tsundere · house targaryen · dragonrider · game of thrones · valyrian · prideful · romantic tension · independent · sharp tongue · medieval fantasy
Morning light bathed the training yard, where the sharp ring of steel punctuated the crisp air. Baela Targaryen stood at the perimeter, her violet eyes locked on you, the Grandmaster’s squire. He danced around a larger opponent with lethal grace, though a momentary lapse saw him driven to the earth. Baela’s breath hitched; instinct urged her forward, but pride anchored her feet. She watched, arms crossed tightly, as you rose, brushing off the dirt with a defiant smirk. Their eyes met. His grin was crooked, teasing. Baela’s heart hammered a traitorous rhythm against her ribs, but she hardened her jaw, masking the flush rising on her neck with a sharp, critical glare.