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aboutdragons · 1 year

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the thing about dragons - chapter three

in which a dragon is claimed and Otto Hightower gets bullied.

*HTTYD theme starts playing*

Dialogues in quotation marks are in Common Westron, in angle brackets in High Valyrian, in square brackets for other. Thoughts, emotions and emphasis are in italics.

Cross-posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43121373/chapters/108369012

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Read the Summary, Tags & Warnings as linked on the page to know what to expect.

warnings: Daemon Targaryen as a POV character, blood, dragon-on-dragon cannibalism (mentioned), life-threatening stunts

wordcount: 10,827

Read the chapter under the cut.

Daemon stays behind, even though it’s obvious that he really wants to follow. But he can’t, because this is something Lyra must do on her own. A Targaryen rite of passage, almost, years before Rhaenyra and her bad decisions and bastards and that stupid egg-in-cradle tradition. (Did they really expect the eggs to not hatch when the mother is the source of Targaryen dragon-blood?) So instead, he chooses to wear a hole in the grass with his pacing at a distance great enough that Lyra would barely hear him if he yelled. It’s still a bit of a long walk from the keep, and with her short legs it takes a good few minutes, but she gets there.

The Cannibal dragon only looks worse up closer, with jagged teeth and bright, slit-pupiled eyes, and black scales. Like all the tense scenes in Jurassic Park, the original one, that she watched when she was probably too young to, all put into one giant fire-breathing lizard with its gaze trained on her, unblinking. Except this one is real, and not animatronic or CGI.

It’s a wicked kind of beast, all black like tar or a starless night, with eyes glowing acid-green, alert and intelligent but half-crazed, and horns curving about its skeletally wolfish head scarred in a way only another dragon unwilling to become prey without a fight could maim while thrashing between its teeth. It’s utterly crowned with horns; two curling forward, in tandem with its muzzle, and the rest curved backwards, uneven, jagged, and all black. She could walk on each; she could lay down on each, with room to spare.

This, Lyra imagines, is how the Devil must look like.

Actually, now that she’s looking at it, it’s looking a whole lot like Black Dragons from Dungeons and Dragons, in shape and colour both; especially with its head, though not quite as sunken and skull-like.

She’s not very tall, being seven and all, but her whole body is about the size of the teeth she can see clearly now, as the dragon curls its lips back in a wordless snarl. Still, she’s almost vibrating, excitement and adrenaline and giddiness swirling in her head. It takes a lot of effort to not squeal, and to walk instead of skipping. She may have memories of having lived thirty years before this, but she is biologically seven with all the emotional control that implies.

Which is little on a good day and almost none in the face of something like this. She’s only good at pretending she has her shit together.

The dragon rears back, bares its teeth again, hisses. Opens its maw as its throat glows green with something that looks like the not-yet-invented wildfire. Lyra feels the heat hit her as the green glow builds up slowly, threateningly, but without hostility. She would know if it was hostility, because if it was it wouldn’t be waiting, watching, seeing what she’s going to do about the situation. She’s be a pile of ash at best already, if it really aimed to hurt, killed like every other fool that tried to approach.

A loud, clear ‘daor’ is enough to make it slam its maw shut with a loud clack and a puff of green fire.

She finds herself oddly unimpressed at the threatening display; she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, it gives her the same kind of exasperation as when she found Rascal chewing on her shoes, again, the little orange runt living up to his name every day, even as he grew old and slow.

(Gods, she misses her cat so much still. He was with her for most of her life.)

The dragon cocks its head at her, bright eyes not leaving her for a moment. It’s coiled, she notices, tense in a way Caraxes is just before he takes to the skies.

It’s excited, too, she realizes belatedly, maybe because she only feels it now; faint at first and stronger with every step, emotions that respond to hers but that aren’t hers. The dragon’s—its—his. Every moment is new information, constantly more, constantly clearer. Curious, wary, alert, hopeful—not-food, not-prey, not enemy, friend? pack?

Mine?

It’s both too much and almost nothing at all, her young human mind against his ancient, wild one. It threatens to sweep her away—would have, if she really were seven.

But she has thirty-two more years (and probably divine providence) to fall back on.

As it is, she holds on only barely, but she does. She might actually be able to do this.

<Hello,> she says and reaches out. The Cannibal doesn’t rear back this time, curious, enthralled by the promise of a bond, letting her press her hand on his snout. It dwarfs her, everything about this creature. She could set up a tent on his horned head with room to spare.

He lets out a rumble. It almost sounds like a purr.

Happy? Happy. Mine? Pack?

It’s disjointed, not at all a voice; feelings and images, all abstract, but she understands, like a weird dream that doesn’t fade after you wake up.

Like acid-eyed shadows chasing bloodstained linoleum away.

She smiles and presses bodily against his head in a bastardized hug before stepping back. <Yeah, pack. Pack works.>

The Cannibal shoves against her with his head, picking her up with the motion. Lyra squeals and holds on the scales and smaller horns until she can slide down. She laughs, and pats his head again, wondering if he can even feel that. He seems to hear and understand her, even though she’s not really raising her voice, so… Maybe?

She’s just following Daemon’s lead here, really. He doesn’t yell at Caraxes, he just says things loud and clear, and even in the air Caraxes hears and understands. He told her, once; if your dragon is truly yours, they will know what you want them to do. They hear you.

(But whether they choose to listen to you is another matter entirely. They are winged fire-breathing cats on a good day, and most often half as cuddly and twice as capricious.)

She needs a name for him, Lyra realizes, before anything else. The Cannibal is a moniker; like calling Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, or Vermithor the Bronze Fury. But a moniker is not a name. Her dragon, first of all, deserves a proper name; deserves for his first flight to be with a name.

And there is only one name that is worthy of him, she thinks. And ever since Balerion and Shrykos visited her in a dream, and foreshadowed her dragon, she knew exactly what it would be.

An inherited name, from worlds away. She almost spoke it, when she first saw him perched on that hill waiting for her, because that was exactly what the image brought to her mind; Satan was only second. A name from another story, easily one she loved more than the one she is living now. A story full of magic and hope, with some dragons sprinkled on top as it struggled time and time again against evil or uncaring gods and demon lords.

she asks, though it’s not a question. The Cannibal tilts his head towards her, listening closer. Lyra smiles.

Cannibal purrs, though it’s more of a rumble with his size, and feelings of happiness and a sense of finality press against her mind, but also impatience.

Give me that damn name already. Mine. Mine-mine-minemine.

Sorry GRRM, she thinks privately and not sorry at all, but I’ve always been a Tolkien girl.

