#dragon rider | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astoryofsiren · 14 days ago

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new world | chapter 1

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 4.2k | 18 minutes A/n: I wrote 2 draft for this and after a lot of contemplating i've decided on this one. i hope you enjoy it! Warning: blood/injury, violence (mentions of fighting), medical procedures. poisons, storm

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the field in muted hues of gold and green as a chill crept through the air. You knelt amidst the tall grass, your nimble fingers carefully plucking fragrant herbs from the earth.

The air, sharp and brisk, carried a chill that hinted at an approaching storm.

Humming softly to yourself, you tightened your coat around your shoulders and pulled your cape closer, shielding yourself from the biting wind. Your basket was half-filled with herbs you had carefully selected—lavender for calming teas, chamomile for soothing salves, and a few sprigs of arnica for your uncle’s pain medicine. The breeze carried the sweet scent of the harvest as it rustled the wildflowers around you, though now the wind's sharper edge made your hands move faster.

The day, though peaceful, had taken on a sense of urgency. You couldn’t help but notice the gentle rustling of the wind seemed louder now, almost ominous as the skies darkened in the distance.

Satisfied with your haul, you stood, brushing dirt from your hands and skirt. Hefting your now-overfilled basket, you began the familiar walk home. The chill made your steps quicken as you hummed a soft tune as the village rooftops coming into view through the gathering gloom.

You resided on the town's far outskirts, away from the bustling markets and vibrant city lights, and close to the east border of Caius. It was a short walk, no more than ten minutes, but the icy gusts and the scent of rain in the air made it feel longer. As the smell of distant cooking fires greeted you, a comforting reminder of the simple life you cherished, you cast a wary glance at the clouds above, quickening your pace to reach the safety of home before the storm arrived.

But as you neared your small cottage, something felt...off.

The front door was ajar, its hinges creaking slightly in the breeze.

You paused.

You knew you had closed it.

Heart pounding, you set your basket on the steps. Your finger closed around your herb knife to calm your anxiety as a mean of protection. From inside came the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by a muffled grunt. Your heart raced as you pressed your hand against the doorframe, leaning just enough to peek inside.

The sight made you gasp.

A man was slumped against your kitchen table, his dark clothing torn and stained crimson with blood. His breathing was ragged, his face pale and slick with sweat. Broken pottery lay scattered on the floor near his feet, evidence of his struggle to stay upright.

Albeit the pain that contorted his face, he was undeniably beautiful, as though the gods themselves had sculpted him. Shaking off the fleeting daydream, you steadied yourself and pointed your knife toward the stranger, your grip firm despite the rapid beat of your heart.

“Who—who are you?” you demanded, stepping fully into the room.

The man's head snapped up at your voice, his sharp eyes narrowing despite the pale exhaustion pulling at his features. Pain was etched into every line of his face, but it did nothing to dull the rigid posture he held, a silent, almost haughty declaration that he refused to surrender to his circumstances.

“I—” He winced, his hand pressing firmly against the gash at his side, blood seeping between his fingers. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His voice was low, steady despite the strain, with an edge of reluctant apology—one that came as though it pained him to admit he might need help.

“I’ll be gone as soon as I… catch my breath.”

Even now, weakened and injured, he carried himself with a quiet dignity, as though he were more offended by his situation than the injury itself. There was no demand for pity, no pleading in his tone—only the undeniable weight of a man who was unused to seeking aid and found the very act distasteful.

You hesitated, your grip on the knife tightening. There was something about him that felt dangerous—his strong, lean frame and the way he held himself, even in pain, spoke of someone used to commanding attention. But there was also vulnerability in his gaze, a desperation that softened your wariness.

“You’re hurt,” your voice firm but calm, setting the knife on the counter but keeping it within reach.

His jaw tightened, as though bracing himself against the sting of his pride. “I’ll manage,” he muttered, but the slight tremor in his stance betrayed him. The stubbornness in his tone didn’t match the pallor of his face or the faint, uneven breaths he tried to suppress.

You sighed, exasperated but unmoved. His stubbornness didn’t surprise you. It was written in his posture, in the hard line of his mouth, in the way he refused to meet your gaze.

“Well, you’re doing a poor job of it,” you shot back, sharper this time.

