Chapter Text
Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, final race of the 2025 season.
The engine roared every time his foot slammed the accelerator with the ferocity that defined him, a sharp contrast to the care with which his hands moved across the buttons scattered over the black steering wheel, almost as gentle as a lover’s touch. His eyes stayed locked on the track. He drove like a beast, like a true heir to his name. His thoughts raced as fast as his beloved dragon, a masterpiece of automotive engineering built by the finest hands the Targaryen team could afford. He was one step away from achieving everything he had wanted since the first clear thought had ever formed in his mind. Adrenaline ran through his veins like a curse, the voices on the radio fading beneath the thunder of his heart beating at a wild, relentless pace.
For the first time in more than a decade, both drivers of the top team in the championship were fighting for the world title. Aerion was leading the race after pulling off an overcut on his cousin Valarr, the media darling of the family name. A man who could make a thousand mistakes and remain comfortably at the top—something impossible for someone like him, who had to work twice as hard just to brush the same results with his fingertips. His uncle Bealor’s voice kept calling him over the radio, but Aerion already knew what he wanted. He would not listen to what the others preferred.
Victory was right in front of him. At last, he would show them he was worthy—no, he would force them to watch him take that place on the throne, a throne that had never truly been meant for him.
With every lap, he could feel the pace slipping away in tenths. Corners were not the strength of the black dragons, and the medium tyres he had been running since his single pit stop halfway through the race were no longer enough to keep up the rhythm. His team urged him to pit and change them, but the gap to Valarr was not large enough to regain the lead after exiting the pit lane.
He knew it. They were sabotaging him. They wanted the perfect bronze boy to win; his uncle wanted to crown his own son champion. He turned the wheel again, nearly running wide through the corner. His tyres could not take much more punishment. Only seven laps remained. If he wanted this, he would have to stand by his decision.
—Aerion, you need to pit if you want to avoid a puncture. —Bealor’s voice echoed inside his helmet, calm and confident as always. No anger, at least not while everything was being broadcast; he would never risk damaging the image of the composed and understanding team principal. —You won’t finish the race if you don’t do as I say. You’ll risk the team’s double podium.
If he had not already been furious, those last words finished the job. Aerion switched the driving mode, trusting the car completely. It would hold until the very end. The two of them moved as one creature, like a dragon. It was only a matter of time before Valarr caught him on the main straight and opened the DRS. Every movement would have to be perfect if he wanted to avoid running wide through the corners and losing precious tenths.
Five laps remained. In the mirror, he saw his teammate closing in; the soft tyres suited the car perfectly. It looked fast, stable, ready to reclaim the place that Aerion the usurper had taken from him. He had no time to watch. The crown was almost within reach.
Ignoring the team’s orders, he accelerated. The configuration change was draining the battery, but he refused to lose. Even if something inside the car failed, he would not. A few backmarkers danced ahead of him, blue flags nowhere to be seen.
—Tell those idiots to get out of my way! —his voice burst through the radio like a furious roar.
—We’re working on it, —answered his engineer, a man old enough to have worked with his father. It seemed Bealor had given up trying to control him, now focusing entirely on his son’s strategy.
—Well, it doesn’t look like it, damn it! —The frustration was eating him alive; the traffic kept him from extending the gap.
After what felt like an eternity, the slower cars finally cleared out of his path—but too late. The beast of a machine driven by the lead driver of the team had already caught him. None of the others resisted Valarr the way they had resisted him.
Only three laps remained. Aerion could still do it.
Valarr’s front wing finally appeared beside his right side. With a sharp movement, Aerion closed the space, refusing to let him pass. His feet moved in perfect rhythm, following the ritual that had carried him through countless laps. The main straight was approaching, exactly as he had predicted.
—Aerion, listen to me. You have to follow Plan A.—Bealor’s voice returned, more urgent now. Aerion knew exactly what that meant: he was being ordered to throw away everything he had worked for since he could remember and hand the victory to his cousin.
Aerion ignored him.
—Your car won’t hold much longer. You’re pushing it too hard —the team principal continued. Aerion allowed himself a faint, amused smile. He knew every bolt of his beloved dragon; if something were wrong, he would be the first to know.
The exchange almost cost him his focus. Valarr dropped back for a moment, clearly trying to cool his tyres before launching another attack on sector two straight during the final lap. Aerion forced the car to obey his will again, though it resisted more than before. The time he had gained through the corners would disappear the moment the other driver could activate DRS. For the first time in the race, he felt something close to fear rise inside him. His effort might not be enough.