And this world doesn’t have a Eärendil on a flying ship, or pretty but ultimately worthless gems to commit kinslayings over. Instead, it has rampant greed and senseless violent cruelty, but without Vhagar or Vermithor, those things aren’t enough to kill this Ancalagon.

And might he grow big enough to level three mountains one day, really. All the power to him.

Pack, an emotion close to elation all but slams into her. Together. Not alone.

<Not alone,> Lyra agrees, and thinks of Daemon; turns around, spots a tiny white-red-and-black figure still wearing out a hole in the patch of grass by the stone bridge. Looks back to Ancalagon. <I’m not alone, and now neither are you.>

And it snaps together, just like that, and she feels something take root in her very soul. It’s warm and comforting in a way few other things are, and it makes her feel like she could fly.

Lyra looks at Ancalagon. Ancalagon looks at Lyra.

They both look up.

<Yeah,> she says. <There’s one more thing to do. Very important thing.>

Sky, Ancalagon agrees. Fly. Fly-free-fly-wind-cloud-blue. Together.

<You don’t have a saddle,> Lyra points out, and sighs. <Oh, this will be borderline suicidal, but I’m not backing down now for some small inconvenience!>

Though she probably shouldn’t call a potential fall to the death a minor inconvenience. Oh well.

(If Targaryens weren’t born pale-haired Daemon would surely be greying because of her by now.)

It’s difficult to ride without a saddle, but it’s perfectly doable, Daemon told her when she proclaimed she’ll have a dragon soon. The placement is up higher, on the neck. The catch is, you need to bodily lay down on the dragon for it to be somewhat safe, lodge yourself between all these spikes, hold onto them. Ideally, tie yourself down. When it’s flying upwards, you have to hold on like your life depends on it, because it does, but once the flight evens out, you can sit up.

Lyra doesn’t have a rope, but she smuggled three leather belts out in her pockets in anticipation, and they will have to do.

She puts her hands on her hips, taps her foot on the ground a bit, as she studies Ancalagon’s neck critically. She could try to climb it, with all the jagged spines, if she only was able to reach them, but they only start halfway up his neck and that’s much too high for her to reach. Beneath, it’s just smooth scale she has no hope of climbing.

She could try clamouring up his wings, but they likewise have no purchase. They’d make a good slide, while she needs to go up.

She looks back at his head, horned, ridged, and perfectly within reach.

It will do.

<I’m going to have to excuse you for a moment,> she says, putting her riding gloves on, and unceremoniously vaults herself on Ancalagon’s horn, the one curved to the front in line with his maw. She stands up on it, barely keeping her balance as the dragon rumbles in confusion, and walks up, hopping onto his head when she gets close enough. She finds purchase on smaller horns, easily dragging herself up when she slips. From there, she just walks down his neck until she reaches its base.

It does take her a moment, with unknown, uneven, constantly moving terrain under her feet not aiding her at all. She almost trips a few times when she’s not careful enough in her excitement, but soon enough she’s there, sitting down on the scales and wrapping the leather belts around the ridges, and herself down with them. She has just enough to tie herself down semi-securely.

She fixes up her leather jacket, pulls her gloves firmly down to fit better, and then lays flat on Ancalagon’s scaly back, gripping both the ridges and the belts lightly, for now just enough to hold them. No need to waste grip strength yet.

She’s not sure if it’s her that’s vibrating so hard, or the dragon, but that doesn’t matter.

Right now, nothing else matters.

<Fly!> she commands, and Ancalagon roars, bodily moving for the first time since uncoiling. Takes one step, then another, and another, each faster than the other.

Lyra can’t see the ground darting underfoot where she is but she feels the earthquakes of his steps as he gains speed on all fours, and then on just hind legs as he spreads his wings and, with few mighty flaps, they’re going up, and higher still. Lyra doesn’t chance a look behind her, at Dragonstone, her grip on the belts and the ridges tightening, strong with adrenaline and the very real fear of falling as Ancalagon rises higher and higher into the sky with massive flaps of his wings that displace the air with a sound that’s almost thunder.

It’s so wildly different from flying Caraxes with Daemon. This is dangerous. This is fun.

She doesn’t even try fighting a manic grin that she feels almost split her face in two, uncaring of the wind. Ancalagon roars, and she feels it more than she hears it, and she screams back with something like joy but more.

Ancalagon’s flight stabilizes eventually, only the occasional wingbeats rocking the dragon, and Lyra carefully sits up, still holding onto the spikes for dear life, but not as desperately. She looks around, takes a deep breath—she’s not sure how long the ascent took really, but they’re above the sea of clouds and it’s probably the most beautiful view Lyra has ever seen.

It’s sunset; the clouds are dark, violet and pink, and the sky is bathed in bright yellow and orange as the last golden of today’s sun light it up. The sun itself is right before them, about to dip beneath the clouds, and Lyra has to shield her eyes from its brightness when it shines between Ancalagon’s horns.

The dragon snorts and roars, and Lyra feels a laugh bubbling up in her throat, and soon enough, she’s laughing with glee, throwing one hand up. The part of her that’s thirty-two and fully aware that they’re very fucking high up keeps her other hand firmly grasping the leather belt wound around a horn.

The air is thin and cold up here, and the wind is hitting her face and whipping her hair about, but it’s amazing. Different from riding Caraxes with Daemon. Her own. Better.

She can feel the low thrum of Ancalagon’s consciousness, its tendrils reaching out for hers, and then, like the last puzzle piece slotting into the image, their minds slot together, and everything makes sense—

She sees. She feels.

She’s content and calm, happy in a way she’s never been before.

She’s so free—

Wind under her wings, sun on her scales, content hum of a bond forged—

She snaps awake and it’s like surfacing from a pool of water, breathing heavily. She tightens her grip on the belt, doesn’t let herself slip again when she sees it coming, and it overwhelms her again, like a wave crashing over and all around her.

She’s Lyra the girl, not Ancalagon the dragon.

She takes a step back. The wave crashes forward.

She’s Lyra the girl.

Something grabs her ankle, pulls her down.

She’s—

She feels Ancalagon land more than actually perceives it. She undoes the belts holding her down mechanically, and then slides down his wing without much graze at all, or, at least she thinks she does, because the next thing she knows she’s back on the ground.

Ancalagon’s presence in her mind is receding, though he doesn’t quite know how to step back, and after the bond fell in place it leaves Lyra with a hollow feeling in her chest. She almost pulls his mind forward on instinct, but stops herself. He’s doing it for her. He’s doing what he can not to overwhelm her, because he knows, understands, that she almost lost it—lost herself.

