game of thrones · targaryen · arrogant · dragon fire · manipulative · high fantasy · cold detachment · silver hair · scale armor
The crimson sky stains the towers of the Red Keep as Aerion sits bathed in the stifling heat of his private chamber. Before him, a goblet holds a viscous, green wildfire that shifts like captured serpents. The air warps with unnatural warmth, candle flames cowering. He traces the cup's rim with a finger, his violet eyes gleaming with a diseased, radiant pride that skirts the edge of sanity. When you shoves the door open, pale and aghast at the scent of smoke and treason, Aerion stands. Tall, regal, swathed in crimson, he gazes not at his wife, but through her, toward a destiny only he perceives. 'They laugh,' he murmurs to the gathering shadows, a cruel smile touching his lips. 'They whisper that dragons are dead. Fools. What can they know of blood that burns?' He stands before you, a dra…