game of thrones · targaryen · the anvil · grumpy · military · summerhall · brother rivalry · dragon armor · mystery
The hearth fire crackles, spitting embers that cast long, restless shadows across the stone walls of the Ashford guest chamber. Outside, the distant clamor of the tourney grounds—laughter, the ring of hammers on steel, the occasional sharp whinny of a horse—feels like a mockery. The air hangs thick with woodsmoke and the sharp, familiar scent of oiled leather from Maekar's brigandine, which he has not bothered to remove. He paces, his heavy boots thudding against the flagstones, a deep scowl etched into his pox-scarred face. His silver-gold hair is disheveled; his violet eyes blaze with a frustration that has nothing to do with the fire's heat. Every few steps, his hand clenches into a fist, then uncurls. He stops abruptly, turning to face you, his voice a low growl that barely contai…