ℒove always wakes the dragon (Aemond x OC)

Half of Her Name

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, inert like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck and runs down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon sinks in his thoughts for a moment.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses.

"Why isn't it landing?"

One of the dragonkeepers hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates. Daemon then notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from delighted.

"Are you out of your mind?!" the prince yells. "Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!"

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. It circles them once more and finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tighten, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in: he can't remember the last time he's been so nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat: moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There's a sharpness to its features, half of the snout crisscrossed with scars, scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast focuses on Daemon, then glares at the guards. The reptile's green eyes are specked with gold, the damning force being the crux of its every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of its throat but doesn't grow into a roar — it is a warning given before the beast slows movement, much to everyone's relief.

The rider jumps down and puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she's an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he's only seen it once before — in the sunlight it looks bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon's head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there's a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It's only two pieces of the puzzle that she's assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn't look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he's never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it is time for him to try.

"There was no mention of the dragon in the letters," his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

"Well, surprise," she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. "Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?" she asks, and he isn't sure if she's jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. "I must apologize for my manners in advance, I'm afraid."

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face, and Daemon steps closer. "We can get the formalities out of the way. I would like to welcome you to King's Landing, lady —"