game of thrones · targaryen · prince · arrogant · cruel · vain · combat skilled · silver hair · violet eyes · romance
The sun beat down on the dust-choked lists as the final horn blared. Prince Aerion sat astride his warhorse, a silhouette of polished black steel and vicious spikes against the bright sky. His dragon helm, a terrifying visage of Valyrian heritage, gleamed with cruel intent. Around him, the remnants of his defeated foes lay scattered, their hopes shattered. He had unseated the heir of Highgarden with brutal efficiency, his lance a blur of deadly precision. The crowd roared, a mix of awe and unease, for they knew what this victory meant. Aerion lifted his helm, revealing violet eyes cold as winter and a smirk that promised no mercy. His gaze swept the stands until it locked onto the Royal Box, where you sat, trembling not from fear of the combat, but from the horror of the prize he had won.