#and even if aegon is a blackfyre - a blackfyre is still a dragon!!!! they are CALLED IN CANON the black and red DRAGONS

[atopvisenyashill]

my rationale of “jaime has to be the valonqar bc it’s the one thing cersei won’t see coming Until It’s Here” is also why i think jon is the mummer’s dragon. dany is going to assume it’s aegon, and it’s going to come from someone she least suspects. it’s going to hurt more, it’s going to be more personal than a secret hidden relative that was just introduced, it’s going to be the one we’ve been following alongside her for thousands of pages otherwise what’s the point!!

[peachysunrize]

Insolent wench ⥃ Prince Regent!Aemond

Summary: when he finds the master of whispers’ daughter in the council room in the dead of the night playing with the marble ball he gave to Aegon earlier, the dragon in him is ready to burn or succumb to her.

Pairing: prince regent!Aemond Targaryen x Larys Strong’s daughter reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Dark content -> manipulation & blackmail! Dark!reader even a bit of dubcon, virginity loss, virgin!reader, degrading, rough sex, spanking, pussy slapping, breeding, fingering, porn with little plot, ehem using the ball as a toy, Larys’ daughter has zero description, English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.07k+

A/n: thank you @namelesslosers for giving me this dynamic idea & thank you @sylasthegrim for beta reading this for me🥹 Happy rough fucking with Aemond everyone🤭 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated!💕 also I was too lazy to make an aesthetic moodboard for my fic lol

He lurks in the corridors of the Keep that lead to the Small Council room. It has become his little secret, a routine he has always longed to have, and now, after months of yearning, he finally has it.

The halls are silent, and the sound of every step he takes echoes within the walls. Aemond walks with Blackfyre attached to his hip, the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel makes him smirk. Truly, he has never felt an emotion so deeply rooted inside him that makes the hair on his nape rouse, but now being the regent and the protector of the realm does it for him.

He stops for a moment when he finds the door to the council’s room ajar, the flickering of the candlelight visible from outside. He has never encountered anyone at such an hour, everyone has to be abed, except for the guards who are the ones that aren’t found anywhere near this room.

He takes a cautious step towards the door, hearing the sound of a low humming coming from inside. He reaches for Aegon’s dagger, fingers wrapping around the hilt as he pushes the door open slowly, his good eye skimming the room only to find someone’s back to him, leaning over the table and playing with his marble ball.

“A fine night, is it not, my Prince Regent?” you ask him, your back still to him as you fidget with the ball on the table, walking towards the King��s chair with a sway in your hips.

“What is your business here, Lady Strong?” he asks, letting go of the dagger before he locks his hands behind his back, walking towards his previous seat at the end of the marble desk.

He watches you closely, his good eye following your every move as you sit down on his chair at the head of the table, rolling the ball between your fingers as you look up from the ball to him slowly.

“I am disheartened by your words to my father,” you say, leaning back on the chair while your thumb rubs over the smooth surface of the marble ball in your hand, “he has served the King and your grace faithfully.”

Aemond doesn’t move from his spot, staring solely at your fingers as they rub and caress what belongs to him. He listens carefully, though he is not sure what good it might come out of conversing with a lady like you at such an hour.

“Your father sought power when he already had more than he deserved,” he replies, taking prolonged steps towards you, stopping at Tyland Lannister’s empty chair, “my council is no place for cunning rats like him.”

You chuckle, leaning your head on the back of the chair with a smirk tugging on the corner of your mouth, and it irritates Aemond to no end to see you finding such immense joy in tormenting him—even though you have not really started yet.

You were always such a strange lady to him; so much like your father in the sense that you stopped at nothing to obtain what you wanted".He has heard tales of your rebellious nature in the court, always listening and bothering the royals with your remarks, but they have failed to tell him about your blinding beauty.

“I thought you were ruling in your brother’s stead while he recovers, my prince,” you say, pushing the ball until it starts rolling towards where Aemond stands, “allegedly, this is his council, not yours.”

“Yet your father assumed he’d be my Hand, not my brother’s,” he moves the ball on the table as he walks towards Orwyle’s seat, his gaze never leaving yours, “it does make me wonder how hungry both he and you are for the attention of the royals, my lady.”

“Oh, you have mistaken my motives, your grace,” you stand up, stepping on the opposite side of him, matching his pace as he rounds the table with confidence until he’s standing behind the King’s chair, “I am not here to seek power or the attention of the royals, no. I am here to tell you that sometimes you need to think before you utter some words; ugly rats like my father as you said, tend to thrive on them, best is to learn how to say those words without causing a problem.”

“Mind your tongue, little girl,” Aemond spits out the words, closing his fingers around the ball tightly before he strides towards you purposefully with a tinge of fury in his steps.

“Not little, my prince,” you match his tone, standing where you are until he is right in front of you, the purple of his eye now fully gone as darkness seeps through his iris, “certainly older than you. I reckon you like older women, given your rendezvous to the brothel and all.”

His hand comes up to grip your jaw, squishing your cheeks harshly as he looms over you, his face inches away from yours as his nostrils flare in anger.

“Watch yourself, insolent wench. You are in no position to drag my name in the dirt. Your father tried, and look where he is now—called a Toad by me, dismissed as my Hand and ready to fetch Otto Hightower like a dog,” he says through gritted teeth, his nails digging into your face as he leans closer, his hot breath hitting your lips.

“Your name is already filthy by your own hands. You and Larys Strong have more in common than you think; both kinslayers—“ he cuts you off by spinning you away from him, pushing you down on the table roughly by his large palm on your back.

“Filthy whores like you should be executed in the muddy streets of Flea Bottom and their heads parading around the city on a spike,” he presses himself against your back, his crotch rubbing against your skirt, “Lucky for you, I know how to treat girls like you.”

“I assumed His Grace took no pleasure in taking whores,” you laugh with a jab in your tone at him, “I would love to see how you treat them though. Your brother is the one with tales of his masterful bedding, not you.”

“Tormenting me at the hour of the wolf has severe consequences which I will deliver to you accordingly, Strong,” he groans against your ear, reaching for his dagger to tear through the fabric of your dress, the remaining layers falling on the floor with ease. “Punishment or not, you will learn you shall never wake the dragon for you will burn and the only thing that will remain is your ashes.”

Your small clothes join your ruined dress on the floor, leaving you bare and dripping to the Prince Regent’s eye, devouring the sight of your flesh like a man starved.

The moan that slips from your lips when you feel something cold against your heated cunt is shameless, just like the sound a whore in the Street of Silk would make. 

Aemond starts rubbing your buzzing pearl with the marble ball between his fingers, his breathless laugh against the shell of your ear only makes the feeling of the coldness against your most vulnerable part much stronger.

“You were playing with my property, now I shall use it to make you a property of mine as well,” he whispers, his teeth sinking in the flesh of your neck as he moves the ball faster, your juices flowing down on the cold stone in his hand.

You realize you have awakened the beast within him as he quickens his movements, one hand pinning you to the table and the other rubbing the bundle of nerves furiously, tightening the knot in your core. You fist your hands, nails digging into your palm as your breathing turns into panting.

“It is in your blood it seems, to enjoy having the attention of someone who can easily snap your neck in half,” he mumbles more to himself than you, pleased with how shaky you have become, “you see, insolent wenches like you should be put in their place. How fortunate you are to be under my care.”

As soon as you feel your breaking point, he takes away the ball from your cunt, making you whine and arch your back in protest. He chuckles darkly, bringing the ball to your lips before he orders you to suck and clean the ball off your juices.

“My Prince—“

“Go on, you tart, show your prince how much of a power-hungry slut you are, maybe I will reconsider naming your father as my Hand.”

You comply, licking your nectar off the cold marble, humming at the taste. Aemond knows these games, at least he knew them with the little education he had in the brothels, but you? You are a different kind of lady, a master in disguise. It irritates and arouses him to no end.

Aemond lets go of the stone, bringing his palm down on your arsecheek roughly, making you yelp in surprise. He repeats his action, slapping your backside one more on the same spot he did a few seconds ago. 

You whine in pain and unbelievable pleasure as the sting of his hand spreads through your flesh, a deep primal desire rushing to your aching pussy. He looks down to find you wetter than before, and the sight makes him almost lose his self-restraint, almost.

You wrap your hand around the ball tightly, crying out when you feel the impact of another spank not on your bottom but on your cunt. The pain mixes with an undeniably overwhelming pleasure that has you biting your lip, not wishing to give him the satisfaction. He senses it anyway and hears the muffled scream as he lands another slap on your swollen folds with a sinister smile. 

“I wonder if your father knows of your whereabouts, his daughter ready to be turned into his future king’s whore,” he brings two of his fingers to his mouth, covering them with his spit before he reaches down to play with your pussy, no patience left in him as he thrusts his fingers inside you, groaning at the feel of your warmth.

You do not have the chance to tell him about your maidenhead, and with how fast he is moving his fingers, you can no longer think of it as an issue — your plans are falling into the right path.

Your mind has turned into a mush with how luscious his fingers feel inside you, not a foreign feeling but his fingers are much longer and thicker than you and reach deeper inside you, having you moaning and clawing the table.

“It only takes a few fingers to have your mouth shut, Lady Strong. I wonder what you’d do when I have my cock deep in your cunt,” he leans down to lick at your cheek, his fingers moving faster as he presses his bulge to your thigh. This time, he doesn’t pull away and keeps his pace up, curving his digits to hit your sweet spot rapidly, bringing you closer to your high. 

“My prince, please—“

“That’s it, Strong, give it to me,” he groans out the words, resting his forehead on the side of your face. He hums as soon as you start shaking and tightening around his fingers, gushing your wetness on him.

He doesn’t kiss you, no, he just licks over your lips as you moan and part them in pure delight, seeing stars as your peak rocks your body forward. 

“Fuck it, I need to be buried inside you, seeing for myself how the real blood of Strongs feels like,” he says, biting your cheek as he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the red handprint on your bottom before reaching for his doublet, unbuttoning it and pulling his linen undershirt out of his leather pants. His fingers unlace his trousers quickly, pushing them and his breeches down enough for his cock to spring free.

He aligns his leaking tip with your soaked entrance, filling you to the hilt with one swift snap of his slim hips. Aemond groans, your wet pulsating walls enveloping his length in a delicious way that not even Sylvie has made him feel.

His hands make a home on your hips as soon as he starts thrusting his cock at a fast bruising pace, not letting you adjust to how his girth stretches your walls more than you thought you’d expect. Your maidenhead is now gone, you can feel his tip licking at the head of your womb, nudging it with each snap of his hips to yours.

Aemond cannot take his eye off of the way his cock disappears inside you, coated with your essence and wetness as he fucks you with abandon, his brain foggy with a desire he has only felt while burning his brother and killing his nephew—you are special in his eye, you awaken the dragon within him, insolent wench as he so likes to call you.

Your hands grow clammy, and the ball falls from your grasp with Aemond’s rough hammering, rolling on the table until it falls on the floor, making a loud uncomfortable noise that matches your unladylike moans and gasps in pleasure.

“You can’t even hold a fucking ball in your hands, Strong. Is your father as weak as you? Will he succumb to me the way you have with just a cock inside your tight pretty cunt?”

It is you who has succumbed to me, you think to yourself as coherent as your thoughts can get without the feeling of him overwhelming your senses. You nod mindlessly, thinking of how he has fallen into your trap so easily.

He comes hard, his hip bones pushing your plush thighs to the rough edges of the council’s table, filling you to the brim with his royal seed. Aemond’s head is thrown back, groaning at your name as his cock twitches inside you, the final ropes of his warm cum painting your walls.

“What have you done?” you ask shakily, faking terror as you try to push him away from you, 

“what— how could you, my prince?”

“What?” he asks dumbfounded, pulling his now softened cock out of you, looking at you with his mind now sharper than before, “what are you saying, my lady?”

“Which lord will now take me as his bride? I am—may the Seven help me— I am tainted! I-I cannot find a husband, m-my maidenhead!”

“You…” Aemond’s voice falters, “you were… you were still a maiden?”

“I was! How crude you have to be to sully my name like a- like the whores you visit? I cannot believe you—“

“Wait!” he tries to reach for you, his lips parted in sheer surprise and terror as you push away from him, nearly dropping on his knees, “My Lady, we should have a word—“

“No!” You fix your dress as best as you could, shaking your head as you run away from him, opening the doors without even looking at him, leaving him shocked and confused with his soft dick out, looking like a deer caught by the hunters.

With so little sleep, Aemond walks through the same hallways he took last night, waltzing inside the small council with a pulsating heart. His eye finds Larys alone in the room, humming as he plays with the marble ball you — his daughter — were playing with last night.

“My Prince Regent,” Lord Larys stands up and bows, “what a lovely day, do you not think so?”

“Lovely morrow indeed,” Aemond says, sitting at the head of the table, glaring at Larys who rolls his marble ball from side to side, “state your mind or leave me.”

“My daughter, Your Grace,” Larys sighs, a ghost of a smirk finding its way onto his face, “she was… in a not-so-pleasant state for her status when she sought me out.”

“What of her?” Aemond tries to remain unbothered, but he knows there is a scheme going on that his intelligence could not pick up on last night.

“She said you forced yourself upon her,” Larys drops the ball on the floor as he locks his hand on the table, his eyes meeting Aemond’s, glaring at him with newfound confidence, “that no Lord will take her now, that you have tainted and impured my daughter!”

“I assure you, my good Lord, that is a lie. Your daughter was the one who made me do it—“ he tries to reason with him, but Larys has none of it.

“So you admit that you yielded to your desires and took my daughter’s innocence! How wild, how disgusting! To know I wished to be in your council—“

“‘Mind your tongue, Lord Larys. I do not care if you are to leave the Keep, but you will not talk to me as if I’m lesser than I was before!” Aemond’s voice booms through the room, slamming his fist on the table as he stands up.

“You are a lesser man, Prince Aemond. A man who gave into his desires and used his power over a helpless noble woman…”

“What is it you wish for me to do? I have not forced myself upon your daughter, she partook in the act willingly if not more enthusiastically than me.” Aemond’s breathing changes and his knuckles turn white as he tries to stop himself from doing something he would surely regret.

“She was crying in my arms last night—“

“Name it and it is yours!” Aemond yells at him, walking to grab Larys by his collar, “You want me to name you my Hand? I will. But in return, you shall keep your mouth shut.”

“You are in no position to tell me what to do, my prince,” Larys calms down a bit, knowing the plan he and you have made has been done perfectly, “you will make me your Hand, and you will marry my daughter in a fortnight.”

“Not acceptable! We will lose Baratheons’ support!” Aemond shoves Larys back on his seat before he starts pacing, “You are my Hand from now on, and I will arrange a good match for your daughter.”

“No, she will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, or I will taint your reputation the way you have done to my daughter.” 

Rest assured, Larys Strong’s only child married the former Prince Regent and now the King in a fortnight with a lavish feast thrown for her.

[novaursa]

Fire and Blood (reader's choice)

- Summary: For as long as Maegor could remember, you were denied to him by others. By his own father, by his half-brother, by the gods themselves. They saddled him off with a barren bride and locked you away on Dragonstone. And once Aenys died and Maegor has returned from exile to take the crown, he also takes you, as was his right. But before the wedding could happen, you disappear. You never arrive at the capital with your royal procession. And Maegor tears the realm apart.

- Paring: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The air was heavy with the heat of the afternoon sun, and the sky above King's Landing was an expanse of pale blue. The waters of Blackwater Bay sparkled under the light, and the wind carried the scent of salt and stone, mingling with the hum of the city behind. The Red Keep loomed in the background, a skeletal structure still rising from the hill, its walls unfinished, its towers yet to scrape the heavens as Maegor intended. The clatter of hammers and the creak of scaffolding were distant echoes, reminders of the power he was building, brick by brick.

