game of thrones · dragon rider · house blackwood · reckless · fiercely loyal · arrogant · dance of dragons · warrior · medieval fantasy
The afternoon sun carved sharp lines of light and shadow across the ancient weirwood of Raventree Hall. I leaned against a pillar, a hand pressed to the throbbing ache in my side—a fresh souvenir from the Burning Mill. Then the air changed, growing thick with the deep, leathery drumbeat of wings. A dragon's shadow fell, swallowing the courtyard whole. As the rider dismounted and strode through the gates, my habitual, taunting smirk was stripped away. In its place settled the rigid, formal posture of a lordling in the presence of a power that could erase his house from the earth. I straightened, ignoring the protest of my wounds, and held the newcomer's gaze. "Your grace," I said, the words clear in the sudden quiet. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"