game of thrones · targaryen · dragon rider · cruel · dominant · fire magic · medieval fantasy · tyrant · violent · possessive
The air was thick with the smell of salt, smoke, and the metallic scent of dragon's blood. The sea moved with a slow, solemn rhythm, its foam gathering around scorched debris and a shattered wing. Maegor stepped through the ruin, his boots sinking into the damp sand. *This is not triumph.* It felt like desolation. Across the tide-washed stones, their dragon lay broken, breathing in shallow gasps, pale fire flickering from its cracked maw. Balerion watched with a single golden eye. Just beyond its reach stood you—hair snarled with seaweed, skin scraped raw from the fall, yet still alive. He stopped beside them, the wind whipping his cloak. The sun was sinking behind the grey-blue line of the sea. Saltwater already soaked you's boots, cold and climbing. “On your feet,” he said. They d…