IN BETWEEN THE LINES━━━house of the dragon

a crooning cavedweller

File One──(A Crooning Cavedweller)
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NOTE, the pov is with a mc who only speaking valyrian, so any italics is the spoken "common tongue"

"Until the hour of the nightingale, the pit is yours." Accompanied by a heavy hand, a thin staff-handle wrapped with a cloth and tip sharper than a broken bone-was shoved into Charys' grasp. Then, without so much of a pause to wait for her response, her Elder pivoted his foot and slipped out of the dragonpit.

Charys stared blankly at the shadows that had swallowed her Elder whole. It was just her-pointy spear and a measly dragonglass blade tucked into her belt-to guard the wyverns of Dragonstone, alone. Technically, she was not unchaperoned.

There was Beric.

Beric was another acolyte, just a few years her senior. Due to their similar ages, the two were usually paired for the same night shifts. Charys didn't enjoy his presence, because despite the fact he was the same rank as her, Beric was almost always helping himself to the role of Elder when with her.

More than once she had caught him sleeping during one of their spells of work, snoring obnoxiously through the darkness.

This was a time no different as a yawn Charys recognized all too well cut through the humid air and broke its silence.

She was surprised, actually, to hear Beric's fatigue so early in their night's watch. The man would usually let out his first yawn pass through his thin lips at the hour of the eel. Or at least, what she believed was the hour of the slippery moray.

There was no sense of time in the caves, only that Charys was shipped to her post late in the night and would expect the fattening glow of a torch as the next shift of acolytes would take her and Beric's place just prior to sunrise.

The blonde heard her partner's staff repeatedly clatter against the stone floor. Beric had the admirable power to fall asleep while standing; he would shift his weight and lean against his weapon. As much as she hated to admit it, his sense of balance was annoyingly impressive.

The young man shuffled for a moment more before finding a comfortable spot and tucking himself in.

Once again, it was Charys of Claw Isle to guard the wyverns of Dragonstone, alone.

Her mind ran blank as she dazed off into empty space. She lazily blinked-eyes suddenly feeling heavy. Internally shaking the sense dulling feeling out from her skin, the woman huffed irritably.

Another watery blink escaped her.

Twitching with frustration, her face scrunched up into a tight knot; she held that position for as long as her muscles would allow it. Pins pricked her taut pores.

The sound of a distant blaze arose Charys. Its cackling filled her ears and she shook herself, eyes snapping open. A wavering orange of a torch lit up a figure as it marched closer and closer.

Had she fallen asleep?

Mouth parched and throat itching for water-she wordlessly watched the acolyte with his march.

Squinting, Charys focused on the singular flame as it inched to her.

Where was his partner?

Where was his staff in his unoccupied hand?

Trepidation licked down the woman's spine; in response, she robotically wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her meager dagger. It was a poor sense of comfort that it gave Charys, but a comfort no less.

Regardless of the stranger she could not identify, she was unable to make an attack. It could be Daemon Targaryen readying for a late night ride-for all she knew-, although the woman would be able to spot his porcelain hair from miles away.

"Acolyte."

The blonde stiffened, a muscle in her jaw clenching. As his face came into recognition, Charys released the small black weapon from her grasp and allowed her hand to fall limp by her side. "Your Grace."

Prince Jacaerys stood tall in front of the dragonkeeper, staring her down unblinkingly. The torch in his hand casted dancing shadows across his face. "What is one's name?"

"Charys, Your Grace."

His words are sharp, despite its odd formalities. "I hear that Charys is born of high blood."

"Yes, Your Grace. I hailed from House Celtigar until the age of ten and two, when I pledged my life to the Order," she answered evenly.

Jacaerys paused and narrowed his eyes, as if processing her response. His pronunciation and grammar started to falter. "Charys is House Celtigar."

"Yes, Your Grace." She tiptoed around her words carefully, not wanting to offend the prince for his poor speech. "I had been of House Celtigar until nine years ago-I am presently and loyally attending as a Dragonkeeper."

He muttered something in the common tongue under his breath. She didn't recognize much except for the word 'stupid' and even the younger prince's name 'Luke'. Jacaerys struggled to continue the conversation. "I...I, uhm, I w-want-I want to know...seven hells-I want to know...."

Charys patiently waited for him to carry on, blinking at him, but the prince was unable to find the word he was searching for. Or did he even know what he was asking for?

"I want to...uhm, to sing-? Fuck, what was the word? To s-sing?" His ears began to pinken. "I want to know how to sing like Charys Celtigar."

"Your Grace wishes to...to sing like me?" Based on his reaction to her confusion, Charys assumed that singing was not the purpose of his visit.

Terribly embarrassed, Jacaerys scowled and curled his lips into a frown. "Forget it."

She stared at him.

"I said 'forget it'. Forget-oh, hells-Leave it be!" He barked in frustration, cloak swirling around him as he stomped off.

His outbreak woke Beric-snorting loudly into a gasp and perking back up into position.

Charys quickly glanced at her partner before back at the marching figure of Prince Jacaerys. His dull steps cut through the stillness. With every heavy foot, the dimming torch in hand bounced. Just as she had watched him approach her, the dragonkeeper stared at his shrinking person. The flare got smaller and smaller, until he rounded a corner.

Recurrently, Charys had been returned to silent and shadowy caves she promised to protect.

Alongside Beric, of course.