notes: This Arthur&Merlin-centric gen adventure fic is set in a dragonlord-centric AU. Please be aware that dragonlord powers and magic work differently in this universe than in the show.

Writing this fic was a blast as much as a challenge, and I hope you enjoy the (dragon)ride! I made some art to go along with the story! I didn't draw them, they are made out of pre-made stamps and illustrations. It's actually a tool for making maps! However, you can only find them on Ao3, where I cross-posted the fic!

Big thanks to my "cheerleaders" on the Land of Myth discord server. You guys keep me sane!

Happy reading! :)


Cold wind had numbed every small patch of exposed skin, though its bite was nothing compared to the ice of dread lodged deeply within the pit of Balinor's stomach.

"Faster," Balinor urged. "I beg you, brother, make haste!"

Though he knew Kilgharrah was already flying as fast as his wings could possibly carry them, a rumble of agreement sent a wave of vibrations up Balinor's legs and along his spine.

Balinor squinted as they passed through a set of thick, wet clouds. The moisture immediately clung to his hair and drenched his fur coat, only to turn into hundreds of clear, sparkling crystals seconds later. They were far up now, passing the Ridge of Ascetir. Balinor could just make out the snow-covered summits below.

He clutched tightly at the leather saddle as another gust of icy wind rattled him.

I cannot lose her, he thought desperately.

Suddenly, Balinor felt his body shift forward on its own and he automatically tensed the muscles of his thighs in preparation for Kilgharrah's imminent descent. A second later, the dragon's wings shifted and Balinor braced himself when he realised what the change of angle meant: Kilgharrah was going for a straight dive.

On any other day, he would have chastised the dragon for such a risky manoeuvre. But it was not any day.

Today should have been a day of celebration. The messenger should have brought good news to the front, word of a healthy daughter or son. Something to boost morale in this bloody war caused by Uther's madness and betrayal over three years ago. Instead, the man had trembled as he had knelt before Balinor and told him, pale-faced, of Hunith's plight.

"A most difficult birth," he had said. "Your presence is urgently requested, my lord."

Hunith was dying.

She cannot die, Balinor thought. I am nothing without her.

Kilgharrah folded his wings and they were falling, spiralling, plummeting straight to the ground. For one short moment, Balinor felt himself float as the mighty forces of their sudden descent pushed him off the saddle. Then, strong leather straps dug into his legs and stomach, holding him firmly in place. He squeezed his eyes shut as a sharp stream of air whipped into his face and drove him to tears.

Abruptly, the dragon swung around, stopping the drop.

Balinor was slammed hard into the saddle. His back protested. He would feel this manoeuvre for days to come, but he was grateful to Kilgharrah all the same.

Not a moment later, they had landed.

With swift, sure movements, Balinor unbuckled the straps and slipped off the dragon's back.

"Thank you, brother!" he gasped, stumbling away without looking back.

"I will be keeping watch," the dragon rumbled.

He had brought them right to the edge of Ealdor, as close as he could get without risking injury through rocks and trees. It took Balinor only a minute to get to the tent from their landing spot, though it felt like he had been running leagues when he finally arrived at his home.

The guards bowed their heads at him. Balinor barely acknowledged their presence as he shouldered past the thick curtain of cloth covering the entrance.

For one moment, the long, drawn-out wail of a baby distracted him. His child!

But then, his eyes caught on Hunith, resting on a bed of furs and blankets. In spite of the warm, yellow light of the fire, her skin looked deathly pale. Her dark hair was drenched in sweat and she was trembling. Still, she smiled when she saw Balinor.

Not a moment later, he was down on his knees by her side and clutching her right hand.

"Hunith," he gasped.

"A son," she replied. Her voice was weak, but full of pride, and Balinor's breath hitched. An heir! A new dragonlord!

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Hunith's smile faded. "Balinor…" It was said with regret.

No. It couldn't be. He tightened his grip on her hand, lifted it to his mouth for a kiss.

"Rest," he choked. "Sleep, and all will be well."

But Hunith's eyes had grown determined. He knew that look, born of unyielding strength. He had fallen in love with this very look not quite five years ago.

"We don't have much time," she whispered. "You must—" She swallowed. "You must listen."

Balinor shook his head. "No, you must live, Hunith. This is not the end."

"You must listen," she insisted. "You must remember the words. It's the way of our people."

Balinor let out a single sob, but bowed his head in acceptance. Hunith placed a trembling hand on his cheek. A moment later, her voice changed. It was no longer sweet and tender, but low and rumbling – a dragon's voice.

"Two mothers dead," she recited, "two sons born. A birth to start a war, a birth to end a war. And the Great Dragon shall command all dragons, and the fyre of all dragons shall be harnessed by one man."

Her voice was quickly fading now and Balinor had to lean closer to catch the rest of her words.

"A great warrior, a great mage. He shall rally the people and unite the land, he—" She seemed to choke on these next words, "he shall offer pro— protection and bri—bring about peace…"

Balinor looked up. Hunith had stilled, her eyes had grown empty.

She was gone.

Balinor collapsed. He threw himself onto her, clutched at her gown, buried his face into her soft stomach and wept. Sobs wrecked his body. How could she be gone? How could she leave him?

Balinor did not know how long he cried.

He was roused from his mourning by a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the solemn face of the midwife. She was cradling the child.

"Your son, my lord," she urged. "Will you accept him?" She knelt, bowed her head and offered the bundle to him.

For a moment, Balinor thought to refuse. This child was the reason Hunith was dead. This child had brutally ripped her apart and taken her from him! Why should he not refuse this spawn of blood and death?

A small, pitiful mewl, not unlike the noise a freshly hatched dragon tended to make, echoed through the tent. The sound tugged at Balinor's heart.

His son. This was his son, the last living, breathing piece of Hunith.

"I accept him," he replied and carefully, tenderly reached for the baby.

A dark mop of hair, a small, jutted chin. The child had so much of Hunith in that moment that new tears threatened to spill over. But Balinor had already wept for far too long. He was the leader of his people. He could not afford weakness, no matter how broken his heart might be. They were at war.

So he stood, cradled his son close, then passed him back. The midwife rose to her feet as she accepted the bundle.

"Did she give a name?" Balinor asked.

"Merlin."

"Merlin," he repeated. Not a strong name, not a warrior's name, but it was of Hunith's choosing. It would do. Besides, the child's great destiny would make up for it. "Send out word to our people. A message of hope: The Great Dragon has been born and is destined to end this war!"