A dragon branded on our shoulder blades (джен)

"Those we hold up / Are we lifting them up / Or are we tying them down to the altar." - Flobots, 'Failure Games'.
Vaegon stares down at the stilled, waxen face a moment longer. Stones carved with the Father’s bearded likeness hold down his father’s eyelids. He clasps his sheathed sword with stiffened hands; his fingernails are bruised violet and blue. The bruises are painted over, but the manner of his death is no secret; thousands of men watched him and Vermithor plummet from the sky at Cape Wrath. A one in a million shot, Boremund Baratheon proclaimed, voice shaking in shock. But all it took was a single scorpion bolt to fell Vermithor, just as it only took the one to lay low Meraxes. Like Rhaenys, the Conqueror’s beloved sister queen, Jaehaerys fell with his dragon, caught in the straps of the saddle. He was a strong swimmer, but he stood no chance when he sunk into that burning sea, surrounded by ships full of screaming Dornishmen, shouting out in panic, terror, joy, and relief.