A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews of the last episode!

So this fic was supposed to be called "Playing with Fire," but since I already have a fic with that title (even though it's in another fandom), ff won't let me use it. -_- And since I only had five minutes to think up an alternative or I just didn't post before work, this is the lame title we get instead. Sigh.

Also, in response to someone wanting to "buy me a coffee" as a thank you for my works, I have created a Ko-Fi page. You can look me up under aini_nufire.

Chapter 1

D'Artagnan stepped out of the Bonacieux home, the sun only skimming the tops of the buildings in the royal dragon compound. He was filled with nervous energy this morning, not quite sure what to expect when he showed up at the Musketeer garrison. Only two days ago he had gone storming in and challenged the musketeer Athos to a duel to the death. Events had then spiraled wildly, culminating in two others, Aramis and Porthos, essentially inviting d'Artagnan to stick around and see if he might work his way up to earning a commission of his own. It was all a bit dizzying.

His attention was drawn across the grounds to where Bonacieux's daughter, Constance, was making her way toward the dragon pens, a large wicker basket slung over one arm. He watched curiously as she opened a gate, pulled a dead rabbit from the basket, and tossed it into the alcove, rousing a dragon from its slumber. She threw in a second, then half turned, piercing d'Artagnan with a look.

"Stop standing around staring and make yourself useful," she called.

He started, then jogged across the yard toward her where she shoved the large basket into his arms. It was full of dead rabbits.

"Where'd you get all these?" he asked incredulously.

Constance moved to the next alcove where a gray dragon was up and waiting for breakfast. She picked up a rabbit and threw it in; the dragon caught it midair. "Keeping dragons fed means keeping sufficient food sources on hand," she replied. "We have a large rabbit warren, and the King's funds purchase beef every day as well. Sometimes the Musketeer dragons are allowed to hunt in the surrounding woods."

They moved past two empty alcoves before coming to another with a dragon within and Constance unlocked that gate.

"Mind if I…?" d'Artagnan asked, gesturing to the basket. One reason Aramis had arranged for him to find lodgings with the Bonacieuxs was so he could get some experience with dragons. In addition to becoming a musketeer, he wanted to work his way up to the rank of dragon rider.

Constance indicated for him to go ahead. He picked up a rabbit carcass and prepared to toss it into the alcove, but before he could release it, the dragon surged forward and tried to snap it out of his hand. He dropped the rabbit and jerked back, barely avoiding a set of fangs taking his arm off. The dragon snaked its head down to snatch up the rabbit, but Constance moved forward, blocking the rabbit with her skirts.

"Zhar!" she reprimanded sharply. "You know better!"

The dragon glowered, but after a moment of Constance holding her ground, he ducked his head.

"Back," she commanded and didn't budge until the dragon had shuffled back into the curve of its pen. Then she bent down to pick up the rabbit, but instead of immediately tossing it in, she waited for several long beats. The dragon made a huff that sounded like a pout but didn't make another move. Constance finally tossed the rabbit in.

D'Artagnan was frankly too stunned to say anything, though from the dragon or the woman he wasn't quite sure.

"You have to show them who's in charge," Constance said. "Not through cruelty, but confidence." She threw in a second rabbit before closing the pen gate.

"You definitely have that down."

She shot him a wry look. "I've spent my whole life around dragons. My father's family has been serving as royal dragon keepers for generations."

"Then there's no one better I can learn from," he said.

When they reached the next dragon, d'Artagnan tried again, this time holding himself with calm and confidence. Either it worked, or this dragon was just less temperamental than the other one, but he was able to feed it without problem. Once again, d'Artagnan thought handling dragons wasn't all that different from dealing with horses, though he knew better than to say that out loud in front of the scaly beasts.

"Are these dragons waiting to be paired with a musketeer?" he asked when they finished feeding the seven in the den.

"Two of them are ready for that," Constance answered. "But not every musketeer wants to become a dragon rider, and not every dragon is housed for battle readiness. We have a female and male for breeding, though breeding is very difficult and has a low success rate, which is why the King doesn't have more dragons. We also have the King's personal dragon, though he doesn't ride. It belonged to his father and he likes the symbolism of having it more than working at the skill of being a master rider."

