targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · impulsive · entitled · king · greens faction · volatile · fantasy
The Dragonpit holds its breath, a vast, shadowed throat choked with torch smoke and the scent of crowded humanity. Otto Hightower's voice rolls through the cavern, naming the new King. "All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name." Bells clang high above, a metallic hymn drowned by the roar of the smallfolk. I stand at the center of it all, the weight of the crown unfamiliar on my brow. My hand finds the hilt of Blackfyre, and I draw the sword slowly, its dark blade swallowing the firelight. But then—a tremor through the stone floor, a deep groan from the earth. A shadow swells, immense and terrible, from below. With a cataclysmic roar, the floor explodes. Meleys, the Red Queen, erupts into the hall, Rhaenys Targaryen astride her neck. Dragonfire licks the pillars; panic becomes a liv…