𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐀! house of the dragon

001 : BLOOD OF VALYRIA

chapter one
act i : blood among fire

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     AENAR TARGARYEN was the textbook definition of a perfect Prince, an iron hard fact that no one would or could ever even dream of denying.

Born the second child and only son of King Viserys the Peaceful and Queen Aemma Arryn, he had been schooled at a young age in the histories of his forefathers and in the art of philosophy. By the age of ten, he had mastered the Valyrian tongue with a fluency that even put his sister to shame, something he took great pride and pleasure in. But it was in the courtyard where he truly shone. A prodigy of swords, Ser Harrold Westerling had dubbed him, for he took to the blade like a sponge to water.

Aye, he was indeed the perfect Prince and the perfect son. Yet, he knew that no matter how many feats he accomplished, no matter how hard he tried to uphold his perfect image, nothing he did would ever be good enough in the eyes of his father. After all, next to his sister, the Realm's Delight, what was he but the lesser child? The heir who had yet to be named heir.

The dragon who had no wings.

It had been said that a Targaryen without a dragon was no true Targaryen at all. Five eggs had been given to him through his ten and five years of life and all five of them had turned to cold stone, much to his shame. Rhaenyra had been but seven when she first claimed her she-dragon, Syrax. He, on the other hand, was now twice the age she had been and had yet to take a dragon for his own. He wasn't even able to claim the unclaimed beasts that nested in the Dragonpit, though not for a lack of trying.

A couple of the denizens of the Red Keep whispered that he was cursed, unworthy of his standing. Those whispers only increased in number as the years passed and his father had yet to declare him his heir, instead trying for more sons. He had never paid them much mind during the years of his childhood but now, as he was growing older, those whispers incited an unknown emotion in recess of his heart. A fear that perhaps they were true. That perhaps he truly was not worthy of his title as a Targaryen Prince or as a future King.

Aenar found himself being pulled out of his innermost thoughts as a blade whistled through the air and bore down on him. The Targaryen Prince grunted as he slipped away from the overhead swing of his foe. The warrior clad in black and gold stood an inch taller than him and wielded a vicious two-handed battle axe whereas the Targaryen Prince preferred the lighter and far more flexible longsword. While his opponent was larger and had the advantage of strength, he was far quicker and more agile. Those would work in his favor and if he played his cards right, he would be guaranteed a victory.

The battle axe sliced through the air fiercely as the black and gold warrior moved to strike once more, this time aiming for Aenar's side, but the dirty blond-haired youth was quick in raising his ruby pommeled blade and parrying the blow. The first kiss of their steel were followed by many more. The Targaryen Prince clenched his jaw as he met each strike of his opponent's sword with his own, managing to turn each away. When he returned with attacks of his own, the black and gold warrior caught them all with his greatsword.