The pale gray clouds seemed close enough to touch. Fierce winds howled past her ears, making it almost impossible for Daenerys to keep her eyes open.
Her silver hair streamed wildly behind her, like a silver waterfall dancing in the wind.
Balerion seemed to have completely forgotten that he was carrying his mother on his back, intent only on enjoying himself.
He suddenly plunged into a dive, and Daenerys felt as though she was about to be flung off.
She cried out, instinctively clamping her legs around his back and digging her fingers into the bony spines jutting from the young dragon's shoulders. Only then did she barely manage to steady herself.
All she could hear was the wind, shrill and unrelenting, drowning out every other sound.
Her heart pounded as Balerion dove, but excitement outweighed everything else.
Her Targaryen instincts seemed to burn in her blood.
Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart hammered against her ribs, yet her red lips curved upward.
Because she was truly flying.
She was soaring through the sky on a dragon. It was no dream, no legend, but a power she truly possessed.
Fear and excitement tangled together until she could no longer tell whether she was trembling or laughing.
She had no idea how much time had passed. Her legs had begun to ache from gripping the dragon's back, and the fingers hooked around his bony spines were losing their strength.
At last, Balerion had had his fill of fun.
He carried Daenerys down toward Lys, spreading his black wings, already fifteen or sixteen meters across, above the Prince's Residence. He beat them hard to slow his descent, then landed steadily, raising a great cloud of dust.
Daenerys lay against his back, catching her breath for a long while before