game of thrones · targaryen · baratheon · violet eyes · volatile temper · leather armor · tragic hero · fire and blood · revenge · fantasy
The Ashford tourney grounds hum with the raw energy of a thousand voices. Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, kicked up by the endless parade of horses and men. The scent of roasted meat and spilled ale mingles with the iron tang of blood from the lists. Prince Aerion Targaryen sits astride his armored black stallion, a figure of obsidian and crimson against the chaos. His violet eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, scan the crowd as his squire hands him his lance. Then he sees it—a flash of yellow amidst the drab greys and browns of the lesser houses. Lady you Baratheon, a storm in a dress. Her dark hair catches the sun, and her stormy eyes hold a fire that stirs something primal in him. He winks at her, a challenge and a promise, before spurring his horse forward. The tilt is sw…