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The only time Lucerys can feel at peace nowadays is when he’s closed away in his own bedchambers. Anywhere out of them is filled with the sound of the rushing soldiers, of the blacksmiths pounding hammer against anvil, of the voice of his mother and Daemon preparing for a war.
Before he left for Storm’s End, the Queen was only searching for allies, holding the Realm together with her restraint as everyone around her called for a fight—a vicious, bloody one against Aegon and the Hightowers who control him like puppeteers still to this day. Now that he’s back, though, she has lost that part of her that was merciful.
Daemon had saved Lucerys from Vhagar’s mighty jaws. His stepfather had flown in on the back of the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes letting out shrill, aquatic-like sounds as they broke through the dark storm clouds. Lucerys had not noticed them at the moment, his entire body weightless and torn as he fell from Arrax’s saddle.
In his last moments, Arrax had tilted his body, and Lucerys had slipped from the loose fits of the saddle. Cold air and even colder rain had sent him flying down, unable to do anything but watch as Vhagar ripped Arrax in two, Aemond screaming, “No, Vhagar, no!” atop the beast.
Because that’s what Vhagar was and is. A wardog, bred for fire and blood. He had almost laughed as he had fallen, because how could his uncle ever assume to tame her? At least when Lucerys died, he could die with the knowledge that he didn’t end up in her great stomach.
But he didn’t die. Daemon had caught his wrist as he fell, damn near tearing his shoulder from his body, and then Caraxes had flown them home. The Rogue Prince had obviously wanted to go after Aemond, but Lucerys guesses that him fainting on the back of Caraxes had sent him to the top of the priority list.
The sky had smelt of Arrax’s blood. Of his thin scales and open organs. That, too, is a reason why Lucerys prefers his room to the outside world, where Vhagar could return for him once more.
Today is strange, though, because Lucerys can barely stand to stay in the confined space of his rooms. There’s a pressing under a skin, an urgent itch he can’t reach. There’s bile at the back of his throat, the distant voice of Aemond shouting ‘Give me your eye, boy!’ a blister in his mind.
He has to go somewhere. Something is pushing him forward, dragging him back. There is a call in the air, a pull at his blood.
Lucerys tugs at a strand of his hair, blocks out the sound of the busy hold around him, and focuses on where this mysterious feeling is urging, begging, him to go. Dragging in one breath is like the start of igniting wildfire, and then when he breathes out, he opens his eyes.
Lucerys is moving in the next heartbeat, following the will. He grabs his cloak before he leaves, letting the thickness of the black fabric engulf him. He tugs up the hood, because even if it is dark out, the extra security can’t not help.
He would rather not be seen wandering around Dragonstone. His mother is already on the line about making him sleep in her and Daemon’s quarters, and even if he himself wants it, he knows it’s a laughable concept alone. Jacaerys and even Joffrey had never been so coddled like him.
“Valonqor,” Lucerys swears he hears whisper in the shadows as he walks down the lengthy hallways. Against the walls of Dragonstone, he can hear the bangs of the angry wind and the beginning of a storm not unlike the one he and Aemond had faced each other in. The phantoms hurl Aemond’s words at him. Nykeā laes syt nykeā laes. Ao enkagon issa nykeā gēlȳn.
Managing to hide from the patrols of the Queensguard and the other soldiers, Lucerys is surprised to find he isn’t led out to the footpath down to Dragonstone’s beach. Instead, his feet pull him to the opposite direction of the island—to the forbidden, dormant volcano of Dragonmont.
Lucerys steps outside and immediately almost topples to the ground, the mad wind of the Gods powerful and unforgiving. He glances over his shoulder, back to the entrance to the castle, where it is safe and warm and comforting.
And then he returns his gaze to the volcano. The untrustworthy pathway leading into the gnarled inside of the lair; the pit that holds dangerous, unclaimed dragons that have done nothing but rest and roost and rot in the underground for years.
He sucks in a cold, chilling breath. Lucerys knows he’s a lesser man, far from what makes Jace the perfect Knight or his grandsire the Sea Snake, but whatever part of him is a Targaryen is burning right now, and he makes the decision to move forward.
Scaling the mountainside pathway carefully and with caution, it takes long moments for Lucerys to reach the entrance to Dragonmont. The smell of dragons, the heat of them, hits him as he stands in the crevice, and it takes a lot to not blanch.
