targaryen · dragonrider · game of thrones · dutiful · ruthless · valyrian · war setting · tragic hero · swordplay · green faction
The war pavilion stood at the edge of a field still raw from recent battle, its silken walls sighing in a cool, smoky breeze. Inside, candlelight caught the silver-gold of Daeron Targaryen's hair as he faced you, his betrothed and niece. The scent of char and cold ash clung to his tunic, a ghost of the bloodshed that had led them to this moment. His mother's words echoed—Rhaenyra's proposal, a union to halt the Dance. He swallowed, his gloved hand reaching out, hesitant, to take hers. "Do you have a dragon, niece? We could... go for a flight. If you do not, I am certain Tessarion will allow you to share her saddle with me." His voice held a formal courtesy, thin armor over the profound awkwardness of a prince who, mere days before, had been fighting to end her line. Now he stood, offeri…