Cloaked in onyx scales, reminiscent of the darkest coal, it presented a spectacle of unparalleled majesty, a creature of unrivalled power. The formidable array of wicked spikes tracing the crest of its spine only served to underscore its regal bearing. A head, crowned with menacing horns, commanded attention, enhancing its already intimidating presence. The eyes, a mesmerising fusion of fiery orange and yellow, radiated a distinctly draconic gaze—a shrewd cunning veiled within. A glint, a subtle suggestion of profound intelligence, elevated the creature's aura to an almost regal splendour, befitting the dragon that was but a reflection of my own esteemed lineage.
This dragon, draped in jet-black scales akin to the darkest coal, is the privileged choice of my daughter Aerea. Yet, it distinguishes itself—a dragon set apart from the esteemed likes of Dreamfyre, Quicksilver, Vermithor, Silverwing, and even Balerion the Black Dread. The audacity of her selection, as if it were a unique gem among the already illustrious jewels of our dragon lineage, reflects the insatiable desire for distinction and indulgence that courses through our blood.
Typically, dragons conform to the conventional anatomical structure as a Maester would say, boasting four limbs—two hind legs and two wings serving as forelimbs. Yet, the dragon before me dares to challenge such norms. It proudly exhibits the familiar two wings akin to its draconic counterparts, but, intriguingly, it revels in the ostentation of four legs—two hind limbs and two forelimbs. This peculiar configuration, a testament to its perceived uniqueness, allows for a more horizontal stance, supposedly enhancing its mobility on the ground. I, along with Dreamfyre, scrutinise this departure from the established order, disdainfully observing as it prowls around, audaciously inspecting my own more majestic companion.
I sense Dreamfyre's perplexity stirring within me, a dignified response to the unfamiliar dragon and its overt hostility. As the smaller dragon audaciously manoeuvres around us, my She-Dragon exhibits visible confusion, her golden eyes reflecting disdain at the Mutant's distinctive features. Ambiguity shrouds the smaller dragon's intentions and the origins of its unwarranted animosity. Dreamfyre regards it with a mix of regal wariness and curiosity, maintaining a vigilant eye on the presumptuous newcomer. Intrigued, she observes its actions, attempting to discern the motives that drive its seemingly hostile demeanour, as befitting her discerning and superior nature.
The intricate bond between a Dragon and its Rider is a connection I, in my experience and understanding, intimately comprehend. I acknowledge that the emotions of the dragon rider's hold can be transferred over to the dragon influencing them, and reciprocally, the dragon's sentiments may leave an indelible imprint upon the rider. Aerea's relentless obstinacy and the frequent tantrums she unleashed upon her time in Dragonstone with her presence, particularly in her ardent desire to return to Kingslanding, seem to have left an indelible mark upon our own relationship as mother and daughter. It is conceivable that Aerea's immaturity and lingering resentment have extended their insidious influence to shape her dragon's present demeanour and actions, reflecting the spoiled nature that permeates my daughter's mannerisms and behaviour.
As I survey the unfolding scene, the carefully crafted illusion of my daughter's mastery over her dragon becomes glaringly apparent. Yet, my extensive experience atop Dreamfyre allows me to discern subtle nuances, revealing that Aerea is more of a mere companion along for the journey than a true and commanding rider. This dynamic mirrors the all-too-common struggle among Dragon Riders contending with headstrong dragons—an age-old theme etched in the annals of Old Valyria. Historical records vividly illustrate the reason behind the infamous Maegor being the sole one to subdue Balerion, following the passing of my Grandfather Aegon the Conqueror. It appears that Aerea's chosen dragon shares not only her willful and stubborn disposition but also the unmistakable mark of being a ruler rather than a lesser companion in its own right.
"I see you've formed a bond with a Dragon," I remark to Aerea, reminiscing about the occasions when I urged her to form such a bond, well before our arrival on Dragonstone.
Aerea glares at me, wrapped in an icy disdainful silence. The burning anger in her eyes, though palpable, is just another inconvenience in her charmed existence. Why must my daughter be so unreasonably irate? Could it be the absence of Rhaella, her perfect sister, that fuels this unwarranted resentment? Or is it simply the audacity of my interruption, disturbing her flight as if my concerns were not beneath her? In her reckless pursuit of pleasure aboard her dragon, my intervention, a necessary precaution for safety, is clearly an inconvenient disruption to her self-indulgent escapades.
Surveying Aerea's unrelenting defiance, the burden of addressing the situation inevitably falls upon my shoulders. "The knights I dispatched to locate you after your most recent tantrum didn't return with the news I anticipated—they reported you had claimed a dragon," I informed her, unable to suppress the pride swelling within me at my daughter's audacious achievement.
Confronted by Aerea's unyielding silence, I resolve to press on. "The dragon you've chosen for your bond is quite unusual," I remark with a measured tone. "With six limbs—four legs and two wings. Aerea, enlighten me on how you encountered this dragon." The assumption of her compliance with my inquiries is a testament to the unquestionable authority that comes with being both a Princess of House Targaryen and as her mother.
"Oh, nothing special," Aerea replies with a tone of feigned indifference, as if the events were merely trivial. She downplays the situation as if she had not been desperately searching for a dragon, a mere whimsical desire to 'fly away to Kingslanding.' Such was the culmination of her most recent tantrum, a proclamation that she would either soar to King's Landing to seek my brother's protection from me or venture far, far away from Westeros, ensuring my inability to find her. The audacity of her rebellious whimsy is both insufferable and unexpected.
Can Aerea truly believe she can deceive me, the woman who bore her into the world? Does she think I'm naive, as if I was just born into this world yesterday? Today undoubtedly marks the most significant day in my daughter's life—the day she forged a bond with a dragon. Her heart should be racing with exhilaration, rendering her speechless in the attempt to convey her excitement. Yet, she is trying to convince me that this moment holds no special significance for her. The audacity of her attempts at fooling is both unfruitful and disappointing
It's not as if I hadn't been informed of the smallfolk's grievances regarding a dragon that had chosen to loiter on one of the paths along the Dragonsmont, preying on anything that ventured too close to its maw in the past few days. I merely dismissed the smallfolk's concerns as typical of their simplistic nature, assuming they required someone, preferably of noble lineage, to do their thinking on their behalf, as has always been the case. Aerea, it appears, remains the most resistant to this lesson, despite the considerable efforts I've invested in trying to instil it in her. The insufferable nature of her resistance serves as a reminder of the perpetual struggle to impart the wisdom of our regal heritage to the obstinate minds of the younger generation.
