Targaryen Emblem Novels & Stories

The La Elora emblem. Ashriel slowly opened it, revealing a Handcraft Dagger. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted in disbelief. “T-The two families’ treasure.” She whispered and felt her hand tremble upon touching it. The Theupholis and La Elora’s unity dagger symbolizes the unity between the two families and the two Great Empire. Handcraft Dagger with golden lion pommel, crown upper crossguard, eagle wings quillon, and crown insignia. The handle was covered with the same twelve jewels.

Once Dominick had his release without going all the way in, he rested beside her while she gathered the sheet to cover her body from the ripped clothes. He placed a box over her stomach. “Here,” She was puzzled. “Open it.” It’s probably a piece of jewelry that could be wrapped around her neck like a collar for a leash. She sat up and stared down at the gold seal over it. The Emblem of the Kingdom Westeros. She opened it to find a gold necklace with a pendant of the emblem. “Why are you giving me this?” “It’s the family’s relic. It would protect you.” She stared at him.

Not full in the ordinary sense, but pressed wall to wall—every tier packed with nobles in crests I hadn’t seen in years, emissaries flown in from mountain courts and desert strongholds, former allies of my mother’s house, and enemies now playing neutrality like it might still save them. There was no music. No formal announcement. Just the echo of my boots on polished stone. I wore no crown, no veil—only armor. Steel-black, hand-forged, trimmed at the shoulders in deep charcoal—the color of my mother’s lineage—set with the Reed sigil in full silver across my chest. Not the delicate version from old court stationery, but the real one. The warborn one. Three rings wrapped by crescent. Matriline

A modest fortress in Gothic shape clung to the rim of a sharp drop. “This is… where we live?” I said, surprised at how lovely yet empty it looked. There it stands, the redness, Leon said, staring at the structure without shifting his stare. Home to the Targaryons’ deepest sleep, the oldest of tombs Right after touchdown on the pad near the lodge, sharp alpine wind stung my arms. Waiting below, Oliver had already arrived, leaning against a dark, armored car. Without speaking, he lifted our bags into the back, moving like clockwork, steady as ever.

Chapter: 44 The seneschal reached inside his coat. Kael's hand immediately moved toward his weapon. "What is that?" The old man slowly withdrew a tarnished metal pin and placed it on the desk. Elara froze. A crescent. A crown. Her eyes narrowed. "It's the same symbol." "Similar," the seneschal corrected. Kael leaned closer. "The difference?" "The one on your father's ring represented the bloodline." He touched the pin. "This represented the people who protected it."

desperately searching for any trace of the strange runes. I opened a volume on regional genealogies, laying out the faded illustrations of old family crests and ancestral banners under the light of a single candle. I slid the moon pendant out of my pocket, placing it directly beside the printed markings on the parchment. I turned page after page, my eyes scanning the ancient symbols of the high kingdoms. Suddenly, near the bottom of a water-stained page detailing the fallen houses of the frost valleys, my breath caught. One crest looked almost completely identical. The lines, the intersection of the crescent, and the broken borders matched the markings on my pendant perfectly. My heart hamme

⸻ The staircase ended before a pair of enormous stone doors. Unlike every entrance they had discovered before, these carried no royal crest. Instead… Two wolves were carved into the stone. One silver. One crimson. They were not facing one another. They stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing toward the horizon. Elara stopped. “I’ve never seen this symbol before.” Riven stepped closer, his fingers tracing the carving. “Neither have I.” Kael frowned. “That’s impossible.” “Why?” “My father taught me every Crimson royal emblem before I was old enough to hold a sword.”

Now it belonged to someone else. She dropped soundlessly into the courtyard, landing in the shadow of a marble angel. Her boots sank into ash instead of snow. A faint scent of rose oil clung to the air, sickly sweet, mocking. She slipped past a row of crimson banners fluttering in the wind. They bore her crest twisted: the Ashford sigil inverted and crowned with a bleeding sun. Her pulse steadied. “So,” she whispered, voice edged with dark humor, “the child remade my house in her own image.”

she whispered. “I do.” Silence. Only the wind and the sea beyond the glass dared move. Then Dante reached behind him. From the pocket of his jacket, he drew a golden emblem—the crest of his empire. A lion entwined with a serpent, forged in blood. It was more than a symbol; it was the mark of his reign. He had carried it through every war, every deal, every death. Amara’s heart lurched. “What are you doing?”

He reached his hand, one that had the blood of many innocents blemishing it, to touch me but I stepped back and he laughed, his laughter more gruesome than the combined wails of the dungeons. Then he dropped his bow in my hand, a very heavy one that was responsible for ending my parent’s life, and continued walking. The bow had the golden emblem of a crown on it, the same crown he wore. I had seen this emblem on many of the maids’ attires, the walls of the castle, the uniforms of his Sigmas, and even on some doors of the castle.