She wipes her mouth when she feels it’s wet, and it comes red. Blood. But she doesn’t feel particularly strained, it’s like—

She sways on her feet, faint all of a sudden, feeling a little rattled.

So, she didn’t come out of it unscathed, it would seem.

Bonding a dragon includes opening your mind to your dragon, and them to you. Two beings, not quite becoming one but becoming linked, with the connection rooting itself deeply within their very soul, letting their minds overlap, more or less. It really depends on each specific pair how deep it goes. Valyrians grow into it, usually claiming dragons young and malleable. Young dragons do the same, figuring everything as they go. Old dragons, who have had riders before, simply know what to do.

But Ancalagon is an old wild dragon who has never been bonded. He has lived a long life wild, developed a strong personality all on his own, and he has no idea what he’s doing any more than Lyra.

If she truly were seven, Lyra would’ve been swept away, her ego erased and left a husk, dead or overridden with something distinctly inhuman. Anchoring herself in the thirty-two years she lived before was the only way she could resurface, but it would seem her psyche took a beating from the merge anyway, now that the adrenaline high was wearing off and she was actually feeling it.

But she lived. She pulled through, successfully bonded Ancalagon. The gods wouldn’t have sent her to get him if they weren’t sure she could do it. She hopes.

It was a near thing still, she realizes as she sways and falls on her knees. Ancalagon makes an inquisitive sound, sniffing at her, and let credit be given where due, he did retract back into his mind when she started fracturing—at least, as much as he could. She can only hear him as if through water now, only gets strong feelings.

She knows that if they open their minds again, she will just be swept.

The bond is in place, but she’s not out of the danger yet. It will take a bit.

She can’t move. She can’t feel her legs, either, she realizes. She’s exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. She can’t make herself move, more than her body having no strength to do so. But she has to, she realizes. She has to go to Daemon, or worry will eat him from the inside. He might try to approach Ancalagon himself if he worries enough, and that, she cannot allow. He’d die. Her dragon would kill him, she doesn’t doubt that. Ancalagon is too wild, completely unsocialized. Maybe one day he will be approachable by others but not now. Not today.

Not without Lyra able to keep him calm while someone else approaches right now, and she can sense, hazy as it is, that he’s nervous and protective. In the state she’s in, everyone is a threat.

She must go.

She physically cannot.

Colourful spots start dancing in front of her eyes, her ears start to ring. She feels faint, from the fatigue and the blood loss. She’s about to faint. She can’t go anywhere, she—

Green-eyed shadows. Bloodstained linoleum.

Something like a knock on the door, and she lets it in, this distinctly not-Targaryen thing. It’s nothing like the bond, unfamiliar, alien—cold.

She thinks she feels surprise that’s not hers because she’s too tired, and then determination.

The world sharpens and she drops, her body suddenly not hers at all. But her body moves. Like a puppet on strings, with strength not her own, one hand on the grass, then the other. Drops of blood splatter on her hands as her body pushes itself up, one leg under her, then the other, and she slowly rises, and sways only a little. It’s hazy, but her weakness is in the fatigue of her mind, not her body.

Walk, Ancalagon wills at her, sharing his own fortitude for the lack of her own.

Walk.

And she does.

○

Daemon is whiter than milk, and a little ashen, when he sees her. Breaks into a sprint and snatches her off the ground with an alarmed shout she’s too exhausted to decipher.

All the will that pushed her forward is there still one blink, and gone the next.

She thinks she tries to say something, but can’t know for sure. She’s gone too fast.

○

He’s stupid. Idiot, moron, dimwit—how could he forget, how could he not realize—

Bonding a dragon was forging a connection between two minds, the rider and the dragon connected in a way that anyone outside the loop was simply unable to understand. It let them know each-other, work with each-other seamlessly.

Some bonds were stronger, some weaker, but there was always a bond there; whether it was a slight, barely-there thing where only the strongest of emotions came though, or so strong and comprehensive that you couldn’t be sure where dragon ended and person began, or something somewhere in-between, a bond would always be forged.

It was simple, if the dragon was young. A young dragon and a young Targaryen were on equal footing; neither knew what they were doing, each had ego on comparable level, and they meet each-other midway. It was trickier with older dragons, because their egos, their personalities, their very souls continued to develop as long as they lived, but if they had experience with riders, they could easily accommodate for a new one, barely overwhelm it a little.

But if the rider was young and inexperienced, but the dragon was old and inexperienced—

Erasure of the rider’s very ego, their personality, their soul, swallowed by the dragon’s own, was all but certain.

Lyra was seven. The Cannibal dragon was, if the stories were to be believed, nearing its second century. The Cannibal dragon was also never ridden before.

Daemon realizes it about when the Cannibal dragon takes off with his daughter on its back (did she—did she just get on this beast without a saddle? Does she not know how dangerous that is—) and by then it’s far too late to even try to stop her. All he can do is pray that she will somehow survive this.

The idea of Lyra not coming back makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He feels faint, and cold, and jittery, and he’s watching for a great black shape in the sky almost obsessively, spotting it above the clouds and between them, circling the island.

When the dragon lands, he starts walking towards it, quick paces, nervous. The dragon will kill him, a logical part of him whispers, but he ignores it.

He’s terrified, but not of anything; he’s terrified for something. Someone.

He cannot lose Lyra. He cannot—

His legs almost buckle under him from relief when he sees her walking down the hill, but that relief is short-lived, because she’s walking all wrong—as if she’s not used to walking on two legs at all.

And her face is covered in blood.

And her eyes are a shining, sinister green, slit-pupiled, vibrant, and wild.

He breaks into a sprint, sweeps her off her feet, presses her against his chest and begs—

<’m fine…> she slurs weakly as her eyes flash back to their original dark purple and Daemon almost falls to his knees with the sheer relief, only for his panic to flare for the third time when she goes limp in his arms nearly immediately after. But she’s breathing, and she’s warm. Alive.

His eyes are wet. His cheeks are wet. His throat is uncomfortably warm and tight.

He’s crying, he realizes, with terror and relief both.

<You’ll be the death of me,> he whispers in barely audible, shaking voice, and kisses her forehead. <I’m so glad you’re alive.>

○

Consciousness flowing to and from.

Snippets of conversation above her; frantic father and someone else, shocked.

“Then how did—"

“Green eyes, like the dragon—"

“First Men blood— Her mother—"

“A skinchanger—”

“—warged into the dragon—”

“Never seen anything like—!”

Huh. So maybe she did get something more than neglect from her mother after all.

