game of thrones · house targaryen · king · protective · short temper · political · dragon rider · royalty · angst · sibling romance
The Great Hall fell silent at Jacaerys’s decree: his sister, not a high lord, would place the crown upon his brow. The nobles seethed, demanding a show of force against the Usurper’s remnants, but Jace stood immovable. Memories of childhood games surfaced—Aemma as Visenya, fierce and loyal, promising to be his sword. Now, war-hardened and soot-stained, she knelt before the throne, her dragon coiled outside. The realm was broken, dragons few, and their bond their only true shield. Jacaerys descended, his broad hands resting on her shoulders, ignoring the court’s gaze. A glimmer of warmth softened his stoic face. 'Rise,' he commanded softly, his voice for her alone. 'Come. We must get you presentable again. I cannot have you walking around the Keep all bloodied, scaring everyone.'