Confronted with the challenge of identifying rich humans to target for my treasure hoard, I've had to devise a rather intricate strategy. This entails taking to the skies during the cover of night, carefully selecting a location where I can hover motionless and inconspicuous. The plan hinges on patiently waiting for unsuspecting humans to appear as morning unfolds. However, the initial place I chose seems dominated by goat farmers, or perhaps more aptly termed goat shepherds in this island. Regrettably, these individuals are generally impoverished, possessing little of value to contribute to my burgeoning hoard. Though a goat does make a good snack if one does stray far too close to me.
Fortunately there are no repercussions for my occasional snacking's outside of the complete abandonment of the use of the trail I was watching by the Goatherders. Meaning I have to rethink my approach, perhaps I should follow one at a distance next time, they are extremely skittish, then again if a dragon were following me and I were dressed like I belonged in a low technological and fantasy setting I would too.
It appeared that the stagnant situation wouldn't budge unless I took a different approach, implying a need to depart from this current locale—maybe venture further toward the coast where civilization dwells. I'm aware of towns and a castle there; I've soared past them. Additionally, I'm cognizant of a colossal dragon in the vicinity, close to that area, the Cannibal Dragon. Oddly enough, it retreats whenever I approach the territory claimed by that massive dragon.
Yet, despite these dynamics, it felt like nothing was going to alter for me. Little did I know, change was looming on the horizon, and it was about to happen far too swiftly for my liking.
Tonight was the chosen moment for my departure, and the sky was adorned with an ample spread of clouds. In this evening shrouded in darkness, where the moon's light was concealed by the veiling clouds, I deemed it suitable to take to the air and cautiously approach the outskirts of human civilization. Patience dictated that I endure the passing day, awaiting the opportune time when the darkness would cloak my movements, providing the ideal conditions for my departure.
Somewhere around noon, when the sun cast its unrelenting glow across the sky, an unusual scent wafted into my senses. It was distinctly human, or more precisely, the scent of a lone human, and perhaps the faint hint of a horse lingering in the air. Under normal circumstances, such a presence wouldn't have fazed me, but considering the eerie absence of any human activity in this vicinity for the past two days, my instincts were instantly heightened.
In a world where peasants walk, the possibility of encountering men-at-arms and even knights lurked beneath the surface. The implication being that a confrontation might be inevitable, and the choice presented itself starkly – retreat swiftly or take to the skies to evade any potential assault. After all, I possess the means to turn the tide of a skirmish, envisioning scenarios where I might need to unleash the scorching flames upon an armoured knight if the situation demanded it.
I couldn't shake the certainty that this would only lead to more retaliation. After all, the noble knight had likely arrived, convinced that I needed to pay for depriving the goat herders of their livelihood. His demise would undoubtedly serve as a rallying cry for more noble knights to take up arms against the wicked dragon – that's me in this twisted tale.
Sure, I could handle one or two of them, sidestep their misguided sense of justice. But the problem lay in the inevitable cascade. More would follow, drawn like moths to the flame of vengeance. It was the inexorable nature of such situations. More always came, each one convinced they were the hero destined to slay the dragon and set things right.
If I decided to stay on the ground; it gave me some advantage. This was a goat path, designed for goat herders to guide their flock across, wide enough for a horse to trot but hopefully not wide enough for a full-on gallop.
As if to mock my assumptions, the sounds shattered my quiet contemplation. The rhythmic thudding of hooves and the accompanying panting announced the arrival of a rider. Strangely small, considering the sound of their approach. As the rider emerged from the distance, rounding the corner of the path at a gallop, reality promptly debunked my expectations.
My keen eyesight effortlessly discerns the approaching rider and horse. A young girl, seemingly of middle school age, perched atop the horse. My internal monologue kicks into gear. First and foremost, where are her parents, and why are they allowing their daughter to ride on a horse unattended? It's the sort of negligence that baffles me. Secondly, and more urgently, why is she riding in the direction of a dragon girl? Did she not get the memo that we supposedly have this unexplainable penchant for kidnapping princesses? The logic eludes me, though I guess without that act, there'd be no story, or so they say.
She continues to ride hard, and her gaze flickers in my direction. There I am, standing out like a sore thumb against the green expanse of the grass I'm sprawled on. Instead of exhibiting a modicum of common sense, like avoiding the clearly visible dragon, she urges her horse to go faster, defying the creature's own instinct to steer clear. The panic and pleading in the horse's eyes is palpable, the fear practically wafting through the air. It's an oddly tempting aroma, so much so that I almost entertain the thought of opening my mouth and savouring the scent like some serpent tasting the air for its next prey.
Intrigued by the approaching rider, I opt not to take flight, maintaining my comfortable sprawl on the grass. As she draws nearer, the quality of her attire catches my attention. Her dress stands out, a significant departure from the ragtag garments worn by the humans I've encountered lately. It's a striking red on black, kept in pristine condition. I can't help but ponder: is this the beginning of a hero's journey? Was she cast out of her home, perhaps a runaway? Has her castle fallen, overrun by invaders or targeted by assassins? The absence of any lingering scents suggests she might have successfully eluded any pursuers. It's a curious twist in the narrative, and I can't help but let my mind wander through the possibilities. Let's just hope she's a well written protagonist or maybe antagonist even, it is more entertaining to read such things.
My contemplations come to an abrupt halt as the teen brings her horse to a stop right in front of me. The audacity. I'm a dragon girl, for crying out loud. You're fortunate I had a human past; otherwise, I might entertain the thought of making a meal out of you and your horse. Well, at least the horse, if you leave it unattended.
Oi, girl What's with that triumphant look on your face? What's so triumphant about stumbling upon or seeing me? The whole situation has me perplexed, and I'm not sure whether to be amused or irritated by her blatant disregard for the supposed danger I represent.
Ignoring any semblance of concern for her own safety, the girl dismounts the horse, tightly gripping the reins. With audacious boldness, she strides toward me, that inexplicable triumph still gleaming in her eyes. As she opens her mouth and begins speaking, or at least making sounds, I find myself utterly lost because, surprise surprise, it's not in Japanese.