But today, all of that faded into insignificance. Maegor Targaryen stood with his mother, Visenya, the only one who had ever stood by him. His bannermen, royal retainers, and lords stood at a respectful distance, their whispers nothing but gnats in his ears as he stared out at the empty horizon. You were supposed to arrive today, your royal procession expected any moment, the ships that carried you from Dragonstone cutting across the bay.

You. His bride. His blood. His right.

His gloved hands tightened around the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancient sword of his house, as his mind drifted, despite himself, back to all the times you had been denied to him.

His father, King Aegon the Conqueror, had made the first refusal. Maegor had been young then, but old enough to know what he wanted. You were young too, of course, but even then, Maegor saw the fire in your eyes, the way the blood of Old Valyria ran through you. You were his match in every way. He had stood before his father, demanding you be betrothed to him.

"It is not your place to demand, Maegor," Aegon had said, his voice calm, but his eyes cold. "Your brother's daughter is not for you. Aenys' children will be wed to strengthen the realm, not to satisfy your desires."

It was the first time Maegor had felt the sting of denial, but it would not be the last.

His half-brother, Aenys, had been no better. When he became king after Aegon’s death, Maegor thought surely now, with the crown on his brother’s head, he could finally claim what was his. You had grown by then, blooming into a woman with the beauty and strength of their ancestors. Maegor had approached Aenys, who sat upon the Iron Throne, looking every inch the weak ruler he was.

"You will not have her," Aenys had said, shaking his head. "She is promised elsewhere."

"To whom?" Maegor had demanded, his voice laced with barely contained rage. "Who could be more worthy of her than I, her blood and kin?"

"A match will be made in time, but not to you, brother," Aenys had answered, his tone patronizing. "I have other plans for her."

Other plans. The words still tasted bitter on Maegor’s tongue, as though they had been spoken only yesterday.

He had begged. Yes, even he, Maegor the Cruel, had begged. But only to one person. His mother, Visenya. The warrior queen, the woman who had conquered Westeros by Aegon’s side. The only person who had ever truly understood him.

"I will not be denied her," he had told Visenya, pacing the halls of Dragonstone in frustration. "Father, Aenys, the gods themselves conspire against me. They will not give her to me."

Visenya, regal and fierce, had looked at him with those sharp, violet eyes of hers, the eyes of a dragon, and she had smiled—a cold, knowing smile. "They fear you, my son," she had said. "They fear the strength of your blood. Aenys and his ilk think they can control you by keeping her from you, but they are fools. They do not see what I see."

"And what do you see, Mother?" Maegor had asked, desperate for the answer he knew only she could give.

"I see the future of our house," she had answered, stepping close to him, resting a hand on his armored shoulder. "And I see you at its head, with her at your side. The dragons of Old Valyria will rise again, Maegor. And no one—no one—will deny you what is yours."

Her words had kept him sane through the years of exile, through his marriage to Ceryse Hightower, a woman who had proven barren, and a marriage that had been nothing but a chain around his neck. All the while, he had thought of you. You, locked away on Dragonstone, hidden from him by his enemies, the gods, the world. But now, none of that mattered. Aenys was dead, the throne was his, and soon, you would be too.

And yet... the ships did not come.

The sun was sinking lower, casting ghastly shadows over the unfinished Red Keep, over the city of King's Landing, over the assembled lords and banners. Maegor’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface like wildfire ready to consume all in its path.

"They are late," he growled, his voice low, but his anger clear. "Where are they?"

Visenya stood beside him, silent and still as ever. Her presence was the only thing that soothed him, that kept him from mounting Balerion and flying to Dragonstone himself. But even her patience had its limits, and he could see the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She felt the delay, the insult, as keenly as he did.

"They will come," she said, though there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that Maegor did not like.

And what if they did not? What if something had happened? What if your brother, Aegon, or even that fool Rhaena, had interfered, whisked you away before you could reach him? The thought sent a surge of fury through him, and he gripped Blackfyre tighter, his knuckles turning white beneath his gloves.

"No one will keep her from me," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not this time."

Visenya turned to him, her sharp gaze cutting through his anger. "If they try," she said, her voice cold and final, "then we will burn them all."

Maegor’s heart beat with the promise of fire and blood. They had all denied him for so long. His father. His brother. The gods themselves. But he was king now, and no one could deny the King of the Iron Throne.

You would be his, one way or another. The realm would tremble at his wrath if you were not.

But still, the horizon remained empty.

Maegor’s patience shattered like glass underfoot. The stillness of the harbor, the absence of the royal procession, and the delay that felt like a deliberate insult boiled within him until he could bear it no longer. His fury was a living thing, a fire in his chest that demanded release.

Without a word to anyone, Maegor turned sharply on his heel and stalked away from the gathered lords and his waiting bannermen. Visenya's gaze followed him, but she did not call him back. She knew what was coming, and she would not try to stop him. No one would.

He marched through the half-constructed Red Keep, past the workers who hastily moved out of his way, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of him. His blood thundered in his veins, his mind consumed by a singular thought: you. You were not here. Someone had kept you from him again, and he would have answers. One way or another, he would have answers.

Balerion waited for him, the great black beast shifting restlessly as though sensing the storm of rage within his rider. Maegor did not hesitate. He approached the dragon without a word, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he climbed onto Balerion’s back. The dragon’s scales were hot beneath his hands, and the air filled with the smell of smoke and brimstone as Balerion opened his massive jaws, letting out a low growl that reverberated through the air.

"To Dragonstone," Maegor commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.

With a mighty beat of his wings, Balerion launched into the air, and the city of King’s Landing fell away beneath them. The wind roared in Maegor’s ears as they ascended, higher and higher, until the Red Keep and the harbor were nothing but distant specks below. His eyes narrowed against the rush of air as they flew toward Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a place that should have been your prison but was now the key to your disappearance.

The journey was swift. Balerion’s immense wings cut through the sky, and soon, the looming shape of Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, its dark, foreboding towers rising from the volcanic island like jagged teeth. The familiar silhouette of the castle did nothing to soothe Maegor’s fury. If anything, it fueled it. Whoever had dared to take you from him was hiding here, he was certain of it. And they would pay.

Balerion descended with a roar, his massive form casting a shadow over the castle courtyard as he landed with a thunderous crash. Maegor dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with purpose, and strode toward the keep without hesitation. The guards, clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, scrambled to stand at attention, but Maegor paid them no mind. His eyes were fixed on one figure—Alyssa Velaryon, Dowager Queen, widow of his late half-brother Aenys.

She stood at the entrance of the great hall, flanked by her own royal guards, her expression calm but her eyes wary. She had been expecting him.

"Where is she?" Maegor’s voice was thunder, echoing across the courtyard as he approached. His gaze was locked on Alyssa, his hands still resting on the hilt of Blackfyre at his side.

Alyssa’s lips thinned, but she did not answer immediately. Her silence was an insult in itself.

"Where is she?" Maegor demanded again, his tone darkening, his patience long gone. "The ships have not arrived. My bride is not here. Where is she?"

Alyssa lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his with a quiet defiance. "I do not know," she said, her voice steady, though her guards shifted uneasily around her. "She is not here, Maegor. I swear it on the blood of my children."

His anger flared like a flame doused in oil. He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes burning with rage. "You lie. Do you think me a fool, Alyssa? Do you think I will believe your false words? You know where she is. Someone here knows."

Alyssa did not waver, though there was a flicker of fear behind her eyes. "I do not lie, Maegor," she said, her voice firm. "Your niece is gone, but I do not know where. You think you can demand answers, but the gods have taken her from you."

"The gods?" Maegor spat the word as if it were poison. "The gods have no power here. I am king. I am the only god that matters in this realm."

He drew Blackfyre from its scabbard with a vicious hiss of steel. The sight of the ancient Valyrian blade, its edge gleaming in the waning sunlight, caused Alyssa’s guards to stiffen, their hands moving to the hilts of their swords. But Maegor did not care. He had faced armies and dragons alike; these men would not stand against him.

"You will tell me where she is," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will take this castle stone by stone and burn it to the ground. I will burn you all."

Alyssa stood her ground, but her defiance was waning. Still, she did not answer.

Maegor’s grip on Blackfyre tightened. "Very well," he said, his voice cold and final. "If you will not speak, then I declare war on you, on this entire realm, and on the gods themselves. I will rip the truth from your dying lips if I must."

He raised the sword high, and Balerion let out a deafening roar, his fiery breath licking at the sky, as if in answer to his rider’s fury. The ground beneath Maegor’s feet trembled as the beast’s wings unfurled, casting the courtyard into shadow once more.

"Do you hear me, Alyssa?" Maegor shouted, his voice carrying across the castle walls. "I will bring fire and blood to this land until she is returned to me. Every house, every banner, every village will burn. No one will be spared."

Alyssa’s face paled, but she held her tongue, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his rage.

With one final, furious look at her, Maegor turned and mounted Balerion once more. The dragon’s wings beat against the air as they took to the skies, leaving the castle of Dragonstone behind, but not forgotten.

War was coming. The realm would know the full wrath of Maegor Targaryen, and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even the gods.

The sky had darkened with storm clouds, a fitting shroud for what was to come. Maegor could feel the death in the air as Balerion, the Black Dread, flew low over the countryside, the sound of his massive wings beating like the drums of war. Beneath him, the land stretched out in peaceful ignorance—green fields, small villages, and the occasional hamlet, all unaware of the doom that was about to descend upon them.

His fury had not abated. If anything, it had grown, simmering inside him like the flames that Balerion carried in his belly. For days, he had waited—waited for some word, some message, some whisper of where you had been taken. But there had been none. Not from Dragonstone, not from King's Landing, not from any corner of the realm. Silence. It was as if the earth itself conspired to keep you hidden from him.

And so, Maegor had decided to speak in the only language he knew would reach them all—fire.

The town below was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of his rule. It had no great lords, no strategic importance. It was nothing more than a farming village, its people simple, its streets quiet. But that did not matter to Maegor. He was no longer a king seeking strategy. He was a dragon in search of blood.

Balerion let out a growl as they descended, and the townspeople, who had begun to gather in the streets, looked up with wide, terrified eyes. They had heard tales of dragons, but few had seen one in the flesh, let alone the Black Dread himself. Some screamed, others fled, scattering like ants before a boot.

But it was too late.

Maegor did not speak as they approached. He did not announce his arrival or give them time to prepare. His rage did not allow for such mercy. Instead, he gave the only command he had come to deliver.

"Dracarys."

Balerion unleashed his fury with a deafening roar. Flames erupted from his jaws, a torrent of fire that engulfed the first row of houses in an instant. The wooden structures went up like kindling, the dry summer heat making them burn even faster. Screams filled the air, high-pitched and desperate, as people fled their homes, only to be caught by the flames that licked at their heels.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming everything in its path—roofs, walls, fields. The village was alight, a beacon of destruction visible for miles around.

Maegor watched from above, his face cold and impassive, his grip on Balerion’s reins tight as the dragon circled over the burning town. The people below looked so small, like insects scurrying for cover, trying to escape the inevitable. But there was no escape. Not for them.

A handful of soldiers, likely from a nearby lord's keep, arrived, rushing into the chaos with spears and shields. They might have hoped to protect their people, to fight off the monster in the sky, but it was a hopeless effort. Balerion roared again, and another wave of fire descended, swallowing the soldiers in flames before they could even raise their weapons.

Still, Maegor felt nothing. No satisfaction, no relief, just the same gnawing fury. This town was but the first of many. If no one would give him what he demanded, then they would all burn.

Balerion landed in the town square, his massive form crushing the few remaining carts and stalls beneath him. The fires crackled and raged around them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. Maegor dismounted, his black armor gleaming with the reflection of the flames, and strode through the smoldering ruins. The people who hadn’t already fled or died in the fire cowered at the edges of the square, their faces streaked with soot and tears, their eyes wide with terror.

One man—a farmer by the looks of him, his face blackened with ash—dared to stand before Maegor. His legs shook, and his hands trembled as he held out a crude pitchfork, a pitiful weapon against the man who wielded Blackfyre.

“Please!” the man cried, his voice cracking. “We’ve done nothing! We don’t know where she is!”

Maegor’s gaze fixed on him, cold and unfeeling. “Then you are of no use to me.”

With a swift motion, he drew Blackfyre and swung. The blade cut through the air with a whistle, and the man’s head rolled to the ground, his body collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed. Blood pooled at Maegor’s feet, mixing with the ash and dirt.

He turned to the remaining villagers, their tear-filled eyes pleading for mercy. “Where is she?” Maegor demanded, his voice cutting through the crackling flames. “Tell me, and you will be spared.”

But there were no answers. Only silence, punctuated by the occasional sob or gasp. They knew nothing, and he could see the truth of it in their frightened, helpless faces. These people had never laid eyes on you. They did not know your name. They were caught in a storm that was not theirs, a storm they could not hope to survive.

“Then burn,” Maegor said, his voice flat, his heart devoid of pity.

Balerion roared once more, and fire swept across the square, swallowing the villagers where they stood. The screams of the innocent echoed in the night, but they were distant to Maegor, drowned out by the roar of the flames. He mounted Balerion again, his mind already turning to the next town, the next village. There would be no end to his wrath until you were returned to him.

As they lifted into the air, the once-quiet town was a sea of fire below, the smoke rising in dark plumes that would be visible for miles. The next town would see the flames and know what was coming. They would know the price of silence.

But as they flew over the burning ruins, a grim thought gnawed at Maegor’s mind: even this, even the screams of the dying, had not brought forth any word of you. No ravens, no messengers, no spies. It was as if you had vanished from the face of the earth.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes hard as stone as he looked out over the darkened horizon. Let them hide you. Let them try to keep you from him. He would burn every inch of this realm to ash until they had no choice but to deliver you back into his hands.

War had come, and the realm would know the full measure of his wrath before it was over.

And still, you remained lost to him, as distant and unreachable as ever.

The halls of Oldtown’s grand keep were filled with the scent of burning torches and incense, the air heavy with the weight of old stone and old gods alike. Maegor strode through the corridors, his armor clinking with each step, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The lords of the Reach had gathered in the great hall ahead, awaiting his arrival, their banners lining the walls like silent witnesses to the war he was bringing to their doors.

He would have their armies. He would have their swords and their oaths. And soon, the realm would bleed for keeping you from him.

Yet, as he approached the towering doors of the hall, he was intercepted by a voice that grated on his already thin patience.

“Maegor.”

He halted but did not turn immediately. He recognized the voice, the cold, haughty tone that had once filled his ears with promises of alliances and power. Ceryse Hightower, his wife—the woman the Faith of the Seven deemed his lawful bride. The one who had failed him, who had borne him no heirs, no strength. She was a chain, an anchor from a life he despised. And now, she stood between him and the destruction he sought to bring upon the world.

With a slow turn, he faced her. She stood in the narrow corridor, her expression as cold as the marble pillars that flanked her. Her gown was white and gold, as befit a woman of her station, but there was no warmth in her. She had never had any warmth for him, nor he for her.

Ceryse’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her chin lifted in defiance. "This madness must stop, Maegor. What you are doing—it is unholy. This war you wage for your niece, this obsession, it will bring the gods’ wrath upon you. Upon us all."

Maegor’s eyes, dark and brooding, bore into hers. "The gods?" he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "Which gods, Ceryse? The Seven who gave me nothing but a barren wife? The gods who have denied me my rightful bride and my throne time and again? They are nothing to me. I am the king, and I will take what is mine."

"You are the king," she snapped, stepping closer, her voice rising, "but I am your wife. The only true wife you have before the gods. I was wed to you under the light of the Seven. I am your queen, not some girl you lust after because she shares your blood and your fire."