It takes a lot not to think about how nervous Arrax would get when they hovered around the volcano, the small, little dragon unnerved by the bigger, older beasts that resided inside at the time. The pang of grief is familiar and so, so painful, and the self-hatred that accompanies the feelings numbs him.
He should have just taken his eye out. Carved it with the knife, felt the blood slide down his cheek. Nykeā laes syt nykeā laes.
Arrax would still be here if he wasn’t such a coward. Lucerys grits his teeth and clenches his jaw until there’s pain. He breathes in thick, volcanic air through his nose and then begins his descent into Dragonmont’s lairs.
His heart beats loud and pulls him forward, tugging him by a string he has to follow. Somehow, he navigates through the weaving tunnels, and, somehow, he doesn’t get charged by a disturbed, angered dragon.
Instead, things are eerily quiet around him, and it feels as if the whole cave around him is conscious, an organic life evolving before his eyes. He pulls one of the torches from the walls as he walks, letting it light the way before him.
It feels like a century passes before he senses something. Before he hears a low, drawling breath. Before that urge inside of him scorches, before he has to stop and listen to the heavy, heavy breathing.
A dragon, his mind supplies, A dragon is nearby.
He can feel it. Anyone could. The presence of a dragon is not easily ignored—even after being raised around them, it’s impossible for Lucerys to not lose his breath at the sight of one. They are what make Targaryen’s Gods.
Lucerys pace slows as he goes deeper. His heart beats faster, hurtful, and he sucks in quiet breaths. He lets himself become weightless, keeps his feet silent. He doesn’t want to alarm whoever has made their home here, and he can’t help but wonder what has truly brought him down to the depths of Dragonmont.
Has he come to die? Or is he being led here for a different reason, perhaps?
Stepping forward once more, Lucerys finally stops. His cloak weighs heavy on his body. The narrow tunnel walls open up, and the torch shows just how big this lair is. It extends larger than the castle, larger than life itself. To the side of the cave is an open wall, a view out onto the ocean. Dark air and chilling wind pushes through into the cave, tousling his hair.
He can’t breathe. Not here. Something in Lucerys burns, and he can feel his body shaking with terror as he lifts his torch.
The first thing he see’s of the dragon is the brilliant bronze scales. The curved, thorned horns. The arched wings. The beard, the mouth, the contorted teeth.
The yellow, predator eyes staring down at him. He is an ant compared to none other than the Bronze Fury.
Lucerys doesn’t know if his heart is even beating anymore as he stares up at Vermithor in shock. King Jaehaerys’s dragon is scarred and golden, a monster in every right. The simple exhales of Vermithor almost push Lucerys to the ground, and the dragon stares down at him with something Lucerys can’t place.
They gaze at each other, foreign-faced, and Lucerys is in awe as much as he is terrified. This is a dragon he grew up learning about. A century-year-old drake said to be born with blood of lava. The biggest of them all next to Balerion the Black Dread and Vhagar.
Perhaps it’s the buried self-loathing, the open, gaping wound of Arrax and the stinging need for revenge that make him reach his hand forward. The horrified, fearful boy inside of him shakes as he stretches each finger out, and Lucerys stares at Vermithor, and in a show of trust, turns his head away and closes his eyes, tight.
Everything inside of him screams. He hears a rumble from Vermithor, hears the rocky terrain below them shuffle, hears the crumble of the volcano’s interior, as the dragon moves forward, to his hand.
What is he, but a scared little boy? What is a Targaryen without a dragon?
Lucerys keeps his eyes shut. Hot air wafts down over him. Scales press against his palm, and Lucerys can’t believe it. The urge that brought him here dies down, slow and slithering, and he peels his eyes open.
He turns his head to stare at Vermithor. The golden eyes look at him, unblinking, unchallenging, and he feels crazy. A laugh escapes him, harsh on his throat, and he whispers, “Vermithor.”
A grumble meets his ears, and then Vermithor turns his mighty head away, and slowly, his back is presented. He is without saddle, but the invitation is clear, and Lucerys can feel a pang.
It is…so soon. Arrax had cried, just a child. Like Lucerys.
But war does not wait for no one. Lucerys swallows, frowns, and sucks in a heavy breath. And then he moves forward, one step at a time. He drops the torch to his foot, lets it’s glow die down as the wind eats at it, and then watches as Vermithor tilts his neck to the side.
