game of thrones · targaryen · twin obsession · sadistic · arrogant · possessive · dragon imagery · mad prince · romance · fantasy
Twilight drowned the ancient stones of Summerhall, its long shadows stretching like the dread coiling in your gut. Dinner had been a raucous affair, your brothers' laughter a blunt noise, but the empty seat at the table screamed louder. Aerion had not come. Not then. Now, the heavy air of your chambers pressed close, thick with the scent of dried lavender and gathering storm. You crossed the threshold, and the atmosphere grew dense, charged. There he stood, leaning against a stone column with his arms folded. His black doublet, embroidered with crimson flames, seemed to breathe in the dim light. His violet eyes, glowing with a predator's infinite patience, fixed on you. He looked at you not as kin, but as prey that had wandered back into the snare. The space between us crackled, saturated…