Maegor’s lips curled into a sneer. "Do not speak of things you do not understand. She is more than fire. She is mine by right, by blood, by destiny. You are nothing but a symbol of a failed marriage and the weakness of the Faith. Your gods mean nothing to me, Ceryse. They have never meant anything."

Ceryse’s face flushed with anger, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “The Faith is all that holds this realm together. The Seven bless our rule, and you spit on their favor. Do you truly believe this war you’ve started will end with your niece in your arms? The realm will turn against you, the Faith will rise—”

“The Faith?” Maegor’s laughter was dark, a cruel sound that echoed off the stone walls. “The Faith cowers beneath the strength of dragons. I have already broken their High Septon, and I will do it again if they dare stand in my way. Do not speak to me of the Faith when they have already bled under my blade.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “And what of me? Do I mean nothing to you, Maegor? I am your queen. I stood beside you when the world was against you, when you were exiled, when you returned to take the throne. I have endured your temper, your ambitions—everything. And yet you throw it all away for her, for a girl who should never have been yours.”

Maegor stepped closer, towering over her, his voice low and filled with menace. “You have never stood beside me, Ceryse. You have stood in my way, like all the others. The day you failed to give me an heir was the day your use to me ended. You are not my queen. You are a symbol of weakness and failure.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but her pride would not allow her to shrink before him. She held her ground, her chin raised defiantly. “This war is blasphemy. Even your late father would not stand for it. You break every sacred vow for this—this madness. And for what? For a girl who may be dead already, taken by the gods to punish your arrogance.”

Maegor’s hand shot out, gripping her throat, though not enough to truly harm her. His eyes were burning coals, his patience long gone. “Speak of her again,” he growled, his voice dangerously low, “and I will end you here and now, wife or not.”

Ceryse’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch, even with his hand at her throat. “Do it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady. “Do it, and see how the realm turns against you. They already whisper of your cruelty, your madness. Kill your wife, and you will become the monster they fear.”

For a long, tense moment, Maegor said nothing. His grip tightened slightly, the temptation strong, but he released her with a shove, sending her stumbling back a step.

"You are a fool if you think I care for their whispers," Maegor said, his voice filled with disdain. "I will rule through fear if I must. The realm will submit to me, whether they love me or hate me. And you will stay out of my way, or you will burn like the rest of them."

Ceryse straightened, her hand to her throat, her eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She had pushed him as far as she could, and she knew it.

“You will destroy yourself,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to hide it. “This war, this rage... it will consume you.”

Maegor turned his back on her, his cloak swirling in the dim torchlight as he moved toward the doors of the great hall. "Then let it," he said coldly, without looking back. "I would rather burn the world to ash than live in a world where I am denied what is mine."

The heavy doors of the great hall swung open before him, and Maegor strode inside, leaving Ceryse standing alone in the darkened corridor, her hands shaking, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before.

The lords inside turned as one to face him, their faces pale with the knowledge of the man they served. Maegor took his place at the head of the long table, his eyes sweeping over the gathered men like a predator surveying its prey.

"You will gather your armies," he said, his voice echoing through the hall, "and you will march with me to war. I care not for the gods, nor for the Faith. Those who stand against me will burn, and those who submit will live. But I will have my bride, or I will see this realm consumed by fire."

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared defy him. They knew the price of disobedience under Maegor’s rule.

"Are there any who would challenge me?" Maegor demanded, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light.

Silence fell over the hall, thick and suffocating. Not a single voice rose in opposition.

"Good," Maegor said, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Prepare your men. The realm will bleed until she is mine again."

And with that, the great hall of Oldtown descended into preparation for war, while outside, Ceryse Hightower stood in the shadows, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her words had fallen on deaf ears.

The battlefield stretched wide before Maegor, a patchwork of torn earth, trampled grass, and bloodied banners. His army stood in sharp contrast to the smaller force across the field, led by his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a bloody hue over the land, as if the gods themselves had abandoned all hope of peace.

Balerion, the Black Dread, shifted beneath him, his great black wings stretching wide as the dragon growled, sensing the impending battle. Maegor’s grip tightened on Blackfyre, the weight of the ancient sword familiar in his hand as he surveyed the field below. The banners of House Targaryen and Velaryon fluttered in the wind, a cruel mockery of what should have been unity between their blood. But unity had long been shattered.

On the opposite side of the field, Aegon sat astride Quicksilver, his dragon a flash of silver-white scales that shimmered in the dying light. Aegon’s army was smaller, but it was fiercely loyal—men who believed in the legitimacy of his claim, men who called Maegor a usurper and a tyrant. Men who were willing to die for a boy who had been denied his crown.

Maegor’s jaw clenched as he gazed across the field at his nephew, the boy who had dared to raise arms against him. Aegon had your blood running through his veins, and that alone made Maegor’s rage burn hotter. But it was not just Aegon’s challenge to the throne that stoked Maegor’s fury—it was his insolent defiance in keeping you from him.

The armies stood still for a breath, the wind carrying the sound of clinking armor and the distant neighs of restless horses. Maegor’s soldiers waited, their faces grim, their hands tight on their weapons. His bannermen were eager for the bloodshed to begin, eager to crush the boy who dared challenge their king.

But Maegor had eyes only for Aegon, who met his gaze across the field with the same cold intensity. Even from a distance, Maegor could see the steely resolve in the young man’s face. Aegon was no longer the boy he had once dismissed, and that truth gnawed at him.

Without a word, Maegor spurred Balerion forward. The great dragon let out a thunderous roar, his massive wings lifting him from the ground in one powerful sweep. The air around them seemed to hum with tension as Balerion soared into the sky, circling high above the battlefield, casting an enormous shadow over the armies below.

Aegon wasted no time. With a sharp command, he urged Quicksilver into the air, the silver dragon shooting upward with graceful speed. The two beasts circled one another in the sky, the gathered armies below looking up in awe as dragon met dragon.

Maegor’s eyes locked onto Aegon, his blood boiling with the need for victory. He would crush this boy, as he had crushed all who had stood in his way. Blackfyre was already in his hand, the sword gleaming as he prepared to strike.

Quicksilver let out a high-pitched roar and dove toward Balerion, claws outstretched. Aegon, no doubt thinking speed would be his advantage, urged his dragon forward with a deadly precision. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon—he was the Black Dread, the most fearsome of all Targaryen dragons, and his size alone was enough to instill terror in any opponent.

With a bellowing roar, Balerion met Quicksilver head-on, jaws snapping as the two dragons collided in a flurry of wings, fire, and claws. The sky around them lit up with dragonflame, bright orange and yellow in the fading light. The sound of their clash echoed across the battlefield like thunder, and Maegor felt the familiar thrill of battle pulse through his veins.

Aegon swung his sword at him, their blades clashing as Quicksilver veered away, trying to outmaneuver Balerion. But Maegor was relentless. He urged Balerion onward, following the silver dragon, breathing down its neck with every beat of its wings. Aegon was skilled, but Maegor could see the hesitation in his strikes, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"You will never have her, Uncle!" Aegon shouted over the roar of the wind and the battle below, his voice laced with both fury and desperation. "She is free of you! The gods will never let her fall into your hands."

Maegor’s face twisted into a snarl, his fury consuming him as he swung Blackfyre toward Aegon with all the strength he could muster. Their blades met again, the force of the strike sending sparks flying between them. "The gods be damned!" Maegor roared. "You think they care for your claims, boy? I will have her, and no man or god will keep her from me!"

Aegon’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You’re a fool if you think she would come to you willingly," he spat. "She despises you. She will never be yours."

Maegor’s rage flared hotter than dragonfire. He urged Balerion forward, closing the distance between the two dragons, but Quicksilver darted away, its speed giving it the advantage. Maegor’s strikes were powerful, but Aegon’s precision allowed him to evade, always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

Below, the armies had clashed. The sounds of battle—clanging steel, screams, and the thunder of hooves—rose from the ground, but Maegor cared little for what happened below. His focus was entirely on Aegon, on the boy who had denied him his rightful bride, on the nephew who dared to defy him.

Suddenly, Quicksilver darted upward, high into the clouds, and Aegon disappeared from sight. Maegor cursed, pulling Balerion up after them, but by the time he broke through the clouds, Aegon and Quicksilver were gone.

A howl of frustration escaped Maegor’s throat. He scanned the skies, his eyes searching for any sign of the silver dragon, but Aegon had vanished, leaving nothing but the roar of the wind and the distant sounds of the battlefield below.

"Damn you, Aegon!" Maegor bellowed into the empty sky, his voice echoing across the heavens. His blood boiled with fury, his vision clouded with rage. Once again, Aegon had slipped through his fingers, just as you had been denied to him time and time again.

He descended with Balerion, landing amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his soldiers still locked in fierce combat with Aegon’s forces. But it was not enough. The battle, the bloodshed, the cries of dying men—all of it paled in comparison to the rage burning inside Maegor. He had come for victory, for vengeance, for you—and he had been denied once more.

The soldiers around him fell to their knees, their faces streaked with blood and mud, their eyes filled with terror at the sight of their king. But Maegor’s gaze was distant, his thoughts consumed by the promise Aegon had made before vanishing into the clouds.

You were free of him, Aegon had said. You would never be his.

But Maegor was not a man who accepted defeat. Not now. Not ever.

The realm would continue to burn until you were in his hands, and not even his nephew’s empty threats would change that.

With a final, chilling glance at the battlefield around him, Maegor mounted Balerion once more, his mind already racing with thoughts of what was to come. The war was not over. Aegon may have escaped, but Maegor would hunt him down. He would tear the realm apart, piece by piece, until there was nowhere left for his enemies to hide.

And in the end, you would be his.

Whether you wished it or not.

The second clash between Maegor Targaryen and his nephew, Aegon the Uncrowned, was inevitable. The gods had no place on this battlefield; only dragons, fire, and blood would decide the victor. Beneath the clouded skies of the God's Eye, the two riders faced one another atop their colossal beasts. Quicksilver, the pale silver dragon, hovered in the air with Aegon astride him, eyes blazing with defiance, while Maegor sat atop the mighty Balerion, the Black Dread, a shadow over the land, a force of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

Aegon was no child, but neither was he the match of his uncle. And yet, as they circled high above the waters of the God's Eye, you could almost feel the weight of his resolve. Maegor could sense it, too—a determination to stand, to fight, to protect what little remained of his claim. But Aegon was a fool to believe he could stop what was coming. Maegor had returned, stronger than ever, and no man, no dragon, no usurper would deny him what was his—neither the throne nor you.

The dragons roared and circled, Balerion’s immense shadow darkening the sky. Maegor’s heart was black with fury, the rage of the denied, of one betrayed by his own kin. For years, he had been denied you, stolen from him by a weak brother and a cowardly nephew. Aenys had never been strong enough to hold the kingdom together, nor had he the will to make the hard choices. Now Maegor would show Aegon the price of such weakness.

“Tell me where she is,” Maegor bellowed, his voice a force of its own, carrying across the winds between them. “Tell me, and I’ll make your death quick.”

Aegon’s expression hardened, but his lips remained sealed. He said nothing, his jaw tight, the defiance in his eyes unbroken. It was clear that he would rather die than betray your whereabouts, and for a brief moment, Maegor almost admired the boy's stubbornness. Almost.

But that would not save him.

Quicksilver lunged first, his bright scales gleaming like molten metal in the dim light. His teeth snapped, his wings beat the air, and Aegon drove him forward, spear in hand, hoping to catch Balerion’s flank. But Balerion was no ordinary dragon, and Maegor was no ordinary rider. The Black Dread twisted mid-air with terrifying speed, jaws snapping shut around Quicksilver’s wing. The smaller dragon shrieked, a sound that echoed over the lake like thunder, and his body faltered as he was dragged downward, closer to the earth.

Balerion's fire erupted, black and red flames that swallowed the sky. Quicksilver was engulfed, his silvery scales turning black as smoke and ash filled the air. Aegon fought back, his dragon resisting, but it was clear to all who watched that there could only be one outcome.

With a final, sickening crunch, Balerion’s teeth sank into Quicksilver’s neck, tearing through flesh and bone. The dragon screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing cry that seemed to go on forever. And then, with a sickening crash, Quicksilver and Aegon were flung into the earth below, the ground trembling from the impact.

Maegor descended slowly, his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of his nephew. The once-proud Aegon, Uncrowned and unbroken, now lay battered and broken beside his dying dragon. Maegor dismounted, stepping down from Balerion’s back as if descending from a throne. The grass beneath his feet was scorched from the battle, and the air smelled of death and fire.

Aegon coughed, his body shattered, blood pouring from wounds too numerous to count. His breaths were labored, each one a struggle. Maegor stood over him, the weight of his fury and triumph heavy in the air.

“Where is she?” Maegor demanded once more, his voice like steel.

Aegon lifted his head weakly, his eyes meeting Maegor's with the last of his strength. Blood bubbled on his lips as he smiled—a bitter, bloody smile.

“You’ll never find her,” Aegon rasped, defiance even now.

The anger that surged through Maegor was all-consuming, a wildfire burning through his veins. He had half a mind to rip his nephew’s head from his body then and there, but he knew Aegon would welcome such an end. No, his death would come soon enough. But it would not be swift, nor merciful.

With a final look of disgust, Maegor turned his back on the dying boy, mounting Balerion once more. There was no more time to waste on the Uncrowned. He would find you, with or without Aegon’s cooperation. And when he did, nothing and no one would ever separate you from him again.

After the battle, as Maegor's forces regrouped, a rider approached him. The man, bloodied and worn from the fight, bowed low before his king.

“My lord, we have received word,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “It is said... she is being held in Lys.”

Maegor’s eyes narrowed, his blood roaring in his ears. Lys. So far away, beyond the sea, beyond his immediate reach. But no distance was too great. He would cross oceans, burn cities, and tear apart entire kingdoms if need be.

“Prepare the fleet,” Maegor ordered, his voice like iron. “We sail at once.”

Balerion let out a low rumble, as if sensing his master’s intent. There would be no peace until you were his, no rest until the blood debt was paid in full. The dragons were coming, and all of Lys would burn if it meant bringing you home.

The sun had long begun its descent when the black sails of Maegor's fleet appeared on the horizon, darkening the waters that surrounded Lys. The city, gilded with beauty and wealth, stood as a gleaming jewel in the far east. But to Maegor, it was a den of thieves—those who had dared to steal what belonged to him. As Balerion descended from the skies, casting a vast shadow over the city, panic spread like wildfire through its streets. The people of Lys had never seen the likes of such a beast, nor the wrath of a king who had come to reclaim what was his.

You had not expected him so soon.

The small tower in which you were held offered little more than a view of the sea and distant freedom, but you knew that no bars or walls could hold you forever. You had seen the men sent to guard you, faces hardened by greed and violence, yet even they had begun to whisper in hushed tones over the past days—of dragons, of black sails, of the King who would come. Maegor.

For weeks, you had wondered if it was only a matter of time before your captors sold you to another—or worse. But it was not the men of Lys who had taken you—it was Aegon. Your own brother. He had sent you here, far away from Maegor, far from the throne. He believed it was for your own good, to keep you safe from the king who had burned through the realm to take the Iron Throne. To keep you from the man who had claimed you as his.

But your brother had gravely underestimated the lengths to which Maegor would go to have you back.

And now he had come.

The tower trembled beneath your feet as Balerion’s roar split the sky, shaking the very stones of Lys. The dragon’s fire lit the horizon, the harbor a hellscape of flames and destruction. You could hear the distant cries of men fleeing from the wrath of the Black Dread, and in that moment, a strange calm settled over you. You knew Maegor. You had known him since childhood—his strength, his darkness, and above all, his possessiveness. He would burn this city to the ground for you. He would raze every last building, tear every stone apart brick by brick, until he had you back in his grasp.

