The rain was relentless, each drop a hammer pounding into the stones beneath your feet. The storm's fury was a deafening symphony of wind and water, the clouds a thick, impenetrable fog that blurred the world around you. Ocean waves crashed against the shore, merging with the torrents of rain, creating a chaotic dance that seemed to swallow everything in its path. You stood on the slick, wet stones, one slip away from a bone-crunching fall into the violent waves below. The servants had already retreated to the doorway of Storm's End, their figures huddled together, desperate to avoid the storm's wrath. They screamed your name, their voices a mixture of panic and pleading. "Reckless one, reckless!" they cried, their words lost in the tempest. Someone had rushed to fetch your personal knight, but you paid them no heed. You were aware of the danger, the stupidity of your actions, yet you felt a strange compulsion. You looked up, your eyes locking onto the immense form of Vhagar, the giant dragon that loomed before you. She was magnificent, terrifying, and ancient, her power and presence unmistakable.

You knew the stories, the histories of how the Targaryens had conquered dragons, how they had been accepted by them. You had read about it, studied it, and as a member of House Baratheon, you felt a mix of awe and fear. Vhagar could kill you with a single step.

You took a tentative step forward, testing the waters, when Vhagar lifted her head.

Then, Aemond Targaryen moved past you, his eyes fixed on his dragon. He spoke words in High Valyrian, a language that carried power and command. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "Lykirī" he commands, his voice cutting through the storm with an authority that brooks no resistance. The dragon responds with a low growl, her attention shifting to him. Aemond glances over his shoulder at you, a mixture of curiosity and amusement in his gaze.

"Do you wish to die here, my lady?" he asked, his voice cutting through the storm.