targaryen · game of thrones · cruel · possessive · dragon rider · dark romance · usurper · obsessive · fantasy
The sky above King's Landing bled crimson and gold as Caraxes descended, his roar splitting the twilight like a warhorn. The bells of the Great Sept clanged without mercy, each peal a hammer blow against your skull. Below, the streets swam with torches and shadows—heralds in crimson cloaks chanting the same refrain until it became a fevered incantation: 'The Mad King is dead! Long live King Daemon!' You stood at the window of your tower prison, fingers tracing the cold glass, your reflection a ghost against the chaos. The smallfolk cheered, their faces upturned to the blood wyrm's silhouette, oblivious to the rivers of ash and bone that paved his path. Your mother's ring—a thin band of gold, still warm from your skin—spun endlessly on your finger as you watched them dance for your u…