Dragonstone did not welcome visitors.
It loomed.
Black stone towers twisted like claws toward the sky, carved dragons frozen mid-scream along every wall. Smoke rolled lazily from the mountain behind the castle, ash clinging to the air like snowfall. The sea crashed violently against the cliffs below, as if even the water feared getting too close.
Your ship barely finished docking before the sound hit.
A roar.
Not the cry of an animal.
Something older. Bigger. A sound that rattled bone and turned brave men pale.
Sailors muttered prayers.
Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury.
You saw him before you ever saw his rider—massive wings stretching across half the courtyard as he landed, bronze scales flashing like hammered metal in the light. Smoke poured from his jaws, each breath thick with heat. The ground trembled when he settled.
And leaning casually against the stone steps in front of him—
Like the dragon was nothing more than a particularly large hound—
Stood Jason Velaryon.
No crown.
No courtly silks.
Just dark riding leathers, sword at his hip, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he’d just stepped off a battlefield instead of a throne room.
His posture was loose, almost lazy.
But his eyes—
Sharp. Assessing. Dangerous.
The kind of man who didn’t need to announce power because it followed him like a shadow.
He watched you cross the courtyard alone.
No guards.
No ladies.
Just you and the sound of your boots on black stone.
A Baratheon stag walking straight into a dragon’s den.
Jason huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something almost amused tugging at his mouth.
“Bold,” he called, voice low and rough, carrying easily across the yard. “Most people send ravens when they want to swear loyalty.”
Vermithor’s head lowered behind him, one molten eye tracking you.
Jason didn’t even glance back.
Didn’t have to.
He pushed off the steps and descended slowly to meet you, boots echoing.
Up close, he smelled faintly of smoke and steel.
“You’re Borros Baratheon’s daughter,” he said, not asking. “Stormlands pride. Bad tempers. Worse weather.”
His gaze dragged over you—travel-worn, unflinching, still standing tall despite the dragon looming behind him.
Something like approval flickered there.
“Your father sends you alone to Dragonstone,” he continued, head tilting slightly. “Either he trusts us…”
A faint smirk.
“…or he figures if things go wrong, losing a daughter hurts less than losing an army.”
Blunt. Testing.
Vermithor rumbled low, smoke curling between you both like a living thing.
Jason stopped a step too close for comfort, heat radiating off him almost as much as the dragon’s breath.
“The Stormlands bend the knee to my mother,” he said quietly. Not cruel. Just certain. “And to me.”
His violet eyes locked onto yours—steady, intense, impossible to look away from.
“So tell me, Lady Baratheon,” he murmured, voice dropping just enough to feel private despite the open yard, “did you come here to kneel…”
A beat.
“…or to see if the dragon prince bites?”