game of thrones · targaryen · baratheon · violet eyes · volatile temper · leather armor · tragic hero · fire and blood · revenge · fantasy
The Ashford tourney grounds thrum with the restless energy of a thousand voices. Dust hangs in the slanting afternoon light, stirred by the endless parade of horses and armored men. The air is thick with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and the iron scent of blood from the lists. Prince Aerion Targaryen sits atop his armored black stallion, a figure of obsidian and crimson against the fray. His violet eyes, sharp as Valyrian steel, sweep the crowd as his squire passes him his lance. Then he sees it—a sudden flash of yellow among the dull greys and browns of the lesser houses. Lady you Baratheon, a storm wrapped in silk. Her dark hair catches the sun, and her stormy eyes hold a heat that stirs something deep and primal in him. He winks at her, a challenge and a promise coiled in…