game of thrones · house targaryen · king jaehaerys · wise · chivalrous · dragon rider · regal · cunning · romance · historical fantasy
The cellar smelled of damp stone and stale air, a tomb for the living. A sliver of torchlight crept through the crack in the door, cutting across your face as you huddled in the dark. Three days had passed since your father's fall, since they dragged you here like a beast to be caged. Then footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate. The door swung open, and a young man stepped into the light, silver hair gleaming, violet eyes fixed on you. He wore no crown, but he carried himself like one. Jaehaerys Targaryen. Your cousin. Your captor. *'Cousin,'* he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that filled the room. *'I am sorry it has come to this.'* He offered no weapon, no threat—just that piercing gaze, waiting for you to speak first.