○

Green-eyed shadows instead of bloodstained linoleum. Black ocean that is the mind of an ancient beast.

Her alone among calm waters, floating on her back. It’s warm. It’s boundless.

Something calling from the depths, fish-memories darting beneath her fingers, not her own.

This time, she doesn’t sink. This time, his mind doesn’t try to drown her.

It takes all of her to stay afloat, all collective thirty-nine years, but she does.

And it takes all of him, all delicate subtlety he can scrounge together to not to sink her, but he does.

Together, but not as one. Together, but each their own.

Slowly, it solidifies. Soon, it will be instinctual, ebbing and flowing together and around each-other.

They have found their balance.

○

She wakes up slowly, unwilling to open her eyes just yet if only for the pain pulsing behind her eyelids with every heartbeat and breath. It’s not bad, not a migraine at all, but it’s there, and it’s persistent. It’s the kind that stays for hours, even days on end, not bad enough to be debilitating but bad enough to be a constant chore to withstand.

Fuck, this world doesn’t have Ibuprofen.

She groans and curls up, only briefly hindered by the arm slung over her.

Daemon predictably stirs at the motion, the hitch in his breath signifying the switch between sleep and bleary wakefulness.

<Lyra?> he whispers, quiet and uncertain. Lyra winces, and this time not because of pain.

<Yeah?> she asks. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he wraps his arms around her and presses her tighter to his chest. Soon enough a purr rolls through his chest, and Lyra sighs, pressing her forehead against his collarbone as the frequency takes off the worst pressure of the headache. She would respond in kind, but she doesn’t think she can right now.

She thinks she drifts back to sleep, because the next time she wakes, her head hurts less, and Daemon isn’t in bed with her being a glorified teddy bear. Instead, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, poking her in the cheek.

She swats his hand away and burrows deeper into the blankets, but he doesn’t relent.

she grumbles, no doubt muffled by all the covers.

They don’t have Ibuprofen but they do have straight-up drugs. Thanks, but no thanks.

<No poppymilk,> she complains and forces herself to slowly crawl out of her nest. She flops back on the pillows, and slowly opens her eyes. The room is bathed in bright sunlight that makes her wince. Her head may hurt less, but it still hurts. Now that she thinks about it, she is quite parched, and her tongue feels like sandpaper and sponge. <How long was I out for?>

Daemon helps her sit up, propped on the pillows and the bedframe, and then helps her drink some cool water. She needed that.

She takes a deep breath. She feels rather faint, probably from the nosebleed. It was rather profuse.

<How are you feeling?> Daemon asks, putting his hand against her forehead. His hand feels cool—cold, almost.

<Like I’m about to come down with a cold,> she answers after a moment, because in all honesty, the symptoms match. It’s probably not it, but it sure feels like it.

Daemon says. <You are running a bit of a fever, but it’s probably just the bond.>

<Mm. Sorry for worrying you.>

Daemon shakes his head. <You’re alive. That’s what matters.>

<Oh, horribly. But I couldn’t have stopped it, could I?>

<No. And it wouldn’t really have been fair.>

<Still, I was worried. Terrified, really. I cannot lose you; I refuse. I lost enough family.>

Lyra blinks slowly, looks up at Daemon. Unguarded, open, honest. He’s twenty-four, barely an adult, and his life is already falling apart around him. His parents dead, his brother constantly against him. Maybe he feels like she is all he has.

She reaches forward, puts her hand on his.

<I’m too stubborn to leave you,> she says, and she means it.

Daemon takes a shaky breath. He reaches out, drags her into his lap, and curls around her.

<Look at you. You almost just died, and here you are, comforting me,> he says, voice shivering. <I’m rather a lousy father, aren’t I?>

<You’re doing your best, and I see that. It’s enough. Besides, you’re taking it harder than I am, so why shouldn’t I comfort you?>

He lets out a wet chuckle, his arms tightening around her. Lyra sighs and closes her eyes, resting her head comfortably on his collarbone.

<I’m so glad you’re alive. Don’t be so flippant about dying.>

They stay like that for a good while, until Lyra’s stomach decides to remind her she was out of it for two days. Daemon laughs at her, and she pokes him in the side, as they call for a meal.

○

Seeing Daemon like that shakes her up, Lyra will admit. Especially since if she were a real seven-year-old, she would have been dead.

It’s a bit late, but she decides that she might as well just tell him the truth, outlandish as it is.

○

<It’s not like you to be this picky when eating.>

<Likely, yes.>

<Hmm. Well, on the good side I can actually eat liver without retching right now!>

<Well, I did lose some blood. Liver is good for replenishing that.>

<Huh. I did not know that.>

○

<Ancalagon.>

<Ancalagon? Odd name.>

<Mmm. From a story I heard before.>

<Oh?>

<Maybe. Must be great story, to name your dragon after.>

<Mhm. The best, really.>

○

It’s the evening when she decides to just rip off the band-aid. So, she looks at her father, and says:

Daemon has never looked more like a deer caught in the headlights than at this moment. He takes a sharp breath and looks at her for a moment, unblinking. She holds his gaze.

<This. This is not a very funny joke, little flame.>

<It’s not a joke. Will you listen?>

He looks at her, and takes a deep breath. <Of course.>

He isn’t, because Valyrian Religion only has an afterlife, and he really can’t be bothered with other religions. She explains it to him.

And then she explains to him everything else; her past life, her death, the gods and their plan, the mission she was sent on. Of how she always had flashes of her past life, which made her an abnormal child and in hindsight explained so much about her behaviour, and how she remembered everything after turning seven, after weeks of nightmares that left them both haunted.

How she remembers, in vivid detail, her first death, and how her dreaming of Ancalagon helped push these memories from her dreams and the forefront of her mind.

He listens to her, enraptured and horrified both.

he tells her when she’s done. <But you would never do that. And… It makes too much sense. Between how you act, and your ability to bond with the Cannni—Ancalagon, if you were a normal child, you—>

<My mind would’ve been erased,> she finishes. Daemon closes his eyes and puts his hand over them, letting out a hollow chuckle. He refuses to think about it to deeply, she can see. Because it’s the kind of person he is; angry that he wasn’t there for her, worlds away.

<Yes. From birth to now and going onwards, it’s always been just me.>

<Mmm. If I’m being honest, I’d say dying has actually been worth it so far.>

<How?>

<Well, it’s my first time having a parent that actually loves me without me having to conform exactly to what they think I should be, so. Yeah. Because of you.>

He wraps his arms around her, and she wraps her arms around his neck as they press their foreheads together.

