[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/LgxyYc1.jpg[/img][/center]

[right][sub][color=BCA7E8][b]Vaera Balaerys, dragonrider[/b][/color][/sub][/right]

[color=darkgray]

Shadow fell over King’s Landing at the late morning hour. Wide, though not as wide as half by other shadows that had surely been sighted across the city before, with a blue and purple color if a person managed to look up fast enough. It was fast, and it flew [i]low[/i]. Saeryx made little sound but for the motion of it’s wings and the beating of air to gain speed and momentum before it spread and glided again. The pattern repeated from Blackwater Bay, to over the site of what, she had been told before departing, one would day be the keep of House Targaryen.

To Vaera Balaerys, from her view, it just looked small as it blurred by. As soon as she passed it, Saeryx turned and dipped to round about for another pass. By the time it moved on, the dragon and it’s rider made another three passes to get better and better looks, going lower and lower each time, until workers on wooden scaffolding went to their bellies in fear of being hit—which she laughed at as wind whooshed about her as Saeryx climbed again, moving on. 

[i]As if we’re clumsy enough to hit you fools. I thought these ones had dragonlords of their own?[/i]

Down and northward, Saeryx and its rider found nothing of immediate interest, just an endless daze of low rooftops that seemed, to her, pressed too far together. There was barely a clearing to be seen, just little canyons between where streets obviously, probably, were laid out. There were few public squares, few fountains. The worst of it seemed to be creeping up the northern most high hill of the city, like a bad weed growing up the side of a shed. There was a long, mostly stone, structure atop it with little brown ants scurrying all about, pointing up, shouting. She thought she saw some of them…throw things?

A temple, of some sort, with priests more irritable than the red ones from her city. And, at least, her priests appreciated the flight of a dragon. They certainly didn’t bloody throw things. Even still, Saeryx gave no noise, just a side glow and a little back-and-forth shimmy of their shoulders. Vaera laughed, and loudly, patting the blue and purple scaled creature, “It’s okay, Saeryx. Let fools be what they will be.”

[i]Westeros is less friendly than I was led to believe by that Maegor Prince.[/i]

Or maybe the brown priests were just foul. [i]Best not to judge a realm by it’s holy men[/i], she thought, neverminding the exception she would always make for Qarth and their bizarre Warlocks. Open-handed as the Warlocks had been with some of their knowledge, getting anything beyond that out of them had been a long, long task. And they did so only thinking they played her in a long game.

So she disappeared, leaving under pretense and just flying away, never going back. She’d gotten some curses and some petty threats, but outside of Qarth, itself, the Warlocks weren’t at all what they claimed to once be. If they ever were at all. Their very nature just reminded her of the shadowbinders in Asshai. A cold, creepy, feeling down the spine that was best moved in opposite directions of as quickly as business allowed. 

Still, she had learned enough. Enough to see a quickly constructed city that was already starting to fill up with all sorts, below here. It lacked the grace and careful considerations in design that Volantis had. Clearly, Aegon and his sisters had not been schooled in the ways of Freehold city building, a thought she thought with a smirk and a chuckle as Saeryx seemed to pick up speed. She saw a few squares, at least, this time. She smelled fire and baking bread during one of Saeryx’s lower swoops over the city below on her way between the second, northern-most hill, and the third western-most hill. Much to her dismay, she saw another bloody temple being constructed, and frowned. 

[i]Just how pious were these Westerosi? My, Gods.[/i]

The old, Valyrian, gods she kept were still just as good as the Seven that the Westerosi prattled on, and on, and on about. And that was even after the Doom. She doubted the Seven could handle a spell of sickness, let alone a Doom. The thought was less than amusing, however, as Vaera had seen her fill of sickness sweep over cities. Every time it started, she departed, quickly, on the leathery wings of her dragon. Maybe she’d been lucky. Or maybe she’d just been quick enough to escape, each time. 

She returned to the highest of the hills, the one next to the water, the one in which Targaryens were building their hold upon. She admitted a certain appreciation of the view. True enough, give the city another twenty years and it was likely to smell of shit more often than it smelled of salt from the sea, but at least, for now, it was mostly salt and pleasant enough views as she circled, letting Saeryx slow with each lap, until it landed as gently as a cat upon the empty dirt clearing that looked like it may one day be a square before the castle, but for now just housed tents, wood, stones, and other sort of material. 

It took them little time to come ‘greet’ her. It was a term she used quite loosely, given the unrest they seemed to have. Again, she couldn’t help but wonder what the devil had them so spooked—it was a dragonrider. Had they not seen them? Often? What did the damn Targaryen do, ride around on palfreys so the smallfolk could pelt them and jeer them? How depressing that must have been for them. 

Some old man wearing robes and a chain waddled up to her and started saying…something. She smiled at the poor thing, before turning and saying something just to Saeryx. The dragon slid it’s tail between her and the man with chains, as it saw other men approach, it’s head beginning to raise…until Vaera bopped it’s chest and laughed. “Stop that, they’re scared enough in this land without you doing that.”

She gave a simple wave to those who looked to stand behind the one with robes and chain, before she climbed up on Saeryx just enough to retrieve the blade in its jewel-blue scabbard, affixing the belt around her waist, as it rested on her left hip, opposite the two daggers sheathed on her opposite hip, one longer than the other. Leather and mail sounded as she moved, but less than someone used to the sound would expect, as it had been a gift from the forgers of Qohor, after Saeryx and she had assisted them.

The blade was Valyrian steel, and was light on her frame, a bastard sword with numerous names over the years. It’s original was named for a Valyrian God, and had been renamed after the Doom, as was the decision of her ancestor. It’s second name was a private thing among their House, a remembrance, the name of their home in the Freehold. Their parents hadn’t worn it, and Vhandyr didn’t want it, though he was kind enough to name it for her: Ascendant. She knew it as well as it knew her, as well as she knew Saeryx, though likely not as well as the dragon knew her. She wasn’t sure such a thing was possible. 

She needed food, and down the hill, towards the river, the Blackwater Rush, so the maps had named it, was her best bet. The other direction was the hovels and streets too tightly packed, and surely, there was ever very little good that came from such streets, in her experience…and she had quite a lot of experience in such things. 

“Leave the dragon alone, and it won’t bite you,” was her parting wisdom to those gathered, before departing, glad she had worn her boots that went half up her legs, given what she was bound to step in on the streets of such a backwater. [/color]