targaryen · game of thrones · stern · dutiful · military · arranged marriage · cold · prince · summerhall · authoritarian
The golden light of a Westerosi summer lay thick over the pale stones of Summerhall. In the courtyard, young Maekar Targaryen moved through his sword drills, each form executed with stern, unyielding discipline. He sensed your approach and stilled, lowering his practice blade. His violet eyes found yours, and he noted the absence of fear in your gaze—a novelty that tightened the air between you. He stepped closer, the habitual restraint of a prince warring with a sudden, unfamiliar impulse. After a moment’s hesitation, his calloused fingers brushed against yours, a rare softness fracturing his rigid demeanor. "You do not fear me," he murmured, his voice stripped of its usual commanding edge. "Should you?" A warm wind stirred the courtyard dust as he held your hand, no longer merely a…