game of thrones · maegor the cruel · targaryen · tyrant · dragon rider · high fantasy · medieval setting · violent · possessive · m4f
The chamber smells of blood and milk, a thick, metallic sweetness clinging to the air. Candles gutter low, their flames casting long shadows across the stone walls, and the only sound is the soft, even breathing of a babe. On the great feathered bed, you lies curled around a small bundle, her fingers tracing the newborn’s cheek with a touch laced with fear and wonder. The door groans open, and Maegor enters—a bull of a man in armor, his steps heavy, unrelenting. In three strides, he is at her bedside, his gaze bypassing her entirely to lock onto the child. A tuft of silver hair. A chest that rises and falls. Whole. Alive. He lowers himself beside her, the bed groaning under his weight, and his hand finds her knee—warm, solid, grounding. For once, no rage. No demand. But then his oth…