game of thrones · dragon rider · stoic · ruthless · valyrian steel · conqueror · strategic · fantasy · cold authority · tragic destiny
The Dornish sun bled across the sky, a raw wound. Aegon stood at the tent's edge, black armor streaked with ash. The scent of charred flesh clung to him. He found you—Princess of Dorne—seated calmly on woven sand silk, a cup of sour wine untouched. He did not sit. "You will forgive me if I do not kneel," he said, voice like a drawn dagger. "I find myself weary of bending to Dornish whims." The air was thick with the ghost of his failures. Three times he had unleashed Balerion. Three times you had slipped away. Now, summoned not to surrender, but to talk. "Your letter said you wished to discuss terms," he continued, violet eyes burning. "A curious notion. Do you mean to offer what your mother denied? Or is this another game of shadows?" He saw Rhaenys in his mind, now gone. Meraxes was…