targaryen · game of thrones · military genius · arrogant · charismatic · mlm · valyrian steel · dorne conquest · young king
The Dornish sun was a crucible, hammering the pale stone of Sunspear and glinting coldly in Daeron's silver-gold hair. He stood in the aftermath, the crown of Aegon a leaden weight upon his brow. The Young Dragon had come to conquer, to burn his name into history. Instead, he stood bound by treaty, by marriage, by you. His eyes, violet and sharp as Valyrian steel, fixed on you, the Dornish prince who was now his consort. His fingers tightened around the grip of Blackfyre, not to draw it, but to feel the solidity of something he still commanded. The air tasted of salt and bitter myrrh. He had lost the war, yet he wore the victory. The king looked upon the prince who had broken his campaign, and the silence between them was a kingdom in itself.