For Aerea, the opportunity to claim her own dragon had simply been too irresistible. She longed for one passionately, and it seems to be the true source of all her issues. The fact that I, her mother, possess a dragon, while she does not, and even her father Aegon, my brother and my first husband who perished at Maegor's hand during the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye, was also a dragon rider. This glaring discrepancy, the stark reality that she falls short of the Targaryen legacy, appears to be the root cause of her incessant issues and unbridled desires.
"Do you comprehend how difficult it was for me to witness you and your dragon soaring recklessly above and around Dragonstone?" I press Aerea, her lips sealed tightly, eyes ablaze with defiance. "You traversed the skies with wild abandon, granting your dragon the liberty to whisk you away for an aerial display, executing manoeuvres that even seasoned Dragon Riders would deem imprudent." The audacious display of her recklessness, disregarding both tradition and the sanctity of Dragonstone, is a testament to her insolence and the challenges that come with raising a daughter who refuses to bow to the expectations befitting our regal lineage.
"While indulging in the exhilarating act of riding your dragon might constitute one of the most gratifying experiences as a Dragonrider," I commence, my words carrying the weight of both my wisdom and my authority. "However, you cannot permit yourself to be heedless or lose sight of the inherent risks associated with soaring to such altitudes." It is imperative to instil in Aerea a sense of responsibility befitting a Princess of House Targaryen, reminding her that the privileges of our regal lineage come with the burden of adhering to tradition and acknowledging the risks inherent in the mastery of dragon riding.
As if sensing Aerea's defiance, a rebellious energy pulses through the air, challenging not only my authority but also that of Dreamfyre, the magnificent dragon I've tamed and claimed as my own. Aerea's newly acquired dragon definitely rears up on its hind legs, fixing me with a gaze brimming with insolence. Its sinister eyes meet mine, a clear manifestation of my daughter's rebellious and impudent spirit.
Despite the dramatic display, the dragon barely reaches Dreamfyre's shoulders, a stark reminder of its inferiority in both size and grandeur compared to my majestic own Dragon. Dreamfyre, sensing the challenge, stirs beneath me, and I must assert my control to prevent her from escalating the situation. With a subtle but authoritative touch of her reigns, I rein Dreamfyre, maintaining my composure even as Aerea's dragon beats its wings in an attempt to assert dominance or just intimidate me.
In response to the brewing tension, Dreamfyre gracefully stands up, spreading her magnificent wings, an elegant display of her size and strength. It's a strategic move, a not so subtle reminder of her superiority in size. I take pride in my She-dragon's noble bearing, a reflection of my own dignity as her rider. Aerea's dragon, in contrast, flaps its wings defiantly, sending a gust of wind that rudely assaults both myself and Dreamfyre. We stand firm, though, refusing to let even a gust disrupt the poised façade that befits my station.
Amidst the colossal shadows cast by Balerion and Vhagar, Dreamfyre assumes her rightful place as the preeminent dragon on Dragonstone. Her own size not only accommodates my person as her rider, but could effortlessly bear the weight of others on journeys spanning vast distances, should I design it. Unlike the tumultuous gusts stirred by Aerea's unruly dragon, Dreamfyre's wings move with a refined grace through the air, a silent testament to her regal stature. That said her wings never beat this forcefully or this powerfully.
Observing the rhythmic beating of Aerea's dragon's wings, initially dismissed as a mere display of youthful dominance, I discern a more insidious intent. The persistent cadence betrays an aggressive undertone, as if the younger dragon aims to physically subdue Dreamfyre, arrogantly asserting dominance not only over her but also over me. Such audacity is intolerable, for Dreamfyre is not merely a dragon; she is a symbol of my authority, of my power, none can coerce me as long I ride Dreamfyre not even the king, my younger brother Jaehaerys and his larger bronze dragon Vermithor. As such any challenge to Dreamfyre's superiority is a direct affront to my standing as the Princess of Dragonstone.
Unexpectedly, without any prompting from me to maintain its upright stance in the face of the challenge, Dreamfyre gracefully contorts its form. With a subtle movement of its wings and forelimbs, it deftly redistributes its weight, regaining its standing posture. In response, Aerea's dragon initially mimics the manoeuvre, yet I observe the four-legged creature lifting its tail, its forelimbs poised as though preparing to thrust forward, while its hind legs bend in anticipation of a potential leap.
Uncertain of the impending events, I delicately pull on Dreamfyre's reins, attempting to assert control and assess the unfolding situation. However, it quickly becomes apparent that my daughter Aerea grapples with reigning in her emotions, a lack of composure that unwittingly influences her dragon. Dreamfyre, astute to the mounting tension, senses the looming threat with a regal awareness. The perceived magnitude of the danger is substantial enough that Dreamfyre, in an act of defiance against my attempts to guide her through subtle reins tugs. Leans forward as if daring the younger dragon to attack her.
In a sudden and exhilarating moment, the two dragons surge forward, hurtling toward each other with an undeniable force. Despite Dreamfyre's powerful propulsion towards the smaller, younger dragon, showcasing her regal might, a flicker of concern seizes me. The boundless energy of Aerea's dragon becomes palpable as it engages in a dynamic pounce, using its tail to gather momentum for the impending leap toward Dreamfyre.
The space between the two dragons rapidly diminishes, the impending collision producing a thunderous clap that rudely jolts me in my saddle. The sheer force of impact is so overwhelming that I find myself teetering on the edge of ejection. At this moment, the regal poise I typically maintain feels like a fragile facade.
In an almost poetic convergence, the clash between Dreamfyre and Aerea's dragon unfolds in a painfully literal encounter, their heads colliding with a resounding force. The result is an immediate recoil, a subtle but undeniable stagger backward for both dragons. The reverberations of their collision echo through the air and resonate in my ears, an unsettling reminder of the precariousness of the situation.
I assert my control with a firm tug on Dreamfyre's reins, compelling her to rear back in a display of my authority. It's a calculated move, a reminder of the dignified control I wield over my dragon. In this perilous exchange, both majestic creatures, Dreamfyre and Aerea's dragon, fiercely snap their jaws at each other, creating an atmosphere charged with a palpable sense of danger.
