I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Fifty-Six: A Bond Rekindled
The battlefield was silent now.
The screams, the clang of steel, the roar of war—all had faded into echoes of the past.
Only the stench of burned flesh and smoldering remnants remained, drifting through the Northern camp like ghosts of the fallen.
But Daeron paid them no mind.
His mind was elsewhere.
His feet carried him beyond the tents, beyond the soldiers still cheering his name, beyond the prisoners being rounded up, beyond the northern banners waving in the wind.
There, in an open clearing, stood his dragon.
Lyrax.
Her massive black-and-blue form was curled upon the earth, her wings partially folded, her golden eyes reflecting the flames that still flickered in the distance.
She had made her temporary roost here, in an abandoned field, far enough that she wouldn't frighten the men, but close enough to watch over Daeron.
The northern soldiers kept a wide berth around her, their eyes filled with awe and fear as they passed.
To them, she was no mere beast.
She was a living legend.
She sensed his approach before he even spoke.
Her great head lifted, golden eyes locking onto him.
For the first time in his life, Daeron Targaryen stood face to face with his dragon.
Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward, intending to follow.
"My king," Arthur said. "I should—"
Daeron shook his head.
"Not this time, Arthur," Daeron said, his voice gentle but firm.
"This is something I must do alone."
Arthur hesitated for a moment, but then bowed his head.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Daeron gave him a small nod before continuing forward.
A rush of emotions flooded Daeron's mind—not just his own, but hers.
Joy. Relief. Contentment.
The bond between them—formed the day she hatched—had always been there, but it had been distant, fragmented, weakened by years of separation.
Now?
Now it was whole again.
Daeron took slow steps forward, Ghost padding beside him, his ever-present shadow.
He reached out with both hands—
And pressed them against her warm, scaled snout.
For a long moment, he just stood there, eyes closed, feeling her presence.
And then, unable to stop himself, he wrapped his arms around her massive head.
"I've waited so long for this, girl," he whispered, his voice barely above the wind.
Lyrax rumbled deep in her throat, a sound of pure contentment.
She nudged him with her snout, her massive wings twitching, as if wanting to wrap him in them.
It was strange, yet natural.
As if something that had been missing all this time had finally returned.
For the first time in his life, Daeron Targaryen felt whole.
Ghost remained by Daeron's side, his large white form watchful, calculating, silent.
Lyrax finally turned her attention to the direwolf.
Her massive golden eyes narrowed.
She lowered her head, sniffing at him.
Ghost did not move, did not flinch.
Instead, he tilted his head up, meeting her gaze with his own crimson eyes.
For a moment, neither beast moved.
Only silent tension filled the air.
Dragon and direwolf—two creatures not meant to exist together, now bound by the same man.
Lyrax let out a soft huff, a puff of smoke escaping her nostrils.
Ghost, in turn, exhaled sharply, ears twitching.
It was as if they had wordlessly come to an agreement:
"I tolerate you. For his sake."
Daeron let out a laugh, shaking his head.
"You two are impossible," he muttered, running a hand through Ghost's thick fur while patting Lyrax's snout.
Both huffed in response, neither truly acknowledging the other.
Daeron only smiled.
As Daeron stood beside Lyrax, feeling the heat radiate from her scales, he could feel the shift in the world around him.
Everything had changed.
The moment Lyrax descended upon the battlefield, the Northmen had looked at him differently.
Not just as their king, but as something more.
A Targaryen king with a dragon at his command.
The sight of dragonfire had burned itself into their memories.
Now, Daeron was no longer just a boy raised in Winterfell.
No longer just a Stark bastard, or the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen.
Now, he was a Targaryen king with fire in his blood—with a dragon under his command.
Now, he was Daeron Targaryen.
The King in the North.
The True Heir to the Iron Throne.
The man who rode with both direwolves and dragons.
And the world would never forget it.
But for now—none of that mattered.
For now, Daeron would enjoy this moment, away from politics, away from war.
He would simply be Daeron, bonded with his dragon, his direwolf by his side.
He took a seat on the warm earth, leaning against Lyrax's massive head.
Ghost settled beside him, resting his great white head in Daeron's lap.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of fire and fur.
And, for the first time in years, Daeron did something he had not done since he was a child.
He sang.
A soft melody, an old Northern lullaby, one he had heard from Old Nan long ago.
As he sang, Lyrax's golden eyes drifted closed.
Ghost let out a soft breath, nestling against him.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the song into the night.
And for now—
Just for now—
Daeron let himself be at peace.