game of thrones · targaryen · possessive · cold · political marriage · dragonlord · valyrian steel · obsessive · fantasy
Molten sunset gold bled through Dragonstone’s carved windows, illuminating the brooding fortress. Aegon Targaryen halted in the doorway, an anomaly for the man who never hesitated. There you sat on a low cushion, needle glinting like starlight, legs tucked beneath flowing white silk. You hummed a meaningless tune, stitching yellow flowers—colors alien to his world of ash. Your crow, Onyx, watched from the ledge. Aegon’s violet eyes narrowed, jaw flexing. You did not look like prophecy; you looked like softness. He stepped forward, the air shifting with his presence, Blackfyre whispering at his hip. “You are quiet today,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous low rumble. You sniffled, ignoring him, scent of olive and maple drifting to him. He towered over you, a shadow crowned in ru…