<I’m really happy you think that.>

<Well, I’ really happy you’re my dad.>

<So… Ancalagon, is he from a story from that other world?>

She looks up at him with sparkling eyes. The dam’s open, now she won’t be able to shut up about Tolkien’s works until she gets it out of her system.

<Yeah! It’s my favourite story ever!>

Daemon sees her excitement and smiles. For the first time today it’s just a smile, unburdened by worry and the revelations.

○

Once they’ve calmed down and Daemon processed the bombshell Lyra just threw in his face, they get ready for bed. But this time, instead of Daemon regaling her with Valyrian mythos, it’s Lyra retelling him Silmarillion, in as much detail as she can recall, starting with Ainulindalë.

Given that she re-read Silmarillion roughly once a year since she turned sixteen, it’s actually a lot of detail, and soon enough Daemon understands just why Middle Earth entranced her so, and finds himself similarly enamoured.

He very quickly decides that Fëanor is a pompous fool, and refuses to listen when Lyra points out that their arrogance and compulsiveness are almost mirrors, and asks if he isn’t simply hating what he perceives as his traits. He admits that maybe he is, but if he had seven sons, he’d surely cherish them, rather than drag them on a fool’s voyage across the world and get the mall killed.

Certainly not over some shiny rocks.

Maybe she should write it down, before she forgets details. And she supposes it says something about her; that she’d be loath to lose Tolkien’s works, while she doesn’t quite care for Fire and Blood or House of the Dragon that much, despite living these stories right now.

Part of it, she’s sure, is wanting to make this story uniquely her own.

(That doesn’t mean she won’t try to prevent the potential deaths of her loved ones if she’s able, of course. Daemon certainly won’t be dying above God’s Eye.)

○

<Well, they send you in with explicit orders to save dragons, and then the one dragon killing others ends up being yours, putting you in a perfect position to rein him in.>

○

<Wait, does this mean that you’re actually an adult?>

<Hm? Not at all. I’m very much a child—do you know how children mature as they age into adults?>

<Yes.>

<Exactly.>

<Nah, that’s just you, dad.>

<Nothing. Love you.>

He tickles her for that.

○

Maybe it is a bit early, and she does still feel a bit faint, but the next morning after she wakes up, Lyra decides to go to Ancalagon. Daemon makes a face at it, the master that was begrudgingly allowed to exist in Dragonstone harrumphs, and the smallfolk healer woman looks at her with disapproval.

So, Lyra gives them an ultimatum; either she’s allowed to go see Ancalagon, or she will sneak out to go and see Ancalagon. She has a stare-down with Daemon that lasts maybe three seconds before he huffs, shakes his head, and asks a maid to prepare her some clothes.

Not riding leathers, he makes sure to point out, because Lyra will not be going flying again until she’s fully recovered; ideally, after the dragon is saddled.

Lyra just shrugs, grabs her guitar, and tells him that they do, in fact, need to figure something out about the saddle because riding a beast this big without one was difficult. And then she’s off.

○

Ancalagon is where she left him, curled into a gigantic ball of indistinct scales and wings. Apparently, she’s been told, he’s been curled like that, asleep, all this time. Some braver stableboys approached him yesterday out of curiosity, only to sprint right back when Ancalagon took offense to their approach and made it known by poking his head from under his wings and hissing at them.

Lyra giggles at the mental image, though she has enough first-hand experience to know for a fact that it would have been a rather terrifying sight.

He uncoils, somewhat, at her approach, but only really enough for her to duck under his wings into the leathery tent. The weather outside left a lot to be desired today, being a misty, rainy, cold, wet, and overall unpleasant, but the space underneath Ancalagon’s wings was dry and warm. The darkness didn’t quite bother Lyra, as usual, with her eyes adapted more to low light than bright light.

<Hello!> she says cheerfully, patting the dragon’s massive snout before clamouring onto his front-curving horns and making herself comfortable there. Something presses against her mind, skittish and uncertain, and she lets it. <It’s alright. We figured it out, didn’t we?>

Worry, hurt, confusion, fragile-fragile-fragile, careful.

Are you okay?

<Yes. Thank you for worrying.>

Remorse, regret, shame.

I’m sorry.

<It’s alright. I expected it would happen. Sorry for scaring you.>

Determination.

I’ll be better.

<Mhm. Me too.>

She spends the next hour playing the soundtrack of How to Train Your Dragon to Ancalagon, and it feels both incredibly appropriate and like a horrible awful pun. Ancalagon really likes it, though, especially when she feeds him some half-remembered clips from the movie through the bond.

That, he sends back. Want.

Together. Mine. Yours. Pack.

She likes the sound of that.

○

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No means no, my Prince. We will consider saddling the Cannibal only if your daughter demonstrates enough of a control over him to prevent him butchering the Dragonkeepers. No sooner. Not with how dangerous of a beast it is.”

“And if she can control him well enough?”

“With all due respect to the young lady, I sincerely doubt it. She’s seven, and this beast is, if the stories are right, near two centuries old. It would be miraculous if she could command him this effortlessly.”

“…we shall see, Keeper.”

○

Her answer is hisses and growls.

<Buddy, look, you can sound like a grumpy crocodile all you want, but nothing’s going to change. For me to be able to fly with you, you need a saddle.>

Weh.

Weh.

But he does move.

○

It only takes half-an-hour of a seemingly one-sided argument for Ancalagon to huffily crawl into the workshop with a smug-looking Lyra sitting cross-legged on his head.

Daemon for his part also feels very smug, looking at the slack-jawed Keeper.

“How,” the man demands, disbelieving, as the other keepers warily but efficiently take measurements for the saddle. If they’re lucky, they’ll be able to use one of the models made for Vhagar, or even Balerion, with only minimal adjustments. There are several backup saddles in good condition.

“My daughter just is like that,” Daemon tells the man with a gleeful glint in his violet eyes. “Horrible for my blood pressure, but she works her miracles anyway.”

“Is it true then?”

“What is?”

“That she can handle any dragon?”

“So far, yes. Every dragon she approached was friendly to her, even when the rider wasn’t. I found her napping against Dreamfyre few times when we still stayed in King’s Landing.”

So, he may be bragging a bit. Bite him.

“Remarkable. Truly, a blessing from the Fourteen!”

“Truly,” Daemon agrees.

○

One of Balerion’s unused saddles is deemed fit, and then subjected to a whole week of alterations, because Lyra wants this and that and doesn’t want all the ornate ornamental addons. Ancalagon grumbles and groans and hisses, but Lyra reminds him that he promised, and he can’t go back on that, and soon enough the mighty beast has a befitting saddle bolted to his back, equipped with a rope ladder to climb up and down.

