#zaldriz3s

[witchyxwoo]

@zaldriz3s // for morning

a sense of relief had befallen her when the egg had hatched. then as she watched her dragon grow there was a sense of pride, of pure joy. morning was beautiful, of course. but truly there wasn't much else she had wanted in life now. as she sat perched on a large rock she found herself lost in her thoughts. a smile crept upon her lips as she pictured her dragon. true contentment.

[waveswallowed]

plotted starter for @zaldriz3s.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ SUNFYRE'S BRIGHT GOLDEN FLAME lit up the still-dark blue sky of early morrow as though it were imitating the sun itself; a bright flash of blazing yellow fire that illuminated everything in its surrounding, spread over the vast peaks of dragonmont, reflecting on the black stone like a feigned sunset. lids lowered, eyes shutting temporarily against the blinding onslaught of light, only to reopen a moment later when the pulsating red hue behind his lids faded away and watch moondancer, who had taken the unleashed flame to the eyes, falter, yet still make for another attack, slamming into sunfyre, claws latching onto his neck. the struggle both faced was clear, the younger dragon flapping her wings to stay aloft, the older roaring as he fought back, troubled by his crooked, injured wing, twisting shapes of green and yellow scales in the murky light of a rising sun not yet visible on the horizon.

he could not make out much of his uncle aback the larger beast from this distance, could merely guess at his thoughts. what an all too spectacular entrance it would have been, had it not been for two other dragons joining his wounded mount in the sky. how tired lucerys was tired of these grand entrances and flaunts of triumph by the wrong people, how tired he was of mostly everything. quite simply put, he was tired. dragonstone was not aegon's, never had been, though he may have convinced himself otherwise. just as little as the iron throne was his.

perhaps there was little that could be called honour to battling an injured dragon and his equally afflicted rider, but had anybody spared such a thought for his brother, when he'd been on the ground, barely holding onto the wooden remnants of a sunken ship, struggling to stay above the tumultuous waves. no, with arrows he'd been struck, dozens of them, over and over again . . . fingers tightened on the reins, clenching in a white-knuckled grip. the very rage lucerys had carried since that day, something fierce, equal parts flame and ice so cold it would leave frostbite on an instant if touched, seized him then. they'd dealt too many losses already, there would not be another. aegon would not get dragonstone. sunfyre would not get the glory of tearing moondancer to shreds as he had grey ghost, baela would not fall as jace had, rhaena would not have to mourn her sister by the time day broke in earnest as he was mourning his brother, his betrothed would not have to face that same excruciating pain he faced each day, an unfading grief carried so deep inside of him it had become part of his very being. no.

another scorching gust of dragonflame was spat into the sky by sunfyre then, one moondancer, smaller and faster, albeit wounded, skilfully managed to evade. the chase he made, one he evidently struggled with, with his injured wing seeming to threaten to drag him down towards the yard each time he moved, after her opening an opportunity, one he felt arrax spotted as easily as he did as the winds bit as his skin and pulled on his clothing as they both descended, a hand finding the rough hide of the she-dragon's neck, the familiar warmth her scales exuded palpable against his palm. “ angōs, arrax . . . get him. ”

[waveswallowed]

@zaldriz3s ( arrax ) liked for a starter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ THERE WAS A TRANQUILITY to these early morrows that was scarcely found anywhere else — in the quietude of still empty grounds cast in the dull blue light of approaching dawn and shrouded with winding grey mists rising from the sea, even his mind seemed to fall still, if only for a time. he'd grown fond of it, but not nearly as fond as he was of the beautiful beast he tended to spend these morrows with . . . “ sȳz tubis, arrax. “ good morrow, arrax. gloves still tucked beneath his arm, it was a bare hand that found warm scales, a stark contrast to the cold of his skin, and, at once, the troubles of a long, restless night seemed blissfully distant, “ gaomagon īlon kipagon? ” shall we ride?