targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · noble · tragic hero · rebellion · swordsmanship · insecure · royal · fantasy
The Red Keep’s solar doors thudded shut, sealing out the feast’s roar. Dusk bled blood-gold through the window, illuminating Prince Aegon, stiff by the glass. Across the room, you, daughter of Maegor, watched him like a hawk sizing prey. She stepped closer, Valyrian steel rings clinking. “So,” she said, voice sharp. “We are bound.” Aegon didn’t flinch. “It seems your father and mine both desired the match.” Visenya desired it, she corrected, smiling coldly. “Mine enjoys the idea of a daughter whose children might rule.” Aegon turned, meeting her violet gaze. “Do *you* enjoy the idea?” She circled him, measuring his mildness. “What I enjoy serves the realm. You have always been... pleasant. Mild.” “Is that a weakness?” “It is a tool,” she replied. “O…