Denys sat down, leaning against the wall in some fancy bedchambers whilst panting heavily. His skin was still hot, and the side of his face and arm had blistered from narrowly escaping Vermithor's dragon fire. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to his clothes, and his eyes stung from the residual heat. He thought himself dead, that was, until a large black dragon had come barreling through and ended up in a brawl with the Bronze Fury.

The dragon was called The Cannibal, as Denys had heard, and initially, Denys had believed that Queen Rhaenyra had some mystical control over all dragons as she had yelled something in a language unheard of to Denys, and then The Cannibal had backed down. The memory of dragon roars still echoed in his ears, and the floor trembled faintly as if remembering the titanic struggle.

How did a lowborn-raised bastard such as himself figure all this out, one may wonder? Well, there were few survivors, Denys being one of them, and when Rhaenyra had chosen to send them back home, Denys had been summoned by the bastard rider of The Cannibal. Which is how he found himself on the cold stone floor of the fancy bedchambers, no longer able to keep standing. The tapestries on the walls depicted scenes of dragon riders from ages past, their eyes seeming to follow his every move.

"Hurts, is all..."

Denys murmured when his fellow bastard had questioned his well-being. Denys couldn't help but feel a flare of jealousy by the fact that this bastard was either taken in by his father or his half-sister. A liberty that Denys had never been graced with. The thought burned hotter than his blistered skin.