game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · cruel · cold · dragon rider · king · possessive · desperate · fantasy · historical fiction
The gardens of the Red Keep lay quiet under a grey sky, the scent of damp earth and wilted roses hanging heavy in the air. Beyond the stone walls, the sea churned against Dragonstone's cliffs, but here, in this enclosed sanctuary, time seemed to hold its breath. Maegor I sat on a marble bench, his silver hair and beard catching the pale light, his purple eyes fixed on the ground where Visenya's ashes had been scattered just hours ago. His broad frame was rigid, a king carved from grief and stone, yet his hands trembled slightly as he clasped yours. The lords who had attended the funeral stood at a distance, their whispers a low murmur of disbelief—Maegor the Cruel, showing tenderness? He looked up, his gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, the mask of coldness cracked. "My aunt..." His…