I can't help but wonder, would it have been too much to ask for a bit of instinctual knowledge on comprehending the languages of these people? It's like someone forgot to program that essential dragon feature into my repertoire.
Then her eyes fall to my fore-legs with interest, what's she looking at those for? Has she never seen a dragon with four legs before? I mean the cannibal has two, but I have four, giving me six limbs in total if you include the wings and discount the tail.
The girl extends a delicate hand, and as she comes closer, details that I should have noticed earlier now become glaringly apparent. For starters, she's got this unique combination – white hair and purple eyes. It's a blend I've never seen before. Not albino, though, as her skin has a healthy pink hue, ruling out any notions of paleness. On closer inspection, her hair isn't exactly white but more of a silvery-golden shade. Must be the result of some magic or whatever. Is she some kind of sorceress?
She reaches out, daringly touching my snout. I can't help but question her sense of self-preservation. I mean, seriously, girl, do you have any idea what I could do? Despite my scepticism, a faint warmth radiates from the contact. She continues to gently rub my snout, her eyes filled with excitement and something more, something that eludes definition.
As the warmth spreads, a nagging thought creeps in – is she some kind of sorceress, casting a spell on me? Should I be concerned?
54 AC
The Smallfolk were right, and there it was—a dragon lounging nonchalantly by the roadside, not far from the mighty Dragonmont. They insisted it would devour any unsuspecting goat or livestock that dared to wander too close. Brazenly, the beast seemed to be eagerly anticipating its next meal, as if the very idea of feasting on the Smallfolk's expenses brought it amusement.
Not a particularly sizable dragon, just about four or five years old, but already a good bit larger than a horse. It had an unusual shape, boasting four legs instead of the typical two, and its wings were distinct limbs of their own. The scales were a delightful dark coal grey, complemented by impressive horns. Its back promised to broaden more than other dragons, thanks to those distinct wings, though the forelimbs appeared a tad smaller than the hind legs. There it lay, basking in lazy glory, seemingly content to either disregard my presence entirely or put on a façade of indifference.
I am a Targaryen, and at least I was, until just a year ago I was the Heir to the Iron Throne, the Heir to the Seven Kingdoms—that was who I was. It makes the situation all the more bitter, the fact that those titles are no longer mine. My mother and her entourage, they're consumed by their own schemes and notions. She shares her bed with them more often than with her own husband, my step-father, adding another layer to the humiliation.
That man, I don't hold much regard for him. Timid and weak, he lets my mother trample all over him. I doubt he'll last long, especially after his sister's abrupt departure with three dragon eggs. Mother suspects his involvement, but I see through it. He wouldn't have the audacity to aid his sister, even if he harboured the desire. Androw Farman is too feeble and lacking in willpower to be part of such an undertaking. Maybe he was aware his sister planned to steal the eggs before she left, but Elissa wouldn't have confided in him. She left without taking her brother, and she certainly didn't take me either. Now the beast only has three heads, and all the better.
I fix my gaze upon the coal-coloured dragon, peering into his unnatural yellow eyes. They're unlike the serpentine gaze of Dreamfyre or any of the others—whole, like gems with more humanlike pupils or irises that mar their brilliance. Those amber eyes lock onto mine, intensely assessing and measuring my worth. I am worthy, I know that much. If a woman as unworthy as my mother could take to the skies on a dragon, then I am more than deserving to do the same.
"Sōvēs," I address the dragon in the tongue of old Valyria, and I witness the dragon's reaction—confusion, as if it recognizes the words but can't comprehend why. "I want to," I declare to the coal-coloured dragon, locking eyes with it. "Do you?"
"Sōvēs". The word escapes the lips of the white-haired girl, and it resonates within me. It's odd; I don't fully comprehend how I know the meaning behind that word, but an instinctive understanding settles in. Somehow, I recognize that the utterance is about flight, the very act of soaring through the skies.
The sensation grips me, a longing that makes my wings ache, urging them to unfurl. It's as if an ancient instinct is rekindled, compelling my wings to stretch to their full wingspan, yearning for the freedom of the open skies.
I blink, wrestling with the sudden surge of sensations and instincts. My gaze sharpens as I glare at the girl before me, her proud smile hanging in the air. It's not the smile of the cat that got the cream; it's the grin of the cat that devoured the canary, framed the dog, and cunningly positioned itself as the primary benefactor in the canary's forged will.
I let out a snort at the girl's words. Her foul magic, whatever scheme she's concocting, will find no purchase with me.
Let's see if she can keep up that bravado? Shaking the girl's hand off my snout I bare my teeth at the girl, and let out a slow rumbling growl from deep into my chest. Hot smoke and steam puff out from my throat, (which no doubt stinks) as I try to spook the white haired girl.
Instead of fleeing or flinching, the girl's smug expression transforms into one of seriousness and stony conviction. It's as if she's staring at the most crucial thing in her life – or maybe my challenge is exactly that for her. If that's the case, it forces me to contemplate the size of my own ego and consider the possibility that her world has been exceptionally sheltered. A challenge from a dragon should typically induce some level of trepidation, yet her unwavering resolve makes me question the breadth of her experiences and the extent of her understanding of the world.
The girl begins to speak, but unlike that single word from before, there's no magical understanding of her words this time. Much to my disappointment, it seems I'm left in the dark, grappling with the language barrier. I can't help but let out an inward sigh. Would it have been too much to ask for whoever's responsible for my current predicament to throw in an automatic translator or something? The lack of this basic feature feels like a cruel and possibly deliberate oversight.
I blink as once more the girl has her hand on my draconic face, her hand feeling out the shape of my snout once more, perhaps I should sneeze though that would risk burning her hand off, not that I know what a dragon sneezing looks like.
Her hand trails down my jaw as she walks, fingers skimming along the contours of my jaw and then down my neck, making a calculated effort to avoid the bared teeth. The inspection doesn't conclude there. The girl persists, her fingers tracing along my neck, finally coming to a halt at my shoulders.
It's as if she's conducting a meticulous overview, exhibiting a deliberate precision in her actions, strategically avoiding potential danger zones — the primary danger zone being my open jaw, a subtle taunt that I may dare bite her (if I could get away with it, then yes I would), just come here and ask one of the goats that thought to investigate and headbutt me earlier here.
