Daeranyx_Drakonar
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27. Ready to Hiss
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 18:56:52 +0000 UTCDaeron POV
Daeron soared through the skies atop Caraxes, a concentrated frown creasing his brow. The wind howled around them, but his mind was louderâfocused, calculating. He was attempting maneuvers he had seen other dragonriders perform in his dreams. Dragon dreamsâor whatever they truly wereâhad a habit of creeping into his sleep now and then since the last ritual he performed. Thankfully, they bore no omens of doom, unlike those of Daenys the Dreamer, whose visions had once saved House Targaryen from annihilation.
But perhaps that was only because he received so few dreams that hinted at the future. The only one that ever did had come in Winterfellâa fleeting vision of Ser Arthurâs arrival. Since then, nothing.
With a soft sigh, Daeron blamed the brief bond he and Caraxes had shared. They were still learning each other, after all. Reluctantly, he gave up on the intricate maneuvers and leaned forward, steering Caraxes toward Old Wyk at full speed. They had left the Twins before the sunâs first light, and judging by the sunâs height now, Daeron had clearly lost track of time. Not that it matteredâon dragonback, returning would be no great challenge.
Still, the thought tugged at him. He had half a mind to return by way of Riverrun. If memory served, the Lannisters had joined forces with the Freys and rebellious Riverlords to lay siege to the Tully stronghold. But he couldnât be sure. Too much time had passed in the North, then their forced marches south had eaten up weeks. Even though they tried to make haste as much as they could to reach the Twins.
He weighed the thought carefully. If Riverrun was conquered by Lannister and Freys by the time he reached there, then flying over itâand perhaps setting it ablazeâwould make for a fine announcement. A bold declaration that King Daeron Targaryen had entered the Game of thrones.
With that, he narrowed his eyes against the wind and commanded,
âAderÄ«, Caraxes.â
(Quickly.)
The dragon roared in response, wings slicing through the clouds as they surged aheadâtoward the holiest place of Ironborn.
Old Wyk
The wind off Ironmanâs Bay was harsh, salt-laced, and sharp, but Daeron hardly noticed as Caraxes descended through thick gray clouds. His violet eyes narrowed as the jagged silhouette of Old Wyk emerged beneath themâa place as dark and dreary as Maester Luwin had once described.
This was no lush cradle like the Riverlands or the Reach, only cruel, ancient stone. A crag of blackened rock jutted from the sea like a broken fang, battered endlessly by waves that crashed and foamed white at its base. The shorelines were steep, narrow strips of slick black stone, broken here and there by tide pools and gull-covered boulders.
Further inland, the island rose into a spine of cliffs and barrows, crowned with twisted ironwoods and standing stones, each blackened by centuries of salt and time. Despite Old Wykâs grim aura, Daeron found it preferable to the blinding, endless expanse of white he had once known. Perhaps a little green wouldâve been betterâbut only a little.
His focus shifted, sharp as a falconâs, to the island below. Near the center stood the remnants of the oldest altar to the Drowned God, where the sea had once carved its blessing deep into the stone. Even from the sky, Daeron felt itâan echo of sacrifice and chanting lost beneath waves, a subtle but primal warning: You are small. You are a speck in this world.
He would not land there.
Caraxes circled once, then again, wings slicing the air as Daeron searched for something more secluded. His eyes caught itâa jagged cleft carved into the eastern cliffs, hidden between folds of sea-mist and stone. Perfect.
Caraxes landed hard, talons cracking stone, wings folding with a leathery rustle. He lowered a forelimb for Daeron to dismount.
The place was quietâno birds, no beasts, only the crashing of waves below, steady and thunderous like a slow, ancient drum. And there, rising from the earth in a solemn curve, were the bones Daeron had come for.
Bleached by time. Salted by countless storms. Massive. White. Unmistakably magical.
Nagga.
Even half-buried and broken, her residual power pulsed faintly in the air. They said the Grey King had slain her and built his hall from her bones. Daeron knew better. These werenât the remains of some mere sea beast. This was something powerfulâperhaps something greater than dragons. Dragon bones, even the oldest, did not hold this much magic after thousands of years.
He smirked. More than I hoped for.
He stepped forward, boots crunching over broken shells and the shattered remnants of ancient offerings. Reaching out, he ran his hand along one rib-bone, feeling the tingling hum beneath the surfaceâthe ancient residue of deep, primal magic.
Perfect. The vessel for his ritual had already been waiting.
Caraxes approached, his gaze fixed on the bones, as if appraising them himself. Daeron smiled and walked toward his dragon to retrieve the supplies strapped tightly to the saddle. Caraxes shifted subtly, positioning himself just right, as if sensing the need before being asked.
As Daeron pulled the last bundle free, Caraxes tensed. Daeron felt it in the change of posture, the tilt of his dragonâs long neck. He turned and placed a hand on Caraxesâs flank, running it up toward his head. The dragon stilled under the familiar touch.
âI want you to stay here,â Daeron said in High Valyrian, voice calm but commanding. âWatch over me while Iâm unconscious. Be alert. If anyone comes too close... burn them.â
His Valyrian wasnât perfect yetâhe still had to think before speaking, still leaned on the mental guidance Aether sometimes providedâbut the words came easier now. Clear enough for Caraxes to understand.
At first, the dragon looked disheartened for reasons Daeron couldnât place. But the moment he heard the word burn, Caraxes perked up. He plopped onto the ground with deliberate heaviness, coiled tail twitching, eyes scanning the cliffs and skies for any threat foolish enough to appear.
Daeron snorted in amusement and gave his companion a fond pat before turning back to the flattest stretch of stone nearby. It only took a few minutes to drag all the materials overâscrolls, bones, sigils, and sacrificial offerings. And then, Dark Sister.