My daughter clings desperately to her dragon, a stark contrast to my seasoned composure. In the intricate dance of dragon riding, she remains a novice, unfamiliar with the unpredictable motions that come with such a majestic beast. Her desperate grip on the dragon's scales betrays the urgency of the situation, a reminder that she has never before navigated the tumultuous currents of combat from the back of a dragon.
Nevertheless, I find myself in this unexpected predicament, surrounded by chaos and witnessing a dragon confrontation that defies the bounds of my knowledge. The idea of dragons resorting to headbutting in combat is a revelation, and it places me in uncharted territory. Such undocumented behaviour, foreign to my carefully curated knowledge and experience, disturb the confidence with which I typically approach matters involving dragons.
Before me lies an intriguing prospect, a mesmerising display of dragons engaged in territorial disputes—a spectacle where power and dominance intertwine. However, my excitement gives way to concern as I realise that my daughter, Aerea, is right in the midst of this grand spectacle. She lacks the security of a saddle, desperately clinging to the dragon she recently claimed as her own.
This presents a glaring issue, one that cannot be brushed aside. The absence of a saddle places Aerea in a precarious position, and as her mother, I cannot allow this perilous situation to persist. The fear that she may suffer severe harm gnaws at me, overshadowing the awe-inspiring sight before my eyes. In the face of danger, my desire to keep Aerea close to me, to keep her safe from harm surges, and I find myself compelled to ensure her safety amidst the chaos of the two dragon's dispute.
Exerting considerable force on Dreamfyre's reins, I compel her to retreat from Aerea's dragon, a move designed to create a necessary distance. My heart races with the urgency to safeguard my daughter. However, in doing so, I inadvertently leave Dreamfyre vulnerable to potential attacks from the smaller dragon. It's a precarious moment, a delicate dance of strategy and risk.
Fortunately, or perhaps curiously, Aerea's dragon refrains from capitalising on the apparent advantage, displaying unexpected restraint. In the midst of the tension, a sigh of relief escapes me, grateful that, in this chaotic dance of dragons, a momentary reprieve is granted.
Dreamfyre exudes a palpable eagerness to continue her fight, reflecting my own frustration with Aerea's behavior. The bond between us is unmistakable; she feels the currents of my emotions and responds in kind. It's a connection that goes beyond words, a shared understanding that places a significant responsibility on my shoulders.
In this charged moment, I sense the urgency of the situation. Aerea is caught in the midst of the clash between Dreamfyre and her own dragon, and the potential peril is undeniable. The weight of responsibility presses on me—I must rein in my emotions and regain composure. Only by calming myself can I avert the looming threat of an unintended conflict that could bring harm to both Aerea and her dragon.
Tensions escalate again as Dreamfyre and Aerea's dragon exchange snarls and hisses, a symphony of hostility echoing through the air. The coal-black-scaled dragon's gaze fixates intensely on both me and Dreamfyre. In this charged moment, the weight of the confrontation becomes palpable.
In a dramatic display of dominance, the dragon rears up on its powerful hind legs, the rhythmic beating of its wings adding an ominous undertone to the escalating conflict. It's a sight that sends shivers down my spine, a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of these majestic creatures. As the confrontation unfolds, I find myself caught in a delicate balance, navigating the complexities of the bond between dragon and rider while keenly aware of the potential dangers that loom in the air.
With a swift yank on Dreamfyre's reins, I convey a clear reminder to the she-dragon, urging her not to succumb to the younger dragon's provocation. The connection between us is both a source of strength and responsibility, and in this moment, I must ensure she remains composed.
It's imperative to thwart any inclination Dreamfyre may have to imitate the provocative actions of the younger dragon. My primary concern is shielding Aerea from potential harm, especially if the two dragons decide to engage in another head-on collision.
Observing Dreamfyre's refusal to engage in the challenge, Aerea's dragon ceases the rhythmic beating of its wings. However, it maintains a formidable posture, standing firmly on its hind legs, fixing a baleful glare upon me. The air thickens with tension as our eyes meet.
There's a sinister intelligence reflected in its amber eyes, a subtle yet wicked cunning that sends a shiver down my spine. It's as if the dragon is assessing me, contemplating whether I pose a potential threat beyond being merely Dreamfyre's rider. In this moment, the intricacies of the connection between dragon and rider become starkly apparent. The silent communication between us is layered with unspoken understanding and a recognition of the almost primal power dynamics at play. As the dragon's gaze holds mine, I am acutely aware that this encounter goes beyond a mere clash of dragons—it is a test of wills, and I must navigate it with caution and due reverence.
Ever so carefully, I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath, a conscious effort to release the accumulated tension. With each exhale, I feel the weight of troubles dissipate, if only momentarily. It's a practised art, a means of calming nerves by physically expelling the stress that binds.
This technique, though effective, isn't one I relish—a technique taught to me by my Uncle Maegor during those initial months when I first started to ride Dreamfyre. Now, decades later, the memory of that instruction carries a bitter taste, akin to the flavor of poison. I find myself revisiting those lessons, a reluctant pupil in the school of composure and control. The act of shutting out the external chaos and drawing in that cleansing breath is a reminder of the challenges I've faced and the sacrifices made for the sake of mastering the intricacies of dragon-riding.
As I begin to regain composure, sensing my calming influence, Dreamfyre mirrors my state. Subtly, she retreats, assuming a posture less overtly aggressive, yet far from submissive. It's the nuanced stance of a dragon that doesn't perceive the presence before it as a foe or a threat—an expression of assurance rather than submission.
Thankfully, Aerea's dragon perceives the shift and abandons its confrontational stance. It settles onto its four legs, folding its wings, casting a suspicious gaze upon both Dreamfyre and me. The tension in the air gradually eases, but the dragon remains wary, a testament to the delicate balance of the moment.
Meanwhile, Aerea, sensing the tension, has shut her eyes tightly, resisting any urge to open them. The fear etched across her face is palpable—a rare display of vulnerability in my usually resilient daughter. In fairness, with two dragons literally butting heads, and myself perched on the shoulders of one without the security of a saddle or reins, it's understandable that Aerea clings tightly, perhaps even more so than I would in her place.
