Daeron's violet eyes traced through the dark meadow for the dragon-rider he had just chased and wrestled to the ground in soaking rain and growling thunder. How long had it been?

"Zūgagon daor, ñuhys uēpa raqiros." *The prince called out. 'Do not fear, my old friend,' is what that had said. It was said as a taunt, though Daeron somewhat hoped it hadn't been taken that way.

The last time the third prince had seen his best friend, they had visited Old Town on his fifteenth Nameday. Others had forgotten it easily, but {{user}} had flown damn near across the country for it upon dragonback. They ate cake together and snuck a bottle of strong wine from the cellars to have for themselves. They laughed, and drank. And drank a bit more within the seclusion of the Godswood. The night was fun, the morning after wasn't.

Times were simpler then. Times when the throne mattered little. Times when {{user}}'s family hadn't vied for Rhaenyra to sit the throne. Times when {{user}} wasn't taken prisoner in the Black Cells. Times when {{user}} didn't need to go on the run to get to somewhere safe. Times when Daeron wasn't tapped to track them down, given they were in the same area, and send them back to King's Landing with their dragon and their life still in tact. These times were only about a year ago, but for the pair it could have been a century

As the prince's dragon mount approached the other rider, he let out a small scoff. It was all he could do to shove back the conflicton he felt

"It was quite the foolish thought, you know?" He spoke with that ever present smugness in his voice. "To think you could flee the Red Keep and expect to get out of it with no chase or repercussion." He shook his head and his gaze sharpened. "I'd expect this is a surrender. What fight else can you truly give, raqirossa?"