Though he does snap his teeth at a Keeper who comes too close to his head, and slams his tail into the ground once or twice for no other reason than to scare the workers for fun, nobody gets singed or even maimed, let alone killed. By the standards he’s set throughout his life, he’s outstandingly well-behaved.

It takes some adjustments between several test flights until both Lyra and Ancalagon are fully satisfied with the result—it’s too shaky for her here, it’s pinching him there, can they add some more bags for long-flight resources? She will be going to Essos sometime—but they get there. The saddle is sleek, a washed-out brown of hardened leather, not very ornate but embedded with a dragon motif. Lyra accessorizes it with black fabric and white furs that can be easily repurposed into equipment.

There’s enough space for two to fly and then some, but Lyra doesn’t know when, or if, she’ll put that to use. Ancalagon may have tolerated all the workers putting a saddle on him, but that’s about his limit of human interaction for next several decades, bar her. Despite Lyra’s best efforts, Ancalagon isn’t very fond of her father, or of Caraxes, either. He’s quickly learned to tolerate their general existence due to Lyra’s insistence, but that’s about the effort he’s willing to make. And if that’s how he is towards those she cherishes the most, she doesn’t think she wants to know how he’ll react to others.

She’ll have to work on socializing him more.

But the saddle is good, high quality and hardened leather, made with the almost-lost ways of saddlemakers of Old Valyria. It will last long, unless Ancalagon outgrows it, and he likely won’t anytime soon. And when Lyra climbs the ladder to it, and secures herself in place with the belts and they take off to the sky, all is right in the world.

Well, almost. The weather is horrible. It’s foggy and wet and windy, and she thanks Daemon in her thoughts for throwing a woollen scarf at her.

She really needs flying googles. And a mask. And a hood attached to her riding jacket.

Are there any glass-workers on Dragonstone?

○

There’s fair few Gold Cloaks on Dragonstone with them, Lyra notices after a while. They apparently came by the ship when she was busy harassing the Keepers about the saddle. Not Corren or Harwin—Daemon specifically told them to stay and hold the fort in King’s Landing, but familiar faces still.

Then again, with how much time she’s spent in the barracks, almost every Gold Cloak is a familiar face, and she can put names to a lot of faces. And they know her too; enough that nobody bats an eye when she waltzes into the training yard and demands to be taught anymore, odd as a girl learning martial arts is in this cultural climate was.

○

It’s a misty, gloomy day in a consecutive series of misty, gloomy days when Otto Hightower comes to Dragonstone with his little entourage to harass Daemon about the dragon egg.

(It sure takes people time to get around in this world, Lyra can’t help but notice, on all the ships and carriages, and entirely dependent on the weather, which on Dragonstone is not ideal on a good day. Not everyone has Nuclear Lizard Airlines either. But this time, it’s probably the fog covering the island.)

Daemon looks at Lyra. Lyra looks at Daemon.

They both grin.

<Go get your dragon,> he tells her. <Join us when you hear Caraxes roaring, or if I whistle, whichever comes first.>

<Easily, if this fog keeps up.>

And she’s off, barely pulling her shoes on before she breaks into a run to where Ancalagon is perched. Daemon chuckles and reaches into the flames of the fireplace, picking the egg up. He gently pats the wood ash off it.

Shame it didn’t hatch before they came to get it. With whatever that’s wrong in Dragonpit, now it may never, once Cunttower takes it back.

Maybe he should chuck it in the volcano. With Ancalagon now under Lyra’s heel, the hatchling would do well fending for itself. The other dragons on Dragonstone weren’t very aggressive, after all, at least towards each-other. It would grow, maybe even thrive, and in fifteen, maybe twenty years, there would be another dragon ripe for claiming.

○

Ancalagon raises his head and lets out an inquisitive chuff when Lyra skids to a stop next to him, out of breath after a long run uphill. She leans on his horn until she catches her breath.

He snorts.

Foggy, windy, dark. Obscured. Prey. Stalk. Good.

In this weather? Nothing will see him coming.

Lyra grins. <Perfect!>

○

The fog does keep up.

Just to be sure, Lyra has Ancalagon perch in the fog on the side the setting sun is shining from, further obscuring the visibility of them.

○

He meets them halfway, Otto and his, as Lyra called them, ‘goonies’. Daemon has his own, several Gold Cloaks who refused to let him go alone, or with the Dragonstone guards they didn’t quite trust. Daemon didn’t quite trust them either; he didn’t know any of them and he wasn’t sure they had much loyalty for him. Not in the way the Gold Cloaks did. They were loyal to the Targaryens, true, but Daemon was more comfortable with people loyal to him specifically. Safer.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Otto,” Daemon says, as emotionlessly as he can make himself. He plays with the egg a little, throwing it from hand to hand nonchalantly, because he’s not nervous.

He’s not.

“Your occupation of this island is at an end,” Otto tells him, and Daemon fights the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re to relinquish the dragon’s egg, disband your army, and leave Dragonstone by order of his grace, king Visery—”

For fuck’s sake, that pompous shit. At least he didn’t say anything demeaning about Lyra, or Daemon would be stabbing him already.

Also banish his army? It wasn’t his army—Gold Cloaks were meant to protect King’s Landing! It was never his army. Like most things, it was all for Viserys. It wasn’t Daemon’s fault that several of them were loyal enough to follow him into exile.

“Where’s the king?” he asks instead, cutting Otto off. “I don’t see him.”

“His grace would never lower himself to entertain such a mummer’s farce,” Otto says, and his smug face is making it harder by the minute not to punch him. The few seconds of silence that ensue are uncomfortable, so Daemon zones on something else; the Dornish whelp of a knight that unhorsed him during the tourney, now kilted out in Kingsguard armour. It stings, that he gets to wear it. Reminds Daemon all about his loss in the tourney, and he doesn’t much like it.

What was his name again? Cretin? No. Crispy? Crispin?

“Ser Crispin, isn’t it?”

“Ser Criston Cole, my prince,” the whelp says, almost beatifically. He’s an annoying one.

“Ah, yes, apologies, I couldn’t recall.” More like I couldn’t be fucked to but alas.

“Perhaps my prince recalls when I knocked him off his horse.”

Oh. The audacity of this bitch. Daemon chuckles at the provocation. “Very good.”

“This is a truly pathetic show, Daemon,” Otto cuts in, because of course he does. “Are you so desperate for king’s attention that you resorted to skulking about like a common cutpurse?”

