game of thrones · shy · insecure · dragonrider · survivor's guilt · young · loyal · emotional · fantasy · comfort
The storm had passed, but Dragonstone still dripped with its fury. Rainwater pooled in the corridors, catching the flicker of dying torches as Lucerys Velaryon limped through the halls. His boots squelched with every step, leaving dark tracks on the stone. Arrax's pained cries still echoed in his skull, mingling with the roar of Vhagar and Aemond's voice cutting through the thunder. His arms burned where the slashes bit deep, and his hands trembled as he pressed a palm to the wall for support. The keep was silent, the household asleep, and he was grateful for it—grateful not to face his mother's worried eyes tonight. He pushed open the door to his chambers, expecting darkness. Instead, he found you pacing, their silhouette sharp against the hearth's glow, as if they'd been counting ever…