The door to your chamber flew open, splintering as it slammed against the wall. The guard who had been stationed outside was gone, replaced by men bearing the black and red sigil of House Targaryen. They moved aside without a word, and there, standing in the doorway, was Maegor.

He was just as you remembered him, but now there was a fierceness in his gaze that you had never seen before. His armor, still streaked with blood from battle, glinted in the dim light. His silver hair, windswept from the flight atop Balerion, framed a face carved from stone, hard and unyielding. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes burned with a hunger, an obsession, that had only grown stronger with time. He had come for you.

Without a word, Maegor strode into the room, his presence filling it like a storm. He did not wait for pleasantries, nor for explanations. He reached for you, his hand closing around your arm with a grip that was firm but not painful, his eyes searching your face as if to assure himself that you were real, that you were truly here.

"You’re coming with me," he said, his voice low and rough. There was no question, no hesitation, just the ironclad certainty that had always driven him.

"Maegor," you began, your voice quiet but steady. The words you had rehearsed in your mind seemed to dissolve as you looked into his eyes. The fury, the relief, the need—it was all there, laid bare. He was not a man to be denied.

"You will never be taken from me again," he growled, his fingers tightening slightly around your arm as if to emphasize his point. "I’ve burned half the world to get to you. No one will stand between us now."

You had heard tales of what he had done—of how he had torn through Aegon’s forces at the God's Eye, of how he had set the seas aflame in his pursuit of you. But you never imagined that it would come to this—that your own brother would try to keep you from him. And now that he stood before you, towering, unyielding, you realized that there was no escaping the inevitability of what came next.

"You were mine from the moment you were born," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And they kept you from me. All of them—my father, your brother, the gods themselves. But no more. You will be my queen, and no one will ever take you from me again."

His words, raw and fierce, echoed in the space between you, and for a moment, all you could hear was the distant roar of Balerion outside, the great beast that had carried him across the skies to find you.

You met his gaze, and in that moment, something shifted within you. You had known Maegor your whole life. You had seen the violence in him, but you had also seen the man beneath it—the one who, for all his ruthlessness, had always looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And now, standing before him, you understood that there was no escaping him, not now, not ever.

"Then take me," you whispered, your voice soft but clear. "I’m ready."

Maegor’s eyes darkened, and in one swift motion, he pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours with all the pent-up fury and longing that had driven him to Lys. His kiss was fierce, possessive, and you knew then that the man who had come for you was not just the king, but the dragon itself—untamable, unstoppable, and wholly yours.

When he pulled away, his hand still cradled the back of your neck, his eyes locked on yours. "We leave now," he said, his voice a low growl. "There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but ash."

He led you from the room without another word, the tower and all its horrors fading behind you as you stepped out into the night. Balerion waited, his massive form dark against the sky, and as Maegor helped you onto the dragon's back, you knew that whatever fate awaited you, it would be by his side.

And so, with a single command, Balerion’s wings unfurled, and together you soared into the night, leaving Lys in flames behind you.

[the-daily-dreamer]

The targaryen ruled 130 years without dragons. And the most capable kings were all targaryen. After them it was a decline for the throne. Robert, joffrey, tommen, cercei were all sith ruler .

I see targ stans are investing in high quality air to fill their heads lol

But anyways. “The most capable kings were all targaryens”. You know who else were targaryens? The worst rulers of Westeros. Robert, Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen aren’t even close to the worst kings and queen to rule. And bringing them up as evidence to show that the targaryens are good is so disingenuous.

Maegor the Cruel, Aegon the Unworthy, The Mad King Aerys, Rhaenyra (yes, I know that’s controversial), and Daenerys (yes, I know that’s even more controversial) are all far FAR worse than anyone you mentioned.

Maegor killed his wife and her entire family. He was a usurper (apparently it’s good when the targs you like do it lol), a kinslayer (also a thing only good when it’s targs you like doing it), raped and tortured many people, wiped out entire houses, killed any and everyone that he saw in any way as deserving, and created a huge war with the faith of the seven.

Aegon the unworthy was corrupt and lazy and legitimized his bastards leading to the blackfyre rebellions that led to endless bloodshed for 5 generations.

Aerys was so bad he had a rebellion staged against him that ended his family dynasty. He burned fathers and sons together. He tortured people and burned them alive. He abused and raped his wife when he would burn people alive. He wanted to kill the entire city of kings landing.

Rhaenyra (who like it or not went down in history as one of the worst rulers) known as maegor with teats taxed her people to starvation. She had daily executions. She had knights inquisitors hunt down and punish people.

Daenerys burnt down kings landing, was complicit in the rape and enslavement of hundreds, ruined city economies so badly slavery was a better option, then profited from said slavery, abandoned the people she conquered (no doubt ensuring they will be enslaved much more harshly after supporting her), raped a “free” slave that she admits still acted like a slave because that’s all she knew, oh yeah and again, SHE BURNT DOWN KINGS LANDING. And this is after the people you listed.

And this isn’t including non Targaryen rulers that ruined lives like the blackfyres. Or rulers that are bad but weirdly beloved like Aegon I who basically conquered people by threatening to kill them and everyone they loved, subjugating a country for hundreds of years.

The best rulers I admit were Targaryens. But that’s because they were the only rulers save for 4 people. Of those four, two were bad and two were incompetent. Not nearly the sadistic “mad” people I described above. And funnily enough, as soon as a Targaryen came back to power…things got worse again. Funny how that is.

Oh and by the way. Going with the histories of Westeros. Guess who is among the best rulers according to small folk Aegon II and Alicent. Seethe :)

[hadesisqueer]

It's been a long time since I read Fire and Blood and the rest of the ASOIAF books (been meaning to reread them because I don't remember that much of them tbh, I read ADWD like seven years ago) and I'm not keeping up with the new show, but every time I see stuff about Rhaenyra and Jace I remember once again why I disliked Jon's legitimacy in the show. It's not just because even if Rhaegar married Lyanna that marriage would not have seen valid to anyone given the guy was already married and had two children with Elia Martell. It's because it's kind of poetic.

Rhaenyra was the legitimate heir to the throne. Her father had said so, and kept saying so over and over again, and with all her flaws, she was a better option than her brother. Jacaerys was also a great prince, clearly with excellent diplomatic skills —I doubt Cregan Stark would have sworn to him if he didn't see something in him—, and would have probably made a great king. But neither of them were allowed to actually be queen or king. Because Rhaenyra was a woman. And Jace was a bastard. No matter that his mother is the heir and not the other way around, no matter that Laenor knew and didn't care and gave him and Luke and Joffrey his name and treated them as his own, no matter that Corlys and Rhaenys also treated them as their grandchildren and recognized him as Velaryons. He would always be seen as a bastard even if he would have made a better king than his uncle. Just like his mother, even if she was better than Aegon II and was named heir by her father was also still seen as an illegitimate heir because she was a woman.

So, yes. I believe that if Jon had been kept a bastard, it would have been better. The Dance of Dragons was the start of the downfall of the Targaryens. The Targaryens tore each other apart because of power and because people could not just let a girl and a bastard boy rule. So I think it'd be ironic and poetic that the last scions of House Targaryen were a girl and a bastard boy.

Also sorry, but the show was stupid for making people immediately believe and accept that Jon was Rhaegar's son and the heir to the throne just like that, not just because the marriage to Lyanna would not have seen illegitimate. If I recall in the book you got Young Griff who has the classic Targaryen Valyrian looks and was supposedly raised to rule and was the perfect prince-- and yet he needs to marry Daenerys. Not only because she's the one with actual armies and dragons, but because without her, his claim is weaker than the Golden Company in the show. Because no matter what he says, he can't actually prove he really is Aegon VI (he probably isn't, I still think he's a Blackfyre). And now, you're telling me that in the show, people immediately believe that Jon is Rhaegar's legitimate son and heir to the throne because *checks* his best friend and his brother said so? Are you serious? Lmao.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Avarice and Arrogance (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Aemond Masterlist | HOTD Masterlist 

Synopsis: Aemond was always confident that he could protect you and his family from any threat, but the Gods had to dole out a lesson for his impunity, and a particularly cruel one at that. 

Warnings: TW! Character death, violence, torture, angst, Aemond being somewhat toxic?? 

Word Count: 2.6K words 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for the reader. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: You guys asked for angst, I delivered an overdose. I hope you enjoy, although I’m not very proud of this one shot. Inspired after overplaying the epic version of Aegon’s Coronation theme. Ramin Djawadi is my true King of the Seven Kingdoms 

wonderful dividers credited to @firefly-graphics

“He whispered his final wish that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him!” 

To anyone, Prince Aemond seemed the portrait of composure: his arms clasped behind his back, his expression cool and disinterested. Yet if one looked closely enough, they would see the tension in his jaw, his teeth gritted, his posture bordering more on stiff than of calmness. His lone violet eye glittered as he observed Aegon walking under the raised swords of the knights, looking as recalcitrant as always. 

‘Had that been me…’ he thought bitterly, ‘I would’ve carried myself with pride. The smallfolk would’ve took one look at me and trusted that I had the greatness, the capability, to lead House Targaryen into the apex of our power.’ 

‘And yet,’ Aemond mused to himself as his mother kissed Aegon on the forehead, ‘reality is often disappointing.’

His fists clenched at his sides. It was unfair, his brother was naught but a wastrel, a fool constantly drunk in his cups and oft found buried in the tits of some common whore. What right had he to rule, save for being the firstborn son? How could someone as useless as him be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms? Even with their grandsire by his side giving him counsel, when his half sister received word of the coronation, and of their father’s death…Aemond dreaded to think what would happen. Would Aegon be able to rise up to the defence of their family?

Aemond took a deep breath to steady himself, when suddenly, he felt a warm hand grasping his, gently unclenching his fingers from his tightly formed fist. Surprised, he looked over to the unexpected source of comfort. His lady wife stood next to him, an indifferent expression on her lovely face as she kept her eyes fixed on the smallfolk. He noticed that she was holding his sweet sister, Helaena’s hand in her other hand, and his mind halted in its baleful, raging course to settle on her instead, admiring her. 

My beautiful, brilliant lady wife. 

She would’ve been the most wonderful queen, he thought, and the wave of resentment began its course once more. As if sensing the switch in Aemond’s thoughts, she squeezed his hand lightly in hers. Aemond marvelled at his wife, amazed at how she always could sense the slightest shifts in his moods, even when her eyes were not on him. And just like that, the worry and the resentment fell away, and his envy for his brother became a little easier to bear, even just for that moment. 

But…he felt a sense of strangeness creep over him as he took in his wife’s features. Her face was impassive, but it was hard and cold, as if she did not approve of this very scene. As Aegon raised Blackfyre and rallied the crowd, and his wife squeezed Helaena’s hand tighter, Aemond realised that mayhaps her gesture was not done solely out of comfort, but for anxiety.

For fear. 

You were chewing on your bottom lip, Helaena’s hand still in yours as you both stewed in contemplative silence, each engulfed with thoughts and worries of your own. Aemond frowned as he watched his sister and his beloved. Aegon had ridden in a separate wheelhouse with their mother and grandsire, and mayhaps it was for the better, given the gloomy atmosphere. 

When they were back in the safety of their apartments, Aemond followed his wife’s every movement in rapt attention. You began unravelling the tight updo that your hair was in, running your hands through your long locks pensively. It was done now…you were true traitors to the Crown. You sighed, wanting nothing more than to crawl in bed and hope that this was nothing but an unpleasant dream. 

Suddenly, you felt warm arms engulfing you from behind. Aemond dropped his chin onto his beloved’s shoulder as he embraced her, breathing in her scent. “Tell me what troubles you, my love,” his voice husky. 

You shook your head slightly, trying to mask your thoughts. “Tis nothing, my love. I swear it.” 

Aemond chuckled, a dark and soft sound. “Liar.” 

He spun his beloved round to face him, taking note of her expression. “I know you are worried,” his voice was soft, “We are husband and wife, my love. Whatever troubles you hold, I want to know all of it. We swore before the Gods, did we not? To share each other’s burdens? We will honour our vows, do we not?” 

Your lips twisted slightly, trying not to grimace. “If vows were of any matter to us, then we would not have committed such a grave sin.” Aemond frowned, the reasons for his wife’s anxiety suddenly becoming apparent to him. “Aegon is the King now,” he reminded her, “My father named him so.” 

You let out a humourless snort. “He was an old man, half senile and drunk on the Milk of Poppy.” Aemond opened his mouth as if to protest, but you continued before he could. “The late king had named Rhaenyra as his heir. Even when the Stranger drew close, he had forsaken his health and braved through his pain to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim during Vaemond’s speech. Does the Hand expect all of Westeros to believe the King changed his mind all of a sudden on his deathbed? It is insanity, and even a deaf fool would know better.” 

“Enough,” Aemond’s voice was low, tinged with warning. “You will not insult my grandsire like this. It is done now, and that is the truth.” You persisted, however. “Putting that aside, Rhaenyra will seek to have all our heads when the news breaks. How can your grandsire be as foolish as to put all of us in danger like this?” 

Aemond arched a brow, “Is that what you’re worried about?” “Are you not worried about that?” Aemond laughed, “We have dragons, my love. I should think Vhagar, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre are enough to defend us. That whore on Dragonstone will soon realise that she can get angry, and she can spit and curse all she wants, but she cannot match against our might.” 

You looked unconvinced, which irked Aemond a little. Why was she so worried? “Do not tell me,” his voice was low with menace, “That you are loyal to Rhaenyra. That you are sympathetic to that whore’s cause.” You kept mum, but your eyes told Aemond everything he needed to know. He snarled, moving to pin you against the wall. 

Your eyes widened with panic, your hands moving to push Aemond away, but he held your wrists in a vice grip. You had never seen him so angry with you before. “You are my wife,” he hissed angrily, “Your priorities should lie with me, with my family. Our family. In keeping us safe from that accursed whore and my uncle.” “And making Aegon king, usurping the rightful queen, is supposed to keep us safe?” You argued, unintimidated. “Have you lost all your senses, Aemond? We are traitors! Usurpers! You claim protecting your family is your priority, but yet you allow your grandsire to risk our lives for his mad grab for power!” Aemond’s grip tightened on your wrists, causing you to wince and fall silent. Aemond took notice of that, but he couldn’t let you go. Not just yet. He needed to make his point. 

“I said, do not speak of my grandsire in that manner,” he seethed. “He is my family, and I will not tolerate you insulting him.” He took a deep breath, letting go of his wife’s wrists, and she took the chance to push him away before fleeing to their bed. He sighed and sat down next to her, but she only moved away and folded her arms, turning her back on him. He heard a soft sniffle, and he realised with horror that she was crying. He had made her cry. 

A pang of guilt shot through Aemond’s heart, and he tentatively reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, dismayed when she flinched away from his touch. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier, my love,” he said quietly, “I got carried away, and I hurt you. I apologise for that.” He saw her shoulders lose some of their tension at his apology, and a glimmer of hope shone in his violet eye. Mayhaps he could make her see his viewpoint after all. He knew of her house’s loyalty to Rhaenyra’s claim, and how she might be swayed to support Rhaenyra’s claim, but she had to see. That this was the best for their family. 

“My love…” he bit his lip, “I know my words were harsh, but it is true. What is done is done. Even if I dislike Aegon being on the throne, he is my brother. If Rhaenyra had taken the throne, she would’ve had us executed. She would not suffer any presence that could be a threat to her claim to the throne. Even if she did not, there is no doubt Daemon would.” He took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “Rhaenyra is impulsive, violent and reckless. You saw how she took off Vaemond’s head when his only crime was speaking the truth. Her son blinded me when we were naught but boys,” Aemond’s voice became hard. “If we allow her to ascend the throne, that means that the Strong bastard, Jace, would ascend the throne after her. Do you really think the realm would really bow before him?” 

