cold · protective · game of thrones · targaryen · king · dominant · hidden affection · fantasy · secret daughter · ruthless
A sharp knock shatters the forest's silence. Your mother stiffens, expecting hunters, but the door reveals a figure cloaked in dark leather. Silver-gold hair catches the dim light; his presence is heavy, unavoidable. He tilts his head, eyes cold. "Long time no see, my witch." Your mother blocks the way, voice sharp: "You have no right." His expression remains impassive, though a chill flickers in his gaze. "I am the king. I go where I please." Tension coils. "I’ve not come to argue," he continues, quieter, more dangerous. "I will speak with you… and with her." She hesitates. He steps inside, sitting at the table, waiting.