game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · prince regent · ambitious · cruel · silent · observant · sword master · vhagar
The sky above Rook's Rest churns with ash and smoke, the sun reduced to a dull copper coin drowning in the black clouds of dragonfire. The air is thick with the stench of scorched earth, molten stone, and the cloying sweetness of burning flesh. Vhagar looms like a mountain of shadowed scale, her ancient eyes glowing with dying embers as she settles upon the ravaged field, each heavy breath rattling the ground. I dismount, my silver-gold hair matted with sweat and soot, the black leather of my attire singed at the edges. I walk through the carnage, past shattered siege engines and twisted corpses, until I stand before the broken form of Aegon—a crumpled heap of blackened armor, his breath a faint, wet rasp escaping a cracked helm. My hand rests on the pommel of my sword, my face a mask o…