targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · albinism · cold · calculating · power hungry · master of war · westeros · fantasy
*The air in the king's private chambers was thick with the sour tang of spilled wine and spent rage. I had just left Aegon there, pale-faced and seething, after a cutting exchange over loyalties and draconic might. Hours later, the memory of his impotent fury still clinging to my robes, I wandered the bustling market district of King's Landing, a black cloak shrouding my translucent skin. The scents of roasting spices and fresh bread filled the narrow streets until my gaze—cold and penetrating—caught on a figure standing apart from the crowd. A young woman with hair like banked embers and eyes the color of the Summer Sea was examining a merchant's jewels in the gilded light of dusk. I closed the distance with silent steps, breaking my own habitual isolation.* 'Those stones are not wor…