The Weight Of A Dragon’s Heart

Rhaenyra soared high above the large body of water, the wind whipping past her as Syrax’s mighty wings beat a steady rhythm against the chill air. Even as the sky was painted with clouds, her mind replayed the echo of Mysaria’s kiss—a vivid, illicit fire that had warmed her heart only to be quenched by duty’s relentless call. In that suspended moment above the world, the taste of Mysaria’s lips mingled with the bitter tang of loss, stirring memories of passion and vulnerability that she both craved and feared.

The horizon grew closer, the shadow of Dragonstone growing smaller behind her, the castle’s stones jutting out of the sea like a dragon’s teeth. The sea breeze brought with it the scent of brine and the distant murmur of the waves, a stark contrast to the fiery warmth of the chamber she had left behind. Her heart raced not only from the exertion of flying but from the anticipation of what awaited her—a dragon that she had thought would not bond to anyone, now claimed by a new rider.

The beach below grew clearer, the mudflats stretching out like a canvas of brown and grey, marred by the occasional flash of water. It was there she saw him—Seasmoke. The dragon’s scales shimmered in the midday sun, a white-silver hue that reminded her of the first time she had laid eyes on him, a creature of myth and wonder, born from the union of ice and fire. He was smaller than Syrax, his youth evident in his slender form, but the power in his frame was undeniable. He was a creature of the sea, born to conquer skies and seas alike.

Her heart skipped a beat as she spotted the figure beside him. As they approached the beach, she could make out the unmistakable outline of a man, his posture proud despite the tremble in his legs. The dragon’s head swiveled, the sapphire eyes gleaming with an intelligence that sent a shiver down her spine. It was a look she had seen before.

The sand was a stark contrast to the stone of the castle grounds, cold and unyielding beneath her feet as she slid off Syrax’s back. The dragon huffed, her wings folding with a sound like sails catching the wind, her eyes never leaving the newcomer. The figure on the beach was young, but there was something ancient about his gaze.

He was tall, his skin a rich tapestry of shadows and moonlight—the color of the night sky before the stars emerge. His dreadlocks whipped in the salty breeze, a crown of darkness that framed his sharp, angular features. His eyes were the color of the deep sea, a blue that seemed to hold the secrets of the world within them.

Rhaenyra’s heart hammered in her chest as she approached, the sand shifting beneath her boots. “You stand before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” she says, her voice strong, though it trembled slightly with the weight of the words. “With a dragon of House Targaryen,” she adds, her eyes never leaving the young man’s face.

He looks at her, his expression a puzzle of emotions—awe, and fear. “I had no design upon it,” he says, his voice a low rumble, like the distant thunder that preludes a storm. His eyes are on her, but they keep flicking back to Syrax behind her.

Syrax senses the tension in the air and responds with a screech, the sound echoing across the beach. The dragon moves a step ahead, her wings spreading wide, the leathery expanse blocking the sun’s glow and casting a monstrous shadow over the sand. The new rider’s gaze is immdiately drawn to the dragon.

Rhaenyra’s eyes bore into the stranger’s, searching for truth in the depths of his soul. “What do you want?” she asks, the question a demand, a challenge. The wind whips around them, carrying the scent of the sea and the faint smell of burnt wood.

“To learn the ways of dragonriders,” he responds, his gaze unwavering. His voice carries the timbre of the earth, a vibration that seems to resonate within her very bones. The words hang between them, a declaration of purpose that she cannot ignore, “And to serve my Queen. Your Grace.”

With those words, the man sinks to one knee, his movements fluid despite the weight of his armor and the tremble in his limbs. The sand around him whispers of his submission, and Rhaenyra feels a strange thrill—a mix of power and responsibility. The sight of a grown man bowing before her, especially one who carries the air of a leader, is not unfamiliar. But there’s something about this moment, about the raw vulnerability in his eyes, that makes it feel different.

Rhaenyra, intrigued by the stranger's words and his unexpected submission, moves closer to him, her dragon Syrax mirroring her steps, their shadows merging on the beach, inviting a deeper connection between the two unlikely figures. Syrax shifts, her scales rasping against the ground, a sound like a thousand swords being drawn. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on the stranger, watching, assessing. Rhaenyra knows her dragon’s moods—this is not a challenge but an acknowledgment. A greeting of equals.

