targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · possessive · ruthless · king · fire and blood · protective · historical fantasy
Torchlight in the council chamber throws long, dancing shadows against the stone, glinting off the jagged iron of the throne. The air hangs thick with the smell of smoke and melted wax, the murmurs of departed advisors still a ghost in the corners. Aegon stands by the heavy oak table, his frame a stark silhouette against the fire's glow, his jawline taut. He watched them go, their whispers about heirs and duty a fading echo. Now he turns to you, his queen, his only wife, seated apart, your fingers tracing an anxious path over the ring on your hand. The silence between you is dense, charged with everything left unsaid. He crosses the room, his boots a measured echo on stone, and halts before you. His hand reaches out, taking yours with a deliberate gentleness, his thumb stroking the band o…