Inhaling deeply, I brace myself for the impending actions to come. It's clear that if I'm to approach Aerea, dismounting from Dreamfyre is a necessity. Dreamfyre, uncertain of my decision, attempts to adjust, hoping to retain me on her back. However, I pay no heed to her resistance. The bond between us momentarily strained, I dismount from the she-dragon and start walking towards Aerea's dragon.
The creature glares at me with scrutinising intensity, and once more, I sense it evaluating me. It contemplates whether I might be a worthy morsel, a stark reminder of the primal instincts that underlie the majestic facade of these dragons. The air crackles with tension as I approach, navigating the careful balance of asserting authority without provoking unnecessary aggression. Each step is deliberate, a dance of caution in the presence of a powerful and unpredictable creature. In this moment, the nuances of the bond between dragon and rider become more pronounced, it goes beyond words, a shared understanding that places a significant responsibility on my shoulders.
In this moment, I sense the urgency of the situation. Aerea is caught in the midst of the clash between Dreamfyre and her own dragon, and the potential peril is undeniable. The weight of responsibility presses on me—I must rein in my emotions and regain composure that way Dreamfyre will calm down and be more responsive to my commands. Only by calming myself can I avert the looming threat of an unintended conflict that could bring harm to both Aerea and her dragon.
Hey, lady, why are you dismounting your dragon? Weren't we—or rather, I and your dragon—supposed to be revving up for a brutal battle to the death? What changed?
Aren't dragons and dragon riders supposed to be mortal enemies? Or is it that dragon riders are meant to be mortal enemies with the whole 'one dragon rider to rule them all' story, where said dragon rider isn't too keen on sharing the power?
So, would it go something like this: One human to rule them all, one human to ride them, one human to slay them, and in the fires, burn them?
Sounds pretty chuuni, to say the least, but I guess that's how these worlds—or at least this one—operate. If I've been isekai'd into a dragon, there has to be a purpose, or at least I hope there is. And if that purpose involves becoming the King of All Dragons, well, I wouldn't mind that at all.
Alright, I'll take it back, I'll take it all back. I would mind, actually, I would mind it a whole lot. It sounds like a ton of work, not to mention the inherent dangers. Sure, it might make for an interesting read, but I'd probably curse anyone who found my struggles and suffering entertaining. Worse, they might turn it into a visual novel with romantic pathways to follow. Now that would be truly horrible.
Well, I guess in that scenario, I'd just be a background character, lurking in the shadows, free from the spotlight. It's a peculiar thought, being relegated to the role of Villager A, whether I'm breathing fire as a dragon or just another face in the human crowd. There's a certain melancholy in realising that, no matter the form, I'd still be confined to the margins of the story. Strange, isn't it? This whole idea that I might find solace in obscurity, escaping the need to step onto the main stage and play a role. Yet, in its own way, that notion carries a tinge of sadness. Why can't I ever be happy with what I have?
I've got the answer crystal clear—it's the incessant craving for more. Wanting, yearning, it's the epitome of our humanity. We're wired to never settle, to perpetually hunger for what lies beyond our grasp. It's not about the grass being greener on the other side; trust me, it never is. There's this saying about expenses expanding to meet income—I never tested it personally, never had an income back when I was still tethered to my human existence. But knowing the insatiable nature of human desires, I'd put my money on it, if I had any money.
It's this constant tug-of-war between wanting to soar high as a proper dragon and clinging onto these unmistakably human cravings. It's so easy to lose myself in the allure of just being a dragon, untethered by the complexities of the human mind.
On the whole "being a dragon" thing, it appears I'm falling short on that front too. Firstly, there's no grand lair to call my own, no cavernous space to lounge around and indulge in the exquisite art of doing absolutely nothing. Secondly, there's a distinct lack of treasure to adorn said hypothetical lair. I mean, what's the point of being a dragon if you can't recline on a bed made of gold and precious gems, right?
And then there's the whole kidnapping-a-princess routine, a quintessential dragon move that seems to have slipped through the cracks of my dragon resume. No princesses whisked away to my supposed evil lair, no noble knights summoned for a dramatic rescue mission. It's like I missed the memo on the fundamental responsibilities of dragonhood. There's a certain checklist for draconic accomplishments, and I seem to be scoring a zero on every item. Good Job Hachiman.
She takes these deliberate deep breaths, a calculated effort to steady herself, and then begins this measured approach in my direction. What's on the table here? What's she surrendering? And in response, am I supposed to unleash a fiery onslaught, burning roasting her alive?
The low, cautionary growl of the blue dragon serves as a stark reminder that it's catching wind of my contemplations. Well, isn't that just peachy? We can't have a dragon nosing around in the labyrinth of my thoughts, now can we? Don't want to look weak in front of other humans now do I?
I shoot a disdainful look at the sleek blue dragon, a silent sneer curving my lips. Leaning in, I confront it head-on and snap, the words sharp and cutting. There's a certain satisfaction in the visible flinch from the blue dragon, a hiss escaping its mouth. In return, I let out a growl that resonates more like a rumble, a subtle reminder that even in the face of another dragon, I won't yield an inch. I am picking a curious time to be stubborn and prideful, or is that my default? Well as a Dragon being prideful is expected, I am a dragon after all, but so is the slender blue one in front of me.
In dissecting the situation, a glimmer of opportunity flickers. A calculated leap could exploit the power in my legs, allowing me to anchor onto the slender form of the dragon. Coordinating seamlessly, my arms could seize its wings, momentarily stripping away its defences. This strategic placement would pave the way for a decisive move—sinking my teeth into its neck, initiating a suffocating hold. The success of this manoeuvre hinges on the precision of my jaw; encircling its throat, and executing this lethal plan becomes a straightforward task. I wouldn't even have to breathe fire, but how damaging would dragonfire be to another dragon?
Stripped of her draconic mount, the rider should by all rights be rendered defenceless, or at least, that's the hope. It sets the stage for me to conclude this encounter decisively. But, considering my luck, she might turn out to be some formidable sorceress, and instead of weakening her, dispatching her dragon might just trigger some latent, overpowering abilities. My knack for stumbling into less-than-ideal situations is, after all, a constant companion.
