Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

32

The night king's sword clashes with Percy's, the thousand year old forcing the Lannister to his knees. The crystal-ice of his weapon feels unbreakable as percy pushes all of his strength back towards it, attempting to push it away from where it forces his own sword downward in the direction of his chest. To no avail.

With a frustrated shout, he forces his other hand up to latch onto his blade. Blood seeps from his palm in spurts of crimson that add to the gallons of blood staining the ground below them. The added pressure of both his hands helps push the blade slightly away, but his heart sinks when the night king simply adds more of his own, pushing it further toward him than before.

His heartbeat pumps at an alarmingly irregular pace, feeling as though the sword has already pierced his heart. From above, he can faintly hear Drogon spewing fire onto the battlefield, heading toward him with a frantic Daenerys on his back. Jon doesn't follow, struggling to push the wights away from them with the help of Rhaegal.

Viserion he feels near. Not quite near enough to help him, but near enough that he can feel his emotions. Panic, fear, anger and pain all flow through their veins as if they're one in the same. Which, in a way that's been acknowledged in the last few moons, they are.

His surveying distracts him long enough for the Night King to force his blade further into Percy's own. Mere inches from his heart now.

The battle rages around them, but Percy feels as if there's nothing else in the world besides him, the night king, and the weapon that intends to end his life. Cold, dead blue eyes stare into his own, almost penetrating his soul they're so deep.

His body feels as if it locks the more their irises clash, the same hollow coldness encompassing him slowly.

Percy's own lighter irises start to glow brighter, fighting to not match that of his undead opponent. The Night King adding to his already unstoppable army.

His mind, realizing what's happening, pushes the magic away with panic. But his power, no matter how extensive, is no match for the immortal.

So, Percy searches. He forces his eyes to cloud, unable to shut them completely, and he searches his mind for something - anything - a connection, a feeling, an answer. And eventually, he finds not a solution, but a memory.

¤¤¤

"What is it about those history books that has you so distracted whenever we are alone?" Percy asks in exhasparation as he gazes at the barely clothed back of Margaery Tyrell.

A sheet wraps around her torso, stopping mid thigh and leaving little to the imagination. Her long, smooth legs are on display, swaying back and forth occasionally as she reads. Long locks of brown hair lay across her shoulders, stopping just above the curve of her behind.

Her eyes don't stray from the words of one of the many books that usually collects dust on Percy's shelf. A history book, one that tells the tales of the doom of Valyria, Aegon's conquest, the Targaryen's rise to power and more of the, once great, house's history. More specifically, it's most powerful aspect. The dragons.

"We don't have these books at Highgarden." Her velvety voice drifts into his ears like water cascading over sand, making him shiver in bliss. "After the Battle of the Trident was over and the Tyrells and Redwynes lowered their banners, Robert was hesitant to let the seige of Storm's End go unpunished. So, as a sign of loyalty and good faith, they destroyed all traces of the Targaryens from the Reach."

Percy watches her talk about the Targaryens silently, watching her eyes glaze over and a smirk ghost her lips. She's had an obvious fascination for the house since he's gotten to know her on a more personal level. Often listening to her rambles about Aegon and his sister-wives, the great beasts that were the dragons, and even the Targaryen girl who rules across the sea.