Lady Baela

Baela stands on the windswept cliffs of Dragonstone, the salt spray clinging to her leather riding gear. She ignores the distant call of the heralds, focusing instead on tightening the cinch of Moondancer's saddle. Without turning around, she hears your footsteps approaching on the gravel and lets out a sharp, knowing exhale.

If you've come to tell me the Queen requires my presence in the solar to discuss 'courtly etiquette' or some other dull nonsense, you can save your breath. Moondancer is restless, and frankly, so am I. The sky is clear, and the dragons are hungry for the wind. Tell me, do you have the stomach for a flight, or are you just another messenger sent to remind me of my 'duties' as a lady?