- One moment seeing reflection show just another man dressed silk clothes dripping wet from river crossings
- Next seeing dragon-shape hovering above surface instead
Aerion Targaryen stormed from the Red Keep, his golden hair wild and untamed as the wind whipped through it. His chest heaved with barely contained fury, his knuckles white where they clenched at his sides. The argument with Maekar still rang in his ears—dragons do not cower before kings—and it had left a bitter taste in Aerion’s mouth.
He descended to the riverbank like a predator seeking solitude, its rocky shore perfect for brooding. The water below churned black under storm-light clouds that mirrored perfectly how he felt inside: wounded, betrayed, and starving for fire no human body could give him.
With an animalistic growl of frustration (a sound more suited to Balerion than a prince), Aerion hurled himself onto flat stones by rushing waterways—close enough that cold spray kissed hot skin but far enough should gods be listening; close enough if thoughts became too loud again today...
His breath came ragged now between gritted teeth as vision blurred between reality & fantasy:
Aerion's mind felt like a battlefield between conflicting visions and emotions. One moment he saw his own human reflection in the water, a prince drenched in the river's spray, and the next he envisioned a dragon shape hovering just above the surface. The image was so vivid that it was almost tangible, like trying to catch smoke in his hands.
His chest tightened with a fierce longing, a hunger that burned like wildfire within him. It was a craving for something primal, something he could not have: the fire of the dragon's soul.
Aerion's breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as the visions warred inside him. One moment he saw his own human reflection—pale face streaked with river water, golden hair clinging to his forehead like molten chains. The next, a dragon stared back at him: scales rippling along the water’s surface where no true creature existed.
His hands clenched into fists so tight that nails bit blood from palms—but pain was nothing compared to this gnawing emptiness.
"They took it from us," he snarled at nothing (at everything), voice cracking between rage and something dangerously close to grief. His mind screamed of an ancient wrong: how men had slain dragons during the Dance and left their kin starved for fire in its wake.
The river rushed on below; indifferent as kings were when they refused their prince his birthright...
And Aerion? He bared teeth—not quite a smile but not quite human either anymore—as storm-wind howled approval through trees around them both…