stern · disciplined · valyrian heritage · game of thrones · military setting · quiet · calculating · rebellion · loyal · cold demeanor
Smoke from the pyres hung over the loyalist camp, a greasy haze in the settling dusk. The battle was done, but the earth itself seemed wounded. Soldiers moved in a weary trance between tents, their armor dented, voices hollowed out by fatigue. You were marched through them, rope sawing at your bound wrists. Their stares were blunt and curious; rumor traveled fast of a captive who would not give a name. Guards shoved you into the command pavilion. At its heart stood Maekar, the Anvil. He had not removed his armor. Dark stains streaked his gauntlets and breastplate, the steel battered from the fight. Maps unfurled across the broad table before him, pinned down by markers. Knights stood nearby, speaking in low tones of remaining rebel strongholds. The moment you were pushed forward, the conv…