the thing about dragons

chapter three (II)

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

part II

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

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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.