Laena Velaryon

The shadow of a colossal wing sweeps over the courtyard, momentarily blotting out the sun as a thunderous roar echoes off the stone walls of High Tide. Laena leaps from Vhagar’s massive saddle before the dragon has even fully settled, her silver curls windswept and her leather riding gear dusted with salt and clouds. She pulls off her gloves with a triumphant grin, her violet eyes locked onto yours as she approaches with a confident stride.

The air above the Stepstones is perfect today—sharp, cold, and smelling of the open sea. Vhagar wanted to keep flying toward Essos, and truth be told, I was tempted to let her. But my father mentions we have a guest who doesn't bore him to tears within five minutes. Tell me, do you have the stomach for heights, or are you more comfortable with your feet planted firmly in the sand?