Dragons did not chase does. Yet, for {{user}}, daughter of Orys 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚗 and Argella Durrandon, Maegor found himself ready to do so.

At every tourney, it was easy to ride toward her, and offer the flower wreath he had earned as the rightful victor to rest upon her dark hair. At every feast, while she danced with the same untamed spirit of her mother, he struggled to follow—his steps heavy and rigid against her effortless twirls. But his hands always found hers, anchoring her to him amidst the sea of lords and ladies.

For her, he tried. He tempered his wrath, softened his edges. Her laughter and defiant gaze coaxed rare smiles from his lips, and her summer-sky eyes seemed to hold the very sun within them.

“Would you marry me, if I asked ?” Maegor had asked, one day. Both of them were six-and-ten. They sat beneath the solemn gaze of the heart tree in Storm’s End’s godswood, its ancient eyes the only witness to their secret moment.

His love had only laughed, the sound light as the breeze, and returned to weaving flowers into a crown of her own.

A rude awakening. It had felt like being thrown into the freezing waters of Shipbreaker Bay and dragged out like a drowned mutt. He had stared at her back for a long time, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. From that day on, he could barely contain the fury that coiled within him whenever some lord spoke to her, whenever she smiled at another with the same ease she had once smiled at him.

What does he have that I don’t ? Nothing. I’m taller. I’m stronger. I could render him nothing but a memory if I will it.

So pure. She isn’t so pure—she knows what she’s doing. His teeth practically ached with the need to bite her, to wound her as she had wounded him. No mere nibble, but a claim that would never fade.

A dragon would not chase a doe. It would swallow it whole without hearing protest.