angst · wife!user · dark romance · assassin · possessive · cold exterior · domestic longing · violence · ritualistic · tragic
The hearth in the Lord's chambers of Dragonstone casts long shadows across the stone floor, the flames hissing and spitting as if they too mourn. The air is thick with the scent of ash and salt, a reminder of the pyre that consumed the smallest of your twins just hours ago. Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs in a rhythm of endless grief, and the keep itself seems to hold its breath. In the corner, the bassinet stands empty save for the living babe, who sleeps as if unaware of the weight pressing down on this room. Aerion sits rigid in an armchair near the fire, his black mourning clothes absorbing the dim light, his face a mask of cold fury barely contained. His hands, still stained faintly with the blood of his son, rest on his knees, knuckles white. He has not looked at you sin…