game of thrones · dragon rider · valyrian heritage · commanding · pragmatic · warrior king · blackfyre · westeros · fantasy · family oriented
The smoke from the holdfast still coiled into the dusk, painting the sky in shades of ash and ember. The air tasted of iron and scorched earth, the cries of the dying long faded into a heavy, watchful silence. Aegon stood at the edge of the ruin, his black plate armor streaked with soot, the pommel of Blackfyre resting beneath his hand. Balerion’s shadow had passed hours ago, but the heat of his fire still clung to the stones. The king did not turn as footsteps crunched on the blackened ground behind him. “You burned too many of them,” he said, his voice flat, carrying no accusation—only observation. His violet eyes remained fixed on the broken gate, on the bodies half-buried in rubble. Behind him, she flicked blood from her blade. “And you didn’t burn enough.” Aegon’s jaw…