think."

"That sounds like a warning."

"It is not," you said.

A pause.

Then, softer—

"Not entirely."

For a moment, neither of you spoke again.

The mountain continued its slow breathing around you. Heat rising. Stone holding memory. Somewhere far above, Vezaryn shifted again, his presence pressing faintly against the edges of the world like something too large to fully ignore.

Aerion looked away first this time.

Not because he had to.

Because staying felt like something he was not yet prepared to name.

"You should return," he said after a moment. "Your family will notice your absence."

"They will assume I am where I said I would be," you replied.

"And if you are not?"

"They will assume I am capable of looking after myself," you said.

That made him glance back at you again.

Properly.

And this time, the silence between you did not feel like distance.It felt like restraint.

Carefully held. On both sides.

"You know Aerion," you adjusted your position to be more comfortable on the hard stone. "I have two dragons and all, but imagine if I had three?"

He huffed a breath through his nose. "Why would you want three dragons when you already own two—one of them being the biggest known living dragon?"

He turned now to face you properly. You were both close now.

"If you could have three Dragons, would you?"

He paused for a moment and actually considered that question.

"I suppose so…"

"See," you gave him a short smile before continuing. "I just wish to have a third dragon—one to ride… to claim… that feeling never gets old." You kept your eyes on him and him only as you spoke.

He seemed stuck in thought for a moment after you had spoke. His eyes still on yours, but his mind was definitely somewhere else entirely.

"Ye—yes," he cleared his throat before continuing. "that feeling never gets old. I remember claiming my Dragon—Vhaezor—he was fierce, no doubt about that. From what I've heard about Caraxes, he almost seems like a copy of him in the way he acts."

"I've never met your dragon before… maybe he'll be my third dragon." You gave him a playful look as you spoke—but you could see you struck a nerve.

"You forget whom you speak to."

"Lykiri, Aerion."

Before he had time to be offended, he was caught by surprise. The word lykiri did not fade so much as it settled. Not as a command. Not as defiance. As recognition.

Aerion's expression changed first—not outwardly dramatic, not in any way that would betray him in a court full of watching eyes—but something in him tightened all the same. His gaze fixed on you with a sharper kind of attention, as though the world had shifted slightly off its axis and only he had noticed.

"You speak High Valyrian," he said slowly.

You leaned back against the basalt behind you, as if the heat rising through the Dragon Galleries was something you had grown up inside rather than something that could burn an unprepared man alive.

"So do you."

"That is not what I meant."

"It sounded like exactly what you meant."

His jaw flexed once, controlled. Measured. The kind of restraint that did not come from politeness, but from discipline.

"You were not taught it in the Vale," Aerion said.

"No."

"Nor the Reach."

"No."

His eyes did not leave yours. "Then where?"

You let the silence stretch just enough that he had to remain in it with you. Not ahead of you. Not above you. Just there.

"My mother taught me," you said at last.

That landed differently.

Aerion did not respond immediately. His gaze shifted, briefly, as though recalculating something he had assumed he already understood.

"Lady Elyra," he said carefully.

You nodded once.

"She believes a house that binds itself to dragons should not speak to them like animals."

For the first time, something flickered across his expression that did not belong to calculation or courtly distance.

Interest. Not polite interest. The kind that lingered.

"I was taught Valyrian is not spoken casually," he said.

"I did not speak it casually."

"No," Aerion agreed after a moment. "You did not."

That should have ended it.

It did not.

Because he was still looking at you as if the language itself had changed something about the air between you. As if hearing it from you had been... unexpected in a way that sat too well in his mind.

Aerion shifted slightly where he stood, turning more fully toward you now. The stone behind him caught the heat of the mountain, but he did not move away from it. He never seemed to move away from anything.

"You should not speak to me like that," he said at last.

"Like what?"

"Like I am not already where I belong," Aerion replied.

That gave you pause. Not because it surprised you. Because it sounded like something he believed too deeply to be spoken lightly.

"You think you belong here?" you asked.

"I do not think," he said. "I know."