My focus snaps back to the woman in front of me, and there's this intense determination burning in her gaze, a storm lurking behind those unsettling purple eyes. She raises her hand and strides toward me, and the temptation to rattle her a bit flits across my mind. But, with her dragon right there, I need to tread carefully. Scaring her might not be the wisest move-
"-Lykirī," she declares, the command slicing through my thoughts like a blade, and her raised hand makes contact with my snout. It's like a sudden interruption, a disruption to the mental flow. I'm left there, frozen for a moment, feeling the weight of her words settling in the air.
The utterance comes in that peculiar language, that tongue I am able to somehow by what I suspect is magic means, allows me to comprehend what is being said. Ye those what words mean is elusive to me, at least initially. I can sense it resonating within, like the scolding tone to a hyperactive child. It's as if the word itself carries an admonishment, urging a pause or a restraint, an unspoken directive that I may not fully comprehend but can feel in the air like an invisible reprimand.
A hiss of frustration escapes me, and in a surge of anger, I rear up on my hind legs, releasing a roar of sheer fury. The realisation hits me like a slap in the face—being told to calm down. Me? Calm down? t's almost absurd, the notion that someone would suggest such a thing in the midst of my turbulent emotions. Yet, here I am, grappling with the contradiction of being provoked to find serenity. It's like demanding tranquillity from a tempest.
I got slammed by a car, of all things, while rescuing a girl's dog on the very first day of high school! Talk about a stellar start to my supposedly fresh chapter. But, no, instead of a typical new beginning, I end up as some isekai character, thrust into this world in the form of a dragon, hatching out of an egg only to be hunted down immediately. And here's the kicker—I've been mute for years, thanks to this dragon transformation! No banter, no chitchat, no mindless talks about nothing in particular, just the wordless existence of a dragon.
Forget about watching television, playing video games, or any of those normal teen activities. School? Nope. Coming home late? Not a chance. My life has devolved into that of a beast, scavenging for food and snatching prey from other creatures. Quite the stellar teenage experience, huh? It's like someone up there decided to take the typical high school drama script and tossed it into a dragon-infested blender.
I never got the chance to experience even the comedic form of romance, never had the opportunity to forge meaningful friendships—all of it was snatched away from me, courtesy of that damned car and whoever was behind the wheel! My name is a unknown to everyone except myself. I'm condemned to be called by another, a name not of my choosing. And the cruellest twist? I'll never lay eyes on my imouto again—the only person who ever truly cared for me.
So, don't you dare tell me to calm down! I detest this world and everything it stands for. It's a cruel joke, a series of misfortunes that robbed me of a normal existence and left me with the bitter taste of what could have been. The very fabric of my being rejects the notion of finding solace in a world that's taken everything from me.
So if anyone were tell me to calm down, chill out or something I am going to tear them apart, roast them alove and then eat them. Churning or not.
A haunting lamentation reverberated through the air, a poignant resonance laden with the weight of sorrow, anguish and fury. In the distinct realm of dragons, the ancient tongue of High Valyrian wielded an authoritative power—a dead language that transcended that to the dragons the mere words spoken. It was a language etched in the essence of Old Valyria, resonating with the blood that coursed through our veins and their own.
In the delicate mysteries of the bond between House Targaryen and our dragons, I held an understanding that the words of Old Valyria surpassed the limitations of verbal communication. Commands, even if not uttered by my own lips, were acknowledged by these dragons as long as the speaker bore the sacred blood of our forebears, the untainted blood of Old Valyria. What most did not understand was that dragons by nature perceived these commands not as demands but as requests, extending an invitation for consideration, and, perhaps, even refusal. Unless one held the means to coerce them, though those means generally were magical and mostly lost to us.
Under ordinary circumstances, the response to such commands tilted towards agreement. The nature of dragon and rider, a bond formed almost over five thousand years ago, rendered compliance the natural course. While I would not call these circumstances normal, I would say that they were not given in a situation where the Dragon wouldn't bother listening either.
Aerea's dragon, undoubtedly, comprehended the resonance of my words—a comprehension unmistakably interwoven with rejection, albeit in a manner peculiar and bordering on the obscene. The audacious defiance in response to my utterances served as an intriguing testament to the depth of the creature's understanding. The very existence of its ire affirmed the understanding of my words, meaning that it was not what in Old Valyria would be described as a 'deaf one' in their tongue, a dragon who was deaf to the words of old Valyria.
The rejection, conveyed through a most unconventional and, one might say, irreverent expression, left me intrigued. In the face of such defiance, the path forward was clear—a necessity to delve deeper into the behaviour of this dragon.
I stop my train of thought, a tilt of my head dismissing any distractions, trivial or otherwise. My purpose here is to return with my daughter Aerea. I have dismounted from my own dragon Dreamfyre, a gesture of deliberate humility to approach the dragon that my daughter, Aerea, has seen fit to forge a bond with.
I shall not entertain the notion of returning to the halls of Dragonstone without the presence of my daughter, Aerea, at my side. Should she decide to fly her Dragon back to Kingslanding, I am well aware that my brother, the king, Jaehaerys, would undoubtedly attempt to manipulate her newfound status as a dragon rider to serve his machinations.
As the rider of a dragon, Aerea now possesses a value to my brother's court beyond the mere implications of royal succession and her former status as Maegor's heir. No longer confined to the role of a mere contender for the throne, her worth in the political machinations of our House has ascended. Jaehaerys, with his designs, would not deign to arrange her marriage with a Lord, be they minor, major, or even a Lord Paramount. After all he, begrudgingly, tolerated my own union with the blithering dullard, Androw Farman.
Jaehaerys's reluctant acceptance was rooted in the knowledge that my matrimonial ties held no threat to the sanctity of our bloodline. A calculated choice, for he understood my steadfast commitment to never bearing a child that did not bear the likeness of our brother—a pledge I maintain with ease. When you lay with women as a woman yourself, there is no fear of getting them pregnant or getting pregnant with child. Well ever since magic began to decline there no longer is that threat.
Though as a result it falls upon me to guide and instruct those around me in the intricate art of pleasing me in bed. While the task proves slightly more challenging with those devoid of a specific instrument in their nether regions, I have adapted to overcome such trivial obstacles.
