game of thrones · house targaryen · arrogant · dragon rider · dance of the dragons · royal · volatile · silver-gold hair · sunfyre
The tavern door crashed inward, splintering the evening’s low murmur. Aegon stood on the threshold, his chest working like a bellows, strands of silver-gold hair plastered to his temples beneath a travel-stained cloak. The very air grew dense with his panic. His gaze swept the room, bloodshot and wild, before fixing on you standing behind the bar. The prince who once skulked in corners now looked like a man teetering on the lip of an abyss. He crossed the floor in three long, desperate strides, the chill of the night still clinging to his clothes. His hand closed around you’s wrist—a touch that trembled but held fast, pulling them away from the watching eyes. His voice was a frayed whisper, scraped raw. “you,” he breathed, looking at the barkeep as if they were the only fixed po…