"I have no fear of armies. Many and more have broken themselves against my Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie is known to be impregnable. But you have descended on us from the sky, as Queen Visenya once did during the Conquest, and I was powerless to halt you. I mislike feeling powerless. Send me dragonriders."
―Jeyne, to Jacaerys Velaryon
…
It was a fine, if somewhat overcast, morning when Oscar Tully found himself engaged in conversation with a stranger on the wide expanse of green that stretched beyond Riverrun. The field, with its gentle undulations and the faint glint of dew still clinging to the blades of grass, bore an air of serenity that was at odds with the unease that had begun to creep into Oscar's heart.
The young lord, clad in a dark doublet adorned with the colours of House Tully, sat astride a chestnut gelding that shifted restlessly beneath him. Flanking him were several men-at-arms, their expressions veiled but their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts. Before them stood the stranger—a man of perhaps twenty or twenty-two years, whose bearing was strikingly self-assured. His face, lean and angular, betrayed neither hostility nor warmth, and his attire, though simple, bore the wear of one accustomed to the rigours of travel. Yet it was not the man himself that drew the eyes of Oscar and his companions but the great silver-grey dragon that loomed behind him.
The creature—Seasmoke, though Oscar knew it not by name—stood as a marvel and menace alike. Its wings, folded neatly, shimmered with a muted metallic sheen, and its long tail flicked idly, as though it too listened intently to the exchange. Its eyes, like twin pools of molten gold, seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, their gaze unsettling even the most stalwart of hearts.
Oscar shifted in his saddle, his fingers tightening on the reins. "I confess I know little of you," he said cautiously, his tone formal, "and nothing of your dragon. Neither you nor your mount is known to me, ser."
The stranger inclined his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That is perfectly understandable, Lord Tully. I am but a man of little renown."
This reply, though polite, did little to ease Oscar's suspicions. "May I inquire as to your name, ser?"
The man's smile widened, though it remained cool and distant. "Names are curious things, my lord, as mutable as the tides. You may call me Addam, if it pleases you, though I suspect the name will tell you little."
"Addam," Oscar repeated, tasting the plainness of the name and finding it did not fit the bearing of the man before him. A pseudonym? The young lord's frown deepened, though he held his tongue. The presence of the dragon made mockery of doubts, for who could truly question the rider of such a beast? "And what is it you want here, ser?" he asked.
"I ride at the behest of Prince Aemond," the strange dragonrider replied evenly, his gaze steady. "His Grace deemed it prudent to stable a dragon in the Riverlands. War is afoot and it would reflect poorly on the Crown should one its staunchest allies remain undefended."
Oscar frowned, a flicker of relief mingling with his apprehension. If this Addam truly served Prince Aemond, his presence might yet prove to be a reassurance rather than a threat. "And how long are we to expect your watchful gaze?" he asked, his tone less guarded now.
Addam parted his lips to reply, but his voice froze mid-breath. His head turned slightly, his gaze shifting past Oscar with sudden intensity. The faint smile that had lingered on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden hardness. Behind the dragon rider, Seasmoke stirred, his massive form tensing as a low-pitched growl began to rumble from his throat.
"My lord," murmured one of Oscar's guards, his voice tight with alarm. "Something comes."
Oscar turned in his saddle, his heart quickening. At first, he saw nothing but the pale sky and the horizon's gentle slope. Then, faint and distant, a shape emerged—a dark blur that grew larger with each passing moment. It was a dragon, unmistakable in its serpentine grace, its red scales gleaming dully in the muted light.
"Caraxes," one of the guards whispered, his voice laced with dread.
Oscar's breath caught. By the time he turned back, Addam was already mounting Seasmoke. The dragon crouched low, its tail lashing, its golden eyes fixed on the descending form of the bloodwyrm as its rider ascended its scaly back.
Above, Caraxes banked, circling the field once, his massive wings slicing through the air with an audible rush. Then he descended, landing with a beat that flattened the sodden grass. The beast folded its wings with slow deliberation, its neck weaving as its gaze fell upon Seasmoke. Its mouth parted slightly, revealing jagged teeth as a distinctly reptilian trill emerged from its throat.
"My Lord," One of Oscar's men hissed, grabbing the reins of Oscar's panicky horse and guiding it away. "We have to leave. Now!"
The rest of the guards did not need to be instructed, retreating to the castle wall as Oscar followed. He turned back to the dragons, the tension between the two beasts as palpable as the chill in the air.
Caraxes crept forward on all fours, his tail flicking behind him like a cat preparing to pounce. The smaller Seasmoke responded in kind, its wings spreading slightly as it issued a deep, guttural growl. The standoff stretched unbearably long. It was broken only by the voice of a man—sharp, commanding, and edged deeply with suspicion.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Who the fuck are you," Prince Daemon demanded, his words ringing out across the field, "and what are you doing on my nephew's dragon?"