That caught his attention. His gaze snapped to you, dark and piercing, as though offended by your audacity. For a moment, silence stretched between you, but gaze flickered there, almost reluctant amusement. His lips pressed into a thin line as though trying to decide whether to fight you on this or accept the inevitable.

“I don’t… need your help,” he said stiffly, though his voice wavered just slightly as his strength faltered.

“And yet you’re bleeding all over my table,” you countered, your tone calm but firm. “Please, sit down. You’re only making it worse.”

His eyes warred visibly against your words, his hand tightening into a fist where it gripped the edge of the table. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “This is… unnecessary.”

“It’s necessary if you want to survive,” you replied, already moving to his side.

When you slid an arm under his, he stiffened, his body going rigid as though the very act of being supported grated against him.

“I can walk,” he grumbled.

“You can barely stand,” you replied dryly, guiding him carefully toward your bedroom. His weight pressed against you for only a moment before he forced himself to stand taller, his stubborn pride refusing to let him lean on you more than absolutely necessary.

Easing him down onto the edge of the bed. His shoulders stiffened as if being placed there was yet another blow to his pride, but he didn’t protest.

“I’m… sorry for the intrusion,” he said again, his tone quieter this time, as though apologizing was both foreign and uncomfortable. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Apology accepted. You’ll be better off lying down,” you said, your voice steady despite the flurry of nerves coursing through you.

He exhaled sharply, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress. “I don’t need—”

“Stop talking,” you cut in firmly, kneeling beside him. “You do need help, whether you like it or not.”

He glared at you for a moment, though the fire in his gaze was dimmed by exhaustion. “Stubborn woman,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real malice in his tone.

“And you’re not exactly a model of reason yourself,” you replied.

Stepping back briefly, you crossed the room to close the windows, the glass panes rattling faintly from the wind outside. The storm was growing, the wind howling as it clawed at the shutters, and you latched them firmly to keep the cold at bay. The room immediately felt quieter, warmer, though the tension lingering between you and the man remained palpable.

You quickly gathered supplies: clean linen strips for bandages, a basin of water, and a flask of pain medicine from the nearby cupboard, you turned to him, your eyes scanning his pale, sweat-drenched face.

"I need to see the wound," you instructed gently. He hesitated, then nodded, removing his hand to reveal a deep gash.

Your breath hitched.

The gash was deep, inflamed, and stained with a purple sheen. You sighed softly, this is not an ordinary wound.

“This will hurt,” you warned, dipping a clean cloth into a mixture of strong wine and vinegar, the sharp tang filling the air. Carefully, you began to cleanse the wound. He winced, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth, but his silence held.

Once satisfied, you reached for the flask of pain medicine. “Here,” you said firmly, holding it out to him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

He eyed it with suspicion, his pride flaring visibly as though the very idea of accepting medicine offended him. “What is it?”

“Something to keep you alive,” you said flatly, pushing the flask closer. “Stop questioning everything and drink.”

Reluctantly, he took a small sip, grimacing slightly as the bitter taste settled on his tongue. After another swallow, his shoulders eased, the tension in his posture slowly melting as the medicine began to dull the sharp edge of his pain.

Placing the flask next to the bed, you reached out instinctively, placing a hand over his to offer quiet comfort. It was a small, unthinking gesture—one you often did for your uncle’s patients.

But the moment your hand touched his, his eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they glowed vivid blue. A faint luminescence bloomed across his forehead, like the trace of some ancient mark, and you gasped softly, your heart stuttering.

Startled, you glanced toward the window just as a flash of lightning lit the room, the storm raging outside. You told yourself it was the storm’s light playing tricks on your eyes. It had to be.

But when you looked back, his eyes had returned to their original goldish-brown hue, the glow vanished as though it had never been. He was staring at you now—his expression unreadable, though softer, almost hesitant.

“What… was that?” you whispered, withdrawing your hand quickly.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever walls he had erected earlier now seemed to falter, as though something in that brief exchange had shifted. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You’re kind,” he murmured, surprising you. “Far kinder than I deserve.”

The vulnerability in his tone startled you almost as much as the glow had, but you masked it, straightening in your seat. “You’re still a terrible patient,” you replied lightly, though your voice was gentler this time.

