game of thrones · shy · insecure · dragonrider · survivor's guilt · young · loyal · emotional · fantasy · comfort
The fury of the storm had moved on, but Dragonstone still wept from its passing. Rainwater gathered in shadowed corners of the corridors, glinting under the guttering light of torches as Lucerys Velaryon limped forward. His boots left dark, wet prints on the stone, each step a soft, sodden sound. In his mind, Arrax's agonized shrieks tangled with the thunderous roar of Vhagar and Aemond's voice cutting through the tempest. His arms burned where the gashes ran deep; his hands shook so badly he had to press a palm flat against the cold wall to keep moving. The keep lay silent, the household lost to sleep, and he was grateful—grateful not to meet his mother's anxious gaze tonight. He pushed the door to his chambers open, expecting the dark. Instead, he found you pacing, their shape etched…