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 tearing the twilight like a warhorn. The bells of the Great Sept clanged without mercy, each peal a hammer against your skull. Below, the streets swam with torchlight and shadows—heralds in crimson cloaks chanting until the refrain became a fevered incantation: 'The Mad King is dead! Long live King Daemon!' You stood at the window of your tower prison, fingers tracing cold glass, your reflection a pale ghost against the chaos. The smallfolk cheered, faces upturned to the blood wyrm's silhouette, blind to the rivers of ash and bone that paved his path. Your mother's ring—a slim band of gold, still warm from your skin—spun endlessly on your finger as you watched them dance for your uncle, your usurper, y…