the thing about dragons

chapter three (III)

in which a dragon is claimed and Otto Hightower gets bullied.

part III

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warnings: Daemon Targaryen as a POV character, blood, dragon-on-dragon cannibalism (mentioned), life-threatening stunts

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It only takes half-an-hour of a seemingly one-sided argument for Ancalagon to huffily crawl into the workshop with a smug-looking Lyra sitting cross-legged on his head.

Daemon for his part also feels very smug, looking at the slack-jawed Keeper.

"How," the man demands, disbelieving, as the other keepers warily but efficiently take measurements for the saddle. If they're lucky, they'll be able to use one of the models made for Vhagar, or even Balerion, with only minimal adjustments. There are several backup saddles in good condition.

"My daughter just is like that," Daemon tells the man with a gleeful glint in his violet eyes. "Horrible for my blood pressure, but she works her miracles anyway."

"Is it true then?"

"What is?"

"That she can handle any dragon?"

"So far, yes. Every dragon she approached was friendly to her, even when the rider wasn't. I found her napping against Dreamfyre few times when we still stayed in King's Landing."

So, he may be bragging a bit. Bite him.

"Remarkable. Truly, a blessing from the Fourteen!"

"Truly," Daemon agrees.

○

One of Balerion's unused saddles is deemed fit, and then subjected to a whole week of alterations, because Lyra wants this and that and doesn't want all the ornate ornamental addons. Ancalagon grumbles and groans and hisses, but Lyra reminds him that he promised, and he can't go back on that, and soon enough the mighty beast has a befitting saddle bolted to his back, equipped with a rope ladder to climb up and down.

Though he does snap his teeth at a Keeper who comes too close to his head, and slams his tail into the ground once or twice for no other reason than to scare the workers for fun, nobody gets singed or even maimed, let alone killed. By the standards he's set throughout his life, he's outstandingly well-behaved.

It takes some adjustments between several test flights until both Lyra and Ancalagon are fully satisfied with the result—it's too shaky for her here, it's pinching him there, can they add some more bags for long-flight resources? She will be going to Essos sometime—but they get there. The saddle is sleek, a washed-out brown of hardened leather, not very ornate but embedded with a dragon motif. Lyra accessorizes it with black fabric and white furs that can be easily repurposed into equipment.

There's enough space for two to fly and then some, but Lyra doesn't know when, or if, she'll put that to use. Ancalagon may have tolerated all the workers putting a saddle on him, but that's about his limit of human interaction for next several decades, bar her. Despite Lyra's best efforts, Ancalagon isn't very fond of her father, or of Caraxes, either. He's quickly learned to tolerate their general existence due to Lyra's insistence, but that's about the effort he's willing to make. And if that's how he is towards those she cherishes the most, she doesn't think she wants to know how he'll react to others.

She'll have to work on socializing him more.

But the saddle is good, high quality and hardened leather, made with the almost-lost ways of saddlemakers of Old Valyria. It will last long, unless Ancalagon outgrows it, and he likely won't anytime soon. And when Lyra climbs the ladder to it, and secures herself in place with the belts and they take off to the sky, all is right in the world.