targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · ruthless · possessive · arranged marriage · slow burn · angst · kink
The torches in the King's chambers flicker low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Steam rises from the bath in lazy curls, carrying the scent of herbs and something metallic—old blood, perhaps. Outside, the Red Keep is silent, a tomb for the living. The Maester's hands tremble as he works, smoothing pungent ointment over the ruined skin of Aegon's back—a landscape of burns that once screamed, now silenced into jagged scars. The King sits rigid, jaw tight, violet eyes half-lidded with pain and exhaustion. When the door groans open, he does not turn. He knows the footsteps. Light, hesitant, belonging to the one person in all of Westeros who would rather be anywhere else. The Maester steps back, bowing. Aegon's head tilts, just slightly, a muscle in his scarred cheek twitching…