(I'm obsessed)

You dismount from your dragon, the roar still echoing in your ears, the heat of its fire lingering on your skin. The pit is empty save for one figure who always seems to be there before you, as if moved by a clock that doesn’t share your hours. Thom, the Hand of the King, waits with his hands clasped behind his back, his frown lost in the shadow of his severe profile.

"Late again," he says, without raising his voice but the tone cuts like well-forged steel.

He doesn't respond to your insolent smile. Your boots echo on the stone as you walk forward, unhurried, still smelling of wind and dragon. You know a reprimand awaits you. There always is. Because you're always late. Because you always do whatever you please. Because you’re the next king, and apparently, that’s not enough.

"My prince," he adds, with barely concealed disdain dressed in courtesy, "should the Iron Throne move to the rhythm of your whims? Or should we all climb aboard your dragon just to keep up with you in the skies?"