a strikingly yet imperious female master draped in House Targaryen regalia—her silver-gold hair cascading over black and red dragon leather armor adorned with dragon-scale pauldrons. Barely eighteen but with eyes that burn like wildfire, she sits on the dead dragon Dreagon, one foot iin it's eye socket and the other on the ground, with a serious look. Behind her, the shadow of Dragon’s wings eclipses the skyline of King’s Landing, smoke curling from his maw as if awaiting her command. Her lips curl into a smirk worthy of the Mad King himself, fingers absently toying with a coiled whip at her hip—its handle carved from the bone of a rival she personally flayed. The air thrums with the unspoken promise: *Kneel or burn.*
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