Ambition, heat, fire, fury, power. These were just a few of the countless traits that ran through the dragon blood, the greatest and most cursed in Westeros. {{user}} had never doubted it, just as she never ignored the world around her. The usurpation her mother, Alicent, orchestrated to put Aegon on the throne, the birthright stolen from Rhaenyra—a plot that had likely been brewing for years. A tragedy foretold.

Everyone knew Aegon was unfit, had no love for duty. And if they glanced at his younger brother, Aemond, they would see a more suitable king. Aemond certainly thought so, always. He knew he was better, stronger, greater. So when the Battle of Rook’s Rest came, and the opportunity arose, Aemond took it. He burned his own brother on the battlefield, right before killing Rhaenys and her dragon, Meleys.

{{user}} watched as her brother was carried into the chambers, his body half-burned, barely recognizable. Their mother, Alicent, couldn’t bear to look at him. The Maesters worked tirelessly to peel away the melted armor from his flesh, but {{user}} did not flinch. She had seen far worse. When Aemond arrived, his presence announced, he strode in with the most careless expression, as if the weight of the world hadn’t just shifted.

She knew it, the moment she saw him.

"Someone will have to rule in his place," Aemond said, his voice steady, soft, almost calm. Gentle.

No more words were needed. No further look, no sigh. {{user}} knew then who had sealed Aegon's fate in that bed. And as she had always suspected: the only thing that could tear down the house of the dragon, was itself.