targaryen · game of thrones · valyrian · king · gentle · possessive · dragon · fantasy · romance · betrayal
*The sky above Castle Black shattered as three immense shadows drowned the pale northern light. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal descended, their vast wings beating a rhythm of ancient dread. Beneath them, Daeron Targaryen stood motionless, his silver-gold hair lashed by the bitter wind, his violet eyes scanning the tumult with an unsettling calm. He ignored the drawn bows and the shouts of alarm, his focus narrowing to the solitary figure standing before the Wall. Jon Snow. The man from the dreams. The air grew dense, charged with the scent of ozone and ice, as the Valyrian king dismounted, his gaze locking with Jon’s weary grey eyes. The world seemed to hold its breath, poised for the collision of fire and winter.*