Targaryen Fire And Blood Novels & Stories

Maera (solemn): “Not you. Your blood. The fire within you. It has memory… and purpose.” Xavier (voice low): “What did you call it? That phenomenon?” Maera (raising her head): “The Fire That Bleeds.” Ceres: “It sounds like a myth.” Maera (shaking her head): “It’s older than the thrones. Older than the Flameblood line. It speaks of a Luna who carries not just fire, but memory in her veins. Her sorrow burns what no blade can touch.” Xavier (to Ceres): “You didn’t just defend yourself. You awakened something.”

It wasn't just a copy, it was exactly the same. How did this get here? She puzzled over the familiar book, glimpses of a childhood she couldn't remember slipping into her mind. An old folded note tucked right in the middle of the book caught her attention, and she gently unfolded it. Somehow, she was sure she was meant to find the note. Her blood ran cold as she read the content of the note, cold sweat springing up on her spine. The contents of the note was simple but ominous. “The sins of the father live in the blood of the daughter.”

The temperature in the room plummeted several degrees, and a sudden gust of wind extinguished several candles, plunging a section of the room into darkness. Lord Malachi raised a calming hand, his authority silencing the brewing conflict. "Enough. We are not here to bicker over floral arrangements or perceived slights to our venerable ages. The issue at hand is far more pressing. The blood king has returned, and his presence threatens to unravel everything we have built."

The thing that had whispered “Arkana.” “I’m not your vessel,” I shouted. “But I am your gate.” And I opened. The altar cracked. The ceiling split. And Logan rose again—eyes wide, voice deep, filled with the roar of a thousand dying stars. “BLOOD WEARS THE THRONE.” The cult screamed. And burned. Lily The flames didn’t stop. Long after the cult screamed, long after their bodies became dust on the wind, the fire raged. Not wild. Not erratic. It danced. Controlled. Conscious.

She lit the ancient scrying bowl, poured in moonwater and ash, and asked him to place his hand over the flame. “If you’re truly of the Northern Reach,” she said, eyes sharp, “the flame will burn blue.” Elian placed his hand over the fire. It didn’t turn blue. It turned silver. And the bowl shattered. Morwen staggered back, eyes wide with something like fear. Because only one bloodline made fire burn silver. The Keeper’s line. The ones who didn’t rule. She didn’t speak to him after that. She just waved him away, hands trembling. Because she finally understood.

And there is nothing in this world left for me to live for. I pull all of my hatred into my fire, I pull every ounce of my father’s Alpha aura that I inherited into my body and then I send a blast of fire and fury so strong that it lights up the sky around me and sends dragons tumbling through the sky. The royals on the ground and others nearby scream as they burn alive in my fire. I watch as Faeler falls from Kenzo’s back, landing on the ground near the other scorched royals. I send a blast of fire at him, watching him burn alive. I ignore Kenzo’s scream of pain. I can’t save him now.

I whispered, soothing her tears. You know perfectly well who I am, Vienna, for we are cut from the same cloth. My blood courses through your veins and the thoughts in my mind are mirrored in yours. That’s why I love you, even though I never loved your mother; you remind me of myself. But in the end, it won’t be you sitting on my throne. It will be Cercei, my firstborn, the child of the woman I adore. She possesses a heart none of us can match, and she holds the North at her feet. Through her, my legacy will endure, and my empire will thrive. We only need to show her where she truly belongs, for she has been betting on the wrong side.

Shadows flicker red beneath my door now, dancing like cruel spirits. “Run!” The word echoes in my skull. The door bursts inward in a spray of sparks and splintered wood. Flames roar behind a towering silhouette. A man steps through the fire. I cannot see his face — only the outline of him carved in burning light. And his eyes. They glow. Not with reflection. With power. The world fractures into red and gold. Heat devours everything. The scream tears from my throat— I wake choking on smoke that isn’t there. My room is dark. Quiet. Whole.

Makil said, his voice tight. “It doesn’t need to be,” Valerius said. “The fletching. Raven feathers, dyed green. The sigil of House Gryffen.” “He’s threatening retribution,” Arlen said, his hand going to his sword. “Not just a threat,” Leigh said, her mind, always seeing patterns, clicking the pieces into place. ” ‘You have taken something of the mountain.’ The firestone? The peace? No.” Her eyes went wide with dawning horror. She looked at the arrow again, then at her father. “He’s not talking to Makil. He’s talking tous. To our family. ’The mountain will take something of yours.’” Her blood ran cold. “The Hold. He’s going to attack the Hold.”

"The reason I know about the Blood Shadow Pack is that... my friend was one of the women tortured and killed by Alpha Kestrel. Unfortunately, I have no way to prove it." Adding an imaginary "friend" whom Kestrel killed was probably the most idiotic idea I could come up with, but my nervousness and uncontrolled tears somehow made my story seem authentic. Tyrion sighed and stepped back. "I didn't want to upset you or frighten you… Just stick with me the whole time we'll be there. We will cut this visit short unless we find something we can use against this fucker."