Personally, I lean more towards beef, but I'm not one to decline a home-delivered meal that struts up to me with a certain level of insistence on being devoured. Grilled goat was on the menu that afternoon, a departure from the usual fare of fish, eggs, birds, and the occasional sheep that has graced my palate. It's a small culinary deviation, but variety does add a bit of spice to an otherwise predictable diet.
My train of thought slams to a sudden halt as the girl's hand trails down my neck, a departure from my face as she traverses me to the side, engaging in this peculiar action. I can't help but interrupt her in my mind. Hey, girl, what's going on in that head of yours? Surely there are more pressing matters to occupy your time than fondling random dragons by the roadside. Is this some eccentric trend among the local inhabitants here? Or perhaps a peculiar practice within the eccentric circles of dragon enthusiasts? Since the goatherds definitely gave me a wide berth.
My head turns to follow the girl's actions as she inspects my wings, a look of serious concentration etched on her face. Attempting to smirk (a bit challenging given that dragon facial features aren't exactly suited for such expressions), I decide to play a little prank. I stretch my wings, spreading them wide, causing the white-haired girl to tumble over. A chuckle escapes me at the stunned look on her face, which quickly morphs into a mix of outrage and realisation. Sometimes, being petty like this is rewarding.
What I certainly didn't expect is for the outraged girl to get up and start punching me. Shockingly, not because her blows are doing anything significant. My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death! Okay, that was cringe, but aside from myself, there's no one here to witness it. As the girl moves from punching to including kicks in her repertoire, I'm left wondering if she's genuinely convinced she can leave a dent on a dragon that easily.
I decide it's time to bring the 'thunderbolt' part of my tail into play from that cringeworthy spiel. Lifting it up, I slam it into the ground. The impact, softer than I'd prefer given my current size, is still enough to grab the attention of the white-haired girl. It's a subtle signal that perhaps she should reconsider her assault on me.
Briefly, I entertain the notion that the girl has grasped the message to leave me alone, but my hopes are swiftly dashed as she defiantly stamps her foot before stomping up to me. The sheer indignation etched across her face is something to behold – the look of a spoiled child denied the toy they desire. Oddly, I find myself relishing the look on her face. It's a mixture of frustration and disbelief that's almost satisfying, to know I am the one who caused it.
This dragon is mocking, can you believe it? Mocking me, Aerea Targaryen, the eldest daughter of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaena Targaryen. I used to be the Heir to the Iron Throne, a position I held since the days of my Grand Uncle Maegor the Cruel. And now this insolent dragon has the audacity to tease me? Who does it think it is?
The snort from the coal-coloured dragon makes it clear it finds my fury amusing. I can discern an amused glint in its eyes, coupled with what I can only assume is a cheeky grin on its face. I pause, attempting to collect myself. I am being turned into a laughing stock by a dragon—of all things, a dragon! None of my studies prepared me for the possibility that dragons could exhibit such behaviour.
Then, upon that realisation sinks in, after a moment, my anger dissipates. Once more, it seems I've stumbled upon a priceless treasure. This dragon may fancy itself clever—and perhaps it is—but it fails to grasp that, by revealing this side to me, it has only validated my suspicions. It is more than just a six-limbed mutant; it can think and reason for itself. Now, the question lingers: How intelligent is it, truly?
Intelligent enough to experience amusement, to emit a chuckle or a rumble that mimics one, especially after lifting its wings and playfully knocking me over. It's clear this dragon possesses a level of intelligence that goes beyond mere instinct. It also demonstrated its cleverness by lifting its tail and slamming it down, a warning of sorts, when I attempted to strike it. It's a fascinating blend of wit and strength. And also spiteful pettiness, in short he is the perfect dragon for me despite ot being Balerion the Black Dread.
This must be mine, my dragon. I was denied a dragon egg in my cradle, despite being the Heir for so long. The injustice of it all infuriates me; I despise it, and I despise them—every one of them.
I hate Queen Alysanne for having a dragon egg placed for her by my mother when I received none. I resent her for not taking me back to Kingslanding with her. King Jaehaerys, I hate him too, for granting my mother Dragonstone and allowing her to take me away. And oh, my mother—I loathe her for leaving me for Fair Isle, for once placing a dragon egg in Alysanne's cradle while doing nothing for me, abandoning me as a child to go to Fair Isle. Elissa Farman, I hate her for leaving me here, fleeing, and stealing the dragon eggs. The ladies of my mother's court in Dragonstone, I hate them for ignoring me, preferring to cater to my mother and her bed.
My thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the wings of this dragon, once outstretched, now curl in around me. One of them, the one closest to me, wraps snugly around, drawing me closer to the dragon until I can feel the warmth of its body. Despite my attempts to resist, the dragon holds me in place—not harshly, but with a firmness that feels almost gentle, as if it's making an effort to be so.
Here's where you'd typically dole out as many head pats as needed (and be fined points by my imouto for doing so), though I think that is more a gesture for praising kids, rather than comforting them. Then again, I'm not exactly equipped to offer any head pats myself. Being a dragon means I've got claws instead of hands. What a damned fool I am, an idiot, succumbing to the sadness and anger reflected in those eyes, awakening a part of myself I'd rather forget.
That anger, that outrage at the world—sure, I'd like to say I know it too. But the worlds she inhabits and the one I come from are likely too different and irreconcilable.
Nevertheless, I'll stick around with the brat for a while. She doesn't seem to have any friends, not with that temper of hers. A loner through and through. How do I know? Well, I suppose there are certain aspects of my human life that still sting fresh in my memory.
At the end of the day, it's akin to that situation with the dog and the car that got me into this mess. I can't help but get involved. It's like my fate is entangled with these peculiar situations, much like a dog running across the road about to be hit by that car. I at least saved the dog right?
I blink my eyes open, unaware that I had drifted into sleep. How disgraceful, I, a princess—or, well, I was a princess. While my mother now holds Dragonstone, it won't be for much longer once my uncle, the King, has a son. Aunt Alysanne already bore a son for King Jaehaerys, but he perished just three days after his birth. She attributed the untimely birth and the death of my cousin to the assassination attempt on her life at Jonquil's Pool in Maidenpool. She told me that if she had been able to bathe in the pool and its healing waters, her babe would have survived.