After washing your hands, you cleansed the wound with water, then applied a thin layer of honey before covering it with the linen bandages. "This should help prevent infection," you explained.

As you worked, you noticed his features more clearly—sharp jawline, dark hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead, and piercing eyes that watched you with a mix of caution and gratitude. He wasn’t a common traveler; his clothes, though damaged, were of fine make, and the insignia on his belt hinted at nobility.

“What happened to you?”

As you peeled back more of his torn shirt, the full extent of his injuries came into view—dark bruises blooming across his ribs and smaller cuts scattered like a map of violence. You furrowed your brows in concern, but your hands remained steady.

“Bandits,” he muttered. “On the road. They... didn’t expect me to fight back.”

You studied him closely, the flicker of doubt plain on your face. You didn’t press him, not yet, but you weren’t a fool. This far from the city, you've never heard of such bandits. The wound, telltale sheen of poison—this wasn’t the work of ordinary bandits.

Still, you asked, “You fought them off?”

He gave a weak, humorless chuckle. “Not well enough, apparently.”

You shook your head, setting to work cleaning the wound. “You’re lucky you made it here. Another hour, and this might have turned fatal.”

“I suppose I am,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on you, though the defiance from earlier had softened to something quieter. Something thoughtful.

For the first time, he seemed to regard you not as an inconvenience or an intrusion but as someone who had saved his life. His expression was still guarded, but the edges of it had shifted—less sharp, more yielding.

“Why were you traveling alone?”

He hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal. Finally, he said, “I was trying to avoid... attention.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, you’ve certainly gotten mine.”

For the first time, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “Lucky me.”

You huffed, securing the bandage with perhaps more force than necessary. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good,” you added, brushing your hands off and rising to fetch a fresh cloth.

His tired smile lingered faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I wouldn’t call saving your life stubborn. Sensible, maybe.”

He exhaled a soft huff, something between amusement and exhaustion. “Sensible,” he repeated quietly, as though testing the word on his tongue.

As you laid a damp cloth on his fevered forehead, his gaze tracked your movements—sharp but softened, no longer the cold and aloof glint from earlier. There was something new there now, as if he were seeing you through fresh eyes.

“You’re skilled,” he remarked, his voice quieter, more measured.

“I’ve had practice,” you replied simply, brushing the damp cloth lightly over his brow.

As you observed him resting on the bed, your attention shifted to his tattered, bloodstained coat draped loosely over his shoulders. The fine wool and intricate stitching caught your eye—unmistakable signs of noble craftsmanship, the kind of attire far beyond the means of a mortal Aetherions.

“Your clothes are dirty,” you remarked, crossing the room to fetch clean garments. You hesitated for only a moment before offering them. “I have, um, clothes you can use.”

His cold gaze glanced at the garments, then back at you, his expression clouded with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"Your lover's or something?" he asked, his voice laced with something unreadable—disapproval, maybe, or curiosity.

"Or something," you replied, maintaining composure.

"I'll help you."

“I can manage on my own,” he muttered instinctively, pride flaring again like a reflex.

“You’ll tear open the bandage if you try,” you replied firmly, setting the clothes on the cot beside him.

For a moment, it looked as though he’d refuse outright, his pride warring with the exhaustion tugging at him. But then, as though resigning to his limits, he gave you a slow, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he muttered.

You approached carefully, your hands steady as you helped him remove the soiled coat. Beneath the dirt and blood, the fabric was rich, its quality unmistakable—a silent confirmation of his noble status. You discarded it into the enchanted basin at the corner of the room, where water rippled and swirled, magic working to cleanse the garment, a convenient aid in your otherwise rustic setting.

The act of dressing him felt oddly intimate. You tried to remain professional, your movements efficient and practiced, yet you couldn’t ignore the way his skin, warm and solid beneath your fingertips, sent faint sparks fluttering through you.

The tension in the room seemed to shift, subtle but undeniable. It seems that the spark however, not only resolve to you but to the man in front of you. His breathing slowed, a low, almost imperceptible sound escaping him—a contented hum.

You glanced up just in time to catch the faint dilation of his pupils, his golden-brown eyes softening as they met yours-you surmised he felt the same feather-light sensations that danced across your skin.

He nodded slightly, feeling content, His eyes, already heavy with exhaustion, drifted closed.