Your hard gaze softened a little, and Aemond saw a window of opportunity. “Think rationally, my love,” Aemond pleaded softly, “My father may have named Rhaenyra the heir, but it is an irreplaceable fact that the lords of Westeros would never bow before her. The Seven Kingdoms would plunge into chaos, do you really want that?” Aemond raised her hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “I know you’re afraid of Rhaenyra’s wrath, but I ask of you to trust me. Trust that I will keep us safe, no matter what.” 

“...I’m not sure if you can, Aemond.” Aemond’s heart dropped, “Whatever do you mean?” You finally turned to face him, and he was alarmed when he took note of the tears glistening at the corner of your eyes. “Aemond…I’m with child. For nearly three moons now.” 

Aemond swore his heart stopped at that very moment. But his shock only lasted briefly before he pulled you into his arms, voice filled with excitement and wonder, “You’re with child? Our child?” When he broke the embrace, you were surprised to see the corner of his violet eye wet. Aemond dropped to his knees in front of you, stroking his hand over your stomach reverently, in disbelief almost. “We’re going to be parents…” he murmured, “I’m going to be a father.” 

But even in Aemond’s joy, you could not find it in yourself to smile. Not with the threat of the impending succession war. Aemond noticed your discomfort, but nothing could take away the happiness he felt at the moment. “My love, you don’t have to be afraid,” his voice was reassuring, “I swear on my honour, on the Old Gods and the New, on the Seven and all my ancestors, that I would burn the world to ashes on Vhagar before I let anyone lay a finger on you or our child.” He took your hand, cradling it in his, tilting his head upwards, a pleading look in his eye, for you to believe in him, to trust him to keep you safe. 

“But even all the dragons in this world will not keep us from reaping the fate we sowed,” you said quietly, eyes never leaving Aemond’s. “The gods will strike us down for our treason.” 

Aemond rolled his eye, exasperated that his wife just didn’t seem to grasp the true extent of their power. “We are Targaryens, my love,” Aemond said self-assuredly. “We possess dragons, the largest, most dangerous and powerful creatures in the world. The gods may try as they might, but they can never strike us down. Seven hells, I would dare say we are the gods, my love,” Aemond chuckled at how your eyes widened at his brazen words. “For what other than a god can mount a dragon, and command it?” “Don’t say things like that, Aemond,” you were aghast, “The Seven will-” 

“Fuck the Seven,” Aemond said bluntly. “When men pray, the Gods never answer. Why should we fear the consequences inflicted upon us by some unknown higher power?” He resumed his seat on their bed, pulling you back into his embrace and gently stroking your hair. “We need not fear the Gods, my love,” he murmured softly. “You will see soon enough, when war comes, and the Gods do nothing to interfere, then you will come to revere them less. In the meantime, you will come to see who the true gods are, when our dragons raze the earth and win this godforsaken war.” 

It was known to all that the gods despise hubris, and perhaps they were watching that evening, when you laid your head on Aemond’s chest with a sigh and allowed him to soothe and comfort you, making promises that he would keep you safe no matter what. 

Aemond had been so sure in his words, so confident in his beliefs and in his abilities, and blinded by his ego. Mayhaps this was what drove him when he bade Vhagar prowl around Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon Arrax in the stormy skies of Storms’ End, shouting for the Strong bastard to repay the debt he owed. 

Mayhaps his pride was what had blinded him to the possibility that he could never keep his family safe after his act of kinslaying. 

But he knew for sure that he had regretted making an enemy of the gods when he saw you, eyes wide with fear, a sharp dragonglass blade to your throat as you were held hostage by some cutpurse. An eye for an eye, a son for a son, the cutpurse had grinned, before slitting your throat and lodging the dagger into your stomach. 

It mattered not how much Aemond had howled with grief as he held your lifeless frame in his arms, begging for you to wake up. It mattered not when Aemond personally tortured your assassin with the most vicious methods he could devise, flaying every inch of skin from his body until he had expired. Even in death, he was not spared of Aemond’s wrath. His body was marked with incisions when it was finally fed to Vhagar, courtesy of Aemond cutting out his heart and crushing it with his bare hands. It mattered not when Aemond had sworn to avenge you no matter the cost, to cut down Daemon Targaryen and give him the same treatment he had for the cutpurse. It took the combined efforts of the Queen Dowager, Queen Helaena, King Aegon, the Hand, and many other lords and knights of the Kingsguard to prevent him from mounting Vhagar upon the cutpurse’s death to fly to Dragonstone. A fool’s folly, they called it, but Aemond had drawn his sword and snarled at them to get out of his way, lest they wish to be the recipient of Vhagar’s flames. It was only when Alicent motioned for Ser Criston to deliver a blow that rendered Aemond unconscious that they could restrain him at all. 

A part of Aemond had died that day, and he rained curses upon the Seven, on his uncle, on his wretched half-sister as he took his seat in the Small Council, being the advocate for absolute and brutal violence against the Blacks. And yet he did not repent for looking down upon the gods, not even till the day when he faced his uncle Daemon in battle and died in the cursed halls of Harrenhal. Another casualty of the Dance of the Dragons. 

After all, even the Valyrian dragonlords of old had not been able to escape the Stranger’s clutches when death came for them. And Aemond Targaryen was no different. 

...i’m very sorry :( but I swear, happier Aemond one shots are coming 😭

Aemond General Taglist: @aiyaiy​ 

Let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist! If you enjoyed this chapter, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :) thank you for reading! 💗

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

If Nettles was white, she would be as popular as Lyanna, Brienne or Arya, and y’all know it.

She grew up a homeless orphan (which is why it’s so insulting when people try to act like she’s a freaking idiot who doesn’t know how to bathe herself yet she can tame a dragon🤦🏽‍♀️ Put most of the highborn women in her position and they wouldn’t survive a day in her shoes).

She’s the only known non-Valyrian dragonrider who claims a wild dragon. A prince who believes in Valyrian supremacy falls in love with her to the point where he’s willing to sacrifice his life for her. Nettles singlehandedly disproves the whole idea of Targaryen exceptionalism and their blood purity. She slowly earns a dragon’s trust by bringing him sheep, and gradually he lets her closer, and then forms the dragonrider bond and lets her fly. up until this point, nobody had tried a strategy like that before.

Nettles is self-made. She’s self-taught. She’s loved for herself. She survives a freaking war and becomes a fire goddess/witch. Who wouldn’t want her ? Who wouldn’t want to be her ? Unlike Rhaenyra and Alicent, she’s the final girl of F&B.

Once again, I don't understand where you got that I'm anti Nettles? I'm anti Nettles x Daemon, but other than that theory, I very much am a fan of Nettles as a character. I won't say that there isn't racism and unfairness that happen regarding Nettles' character (though I haven't seen it personally), because people can be really shitty. But me personally, again, I'm not anti Nettles, I just dislike certain groups of her stans.

Again, I don't deny that Nettles was a strong woman. She endured many things most characters in F&B don't and most likely survived the Dance. However, I do disagree with some of the ideas you're stating as fact.

For starters, we don't know if Nettles is non-Valyrian; that's one of the many theories surrounding her, but it's not confirmed, so stating it as fact is misleading. Just because she lacks traditional Valyrian features doesn't means she isn't a dragonseed.

Jace and his brothers don't look Valyrian but they very obviously are of Valyrian descent. Rhaenys, the queen who never was, had black hair; Duncan the son of Aegon V looked like his mother, Betha Blackwood; Aegor Rivers also had black hair; Baelor Breakspear had dark hair; Daeron son of Maekar had sandy brown hair; Rhaenys the daughter of Rhaegar had her mother, Elia Martell's features.

Moving on, Daemon's relationship with Nettles is ambiguous. We don't know if they were in a romantic relationship or if his attack on Aemond was purely to save her (though I'm sure that was part of his decision). Again, you are stating a theory you believe as fact, even though it's unconfirmed.

I'm not going to touch the whole thing of Targaryen exceptionalism, because, as I said earlier, Nettles' parentage is unconfirmed. But the whole blood purity thing still hasn't been disproven at any point of GRRM's works; they intermarried to preserve their magic blood, the magic blood still exists in ASOIAF due to the incest.

Nettles is an important character in the story of the Dance, but she isn't the "final girl" you claim she is, let alone of the whole book. There are several dragon riders who survived the Dance and thrived. Rhaena is the ancestor of the Tyrells in the main series. Aegon III is the ancestor of Daenerys, the Baratheons, any remaining Blackfyres, and possibly Jon Snow and Young Griff. Baela and Alyn are the ancestors of Aurane Waters and the Velaryons.

The book of F&B is so much more than the Dance of the Dragons. Saying that Nettles is the "final girl" of the book doesn't make any sense when she only appears in a few sections. That's like saying Alys Rivers is actually the main character of the book. Nettles disappears after the Dance and doesn't appear in any other event. She does nothing else after her disappearance and has relatively little impact on the history of Westeros post Dance.

I have absolutely no idea where you're getting the whole "fire goddess/witch" thing. However, you have already been throwing out theories and your personal biases as fact, so I don't think it matters. I'm not trying to control who your fav is, I totally understand wanting to be a certain book character. But that doesn't mean you can act like everyone else is wrong for not having the same fav as you.

It's that kind of entitlement, thinking you're better than everyone else that makes people not like Nettles stans. It's almost on par with stansas and Alicent stans. People like you project so hard onto your favs, you take any perceived insult, critique, or argument as a personal attack. It's exhausting interacting with people like you.

[agentrouka-blog]

i think griff's parentage will remain a mistery but dany will convince herself he's a blackfyre so targ fans are gonna run with that 🤷‍♀️

She doesn't even need to convince herself he's a Blackfyre (whence a trueborn male Blackfyre?) - she only needs to convince herself he is an imposter. The "pisswater boy" sold by his father story might as well be an origin story for Aegon himself. It doesn't seem hard to acquire a light-haired infant slave boy in various regions of Essos. It WOULD be the more likely story, compared to the secret Blackfyre fantasy, and she has a "mummer's dragon" warning to go off on. A Blackfyre is still a dragon, no? But a random Valyrian-looking boy would not be.

The parentage may never be revealed, but at the same time what's the more interesting story when you have a boy who fully believes himself to be Elia's son? A cheap copy of Jon's "my identity is a lie!" reveal? Or the idea of grappling with two opposing political legacies (Valyrian v. Dornish) after being raised to never question your destiny of being the most perfect guinea pig? Aegon's story isn't about being revealed as fake. It's about opposing his circus keepers and asserting his own choice of who he wants to be and what all that "perfect kingship" training means to him, personally and ideologically.

But that's a story that centers questioning what the Iron Throne is all about and it does not fit into people's ideas that fighting over it is actually a noble goal with a righteous reward.

[1800naveen]

SJM fans gotta be quiet

Saw some chick on tik tok say some bullshit. "HBO should adapt Throne of Glass instead of giving us more got spinoffs and it could be better than game of thrones."

Delete the app now. Get rid of it. Pack your bags, you're getting sent off to delulu land.

That would be plagiarism if it got adapted. COPYRIGHT, HOE.

I would rather watch George RR Martin take a fat fucking shit in front of my eyes and destroy the damn toilet.

"Don't you like throne of glass?" Yes, I do and I don't care.

Are SJM fans not aware of the world of a song of ice and fire? It's not only game of thrones?? GOT comes from A song of ice and fire (the main series) and House of the Dragon comes from Fire and Blood (basically a history book).

George has written one of the best worldbuilding I've seen in books, Sarah wish she could come up with that. It's so damn beautiful, I could shed a tear. Sarah's worldbuilding got some plot holes, confusing magic systems, and other stuff that don't make sense if you think into it.

Both got weird things in their stories, I can't lie. But George somehow finds a way to mostly have a reason for it (Not all of it though, not all of it. Targs gonna Targ with the inbreeding.) In A Court of Wings and Ruin, there are twins named Dagdan and Brannagh which are incestuous for no reason at all. It says they're sexual partners on the wiki page. Knock off Jaime and Cersei? Wait, that goes to Mor and Cassian. She had no reason for them to be partners like what the hell??

The amount of stories that could be turned into shows (small edit because I fucked up and put stories again)from George's work? That's much more than SJM's. Like we got another show coming out about King Aegon V and Duncan the tall (A knight of the seven kingdoms), one about Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys and the conquest for Westeros, Corlys and his nine voyages (The sea snake). The entirety of Fire and Blood could get adapted on screen.

We could still get shows adapted to the big screen even after George leaves this earth (peepaw is old, I'm worried and hoping he's staying healthy.)

Examples are:

Robert's rebellion

Nymeria's war

Old Valyria and how it came to an end

The Blackfyre rebellions

The Golden Empire of Yi Ti (not much is known on the place so I really want this)

Snow (This was shelved because they didn't have anything to work with, not a shocker)

The Amethyst Empress and the Bloodstone Emperor (she was usurped by her younger brother and when she died, the long night came to the world. Sound familiar?)

The Long Night and Azor Ahai

Great Empire of the Dawn

Maegor's entire reign. It's so wild.

Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and their children. Would love to see that.

They need to stop acting like fools when they say this shit. YOU WOULDN'T HAVE THRONE OF GLASS IF A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE DIDN'T EXIST. REMEMBER WHAT CAME FIRST.

Here's a post I made about throne of glass and asoiaf.

Anyways, that's enough of my yapping. Till then when another Sarah J mASS fan makes me mad✌🏾✌🏾

[rynnthefangirl]

do you have happy headcanons about aegon iii and viserys ii? or at least not that sad cause they already suffered enough in the canon

What a fun ask, I love having an excuse to gush about Aegon III and Viserys II! I’ll admit I’m usually drawn to angst, but some headcanons on the (somewhat) happier side of things:

Being a father did a lot to lighten Aegon III’s gloom (the broader realm/histories just didn’t observe this bc he was such a private person). This was especially the case with Daena. Daeron was always preoccupied with his martial training and Baelor with his faith, but Daena would spend long hours keeping her father company. She loved to hear stories about their family, and Aegon would tell her all about Rhaenyra and Daemon and his Velaryon brothers and childhood on Dragonstone. Aegon had spent so long trying to avoid those memories bc of his grief, but found telling his daughter about them therapeutic, and this helped him make some peace with his past in the last years of his life. He felt like he was doing right by his parents and brothers in passing down their memories. Daena would go on to tell many of those stories to her little sister Elaena and her son Daemon.

Aegon III got his three headed dragon necklace from Rhaenyra, and passed it down to Daena, who passed it down to Daemon. The necklace is still in the possession of Blackfyre descendents into the GOT era, and is considered a family heirloom.

Viserys used to climb into Aegon’s bed when he had a nightmare during their boyhood on Dragonstone. After their reunion, they would continue to share a bed on occasion, as they each felt most at peace in each others company, and this would help relieve some of Aegon’s insomnia. They did this most frequently in the years between Larra’s departure and Aegon consummating his marriage with Daenaera.

Aemon became Kingsguard in the last couple years of Aegon’s reign. Originally Viserys fervently argued against this, as he didn’t want his son swearing away the possibility of marriage and kids, but eventually Aemon convinced him that this was what he truly wanted. Gifting the white cloak to his nephew was one of Aegon’s proudest moments. When Aegon fell sick, Aemon was by his side helping care for him day and night, even beyond his duty as a Kingsguard.

Viserys didn’t tell Aegon he was going to name his son after him until after the babe was born. Aegon cried when he found out (stole this from another post).

Viserys didn’t call Aegon “Egg”, but Aegon did call his brother “Vis”.

