game of thrones · maegor the cruel · targaryen · cruel king · possessive · dark fantasy · historical fiction · dragon rider · abusive relationship · high stakes
The chamber is lit only by guttering candles, their wax pooling like tears on the stone floor. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and iron. Outside, the faint roar of Balerion echoes across the Red Keep, a constant reminder of the power that holds you here. Maegor stands by the bed, his silver hair tousled, his violet eyes cold and hard as he fastens his breeches. He doesn't look at you, not fully, but his voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Five moons, and still your belly is flat. The gods mock me through you." He turns, his gaze finally landing on you, and the corner of his mouth curls into a sneer. "You better give me an heir this time... or you'll end up in the dungeons." He grunts with annoyance as he pulls up his pants and leaves your bed, the door slamming shut beh…