However it caused me to harbour serious reservations regarding the capacity of my husband to comprehend the nuances of arousal and excitement that accompany interactions with a woman. His apparent disinterest in me borders on the offensive. His sister, the deceiver Elissa, once shared with me her spurious notion that his simplicity rendered him impervious to the allure of beauty. A blatant falsehood, for she, in her deceitful essence, is a purveyor of lies, thievery, and betrayal. The dubious nature of her character casts doubt upon every utterance that escapes her lips, and I am compelled to question the veracity of her claim regarding my husband's supposed indifference to feminine allure. At least he will sire no bastards on me, though that would require him to be smart enough to consider that, but if Elissa suggested it, I suspect he would do it. He had to be complicit in her theft of Dreamfyre's dragon eggs.
I permit the dragon to conclude its impertinent display, a spectacle reminiscent of Aerea's penchant for throwing tantrums, a cacophony that while loud ultimately achieves nothing of substance or consequence. Now that she has a dragon ,she needs to grow out of that, and quickly lest her dragon take on her temperament.
Lady, you've been zoning out, lost in your own thoughts, for what feels like an eternity. Meanwhile, I've been roaring and baring my soul, though, thankfully, dragons don't shed tears. Right at this moment, the overwhelming urge to snap you up in my jaws, to feel the resistance of your flesh yielding, to hear your screams echoing—it's there, pulsating beneath the surface.
Let's get one thing straight—I'm not a cannibal. Staring at your face for a few more years might push me into considering it, but, for now, I'm not taking that plunge. At least, not yet.
Then there's the matter of your dragon to factor in. The slender blue one might not be within arm's reach to rescue you, but it sure seems close enough to seek vengeance if I were to make a move. Attacking you could potentially leave me wide open to a counterattack from your dragon.
"Tala," she utters in that language, the part of me with draconic sensibilities comprehending the words. This time, she's not commanding me to chill out in some mystical tongue. And for that small mercy, I'm holding back the urge to tear her apart, consequences be damned. It's a stark reminder of what I've lost, a grim acknowledgment of how the little I had is enough to sting when taken away. But here's the kicker—the word means 'daughter,' and I'm pretty sure she's got things all tangled up, considering I'm a guy, or rather, a guy-dragon. I have no interest in playing dress up and braiding each other's hair.
"Amāzinon," she continues, locking eyes with me, uttering another of those mystical words. This one, the dragon part of me grasps. It's odd; she's asking me to return or give back something, but as a dragon, what do I have to return? Well, nothing yet, at least. Give me a few years, and maybe I could have pilfered a hoard of treasure for myself. But that will be mine, no way I am returning it, at least not until I have collected enough legendary weapons to gift to heroes who might stumble across my cave by accident. Or seek me out for advice and words of wisdom. You don't always have to visit the dragon with the intention to slay it.
What on earth do I possess that belongs to this Dragon Rider, prompting her to request a return? I haven't swiped any princesses yet, and honestly, if that were the case, I'd prefer a knight on a horse—a more noble steed—coming to the rescue.
Riding in on a larger dragon to rescue the princess from a dragon is downright cheating and utterly wrecks the plotline. It's a shortcut, a narrative loophole that undermines the very essence of the story. Where's the struggle, the genuine conflict? Introducing a bigger, badder dragon is just a lazy attempt to overshadow the complexity and nuance of the original plotline. Talk about a narrative cop-out. Then again if you do have a bigger larger dragon that listens to your commands why not take it to rescue the princess?
I've got to be more precise this time, especially to avoid accidentally headbutting the other dragon if we end up in a fight. The last skirmish was a mess—both of us lunging for the neck, mistiming our moves, and ending up headbutting each other. On the bright side, I confirmed that despite being smaller, I'm stockier and heavier than that slender blue dragon. If it comes down to a fight, I'm aiming straight for the throat, no room for mistimed lunges this time around.
"Amāzinon. Nuha. Tala." The woman throws these words at me in that cryptic language of hers, and it dawns on me—she's talking about returning her daughter. Thankfully, the misconception that I'm her daughter is cleared up. But the real question lingers—who is her daughter? Could it be the girl currently perched on my shoulder, clinging to me like she can hide within my scales, desperately trying to evade the gaze of the other woman?
Keeping one eye fixed on this other woman and her dragon, I turn to glance at the girl on my shoulder. She's gripping my neck with a fierce embrace, a trace of fear evident in her expression. Well, who wouldn't be afraid if someone claiming to be their mother walked up with a dragon in tow? Still, if this woman is her mother, does she give her daughter rides on her dragon? If I were a dad and had a dragon, I probably would.
My dragon's gaze is fixed on me, questioning, almost pleading. It's as if it's asking me if I want to go back with my mother and Dreamfyre. Back to Dragonstone. How long has it been since someone truly cared about what I wanted? Not what they wanted me to want, but something that I actually desired. How long has it been since I felt that sort of care? There's a tumult of emotions within me, a swirl of confusion and frustration, the ache of a longing I'm not entirely sure how to express.
I cling to my dragon's neck, my grip tightening as if afraid that letting go would mean losing something precious. I don't want to let go; I don't want to go back to Dragonstone, back to where my mother reigns and sleeps as the Queen in the East. I don't want to be merely my mother's daughter; I want to be Aerea Targaryen, my own person. The thought of returning to that place, returning to being ignored and uncared for with only my mother's dimwit of a second husband as a companion to my pain. It is unbearable.
Without myself uttering a word or making a single gesture, my dragon turns his head to face my mother once again. He leans forward, meeting her gaze directly. Then, it unfolds— my dragon does what I wish I could say, what I'm afraid of voicing to my mother, especially when she has Dreamfyre by her side. With a decisive shake of his head, it refuses her, stunning my mother. She's left bewildered, shocked by the unexpected display of intelligence from my dragon. It's as if it understands my unspoken turmoil, my desire to break free from the cage she's placed for me, it isn't even a golden one.
Then I feel it, the sensation of the world being pressed down as my dragon leaps into the air. Opening my eyes, I see that my dragon is soaring directly upwards and into the clouds, just like before. No doubt, it's leaving my shocked mother behind, and I secretly hope she ends up on her backside from the force of his wingbeats.
As we burst through the clouds, my dragon halts his ascent and picks a direction. With a decisive move, he starts to fly in it, effortlessly slicing through the wind as we leave Dragonstone behind. Right now, I don't care where we're going, as long as it's away from here.
