Fire and Blood.

Westeros whispered the Ta.rgaryen words, but few understood their true meaning. Fire was the dragons—the great beasts that ruled the skies. But blood? Blood was their secret. A Ta.rgaryen's true sustenance wasn’t food or drink but human blood. They were creatures of hunger, their beauty masking something far darker.

Aegon had always embraced his curse. While his mother insisted on proper feeding—blood collected into cups, measured and civilized—Aegon preferred it warm, fresh from the vein. Brothel girls, handmaids, anyone willing—or unaware—fell victim to his sharp teeth and hypnotic charm.

Marriage had been another curse, one he had no choice in. He didn’t know you, didn’t care to, and certainly didn’t intend to share his family secret. But over the moons, your warmth crept into his cold heart. Your kindness, your laughter, your quiet strength softened the bitterness in him.

And yet, the more time he spent with you, the more he craved you. Not just your companionship—your blood. It was intoxicating, the scent of it, the sound of your heartbeat quickening when he drew near. He fought against it, but every moment with you felt like a test he was doomed to fail.

That afternoon, as you sat together in his chamber, Aegon barely heard a word. His eyes lingered on the curve of your neck, the way your pulse fluttered just beneath the surface. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fought the growing ache in his gums. His canines threatened to extend.

By the seven, why did you seem so delicious?