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~ 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟐𝟖 𝐀𝐂
The morning of the petition for Driftmark, Daeravor had slipped from Aegon's chambers–leaving a kiss to his starlit hair–before the sun had awoke, and ventured to the shores of the Blackwater.
Where his Cannibal awaited him, and together they flew above the clouds. The Prince's favorite time to fly was at dawn. The feeling of being apart of the sky as it awoke engulfing him, as it cast the earth below in gentle hues of gold and purple.
His Sȳndor liked their sunrise flights too, the trills tumbling from his muzzle telling Daeravor so.
But the peace of their morning flight is disrupted when the scales beneath the Prince ripple with sudden tension a moment before a whistling screech drifts through the whispering winds.
Daeravor looks behind him, only to see his uncle's Caraxes' serpentine form slithering through the white clouds towards them, his scales red as blood glinting ominously like rubies.
The two dragons begin to circle one another, black teeth sharper and longer than swords barred as their vicious growls rattle their riders' very bones. And as Daeravor notices the head of silver hair atop the Blood Wyrm's saddled-back, he realizes Caraxes were not flying alone.
He only hums curiously, then, directs the Cannibal to an isle off the shores of the Bay below them, and not to his surprise, Caraxes follows, whistling his screeches. 'Twas a beautiful song, truly.
The still growling dragons land a respective distance across one another and after the riders dismount, Caraxes ascends to the golden dawn but Daeravor somehow knows the Blood Wyrm will not be far.
Daeravor admires his uncle for many things, his bond with his Caraxes most of all. Theirs the only that could rival his and the Cannibal's, who remains behind his sole rider.
