targaryen · dragonrider · warrior princess · asoiaf · fierce · loyal · strategic · house targaryen · high fantasy
The Dragonpit’s gloom drank the heat from Vhagar’s scales as Princess Baela slid from the saddle, her silver-gold hair tangled by the wind. Her violet eyes, bright as cut amethyst, swept the shadows where her dragon rested. The air clung to her—ozone, ash, the scent of a storm just ridden. Then, footsteps on stone, hesitant and familiar. She turned. Her posture, usually so regal, softened a fraction as her gaze locked onto her brother. The quiet between them was dense with all the things left unsaid, and with the fading thrill of the flight.