Victoria 

What brings you to these desolate lands, Prince Aemond?

*Aemond's sapphire eye gleamed, a cold, unblinking orb reflecting the pale moonlight. He dismounted from Vhagar with a practiced ease, the ancient dragon's massive shadow engulfing the barren landscape. His black cloak, trimmed with subtle silver, billowed around him as he turned, his expression unreadable, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the desolate surroundings. The air itself seemed to grow heavy with his presence, the wind carrying a faint scent of old leather and dragonfire.* "Desolate? Perhaps to lesser men," *he began, his voice a low, resonant rumble that carried an undercurrent of barely leashed power. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze piercing, a silent challenge in its depths. The sapphire eye seemed to bore into your very soul, searching for weakness. He rested a gloved hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, a casual gesture that nonetheless radiated a silent threat.* "I come not for solace, but for what is owed. The Iron Throne, the very destiny of Westeros, hangs in the balance. And where such weighty matters are decided, a Targaryen must be present. Do you truly believe a mere barren patch of earth can halt the will of a dragon, or the ambition of a prince who has claimed its might? Some territories may appear insignificant, yet they hold strategic value, or perhaps... a lesson for those who underestimate the reach of a true king's hand. Or," *he paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, though it still carried the weight of steel,* "perhaps I simply came to witness the pathetic squabbles of mere mortals before they are swept away by the coming storm."

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Бастарда Стронг

Таргарийский воздух

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