tethered by Fate | Lucerys Velaryon | Aemond Targaryen

◇ one ◇

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I sat at the long hall table, Daeron lounging beside me as Maester Greyl droned on about etiquette and courtly manners. His monotonous voice dragged through the air like a dying bird. I sighed loudly, letting my head flop onto the table, my silver-blonde hair spilling across the polished wood like a defeated banner.

Daeron leaned closer, mischief glinting in his lilac eyes. “How about we ride on horseback after this?”

I tilted my head just enough to glare at him. “Only for you to ditch me for the village girls? No, thank you.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Suit yourself.”

Daeron was older than me by a grand total of three minutes—a fact I never let him forget. We were nearly identical, from the way our noses sloped to the sharp angles of our cheekbones. But while his hair fell straight like Father’s, mine curled like Mother’s, soft and untamed.

Oldtown’s girls had taken to calling him Daeron the Daring, a title that made me roll my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. If only they knew how he shrieked like a banshee when a spider found its way into his chambers.

“Maester,” I interrupted suddenly, raising a hand dramatically, “may I leave early? I need the privy.” I widened my eyes in the most pitiable expression I could muster, fluttering my lashes for good measure.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly torn between annoyance and resignation. “Fine, Princess. But these lessons are crucial! Court life—”

“Thank you, Maester. You’re the very best!” I chirped, cutting him off before he could launch into another lecture.

As I swept out of the room, I shot Daeron a triumphant smirk. He smirked back, shaking his head. Let him enjoy his stuffy lesson—I had better things to do.

Clutching a stack of books, I began the familiar climb up the Hightower’s endless spiral staircase. The stone steps wound higher and higher, each turn offering fleeting glimpses of Oldtown through narrow windows. The city sprawled beneath the tower like a living tapestry: bustling markets filled with the chatter of merchants, canals shimmering in the sunlight, and the Starry Sept’s spires reaching skyward like delicate fingers. The salty tang of the Honeywine River wafted up even from this height.

When I reached my chambers, I dropped the books onto the nearest surface and changed into my riding leathers. The initial burn of the stairs had long since stopped bothering me—it had been eleven years since we’d come to live in the Hightower, and my legs had grown used to the climb.

I tied my curls into a low ponytail and made my way outside, where the modified dragon stables stood. Oldtown wasn’t built for dragons—until Tessarion hatched for Daeron, and then Vaerion for me, the city had never needed accommodations for them. Now, two sturdy, open stables had been erected near the tower’s base, a small but secure sanctuary for our beasts.

Vaerion waited for me in her stall, her golden-purple scales glinting like sunlit amethyst. She was slightly smaller than Tessarion, though I would never admit that aloud. In my completely unbiased opinion, she was the prettier of the two, her wings fading to a pale lavender at the edges.

I approached her with a grin, raising a hand toward her snout. “Issa rūs,” I murmured. My sweet.

Vaerion huffed warmly, lowering her head to rub her snout against my palm. Her touch was both gentle and powerful, a reminder of the bond we shared.

“Shall we ride? Stretch your wings?”

She rumbled in agreement, lowering her massive body to the ground so I could climb onto her saddle. Once I was settled atop her, Vaerion unfurled her wings, their vast expanse casting a shadow over the ground.

With a powerful leap, she launched us into the sky.