----------------------------------------
"Who the fuck are you?"
Daemon did not dismount, seated high in Caraxes's saddle as he looked down suspiciously at the unknown dragonrider. The stranger was perhaps a dozen or three years Daemon's junior, his features finely wrought, with pale hair that hinted at Valyrian blood. His posture was certain, his pale grey eyes meeting Daemon's with a calmness that was both unusual and, to Daemon, quite irritating.
For a moment, Daemon's thoughts turned to Lord Corlys. There was something in the stranger's sharp cheekbones and angled jaw that recalled the Sea Snake, a resemblance faint yet persistent. Daemon dismissed the notion almost as soon as it had arisen. He knew the Snake's kin well enough, and this boy was not among them. Still, the resemblance stirred something at the edges of memory, a detail he could not quite place.
The bloodwyrm shifted beneath him, eager and restless, tail lashing through the tall grass like a scythe. Daemon leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his voice cutting through the stillness as he spoke again.
"Are you deaf?" he asked, his tone cold. "Or did you not hear this prince speak?"
For a long moment, there was nought but silence. The young man straightened stiffly in his saddle, and Daemon's gaze flickered to notice the fellow's combat straps were fastened and restricting his motion. A strange emotion had settled on the stranger's mien. His head tilted slightly at Daemon's question, and for the briefest of instants, a faint frown touched his brow.
"I am Addam," he replied in the end, evenly, his voice unhurried and smooth. "And Seasmoke is mine."
Daemon's scowl deepened. "Addam who?" he pressed, his tone biting. "Declare your house, or are you too ashamed to name it?"
The young rider did not falter. "Ashamed? Not in the least," he said, a non-answer.
At that, Daemon's lips curled into a sneer. "You're either a fool or suicidal," he said. "Perhaps both. But you will answer me all the same. By what right do you claim Seasmoke? Who gave you leave to ride a dragon of House Targaryen?"
Addam's pale eyes met Daemon's, and his voice, when he spoke, was like ice, "I ride with the blessing of a kin to the King of the Seven Realms. Prince Aemond himself saw fit to grant me this right, and it was his word that made it so."
For a moment, Daemon could only stare, his mind grappling with the essence of what had been said. Aemond? Gifting dragons? At that, the rage came quickly after, surging through him like fire.
"The gall!" Daemon hissed, in his anger struggling to articulate his thoughts. "The fucking gall! What fucking right has he, that treacherous vile spawn? What fucking blessing?"
Daemon's hand tightened on the reins, and Caraxes trilled angrily in response, the bloodwyrm's massive wings shifting as its tail lashed again, carving deep furrows into the ground. His attention returned quickly to the pretender atop Laenor's dragon and killing intent glinted in the depth of his eyes.
The air grew hot beneath the impending shadow of violence. Seasmoke answered with a threat of his own, his maw steaming as he crouched in readiness. The two dragons seemed a hair's breadth from tearing into one another.
But the rider atop Seasmoke appeared unmoved, his composure unsettlingly intact. Pale eyes calm and watchful met Daemon's without emotion as his left hand shifted to some unseen object in a pouch at his side. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw a glint of polished metal, but he could not make out what it was.
That was when suspicion crept in, dousing his anger with a cold, sharp edge of doubt. The pretender's silence, his stillness—it was not the fear of a man overmatched. Daemon's gaze shifted to Seasmoke, and it was then he forced himself to breathe.
The dragon was larger than the last time Daemon had seen him. Seasmoke had grown, now slightly more than two-thirds Caraxes's size. And not some youngling anymore, he thought grimly. If a fight broke out, Caraxes could kill the beast, but to say without injury, Daemon could not. An injured Caraxes was an invitation. There still was Vhagar, the hoary bitch, not to mention Meleys, should the Velaryons side fully with the greens. Daemon could see the consequences unfurling as clearly as a map. Aemond would be waiting for such a misstep. The Greens would capitalise.
Daemon's jaw tightened. The stakes loomed clear in his mind. One mistake, and his house would be left vulnerable, with no adult dragons save Syrax to defend them. He knew then, despite the haze of his simmering rage clouding his thoughts, It wasn't worth the risk.
His fury grew as he met Addam's gaze once more, weighing the man for the full extent of his worth. There was no fear there, only resolution, and something about it set Daemon's teeth on edge. Alas, he had made his decision and could only be patient.
"Tomorrow," he muttered under his breath. He would return tomorrow. With Jace, Vermax, and fire enough to burn the pretender from his saddle—
"Angōs, Embrōrbar!"
The command split the air, shattering Daemon's thoughts like brittle glass. His eyes widened in alarm, and in that moment of unnatural clarity, he saw it more vividly than ever before.
His end.