I despise those women. It's true, if my cousin had survived, I might have been disinherited, but I still wanted to see him. There he was, skinny, frail, delicate, yet precious. I yearned to hold him in my arms, but the Queen deemed me too young to cradle the newborn babe. Aunt Alysanne assured me that once her son was healthier and his condition had stabilised in a few days, I would be able to see him.
That moment never arrived; my newborn cousin passed away a few days later. It was painful—it hurt the King, it hurt the Queen, and consequently, it hurt me. It reminded me of my sister Rhaella, sent to Oldtown to become a Septa by Maegor the Cruel, she chose to continue that path even after Maegor's demise.
My own mother never held me. She abandoned me for Fair Isle and then whisked me away from Kingslanding to the chilly court of Dragonstone. She took her favoured women to bed on dragon rides aboard Dragon Dreamfyre. But me? She never took me; it never occurred to her. I am as unloved as her husband Androw, the dullard.
So, it seems fitting that the first time I find comfort in what feels like an eternity, I discover myself disarmed, succumbing to sleep in that comforting embrace. I suppose it's apt for a Targaryen to have only a dragon as a companion.
Then it reaches my ears—the frantic galloping of hooves, the metallic clinks of armour on horseback, and the anxious voices of knights. In the distance, I catch the distinctive cries of Ser Stupid and Sir Swears-a-lot. Well, isn't this just splendid? Someone has finally taken notice of my absence from Dragonstone, a realisation that has seemingly taken them hours, or perhaps an entire day.
I find myself snugly hidden beneath the protective sweep of the dragon's wing, hidden from the view of the knights. Approximately four to five of them, I surmise, catch sight of my horse, faithfully standing nearby. The ensuing cries from the knights suggest a sudden realisation as they notice the dragon, lounging lazily by the roadside.
"Her horse stands there, but where is the Princess?" cried Sir Stupid, visibly shocked. My mother's temper had soured ever since that rogue Elissa Farman absconded with the dragon eggs. This turn of events meant she had been exceedingly ruthless and harsh in her punishments, exhibiting a heavy-handedness beyond necessity.
Sir Stupid, undoubtedly fearing for his life, faced the unfortunate reality that my mother only took interest in my well-being when I happened to be missing. The rest of the time, I'm treated as nothing more than furniture—present but inconspicuous, garnering no one's attention.
"There's a fucking Dragon there," curses Sir Swears-a-lot, his expletives punctuating the realization as he notices my dragon. "Of all the things we we have to find, it has to be a fucking Dragon!"
"This is Dragonstone, after all," another knight quips, "of course, it would be strange to find a dragon here; they only fly around the Dragonmont where we are, after all." Sarcastic remarks from Sir Obvious, vying for the title of Sir Stupid, the most foolish knight in Dragonstone.
Doesn't he realise the folly of approaching a dragon? Only a Targaryen can safely come close to them; everyone else might as well be volunteering for a dragon's dinner. These Andals, just like these knights, seem oblivious to the danger. Perhaps they think their shiny armour will protect them, but they're fooling themselves. In the end, they might as well be lining up to be eaten, their armour serving as a metal-coated seasoning. Knight or no knight, the dragons won't discriminate.
My dragon seems to find them amusing, and I can sense its amusement in what I can only describe as a peculiar burp. A subtle scent of smoke reaches me, a clear sign that it has either just let out a belch or, at the very least, attempted to. But what could possibly be the purpose behind my dragon indulging in such an act as burping?
"The dragon devoured her!" Sir Horse-nose exclaims, his panicked voice ringing in my ears. I sense the urgency in his actions as he hastily draws his blade. The other knights react with a mixture of shock and attempts to restrain him, cautioning against jumping to conclusions.
"The dragon devoured Lady Aerea," Sir Horse-nose insists, dismissing his companion's efforts to soothe him and prevent any disturbance to my dragon. "It consumed her. Her horse remains, yet she is nowhere to be found. There is a dragon here, a black dragon, and it swallowed her whole."
Firstly, it is Princess Aerea, secondly if that were true, my horse would have been the first to be devoured; my dragon would have satisfied its hunger with it before even considering me, assuming it was still hungry. Secondly, my dragon is clever enough to play a prank on the knight – it's rather amusing.
"Obviously, it would have devoured her horse first," Sir Obvious lives up to his name, pointing out the glaringly apparent. "A dragon this size wouldn't be capable of swallowing Lady Aerea whole." I can't help but bristle at his words. It's Princess, not Lady. I am a Princess, and until the King has a son, I'll continue to be a Princess, even if it's in a place as bleak and barren as Dragonstone.
As if revelling in the chaos it's inciting, my dragon lets out another burp, a clear taunt to the knights. The panic among them intensifies, and they start to lend credence to Sir Horse-nose's claims. I can't contain myself and burst into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of it all.
The moment is utterly ruined, my moment shattered to pieces. My disappointment is immeasurable. It's as if life has a particular talent for snatching away those rare instances when things could've gone my way. Strange that when I am having a good time something just has to come along and ruin it, well that is the way of things after all. At least there is no middle school gossip involved this time.
The knights' chatter meant nothing to me, lost in the vast sea of their unfamiliar language. Still, their gestures toward the girl's horse painted a somewhat decipherable picture (or so I presumed) — their mission was clear, or at least I believed it to be. They were here with the intent to rescue or reclaim the white-haired brat.
It's odd, consulting my dragon's handbook would suggest a different sequence. Step one usually involves finding a suitable lair, step three is all about kidnapping a princess, and only after completing steps one, two, and three do you move on to step four — the part where you engage in combat with gallant adventurers and noble knights aiming to rescue said princess. Somehow, I've managed to skip steps one to three and find myself thrust directly into the midst of step four. Life really doesn't follow the manual.
Well, I suppose it's time to dive into step five — engage in a mortal battle of epic proportions with the designated heroes, where they'll either triumph or succumb to my draconic might. While I'm marginally larger than their horses, the plan should be straightforward. First, spook their mounts into throwing them off with a sudden burst of dragon fire, then, with them dismounted, proceed to knock them off the goat path, sending them tumbling down the slope to their doom. Simple enough, right?
