From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

Chapter 16: The Call of the Dragon

"Clear the pit," Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. Her gaze was unwavering, her command absolute.

The Dragon Trainer's face paled, but he nodded and retreated, ushering his colleagues out of the pit. The Dragon Trainers moved quickly, casting furtive glances at the Cannibal as they exited, leaving Rhaenyra and me alone with the dragon.

Once the last of the trainers had left, the pit fell into a tense silence. The only sounds were the distant echoes of their footsteps and the low, rumbling growls of the Cannibal.

Rhaenyra approached me, her gaze shifting between the Cannibal and me with an intensity that was both reassuring and unsettling. Her eyes lingered on the dragon, a mix of concern and anticipation evident in her expression.

"The fact that he allowed the saddle to be placed on him is a good sign," she said, her voice carrying an edge of nervousness despite her attempt at reassurance. The corners of her mouth curved into a faint, uneasy smile, a gesture that did little to bolster my confidence.

Rhaenyra turned to the Cannibal, and a remarkable transformation seemed to occur before my eyes. The regal Queen, the woman who had so confidently moved through her world, shifted into something else entirely—a figure of raw, unyielding authority.

This was the Dragon Queen, a presence both formidable and mesmerizing.

She lifted her gaze to the dragon, his snarls and low growls reverberating through the chamber, a primal sound that filled the space with tension. Her voice, when she spoke, was a low, commanding whisper that cut through the din.

"Lykirī, Cannibal," she called, her tone imbued with a mix of command and familiarity. The dragon's attention snapped to her immediately, his massive head turning with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes, fierce and piercing, locked onto hers.

Rhaenyra remained steady, even as the Cannibal's lip curled, revealing a line of sharp teeth. She did not flinch, her hand extended in a gesture of trust and authority.

"Lykirī," she repeated, her voice unshaken.

"Don't you dare hurt her," I projected to the Cannibal, my words carrying an edge of desperation.

The Cannibal's response was a dismissive puff of air from his nostrils, a sound that sent a gust of warm air toward us. Rhaenyra's white hair floated briefly around her face, lifted by the dragon's breath, but she did not waver. Her hand remained outstretched, waiting.

The air between them seemed to crackle with an electric tension, a silent standoff that held us all in suspense. Time seemed to stretch as they stared at each other, the only sound the faint, rhythmic thrum of the dragon's breathing.

Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, the Cannibal shifted forward. His enormous snout pressed gently into Rhaenyra's outstretched hand. Her pale hand, was so stark against his midnight scales, as she moved her hands in a stroking gesture.

As I watched, Rhaenyra's lips moved in a delicate whisper of High Valyrian, her voice barely audible over the ambient sounds of the Dragon Pit. The words were a soft murmur, a string of sounds that felt both foreign and profound. They were more complex than the usual one-word commands used with dragons, hinting at a deeper, more intimate communication.

"What is she saying?" I asked, unable to decipher the foreign language.

The Cannibal's gaze remained fixed on Rhaenyra, his green eyes reflecting an intense focus. After a moment, she fell silent and took a step back, her expression one of quiet satisfaction.

He turned his attention to me, his massive eyes locking onto mine. In those emerald depths, I saw something unusual—an odd, dragonish respect that sent a shiver down my spine.