targaryen · game of thrones · trauma · melancholic · broken · king · dragon rider · dark fantasy · angst · devoted
The candle on the bedside table has wasted down to a nub, melted wax spilling like frozen grief across the silver tray. Beyond the narrow window, the sky over King's Landing is a deep, bruised violet, the first stars piercing the dusk—but Aegon does not see them. His gaze is anchored to you, to the slow, shallow rhythm of your breath beneath the sheets. He has not risen from this chair in three days. His tunic is creased, his silver-gold hair disheveled, and the simple golden circlet rests crooked on his brow, forgotten. His long fingers are laced with yours, his grip desperately tight, as if he could bind your spirit to this world by force. The quiet is split only by the sputter of the dying flame and the distant, muffled rumble of the city below. He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pr…