Aella Targaryen wed on the anniversary of her father's death. To her cousin, nonetheless, continuing the long-standing tradition of her family to marry their relatives. It was a day that was meant to bring joy and overshadow the sorrow that had purs...
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If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever
–Alfred Lord Tennyson
°•~━━✥❖✥━━~•°
103 AC
A vast mass of black scales rippled beneath him, moving him through the air at an alarming pace. It was too dark to see anything in front of him, but Rhaegon could make out the warm orange glow of roaring flames beneath them. Morghul made a low growl in the back of his throat, echoing through the open space around them like a warning. A heavy sense of dread swam in the pit of his stomach, and Rhaegon tried to look over the edge of Morghul's wings so he could see what was going on beneath him.
But Morghul's wings were too large, his body even larger, and all Rhaegon could make out were the screams of people dying and the smell of burning flesh. He wondered in the back of his mind if this is how the Conqueror felt on the back of the Black Dread when they flew into battle. Mounted upon a being too large for him so see anything below him, but the knowledge that he was causing destruction and mass death all too apparent.
Rhaegon did not quite know where he was, and he could not see anything apart from the large curling shape of Morghul's horns in front of him. His eyes watered from the smoke around them, and he rapidly blinked to try and fight of the burning in them. And then he heard it, the booming sound of foreign wings beating through the air. Something akin to fear gripped his heart and he looked up above him to try and catch the slightest glimpse of anything in the air. A roar so loud it had the power to bring men to their knees broke through the air – hoarse and deep, as if the creature was from a time long passed. And perhaps it was, because in the next few moments a dragon with bronze scales broke through the mass of darkness and into the glow of fire, its jaws open wide and flames gathering at the back of its throat, prepared to strike.
Morghul's answering roar was just as terrifying as the other creature's, and he banked to right at such speed that Rhaegon could feel the air pressing him into his dragon's body. The bronze creature missed with its flames, but he could still feel the burning heat from it. When Morghul rightened, he could finally get a clear look at the creature as it turned in the air for another strike. Something in his lungs tightened so painfully it was a wonder he was breathing at all.
The bronze creature – Vhagar, his father's dragon – roared once more, a threat of doom. For but a moment, Rhaegon spotted the sheen of long silver locks upon the she-dragon's back. That could not be his father, Rhaegon rationally argued, for his father was dead. Had been for almost a year now, and Baelon would never attack him like Vhagar was doing now. No, this was someone different. It had to be.
"Ao daor dakogon, kepus!" the rider shouted into the open space between them, a male voice, relatively young. "Istia udligon syt aōha skoros emā gaomagon!" Rhaegon frowned, not knowing what the stranger was talking about in the slightest. You cannot run, uncle, the stranger had said, as if Rhaegon had any nephew. You must answer for what you have done. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Rhaegon commanded Morghul to breath fire. He would not die upon his dragon without fighting back.