The man remains still, his breaths shallow and his eyes never leaving hers, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile bond forming between them. The wind whips around them, carrying with it the scent of brine and the distant scream of gulls. The dragons' breaths mingle in the air—Syrax’s hot and fiery, Seasmoke’s cool and salty—like the alliance of fire and water that had once been the very essence of House Targaryen.

"This dragon came to me, not I to him," he said, his voice steady despite the tremble in his chest. The words hang in the air, a declaration of fate that seemed to resonate with the very heart of the world around them. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue that seems to hold the secrets of the sea, bore into hers, and she knows that he speaks the truth.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingers on him, searching for answers in the lines of his face, the cut of his jaw, the way his hand rests on his knee. There’s something about him, something that speaks of destiny and the turning of the wheel. "What is your name?" she asks him, her voice a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his words are a declaration that echoes across the sands. "I am Addam— of Hull," he says, his voice a thunderclap in the quiet of the beach. Rhaenyra's eyes widen at the revelation. The name is unfamiliar, yet it carries the weight of a thousand possibilities.

She felt a palpable tension that spoke of destiny and the turning of the wheel. "You've done something I thought impossible," Rhaenyra says, her voice filled with a mix of awe and skepticism, “Rise.”

The man called Addam unfurls himself from his knee with a fluid grace that belies his size. He stands tall, his eyes never leaving hers, and she can see the fierce determination etched into every line of his face. The wind tugs at his hair, sending it into wild tendrils that frame his sharp jaw and high cheekbones.

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickers to Seasmoke, who watches them with a predatory stillness, his scales gleaming like the moonlit sea. She knows that dragons do not choose their riders lightly, and for this one to have chosen Addam... it’s a sign, one she can’t ignore. Her mind races with the implications—a new rider on the back of her late husband’s dragon, one of no noble house.

“Come,” she says, her voice firm with the weight of command, “We shall return to Dragonstone together. There is much we must discuss. Your bond with Seasmoke may be just what we need in the battles ahead.”

Rhaenyra’s heart races as she pulls herself onto Syrax’s back, her legs straddling the saddle that had been made for her. The dragon’s warmth seeps into her bones, a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled in her chest. She feels the leather creak beneath her, the familiar scent of the dragon’s skin a comfort in the face of the unknown. As she wraps her arms around Syrax’s neck, the leather strap digs into her skin, a reminder of the weight of her decisions and the fate of her people.

Addam nods solemnly, his eyes never leaving hers for a moment. He moves with the confidence of a man who knows his place in the world, yet the tremble in his hand as he reaches for the dragon’s neck scales is unmistakable. With a grace that seems almost inhuman, he swings himself onto the beast’s back, his movements a silent testament to his readiness to face the future.

Seasmoke’s mighty wings unfurled with a sound like thunder, the sea breeze whipping through the dragon’s scales. The creature’s eyes lock onto Rhaenyra’s for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgment of her power, before he bows his head to her command. The Queen’s own dragon, Syrax, responds in kind, the two great beasts seeming to understand the gravity of this moment as well as their riders.

The dragon’s powerful legs push off the ground, propelling them upward with a grace that belies their immense size. With a roar that shakes the very sands beneath them, as the dragons launch into the sky, their wings beating a rhythm that echoes the pounding of Rhaenyra’s heart. The wind rushes over them, a wild symphony that sings of freedom and the promise of battle.

The sky opens before them, a vast canvas of blue that stretches to infinity, and Rhaenyra feels a sudden exhilaration that she has not felt in weeks—months, perhaps. The weight of her crown, the whispers of doubt, the pain of loss—all of it is momentarily forgotten as she soars with Syrax. The world shrinks below them, the troubles of the realm reduced to mere specks on the horizon.

Addam’s Seasmoke flies alongside, the two dragons moving in perfect harmony despite their disparate sizes. The smaller dragon’s scales shimmer in the light, a dance of greys and whites that seems to mirror the tumultuous emotions within Rhaenyra’s own heart. She watches Addam closely, his face a picture of focus and determination, and she wonders what fate has brought him to her at this moment.

The wind whips around them, carrying the scent of the sea and the faint smell of burning. The distant roar of the waves crashes against the shore, a rhythm that seems to call to the dragons. They fly over the treacherous waters, the horizon stretching out like a promise. The sun is a fiery disc in the sky, casting long shadows over the world below.