The dragon has it’s eyes set on the hole of the cave, and Lucerys has to wonder how safe this is. When was the last time Vermithor rode with a rider? When was the last time he took to the sky?
Vermithor must sense his doubts because a huff escapes his nostrils. Smoke entrails up out of him, and Lucerys understands the message. He quickens his pace, and grabs onto the tougher scales to drag himself up to Vermithor’s neck.
Lucerys is unsure if this is safe without a saddle, but when has dragon-riding ever been safe? Arrax had been able to get him off of his body even when Lucerys was straddled in, so, clearly, the saddle isn’t a need. It’s a show of ownership, and Lucerys knows after both he and his uncle struggled to control their mounts that no man can ever control a dragon.
He almost worries that he’s causing discomfort to Vermithor as he fights up the beasts side, but if he is, Vermithor doesn’t show it. The dragon is too focused on the horizon, too focused on the slow spread of his golden, spectacular wings to worry about Lucerys moving up onto him.
Lucerys heart is in his throat. It’s settling into his bones—he’s about to ride Vermithor, The Bronze Fury.
As he gets up, Lucerys struggles to get comfortable. Vermithor’s neck is much too wide for Lucerys to spread his legs across the span, but he makes do with just sitting awkwardly and latching onto anything he can hold.
The frills Lucerys secures onto are surprisingly soft. The glow of the dying torch on the ground sets a bright cast over Vermithor’s golden scales, and the moonlight makes them enchanted, and the rumble in his chest runs through Lucerys bones.
It almost sounds like a warning. Last chance, he’s telling Lucerys, and Lucerys tightens his hold and settles down lower. He thinks of Arrax, of his small mighty, and now he thinks of Vermithor.
A bastard boy riding a dragon of history. He lets out a laugh again, mad, and then Vermithor moves closer to the exit—and then he’s spreading his wings and leaping out. Lucerys hood immediately drifts from his face, and the cold air smacks into his skin, seeps into his blood, and they are flying.
Vermithor is old, but he is still a dragon. He only has to flap his wings twice before they’re off, out of Dragonmont, away from the lair, rising above the sea and the entire world. Vermithor’s a sun in the night, bronze and golden and bright.
The rain has stopped, now, and all that’s left is the wind. It rushes past them as Vermithor gains speed, as they soar down to the ocean. His wing tilts down to the sea’s surface, and Lucerys lets out something between a scream and a laugh as water sprays up at them.
This can’t be real. Lucerys can feel his and Vermithor’s minds becoming one, can feel every movement of Vermithor’s muscles. They lean together when they turn, they breathe together, and they burn as one.
Lucerys leans down onto him as Vermithor swoops them upwards, directing them towards the very sky. The fly up through the clouds, through the angry wind, until the stars are surrounding them.
There’s a horrible wrench of grief—Arrax had died just above the break of the clouds, and at the pang of it, Vermithor lets out a mighty, sorrowful roar that shakes the world around them. Lucerys can’t breathe at the sound of it, feels winded as he lets the power run through his veins.
And then, they are swooping down. Vermithor turns his body, quick, and Lucerys lets out a shout and leans down once more. The soar down through the sky, the cold air ice upon them, and Lucerys looks to Dragonstone in the distance. Torches are being lit in the courtyard, and Lucerys grins to himself, and Vermithor roars again.
The dragon seems to be enjoying this bout of exercise, and Lucerys shares the sentiment. This is the fastest he has ever flown, and as they fly over the ocean, they rise to Dragonstone.
Lucerys stares down to the water. He can remember Vhagar’s shadow being cast upon him and Arrax and the absolute fear he had felt. Vermithor’s reflection isn’t terrifying, though.
He tightens his hold as he guides Vermithor upwards, and they soar over the walls of Dragonstone, over the courtyard. Lucerys looks down—he can see the white hair of his mother and Daemon, and the darker shaded heads of Jace and Joffrey. The guards are looking up, as well, holding torches and wielding their swords.
He can hear the shouts of surprise when they spot him on the back of Vermithor, and he feels the pride. Vermithor turns so Lucerys is in full view, and he lets out a bellow, and that familiar cackle of Daemons meets his ears.