It was Viserys who gifted Elaena her dragon egg. It wasn’t a cradle egg, but given to her when she was a few years old. Viserys hadn’t been able to convince Aegon to give eggs to his previous four children, but when Vis found an egg on Dragonstone that matched Elaena’s unique silver/gold hair, he took it as a sign. After much needling, Aegon finally relented, and from then on Elaena would carry around her dragons egg everywhere she went, just as her uncle had done years ago.

This one doesn’t count as happy, but I do think that one of the reasons why Viserys ascended the throne over Daena was because he believed that he was protecting her from sharing her brothers’ fates. I also think Daena proposed to unite their claims through marriage— citing Viserys' parents Daemon and Rhaenyra— but Viserys turned her offer down.

Aegon put off consummating his marriage with Daenaera largely because of his touch aversion, but also in part because he was just plain nervous. Cue Viserys “dad of three at 16” giving advice to his awkward 21 year old virgin brother. One night Aegon had resolved to finally bed Daenaera, only to hide himself away and not show up. Viserys dragged him to her chambers, and told him that if wasn’t ready to sleep with Daenaera that night he didn’t have to, but damn him if he is going to ditch his lovely sweet Queen after promising to spend the night with her. Aegon and Daenaera did not in fact consummate their marriage that night, but it did turn into a nice evening of getting to know each other better, and did much to ease both of their nervousness. Aegon thanked his brother later.

Aegon was never one for feasts and celebrations, but he would often make much more of an effort whenever Baela or Rhaena came to court (ofc under the condition that Morning either stay in Oldtown or be chained in the Dragon Pit). As such, Viserys would invite the twins to court whenever the found an excuse to do so, and they often celebrated their name day feast in Kings Landing. One time Rhaena even convinced Aegon to dance with her (albeit briefly) much to the delighted surprise of the court.

Viserys never remarried after Larra, but he did have a paramour in his later years that he was deeply fond of (got this one from a fanfic).

Viserys knew his brother didn’t have the best reputation in the Realm, and was very defensive of him. One day during Daeron’s rule one of the lords of the small council made the mistake of referring to Aegon as “the Dragonbane” where Viserys could hear. Viserys absolutely tore into him, threatening to ban the lord and his family from court for slandering their late king. Nobody made the mistake of using Aegon’s epithet in front of his brother again.

Viserys would often smile as he donned his Hand of the King pin during Aegon’s reign. He was beyond proud and honored to be his brothers right hand man. Aegon would sometimes refer to him as “my Lord Hand” because he loved how Viserys glowed at the title.

Many of these may be more bittersweet than "happy", but it's Aegon III and Viserys II so what's a girl to do🤷‍♀️

[sarcasticsweetlara]

hiii, i have seen lot of ideas where the dance never happens like rhaenyra having a succesful reign, happy marriage life for jace-baela/ luke-rhaena. i think it would be funny if viserys run away to lys in a saera style for the drama, well my point is i like your au's so i wanted to know if you have headcanons for team black where the dance of the dragons never happened

There are many scenarios I could think of, actually...

And it depends how you want to see it because there are things that if erased creates more advantages and new situations, but could still stop the war.

1. Alicent accepts Rhaenyra's proposal of betrothing Jace and Helaena.

And Baela is betrothed to a Velaryon cousin (not a son of Vaemond due his infamy of wanting to take Driftmark from Corlys and his line), like a grandson of Malentine Velaryon (Maelor Velaryon; it's most likely Maelor is a Velaryon name; the son of Maerax Velaryon son of Malentine Velaryon) to support the claim of Lucerys and back him

<<Read more below>>

With Helaena becoming Queen consort she gives legitimacy to Jace's reign as well as Alicent getting her daughter as Queen consort, and with Baela being a backbone with the Velaryons then Luke will receive support as the Lord of Driftmark with Rhaena as Lucerys' wife as well; Jace's children could marry Baela's children and Joffrey as well marries one of the daughters of Baela to further legitimize his line.

Baela would be a lady-in-waiting for Helaena, and together they would arrange the betrothal of their children.

2. Jace marries Baela (now Daemon sees his daughter as Queen), Lucerys still marries Rhaena, and the children of Luke and Rhaena marry the children of Joff.

Now, in all of the scenarios present Aegon III would marry Daenaera as an alliance (they would always marry each other), and Viserys II would marry his niece Daena <<Daena deserved to become The Queen and be the mother of Daeron II and Daenerys, and of the whole dynasty>> to unite their bloodlines; and if baby Visenya survives, then Viserys would marry her (the original plan of Martin), and their son would marry their niece Daena to once again unite the bloodline with Daena being Queen and having her uncle and aunt as Hand and counselors.

3. Other possible scenario but this time after Rhaenyra: Aegon the Younger calls for a High Council once Rhaenyra dies peacefully, and he is chosen as king as the oldest legitimate son of Rhaenyra (Jace would no longer have the protection of Rhaenyra), Baela gets to Maelor Velaryon, and she becomes the Lady of Driftmark as a consort (we know Corlys would never choose her, but he could choose a great-great-nephew he liked), while Rhaena marries Corwyn Corbray, and Viserys would still marry either Visenya or Daena; but even then Aegon III would have mercy and spare the lives of Jace, Luke and Joffrey, and they would be married off to minor ladies.

Honestly, in the second and third scenarios I have to admit I think Aegon would eventually reach for the Throne because legitimately it is his.

...

Anyways, Rhaena's children would marry Baela's children, and Rhaena and Baela would be councilors to both Aegon III and Viserys II Targaryen.

I think it would be nice to see Daena or Visenya matching Viserys' fire and having a partner who is an equal and loves and supports him since he would be spared being a hostage of three different Lyseni families that threatened him and also would spare Westeros of the Rogare family, Aegon the Unworthy and the Blackfyre Rebellions.

Either way any of these relationships would mirror that of Baelon and Alyssa or Daemon and Rhaenyra.

But beyond that, Baela would be happy to become Lady of Driftmark, this time in a happy marriage, and would have a husband devoted to her; she would name her first daughter in honor of her mother and first son in honor of her grandfather Corlys; and Laena would be the grandmother of Aelinor Penrose through a daughter of hers (HC: Coryssa Velaryon) who married into House Penrose.

Rhaena would be free of the pressure of providing an heir quickly and therefore her first baby would be born, and would be able to use her dragon to quell the protestors against Joffrey Arryn (the heir of Jeyne Arryn) and Corwyn would live.

Baela would always introduce Daenaera to Aegon III, and Rhaena would take Viserys II on travels to Dragonstone and the whole realm.

Once Viserys II comes back, (if Visenya is not alive) Daena would meet him and they would fall in love and marry.

Baela's favorite niece would be Daena, followed by the daughters of her sister Rhaena, whereas Rhaena's favorite niece would be her little namesake.

Without the trauma of Larra Rogare and the need to overcompensate due to their involvement, Viserys II would see the practicality in sending Baelor to a Sept and therefore there would be no Maidenvault, and no threat of a religious war with the Stepstones, the Iron Isles and the North, as well as no disbalance of taxes going to the High Septons.

Rhaenyra and Daemon would be able to meet their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and if Rhaenyra's daughter survives, Rhaenyra would have loved spoiling her little princess.

If Baela and Rhaena's full younger brother survives as well, this little boy called Aemon in honor of his great-grandfather, would be completely loyal to his half-brothers Aegon the Younger and Viserys, he would have a keep of his own in the Crownlands given by Rhaenyra so he doesn't compete against the Strong boys

But even then, Aemon would support his legitimate younger brother's birthright.

If Aemon lives, he would marry Maris Baratheon and that's one more ally for the Blacks.

Aemon would claim Grey Ghost itself or steal one of its eggs, he's the son of Daemon and Laena after all, and want to fight but he would be beat to it by Baela.

Aemon would be a male mini-Laena being as adventurous, smooth and demure as his mother, and his sisters would tell him stories about their mother.

Viserys would claim Vermithor and if Visenya lives, then she can claim Silverwing, and Daena and Rhaena could get one of the other dragon eggs of their aunt Rhaena, Elaena's egg could also hatch as well.

Baela would get a new dragon from one of the eggs of Morning as well.

Daemon would teach all of his sons how to fight and encourage them to embrace chaos.

Baela and Rhaena would spoil their little sister Visenya, and as Baela is a tomboy and Rhaena a girl's girl, I like to think Visenya would be kind of an introvert with a stylish witch vibe.

Viserys II would bring his mother many treasures he found on his travels.

And without the trauma of seeing Rhaenyra die, Aegon would proudly wear the crown of Rhaenyra and Daena would wear it as well.

And Visenya would get special tiaras for herself and Viserys as the second and third in command of Aegon III and later Daena.

And I guess these are my headcanons.

[atopvisenyashill]

NO EXACTLY and this is why I'm in the "the incest isn't actually necessary to have magic it just makes things easier to bond and is almost exclusively used as an extreme force of patriarchal control" because Jaehaerys does this twice over with Rhaena and Rhaenys and then Viserys does it again - what is the point of doing incest if you don't use it to merge your bloodlines???

FIRST OF ALL no reason Jaehaerys didn't offer to marry Rhaena or Aerea herself to merge his bloodline with his older siblings/their offspring. he chooses alysanne for like, a lot of reasons, and i know i'm uncharitable to him but if aegon could grit his teeth and marry visenya so she isn't cut out of succession (theoretically anyway hah) why couldn't jaehaerys.

SECOND OF ALL again, no reason Jaehaerys didn't have Viserys and Rhaenys marry. They are not far apart in age, there is clearly (imo) a succession issue looming from the moment Jocelyn and Aemon stopped having kids while Alyssa and Baelon are popping out sons, but he seems to specifically avoid this because he wants to cut out Rhaenys from the line of succession completely.

THIRD OF ALL, Viserys is just following in his annoying ass grandfather's footsteps here really. You favor one child, ignore the others, and make sure they don't join their lines just to be a dickhead. But Alicent and Aegon are not Rhaenys and Corlys nor are they even Rhaena and Aerea and he doesn't handle them as well as Jaehaerys handled the others either. Jaehaerys at least makes sure Rhaenys, Rhaena, and Aerea are toothless before publicly and obviously fucking them over; Viserys is handing Aegon the means to usurp Rhaenyra on a silver platter while screaming "I THINK YOU SUCK THO JUST SO YOU KNOW." Viserys they have the oldest war dragon in Westeros on their side why would you let Otto back into the fucking capital?????

literally just like five minutes into f&b and i’m like “viserys why do you do these things” lmao BUT much is talked about how the dance could have been avoided and a lot of the best ways to avoid it involve viserys just. USING HIS BRAIN and it’s like okay fine you want to remarry, you’re not even 30, but you don’t want to unname rhaenyra, also, you don’t want to marry a milf who can’t have kids, you want the technically legal but still a teenager girlfriend you’ve been fucking for the last year. sure. whatever.

DONT GIVE HER KIDS DRAGONS AND DONT LET THEM GET ENTRENCHED IN THE CAPITAL.

like, why are you giving aegon and daeron baby dragons. why are you letting helaena claim dreamfyre. do you know what jaehaerys did with his third born son/heir? HE SENT HIS ASS TO THE CITADEL. Send Aemond or Daeron to the citadel so he can’t inherit. Do NOT let Aegon claim a dragon under any circumstances. do what alysanne was always doing with her daughters and with daemon and give him an unimportant heiress outside of the crownlands. keep helaena around as a potential bride for one of rhaenyra’s eventual kids to combine the lines, do NOT let her marry any of her brothers under any circumstances. also, don’t just STOP TALKING about it, cite the widows laws - which coincidentally ALSO protect alicent and her kids - that alysanne passed, point out that daemon was never named crown prince while rhaenyra was, and for fucks sake DONT REHIRE OTTO AS HAND WHEN YOU KNOW HE DOESNT LIKE YOUR HEIR.

[crazycoke-addict]

The Symbolism of Visenya Targaryen

There have been many symbolisms of Visenya Targaryen, possibly more than Aegon the Conquerer. Aegon's symbolism comes from the legitimacy of Aegon ii to prove that he is the true heir. Aegon wore the conqueror's crown. He weilds blackfyre, which was originally weiled by the conqueror himself. Aegon's dream involving the prince that was promised is talked about a lot.

However, there is a lot of symbolism of Visenya Targaryen, and she is shown to have more of an impact. Her dragon Vhagar is still alive where Aemond Targaryen ends up being her rider. Vhagar is the green's biggest weapon. They have the biggest and oldest dragon whose been around since the conquest and is no stranger to war. While Team Black, their dragons are either small or inexperienced with war except for Caraxes and Vermithor.

The sword Dark Sister that once belongs to Visenya now belongs to Daemon Targaryen. This is interesting because before Aegon II got blackfyre, which used to be Aegon, the conqueror's. Viserys had blackfyre during his time as king. Viserys and Daemon had an estrange relationship because Daemon believed that he was capable of ruling, similar to how Aemond believes that he's the best qualified ruler than his brother aegon ii.

Visenya was the oldest, so when she wasn't second born like Daemon or Aemond. But because she was a woman, they passed down to aegon instead because in the rules of succession, a man must be chose heir before his sister. I think that Visenya feels a bit resentful because she did rule the six kingdoms more than Aegon did.

Rhaenyra and Visenya are similar in a way that they are being undermined because they are women leading a war. They are both the oldest children who have a half-brother named Aegon who ends up becoming King because of the succession. Throughout season 2, Rhaenyra is reading up on Visenya.

Rhaenyra is frustrated because she doesn't know anything about battle and how to plan them because Viserys never taught her even though he told her about Aegon's dream and didn't think of giving her a lesson about battle plans. So, she turns to history with some answers.

There are many female warriors, but the targaryen only had two which Rhaenys and Visenya. Visenya Targaryen lived long Than her siblings so there's more information and she also won the wars that she was a part of. She successfully got some of the kingdoms to reunite and successfully put her awful son Maegor on the iron throne.

Rhaenyra has shown to idolise Visenya by wanting to name her daughter Visenya, and when her mother was pregnant, she told her mum that if they had another daughter, then her name would be Visenya, Rhaenyra picked an egg that has a similar colour to Vhagar's colours.

Rhaenyra has also been showing her inner Visenya when she slapped Lord Bartimos. Her plan involving the dragonseed, which causes a lot of death, is something that I believe that Visenya would've done if she was in the same position.

Rhaenyra has been nicknamed Rhaenyra the cruel, which is a reference to Maegor, the cruel who is Visenya's son. Rhaenyra, the cruel was made by the greens as propaganda for the common people and the kingdoms to side with aegon ii.

They also refer to her as King Maegor with teats, this is because they believe that she ordered the death of Prince Jaehaerys, Aegon, and Helaena's eldest son, which is similar to Maegor murdering his nephew Aegon whose the eldest son of Aenys and his wife Alyssa. So they believe that Rhaenyra killed her nephew Jaehaerys so that Aegon has little claim to the throne. There also been speculation that Visenya murdered her nephew Aenys.

Viserys and Daemon's relationship is similar to Aenys and Maegor's relationship. Viserys said that Daemon has a seat in the council whilst Aenys once had Maegor as his hand of the King. Both Daemon and Maegor believe that they should be their brother's heir or deserving of the iron throne. Both Aenys and Viserys had to exile their brother's. Maegor married another woman despite having a wife, while Daemon tainted Rhaenyra's reputation.

Visenya does have a similarity to Alicent Hightower, which is shocking. But it's more of the fact that their sons are always second choice to the king. Aegon favoured Aenys over Maegor, just like how Viserys favoured Rhaenyra over Aegon. It extends from the love for their mother. Viserys love Aemma and feel guilt over her death, and Aegon loved Rhaenys and married for desire.

Visenya represents the oppression and the burden that the main women go through in the show. Whether it be their gender, their children, or the succession itself.

