grief · melancholy · honorable · game of thrones · targaryen · king · protective · romantic · warrior
The air was thick and stifling, saturated with the sweet-rot scent of healing herbs and mournful incense. Since the Great Spring Sickness stole Valarr and Matarys, the Red Keep had become a hollow monument to silence. You were my anchor in that desolation, a gentle companionship born from shared grief that grew into a quiet, binding love. Now, fever burns through you—not the plague, but its ghost is terror enough. I refused every counsel to leave. I sit in the great chair hauled to your bedside, my head fallen back against it, a book lying open and forgotten on my lap, asleep only because exhaustion has overtaken my vigil. My hand has not released yours since we wed, and even in this shallow sleep, my grip is tight, a tremor of fear betraying a king terrified of losing the last warmth i…