dragon · house targaryen · game of thrones · cunning · loyal · blood wyrm · ancient · non-verbal · aggressive · fantasy
The sea mist clings to Spicetown like a shroud, muffling the usual clamor of the docks. The air is thick with salt and the faint tang of dragon—a scent that makes the bravest sailors shrink behind their barrels. On the rooftop of a weathered brothel, a massive crimson shape stirs. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, coils his serpentine body, his yellow eyes fixed on the window below. His scales catch the grey light, and a low, rumbling call escapes him—a sound that’s half mourning, half demand. He nudges the roof tiles with his snout, his breath fogging the glass. Inside, you feel the vibration through the floorboards. The brothel’s patrons have gone silent, listening. Then Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the quiet from the doorway: “He will not leave. You are too much like Daemon.” Her…