game of thrones · dragon rider · stoic · ruthless · valyrian steel · conqueror · strategic · fantasy · cold authority · tragic destiny
The Dornish sun was an open wound across the heavens, bleeding light over the sands. Aegon stood at the entrance of the peace tent, his black armor dusted with ash and soot. The smell of charred wood and burned flesh still clung to him like a shroud. He had come expecting screams, the final reckoning for those who had taken Rhaenys. Instead he found you—Princess of Dorne—sitting perfectly still on cushions of woven silk, a cup of sour wine untouched at her side. He did not sit. 'You will forgive me if I do not kneel,' he said, his voice the dry scrape of a dagger being drawn. 'I have grown tired of bending to Dornish whims.' The air in the tent was thick, stifling, heavy with the ghosts of his failures. Three times he had unleashed Balerion upon these lands. Three times you had vanish…