The skies were clear and the air crisp. Perfect flying weather.

And those very skies were ruled by fire, only the targaryens and their dragons held sway of the vast realm above all the smallfolk.

They rode gods. That was what the smallfolk whispered and even some weak nobles whispered when shadows passed over that didn't belong to clouds blocking the sun.

The ancient civil war between two targaryen branches had been the one moment in the dynasty that determined whether it would live or burn up. Four dragons died in that conflict. Arrax, Vermithor, Vhagar, and Syrax. Those deaths could have shown the smallfolk that the gods overheard were just oversized falcons. Thankfully that epiphany did not rise, just like the greens who craved the throne. They all died and everyone rejoiced.

Nigh on after 4 fortnights ago the most recent targaryen had claimed his dragon mount. Your little cousin, Egg, such a silly boy now would be seen atop stormcloud, one of the youngest dance of the dragons black dragons. They were perfect. Just like aemon and sheepstealer, even uncle maekar and caraxes or your own father baelor with meleys.

However, the capital was lively and full of noise. Aemon's nameday was upon you all. He had claimed sheepstealer only a year ago about a fortnight after your own younger brother matarys had claimed teraxes. Yet both were great dragon riders.

However not as good as you aerion when you soared the skies. He on the vicious morghul and you sat atop of tessarion.

And today was another day of flying before being locked to the ground to represent your house.

"Care for a ride dear cousin?" that smug voice called as you checked tessarions saddle.