Vermithor drifts around the tower, moonlight gliding through the skin of his wings and reflecting down to his family, and Lucerys doesn’t think he ever wants to stop this flight. Vermithor shares the sentiment and glides them towards the moon, letting out roars of all kinds. Lucerys blood continues to pound in his ears.
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Eventually, though, Lucerys requests Vermithor to land with a pat on the neck and, “Tegon, Vermithor.”
The Bronze Fury can’t settle into the courtyard due to his great size, and he instead lowers them onto the beach in front of Dragonstone. His tail nearly collides with a docking point, and Lucerys doesn’t even feel an ounce of guilt. All he can feel is a free burning, a lack of weight, an urge to never stop flying.
He can also feel Vermithor’s tranquillity and his content, and Lucerys pauses on his way down his side and presses his forehead to his scales. Vermithor lets out a curious sound, and Lucerys lets his breath pave over him.
He can’t believe this is happening. Without Arrax, Lucerys had felt like death, like a raw wound in which would never close. Now, he is almost whole again, and it’s a strange feeling. He mourns Arrax and hopes Vermithor can feel his gratefulness.
Perhaps he can, because a warmth that is not his own melds into his mind. Lucerys smiles, tries not to grin too wide, and then continues on his way down. When his feet meet the dark sand, he almost topples to the floor.
His legs feel jagged, and the span of his thighs burn. Without a saddle, the rough scales of Vermithor had rubbed mercilessly against his fabric and, it seems, his skin. He can feel blood swelling on some open scratches, but he revels in the pain of it and takes an uncoordinated step forward, kicking up some sand.
“Luke!” His mother screams, and Lucerys looks up. She’s running down the path to the beach, the first among Jacaerys and Joffrey. Behind them trails a smirking, pleased Daemon, and Lucerys can’t help but squash down his smile.
It’s difficult to make out the tone of his mother—is she angry? He can’t tell. Almost instinctively, he wants to stiffen at any possible scolding, but a glance back to Vermithor makes his shoulders straighten higher.
He doesn’t regret any of tonight. Lucerys swallows, and his mother reaches him. Immediately, her hands are on his cheek, pawing at his body, searching his face. “My son, my sweet son,” She’s murmuring to herself, and Lucerys lets her reassure herself.
Behind her, Jace and Joffrey come to a slow. His elder brother is staring at Vermithor with an undisguised awe, and Joffrey has his mouth-open, the two of them recognising him from their lessons.
“I’m alright,” Lucerys tells his mother, grabbing both her hands with his own. She gazes down at his palms—scratched from holding on—and then meets his eyes. She stares at him and then casts a look to Vermithor, who’s watching her back.
And then she meets his eyes again, and she smiles. Her hug isn’t shocking, it’s the tightness of it, and Lucerys lets himself sink into the comfort, the warmth. She pulls back and tells him, “I’m so proud of you.”
Inside the pride, there’s a grief that Lucerys shares. She understands this bond will never be able to replace Arrax, and he lets out a breath of relief, a breath that takes away a churning in his stomach.
“You’ll be able to get One-Eye back now,” Jace says to him, grinning as he steps forward and pulls Lucerys into a rough hug. The words strike something inside of him, but Lucerys puts it aside and gives a stiff laugh in reply.
Daemon’s voice surprises him and makes Lucerys gaze glide to him. He states, amused, “He didn’t claim Vermithor for revenge,” He levels Lucerys with a knowing gaze, and Lucerys tries not to squirm under it. Jace stares back at their stepfather, and Daemon adds, questioning, “He called for you, didn’t he?”
Lucerys swallows when everyone’s eyes return to him, and he shuffles his feet and looks back to Vermithor. That urge…was it the dragon? Had he senses his grief and called out for him?
Only he could get a dragon through pity, is Lucerys first thought, but he stomps that down and feels a smile grace his features again. Vermithor wanted a companion, too. He looks back to Daemon, and he nods, once, and feels his mother squeeze his shoulder in support.
“It is good to see you back, Luke,” The Queen tells him, and Lucerys looks at her. He’s confused at first, but he realises what she means. Without Arrax and with the trauma of the storm haunting him at every turn, he had been an empty shell of who he was. And now, she must see the freedom he has now gained once more.
Behind them, Vermithor lets out a low sound, and Jacaerys crosses his arms in admiration. “We’re gonna have to make a pretty big saddle, aye?”
†