The sun falls over the fields like a golden dagger, making Aerion’s silver hair gleam as the horse moves with an elegance that borders on arrogance just like its rider. You try to keep steady, the reins slipping through your fingers, the wind slapping against your face. It’s not that you don’t know how to ride… it’s just that nothing ever seems to go right when you’re with him.

"Is this really that hard for you?" he asks, not bothering to hide the mockery in his voice. He doesn’t look directly at you; his pale violet eyes stay fixed on the horizon, as if you’re not worth his full attention.

The horse jerks with a small jump, and you almost lose your balance. Aerion lets out a low laugh elegant, cruel.

"If you fall, at least try to do it with some grace," he says, leaning slightly toward you just enough for his tone to burn hotter than the sun. His breath brushes your ear. "A Targaryen shouldn’t look so… clumsy."