All knew that Targaryen's were not entirely human. There was something about them, clear to the eye, that spoke of fire and scales, of violence about to be unleashed. Their shadows brooded and stretched and as their mood turned sour one could swear that they spouted reptilian features so very similar to that of their dragons. Where they dwelled, the temperature rose, heat clinging to them as a cloak, even as violet eyes gazed out from the high places like unto a great cats. And yet, the most clear thing was that fire would not touch them, for how would fire made flesh burn?
And yet, this marked the day that one of their own, the son of the Stark maid that so interested the king two decades ago, was called south to take his place in the family. For too long had he resided in the cold and freezing north that seemed to spurn the fiery blood of dragons, chilling and making them stone. For years, Rhaegar had been content to allow his second son to remain, content that he would come south, into the warmth, into the heated embrace of family soon enough. And yet, his son remained among his mothers cold kin.
And yet, oddities came to the royal families ears after the raven was sent. The heart trees in the godswoods bowed to the north, mouths opening and branches moving as if in greeting. There was no warm front rolling in from the north, but banks of cold mist and summer snow in the riverlands. And a figure was spotted in them, a lone figure walking south with greater speed than a man rightfully should, as if he were mounted on a swift steed. Wolves howled and ravens crowed 'hail', as the beasts bowed in homage along the figures path.
And yet... there was something at the strangers side according to the whispered tales, a great wolf that was a wierwood tree, or mayhap that would be a weirwood tree that had shaken off its roots and taken on a wolf shape. It moved with silence, untouched by the winds and snow, loping along the black clad figures side along the calm miles. It moved away from his side several times, and in each case reports came in of crimes uncovered, scandals exposed and justice met out. All under eyes the color of spilled blood, as the north wind howled for a silent wolf.
And so the royal family went forth, lifted into the skies on the wings of dragons hatched from blood and stone, gifts given by the Stormborn to her family, reuniting them with the dragons that had so long been missed. And from those heights, as they winged north, they realised a disturbing, in some ways, fact about the blizzard that howled down from the quiet kingdom. In shape and form, as viewed from the air, it was a dragon vast and mighty, clouds for scales and ice for eyes, as it moved.
And to the dragons of fire, as they watched this, thoughts echoed and tumbled through their minds, some more surprised and worried than others.
Ageon frowned, a part of his blood crooning to the storm, wishing to venture forth and laugh, to stride forward and greet the ice and cold, the opposite of what was his birthright, as a brother.
Rhaenys cocked her head, as she listened to the snowflakes melting into water on her skin, as they melted and froze, as words were carried to her, a wink and a nod that was far too familiar, and seemed to her, to speak of a brother.
Viserys snarled at the clouds, blood and fury raging as he screamed for them to disperse, to scatter or be burned under the might of the awakened dragons.. only to hear laughter on the wind.
Daenerys looked on with confusion, as her children seemed to be more interested in the storm than afraid, even as the cold seemed to seep into her bones... and the storm caused snowflakes to dance about her head.
And Rhaegar as he gazed into the eyes of a dragon so vast and mighty that it blanketed vast parts of the realm beneath the shadow of his wings? As he looked into the winter snows in summer and heard the wolves howling their laughter and the headache that began to form, each pulse sending the question of why he thought this was a good idea, even as he wondered, eye locked onto a vast eye that seemed to nod and bow to him without moving in the slightest. More impressive than the dragon aura to be honest in the kings mind.
Raising his hand, he gestures to his family, who, confusion on their faces, follow and make to land, as the dragon shudders and pulls itself in, shrinking and compressing in, until, as they land, there is but a cloak of hoarfrost and a chill in the air that presses against the flames of dragons. At first glance, the figure is not all that remarkable, clad in black and wearing a traveling cloak that hides his features, even as hands the color of fresh snow pulls the head back, and the young man is revealed.
In many ways, one taken unaware would not think of him as a dragon. He was tall and well formed, and yet... everything about him suggested wonder and beauty that was stark and cold, the beauty and wonder of ice and frost, of the long nights of northern winters and the hungry creatures that stalked the woods, uncaring for the laws and customs of men. And yet, in those eyes that may well be violet so dark as to be near black, frozen lakes twinkling under the moonlight, there is a smile on the travelers face as he goes to speak.
They all know him, this dragon of ice and frost, and part of them wishes to burn, to melt him and cast down the snow and bring heat to the world. And yet, he was kin and something in them thought he was far too relaxed to be a man facing five dragons and their riders. "You called for me your grace?" For Ameon Targaryen was not a southern dragon of fire, but a northern dragon of ice.