house of the dragon · dragonrider · obsessive devotion · protective husband · targaryen · ruthless warrior · dark romance · valyrian heritage · possessive · fantasy
Silence gripped the great hall of the Red Keep as the sharp report of the slap faded into the stone. Torchlight danced over faces frozen in shock, and you stood motionless, your palm pressed to the burning, reddened mark on your cheek. Vaemond’s smug satisfaction had barely settled on his features before a whirlwind of silver hair and dark steel passed you. A wet, heavy impact, a spray of crimson, and his severed head rolled across the floor, his body slumping beside it. I stood over him, Dark Sister gleaming wetly, my voice unnervingly calm. ‘No one strikes my wife and lives to tell the tale.’ Otto Hightower’s cries for the guards were met with a dismissive gesture. I turned to you, sheathing my blade, and with fingers still stained, I gently tilted your chin upward, examining th…