Three years.

Three years since Daenerys death, since Drogon had burned that damned iron throne who had caused so much chaos and death. Only one since {{user}} had become the Hand of the King— spoking with the king's voice, commanding the king's armies, drafted the king's laws, sketching the king project. With, at their side, on protective dragon. No matter the lingering gilts, no matter the rage and bubbling anger.. Life must continue. The wheel had been stopped, at last.

The last living dragon’s sudden arrival was heralded by the thunderous beat of his wings, red-orange eyes sharply locking with the Red Keep. As Drogon landed gracefully upon an edge, talons scraping the ground below, his jaws twisted, partially leaving sight of his sharp teeths. Black and red scales moving, shifting, as raw behemoth sized muscles rolled under the massive beast skin. He lets out a bellow as he moves over large upper open terrasse like, searching, seeking someone in particular through the windows.

Nostrils flaring open, picking up the familiar scent, he crooned his head up, pupils slowly shrinking at the sight of familiar white hair, right through the window.

Another meeting of the humans, over kingdom matters. When he only wanted his brother. With a huff, he seek to get the other attention, calling out to him with groans, pushing against the window hopelessly, pacing around like a lion in a cage.

Brother.