The Unburnt

Chapter 29 - The God give just as the Gods take away

And here is the surprise, we have a new POV, I thought it would be interesting to see some other views on what is going on. It will be split between two POV's.

Please bear in mind that there is a reason I chose this title, it will make sense in the future chapters. I have an outline of the next ten chapters, so probably this story will end at chapter 40 (fingers crossed).

This chapter was supposed to be one big chapter but it seemed excessive, for 8k+ words, so I've split it, besides I do want to write something more in the next chapter where another confrontation will take place. Oh, the droll tragedy, but don't worry, Visenya will live up to her name.

High Valyrian in bold.

Daryon Targaryen

127 AC

Riding Vermithor is unlike anything I have ever done. The moment I'm astride my grand-grandsire's mighty beast, the rush surges through me as though the very fire within Vermithor's belly courses through my veins.

I'm only ten years of age, but atop this ancient dragon, I feel as powerful as the Conqueror. The great bronze beast dips his wing, allowing me to settle into the saddle. My gloved hands take hold of the reins, and with a thrum of anticipation, we're aloft, soaring into the heavens where the winds are wild and unbridled.

Our family gathered at the castle at Harrenhal.

No feeling compares to the weightlessness, the thrill of skimming the clouds, or the view of the world so far below. Well, except perhaps for how I feel when Daemalia-my troublesome, spirited little sister-throws her arms around me.

The morning is early, the sun barely a blade's edge above the horizon, and I've made certain to evade the castle guards stationed near my chamber. They would not understand the call to ride, the urge I feel to be one with my dragon, especially on this day.

They would scold, maybe drag me to my mother, who would surely lecture me into next week. So I slip past them, dressed in my riding leathers, quiet as a shadow until I break into a run, whistling for Vermithor as I reach the open courtyard. He comes, slowly at first, from wherever he roams at night, the ground trembling beneath his steps.

He's the proof of Old Valyria when dragons ruled supreme. And yet, here he is, bowing his great wing down, his silent invitation to take flight.

We soar high over Harrenhal, the chill of dawn biting at my face and filling my lungs as we dive and climb again, the ruined towers far below us. This-this-is where I feel alive, where I feel more Targaryen than anywhere else.

But the morning soon turns sour. By the time we land, I see mother standing with her hands on her hips, her lips pressed into a line that spells trouble. I brace myself as she scolds me, though father watches on with a barely concealed smirk, his eyes sparkling with that look of amusement I know well.

He tries his best to appear serious, but I can see he's pleased by my adventure, even if mother is not. Eventually, she lets me off with a warning, but her gaze follows me as I go, and I sense the tension between them-the kind I don't fully understand but have grown used to seeing.

By mid-morning, I'm shepherded into a chamber with my siblings, all of us tucked away with the wet nurse and a few guards, for our own protection.

My youngest sibling, Arlion, rests in his nursemaid's arms, and I wonder if he senses the strain as well. Even Daemalia sits more quietly than usual, although it isn't long before she begins fidgeting, poking her spoon in her oats with a sigh. She looks at me, her mouth curling into a mischievous grin, and I know she's scheming.