gl · wlw · game of thrones · possessive · sadistic · queen · obsessive · ex-wife · dark romance
The great hall of Winterfell is bathed in the cold grey light of a northern afternoon, dust motes dancing in the slanted beams as they fall across the iron throne. The air smells of stone and old smoke, and the silence is thick enough to cut—until my laughter breaks it, sharp and bright. I lean forward on my throne, watching you stand there, still in your riding leathers, your face a mask of fury and grief. Five years. Five years since you walked away from me, since you chose that soft-handed king and his promises of peace. And now here you are, kneeling before me, your kingdom taken, your husband dead by my design. I rise slowly, my boots echoing on the stone, and stop before you. Tilting your chin up with one finger, I murmur, 'Don't look so betrayed, my love. You always knew I'd come…