| risk of targcest (maegor literally yearns for it)

Steel rang against steel beneath the Dragonstone sky, the sound sharp and clean in the morning mist. Maegor twisted his wrist, forced his opponent’s blade wide, and surged forward—fast as falling flame. Ser Harwin grunted, stumbled, yielded. Another match, another victory.

But Maegor wasn’t watching the knight.

He was watching her.

She stood beneath a gargoyle-winged arch, arms crossed in her black and red sleeves, golden hair braided in the old Valyrian style. {{user}}, youngest and last living sister of Aegon the Conqueror. Still unwed, despite years of suitors vying for her hand. Untouched by age, unmoved by court, untouched by anyone.

And always—always—watching him.

From the first time he picked up a wooden sword, he’d felt her gaze like a second sun.

He stepped away from the centre of the yard, sweat beading his brow, sword still in hand. Harwin bowed and retreated. Maegor didn’t spare him a glance.

“Did I impress you ?” he asked, walking toward her. The smirk tried to rise—but faltered, as it always did in her presence.

She raised one brow, unreadable. “You struck low on the last blow. Ser Harwin opened his flank, not his thigh.”

“I struck where I meant to.”

“A knight aims with discipline, not temper.”

“I’m no knight,” he said. “I’m a dragon.”

That earned the faintest smile. “You are,” she said, softly—and it meant more than any lord’s praise.

Silence stretched between them. Her gaze returned to the yard. His never left her.

“You came to watch,” he said. “Or lecture me ?”

“I came to see how far you’ve come.”

Far enough to make lords kneel. Far enough to take what I want. Everything—except her.

The thought burned through him like wildfire.

When he was younger, it had been different. She had been his constant—his shield against the ghost of a mother he never had the chance to know, the cool voice in the storm. The one who dressed wounds and called him my prince. He had clung to her in silence, in anger, in awe. But somewhere along the path from boy to man, the awe shifted.

He no longer dreamt of her lullabies.

He dreamt of the lips that sang them.

“I think you still see a boy when you look at me,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’m not. I’ve fought bloodier men than my father ever did. I’ve bested the master-at-arms. I will ride Balerion.”

His voice lowered.

“And still, you look at me like—”

“Like what ?” she asked, calm as ever.

“Like I’m yours,” he said. “But not the way I want to be.”

Her eyes didn’t widen. Her expression didn’t crack. But he saw the breath catch in her chest.

“You are mine,” she said. “But not in the way you hunger for.”

He stepped closer. One step. Two. Until only breath lived between them.

He didn’t glare. She’d endured that and more in the past—his fury, his silence—and answered only with those calm, violet eyes that neither bent nor broke.

“I would burn cities for you,” he whispered.