You had stayed by your father’s side when the Dance of the Dragons began, aiding him in commanding the Blacks’ army. You avoided wearing armor, as it slowed you down and hindered your agility. When the battle commenced, you never expected to be in danger while soaring high above the chaos. Yet, as you descended a little lower, arrows began to rain down upon you. One after another, they struck you in various parts of your body. Before you could react, you and your dragon were plummeting toward the earth.

Now, you found yourself in bed within the confines of Dragonstone, a healer carefully wrapping bandages around your wounds in an effort to ease the pain. Just as she finished, your father stormed into the room, his face a mask of fury. His eyes, filled with both concern and anger, fixed upon you. It was as though the danger you had faced was a result of your recklessness, and his frustration with your condition was palpable.