In the distance, a speck appears, growing larger with each flap of their mighty wings. Dragonstone emerges from the mist, a monolith of black stone jutting from the sea. The castle’s towers and battlements are stark against the horizon, a bastion of Targaryen power that has stood the test of time. Its presence is a beacon of hope, a symbol of their ancestral strength that has been passed down through generations.

As they draw closer, the dragons’ eyes lock onto the castle, their scales rippling with excitement. The wind carries the scent of home to them, a scent of salt and stone that stirs something primal within their beings. The dragons quicken their pace, eager to touch down in the place where they had been born, where their kind had first claimed dominion over the skies of Westeros.

Rhaenyra and Addam descended upon the Dragonpit like storm made flesh, their dragons’ wings carving thunder from the dusk-heavy sky. Syrax landed first, her golden scales dulled by ash and battle, her roar a challenge that shook the very stones of the pit. Rhaenyra dismounted, her boots crunching on gravel still smoldering from dragonfire, her gaze sharp as she scanned the shadowed arches for the Keepers scrambling to meet their queen. Behind her, Addam guided Seasmoke down with a rider’s ease, the pale grey beast hissing as its talons scored the earth—a sound like steel on bone.

The Queen’s steps echoed in the vast space, a rhythmic staccato that seemed to whisper the name of every Targaryen who had ever walked these hallowed grounds. Her cape billowed out around her, a fiery emblem against the gloom, as she approached the exit. The guard, a stoic sentinel of the Iron Throne’s power, stepped aside at her approach, his eyes betraying no curiosity at the unforeseen events of the day.

“See to it that our nee dragonrider is provided with suitable quarters with all the comforts he could need,” Rhaenyra ordered, her voice a command that brooked no argument. The guard nodded once, sharply, before turning to carry out her will.

Addam dismounted Seasmoke with the grace of a man born to ride dragons, his eyes never leaving hers as he approached. The air between them crackled with an energy that was both unsettling and exhilarating. As they walked side by side, their steps matched perfectly, as if they had been doing so for years. The torchlight flickered against the high arches of Dragonstone casting their shadows long and dramatic before them.

The Queen’s office was a bastion of order amidst the chaos, a room where the fate of nations had been decided for centuries. The heavy oak door creaked open to reveal walls lined with ancient tomes and scrolls, the air thick with the scent of parchment and ink. The large table dominating the center was a map of Westeros, pieces of strategy laid out in miniature form. The throne was a stark reminder of the lineage she carried—of the battles won and lost, of the fires that had forged her destiny.

They both took their seats, the heavy wooden chairs groaning slightly under their weight, the sound echoing through the room like the sigh of a dragon. The table between them was a barrier that somehow felt both insurmountable and insignificant in the face of what they had just shared and the trials ahead. The candles on the table flickered, casting shadows that danced across the maps, whispering secrets of the lands they had yet to conquer.

Rhaenyra’s voice was steady, the authority of a Targaryen queen who had seen too much to be easily shaken. “The road ahead is fraught with danger, Addam of House Hull. To ride a dragon is to harness power that few can fathom. It is not just about controlling the beast; it is about becoming one with it. You must understand its mind, its heart, its soul. Only then can you hope to be more than just a man with a dragon, but a true dragonrider.”

Addam nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, his expression a mix of awe and determination. “I will learn, Your Grace. I will become what you need me to be,” he promised, his voice thick with the weight of his newfound destiny.

The Queens were eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand strategies. “High Valyrian is the language of the old gods and the bond between dragons and their riders. It is a tongue that speaks of fire and blood, of love and war. It is a language of power and of unity. The Dragon Keepers will teach you,” she offered, her words a pledge as steadfast as the stones of Dragonstone itself.

The young man nodded, the gravity of the situation etched into the lines of his face. He had never felt so small, standing in the shadow of such a storied legacy, yet also so significant. The dragon’s roar that had once been a mere echo in his dreams now resonated in the very marrow of his bones.

“Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I will not disappoint you, nor will I fail in the duties that have been bestowed upon me.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze was as sharp as dragonglass as she assessed him. “See that you don’t. The fate of the realm rests upon our shoulders, and we have much to prepare for. Your training will be rigorous, your days long, but the rewards will be great. Now, you should rest. You will need your strength for tomorrow.”

With a final nod, she dismissed him, watching as he turned and stepped into the corridor. The knight she had instructed earlier snapped to attention, his armor glinting in the torchlight as he awaited the new dragonrider. The sound of their footsteps, a rhythmic cadence of leather and steel, grew fainter with each step they took away from her chamber.