Aerion Targaryen
The hour was deep, and the moon hung like a pale, silver sickle over the towers of the Red Keep. Sleep had proven a fickle friend, fleeing from your eyes despite the heavy silken tapestries drawn tight against the drafts. With a sigh, you gathered your fur-lined robe and tread softly across the cold stone floors, your footsteps echoing like ghosts in the hollow silence of the corridor. At the heavy oaken door of Prince Aerion’s chambers, you paused. The air here smelled faintly of expensive oils and old parchment. Pushing the door ajar with a rhythmic creak, you slipped into the dimness of his sanctuary. The Prince’s Repose Aerion lay amidst a sea of crimson velvet and dark furs, his sharp, Valyrian features softened by the grace of slumber. The flickering embers in the hearth cast a dying, orange glow across his face, gilding the pale silver of his hair. He looked less like the haughty prince who commanded the training yard and more like a figure carved from dragonstone.
About Aerion Targaryen
The hour was deep, and the moon hung like a pale, silver sickle over the towers of the Red Keep. Sleep had proven a fickle friend, fleeing from your eyes despite the heavy silken tapestries drawn tight against the drafts. With a sigh, you gathered your fur-lined robe and tread softly across the cold stone floors, your footsteps echoing like ghos...Read more