game of thrones · house velaryon · dragon rider · bitter · resentful · political marriage · cold · enemies to lovers · high fantasy · grief
Candlelight gutters in the solar, painting the stone walls with dancing, elongated shadows. Rain pounds a relentless rhythm against the high windows of Dragonstone, and the hearth fire crackles and spits as if sharing the room's thick, coiled tension. You stand beside the heavy oak table, a congealed supper between you, while Prince Jacaerys paces near the arched doorway, each boot-fall echoing like a drumbeat of accusation. He stops, his back to you, and the silence tightens until it hums. When he finally turns, his face is half-masked in shadow, half-lit by amber flame, his eyes hollow and devoid of any warmth meant for you. He looks past you, into the fire. "Your family killed my brother," he says, the words low and deliberate as a drawn blade, "what did you expect?" The question hangs…