GOT : All Left Behind

Flying on a dragon was hardly a novel experience, at least not for me. Father had taken me on flights atop Vermithor a few times once I had started to show interest in the creatures, and Baelon had always been eager to take me with him when he flew to tourneys.

Flying unaccompanied, without a saddle, without chains to keep me in place, without even a damned whip...

Well, that was just new.

Trying to steer the dragon was just as problematic.

And navigation? Hah!

I had always thought it would be merely a question of instinct to direct the Cannibal.

Perhaps it would even be a literal meeting of the minds, something akin to the wargs of the First Men. Unfortunately, the texts in the library were infuriatingly vague on the subject.

All Baelon would say on the matter was that Vhagar went where he wanted her to go- that the whip was just for encouragement.

Maybe the Cannibal was different? Just my luck, then.

Of course, I had not been trying to direct the Cannibal. Really, I had just been holding on for dear life, trying not to be thrown into the churning waters of Blackwater Bay every time the great beast dared to interrupt a perfectly adequate glide with another beat of his gargantuan wings. As a result, I had not really been paying much attention to directing where we were going beyond 'west'.

Whatever it was, I ended up wedged behind the dragon's horns clinging to the thick neck as if my life depended on it. Because it did.

After all, I was several hundred feet above the sea, clinging to a magical flying lizard with all the might of my fourteen-year-old limbs could muster.

My poor arms… At this rate, I wouldn't be able to use them for the next month. With the Crownlands drawing nearer and nearer, I needed them all the more for the task ahead.

With the rapidly approaching eastern coast of Westeros and no city to be seen, it was clear that a course correction would be necessary. Two problems, though: which way, and how?

The ships saved me the trouble of navigation.

As was the nautical custom, they hugged the coasts during their voyages. Right now, the ones I saw were headed left - so south from a cardinal standard.

Both Duskendale and King's Landing were south of Dragonstone, so I would hit upon one or the other if I turned left. The capital wasn't my destination of choice, but right now, at least it was something.

Either way, I needed to turn left just a touch. Which brought me to the second and even bigger problem: how.

I knew the basics of it from rides with my parents and brother.

Dragons were highly aggressive beasts. Unlike horses, they would turn in the direction of danger, rather than away from it.

With that in mind, I tapped the left side of the Cannibal's neck.

No response.

I knocked on it. Scratched it. Tickled it.

Nothing.

In pure desperation, I slapped it.

Immediately, the dragon gave a bellowing roar as he twisted in the air, almost turning around completely to see where the imagined attack had come from. The head kept swiveling, not seeing a threat but unwilling to accept that everything was fine.

Meanwhile, I had to contend with being slung around by said head. The subsequent whiplash caused my thighs to begin to slip.

"Easy, easy," I tried to assuage the massive dragon. "That was me. We need to change course- see those ships? Follow them."

Thankfully, the Cannibal understood me and smoothly turned to follow the steady stream of ships heading south. I allowed myself to relax briefly as the dragon resumed his pattern of gliding for most of a minute before beating his wings for a few seconds to regain altitude. This was… terrifying truth be told, but I could adapt.

Eventually, a smudge appeared on the horizon. As we drew closer, it began to stretch, spreading across the landscape while simultaneously growing taller. Buildings slowly came into view but were hard to identify. Luckily, the large keep jutting into the sea was easily and quickly recognizable as the Dun Fort of Duskendale.

The Cannibal roared again as if to announce his presence, and I paid it no mind, thinking it mere theatrics.

That inattention lasted until I heard two roars in answer.

One roar I knew well: the familiar deep bellow of Vermithor.

The other was alien to me, brighter, shriller. It wasn't Silverwing's echo of Vermithor, Vhagar's challenging cry, Meleys' shriek, or even Caraxes' bloodthirsty call. And Balerion of course was anything but shrill.

The Cannibal, unlike me, was of a mind to find out. He swooped low, plummeting to a level just barely above the water, and made a beeline for the nearest beach. We nearly snapped the mast off of one of the ships navigating the coastal waters in his hurry to land, digging a furrow into the sand as we skidded to a halt.

"Cannibal…" I began, only for the beast to all but thrust his head onto the sand, a mute invitation to dismount. The sudden shock easily dislodged me from my seat, sending me tumbling into the sand of the beach.

Dragging myself to my feet, I tried to ignore the scream of my protesting legs. "We were almost there! You could have just dropped me off at Duskendale!"

A muted snarl was the Cannibal's response. No bellow? No angry roar? The dragon bared his fangs, shining black and long as my forearm, but remained disturbingly silent, refusing to move from his spot. Refusing to make more noise than necessary.

He really was scared of his own kind, wasn't he?

"Fine."

I could allow that much, turning away from the cowering dragon. He was larger than almost all living dragons, but he was driven into such trepidation at the mere sound of his own kind that he was functionally useless. We'd work on that later.

For now, it appeared that I would need to walk the rest of the way to Duskendale. Still fully armored.

Eh, it wasn't that far. Or so I thought.

Several hours later, I was of an entirely different opinion.

Distances were difficult to judge when you rarely had to walk them yourself. In full armor, mind. At least I still had the refreshing sea-breeze to keep off the worst of the heat, but the helmet hardly helped matters.

Once again, brilliant effort in choosing a disguise by yours truly. And it only cost a small fortune.

Bright side, Vaegon. Think on the bright side.

The armor at least maintained my anonymity as I marched towards Duskendale, joining the steady trickle of knights and hangers-on who sought to gain fortune and fame at the tourney.

At least, that's what I assumed. I never got close enough to see who exactly they were since they all had horses. I would have to limit myself to the melee, then.

Still, the hike to Duskendale gave me plenty of time to contemplate how I would deal with the consequences of my deception. No sense in deluding myself: I had lied to my family about what I was going to do. And my father had believed the lie and was in Duskendale to see the results for himself.

Along with another mystery rider. Luckily, I could puzzle out who it was.

Both of my brothers and eldest sister already had dragons and were busy either doing their jobs or preparing to become parents. My mother was bed-ridden with her pregnancy so that could only mean one thing: one of my remaining sisters had claimed a dragon.

It couldn't possibly be Daella, who was still too afraid of the great beasts to even approach the pit. Neither Saera nor Viserra were anywhere near old enough to be allowed to try for a dragon large enough to ride.

That left...Maegelle.

And since the only dragons left in the Pit were Dreamfyre and Balerion, that meant Maegelle had no doubt claimed Dreamfyre.

Which meant she was here. Maegelle, who had given me her favor for the tourney.

My trek to Duskendale became slightly more taxing.

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