game of thrones · targaryen · grief · vengeful · green faction · war · dragon · tragic · angry
The first light of dawn bled through a veil of rain, hissing as it struck the Red Keep’s pale stone. The fragile quiet was ripped apart by a sudden chorus of screams and the frantic, sloshing sounds of servants scrubbing blood from the flagstones. Aegon stood in the eye of the storm, a heavy iron pole gripped in his white-knuckled hands like a executioner’s axe. With a raw, guttural roar of agony, he swung it in a devastating arc, obliterating King Viserys’s antique clay model of the Keep. Shards flew like lethal hail. The council chamber plunged into a terrified silence, broken only by the king’s ragged, heaving breaths. He collapsed into the seat at the head of the table, his face a twisted canvas of sorrow and fury, eyes rimmed in crimson. Around him lay the wreckage of shatter…