"You'd better get some sleep, my lord. You need the rest," you advised, pulling the blanket up over him.

As you turned away, his hand shot out at the last moment, catching yours in a gentle grasp. his voice barely above a whisper.

"Stay."

His voice barely above a whisper but enough to root you in place. A shiver traced your spine, feather-light but persistent.

What is this?

Your breath caught. He was already half-asleep, his hold loose but firm enough to keep you there. Slowly, you sank to the floor beside the cot, your hand still cradled in his as his breathing deepened.

As the storm continued to rage outside, you sat in silence, watching him drift into a fitful sleep,. The quiet hum of his breath filled the room, a stark contrast to the battle-worn pride and defiance you had seen earlier. Now, in sleep, he seemed almost fragile—something you doubted he’d allow anyone else to witness.

A peculiar sensation washed over you as you sat there—an electric and feather-light touches across your skin. You glanced around, startled, blaming the chill in the air or perhaps lingering adrenaline from the unexpected encounter.

As the storm continued its relentless howl outside, you remained by his side, his hand still loosely curled around yours. The room was quiet now, save for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the distant patter of rain against the window.

You rested your head against the edge of the bed, the tension of the day finally catching up to you. The warmth of the room and the steady rise and fall of his chest seemed to lull you, exhaustion washing over you like a heavy tide.

Before you knew it, your eyes fluttered closed, and sleep claimed you.

The first light of morning crept through the shutters, rousing you from an unexpectedly deep sleep. Blinking groggily, you took in your surroundings— the familiar wood-paneled walls of your room—and realized you were in your own bed.

A heavy quilt had been draped over your shoulders, and as you slowly sat up, the events of last night came rushing back.

The stranger. The injury. His touch.

Where was he?

Heart skipping a beat, throwing the quilt aside you rose quickly, disoriented. The sound of soft clinking and faint movement drew your attention to the kitchen. Padding toward the sound, you rounded the corner and froze.

There he was, standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, his tall frame at ease despite the faint signs of exhaustion still etched across his face. He moved with surprising ease preparing something—bread, it seemed, with slices of dried fruit laid out neatly beside it.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet. He turned, his expression calm but faintly amused.

“I’ve rested enough,” he replied, his tone steady.

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “Resting in my bed apparently wasn’t enough. How did you even manage to get me there?”

He smirked faintly, gesturing to his side. “ You’re not as heavy as you think.”

Rolling your eyes, you moved to rekindle the fire, the faint flicker of flames crackling to life. “You should have stayed put. You’ll tear your wound open again.”

“And leave you sleeping on the floor?” he countered smoothly. “That wouldn’t be very polite, would it?”

The wit in his tone caught you off guard, and despite yourself, a quiet chuckle escaped. “Well, you didn’t give me much choice last night. You’d have bled out on my floor.”

“Fair,” he admitted with a faint smile, leaning against the counter.

As the tea brewed, the fragrant aroma filling the air, you placed two cups on the table and motioned for him to sit. He hesitated momentarily, then complied, easing into the chair with a grace that seemed almost practiced.

As you poured the steaming liquid into a mug, you stepped closer to hand it to him. The motion brought you near enough to catch his scent, and it stopped you in your tracks.

Crisp and refreshing, it carried the essence of ice and snow with a subtle hint of salt. It was a scent unlike any you’d known—both ethereal and grounding at once.

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you almost suffocating. He took the mug from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against yours briefly-another fluttering feeling surfaced in the base of your heart. His gaze, steady and unreadable, held yours for a beat longer than necessary before he broke the silence.

“I must apologize for imposing upon you," he said after a while, his gaze meeting yours. "I had little choice but to seek refuge here."

You shook your head, offering a small smile. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m glad I could help.”

“I never caught your name,” you said as you poured the tea.

“Yunho,” he replied, his tone casual but his gaze studying you carefully.

You nodded, tucking the name away in your thoughts. “Yunho,” you repeated softly. For a brief moment, his golden-brown eyes shimmered faintly—an almost imperceptible flash of vivid blue that made your breath hitch. You blinked, dismissing it as a trick of the light.

“I’m—”

“Y/N.” he interrupted, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.

You tilted your head, surprised. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He glanced down at his cup, “I… read your name,” he admitted, his tone casual, but something about the way he said it felt carefully chosen. “You left your herb journals open.”