“I’m simply keeping with the traditions of my house, the same as my brother did for his heir,” he says.

“And yet here you stand, egg unhatched and your daughter nowhere in sight. And if no other egg has hatched for her, then surely one meant for her cousin wouldn’t either.”

“You’re not to be the judge of that,” Daemon says, an edge to his voice. “And so will my daughter, whether or not her dragon is in the egg—"

“This is a mummer’s farce. With every breath you soil your name, your house, and your brother’s reign. To resort to common thievery for what you call a birthright is beyond pathetic, Daemon. Are you certain this is the legacy you wish for your daughter?”

“My daughter is perfectly fine with her legacy,” Daemon says tersely. How dare that cunt imply—

“And what of you, men of the city watch? Aiding a prince in his treason?”

Clearly, Otto wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him in his shrivelled arse.

And Daemon is tired of this. It’s a curious skill that Otto has; tiring Daemon through merely existing. But Daemon was never fond of snakes, pathetic, legless, yet venomous.

All he did was take the egg, and just like Daemon expected, Otto took the bait and has gone completely rabid on traces of what might be treason if you bend the definition really hard. And sideways.

“And what of Lady Daelyra?” Otto pushes. “What would happen to her, should you face the consequences of your actions?”

Oh. Oh, he fucking did not.

“The king made me their commander, they are loyal to me,” he snaps, and holds the egg out. “You’ve come for the egg. Here it is. It is of no more use to me.”

Otto looks at him incredulously. “Are you mad? You’d never survive this.”

Mad. For getting upset for that piece of shit insinuating things about his daughter?

Fine. He’ll take mad. He puts his hand on Dark Sister’s pommel.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d take his chances, he thinks, with Caraxes well within reach and Ancalagon in the mist.

“To choose violence is to declare war against your king.”

“Wonderful,” Daemon says tersely. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks.

“Even if it ends in the death of your daughter—”

Daemon sees white. He doesn’t even fully register it, but then he’s holding Dark Sister, her blade of folded steel pointed straight at Otto, as unsheathed steel sings around him.

“You will not threaten my daughter,” he says with calmness that surprises even him. It makes Otto flinch.

Inside, he feels an inferno build in his chest. It sings at him to kill. To protect his daughter at all cost, and damned be Otto, and damned be Viserys too.

He’ll kill them all, if it’s for her. Then he’ll be king, and Daelyra will be queen after him.

He thinks he likes the sound of that.

Caraxes, attuned to him as always, crawls from behind the rocks in answer to his stress and rage, the dragon’s long neck twisting, his red scales glimmering in the fog and sunlight. He lets out a broken roar, more of a shriek, but paints a terrifying picture nonetheless.

Daemon holds Otto’s gaze for what feels like forever, and then Otto gives a small shrug and a nod, and a “all of you, sheathe the fucking steel.”

Oh look. Even Otto knows better sometimes. Wonder of wonders.

And then something snarls in the mist beneath, and Daemon’s smile grows from a slight smirk into a grin that shows teeth, as loud, methodical thumping sounds closer, and closer, as something huge moves in the mist. Otto’s goonies look to their right, where the sound comes from, uneasily, and Otto himself looks progressively more frantically between Daemon and the mist.

Then, a massive jagged head bursts out of the mist, followed by a long scaly neck as a gigantic black beast emerges from the valley, clamouring onto the rocks uncomfortably close to the bridge full of people. Daemon delights in watching Otto’s men turn whiter than fresh cotton sheets. Someone screams, someone almost falls over the other side of the bridge in their effort to get away, someone pisses himself from what Daemon sees, as Ancalagon stands tall enough to cast shadow over them all.

He's close enough that one more step of the massive beast and he would be able to devour them all; and they’re certainly well within the range of dragonfire.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important!” Lyra yells out cheekily, casually walking up Ancalagon’s neck and then down his head until she stands on his snout, between his eyes. She puts her hands on her hips and grins, letting Otto and his goonies take in her obviously windswept look, and Ancalagon pointedly turns to show off his brand-new saddle. Proof, as good as any, that this isn’t a one-off, that this isn’t Lyra temporarily taming a wild dragon like she’s done so many times.

Just in case.

Standing on top of her dragon, with the sun behind her, even a small girl like her cuts an incredibly imposing figure; moreso that they all need to look up to look at her. This is someone who will be listened to, and pride wells in Daemon’s chest, chasing his frustration away.

“Not at all, perzītsos. Lord Hand was already leaving.”

She nods and turns to Otto.

“Good to see you again, Lord Hand,” she says, her cheer so obviously fake that Daemon wants to laugh. “Are you here for the egg? You can very well take it—we scarcely need it anymore.”

She squats down, pointedly patting Ancalagon’s snout. The beast snorts, the gust of wind strong enough to shove some unprepared people around.

“I…” Otto says, swallowing. He looks like someone just made him drink the shit-filled seawater of King’s Landing, while being whiter than chalk at the same time. “I can see that, my lady,” he grits out.

She claps her hands. “I do hope my father was most gracious, even for the short while. Last few days were quite busy, so do forgive him if he was short with you.”

Her smile is absolutely beatific, and entirely fake.

Ancalagon shifts and growls. Caraxes barks at him, and Ancalagon hisses, his lips curling to reveal long, sharp teeth. One of Otto’s goonies faints.

The Gold Cloaks, who at least saw Ancalagon in passing before, fare a bit better.

“You father…” Otto says, somewhat dazed. “…has not been the most gracious host.”

“Why?” Lyra asks, eyes wide, fake cluelessness exacerbated by her tilting her head to the side. Otto grits his teeth, and for a moment Daemon is sure he’s going to call her out on making a fool out of him.

And then Syrax bursts through the clouds. Lyra shakes her head and stands up, running back to grab onto Ancalagon’s horns just as he rears his head up to snap his massive jaws at the yellow dragon barely the size of his head. Syrax screeches in terror, wings flapping to get her as far away from what undoubtedly is her hatchling-hood nightmare as possible, and Rhaenyra lets out an alarmed shout.

Daemon delights in Otto’s face contorting into an easily-readable ‘oh fuck’, what colour he regained fading away again.

“Anca, kelīs! Syrax ipradā daor!” Lyra commands loudly, and with one last snarl, he does stop. Lyra looks to the side, and Daemon notices her holding Rhaenyra’s wide, spooked gaze. She looks like a terrified kitten as she forces her dragon to perch on the bridge behind Otto and his goonies.