It was not arrogance in the simple sense. Not boastful. Not performative. It was conviction. The kind that did not ask permission to exist.

A faint breath left you, almost amused. "That is a dangerous way to think."

Aerion's gaze sharpened slightly. "Dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Everything worth anything is dangerous," he said simply.

That should have sounded like court philosophy. It did not. It sounded like belief.

Something older than manners. Older than politics.

The mountain shifted again beneath you both—low, distant, as if something vast had turned over in its sleep.

Aerion felt it immediately. Of course he did. His attention flicked upward for a fraction of a moment, instinct answering instinct, dragon answering dragon even if neither would name it that way.

"You feel that every time," you said quietly.

"Yes," he admitted.

"And you still stand here talking to me."

His gaze returned to you.

"I am not sure that is what I am doing anymore."

That was the first thing he had said that did not sound fully controlled.

Not uncontrolled. Just less contained.

You studied him for a moment, then said, "What are you doing then?"

Aerion's eyes held yours. For once, he did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice had dropped slightly—not softer, but lower, as though he did not wish the stone itself to carry it too far.

"Listening," he said.

That should have meant the mountain. It did. And it did not. Because he was still looking at you when he said it. And he did not look away after.

The space between you tightened again, not through movement but through awareness. The kind that made even stillness feel like a choice rather than absence.

Aerion stepped a fraction closer.

Not enough to close the distance entirely. Just enough that the air between you changed.

"You are not what I expected either," he said.

A faint smile touched your mouth. "You said that already."

"I meant it differently," Aerion replied.

That made you tilt your head slightly. "How differently?"

His gaze flickered once—brief, controlled, but not entirely without weight.

"As though you are speaking a language I almost understand," he said.

The words sat between you.

Unadorned. Unhidden. Dangerously honest in a way neither court nor conquest would approve of.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then—

Footsteps.

Quick.

Irregular.

Too familiar.

Aerion's expression changed instantly. The shift was seamless—like a mask settling back into place.

You turned just as Khaerys' voice broke through the heat and stone.

"Y/N!"

The spell of the gallery fractured cleanly.

Aerion stepped back at once, composed again in an instant, distance restored as though it had never been breached.

Khaerys appeared at the edge of the torchlight, eyes flicking immediately between you and the prince.

"Oh," he said, slow and knowing in the way younger brothers always managed to be at the worst possible times. "There you are."

His gaze sharpened slightly.

"Father sent me."

Then, with a glance that lingered a moment too long on Aerion:

"Looks like I found more than I was looking for."

Khaerys folded his arms as he came to a stop before you.

"Father has been looking for you."

You arched a brow. "Has he?"

"He said, and I quote, 'Find your sister before the guests begin wondering whether she has abandoned her own feast." His eyes flicked briefly toward Aerion before returning to you. "He neglected to mention I'd find a prince with her."

"You found me," you said evenly. "That is what matters."

"So it is."

There was a glimmer of mischief in his smile, but, to his credit, he let it rest.

He turned to Aerion and dipped his head with all the courtesy expected of a noble son.

"My prince."

Aerion inclined his own.

"Khaerys."

"Shall we?" Khaerys asked you.

You nodded once.

Without another word, you turned and began the climb back through the galleries. The passage narrowed before opening once more into one of the great caverns. Heat drifted upward through ancient vents, carrying with it the scent of ash and sulphur. Dragonkeepers stepped aside as you passed, each lowering their heads in quiet respect.

Khaerys walked a few paces ahead, whistling softly beneath his breath.

Aerion did not immediately follow.

Something had caught him.

He stopped.

Far beyond the carved walkways, where the galleries widened into a cathedral of black stone, a colossal shape emerged from the molten glow.

Vezaryn.

The White Flame lay upon his basalt basin like a mountain given breath. White scales shimmered beneath the volcanic light, each one reflecting amber and gold until the ancient dragon appeared almost forged rather than born.

His head rested upon folded forelimbs.

His eyes were open. Watching.

Not the cavern.

Not the dragonkeepers.

Aerion.

For the first time in many years, Aerion Targaryen forgot entirely where he stood.