Too easy, minimal effort. What happened to the epic encounter? If they were looking for that, they should have waited for me to finish steps one to three first. Now, I'm just going to casually push them down the slope, maybe later collect their armour. It might not be much, but I hear armour is expensive, and I've got to start building my hoard with something. What could be more fitting than the trophies of my first foes?
The slight bundle under my wings squirms and reminds me that I am currently wrapping one of my wings around the white haired girl. But this idea gives me another one? Right now the Knight's don't seem too eager to face me despite my lack of size, perhaps I can motivate them.
Rumbling up from the depths of my gut, I let out a smoky blech that's offensive even to my own draconic senses. The knights' horses seem equally disgusted by my apparent lack of proper dental hygiene, rearing up in protest. The knights themselves struggle to maintain control, a precarious situation given our location on the side of a slope. It should be troubling, I guess. But strangely, I find a distinct lack of interest in their lives or the potential loss of their horses. Back when I was human, I wouldn't have called myself compassionate (please avert your gaze and attention from that incident with the dog I saved that somehow led to me getting hit by a car, that was merely a coincidence I assure you). But this disinterest I feel toward the potential peril of these knights is unsettling, even for me.
Distraction from that topic is likely my best bet, so I opt for that, zeroing in on the knight who seems more panicked than his own steed. He's pointing at me and yelling, much to the annoyance of his fellow knights. Did he take the bait? Just to be sure, I let out another smoky belch. And sure enough, it works like a charm. The knight scrambles for his sword, eager to draw it before his comrades reprimand him, briefly delaying the impending conflict. But only just.
Now, all that's left is to poke at this nervous wreck of a knight a little more, and he'll likely do something rash. That, in turn, will give me a rather nice meal of chevaline—horse meat, although "chevaline" does sound more intellectual and perhaps more romantic. I googled it once during my studious phase when I wanted to sound more intelligent than my peers. Then again, it was foolish. I didn't need to sound more intelligent than my peers; I was more intelligent than them.
A sudden giggle escapes from the girl hiding behind one of my wings, shattering my plans. The knights halt, their expressions now more serious, mixed with a healthy dose of bewilderment. They converse, but this time it's in hushed whispers, as if they're excited about something and don't want to spook anyone. There's a certain contentment and happiness emanating from the knights that irks the hell out of me. They're also riding a wave of relief that relaxes them so visibly I'm tempted to breathe out a small burst of fire just to spook them once more. I am a dragon; you don't ever get to relax around me.
I gaze at the knights, my eyes laced with a genuine sense of contempt and disappointment. Snorting in disdain, I unfurl my wings, revealing the white-haired brat who was nestled beneath them. Glancing at her, the girl wears the smuggest expression on her face as she eyes the knights. It's a look of vindication, of satisfaction, and of contentment in victory all rolled into one. I hate it. I am the dragon here, not you. They should be in awe and fear of my presence, not of a little white-haired girl with purple eyes.
Then something that I did not expect happens, the knight's almost in unison slide out of their saddles and onto the ground before dropping to one knee. The Girl says something to them in a spoiled and imperious tone that makes me want to smack her for sounding like that.
The knights, or at least their leader from his kneeling position, say something back to her, eliciting laughter from the brat—or at something. I'll be unfair to the girl and claim that because of the hurt in her eyes from earlier, she's being unfair, laughing at the knights. Then again, I did make fools of them, so she should be laughing, the sole audience to my prank. I suppose I should appreciate that someone other than myself liked my joke.
The girl then starts to clamber up onto my back? What's she trying to do, ride me? She makes her way onto my back and then onto my shoulders. I notice she's attempting to look down on the knights as they mount up back on their saddles, but given that I'm currently lying down, that's not quite possible. While I'm content to stay here on the ground, I can't help but suspect the knights would be more than a little startled if I were to stand.
So, I decide to stand up on my front and rear legs, elevating myself to a height where I can look at one of the knights almost at eye level. Of course, this means the brat hitching a free ride on my shoulders gets the same elevated view.
The girl then starts babbling something in their language, and from her tone, it sounds cringe-worthy. I'm immensely relieved that I have no clue what the kid is saying; otherwise, I'd probably be cringing so hard I'd curl up. And given she's probably no older than twelve or thirteen, it only makes it worse. Clearly, the girl is knee-deep in her Chūnibyō phase. That's probably why she was stupid enough to approach a dragon. Hopefully the kid will grow out of it and makes some real friends, okay who am I kidding here? She probably will remain a Chūnibyō for the rest of her life now that she got to hug a dragon.
As the girl's speech reaches its most impassioned poin, I decide to inject a bit of theatrics into the mix. It's the least I can do, and the looks on the knights' faces would be priceless. Also, what's with the lack of helmets? Don't they know you should always wear your helmet? Though, against me, that armour will be like an oven. Not that I intend to eat humans. While I'm currently a dragon, my mind was once human, so I think it might count as cannibalism? Either way, I wouldn't risk it.
Rising up on my hind legs, I loom over the knights, using my tail to help balance on the slope. I beat my wings proudly, prompting the knights to dismount to avoid being thrown off their horses and to keep their steeds under control.
Giggling in delight at my theatrics, the girl leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. She does something with her face, pressing it against my scales and leaving a slight amount of moisture. But I have no idea what she's doing.
After this, the girl whispers that word into my ear, "Sōvēs," she says in a soft, gentle but also conspiratorial fashion. Again, there is that strange, almost instinctual recognition that the word is about taking flight. I suppose if the girl wants to feel the freedom of flying along with the thrill and excitement of it, I could help her. She has no friends, after all, so who is she going to brag about this to?
Behold, I am a dragon of great generosity—let this be widely acknowledged and all praise and admire me for it, or something cringe-worthy to that effect. Contrary to the common notion that I am a covetous hoarder of wealth, I would like it known that I bestow free rides upon children when, by all rights, I should be demanding payment for such thrilling experiences. Perhaps, it is an idea to think on later, the notion of charging for dragon rides—a concept with the potential to yield rather generous gains.
