The idea is an MC or noble house with the extremis virus from marvel in house of the dragon.
...
The King's Proposal
The torches lining the Great Hall guttered as Lord Fyre approached the Iron Throne, their flickering light dancing across the jagged blades that formed the monstrous seat of power. The air smelled of smoke and melted wax, undercut by the faint metallic tang of blood—whether from some recent execution or simply the throne's inherent cruelty, Fyre could not say.
King Viserys leaned forward, his once-handsome face now gaunt from years of illness and ruling. The crown of the Conqueror sat heavy upon his silver-gold hair, its weight seeming to press him deeper into the cruel embrace of the throne's swords.
"Lord Fyre," the king began, his voice measured but probing. The words echoed slightly in the cavernous hall, where only a handful of trusted advisors lingered in the shadows. "Your house has long kept to itself, yet your power is... considerable."
Fyre kept his ember-lit eyes lowered in deference, though his fingers tensed imperceptibly at his sides. The flames of the nearest torch bent subtly toward him, as if drawn by some unseen force.
"Tell me," Viserys continued, steepling his fingers, "if the Stormlands called for aid against Dornish raids, would House Pyre answer?"
*A test. A gentle probe wrapped in courtesy.* Fyre exhaled slowly, willing the heat in his blood to remain contained. When he spoke, his voice was the controlled burn of a banked fire.
"Your Grace, my house believes in peace through restraint. We would offer mediation, supplies—but our flames are not weapons to be lent lightly."
The king nodded, his expression one of feigned understanding. "A noble creed. Yet power unused is power wasted, some might say."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Fyre could feel the eyes of the courtiers upon him, their gazes like brands against his skin. He chose his next words with the care of a man walking across hot coals.
"A sword kept sheathed is still a sword, Your Grace. Ours is simply... sharper than most."
A pause. Then Viserys smiled—a thin, calculating expression that didn't reach his weary eyes. Fyre had answered well. Too well, perhaps.
The king leaned back, the motion causing the throne's blades to bite into his flesh. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forearm, though he seemed not to notice. "Your son, Pyrion," he said casually, as if discussing the weather rather than the future of the realm. "He is of an age with my daughter, Rhaenyra. A match between our houses could be... *advantageous*."
Fyre's pulse quickened, though his face remained impassive. He had expected this gambit, yet hearing the words spoken aloud made them no less dangerous. The offer burned like a brand against his skin.
When he replied, each word was chosen with the precision of a master smith selecting his tools. "An honor beyond measure, Your Grace. But such matters require... contemplation. My son is young. His control of our gifts is not yet perfected."
Viserys raised a brow, the motion causing another drop of blood to fall from his arm onto the dais. "Control? You fear he would harm her?"
*The truth could damn us. A lie could doom her.* Fyre's mind raced through possibilities like flames licking at dry tinder.
"I fear only that youth and passion are unpredictable companions," he said at last, the diplomatic words ash in his mouth. "Give me leave to discuss this with him—*privately*."
The king studied him, his pale lilac eyes seeing far more than Fyre would have liked. The unspoken truth hung between them like smoke: House Pyre's power was too great to refuse, but too dangerous to demand outright.
"Of course," Viserys said at length, his tone genial but firm. "Consider it. But remember, Lord Fyre—fire is best tended by those who respect it. And the Iron Throne *does* respect yours."
A dismissal wrapped in a warning. Fyre bowed, hiding his unease behind a mask of deference. "As you say, Your Grace."
As he turned to leave, the king's final words followed him like the acrid scent of burning flesh.
"Oh, and Lord Fyre?" Viserys called, his voice almost idle. "Do send Pyrion to court. Let him... *acclimate*."
Fyre did not react, though his spine stiffened imperceptibly. The trap was set—for his son, his house, and the future of the realm itself.
The walk back through the cavernous halls of the Red Keep felt longer than the journey from his own lands. The weight of the king's words pressed upon him like a physical burden, each step heavier than the last.
Outside, the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the Blackwater below. Fyre paused at the top of the serpentine steps, his gaze drawn inevitably to the Dragonpit in the distance. The great domed structure loomed over the city, a reminder of the true power that ruled Westeros.
*Fire and blood,* he thought grimly. *Always fire and blood.*
And now his family was being drawn into the game—whether they wished it or not.
...
**The Dragon's Dance**
Twilight settled over the Red Keep like a silken shroud, the last golden rays of sunset bleeding into violet as the stars began their slow vigil overhead. The gardens, usually alive with the chatter of courtiers during daylight hours, stood silent but for the whispering of leaves in the evening breeze. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and winter roses hung heavy in the air, sweet enough to mask the ever-present hint of dragon-smoke that clung to the stones of King's Landing.