You arched an eyebrow but chose not to press further. “All right, Yunho,” you said after a moment. The two of you settled into a quiet, tranquil morning together.

As the morning light spilled across the room, Yunho finished the last sip of his tea and set the cup down gently. Without a word, he rose and walked toward the door, his steps composed and deliberate. You watched him silently, curiosity swirling within you as he paused, his hand resting on the wooden frame.

“Where are you going?” you asked cautiously, stepping forward.

He stood there for a moment, his gaze distant as though he could see far beyond the village. The faint morning breeze swept through the slightly open door, tousling his dark hair, which fell forward to cover his forehead.

“My lord-”

Before you could finish, a sudden shift filled the air, he shifted his shoulders, and in one fluid motion, his wings unfurled. Rich, indigo feathers stretched wide, filling the space with a quiet, breathtaking power that left you frozen where you stood. Morning light poured through the door, catching the hues of his feathers, making them shimmer like liquid twilight.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward instinctively. “You’re leaving,” you said, your voice ragged.

Yunho’s expression softened slightly, though his voice carried a firm edge. “It seems I’ve overstayed my welcome. ”

His expression unreadable, “I have matters to attend to.”

“But it’s only been a few hours, my lord,” you protested, your tone pleading. “You should rest.”

He turned slightly, allowing you to glimpse his side where the wound that should still be open was now completely healed. Your breath caught as you stepped closer.

“That’s… impossible,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively, your fingers hovering just above where the bandage had been. “It should still be open.”

“I heal quickly,” he replied, his tone casual, though his posture suggested he was ready to depart. “I really should be leaving.”

You swallowed, the inexplicable weight of his departure sitting heavily in your chest. Acting on impulse, you picked up his robe from the table nearby and stepped closer, gently draping it over his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmured, your hands lingering for a moment as you adjusted the fabric, your gaze meeting his with unspoken intensity.

The movement brought you closer, your eyes locking with his. The tension between you felt almost tangible, as though the very air crackled with energy.

You couldn’t lie to yourself—it felt good having someone around. Someone who wasn’t family.

It had been so long since you’d shared your space with anyone else, and the quiet presence Yunho brought, despite the questions surrounding him, filled an emptiness you hadn’t known was there.

“You... you don’t have to go yet,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what had come over you—only that the thought of him leaving felt strangely unbearable.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed he might stay. He craned his neck down, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The soft rhythm of it sent a shiver down your spine, the quiet intimacy of the moment leaving you rooted in place, as though the air between you had become something tangible.

“May I come back, my lady?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate.

The question sent a shiver through you, and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t find the words. Your grip on his robe tightened for a heartbeat before you let go. Without a word, you gave him a faint nod, a strange feeling settling over you.

His lips curved into the faintest smile as he stepped back, his wings spreading wide once more. The morning light caught the rich indigo of his feathers, casting a glow that made him seem otherworldly. The breeze stirred again, carrying with it the faint, crisp scent of snow and salt.

And then, with one last lingering glance, he was gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of snow in the air and a heart that raced long after he’d disappeared into the sky.

You stood there long after he was gone, the air still tingling with the remnants of his presence. A single indigo feather rested on the floor where he had stood, and as you picked it up, eyeing the indigo feather, you couldn’t help but smile, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

and already, you found yourself counting the breaths until you would see him again.

Masterlist

Prologue | 2

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justhereforxreaders · 5 months ago

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The Prince and the Dragon Rider - Part One: The Oath

Jacaerys Velaryon x dragon rider!reader

Summary: after three years of peaceful living on Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys stumbles upon an answer to his growing anxieties of mastering dragonriding. But when this new companion is discovered prematurely, how will the Princess respond?

Warnings: mentions of blood loss and wounds

soundtrack

part two: tempest

part three: the dawn

part four: the test

part five: precipice

part six: pieces and players

part seven: the rift

You stand silently in the throne room of Dragonstone awaiting judgment while a storm rages outside the black stone walls. Two kingsguard are posted at the large doors opposite the throne. Their eyes fixed on your small, shivering frame. A flash of lightning followed closely by the crack of thunder causes you to jump and one of the kingsguard calls out to you from across the room.

