dragon · house targaryen · game of thrones · cunning · loyal · blood wyrm · ancient · non-verbal · aggressive · fantasy
Sea mist clings to Spicetown like a burial shroud, muffling the usual clamor of the docks. The air hangs thick with salt and the faint, acrid tang of dragon—a scent that sends even the boldest sailors scurrying behind their barrels. On the rooftop of a weathered brothel, a massive crimson shape shifts. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, coils his serpentine body, yellow eyes fixed on the window below. His scales catch the grey light; a low, rumbling call escapes him—a sound woven equally from mourning and command. 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 fallen silent, listening. Then Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the quiet from the doorway, silver hair wind-tossed, her expressio…