He would never be enough—not for Bealor, not for the fans, and certainly not for his father.
His heart pounded violently, and he could feel the blood rushing through his entire body.
He would not lose.
One final lap for victory.
Valarr accelerated again, the two dragons locked in a duel that seemed separate from the rest of the grid. Sector one carried them forward as the gap between them shrank further, the roar of the engines the only sound in Aerion’s ears. Before he could think of anything else, the straight was already upon them both.
His teammate opened the DRS. Valarr’s car pulled level with his, the two machines looking almost like a mirage. He would not let everything he had fought for his entire life be taken from him in a single second. He stayed alongside Valarr, holding firm and pushing a few centimetres past the braking zone. Aerion kept the lead. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him fully present.
Valarr did not give up.
The twin car appeared again on his left. Aerion moved ahead and closed the gap. He realised the feint later than he should have—suddenly he could see his cousin’s car in front of his own. His mind clouded, the fight threatening to drain from his body. In the distance, he could hear the excited roar of the crowd, of his team, happy that the demon had been beaten by the bronze boy.
Acting on instinct, he pressed the accelerator. Both cars spun forward at the same pace, wheel to wheel. From that distance, he could see the other driver’s cockpit. He knew Valarr was complaining about him to his father, behaving with that polite, controlled composure the media and the fans adored.
That only made him angrier.
The finish line was only metres away.
Crack.
All the noise vanished in less than a second. Aerion felt the impact before his nerves could scream in protest. The world tilted around him. Both cars—no, both dragons—were shattered into thousands of pieces, wedged awkwardly against the circuit barrier.
His dragon had failed. He had failed.
He tasted metal on his tongue.
—Are you alright? —his engineer asked, his voice heavy with resignation.
No. He was not alright.
—Am I alright? I’m fucking fantastic, you idiot! —he shouted as he disconnected everything and climbed out of the cockpit, using the halo for support.
Once both feet touched the ground, he could finally take in the disaster around him—no, the disaster that useless team had caused. In a sudden burst of anger, he tore off his helmet and threw it to the ground without a second thought. The rest of the grid rolled past slowly, watching them with barely concealed amusement. His body folded into a crouch, his hands running anxiously through his hair.
He shouted.
A pair of hands grabbed the front of his racing suit and hauled him up with ease. A furious Valarr held him in a tight grip. The look of contempt on his face was so strange, so unlike him, that Aerion found himself smiling, blood still staining his teeth.
—What the hell did you do? —The brown-haired driver spat furiously, his eyes almost manic. —What’s so funny, you fucking lunatic?
—Your face. That’s what’s funny. —Aerion laughed at his cousin’s disbelief. The whole situation felt like a badly written comedy.
Valarr stared at him for a moment before letting go, as though touching him was not even worth it—as though Aerion might infect him with madness.
—You cost us both the championship, —he said while stepping away. —I hope you’re happy.
As soon as Valarr walked away, everything seemed to dim again for the platinum-blond driver. He had ruined everything, as always. He sat down on the ground again, ignoring everyone around him. Just him and his broken car, waiting to see Lyonel Baratheon declared the winner of the race and the new Formula One world champion.
An unexpected champion! The end of the black dragons in F1?
By Tanselle Tall
This Sunday’s Grand Prix ended with one of the most unexpected and controversial outcomes of the season. Drivers Valarr and Aerion Targaryen—cousins and teammates in the same team—collided on the final lap of the race, an incident that allowed Lyonel Baratheon to claim not only the victory, but also the championship.
For much of the race, the Dragon team drivers dominated the circuit with a pace clearly superior to the rest of the grid. Both maintained an intense battle for the lead while the other competitors struggled to keep up. What seemed to be an internal duel for the race win would ultimately decide the season title as well.
Everything changed at the beginning of the final lap. Aerion, determined to retake the lead, attempted to overtake his cousin in the last sector of the circuit. In the attempt, his car clipped the side of Valarr’s machine. The contact was enough for both drivers to lose control and crash off the track just metres from the finish line.
The incident left the track completely clear for Lyonel, who had been running directly behind them, waiting for any opportunity. With the road suddenly open, he crossed the finish line in first place and, with that result, secured the championship as well.
“I just focused on driving,” the new champion said after stepping out of his car.
The crash between the cousins immediately sparked a wave of controversy among fans, analysts, and rival teams. Not only did it decide the race—it also decided the championship, turning this Grand Prix into one of the most dramatic and talked-about finishes of the year.
Now the question remains: was it really an accident… or something more?