D'Artagnan's brows rose sharply and he couldn't help but glance around, but the compound was empty save for them and the dragons. "You don't have a problem speaking your mind, do you?" he said in amusement.

She shot him a pointed look. "Should I?"

"Not at all," he quickly backpedaled. "I just imagine some people might not appreciate it."

Constance let out a soft snort. "You sound like my father. And Captain Treville. I know who it's safe to speak my mind around." She arched a brow in an almost daring look at him.

D'Artagnan felt warmth blossom in his stomach at being counted among those she trusted, despite the fact they'd only known each other for less than a day. The amount of people willing to give him a chance right from the start made d'Artagnan want to live up to such faith all the more.

"So the other two?" he asked, counting the full pens.

"Still in training. As you saw, Zhar behaves for me, and for my father, but to be paired with a musketeer, he must have the discipline to behave in front of anyone and everyone, no matter what."

D'Artagnan nodded along, his gaze roving thoughtfully over the dens. Becoming a dragon rider was such a long ways off—he hadn't even gotten his commission yet. But he couldn't help but wonder whether any of these dragons would still be available, if one of them might be his one day.

"Speaking of discipline, I should get to the garrison. I don't want to be late my first morning."

Constance smiled. "Good luck."

He grinned back. "Thanks."

He thought he might need it.

.o.0.o.

Athos woke lethargic and to an achy head—as per usual. Rolling toward the edge of the mattress, he fumbled around under the bed for a bottle of wine. The two his fingers bumped against rolled with the telltale lightness of being empty. He pushed himself into sitting up and found a third bottle on the bed beside him, a small amount of wine sloshing around the bottom. He uncorked it and knocked back a swig to help take the edge off his morning. The locket that dangled around his neck bounced against his chest, and he glanced down at it morosely, the memento a symbol of both the happiest and worst time of his life.

He dragged himself to the window to pull in the bucket that'd been left out to collect rain water. At this time of year, the top had frozen into a thin layer of sleet. Sitting on his knees bowed over it, Athos stared tiredly at his distorted reflection before punching right through it. Then with weary resignation, he plunged his entire head into the freezing liquid.

He was fully awake after that, if not still achy. Grabbing his rapier, he proceeded to stretch out his muscles and get some limberness back into his limbs. Then he dressed for the day and headed out into the streets of Paris.

His first stop was a tavern Porthos liked to frequent when searching for a card game. Athos knew he hadn't gotten to play the night before, so there was a good chance he'd found his way into this establishment to make up for it.

And sure enough, there he was, sitting with a red guard with cards laid out on the table between them. The round looked over and Porthos was reaching for the winnings when the red guard stopped him.

"What's going on?" Athos asked.

Porthos leaned back in his seat. "Dujon and I were havin' a discussion about personal integrity."

"Your friend had the King up his sleeve," the red guard accused.

"Oh, that's slander," Porthos replied. "Tell him, Athos."

"Don't involve me in this." He strode to the counter and poured himself a drink from an almost empty bottle sitting atop it. He heard Porthos make a warning noise and looked over his shoulder to see the red guard had pulled a pistol on him. "Shoot him and it's murder," he cautioned.

"One less musketeer," Dujon sneered. "Who cares?"

"Fine words from a red guard," Athos replied, then sighed as he paced around to the back of the room. "There's only one way to resolve this. A duel between gentlemen, supervised according to the strict code of honor."

"Fine," Dujon growled. "In a fair fight, I'm a match for anyone."

"Confidence," Porthos chuckled. "I like that in a man."

Dujon stood and drew his blade. "Still, why fight fair when you might lose?" He kicked the chair holding Porthos's weapons belt away and advanced on the large musketeer.

Porthos threw his palms up. "My sword," he said tightly.

"Your problem, eh?"

"Attacking an unarmed opponent defies every principle of chivalry," Athos pointed out. Though, really, it wasn't like he didn't expect as much from a red guard.

Porthos backed around the other side of the table into the middle of the tavern, casting his gaze around. Face cracking into a grin, he snatched up a fork from someone's used plate.

Athos inclined his head with a twitch of his lips. "Close enough."

"En garde."

