Before the Dance, when the house of the dragon was at the height of it's power, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Laenor Velaryon would have their first born son and heir to Rhaenyra's crown.
Let it be known that the young Dracarys Velaryon Targ...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Dracarys
Red. Dirt. Darkness. These were the things Dracarys saw. It was all he could see. The rage, the unmistakable rage he felt... he was encompassed by his wrath and because of it, he had done a grievous act. Dracarys looked down at the knife in his hand, not even once daring to look at the fallen prince.
Silent. That's what the others were as they stared on at the two white-haired boys, one standing over the other. Aemond cried and writhed on the ground, his hand never once leaving his wounded eye. Almost as if he were trying to protect the sliced and oozing flesh. A helpless endeavor, the eye was gone. All the while Dracarys just stood there, eyeing the knife as that thick vermillion liquid fell to the earth.
His crystal blue eyes never moved from the blade, nor did he from his spot. It was as if the boy were a statue. For Dracarys all of time seemed to slow. It all happened so fast and yet he could remember every moment down to the last minute detail. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had maimed his closest friend, his uncle; his...
Dracarys couldn't think, no, he couldn't breathe. He felt scared, terrified even, and yet he also felt... happy? A strange thing, life. Here Dracarys was friends with this boy. He had his back and Dracarys his. And yet Dracarys didn't feel completely sorry. Why?