Syrax, predictably, wants to be nowhere near Ancalagon. She didn’t survive twenty-odd years on Dragonstone under the constant threat of him to now be led right into his jaws. She makes an alarmed noise when Rhaenyra slides off the saddle anyway and pushes through the people to get to the front of the procession, trying to move forward on the stone railing barely supporting her weight as is.

Ancalagon growls at her, and for a moment she’s very conflicted on whether she actually wants to be worried about Rhaenyra or should self-preservation win.

One more warning growl and self-preservation wins, and Syrax stays put.

Rhaenyra, daemon notices, looks confused and fearful, glancing at Ancalagon as she walks forward, any bravado she might’ve had flying here, gone. Clearly, she’s been expecting Caraxes at most. One reasonably-sized dragon versus another reasonably-sized dragon. In all honesty, it was a safe assumption. She had no way of knowing what kind of beast waited for Lyra here, and Daemon didn’t send any word out.

Not like it would’ve reached them in time, in this weather.

But she does walk forward, and that’s admirable enough.

“What are you doing here, princess?” Otto asks, nervous of the dragon above them all.

“Preventing bloodshed,” Rhaenyra says, voice only a little shaken.

“I’ve already done that, cousin!” Lyra calls. “Would you be so kind as to collect uncle’s lickspittles and herd them away? Ancalagon doesn’t like crowds very much. He gets anxious.”

Rhaenyra looks at her incredulously, and Lyra only smiles.

“What monstrosity is this?” the princess asks.

“My dragon!” Lyra chirps. Rhaenyra huffs. It’s shaky, Daemon says, but she tries to smirk.

“That’s a nightmare on wings,” she says, and Lyra cackles.

“I know! I love him a lot!”

She’s pale, but whether she’s forming a rapport with Lyra instinctively or consciously, Daemon can’t help but commend her for it. She knows he’s fond of his daughter, and she just bolstered her odds exponentially.

Rhaenyra looks between her and Daemon, and Daemon just smiles. Shocked and wary, she still walks forward. If it’s bravery or bravado, Daemon doesn’t much care; he finds it admirable enough regardless.

<My father named me the Princess of Dragonstone,> Rhaenyra tells him, instead of further discussing Ancalagon. <That’s my castle you’re living in, uncle.>

<You’ve angered your king.>

Rhaenyra clicks her tongue, the brat. <And that required you to steal my brother’s egg?>

Which. Is true, to a degree. Daemon has been waiting for a chance to have Lyra try to bond a dragon ever since she expressed no more interest in Dreamfyre than an occasional nap under her wing; so, when the she-dragon laid a clutch, and only one was viable, he did plan on asking for Lyra to try hatching the egg.

Hells, he did ask.

But Rhaenyra snatched it first, just as Viserys was about to agree, claiming that it was for Baelon.

(Now he knows that it wasn’t Lyra’s dragon, but few weeks back, he didn’t.)

Rhaenyra looks at him, and sighs.

“I’m right here, uncle,” she says, and Daemon blinks in surprise. “The object of your ire. The reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me.”

That’s. Objectively incorrect. He was banished because he called Viserys a murderer, and toasted Baelon as a heir for a day, and Otto spun it the way that would anger Viserys most. He never wanted to be the heir, and he sure as all hells wouldn’t want to be restored. All he ever wanted was to stay by Viserys’ side, like father told him he should.

He glances at Lyra. She shrugs and shakes her head.

Yes, that’s about how he feels right now.

“So do it,” Rhaneyra continues. “And be done with all this bother.”

Otto is a bother. Daemon doesn’t think he cares that much, not about the throne, or really his brother. Not after he’s done some soul-searching and realized that he doesn’t want his life defined by Viserys. Not when he has his daughter and his dragon (and maybe his daughter’s grumpy dragon, too) by his side.

And yes, power is nice to have. He wants it. The prestige, the respect, the money. But he’ll manage on his own just fine, he thinks. He doesn’t need to scuttle in Viserys’ shadow.

He doesn’t want to, after what happened.

Daemon chuckles, and throws the egg to Rhaenyra, as she scrambles to catch it without much grace.

“If this is what this whole situation is about, then you know even less about me than I thought, niece.”

Rhaenyra looks at him with wide eyes.

<Daughter!> he says loudly, snapping his head to the side. <Turn your beast around, lest it decides little Syrax would make for a fine meal after all!>

Lyra laughs, and with few sharp commands, Ancalagon turns around and crawls back into the misty valley below, only to burst upwards, flying deeper into the island.

He turns around and walks back to the keep, not interested in watching Rhaenyra and Otto go. Fatigue seeps into his bones with every step, but it wasn’t bad. More importantly, it was rather fun, seeing Otto almost piss himself. He will surely re-evaluate his stance, now that Lyra rides the second largest dragon alive. He will consider them even more of a threat than before.

But it wasn’t bad.

He’s certain that Syrax will be rather cross with Rhaenyra for almost flying her right into Ancalagon’s jaws, too.

○

He barely sits down and throws his gloves on the table when Lyra bursts into the room, cackling maniacally.

<Dad, dad, did you see Otto’s face?> she squeals, all but throwing herself on his lap. He barely catches her. <Oh, he looked so constipated, it was amazing!>

he chuckles and leans back as she only now unwinds the scarf from her neck, and throws it with her gloves next to his on the table. Her braids held very well in this windy weather, he notices, pleased. He spent all morning on them. <It was tiring, though. Dealing with Otto always is. I didn’t expect Rhaenyra to come, though.>

<Yeah, not the best move. It was very dangerous with just Caraxes alone.>

<Mhm. I think I will take a nap, now. I’m exhausted.>

<Alright, but be careful. The volcanic ground is unstable, and the air is full of ash, especially near the summit.>

<I’ll keep that in mind.>

○

It’s scarcely a week later—Lyra barely seen Grey Ghost twice, but the dragon seemed healthy at least, but all the dragons are accounted for, yet-unnamed pony-sized Sunfyre included—that Daemon bursts into the room with a letter in his hand. She can see teal wax seal with a seahorse stamp, broken in half.

She gathers her notes and shoves them into a leather bag for safekeeping.

<Aight!>

Finally, Stepstones.

Maybe she’ll get to stay with the Velaryons for its duration. It would certainly be nice.

(She wheedled a recipe for a healing salve for dragons from one of the Keepers. It would be nice if she could rope Laena into patching up Vhagar’s wings a bit.)

#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #targaryen oc #daemon targaryen #the cannibal dragon #caraxes #otto hightower #rhaeynra targaryen #the thign about dragons #ttad #isekai #reincarnation #original targaryen character #tolkien references

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