You had always wondered what it must feel like—to fly, to command flame and sky with nothing but a word and a bond. Watching Jacaerys ride Vermax had never stopped feeling like a dream given form. There was something about it—the sheer, impossible beauty of it—that made you think of the old tales, the ones whispered by firelight in your childhood. Heroes with silver hair, dragons with wings as wide as sails. You never imagined the day would come when you’d stand near one… let alone prepare to ride.

But here you were.

The training grounds outside Dragonstone’s main keep were carved directly into the cliffside, shaped by centuries of wind and ash. The ground beneath your boots was uneven, covered in dark gravel and patches of blackened moss. The sky above was pale grey, and the ocean crashed far below in rhythmic, foaming violence. The wind carried with it the scent of smoke—Vermax’s smoke—and salt.

The young dragon loomed beside you, his green-scaled flanks shimmering in the wan light, breath puffing in slow, deliberate huffs from flared nostrils. His eyes, slit-pupiled and intelligent, tracked your every move. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the way the earth seemed to pulse faintly beneath your feet when he shifted his weight. You should have been afraid. And maybe you were. But you were also spellbound.

You tried to mimic the posture Jacaerys had demonstrated—shoulders back, knees slightly bent, weight balanced evenly as if preparing for the first lurch of flight. But your stance wavered, untrained muscles not quite finding the center. You shifted again, frustrated.

“Too rigid,” Jace observed behind you, voice as even and warm as the windless air around you. “You’re bracing to fall.”

“I am going to fall,” you muttered, half under your breath.

A soft chuckle answered you. Then: footsteps.

You felt him before you saw him—his presence always announced by something quieter than sound. His warmth. His stillness. His gravity.

He came to stand behind you, close but careful, the way he always was when guiding you through something unfamiliar. His hands found your waist, fingers splayed over the fabric of your riding tunic. His grip was gentle but certain as he adjusted your hips with a subtle pressure, correcting your stance with a swordsman’s precision. You inhaled sharply—not from surprise, but from the way his body aligned with yours, a quiet mirror.

“Here,” he murmured, his breath soft at your ear. “Breathe with me.”

You did. In. Out. And in the quiet between those breaths, you felt it—the echo of something sacred. The grounding weight of his hands. The closeness. The vastness of the dragon at your side. The world felt suspended, caught between earth and sky.

Jacaerys wore his simpler leathers today—black and deep red, high-collared and fastened with brass clasps. His gloves were fingerless, callused palms bare as they rested on you. His hair, unbound, caught in the breeze and brushed lightly across your shoulder. He smelled of smoke, clean sweat, and dragon-hide oil.