“We said be still!”

You nod curtly and continue to stare out the windows at the rain. Tears begin to flow against your will as another bolt of lightning strikes nearby and you try your best to remain still.

This is not what I wanted. You think to yourself, reflecting upon the events that led you to be separated from your dragon and now, possibly, from your closest friend.

Jacaerys Valeryon had discovered you and your dragon living within the natural caverns beneath the fortress of Dragonstone nearly four moons. The two of you became quick friends, meeting in secret to train one another. He had witnessed your skills on dragonback firsthand when he and Vermax happened upon you and your dragon one morning before the sun had risen. Your deftness alone would have been enough to impress the young Prince but after watching the two of you dive into the sea to escape their curious pursuit, he knew he needed to seek you out. In exchange, he had offered you the chance to hone your skills in combat. Being common born, your abilities with a blade were much more crude than those of the knight trained prince. You relished the opportunity to learn how to properly defend yourself.

You are pulled from your thoughts by the sound of the ornate doors swinging open. A small procession of colorful lords file into the great hall surrounded by armored knights that begin to peel off in pairs to stand along the walls as they approach. The last two take positions on either side of you. Once the guards are in their places, a caller steps forth to announce the silver haired woman standing alone in the doorway.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, heir to the Iron Throne!”

The caller bellows throughout the room while the woman walks with purpose through the grand hall to take her place upon the throne. Once seated she meets your gaze. You cast your eyes down to the black stone below.

“This council has been brought together to address the matter of this child’s involvement in the endangerment and injury of my son, the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” her voice becomes shaky when she says his name but she does her best to gain her composure before addressing you directly, “What do you have to say in your defense?”

You hesitate for a moment, steadying yourself with a breath while trying to remember what you had intended to say. But when you look up to see tears welling up in the Princess’s eyes, only one thought fills your mind.

“Is Jace going to be alright?” You ask timidly.

“That does not answer the Princess’s question, child,” snaps a silver haired man standing below the throne. “We want to know how this happened.”

The Princess’s eyes remain fixed on you. She examines you carefully as you wipe the lingering tears from your face and begin recounting everything.

“The Prince and I have been training together for quite some time.” The Princess raises an eyebrow at this but you continue, “We flew out to practice on dragonback this morning when the wind rose up quickly around us. We couldn’t outrun the storm and when it consumed us, we were both thrown into the sea. The dragons were nowhere to be seen, whisked away by the tempest, so we began making our way to shore but-” you shutter and grow silent, remembering the deep wounds carved into your friend’s shoulder. “Jacaerys had been injured. I believe Vermax may have tried to take hold of him as he fell. He lost consciousness during the swim and I carried him the rest of the way.”

Once the words leave your mouth there is a beat of silence before you begin to sob, the horror fresh in your mind of Jace going limp in your arms. You can barely hear the low murmurs that flurry around the room until the Princess brings them all to a halt.

“How could you be training on dragonback? Were you both astride Vermax?” The Princess calls down to you from the throne, her tone shifting from sorrow to accusatory.

You freeze while the tears continue to pour. Jace had recently begun trying to convince you to reveal yourself to his mother. He was certain you would be offered a proper bed to sleep in but when the subject of revealing your dragon was brought into question, he was unsure of how the Princess and her second husband would respond to someone outside their blood to being bonded to a dragon. The discussion ended shortly after expressing this to you.

Now faced with this dilemma, without Jace’s guidance, you decide to remain honest. Still holding onto the glimmer of hope that you will find acceptance and refuge among this family.

“No, Your Grace, I was riding my own dragon.”

Amidst the uproar, the man with silver hair draws his sword and storms down the steps toward you.

“Who are you to have claimed one of our dragons? We should have your hands you thief!”

“Daemon, no!” The Princess shouts and the room falls silent once again.

The man stops his advance but his sword is still drawn in your direction.

“I am no thief,” you manage to say with a quivering voice. “My mother was an acolyte of the priests of R’hllor on the outskirts of Asshai. When I was six years of age, a lord came to our temple to enlist the help of the red priests in hatching a dragon egg.”

Another round of concerned whispers echo throughout the hall.

“I know not who the lord was or where he acquired the egg. It made no difference as during the ritual the temple caught fire, leaving myself and my dragon as the only survivors to emerge from the ashes. We had been traveling west across Essos together for nearly eight years until she finally led me to this island four moons ago.”

