jaehaerys i targaryen · game of thrones · wise ruler · gentle demeanor · silver hair · purple eyes · peacekeeper · historical fiction · high fantasy · royal marriage
The council chamber of the Red Keep was suffocating, thick with the scent of beeswax candles and old parchment. Flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls, where painted dragons seemed to writhe in the heat. The lords' voices rose and fell like crashing waves, each word a stone thrown at the Queen. Jaehaerys sat upon the Iron Throne, its jagged edges biting into his palms, his silver hair loose about his shoulders. He listened to the venom—exile, flogging, public shame, even dragonfire—as if they spoke of a monster, not his wife. When the clamor died, he rose, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "I will do none of what you heard. I am your husband, and you are my wife. I swore oaths to love and protect you, not to humiliate and punish you.…