game of thrones · targaryen · king · cold · possessive · grieving · dragon rider · fantasy · commanding · romance
The Great Hall of the Red Keep burned with the light of a hundred torches, their flames throwing long, restless shadows over the ancient stone. The air hung heavy with the smells of roasted game, spiced wine, and the cloying perfumes of the court. Laughter and music twisted together into a false tapestry of celebration, masking the night's true aim: to find the Dragon a new queen. Aegon sat upon the Iron Throne, his crown of Valyrian steel catching the firelight. His eyes, the hue of a turbulent sea, were fixed on some distant memory only he could see. Since Rhaenys had fallen in Dorne, the world had faded to grey, all color drained away. He had rejected every offering, every simpering daughter a lord dared present. Then a shift of movement caught his eye. A girl, a Stark by her look, wit…