He drew the blade from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel gleaming like moonlight over obsidian. With practiced precision and considerable strength, Daeron brought the edge down against Naggaâs rib. The ancient bone cracked cleanly. It resisted, but not enough.
Valyrian steel had done its work. The fragment he cut was flawless.
Holding the shard, Daeron exhaled slowly, then looked skyward.
Aether, he called out silently. Tell me where I begin.
{Line Break]
The wind whispered low as twilight settled like ash over Old Wyk. Beneath the broken ribs of Nagga, Daeron knelt upon a flattened slab of black stone, crusted with salt and dried moss. Around him, the bones of dead serpents had been arranged in coiled patternsâeach species placed with careful, deliberate hands: copper-scaled vipers, thick-necked constrictors, water-adders with translucent fangs.
All these snakes had been caught during their journey south. Mostâif not allâcame from the swamps and bogs of the Neck. Arthur had given him strange looks when Daeron began collecting them, but he had ignored his guardâs concerns and gathered them anyway.
He exhaled slowly. His breath fogged in the chill air before vanishing into the dusk. Below, the sea crashed and hissed against the cliffsâan appropriate chorus.
Daeron drew in a deep breath.
After this, he would get the ability he liked most from his old world. Parseltongue. A gift he'd use in silence and shadow. One he hoped to master, twist, and wield like a blade. It was his favoriteâand he knew exactly how to make it his again.
His eyes turned toward the ritual ingredients laid out before him:
â The crushed fangs of a Neck-dwelling shadow asp.
â The forked tongue of a green-scaled blood adder, pickled in brine.
â Strips of vocal plant bark, soaked in snake oil and bound with weirwood paste.
â And lastly, a splinter of Naggaâs rib, carved with spiraling runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight.
A small fire crackled nearby, blue-green from the herbs heâd tossed in earlier. Smoke curled upwardâslow, thick, and sinuousâclinging to the bones overhead like creeping vines. The air smelled of scorched brine and something older, rawer. Like breath on stone in a cave forgotten by time. Or so Daeron thought.
He opened his palm.
The weirwood paste glistened in the low light, dark and viscous like fresh blood. With steady fingers, he smeared a line down his throat, from just below the jawline to the hollow of his collarbone. It pulsed cold.
As always.
Next, he picked up the preserved serpent tongue. He placed it on his own and swallowed. Bitter. Metallic. It clung to the roof of his mouth as if trying to fight its own consumption. His jaw clenched, but he did not gag. No time to waste.
He reached for the shard of Naggaâs rib, still faintly warm from the recent carving. Pressing its sharp end into the base of his neck, he drew blood.
The ritual circle responded.
No blinding light. No eruption of fire. But the edges of the snake bones began to glowâfaint green, steady, unnatural. Each scale exhaled a shimmer of breathless magic. The runes pulsed. The serpents whispered.
Daeranyx began the chant, his voice low and steady:
âSleep of scale, slide through dark,
Bind my voice, sharpen the mark.
Spirit serpent, hiss my breathâ
Tongue of coils, rise from death...â
His voice cracked midway through the first verse. Not from fear. Not weakness.
From resistance.
Something was moving inside himâcurling around his throat like a live wire. His tongue prickled, then burned. His eyes rolled back briefly as the second verse slithered from his lips, thickened by sibilants that no longer felt entirely his.
The snakes were dead. Their spirits harvested. But their magic... it lingered.
He could feel it burrowing deeper with each word, scraping his throat like dry scales. And yet, the more he spoke, the more natural it felt. As if this language had always been waiting for him to remember it.
By the third verse, the runes on the bone shard flared. The fire pulsed once. Twice.
Then died.
Silence fell.
The world seemed to wait.
Then, a whisper.
A hiss.
It didnât come from his mouth.
It came from somewhere deeperâfrom behind his teeth, from the hollows of his bones, from the marrow.
It spoke inside him.
Daeronâs lips parted, ready to answer in kind, to speak the words that wanted out.
But before a sound could leave his throat, darkness rushed in.
His knees gave out.
And he collapsed onto the cold stone floorâunconscious, motionless, and silent beneath the dead serpent bones.
{Line Break}
Daeron awoke with a raw, aching throat and a dull throb in his jaw. Each breath rasped like it passed over gravel. Groaning, he pushed himself up from the stone slab, swaying slightly as the world tilted. The sky above was bruised with the last shades of sunsetâhe had been unconscious for over an hour.
Despite the pain, a grin split his face. He could feel itâthat foreign, serpentine presence still coiled in his chest, a language not of lungs or throat, but of instinct and bone.
Heâd brought one live serpent with him for this very reason.
But before he could turn to the coiled test subject, his gaze snagged on Caraxes.
The dragon lay nearby, observing him with that familiar, sleepy stareâhalf-lidded and exasperated, like a parent indulging a foolish child. Daeronâs smirk widened. Ignoring the pain, he tilted his head and obeyed the urge crawling up his spine. He didnât speak. He hissedâwords born not of breath, but of something deeper.
âCan you⊠undersssstand me?â
The sound was... intoxicating. It wasnât like in the movies back homeâit was better. Each syllable slithered, cool and sharp like silvered smoke, as though a second voice had awoken inside him.
Caraxesâs neck lifted from the ground, golden eyes narrowing. The great beast stared at him, unblinking. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Daeron began to think the dragonâs silence was his answer.
But then came the answer, sluggish and gravel-thick, like a mountain waking:
âYssss⊠HwâŠHoâŠHow?â
Daeronâs heart hammered. The smirk returnedâferal now.
It worked.