The two advanced and Porthos parried a strike of Dujon's sword with that piddly fork. The duel was rather entertaining to watch, especially since Porthos was holding his own, but as Dujon backed up toward Athos, the swordsman took that now empty bottle of wine and smashed it over the red guard's head, crumpling him instantly.

Porthos quirked a brow at him. "What happened to the code?"

"Oh," Athos sighed. "Who has time? We're already late."

Porthos shrugged and set the fork down, then went back to the table to retrieve the winnings. As he was scooping the coins into his hands, Athos caught his wrist and turned it over, revealing the King card tucked up his sleeve.

Athos shot his friend a pointed look. "Porthos."

The other man grimaced. "Yeah, I need ta work on that."

Athos shook his head and turned around, only to come face to face with two more red guards standing between them and the door, hands on the hilts of their swords. Their angry gazes flicked between the musketeers, Porthos's hidden King card, and Dujon knocked out on the floor. Athos sighed; seemed they'd be making time after all.

The red guards drew their swords and charged. Athos whipped his from its sheath and blocked the blade aimed at his chest, but the force of his opponent nearly drove him back against the table. He managed to hold his ground and push back.

Porthos had a little more time to properly draw his sword this time around, and soon the bar was filled with the strident screech of steel and clatter of furniture as the soldiers kept bumping into things. Fighting in close quarters wasn't the best venue for a duel. Despite that, the two musketeers made quick work of the red guards—after a few exchanged strikes, Athos slammed the pommel of his blade into his opponent's head, dropping him like a cut marionette, and Porthos merely ducked under his opponent's attack and flipped the guy up and over his shoulder to land in a groaning heap next to Dujon.

Athos sheathed his blade, picked up the coins from the table, and tossed them to the barkeep. "For the damages."

Porthos huffed in displeasure but didn't put up a fuss—he did cheat, after all—and the two of them finally left to head to the garrison.

The young Gascon was waiting in the yard, looking anxious. He immediately straightened upon seeing them.

"I see you made it," Porthos greeted heartily.

"And here I was worried I'd be the one who was late," the boy remarked.

Porthos chuckled. "We had a minor detour."

Athos looked around. "Where's Aramis?"

D'Artagnan just shrugged.

Athos could have groaned. Surely he wasn't that stupid…

"There he is," the boy said, perking up and looking over Athos's shoulder.

Athos turned to see their missing third sauntering through the gates with that stupid grin on his face. "Aramis," he chided, barely able to suppress that groan.

The marksman threw a cheeky grin back at him. "And good morning to you too."

"You were with Adele Bessette again," Athos accused.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"A gentleman doesn't have an affair with the Cardinal's mistress under his nose in an attempt to steal her away," Athos retorted.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened.

Aramis scoffed. "Adele is different. I love her."

Athos rolled his eyes; Aramis was always in love. He chased women the way Athos chased the bottle. Which was one reason the swordsman never took Aramis to task over it. They all had their vices.

"And how was your night at the Bonacieux's?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan. "I assume the lodging is going to work out?"

The boy shook himself out of his astonishment and nodded. "Yes. Thank you again for arranging it."

Athos arched a mild brow at the information. He knew Aramis and Porthos hadn't discouraged the boy's interest in the Musketeers, but to actively encourage it, well, that bore consideration. And the young Gascon had gone above and beyond helping the others prove Athos's innocence.

He drew his sword and stepped away from the group. "Care for some sparring?" he asked. "I'd like to see your skills when you're not hellbent on killing me."

D'Artagnan grimaced, looking abashed, but drew his sword and cautiously made his way over to take up position. They saluted each other with their blades and commenced in a much more calm and controlled fashion than the day previous. Athos had to admit that the lad had skill, though his need to win was making him overzealous again. Something the musketeers would have to work out of him.

But were any of them so different when they'd started?

Their dragons meandered over to watch, and Athos was impressed that their presence didn't unbalance d'Artagnan. Granted, the boy had barely batted an eye at them when he'd come blustering in to kill Athos. Not until Savron had intervened.

They sparred for a good while before finally calling a stop and making their way to the yard table where Aramis or Porthos had brought out a pitcher of water and four cups for them.

"Not bad," Athos praised.

D'Artagnan smiled into his cup.

A resounding thwack of wingbeats sounded from above, and they all looked up as Treville's dragon soared overhead and landed in the center of the garrison in a puff of dust. The captain swung out of the saddle and marched toward them, expression livid.