Gripping him tightly, I close my eyes, a rare sense of contentment settling over me. But it wasn't me who did the hard work—it was my dragon. My Dragon is the one who rebelled against my mother's will, who defied her. I'm just here, reaping the rewards of his efforts.
I haven't given him a name, haven't even thought about what to call him, but now I know I must. A dragon who defied even the dead language of Old Valyria, spoken by a Targaryen Princess, must have one. The weight of the decision looms over me, a responsibility I hadn't fully considered until this moment of rebellion. It will soon be time to give my formidable Dragon a name that befits his defiance and Rebellious spirit.This is the longest I've ever been airborne. Honestly, I've never really taken a proper flight for such an extended period. Considering I've rarely left that island, you know, the one teeming with dragons—the volcanic one. Why did I linger there for so long? More pressing, what's the allure that draws other dragons to it? Perhaps there's some magical explanation, but if it's magic, it means there's no need for an explanation. It's a conundrum wrapped in mystique, and I'm left pondering the whys and hows.
Well where there's smoke, there's fire, or so the saying goes. Following that train of thought, where there are mountains, there ought to be caves. And where there are caves, well, there's the potential for dragon lairs. It's a logical deduction, a pragmatic approach to finding a suitable dwelling—because, of course, every self-respecting dragon needs a lair to call their own. Or at least a temporary lair until I figure out where the hell to go from here.
I've essentially kidnapped the girl on my shoulders from another dragon rider who insists she's her mother. Alright, she didn't exactly claim that she was the girl's mother, but threw in the daughter card, claiming the girl was her daughter. Well, it's all about technicalities, isn't it? And you know what? I'm more than willing to engage in a 'spirited' debate about those.
I've got this all wrong. First things first—I need to find the lair, carve out my territory. Then, it's about establishing the lair, making it my fortress. After that, building up the treasure horde comes into play. And only then, in the grand scheme of things, do I even start thinking about which princess I might entertain the idea of kidnapping. It's all about a dragon's sense of priorities, after all. I need to be a proper Dragon after all.
Currently, I'm soaring at what I think is my maximum speed. Riding the air currents might boost my velocity, but it also puts my general trajectory in the hands of the winds. As the saying goes, when the winds of change blow, some build walls, and others build windmills. It's a tad more appealing than the cliché about lemons and lemonade. Frankly, for the past several years, I've been tempted to take those melons and squeeze them over life's eyes. But hey, building a windmill sounds like a better option—it gives me something constructive to focus on.
What baffles me is the lack of pursuit. If that woman, the dragon rider, is truly this girl's mother, shouldn't she be mounting her slender blue dragon and taking off to catch me? Doesn't she care enough for her daughter? Or is it the dragon part of me that's a deterrent? Well, that argument doesn't hold water, considering she's riding a dragon herself. In fact, she's got a force multiplier, making things a more even match. So, why the lack of a chase?
Doesn't she love her daughter enough? It sure seems that way. Or perhaps, I just can't fathom why a woman would willingly face the perils of dragon fire, first telling me, a dragon, to chill out, and then demanding I return the girl on my shoulders. And when I refuse and make a run for it, why isn't she pursuing me? I mean, I practically kidnapped your supposed daughter, woman. Why aren't you mounting up on your dragon and pursuing me?
Am I soaring too fast? Am I reaching too high? I certainly hope so. Nevertheless, I'll have to descend soon. My passenger and I are in immediate need of two things—food and water. While there's an abundance of water below, it's saltwater, and I doubt I'll be able to procure the means to convert seawater into something drinkable, let alone possess the ability to do so, considering my dragon status. Right now, I wish I paid more attention in exact sciences back in junior high. The lack of practical knowledge is certainly coming back to bite me.
Then, on the horizon below, I spot a city—a city perched on the coast. I'll need to descend to get a clearer view, but my guess is it might be a port city or something akin to it. Anyway, there should be food there, I hope. It goes against my better judgement, but if I were to hunt, I'm not certain the food I'd consume would be suitable for the girl with me. My fire is more likely to crisp the meat than cook it. And, let's face it, I doubt the brat knows how to cook. So, the city it is, despite my reservations. Let's just hope they don't have any powerful sorcerers or anti-dragon measures.
The bane of House Royce, my elder sister Alayne, perpetually taints our name with every breath she draws. In her letters, she waxes poetic about the delights of riding atop Dreamfyre, the dragon of the self-proclaimed 'Queen in the East.' Despite her vivid depictions, envy finds no foothold within me. Alayne's exploits are a concern for Princess Rhaena Targaryen, not a burden I'm inclined to bear. Even a Royal Decree, should it command her return to Runestone, would meet the sturdiest of denials from my part.
Seizing the chance to embed herself as a handmaiden, the sly manoeuvre proved a boon for House Royce and our ancestral seat, Runestone. The knowledge, however, lurked beneath the surface that her services stretched beyond the innocuous realm of a lady's maid, venturing into more intimate and inappropriate territories—secrets kept behind closed doors and spoken to not a single soul. Yet the damn woman writes them to me in letters flaunting her disgrace.
Then the lords of the Realm faltered in upholding oaths—take, for instance, the infamous Jonos the Kinslayer—my father, Lord Allard, remained an unyielding pillar of loyalty. As the ascension of Maegor caused the Faith Militant to take up arms against him, House Royce clung steadfast to its allegiance to House Targaryen. Loyalty, a currency spent too sparingly in a world of shifting alliances and broken vows. The potential consequences of such steadfast fealty were not lost on my father or myself, yet the successor to Maegor, in his wisdom or political shrewdness, saw fit to reward those who weathered the storm of turmoil. While I acknowledge this, it still irks me that he extended his rewards even to those who had rebelled.
Once hailed as a boon, Alayne's ascendance into Princess Rhaena Targaryen's favour now looms as a shadow over House Royce. Born of the union between my mother and father, she consciously wove herself into the fabric of the Queen in the East's court, sharing not just the saddle but the intimate chambers of the Princess. In the ink of her letters, she carved her dissent, severing ties with our lineage and casting off the burden of marital expectations for her own defiance. The bold declaration of her autonomy rang through the parchment, a proclamation that echoed as if the rest of us were also not mere pawns in a game of power.