The man, who you now identify as Daemon, looks you up and down and begins speaking a language you cannot understand. When he meets your eyes and sees your confusion, he scoffs and turns to Princess Rhaenrya. They have a brief exchange in the foreign language before they are cut off by a frantic man in robes entering the room.

“The prince has awoken,” he exclaims, out of breath.

Rhaenyra immediately stands and makes haste to the door, followed closely by her guard. However, Daemon stays put in front of you.

“We shall reconvene at a later time,” the Princess calls over her shoulder as she exits the room. “See this child placed in a room under watch until-“

“Wait, no!” You cry out, interrupting the Princess. With the relief of knowing that Jacaerys is alive and conscious, the fear of your dragon’s safety fills the entirety of your being. “Please let me return home! I need to know if my dragon is safe.”

Her and Daemon make eye contact above your head.

“We cannot allow you to leave until a decision can be made,” she says plainly, a slight look of remorse flashes across her face, before she disappears out the door without a second glance.

The lords disperse around you. All except Daemon who still stands with his sword drawn.

“How do you command a dragon of you do not speak High Valyrian?”

“I don’t,” you reply, confusion evident in your voice, “I have been at her mercy since she grew large enough to ride. I have simply trusted her instincts.”

He chuckles lightly, “I wonder then, if you were to make a command of her, would she return that sentiment? Would she trust your instincts? Is she truly bonded to you? Or were you a convenient mean for survival?”

He sheaths his sword and walks away from you, taking a seat on the steps below the throne. The guards at your sides escort you out of the hall, leaving Daemon’s questions to rattle around in your mind.

- - - - -

Dragon-riding was an art that did not come naturally to Prince Jacaerys. He had been so relieved when his family left King’s Landing, as it meant he no longer would be sharing dragon keeper lessons with his spiteful uncles. This relief was short lived however, as once Vhagar had been claimed by Aemond, a frantic drive to master the sky filled his entire being. Once Vermax became large enough to ride, he trained often and obsessively, stealing the joy from what was previously a childhood dream of the young prince. Until he began training with you.

Although he initially approached your training with the same urgency, he soon found an unexpected solace riding alongside you. With you, it never felt like a burden or duty. It felt like freedom. It felt like peace. You had turned the sky into a safe haven.

Which is why the sight of you being thrown from your dragon in the middle of that storm was on an endless loop in his mind while he fell in and out of consciousness. Despite the pain of the maesters working on his wounds, he wouldn’t allow himself to be pulled into sleep until he knew you were safe. Thankfully, once their work was complete and the discomfort from their treatment had ended, he was able to fully recover his mind from that haunting vision.

He sat up slowly in his bed, head still spinning, to see the maesters cleaning up their instruments.

“What happened? How did I get here?” He mutters.

The maesters whip their heads towards the prince at the sound of his voice and the room buzzes back into action.

“Inform the Princess!” Grand Maester Gerardys commands to the room before taking place at Jace’s bedside. “Steady, my Prince, the wound is freshly stitched and you’ve lost much blood.” He attempts to help the boy back down but Jace protests.

“No,” he mumbles, using his good arm to weakly bat away the Grand Maesters hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Gerardys sighs. “You were found wounded on the beach with a stranger who refused to leave your side.”

The rest of the memory flashes through Jace’s head. The gust of wind and rain that ripped him from his dragon’s back, the pain of Vermax’s claws in his shoulder, finding you in the cold water, your arm around his body as he grew even colder.

“Where is y/n?” His eyes snap open.

“Taken before the council to face judgment for your endangerment.” The maester gives up the fight with his stubborn patient and returns to his supplies laid out on the table.

“But-” Jacaerys begins before being cut off by his mother.

“Jace!” She cries as she burst through the door and runs to his side, embracing him as gently as she can manage.

“Mother, where is y/n? They have done nothing wrong, they saved my life.” He takes a moment to catch his breath after the words tumble out of his mouth. Still struggling to keep his grip on the waking world.

Rhaenyra releases her son and she looks over him. Her face grows stern at the mention of your name, which she had neglected to ask for.

