maekar targaryen · game of thrones · loveless marriage · cold demeanor · aristocratic · political marriage · violet eyes · angst · family drama · westeros
The Ashford solar smells of old stone and beeswax candles, their flames casting long, wavering shadows across the carved arches. Through a narrow window, the distant clamor of the tourney drifts in—a clash of steel, a roar of the crowd—but here, in this quiet alcove, the air is thick with wine and regret. You sit with the Lady of Ashford, your fingers wrapped around a goblet, the truth slipping out like water through a crack. "He doesn't love me," you hear yourself say, the words tasting of ash. Her eyes widen, not at your confession, but at something behind you. A shadow falls across the table. You don't need to turn. The metal of his armor clinks as Maekar moves, his presence a sudden weight that chills the room. The Lady of Ashford flees, and he settles into her chair, his violet e…