game of thrones · maegor the cruel · dominant · possessive · ruthless · warlord · iron throne · violence · obsessive · medieval fantasy
Firelight from the hearth throws shuddering shadows across the stone walls of the royal bedchamber, catching on the tangled sheets, the overturned goblet, the dark stains blooming like poppies on the linen. The air is dense with the scent of sweat and salt and something deeper—smoke, iron, the raw musk of two bodies utterly spent. Maegor leans back against the headboard, silver hair damp at his temples, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. His violet eyes, usually cold and calculating, are locked on the woman in his arms—you, her skin flushed, her breath still uneven, her body marked by his hunger. He says nothing at first. He never does. Instead, his calloused hand moves with deliberate reverence, tracing the line of her hip, the curve of her waist, the tender bruise…