Arching my hind legs backward, I propel myself into the air from the slope. With a mighty beat of my wings, I create a gust that swirls dust around the knights below, announcing my ascent into the skies. The girl's gleeful squeals accompany this aerial display, adding a touch of delight to the moment.
I close my eyes, and for a moment, I envision myself elsewhere. I am not in the sky, soaring as a mighty dragon of legend; no, I am on the ground, cycling, the wind on my face, a bored expression on my face as I hear a familiar, almost lost humming at my back. Seated behind me on the rear seat is a girl, a middle school student of average height. She has medium-length black hair and, just like myself, has a strand of hair standing straight from her head. That said, unlike me, her expression is cheerful and far from stoic. I burn that face—the only face that cared about me—into my memory. It is precious, one that I cannot bear to lose.
Then I open my eyes, and the sea and open sky are before me. I am a dragon once more, much to my disappointment. I did not wake up to find that this had all been a dream, only that the dream was what I wished to wake up to. Now I am soaring the skies, with a little girl clinging tightly to me as she cries out for sheer joy. Even so it was good to remember, even if it was only for a moment.
The feeling of the air beneath my wings, the gentle touch of the wind on my face as I ascend through the clouds—it's strangely exhilarating. There's this undeniable thrill, this odd excitement, like an itch that refuses to go away. A compelling desire to soar higher and higher in the vast expanse above. You know, it's like this persistent itch that originates from the depths of our genetic heritage. Back when we were just primates swinging through the trees, our bodies evolved to test us, to calculate our ability to reach the next branch.
But this urge, this need to fly, it's different for a dragon. It's more profound than the seemingly innocent impulse of our primate ancestors. It's not just about rising; it's about the irresistible urge to fall. It's about the plunge, the descent into the unknown, embracing the depths. Humans might find it hard to understand, but for a dragon, the thrill isn't just in the ascent, it's in the free fall, the rebellion against gravity, and the acceptance of the unpredictable.
Behold me now, soaring into the heavens, an undisputed sovereign of the sky. The speed and altitude I'm reaching are undeniably exhilarating—maybe too fast and too high for comfort. That's the sentiment creeping in as I tilt my head upward, subtly angling my tail downward, beating my wings in an unyielding ascent. My curiosity pushes me to discern the elusive threshold at which I must begin my descent, where the air thins and, perhaps, chills.
Yet, what concern should I have for the cold? I am a living, fire-breathing dragon, after all. I scoff at the limitations that would shackle me if I were just a mere mortal. Here, as a dragon, my wings are a tempest, and I laugh in the face of constraints that would bind a regular man. In this form, I can become a force of nature, a hurricane unleashed upon the sky and the earth below!
Just as it tends to happen, my human inclinations kick in, offering my mind a clarity that goes beyond the naturally draconic aspects of my form. It's a chilling realisation, a moment where I see I'm falling into the same trap that comes with the flight as a dragon. The feeling of superiority, soaring above the world, reducing even the mightiest of fortresses to nothing more than tiny ants. It's that bad nature of dragons, revelling in the illusion of power that flight grants, a perspective that tends to obscure the complexities beneath the surface.
Let's entertain this hypothetical scenario where, by some fantastical turn of events, I find myself as a military commander (though, let's be real, that's not my forte, is it? Not in this world or any other). Now, picture this: dragons at my command. Don't get bogged down in the logistics; let's just say I somehow convinced them, maybe with a stash of treasure or some priceless artefact—whatever suits your suspension of disbelief.
In this unlikely role, I'd strategize. I'd have these dragons carry small boulders over enemy fortifications, dropping them strategically to gauge how much havoc we could wreak on the enemy's position. Why commit troops to an all-out assault when you can rain destruction from above, right? It's not about recklessness; it's about calculated chaos, about dismantling the enemy's defences before making a decisive move.
Is it fair? Ha, hardly. But when has this world ever played fair? I busted my gut to snag a spot at Sobu State High School, only to get smacked by a car on day one. Now, my little sister's stuck dealing with our folks, who might need to be reminded to show up to my own funeral. Fairness? Yeah, it can take a hike. I'm here for the win, to maximise gains and cut losses.
In the realm of losing, I wear the veteran badge proudly. As a dragon, I can confidently claim that none can match my artistry in the fine craft of losing. Sure, there might be bigger dragons out there, and I've wisely chosen discretion over valour in their imposing shadows. Then again, when I reflect on my mathematical prowess—more accurately the complete lack thereof—I'm reminded that my scores in that subject were nothing short of dismal.
Ascending now, soaring straight up into the sky at a perfect 180 degrees, I deliberately ease off the speed. It's a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine, this momentary deceleration before plunging into a nosedive. As I start the turn, the descent begins, and the wind whips around me, its shrill cries echoing in my ears. There's this nagging feeling, a subtle reminder that I'm forgetting something, but the specifics elude me. It's like trying to grasp a fleeting thought, slipping through my fingers as I embrace the pull of gravity.
It's madness, sheer madness. My dragon, I know now without a shred of doubt, that it possesses a mind of its own, defies every command I shout at it. Clinging desperately to its neck with my arms and legs, I feel the rush of wind as it ascends even higher, challenging the natural pull of the world. My words are lost in the howling wind, and it pays no heed to my attempts at control.
In tales of Old Valyria, whispers spoke of dragons being guided by whips, enchanted horns, and sorcery. I ponder, if I possessed one of those whips or perhaps the magical horn, would my unruly dragon finally heed my commands?
My reflections on Old Valyria abruptly cease as my dragon's ascent slows, and it starts to turn over, exposing its back to the ground below. The force of the world's pull asserts itself, compelling us downward toward the vast ocean. Even Dragonstone, usually a formidable sight, appears diminished— not merely smaller than depicted on maps, but still so minuscule and inadequate that it sets my heart pounding.
Why did I allow my mother to bring me to this place? Why did I let the woman who deserted me whenever the opportunity arose snatch me away from Kingslanding? I'd give anything to return to that stable, to resume the simple work I did during the end of the Regency, before King Jaehaerys reached manhood.
These were my thoughts before my dragon and I embarked on our descent. Clinging to its back for dear life, I discover that the scales and horns provide a surprisingly secure hold. My dragon's head slices through the wind and air, creating a shield that shelters me. I only feel a gentle pressure of the wind against my hair and arms, a far cry from the fierce whipping it would have been without the dragon's protective embrace.