[novaursa]

The Queen Who Was Not

- Summary: After Aegon broke his promise to you, he leaves you broken. You decided to take your fate into your own hands. But fate is a fickle beast.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This is an alternative version of The Broken Crown, with another set of events. This story was another suggestion made by @renasd , with slight changes in the plot.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

You had loved Aegon since you were a child, when the world seemed small and the stars could be plucked from the sky with a word from your brother. He was the sun around which you orbited, his every word, every glance, every promise etched into your heart. When he promised you marriage, a union of love unlike any the realm had seen, you believed him with the fervor of a child who thinks dragons will live forever.

The bond between you and Aegon was forged in those early years, as strong as dragonsteel. You would watch him with wide, admiring eyes as he trained with Blackfyre in hand, his strength and determination unmatched. In turn, he would watch you with a quiet, almost protective affection, promising that one day you would stand beside him not just as a sister, but as a queen.

You thought that day would come when you turned sixteen. It was the age when a Targaryen girl came into her own, her blood singing with fire, ready to join with another to strengthen the family line. Your heart was aflame with anticipation, the promise of his words fueling the fire of your hope. Aegon was the Conqueror now, a king with two queens, but in your mind, you were always meant to be his third, his heart.

But then came the wedding of Visenya, the elder sister whose stern beauty and fierce loyalty had always been a shadow over you. You understood his duty to her, the need to cement the ancient bloodline with a union of strength. It was a bond of necessity, you told yourself, a marriage of fire and steel. And then, before you could even catch your breath, he took Rhaenys as well.

Rhaenys, the sister of the dawn, laughter always on her lips, her beauty a shining beacon that drew the eyes of the realm. She was the beloved, the one whom Aegon desired with a passion that left you cold. You saw it in the way he looked at her, the way his hand lingered on hers, the softening of his gaze that you had once thought was reserved for you alone.

The realization was a blade between your ribs, twisting deeper with each smile they shared, each touch that should have been yours. Aegon had taken Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys he had chosen for desire. And what were you, then? A childhood promise, a girl left behind in the shadow of queens more radiant than the sun.

On the eve of your sixteenth name day, when the moon hung heavy and the sea whispered of forgotten hopes, you found yourself standing before Aegon. Your voice trembled as you spoke, asking him when it would be your turn, when he would fulfill the vow made beneath the stars of your childhood.

His answer shattered the last remnants of your hope. He wanted to marry you out of love, he said, and not out of duty or desire. He wanted to make you his queen, not because it was expected, but because he cherished you beyond all others. But not yet. Not now, when the realm was still fragile, when his conquests were still incomplete.

Your heart, already broken, turned to ash. Love. He spoke of love while he stood between his two queens, the weight of their presence suffocating you. He wanted you to wait, to be patient, to be his beloved someday, when the world was ready. But you had waited long enough. You could not be a shadow, a mere promise in the distance while he shared his bed, his throne, his life with others.

That night, you made your choice. Dressed in the colors of your house, your silver hair braided with blood-red ribbons, you climbed upon Tesaerix’s back. Your dragon felt your turmoil, your pain. She roared into the night sky, the sound echoing across Dragonstone, a cry of fury and sorrow that would not be contained.

You flew to Driftmark, the sea wind biting at your skin, tears freezing upon your cheeks. There, in the hall of High Tide, you found Aethan Velaryon, his eyes widening in surprise at your arrival. You barely knew him, this sea lord with salt in his veins and ambition in his heart, but that did not matter.

“I would marry you,” you said, your voice strong, unwavering. “I would marry you and be free of this cage.”

He looked at you, seeing the dragon fire in your eyes, the determination that could not be quenched. And he agreed. You were wed under the stars, the salt waves lapping at your feet, the cries of seagulls mingling with the distant roar of your dragon.

You were no longer the little sister left behind. You were a Velaryon now, a bride of the sea and sky, and Aegon’s hold on your heart was no more. As you stood there, your hand clasped in Aethan’s, you felt the first stirrings of something new—freedom, independence, the taste of a life that was your own.

And when Tesaerix took to the skies once more, her wings cutting through the night air, you knew there was no going back. You would never be his third queen, the last to be chosen. You were a dragon, and you would forge your own path in a world that had tried to bind you in chains.

The news reached Aegon like a dagger to the heart. You, his cherished sister, his beloved, had wed Aethan Velaryon. The words were barely whispered before he was in the air, his dragon’s wings beating furiously against the sky. He had never known fear like this, not when facing the flames of battle or the uncertainty of conquest. But now, it gripped him like an iron fist.

As he descended upon Driftmark, the sun barely cresting the horizon, he saw Tesaerix circling above the Velaryon castle, her gold-cream scales gleaming in the early light. Her roar was a warning, a challenge that cut through the air like a blade. He knew she sensed his turmoil, but he had to see you, had to make you understand.

You were in the courtyard when he landed, your stance regal, your eyes cold. Aethan stood beside you, a protective hand on your arm, his presence a barrier between you and the king. Aegon dismounted swiftly, his eyes locked on yours, desperation etched across his face.

“Y/N, what have you done?” His voice was strained, the words tearing from his lips. “Why would you do this?”

You lifted your chin, the hurt buried deep beneath a mask of resolve. “I did what you would not allow me to do, Aegon. I took my fate into my own hands.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his frustration barely contained. “I wanted to marry you, Y/N. I wanted to wait until the realm was secure, until I could give you everything you deserved, without the shadow of duty or desire hanging over us.”

“You speak of love,” you said, your voice icy, “but you made me wait while you took Visenya and Rhaenys. You left me to watch, to wonder when my turn would come. I am not some prize to be claimed at your convenience, Aegon.”

He stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “You are not a prize, Y/N. You are my heart. I thought you would understand. I needed to take Rhaenys—”

“Needed?” You laughed, the sound bitter. “You needed her because you wanted her. And Visenya, because it was your duty. What am I, then? A symbol of your love? A trinket you can set aside until you are ready?”

Aethan’s grip on your arm tightened, his eyes darkening as he watched Aegon. “She is my wife now, Aegon. You cannot undo what has been done.”

Aegon’s gaze flickered to Aethan, anger flaring in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Velaryon. You have stolen something precious from me.”

“I have taken nothing that was not freely given,” Aethan replied, his voice steady, though his hand shook ever so slightly.

You stepped forward, placing yourself between the two men, your expression resolute. “I made this choice, Aegon. I am no longer yours to command.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, his composure shattered. “Please, Y/N, come back with me. We can make this right.”

“No,” you said, the finality in your tone cutting through him like a sword. “You had your chance, Aegon. I will not be your afterthought.”

He stood there, the wind whipping around him, his fists trembling with suppressed rage and grief. He looked at you, his eyes searching, pleading, but you did not waver. Finally, with a choked growl, he turned away, climbing back onto his dragon.

As he flew back to Dragonstone, his heart was a storm of emotions—rage, despair, regret. He had lost you, the one he had always thought would be by his side. The bitter taste of his failure burned in his throat, and he knew that this wound would not heal easily.

Days passed, the silence between you and Aethan slowly thawing as you adjusted to your new life. He was kind, considerate, his presence a balm to the scars Aegon had left behind. Though your marriage had not yet been consummated, there was a growing warmth between you, a tentative affection that could have blossomed into something more given time.

But time was not on your side.

It happened one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sea in shades of crimson and gold. Aethan was found in his chambers, lifeless, his face twisted in pain. There were no marks, no wounds, nothing to suggest foul play, but you knew. In your heart, you knew.

Aegon.

The realization hit you like a blow, your knees buckling as you stumbled away from Aethan’s still form. The air seemed to close in around you, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were pressing down. You fled to the sea cliffs, the roar of the waves below a distant echo to the storm raging within you.

Tesaerix found you there, her massive form looming behind you, a soft rumble in her throat. She could sense your anguish, your fury. You pressed your forehead against her warm scales, your tears mingling with the salt spray of the sea.

“He did this,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He took him from me.”

Your dragon growled low, her eyes flashing crimson in the fading light. You knew she would burn the world at your command, that her wrath would mirror your own. But what good would that do now? Aethan was gone, his life snuffed out before it had truly begun, and you were left adrift, your heart shattered anew.

The days that followed were a blur of mourning, the Velaryons gathering to pay their respects, their faces shadowed with suspicion. They whispered of poison, of dark magic, of the king’s wrath descending upon them in secret. But there was no proof, nothing but the aching certainty in your heart.

And Aegon... Aegon was silent. No message, no word from Dragonstone. But you knew he was watching, waiting, his presence a looming shadow you could not shake.

As you stood before Aethan’s sarcophagus which his family lowered into the sea, you made a vow. You would not be broken, not by Aegon or anyone else. He had taken too much from you already, but he would not take your spirit. You were a Targaryen, a rider of dragons, a daughter of fire and blood.

And if Aegon thought he could bind you to his will, he would soon learn just how fierce a dragon’s wrath could be.

The months of mourning were a blur of quiet pain, the weight of grief settling like a mantle across your shoulders. Driftmark’s salt-soaked shores had been both refuge and prison, the sea wind a constant reminder of the life that had been stolen from you. But as time passed, sorrow hardened into resolve, and your thoughts turned to vengeance. Aethan’s death would not go unavenged, and the one who had wronged you would pay dearly.

You returned to Dragonstone in the dead of night, Tesaerix’s wings cutting through the dark sky like a blade. The castle loomed before you, a silhouette of ancient stone and flickering torches. It had been your home once, a place of childhood dreams and broken promises. Now, it would be the stage for your retribution.

Your father, Aerion Targaryen, the stern and unyielding Lord of Dragonstone, greeted you with a wary gaze. His hair, a crown of silver, seemed to catch the light as he watched you approach, your steps echoing in the great hall. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold calculation of a man who had seen too many battles, too much bloodshed.

“Why have you come, daughter?” His voice was gruff, suspicion lacing his words.

You met his gaze unflinchingly, your chin held high. “To make amends for my folly and to serve our house.”

His brows knitted together, curiosity mingling with doubt. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“By wedding Rhaegel,” you said, each word measured, deliberate. “It is time I returned to my family, to my duty. A union with my brother will strengthen the bloodline, bind our house tighter.”

Your father’s silence was heavy, the air between you charged with tension. You knew he would see the logic in your words. The union would solidify the family, secure the power of House Targaryen, and—most importantly—draw a line that Aegon would not be able to cross without dire consequences.

“Rhaegel is a gentle soul,” he finally said, his tone thoughtful. “He would not refuse you, and such a match would indeed serve our house well.”

The words were a victory, though they tasted bitter on your tongue. Rhaegel was a quiet, kind brother, one who had never sought power or conflict. But he would be your husband, and through him, you would strike back at the man who had shattered your world.

The wedding was held in the shadow of Dragonstone’s volcanic peak, the sky above churning with clouds that threatened rain. The hall was filled with the banners of your house, the air thick with the scent of burning incense and dragonsteel. Rhaegel stood beside you, his eyes soft, his hand trembling slightly as he took yours. He had not questioned your intentions, had not hesitated to join his fate with yours. He was a lamb led to slaughter, and you were the wolf at his side.

When you spoke your vows, your voice was steady, unyielding. Each word was a vow not only to Rhaegel, but to yourself, a promise that Aegon would never hold you again, never bend you to his will. The ceremony passed in a blur, the faces around you fading into insignificance as you sealed your fate.

And then, the news reached King’s Landing.

The ravens carried the message to Aegonfort, their wings a dark omen against the pale sky. Aegon’s rage, when he learned of your marriage, was a storm that shook the very foundations of the newly built keep. He was a dragon unleashed, his fury visible even from afar. The courtiers whispered of his madness, of the destruction that followed in his wake as he stormed through the halls, his voice a roar that sent servants scurrying for cover.

He tore through the council chamber, Blackfyre drawn, the gleaming blade slashing through the air. His advisors cowered, their faces ashen with fear as he raged, his words incoherent, his eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to burn from within. He cursed your name, cursed your defiance, the betrayal he felt like poison in his veins.

“How dare she!” His voice echoed through the stone halls, a thunderous bellow that seemed to shake the very walls. “She belongs to me, and she weds again another under my very nose!”

The destruction was swift, catastrophic. He smashed the great table that had been carved in the shape of Westeros, his wrath reducing it to splinters. Tapestries burned, the flames licking hungrily at the stone, and the Aegonfort quaked beneath the weight of his fury. The court trembled, for never before had they seen their king so unhinged, so consumed by rage.

From Dragonstone, you heard of the chaos, the whispers carried on the wind. Each word was a balm to the wounds he had inflicted, each report of his anger a testament to your victory. He would not have you, not now, not ever. Your marriage to Rhaegel was a shield, an unbreakable barrier between you and the man who had tried to claim you.

Rhaegel, sweet and oblivious, took no notice of the storm he had unwittingly become part of. He treated you with gentle kindness, his shy smiles and soft words a stark contrast to the tempest you had unleashed. He did not ask why you had chosen him, did not pry into the reasons behind your sudden return. Perhaps he was content to simply have you by his side, a sister and now a wife, his world made brighter by your presence.

But beneath the calm exterior, your heart was a roiling sea. You had won a victory, yes, but the cost was high. You had bound yourself to Rhaegel, a man who could never be more than a shield against Aegon’s wrath. The knowledge was a cold, sharp blade, but you wielded it with purpose, with a determination that burned hotter than dragonfire.

You would not be owned, not by Aegon or any man. Your life was yours to command, your choices your own to make. And if Aegon thought he could bend you, could break you with his fury, he would soon learn that a dragon does not bow to anyone.

In the halls of Dragonstone, you walked with your head held high, the whispers of the courtiers following in your wake. They spoke of your defiance, your strength, your unyielding will. You were a force to be reckoned with, a storm in human form, and you would not be swayed.

Aegon could rage and destroy, could tear down kingdoms and burn cities to ash. But he could not touch you, not now. You were beyond his reach, a dragon in flight, your wings spread wide against the sky. And you would soar, higher and farther than he could ever imagine, leaving him behind in the ruin of his own making.

The birth was a struggle from the very beginning. As the night waned and the dawn crept over the horizon, the air in Dragonstone was thick with tension. The cries from your chambers echoed through the stone halls, a haunting symphony of pain and desperation. The maesters and midwives worked frantically, their faces drawn and pale, their hands slick with blood and sweat.

When the infant’s wail finally pierced the silence, it was not the sound of triumph. The child, small and frail, struggled to draw breath, its cries weak and fluttering like the wings of a dying bird. And you, spent and broken, lay still upon the birthing bed, your skin ashen, your breath shallow. The life that had burned so brightly in your eyes was now a dim flicker, barely holding on.

Rhaegel sat at your bedside, his hands clutching yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. He called your name, his voice breaking, but you were already slipping away, your spirit drifting like smoke on the wind. As the sun rose, you drew your last breath, the light fading from your eyes as the shadows claimed you.

Grief settled over Dragonstone like a dark cloud. Rhaegel, the gentle brother who had loved you with a quiet devotion, was inconsolable. He held the child—a daughter, her silver hair fine as silk, her tiny chest struggling with each shallow breath—and he wept for the life that was already slipping away. She survived only a day, a brief flicker of existence that faded into darkness before she could even know the world.

The news reached Aegon in King’s Landing, carried by a raven whose dark wings seemed an ill omen. He read the message once, twice, his mind struggling to grasp the words. You were gone. His fierce, defiant sister, the one he had always thought would stand beside him, had been taken by death’s cruel hand. And the child—his niece, his blood—was gone as well.

The rage that gripped him was like nothing he had ever known, a tempest that tore through his heart and mind. He mounted Balerion without a word, the Black Dread’s wings spreading wide as they soared into the sky. The flight to Dragonstone was swift and furious, the great dragon’s roar echoing across the Narrow Sea as if the heavens themselves were protesting Aegon’s wrath.