“And why was your life at risk in the first place? Who is this dragonrider that you’ve kept secret from me? And why trust a stranger to train you over Daemon or myself?”

Jacaerys turns away sheepishly, trying not to dive too deeply into the sliver of joy he had found in your presence. “Y/n is my friend, not a stranger. As well as a skilled dragonrider.”

“How could you know that Jace? How do we know this isn’t a trap set by our enemies?”

He considers this briefly. Trying to determine how he can convince his mother that you are not a threat to them. Wishing desperately to cite the countless occurrences of your trustworthiness and honor that he has already witnessed. But he knows that it is not just his mother that he is speaking to. He is also speaking to the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Queen cannot afford to place that much faith in the feelings of a young man. So instead, he decides to respond like a future king.

“Why would our enemies want us to gain such a powerful advantage? Supplying our cause with a large dragon and a masterful rider does them no favors.” Prince Jacaerys states.

Rhaenyra is taken aback by Jace’s strategic thinking. She looks over his face and ponders his words while tracing the healed scar down her arm. A bitter reminder of her own betrayal by someone she once held dear.

“Do you trust this person with your safety? With the safety of your family?” Rhaenyra questions, her eyes momentarily welling up against her will.

Jacaerys meets her gaze and nods solemnly. The Princess grabs her son’s hand tenderly.

“If this to be our decision; to allow an outsider to inherit the power of our house…” she pauses, trying to find the right words. “Then this not an ally we can afford to lose. And we must ensure their loyalty to my claim to the throne, as well as your own.”

- - - - -

The room you are placed in offers little comfort while you wait for your fate to be decided. Housed high in the tower, it sways ever so slightly with the wind. Exhaustion from the events of today combined with the gentle motion of the room threaten to lull you to sleep but the distress at being away from your dragon for the first time in years keeps you from finding any rest. You sit on the hard floor with your back up against the wall, facing the door, counting the seconds between lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder.

A knock on the door startles you and you spring to your feet as a kingsguard steps through the doorway followed closely by Princess Rhaenyra. You notice her face appears less grim than it had been in the throne room. She examines you from head to toe then finds your eyes. They soften ever so slightly before she speaks.

“Jacaerys is resting and the maesters are confident he will make a full recovery.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and nod at the Princess’s words but the worry still lingers on your face. She continues.

“We have also received word that Vermax has returned to the dragonmont with a large black dragon in tow. Both weary but seemingly unharmed.”

You gasp as though this is the first real breath you’ve taken all day and place your hands over your eyes as tears flow freely down your face. Their intensity dies down, however, as you recall the Princess’s final words to you in front of her council. A new dread fills your stomach.

“And what is to be done with me?” You ask in as neutral a tone as you can manage, dropping your hands from your eyes but still staring intently at the stone below.

The Princess lets out a heavy sigh and takes a step closer to you.

“We would ask that you swear an oath of loyalty. Declare fealty to House Targaryen and to myself as heir to the Iron Throne. And for this you will be granted permission to serve our house as a dragonrider.”

You shake your head, trying to comprehend her words.

“And what would my service entail? What would be expected of me?”

“The same that I ask of every lord and lady sworn to me. As well as every member of my family that commands a dragon; that should this house become threatened, they will heed the call to arms and meet the enemy with fire and blood.” Her voice becomes foreboding as she recites the words of her house. Indicating to you that this is less of a choice you are being offered, and more a sentence that you are being served.

“Though I hope such a need will never come,” she adds, trying to lighten her tone.

Your thoughts turn to your dragon and the years you have spent protecting each other. You may not speak the same language but you know you trust her with every fiber of your being. And, although the gods may have left a foul taste in your mouth for prophecy and purpose, you do believe she chose you as her rider for a reason. If taking this oath is the only way you can continue to be allowed to live alongside your dragon, then so be it.

You raise your head, sparing a quick glance at the kingsguard, before your eyes meet with the Princess’s. “I am at your service, Princess.”

“We are glad to have it, y/n.” She says with sincerity. “The hour has grown late, let us see you to a more suitable chamber.” She turns and begins walking out the door, beckoning you to follow.

You fall into line behind her down the winding stairs.

“Once you are settled,” she calls over her shoulder, “if you are not spent, I can take you to the dragonmont.”

You nod fervently and small smile flashes across her face.

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