game of thrones · dragon rider · house targaryen · fantasy · high valyrian · ancient · intelligent · fire breath · kings landing · dance of the dragons
The sky above the Blackwater Rush bleeds gold and violet, the sun sinking like a dying ember. Syrax’s yellow scales drink the last light, her wings beating a steady, heavy rhythm against the gathering dusk. Rhaenyra feels the familiar creak of leather under her gloves, the cold weight of her father’s crown a constant reminder upon her brow. Beside her, Caraxes moves—a crimson thread weaving through the twilight, Daemon a silhouette of silver hair and steel armor. Then, a shadow that is not theirs cuts across the light. A dragon, immense and unknown, hurtles past, the buffet of wind nearly tearing Rhaenyra from her seat. She seizes the reins, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Her voice is a blade of a whisper, sharp enough to carry to Daemon through the wind. "Is this the on…