His heart struck once against his ribs.

Then again.

Stories had failed.

Paintings had lied.

Even the oldest scrolls kept in the libraries of Dragonstone had diminished the truth of what stood before him.

Beautiful. Terrible. Ancient beyond comprehension.

The blood of old Valyria stirred within him with an almost painful familiarity.

No. Not familiarity. Longing.

He had loved dragons for as long as memory reached. Others admired them for their power, feared them for their fire, coveted them as symbols of conquest.

Aerion loved them because they were what men had once been meant to become. Or so he believed.

His father called it arrogance. Baelor called it folly.

Others whispered madness.

Let them whisper.

None of them understood. None of them had ever looked upon a creature like this. Vezaryn's great head shifted almost imperceptibly. The movement alone sent a low groan through the stone beneath Aerion's boots.

The dragon regarded him without blinking. Aerion did not lower his eyes. He could not. For one impossible moment, prince and dragon simply looked at one another.

"I see you," Aerion murmured in High Valyrian, the words escaping before he had thought to restrain them.

"Nyke gevie iā ñuha."

The dragon did not move. Then, slowly... Vezaryn blinked.

Nothing more. Yet it was enough to send a shiver through Aerion unlike any battle ever had.

He let out a slow breath he had not realised he had been holding.

"You have been waiting a very long time," he whispered.

Somewhere ahead, Khaerys called your name. The sound broke whatever spell had settled over the gallery. Aerion drew one final look from the White Flame before turning away.

As he walked after you, he found, to his annoyance, that his thoughts no longer belonged solely to the dragon.

They wandered, unbidden, to the woman who had spoken to him in the language of old Valyria as though it belonged just as much beneath Mount Vezrith as it did upon Dragonstone.

He disliked that. He disliked it rather a great deal.

By the time he emerged from the galleries, the warmth of the mountain had softened into something more bearable.

The receiving halls had filled considerably. Voices echoed from polished basalt walls.

Lords discussed trade and harvests. Ladies admired carvings older than the Conquest.

Minstrels filled the air with cautious music, uncertain whether their songs were worthy of the mountain that housed them.

Your father caught sight of you almost immediately.

"There you are."

"I was exactly where I said I would be."

"So I gathered," he replied, his gaze lingering for only the briefest instant on the prince approaching several steps behind you.

Nothing more was said. Nothing needed to be.

Your mother rescued you from further scrutiny by steering a conversation toward several visiting ladies from the Reach.

You answered politely where required, though your attention wandered.

Not often.

Only enough to notice when Aerion entered the hall.He carried himself as he always had—proud, composed, every inch a prince of House Targaryen.

Only you noticed that his eyes sought the entrance to the Dragon Galleries once before settling elsewhere.

"My lady."

You turned.

Valarr Targaryen stood before you with an easy smile that lacked his cousin's severity.

"If I may say so," he began with a courteous bow, "Mount Vezrith has many marvels."

"It does."

"But I suspect one of them is presently speaking to me."

You laughed quietly.

"Be careful, my prince. Flattery has a habit of collapsing under its own weight."

"So does overconfidence," Valarr replied. "And yet I continue risking both."

"I admire your courage."

"I was hoping for admiration of my wit."

"I'm still deciding."

Valarr placed a hand over his heart in mock injury. "A harsher judge than my grandfather."

"So I've been told."

Their conversation drew an amused glance or two from nearby nobles.

Across the hall, Aerion noticed.

He had not intended to. His attention had drifted of its own accord the moment he heard your laughter.

Now he watched as Valarr smiled at you with effortless charm, saying something that earned another faint laugh.

Aerion's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Valarr flirted as naturally as other men breathed.

Ordinarily, Aerion would have paid it no mind.

Ordinarily.

His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than it should have.

You looked up. Across the crowded hall, your eyes met his.

Neither of you smiled. Neither of you looked away.

The music continued. Courtiers laughed. Wine was poured. Yet for the briefest instant, everything else seemed strangely distant.

It was Vezaryn's gaze in the galleries all over again.

Only this time... It was not the dragon watching him.

—

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