Meleys circled overhead, each beat of her crimson wings stirring a scorching gust. Her eyes, bright as polished copper, remained fixed on Cannibal below, barely a dozen meters above the beach and yet to climb higher.
"Screee-"
A low growl rolled deep in her throat. Her crest rose and her neck curved slightly, her posture openly wary-yet she showed no intention of attacking.
Her rider sat on her back, spine straight, and had yet to give the order.
Rhaenys Targaryen wore dark red riding clothes, their cuffs and collar studded with copper rivets that echoed the color of the Red Queen's crest, claws, and horns beneath her.
She sat upright in the saddle, the sea breeze pressing her riding clothes against her body. A few silver strands had appeared at her black-haired temples. The only trace of the storm blood inherited from her mother, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, was slowly being erased by the passing years-
Taking on something of the Targaryen coloring instead. As time passed, she had come to look more like a Targaryen than she had in her youth.
Her face was sharply defined, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. It had once been beautiful, and remained commanding. Her back was perfectly straight, and even the slight upward tilt of her chin was identical to that of her grandfather, Jaehaerys I.
She certainly could not be called old, but she was already forty-one. Yet the deep purple eyes she had inherited from her father, Prince Aemon, remained as keen as a hawk's. Those eyes narrowed slightly now as she surveyed everything on the beach from above.
First, she lowered her gaze to the bedraggled dragonrider and dragon on the sand.
Laenor was sprawled on the beach, covered in sand and soot, his face blackened by dragonfire. He