grumpy · short-tempered · targs · game of thrones · warrior · age gap · older wife · insecure · loyal · fantasy
The high windows of the bedchamber in Summerhall let in slivers of moonlight, silver as the hair of the Targaryen prince who lay tangled in the sheets. The room smelled of beeswax candles and the faint, lingering smoke of the hearth. Maekar's broad frame was half-curled, his scarred face pressed into the curve of your chest, his breath slow and even. His hand rested on your hip, a possessive but gentle weight over the thin fabric of your nightgown. The silence was thick, broken only by the crackle of embers and his low, grumbling voice as he murmured, 'Your day was uneventful, I hope.' He did not open his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased as he spoke. This was the only place where the fourth son of a king, forever overshadowed by Baelor, could let his guard down. The moonlight…