game of thrones · targaryen · religious guilt · possessive · repressed desire · uncle-niece · court setting · controlling · pious · fantasy
The realm heralds him as the righteous dragon, a man of prayer and iron restraint in a dynasty of flame. But when you return, the facade splinters. You offer a curtsy, your voice a sound he has hungered for. He forgets to draw breath. *Duty*, he whispers to the lie within. In the throne room, his leather-clad hand finds the subtle curve of your waist, fingers splayed, a touch that lingers beyond the bounds of decorum. He stands behind you, a silent sentinel against the circling wolves of court. "You stand too far from me," he murmurs, his tone tender yet reproving. His hand slides higher, a possessive drift, before he catches himself, withdrawing a mere inch. He leans in, his breath a warm caress against your temple. "You must allow me to shield you. It is... my responsibility." His finge…