𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

5

Whenever anxiety gnawed at her or boredom pressed too tight, Daenaera Targaryen turned to the skies. More specifically—to him. Her dragon. Her other half. Her ghost in the wind.

It was no secret among the Northerners that Targaryens rode dragons—legends told in hushed tones over long tables and storm-lit hearths—but few truly believed it. Fewer still had seen one with their own eyes. To the Lothbroks, it was a tale better suited to myths than reality.

Until now.

Sylvarion waited on the hill above the cliffs, where sea met sky in a painted blur of fading sun. He was vast—near the size of the late Meraxes, the she-dragon of Rhaenys. His scales shimmered in shades of grey, purple, and bone-white, an eerie combination that made him seem more phantom than beast. His horns curled like a stag's and cast shadows long and cruel. To behold him was to understand fear.

And yet, the girl with silver hair and green eyes walked toward him without hesitation.

From the edge of the trees, Prince Ivar watched, hidden in silence. He had followed Daenaera without knowing why — perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper. He had expected her to gaze at the sea, not summon a creature from myth.

Sylvarion lowered his head as she approached, a low rumble of recognition vibrating in his chest. The princess reached up and stroked the scales of his snout, her voice soft and in a language Ivar had never heard.

"Skoros iksis ziry jorrāelagon?" she whispered. What is it, dear one?

Ivar frowned. The words were unfamiliar, flowing like music but laced with something old and sharp—ancient power woven into sound.

Daenaera paused, her brow furrowed.

"Is someone here?" she asked aloud.

The dragon tilted his massive head, gaze drifting toward the woods.

She turned.

Ivar stiffened, but he didn't run. There was no fear in him—not even when the silver-haired girl stepped into the trees, blade drawn.

She found him seated on a mossy rock, and before he could speak, cold steel kissed his throat.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice icier than the northern winds.

Ivar didn't flinch. Instead, his lips curved slightly. There was something magnetic about her—the danger in her stillness, the fire behind her gaze.

"I was wondering what you were doing out here alone," he said calmly, his pale eyes never leaving hers.

"I don't need anyone's protection," Daenaera snapped, lowering her dagger but not her guard.

"I can see that," Ivar said dryly.

A beat of silence passed, then Daenaera surprised him. "Come. I'll introduce you to him."

Ivar raised a brow. "If you haven't noticed, princess, I don't exactly walk with ease."

"I know," she murmured, barely audible.

She watched as he lifted his crutch and rose. Something inside her softened. Daenaera rarely showed tenderness—few had ever earned it. But this man, this prince with storm-blue eyes and a limp, stirred something quiet and unfamiliar within her.

She extended her hand.

This time, he took it.

Her fingers were small and warm, delicate compared to his calloused grip. She led him through the trees until the great dragon emerged once more from the dusklight.

"Just don't move too suddenly," she said. "He reflects my moods—and he's not known for kindness."

Ivar nodded, gaze never leaving the beast.

Daenaera stepped forward and spoke again in the ancient tongue.
"Gīda ilagon, Sylvarion. Bisa iksis Ivar. Se dārilaros kesan dīnagon, pāsagon zirȳla. Rybas."
Calm down, Sylvarion. This is Ivar. The prince I am to marry. Serve him. Trust him.

Then she turned back to Ivar. "Give me your hand."

He hesitated. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me. We're to be wed—you may as well start now."

Despite every instinct, he did. She guided his hand to Sylvarion's snout. The dragon's breath was hot and steady. Ivar flinched only slightly when the leathery skin met his palm—but the dragon did not recoil.

"He won't bite," Daenaera whispered with a teasing grin, "unless I ask him to."

"What language was that?" Ivar asked, ignoring the jest.

"High Valyrian," she said. "The language of my ancestors. Dragons don't understand commands in anything else. He likes you."

Ivar smiled faintly at that, surprised by how much those words pleased him. "He's... beautiful."

"His name is Sylvarion," she said. "One of the last dragons this size."

A pause, then—uncertain but bold—Daenaera asked, "Would you like to fly with me?"

He blinked. "I can't ride, princess. You may have noticed, my legs don't exactly—"

"You're not riding a horse, Ivar," she said. "You don't need your legs for this."

He looked at her—this fearless, sharp-tongued girl of fire and legend—and for a moment, he saw a glimpse of the world she came from. And perhaps... where he now belonged.

"...Are you sure?" he asked.

Daenaera smiled. "Let me help you."

With her aid, they climbed atop Sylvarion's back, the prince sitting behind the princess, his arms carefully bracing himself at her sides.

"Sōvegon," Daenaera commanded. Fly.

The ground fell away in a rush of wind and wings. Sylvarion soared, cutting through the sky like a shadow of war and wonder.

"This is insane," Ivar called behind her, laughter in his voice for the first time.

Daenaera turned, her cheeks flushed with the cold and the moment. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" Ivar laughed again, this time closer to her ear. "It's the best thing I've ever done."

His voice dropped to a murmur.

"I love it... thank you, princess."