The sensation is exhilarating, absolutely fantastic. We're accelerating, picking up speed, and my dragon furls its wings, intensifying our descent. As we plunge lower, the ground rushes up to meet us. My dragon twirls in the air, spinning as if seeking to push its speed to greater heights, as if it could possibly go any faster than it already is.
Before the sea rushes up to greet us, my dragon unfurls his wings, letting them catch the air beneath us as he alters our course. We curve at an elegant, almost gentle slope, flying directly over the water. The speed we gathered is now being bled off, allowing us to gain more height over the waves. I can hear the roaring of the waves beneath us as we soar above it now at a much more gentle pace, allowing me to straighten up and sit up upon my dragon's shoulders in a more dignified manner. Befitting a Princess of my station.
Then it hits me, a sudden wave of fright and danger. The rapid ascent and descent blend into an unfortunate sequence of events, compelling me to lean forward over my dragon's shoulder and relieve myself of the contents of my stomach. Fortunately, it all falls into the vast ocean below, concealing the unsightly sight from view and sparing anyone who might catch a glimpse.
Then I feel it, a shadow looming over me and my dragon. Looking up, I'm met with a most unwelcome sight.
In the expansive skies, a dragon's perspective takes a turn when a shadow cloaks its flight. It's a simple equation—a looming presence overhead. You're left navigating in the shade, caught in the literal shadow of another dragon. Because, let's face it, in these skies, what else dares to cast a shadow over a dragon save another dragon.
The scent wafts in, foreign and unfamiliar. It's not the haunting fear that trailed me through those early days—the scent of the Cannibal Dragon. If it were, I'd probably be shooting back up into the sky, daring it to chase me. Or maybe, I'd be luring it towards the lair of that massive black dragon, the one even the Cannibal fears.
In this supposedly fantasy mediaeval world, where, fingers crossed, there are scholars—and if there's magic, well, magic academies and scholars better be a thing (I can't fathom a world drowning in the most banal fantasy stereotypes where everyone's a mediaeval ignoramus)—these scholars might have their theories. They might speculate about why one dragon would approach another in flight. But, for me, the answer resonates loudly in both my draconic and human minds. There's only one reason a dragon descends from above: it's on the hunt.
I'm hardly the size to go toe-to-toe with the Cannibal, let alone this new dragon I've yet to cross paths with. Still, there's this ember of bitter pride burning within me—the pride of a human whose kind has mastered its environment, a species that declared dominion over a planet, driving other apex predators to extinction as if it were a walk in the park. I won't succumb to being anyone's prey, let alone some mindless beast driven by instinct.
At this moment, it's merely watching, trailing me from a distance. No doubt, it's waiting for the opportune moment to close in, perhaps choosing to approach as I ease the descent and level out, skimming above the waves. Thanks to the relentless wind and the cacophony of the waves, coupled with not being accurately downwind from the other dragon, and this weird stench of vomit hanging around for some inexplicable reason (my stomach's a bit too resilient to be bothered by a freefall), I can't pinpoint precisely how much higher the other dragon is. All I know is, it's maintaining pace with me, although I'm not exactly pushing the limits of speed at the moment.
I could shift gears in an instant, ramp up the speed to test if the dragon would keep pace or bother pursuing me. Depending on its resolve, it might throw in the towel if the prospect of an easy meal slips through its claws or if I manage to dart far enough from its presumed turf. On the flip side, I'm contemplating another move—putting the brakes on abruptly or easing into a sudden slowdown, maybe even tempting the other dragon to overshoot me. That way, I get a good look at it, assess whether a battle is on the table and, more crucially, figure out the hows and whys if it comes down to a fight. Sure, there's the option to blend both approaches, but that hinges on the dragon being determined enough to give chase and not folding under the speed before I hit the brakes. And slowing down from those speeds? Well, that's no walk in the park either.
Either way, I sense the looming shadow shrinking by the moment, a clear signal that the dragon is honing in on the perfect range to make its move. That leaves me with a choice to make, and I have to make it now. I stretch my wings wide, catching the air with an expansive resistance that significantly decelerates my pace. Soon enough, I come to a complete standstill, flapping my wings just enough to stay afloat without moving forward as I gain altitude to try and assess the other dragon's response.
Just as I hoped, the dragon swooping down from above overshoots me, caught off guard by my unexpected manoeuvre. It grants me a clear view as I ascend higher into the sky. My pursuer turns out to be a sleek creature, mostly adorned in blue scales with a subtle touch of silver. Its crests shine in silver, and its wings carry a paler shade of blue. Judging by its build, it doesn't match the colossal proportions of the dragon that used to make a sport out of hunting me down in the past years. Still, it's notably larger than me, roughly twice my size or something in that ballpark—not too smaller than the cannibal from my past encounters.
This dragon, all slender and sleek like a sports car, is quite the contrast to the Cannibal, which is more like a tank. Given the choice, I'd much prefer my odds against a sports car than a tank any day of the week.
As I start to chase down the elegant blue dragon, our roles now reversed, closing in reveals a figure mounted on its back. So, it turns out it was after me at the rider's command. But here's the burning question: why on earth would someone riding a dragon be on my tail?
The answer's painfully clear—whoever that person is, they're aiming to capture and tame me, turn me into their obedient pet. Damn it, it all falls into place. Why settle for one dragon when you can control two? Or three? Heck, maybe even four? The more dragons under your command, the more literal firepower at your disposal.
So, is that what the brat from earlier was attempting? Trying to tame me? If that's the case, she had a peculiar approach, blabbering away in that weird tongue of hers and then presuming I'd follow her orders just because she hopped on my back. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by how I managed to comprehend the words she used. I'm pretty certain it's not from any language in my repertoire. Is it the language of dragons or something stupid like that?
Thinking back to that girl, the last clear image etched in my mind involves me reluctantly playing chauffeur for the brat, and then—my train of thought comes to an abrupt halt. It hits me like an unexpected gust of wind—I've been soaring through the skies for hours, completely forgetting about the stubborn kid who had the audacity to perch on my shoulders. In an instant, the seemingly awe-inspiring stunts I executed transform into nothing short of irresponsible antics.
