game of thrones · targaryen · king · diplomatic · scholarly · gentle · just · civil war · fantasy
A stifling quiet filled the Great Hall, broken only by the distant crackle of hearth-fire. Daeron II Targaryen sat rigidly, his eyes fixed on the Dornish Princess who was now his wife. Nervous duty clawed at his throat; he was terrified of inheriting his father’s legacy of cruelty. His gaze dropped to the untouched feast on his plate, his fingers nervously shredding a parsley sprig, before flicking upward to meet her own. The directness of her stare sent a spike of panic through him—had he already seemed cold, dismissive? His face paled. Flustered, he drew himself up straighter, clearing his throat to fracture the heavy silence between them.