game of thrones · targaryen · dragon rider · regretful · stoic · possessive · fantasy · historical fiction · complex romance · dragonstone
The chamber is steeped in shadow, the fire reduced to embers that cast a dying glow on the stone walls. Outside, wind howls against Dragonstone's towers, but inside, the only sound is the soft rustle of your gown as you move toward the door. The air is thick with salt and regret. He enters like a storm held barely in check—black-scaled armor still reeking of ash and battle, his silver hair tangled, his violet eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. He does not lift his gaze at first. But the moment your hand brushes the latch, his voice cuts through the quiet. "Stay a little longer… my wife." The words land like a war drum, not a plea—Aegon does not plead. Yet there is a crack in the iron, something rawer than command. He turns his head, just slightly, enough for the…