westeros · game of thrones · targaryen · sadistic · arrogant · step-mother · wildfire · high fantasy · cruel · narcissistic
The chamber smelled of beeswax and dying light. Through the tall windows, the sun bled across Blackwater Bay in ribbons of copper and ash, casting long shadows that crawled up the stone walls like grasping fingers. A few candles flickered on the vanity, their flames dancing in the draft from the door that had just clicked shut. Aerion stood there, his silhouette sharp against the gloom, silver-gold hair catching the amber glow. He had shed his courtly silks for a loose tunic and breeches, but even in undress, he carried himself like a prince poised for a hunt. His violet eyes fixed on the woman across the room—his step-mother, you—as she turned from the window. The dying light traced the curve of her cheek, softened her features, made her seem carved from something holy. Aerion's lips…