Untitled

- - - why would the gods leave you?

mīsvos: means armour in valyrian. semi-selective, book / show and headcanon based VALARR TARGARYEN from A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS. 21+ only. AU, OC and Crossover friendly. Mature themes in writings.

                        #   𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑   , They   taught   us   to   fight   our   dragons   so   we   would   never   forget   what   it   means   to   be   prey.   To   feel   teeth   at   your   throat   and   know   that   survival   is   not   owed   to   you.   I   did   not   resent   that   lesson.   Now,   when   I   stand   in   a   room   full   of   men   who   believe   themselves   powerful,   I   feel   the   same   thing   I   felt   in   the   Hollow   Pyre   —   their   hunger,   their   arrogance,   their   certainty.   And   I   remember   exactly   how   to   survive   it.

Her gaze drifts to the egg cradled in his hands, and lingers there. He holds it as one might hold a newborn, careful, reverent, almost afraid to breathe too sharply against it. He is not ill-suited to dragonback, she decides. Nor to the act of taming. There is instinct in the way he handles it, but instinct is not enough.

There is always a cost. Magic takes its pound of flesh, whether the wielder understands it or not. He does not. Not yet. He does not even realize that placing the egg within a cradle is the simplest tether there is, the oldest trick of binding babe to beast. It works, for better or worse.

❛ stop. ❜ The word cuts cleanly through the quiet. She pauses, then turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, expression narrowing with faint irritation. ❛ praying, I mean. your foreign gods forsake the arcane, valarr. ❜ What does he think he is doing, pouring love and hope and quiet devotion into something that answers to none of those things? An egg does not heed prayers. A dragon does not bend to gods.

For all his pride in his Valyrian blood, there is so little of it in him where it matters. In his father. In his father’s father. It is not in the coloring, not in silver hair or pale eyes. It is deeper than that, something carried in thought, in language, in the marrow itself. Even a Targaryen bastard raised in Volantis or Lys would have understood. Would have known what this was, what it might have demanded. He has the countenance of a prince. The will of one, perhaps. But she has seen men like him before. Knights dressed in righteousness, mistaking privilege for purpose, devotion for understanding. Her gaze peirces through him, but no less cutting.

❛ is this the extent of your will? skoros ñuhor ao perzys ikso? (where is your fire?) ❜