Pyrion Pyre stood motionless by the moonlit fountain, his broad shoulders tense beneath the dark velvet of his doublet. The water shimmered before him, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple as he trailed his fingers through its cool depths. Where his skin met the liquid, the water hissed and steamed, tiny bubbles forming and bursting in quick succession before the droplets could rejoin their brethren in the basin.
*Control.*
The word echoed in his mind like his father's voice, stern and unyielding. It wasn't enough to suppress the fire in his blood - that way led only to explosions and regret. True mastery meant understanding the flame, knowing its hunger, and directing its fury with precision. The lesson had been beaten into him since childhood, after the... incident.
A soft footfall on the gravel path shattered his reverie.
"Does it hurt?"
The voice was like molten silver poured over velvet, smooth and rich with hidden depths. Pyrion turned slowly, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes found the source of that voice.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood framed between two towering hedges of midnight roses, her slender form draped in a gown of pale silver samite that seemed to drink in the moonlight. Her hair, that famous Targaryen silver-gold, cascaded over one shoulder in an intricate braid that glimmered like a river of precious metal. But it was her eyes that held him captive - violet pools deeper than the Summer Sea, alight with a curiosity that burned hotter than any pyre.
Pyrion bowed deeply, the motion automatic even as his pulse thundered in his ears. "Princess." He straightened, careful to keep his expression neutral. "No, it does not hurt. The fire is... part of me. Like breath or heartbeat."
Rhaenyra stepped closer, her slippers whispering against the stone path. The faint scent of her perfume - dragon's blood resin and citrus from the Summer Isles - wrapped around him like an intoxicating cloud. She tilted her head, studying him with the intensity of a maester examining some fascinating new specimen.
"Like a dragon's flame," she murmured, reaching out to trail her fingers along the fountain's marble edge. Where his touch left steaming water, hers left only cool stone.
Pyrion allowed himself a small, wry smile. "A poor imitation, perhaps. My ancestors sought to bind the essence of fire to blood through ancient rituals. They dreamed of making men as mighty as the Freehold's beasts."
The princess arched a delicate eyebrow. "And yet your house does not wield this gift as the Valyrians did."
The unspoken question hung between them. Pyrion turned back to the fountain, watching the patterns his heat made in the water. "Power unchecked is destruction, princess. My ancestors learned that lesson at great cost."
Rhaenyra made a thoughtful sound in her throat as she began to circle the fountain with slow, measured steps. The movement reminded Pyrion uncomfortably of how Caraxes had stalked around the training yards earlier that day - all coiled power and predatory grace.
"And yet," she said at last, pausing just an arm's length away, "destruction has its uses." Her fingers brushed the rim of the fountain again, this time coming perilously close to his own. "Tell me, my lord, if you were called upon to defend something... precious... would you still hesitate?"
The word hung between them, heavy with implication. *Precious.* Did she mean the realm? The throne? Herself?
Pyrion met her gaze steadily, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "I would defend what is right, princess. Not simply what is powerful."
Her laughter rang out like bells in the quiet garden, rich and throaty. "Spoken like a man who has never had to fight for what was his." Then, softer, almost to herself: "But then, neither have I. Yet."
Their eyes locked, and in that moment Pyrion saw past the royal mask to the woman beneath - a dragon chained by circumstance, straining against the bars of tradition and expectation. He understood then why she had sought him out tonight.
"Congratulations are in order," he said carefully. "The king's decision was just."
Rhaenyra's lips curved in a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just, but not popular." She leaned in slightly, the candlelight catching the silver threads in her gown. "Tell me, Lord Pyrion - if the winds of dissent blow against me, where will House Pyre stand?"
The water at his fingertips boiled suddenly, sending up a great plume of steam. Pyrion clenched his jaw, forcing the fire in his veins to still. "House Pyre stands where it always has, princess. On the side of peace."
She closed the distance between them in one fluid motion, near enough now that the heat radiating from his body warmed her skin. When she spoke, her breath ghosted across his lips.
"And if peace fails?"
For the first time in years, Pyrion felt his control waver. The scent of her - that intoxicating blend of fire and citrus - filled his senses. The flames in his blood surged not in anger, but in something far more dangerous. Wanting.
"Then, princess," he growled, the words torn from some deep, hidden part of himself, "we will burn together."
A heartbeat passed. Then another. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began its evening song.
Rhaenyra's smile bloomed slow and satisfied, the expression of a dragon that had finally found its fire. She stepped back, the spell between them breaking like a wave upon the shore.
"I do hope you'll save me a dance at the feast, my lord," she said, her voice light and teasing once more. "I should like to see if your steps are as controlled as your flames."
And with that, she was gone, leaving Pyrion alone by the fountain with the water still steaming around his fingers and his blood burning hotter than dragonfire.
Above them both, hidden by the gathering dark, Dreamfyre's mournful cry echoed across the city. The game had begun.
.....
Anyway that's the basic idea behind this, used AI write this. I don't know much about GOT or house of the dragon so I had AI help me out.