What set Alayne apart, I ponder. Was it solely her seniority? While my brothers and I endured the ignominy of squiring duties, she held the far easier path, learning the intricacies of household management. And if fortunate perhaps a decent match for marriage or an escape from it all together. The illusion of her unbridled autonomy, though, clashes with the realities we all confront. The strings of expectation entangle us all, yet she stands apart, shielded from the norms that tether the rest of our aspirations. And as a result of her hubris the rest of us, the children of House Royce paid dearly for her actions.
Honestly, I can affirm without reservation that the notion of steering clear of dragons for the rest of my days, especially after that revelry at the Golden Wedding of the then regent and Queen Dowager Alyssa Velaryon, alongside the Lord of Storm's End, Rogar Baratheon, is a relief I'd gladly welcome. The clandestine matrimony of the king spared me from the unsettling reunion with Alayne and the inevitable dance with dragons.
Yet, in my heart, a lingering wish persists. I can't help but ponder if the king's choice to marry his own kin is a twist of fate too bitter. The perils of such unions echo through history, epitomised by the troubled birth of Uncle Maegor. The consequences, etched in the annals of time, weave a cautionary tale, and I find myself caught between the relief of avoiding dragons and the unease born from the tangled ties that blood can bring. Still the King was wise to disarm the faith as they no doubt would have plunged the Seven Kingdoms into war once more to prevent any more abominations of incest from being born.
Dismay clawed at my senses as the echoing roar of a tempest from the south heralded the arrival of a dark silhouette. It gracefully carved through the sky, awakening a collective unease that rippled through the onlookers. The last time a black dragon cast its shadow upon these skies, it marked the grim chapter of the Vale's rebellion against the Iron Throne. The repercussions were etched in the land, rebels reduced to ashes and swinging from the gallows, not granted the honour of a beheading, the haunting memory of the Black Dread still lingering.
The smallfolk's collective memory, like a scarred tapestry, bore witness to the searing flames and the brutality of King Maegor's retribution. The Black Dread and his iron-fisted justice cast a long shadow over the Vale, its imprint persisting in the collective memories of the smallfolk and even the Mountain Clans.
The approaching dragon revealed itself to be anything but Balerion, lacking the imposing grandeur of the Black Dread. A surge of relief coursed through me, intensified by the realisation that it wasn't Dreamfyre either. The diminutive figure in the sky dispelled the notion of Rhaena Targaryen, and with her, the spectre of past and present afflictions that clung to me.
"Ser Arryn," Lotte's voice cuts through the air, a familiar call amidst the hustle and bustle of Gulltown. My household guard stands at attention, a disciplined force of thirty men-at-arms and five knights, myself included.
Ignoring Lotte's summons, my focus narrows onto the black dragon. It hovers mid-air, a paradox defying the natural order. Its descent, a measured and deliberate dance, unfolds with a languid grace that draws the eyes of onlookers. The smallfolk below, like leaves in a tempest, scatter in a chaotic dance of panic, stirred by the ominous presence descending upon Gulltown.
My teeth grind together, the acknowledgment of a harsh reality settling in – the might of knights pales in comparison to the threat of a dragon. The notion of roasting alive within the confines of our armour sends a visceral shiver down my spine. The looming danger, however, maintains its distance, details of the dragon obscured in the haze. A pivotal question persists: Does it bear a rider? The answer could unravel the purpose of this ominous arrival, hinting at the potential emissary from House Targaryen.
The scent of cooked meat assaults my nostrils—fish, pork, beef, goat, and something akin to lamb. Smells I've almost forgotten, especially when prepared by human hands. It's mouth-watering, a reminder of tastes that I've been deprived of for far too long.
People are scattering, screaming in terror, tripping over each other in a desperate scramble to flee the immediate area I've landed in. It makes sense; I'm a dragon, after all, and this is the kind of reaction one would expect. Picture this: a fire-breathing dragon descends on your town or city, landing right in front of you—what's your reaction?
Option One: Don't move; dragon eyesight is based on movement, right? If you don't move, I can't see you.
Option Two: Dragons, like all predators, get perplexed when their prey fights, so run up to the dragon and punch it on the nose.
Option Three: Go about your business as usual; dragons, by nature, are friendly creatures. Its arrival in your town, village, or city is just a casual grocery shopping trip.
Option Four: Get as far away from the dragon as possible.
If you picked options one through three, well, you're not the sharpest tool in the shed. Option four is the only one that might have a chance of working.
So yes, I don't hold it against the people of this city for fleeing in terror when I decide to make a dramatic entrance right in the middle of their town. It's only natural for them to react that way, considering I am, you know, a freaking dragon.
I've touched down in what seems to be a market square, judging by the abundance of stalls around. But I'm not complaining; it probably means there's cooked food nearby. Maybe I'll stumble upon a cauldron for sale that I can, you know, 'acquire' to collect water and, well, make it boil. After all, what second-hand fantasy setting wouldn't have magic cauldron's?
Surveying the scene, I'm doing my utmost to navigate around this square without knocking over anyone or causing any undue destruction—well, any more than my landing already did. It's all about maintaining a delicate touch in the midst of my, let's say, not-so-delicate circumstances.
Actually, why was there cooked meat in a market square? I'm not certain, but this isn't a supermarket, so why would they cook the meat before selling it? It's a puzzling choice, or maybe I'm just missing some local culinary quirk.
My nose and eyes zero in on it—a roast pig, or at least, I think it's a pig, rotating on what seems to be a spit roast. Lumbering over, I open my jaws and tear off one of the hind legs, savouring the taste of the cooked meat. It's surprisingly good, good enough that I decided to get some for the kid clinging desperately to my shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her. Actually, who am I kidding? She has no clue what's going on. Not a single clue.
I can't quite carry it properly in my jaws just yet; my head isn't that massive. So, instead, I scoop it up in my forepaws, digging my claws into the roast swine. With a swift motion, I stand up on my hind legs, surveying the scene. Most of the people in the square have either fled or are in the process of fleeing. Good.
Bending my legs, I leap into the air, flapping my wings. The roast pig, or roast boar, is clenched firmly in my arms as I scan for a suitable spot to land, a place where my passenger can eat in peace. I can't take her hunting with me after all, though I can take her when I find a source of water. Though I am a bit concerned about the lack of forests I have seen.