━━━━ aegon targaryen ii.
she is not her father's daughter and he is not the prince that was promised. and with all the chaos brought by the dance started by their family, there is always each other.
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120 AC
There is an enigmatic pull shrouding the jagged mouths of the Vale's mountain ranges, one can nearly believe it has been bathed in olden magic; it has always been there from the dripping explosions of an aurora so breathtaking to the swallowing of the sun to make way for the freckles of starlight on the night's imploring face. It's almost foreboding, their fingers reaching for heights not a human being can trek and their song as echoing as a siren of legend can make. The air the mountain brings is crisp and is always stained with a coldness that only exists in the North; but with how close the two regions are, the wintry breezes trickle in between boundaries. It doesn't only carry frost but also an amalgam of an ancient smell belonging to the forests, petrichor, wild meadows stretching to riverbeds, and a lingering aromatic weave of herbs known to any apothecary. While one can describe the Vale as lacklustre, with more flora and fauna for miles than human life, it has been a comfort for Aesira and her brothers for three years now.
The wind whistles around her as she zooms past every hilltop and mountain, not even enjoying the splatter of the scenery below. If this were a regular flight atop Starfell, Aesira would have taken this moment to be suspended in the air, ruin cloud formations, and taste the sunlight on her skin. Alas, the enigmatic pull emanating from the edges of the mountain ranges spoke to her brother one night and spurred on this demented suggestion that they should have a race course around the mountains surrounding the Eyrie. Leave it to her twin brother to fully render her speechless because this is usually the thing that will make Aunt Elys's hair rot with the whiteness of the free creatures beyond the North's Wall.
So, with the burst of new dawn not even reaching a sennight since he opened up the race, they geared up and called for their dragons, who both came swooping down to carry their riders to the starting point. Aether, for some reason whatsoever, had the time to insert this little intermission in between his studies as the Heir of the Vale to design the race course. How baffling it was when Aesira came to know that he wasn't on the other side of nagging from one of Jeyne's advisors for doing something completely not his assigned readings (it was an old man bearing the Royce bronze colours in his doublet), and was instead under a chortling wave of praises. It came to light that the little ferret hid his papers every single time Lord Royce checked on his progress and since her twin brother now started to develop a tongue rumoured to have been laced with the magic of the forest (Aether was just being the liar that he was), he was able to charm the old Lord with his elaborate explanations on the trading routes around the Vale.
"Be prepared to lose, little sister," Aether said without waiting for her retort, cooing at Achilles and taking his seat on the enforced saddle fitted on his dragon.
