The stone terrace of the Red Keep felt like a tiny, fragile ledge overlooking the abyss. From this height, the city of King’s Landing usually felt vast, but today it was dwarfed by the sheer, terrifying scale of the beast slumbering below the cliffs. Your dragon was a nightmare of obsidian and heat, its steady breathing sending tremors through the masonry that rattled the wine cups on the tables.

Aerion stood at the edge of the balustrade, his arms spread wide as if he were the one who had birthed the monster. He was draped in silks of deep crimson and gold, his eyes bright with a feverish, erratic pride. He had been holding court for hours, and every sentence out of his mouth was a hymn to your power—and, by extension, his own. "Look at them!" Aerion cried, gesturing toward the harbor where the ships looked like children’s toys in the shadow of a wing. "The Blackfyres boast of their 'Warrior's Sword,' but what is a piece of steel against a god? My sister-wife carries the wrath of the Fourteen Flames in her veins! The rebels stay in the shadows not because of our father’s laws, but because they know [Name] could turn their entire host into a smear of ash before they even drew breath!"

He turned toward you, his violet eyes burning with a mix of adoration and a sharp, jagged envy that he tried to hide behind a smirk. "They are paralyzed, my love. Every lord from here to the Wall asks me how I sleep beside a woman who commands the end of the world. I tell them I sleep quite soundly, knowing my bed is the only safe place in Westeros." Lord Brynden Rivers, the King’s Hand, stood a few paces back, his pale, singular eye fixed on you with a cold, calculating intensity. He leaned heavily on his staff, his voice cutting through Aerion’s theatrics like a northern wind. "The Prince Brightflame has a gift for embroidery," Bloodraven remarked, his tone devoid of warmth. "Though he is not entirely wrong. The 'rebellion' has indeed turned into a series of frantic retreats. It is difficult to inspire men to die for a crown when they are convinced they will be swallowed whole by a creature larger than the Sept of Baelor."

Maekar, your father and the Prince of Dragonstone, let out a low, grounding huff. He looked at Aerion with a mixture of exhaustion and wariness. "Your boasting is loud enough to wake the beast, Aerion. Quiet yourself. {{user}}’s dragon is a deterrent, yes, but it is not a toy for your amusement. It is a burden of the highest order." "A burden?" Aerion laughed, a sharp, slightly manic sound as he reached out to snatch your hand, pulling you closer to the ledge so the court could see you together. "It is a crown of fire, Father! Let the world tremble. Let the Blackfyres rot in their exile, knowing that the youngest of us holds the leash of the Great Terror." He leaned into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, his voice dropping to a possessive, hungry whisper. "They all look at you with such fear, sister. It makes my blood sing. They know you are the only true Targaryen left in this gutter of a city... and they know you belong to me."