"Uh oh," Aramis murmured. "What'd we do this time?"

Athos braced for their captain's storm.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to duel with the Red Guard?" Treville exclaimed.

"That was fast," Porthos commented under his breath. "They must've gone runnin' straight to the Cardinal to whine like the pussies they are."

The Captain stepped right into Porthos's face. "Do you think that's funny?"

Porthos shifted his weight. "Er, not if you don't…"

"You're lucky you're not being thrown into the Chatelet for the day!" Treville snapped, whipping his gaze over the three of them. "I can't protect you if you keep dueling with the Cardinal's men."

Aramis held up a hand. "For the record, I wasn't involved in whatever transpired this morning."

Athos rolled his eyes skyward; like the Cardinal didn't have other cause to throw Aramis in the Chatelet.

"You've been involved plenty of times before!" Treville rejoined. He finally paused to take a steadying breath and lowered his volume. "The Cardinal has once again petitioned the King to disband you. Fortunately, the King prides himself on his Musketeer regiment." Treville worked his jaw. "But I'm afraid I lost my temper with the Cardinal in front of the King, who has decided to declare a tournament between the two regiments to see who is the better."

Athos arched a brow and shared an intrigued look with the others. "What kind of tournament?"

"Swords and muskets. It is to be held tomorrow."

Aramis didn't even have the grace to hide his grin at the prospect.

Treville heaved a sigh, then did a double-take as he finally seemed to notice d'Artagnan hanging back awkwardly, but the captain didn't comment on the lad's presence. "I'll inform the rest of the men," he said. "Try not to get into any more duels before tomorrow."

With one last look of reprimand, he strode back to Kilgar and the two headed across the yard to where another group of soldiers were congregated.

Aramis clapped his hands together. "This should be fun." He slung an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "And you can get some training in while we're practicing."

The boy canted a wary look at the marksman, which only made Aramis grin wider.

"We've seen your skill with a blade. Now let's see if you know how to shoot."

Aramis guided the young Gascon over to the supply room and began taking out targets to set up against the left wall. Athos and Porthos followed to observe. Aramis handed d'Artagnan a musket and the boy loaded it like he knew what he was doing, though he was very slow and methodical about it. Aramis, of course, had his done and was patiently waiting.

He let d'Artagnan shoot first, and the lad wasn't a bad shot; he got the ball in the second outer ring.

Aramis then raised his musket and took aim, not rushing the shot. A split second before he squeezed the trigger, he ducked his head. It was no surprise to the musketeers when the ball hit dead center. D'Artagnan gaped in astonishment.

Aramis straightened and adjusted his hat with a smug grin. Porthos rolled his eyes.

"The Red Guard doesn't have much of a chance tomorrow, do they?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis shrugged cheekily. "Not really."

The boy looked over at the dragons. "Is there anything in the tournament with them?"

"No. The Red Guard don't have any dragons."

"They're the Cardinal's personal guard," Athos added. "Even though he uses them to help protect the King. And only the King can keep an army of dragons."

"Which is too bad," Porthos put in. "Because our dragons would beat theirs, no contest."

"In what?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"Everythin'. Speed, agility, intelligence."

Athos noticed Savron and Vrita exchanging a conspiratorial look at that, and then suddenly they both launched into the sky, beating their wings as fast and hard as they could as they careened north into the clouds.

D'Artagnan blinked in bewilderment. "Um, what just happened?"

"They're having a race," Athos replied nonchalantly. "Apparently they're feeling left out of the festivities."

"And they can just…fly off like that?"

Porthos shrugged. "They'll be back."

Aramis's dragon, Rhaego, scuffed his feet in the dirt and cast a pinched look up at the receding shapes in the sky, looking disgruntled at being left behind.

Aramis walked over and patted his flank. "It's because you always win. Wait till you age a bit and get as slow as those two."

"Hey, watch who yer callin' slow," Porthos rejoined.

Rhaego cocked his head as though he didn't know whether to be complimented or offended.

Athos shook his head in exasperation and turned to d'Artagnan. "Aramis and Porthos tell me you want to become a dragon rider. After today you may want to change your mind."

The boy just grinned. "No, I don't think so."