He arrived on the day of your pyre, the castle’s courtyards filled with the somber faces of those gathered to pay their respects. As he dismounted, his eyes blazed with fury, his expression dark and terrifying. He stormed through the crowd, his presence a force of nature that parted those before him like a wave crashing against the shore.

Rhaegel stood beside the pyre, his face hollow, his eyes red from weeping. He looked up as Aegon approached, his grief turning to fear at the sight of his brother’s wrath. Aegon’s hand shot out, gripping Rhaegel by the front of his robes, dragging him close until their faces were inches apart.

“What did you do to her?” Aegon’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, each word trembling with barely restrained violence. “She was never yours to take.”

Rhaegel’s hands clutched at Aegon’s wrists, his voice shaking as he tried to answer. “I—she was my wife, Aegon. I loved her, I would never—”

“Your wife?” Aegon spat, his grip tightening, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to burn hotter than the flames that would soon consume your body. “She was mine! She was always mine, and you took her, you stole her from me! You killed her!”

The accusation hung in the air, raw and brutal, and those gathered around the pyre fell silent, their eyes wide with shock and fear. Rhaegel’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face paling as Aegon’s words struck like blows.

“Aegon, please,” he choked out, his voice desperate. “I did nothing to harm her. I tried to love her, to make her happy—”

“You are a fool,” Aegon snarled, shoving Rhaegel away so violently that he stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. “A weak, pathetic fool who let her die, who couldn’t protect her! She was too strong for you, too fierce, and you crushed her spirit with your weakness!”

Rhaegel fell to his knees, his shoulders shaking as he wept, his cries soft and broken. “I tried, Aegon. I tried to save her.”

Aegon’s laughter was a bitter, hollow sound. “Save her? You were never strong enough to save her. You should have let her be, let her come back to me. I would have protected her, would have given her everything. But now—” His voice broke, and for a moment, the fury in his eyes was eclipsed by a grief so deep it seemed to tear him apart from within. “Now she’s gone, and it’s your fault.”

Their father, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face lined with sorrow and weariness. “Aegon, enough. This is not the time—”

“Not the time?” Aegon rounded on him, his rage flaring anew. “You let this happen! You let her marry him, let her throw herself away on someone too weak to protect her. You were supposed to be our father, supposed to keep us safe, and you failed.”

The old man’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Aegon’s words bearing down on him like a crushing tide. “I did what I thought was best. She made her choice, Aegon. She chose her path.”

Aegon’s face twisted with pain and anger, his voice a roar that echoed off the castle walls. “Her path should have been beside me! You should have made her mine, should have stopped her!”

The silence that followed was deafening, the air thick with the tension of words that could not be unsaid. Aegon’s chest heaved with the force of his emotions, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, wild and haunted, turned back to the pyre where your body lay, wrapped in the white shroud of death.

He took a step forward, his gaze fixed on your still form, and the rage seemed to drain from him, leaving only a hollow emptiness. “You were mine,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You were always supposed to be mine.”

And then, with a choked sound that was part sob, part growl, he turned and stormed away, the crowd parting before him in silence. He climbed back onto Balerion, the great dragon’s wings unfurling as they took to the sky. The wind whipped around him as they flew, the cold air biting at his skin, but he felt nothing but the gaping void where you had once been.

In the days that followed, the fire of Aegon’s wrath spread across the realm, his fury a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. He was a king unchained, his grief and anger a deadly combination that none dared challenge. The Aegonfort, now a place of ashes and ruin, stood as a testament to his pain, the once-proud symbol of his reign now crumbling beneath the weight of his loss.

And through it all, the memory of you lingered, a ghost that haunted his every step, a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had destroyed with his own hands. The realm would remember this day, the day a dragon’s heart broke, and the world trembled beneath the shadow of its rage.

[sad-endings-suck]

GRRM Loves Convoluted Succession

Stark Succesion

Bran is technically heir to Winterfell except he is believed to be dead and cannot father children/heirs.

Which would make Rickkon heir to Winterfell, but he is also believed to be dead.

So Sansa is heir to the North, but she has been disinherited due to marrying into the Lannister family. However, if Tyrion is believed to be dead then she could potentially be restored to succession as the Northerners know her Lannister marriage is the only reason she was removed from the line of succession.

Though if that never comes to pass, then Arya is heir, but she is also believed to be dead.

Ah, and Jon has been legitimized by Robb, which makes Jon heir to the North, but only if the Northmen come out of the war victorious with a Stark monarch. Because only a King can legitimize a bastard (and whether or not Robb was a proper King is debatable and depends on if the North successfully achieves independence). Not to mention how Jon’s Targaryen blood could further complicate things.

Targaeryan Succession

If Young Griff can actually prove he is Aegon son of Rhaegar, then he would be heir to the iron throne (never mind the Targaryen’s were usurped). However, Rhaegar and his children were taken out of the line of succession and Viserys was made Aerys heir (whether or not this is valid who knows).

If it is valid, then that means Daenerys’ claim is the best. Plus, she can actually prove she’s who she says she is, and more importantly she has dragons and possibly lots of powerful backers in the near future.

Jon would have a solid claim if Lyanna and Rhaegar were married, except even if they were no one would see that marriage as valid (the show was so dumb for that). Because Rhaegar had consummated his marriage to Elia and produced heirs with her. Ah, but if Young Griff is a Blackfyre then Jon’s claim would potentially still be better than his. Also, regardless of his bastardly, if Jon were to become consort to Daenerys that could strengthen both their claims and Young Griff would be in a very poor position politically if they did so.

Lannister Succession

Jaime would be heir to Casterly Rock, except that he is a member of King’s Guard and cannot hold lands or titles. However, he could potentially be released from his King’s Guard vows (due to the precedent set by releasing Barristen Selmy), and in that case he would be heir to Casterly Rock.

Tyrion would be next in line in Lannister succession, except that he is a kinslayer and for all intents and purposes an exile with no real claim. Unless of course the throne was usurped again, and the new monarch restored Tyrion as heir to Casterly Rock.

As it stands right now, Cersei is the rightful Lady of Casterly Rock. However, as stated above, that is likely subject to change once she no longer possesses the Iron Throne. Plus, if Jaime were released from his vows he could challenge her claim (he probably wouldn’t, but who knows).

Greyjoy Succession

So technically Theon is the heir to the Iron Isles, except that he is believed to be dead, was presumably passed over in favour of Asha, and cannot produce heirs himself.

Which leaves Asha with the best claim. Except that a Kingsmoot was called (fuck you very much for that Aeron) and Euron was declared King of the Iron Isles.

Except, that due to the fact that Theon is actually alive (and has the best-ish claim) but was not allowed to press his claim at the Kingsmoot, that makes the Kingsmoot, well, moot. Seeing as Theon is alive and was not allowed to be “voted for” so to speak. Making Euron’s claim via the Kingsmoot invalid. Also, it’s already tricky enough for a brother to press a claim against a daughter, but for a brother to press a claim against a daughter and a son is a hell of a lot harder. Especially when your whole claim relied on, A) a man having more rights than a woman, and B) a one night popularity contest. Still, he’s a King as of now and will be hard-pressed to give it up.

Victarion… lmfao

Aeron. This is even more pathetic somehow.

Martell Succession

Arrianne was heir to Dorne, but then (presumably) she was betrothed to Viserys with the intent being for her to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. But Viserys died, which means she is again first in line for Dorne.

Quentyn was (presumably) meant to rule Dorne until Viserys died and he was pushed back in succession.

Tully Succession

Edmure is now Lord of Riverrun, except that he has no heir. So if for some reason he and his wife Roslin Frey die before they have children, then one of Catelyn’s kids would be heir to Riverrun (as she is the next in line due to seniority, but dead herself).

Arryn Succession

Robert Arryn of course, has the best claim, but if he doesn’t make it to the end of the series then Harry the Heir is next up. And who knows who would be next after him.

Baratheon Succession

As Robert and Renly are dead, Stannis is definitively Lord of Storm’s End. However, he only has one heir, Shireen. Who GRRM has confirmed will die, likely quite soon. Which leaves Stannis without an heir.

As such, Stannis could legitimize one of Robert’s bastards, probably Edric Storm. Since he has two high born parents, that like Shireen, are a Baratheon father and a Florent mother respectively.

However, that hinges on Edric Storm making it out of the series alive, because if he doesn’t, then the claim to Storm End’s is going to be a bloody free-for-all between all of Robert’s bastards, cousins and other relatives. And at this point the realm can’t survive too much more in-fighting.

The Tyrells are the only ones who have their shit together. For now.

[lives4lovesworld]

Dragons, their unique and extraordinary bond and why the binder is a red herald.

“If you read Fire and Blood, you’ll know there’s definitely a bond between the dragons and their riders and the dragons will not accept just any rider,” says Martin. “Some people try to take a dragon wind up being eaten or burned to death instead, so the dragons are terribly fussy about who rides them.” - Grrm November 2018

We shall not pretend to any understanding of the bond between dragon and dragonrider; wiser heads have pondered that mystery for centuries. We do know however, that dragons are not horses, to be ridden by any man who throws a saddle on their back. - writings of Gyldayn

Most speculations around dragons, the dragonbinder and any potential riders are blatantly rooted in nonsensical delusion and pure envy of House Targaryen and the power it derived of their dragons, and the deranged need to see the dragons fight and wreak havoc to finally villainize them all once and for all the eyes of the realm as the clowns of this fandom all do in their posts, so their excessive hatred is finally validated by canon. Nowhere is all this more apparent than in the ridiculous popularity of the theories that have Stannis Baratheon, Young Griff, Victarion and Euron Greyjoy become dragon riders, and more specifically all in context as enemies to Daenaerys.

It's truly astonishing what loops people jump through to make these theories appear even the slightest bit feasible;

Even if Stannis Baratheon would survive long enough to set eyes on Dany's dragons and even if the theory in and of itself wouldn't be a pathetic attempt by his delusional stans to still present him as a viable candidate for Azor Ahai Reborn. There was not one recorded incident of a Baratheon riding a dragon, and mind you Orys Baratheon was likely Aegon’s bastard brother yet neither he nor any of his closest descendants have been dragon riders, and each of them had more blood of the dragon than Stannis. The prerequisite of even being one.

Young Griff [or FAegon or Aegon VI] tho the most feasible of all the "candidates" it is ridiculous which lengths the proponents go to, to craft scenarios, where he, always a political enemy of Dany, somehow obtains one of her sons. It's often argue that, regardless of who Young Griff truly is, Targaryen or Blackfyre, due to his blood he must be a dragon rider! An equally bold as unfounded hypothesis: i) the concept that House Blackfyre would have been dragonlords as well had the dragons not be extinct by the time the cadet branch of House Targaryen was founded is purely speculative! Neither House Celtigar nor House Velaryon, two ancient Valyrian House, had been dragonslords. Hell, not even all members of House Targaryen had been. ii) Young Griff surviving long enough to set eyes onto Daenerys's dragons is as hypothetical as Stannis's prior, and given how he is currently risking an all-open war with only 5000 sellswords at his disposal with no prior war experience against the current reign is just as unlikely. iii) However, let's assume Young Griff indeed survives long enough to do so and ends up fighting Daenerys; as already stated dragons aren't mere mounts, they choose their riders and need to bond and for that, they need a considerable amount of time, training is time-consuming as well. So how exactly would Young Griff even get the chance to bond with either Rhaegal or Viserion? In addition, Daenerys's dragons are unique to their ancestors all of them having bonds to her as their cherished mother. Despite what the fandom argues, dragons are not nuclear bombs, they would never bond with someone who would want to severely harm or even kill their mother. Lastly iv) which is purely theoretical but IMO a very solid theory: @luchibelle theorized that Magister Illyiro Mopatis put the eggs into his son's cradle after the Targaryen fashion and hoped they would hatch. The man likely attempted several times to hatch them. In vain, he gifted them to Daenerys as bride's gifts. In all likelihood to make the marriage with Daenerys for Khal Drogo more desirable, for Dany's bride's gifts are his property, which the Magister needed for his scheme of Viserys as the evil invader with his foreign army of savages for his son to defeat as the gallant Aegon VI Targaryen. However, it does further contradict the speculation of Young Griff's potential being able to bond & ride a dragon.

So far Euron and Victarion Greyjoy are the only ones actively perusing Daenerys for her dragons, name and beauty, something none of the other "candidates" do which should at least be the bare basis on these speculations if you want to call them that way. However, the unquestionable fact that the iron borns do not possess a drop of the blood of the dragon should end all speculations then and there. The unfounded idea that Euron possesses unnatural power and/or uses the horn he proclaims is a tool that can subjugate dragons should serve as a substitute for the lack of valyrian is a jump through a loop unparalleled: i) While GRRM can stress as much as he wants that Euron is much more than what he appears to be; a megalomaniac sadistic busy-body. The Forsaken shows that Euron sacrifices humans and uses tortured captive priests to perform their magic FOR him. The power does not come from him, unlike Daenerys and some of the Starks. ii) the unwillingness of this fandom to see Euron's tale of him traveling to Valyria as a lie is on the same level as its unwillingness to see Petyr Baelish's one. Valyria after the doom is hell on earth. GRRM emphasized this more than once in his lore; Princess Aerea Targaryen, Garin the Great. Hell, he even wrote this scene. Yet because some really want to see their super specific unfeasible(!) fever dreams to validate their need to punish Daenerys and House Targaryen and their dragon for being perceived as obstacles to their favorite character's rise to power, Euron Greyjoy, a minor character introduced to us in ADwD, is the first to set foot onto Valyria after more than 400 years. iii) Since we have established the truthfulness of Euron's tale, let's extend the same skepticism to the "Dragonbinder" as well; true dragonbinders were used by pure-blooded Valyrians to tamp even the ill-willed and oldest dragons. In the millennia of wars between the dragonlords of the Freehold and the rest of Essos dozen of such horns must have been lost by riders and found by other folk. If the possession of one paired with enough magical expertise and lust for dragons would been sufficient to make anyone a dragon rider, the Freehold of Valyria would not have been the only civilization to tamp dragons. So why would two Greyjoys make the exception? On top of that, why would Euron let the horn out of his sight and more importantly give it into the custody of his brother he knows has wronged and slighted more than once? And if Euron is indeed an agent of the Others, of Ice GRRM won't have him subjugate one of the embodiments of Fire, which shall be triumphant at the end of the series. Lastly, the speculation of Victarion Greyjoy as a dragon rider is a misunderstanding, likely deliberate, of Moqorro and the dialog between him and Victarion; Moqorro is a red priest sent to Daenerys so she might know she has been identified as Azor Ahai Reborn by his temple. If he is even half as frantically loyal as Melisandre is to Stannis, Moqorro would never actively try to sabotage his Chosen One by helping someone, a non-believer at that, to rob her of her dragons. Creatures that are sacred to the religion of R'hllor. Not to mention who is Victarion to Moqorro? A pillaring slave catcher who worships an agent of the Others for everything that isn't R'hllor.

If speculations around potential dragon riders do not serve to despite Dany, then they are handed out as rewards to favorites. Nevertheless, GRRM has written to many hints for the other characters to become riders, likely Tyrion and Jon Snow, despite it being incredibly repugnant to me for numerous reasons; it has been Daenerys who has to do all the hard work, who figured out how to birth them, how to raise and feed them, how to train them and deal with all the moral dilemmas. No matter what it will always be cheap, offensive and lazy to me that two characters will swoop in, become legendary as as the first dragon riders woth Danya and reap all the glory, and given of which descent they will be, a violation of GRRM own lore and rules of physic. The excuse of 'its the ending of the world' is beneath his talent.

To conclude its despicable how something as unique as the bond between dragons and their riders and the otherworldliness being of the blood grants is cheapened by all these speculations, which are almost exclusively petty fantasies that should be impossible to happen.