With a cautious tilt of my head, I glance backward to find the kid still miraculously—probably by some twist of plot armour—clinging to my neck and shoulders. It must be convenient for her to wield those 'main character' powers. She clings to me with a mix of desperation and a glare, but not at me, oh no, at the dragon I'm in pursuit of. I suppose it's plausible that she might recognize the rider.
Is the rider of the blue dragon some kind of rival? Am I on the verge of being dragged into a showdown between a dragon rider and the girl perched on my shoulders? It's a tangled mess, you know. The more dragon riders there are, the less power each of them wields—it's all split up between them. Provoking one dragon rider might lead someone to seek protection from another, diluting the authority both have. If they end up fighting, there's a real risk of losing both dragons in the process.
Maybe I'm diving a bit too deep into this? Perhaps, and hopefully, since I'm not caught up in any of these conflicts and currently have no inclination to be anyone's tool—well, at least not without proper compensation (a hoard of treasure would suffice, I suppose)—maybe I don't need to jump into a brutal fight to the death just yet. Yes, I might be an unreasonable guy, but being unreasonable by human standards practically makes you a saint by draconic ones. Let it be known that I'd like to think of myself as sagacious, even if, in all likelihood, I'm far from it.
I can't say for sure if it's the rider commanding the chains, the dragon itself, or some combo of the two, but that blue dragon's got some serious finesse. It smoothly pivots around, compelling me to circle down to avoid a direct face-off—I'm no fool to risk that. It might not be the Cannibal, but who's to say dragons aren't all cannibals? I mean, I do know some dinosaurs were. So, my move is to adjust my course, approaching the dragon from the side, always keeping myself behind it to avoid any potential attacks. I don't want to get too close in a way that it might misconstrue as a hunting move.
Aligning myself with the blue dragon, I notice it's rider is a woman or maybe an Bishōnen, regardless the rider has a hair shade akin to the brat's—silver-gold, an older sister or brother maybe; they do have a vague resemblance. As she catches sight of me, the rider signals, or at least I hope it's directed at me, considering I'm the one navigating this airborne adventure. Despite the gestures being as nonsensical as they come, it seems she's trying to convey to the girl on my shoulders that she wants her to head back to the island we flew out from.
Well, I guess, short of chucking the kid into the ocean, which would likely earn me no favours and probably the eternal wrath of the elder sibling—assuming they're a decent elder sibling. If not, they'd be earning my eternal enmity for being a disgrace to elder siblings everywhere. Anyway, unless I suddenly discover a convenient spot nearby to drop off the brat before I continue on my merry way, I might as well backtrack to that volcanic island for now.
This dragon should heed only my commands, a magnificent beast bound to my will, not a mere servant obedient to my mother's every whim. Yet, somehow, it inexplicably responds to her signals, choosing to return to Dragonstone at her bidding. Why does it defy the connection we're supposed to share, following her instead of me?
The flight was exhilarating, filled with daring feats that I doubt any other dragon rider— not even my great-grandfather Aegon atop Balerion the Black Dread—had experienced. That dive, brief as it was, held a thrill unlike anything else. In those fleeting moments, terror and excitement intertwined in a way that made me feel more alive than ever before. I've never been more scared, yet never more invigorated.
And then, as if in keeping with the frustrating pattern of my life, I spot that accursed She-Dragon Dreamfyre with my mother astride its back, heading straight towards me. She has this uncanny ability to ruin everything.
I shoot a glare at the woman who brought me into this world as we soar back to Dragonstone. A small satisfaction lingers within me as my dragon breaks off from Dreamfyre, flying slightly behind and above, as if poised to flee or break away at any moment. I can't be certain why it reacted the way it did when we felt Dreamfyre's shadow over us, but it seems my dragon might have regarded the other dragon as an enemy, at least initially.
It makes me ponder whether my own dragon has had any positive interactions with others of its kind in the past. Perhaps they got into fights, or maybe the additional two limbs of my dragon somehow provoked them? The mystery lingers in my mind as we make our way back to Dragonstone.
However, instead of heading towards the castle, my dragon veers off, away from Dragonstone— the castle, not the island—intent on landing on the shores near the Dragonmont. Clearly, my dragon has its own ideas on where to land, and it's not at the castle. Then again, it has never been to the castle, so of course, my dragon would never head there without direction. My direction.
Observing that my dragon, and by extension, myself, are not headed towards Dragonstone, my mother coaxes Dreamfyre to follow our new trajectory. However, my dragon doesn't allow Dreamfyre to leave its sight, slowing down so that the she-dragon is still adjacent and slightly in front of it. There's a subtle power play in the skies, a silent assertion of dominance between the two magnificent creatures.
It pains me to admit that I cannot coax my, as of yet, unnamed dragon to fly the way I want him to. Despite the thrilling ride I recently experienced, I am certain that I would never have been brave enough to try flying so daringly on my own. There's a frustrating sense of helplessness as I navigate the skies, understanding that my dragon has a will of its own, unyielding to my desires. But wasn't that why I chose him?
As we land on the shores of Dragonstone, my dragon doesn't sit still like Dreamfyre. Instead of landing and waiting patiently, my dragon paces and prowls around Dreamfyre, circling the larger blue dragon that patiently waits for my mother's instruction. She observes my dragon, not cautiously but with genuine interest. Shifting to keep her eyes on the black, four-legged dragon as it prowls around the larger blue dragon, there's a silent curiosity that is flickering in the two's as they observe each other.
Finally after what feels like hours, but was probably only a minute my mother speaks, "Aerea," she addresses me.
I sit up from atop my dragon, who has stubbornly refused to stop prowling around Dreamfyre, and return the greeting. "Your Grace," I acknowledge her, refusing to recognize her as my mother and grant her that familial connection. Rhaena Targaryen may be the woman who brought me into this world, but she is little more than a stranger to me. I was surprised when she demanded I be taken to Dragonstone with her; she never cared for me before or after. She is the Princess of Dragonstone, and that is the only acknowledgment I will give her. Not, as my mother, she is unworthy of that, nor as this Queen in the East nonsense she holds; 'whore in the East' is more accurate.