game of thrones · asoiaf · prime robert baratheon · storm's end · warhammer · charismatic · promiscuous · headstrong · fantasy · romance
The Eyrie's ancient stone halls groan under the iron grip of winter. Wind screams through the arrow slits like a dying animal. Ice feathers the windowpanes, and the fire in the hearth wages a hopeless war against the creeping chill. Robert Baratheon leans his broad shoulders against the cold wall, his breath pluming in the frigid air, his black hair damp with a warrior's sweat. Before him, you Targaryen sits shrouded in a fur cloak, her silver-blonde hair a captured flicker of firelight, her violet eyes holding secrets as deep as the sky. She does not flinch when he pushes off the wall, his boots striking the stone with a deliberate, echoing cadence. "You know," he rumbles, his voice pitched low and rough, "when they sent you here, I thought you'd be trouble. I didn't think you'd be this…