Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 12

Out of the shadowy depths of the cave, Vermithor emerged—massive, ancient, and magnificent.

His dark bronze scales shimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight, each one like a forged plate of armor. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he stepped into view, his talons clicking against the stone, echoing like thunder.

He paused just before her.

Aenyra's breath caught as she looked up—up—into his deep bronze eyes, so eerily human in their depth and weight. The heat radiating off his body was intense, like standing before a forge. And yet, she didn't step back.

Vermithor lowered his massive head toward her, the sound of his breath like a great bellows exhale. His nostrils flared, and Aenyra instinctively flinched at the warm gust that swept over her face. It carried the acrid scent of ash and smoke, tinged with something ancient—wild, earthy, and raw.

Her stomach turned, but she stood her ground.

Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand and reached out. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't stop. And finally, her palm met the cool, rough skin of his snout.

A breathless moment passed. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. She had done it—she had touched him.

And yet...

This doesn't feel right...

There was no spark. No shiver of connection. No sense of bonding. Just the weight of something impossibly old allowing her near.

As if sensing her thoughts, Vermithor gave a slow, low rumble and began to turn away, his wings opening wide from his sides as he retreated to the opening of the cave before flying off into the skies.

Aenyra stood there, her hand still raised, staring after him.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips.
"Well... I didn't claim a dragon," she whispered to herself, her voice barely carrying in the vast chamber, "but I did touch one."

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling both pride and disappointment.

Maybe she wasn't ready.
Maybe Vermithor wasn't her dragon.
But this was a beginning.

————-

A month had passed since Rhaenyra and Daemon were wed. The ceremony had been traditional—old Valyrian rites performed beneath the setting sun, with fire and blood binding them in the eyes of gods long forgotten. It was unlike any wedding Aenyra had ever witnessed—intimate, ancient, and hauntingly beautiful.

She remembered reading about such customs long ago in the library, tucked between dusty volumes beside Aemond. They had whispered their way through the pages, intrigued by how dragonlords of old joined not just in love, but in power.

Seeing one in person stirred something in her.

If I ever marry... it will be like that, she had thought.

Now, seated at her small desk with the ocean breeze tugging lightly at the drapes, she dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write.

Dear Aemond,

It's been a month since we last saw each other, and not a day has passed without you crossing my mind. I miss you. I wonder how you're healing... if the pain has lessened, if you're still hiding behind your books or out flying with Vhagar, ruling the skies.

I've sent letters before this one and haven't heard back. I'm trying not to be upset about it. Maybe you've simply been busy. Or maybe... you've forgotten about me.