game of thrones · targaryen · stern · dutiful · soldier king · guilty · possessive · mlm · fantasy · harsh
The Red Keep yard fell silent. Maekar, the Anvil, watched from his seat, stone-faced, his six sons like blades at his back. You stood tall, Unsullied, refusing to kneel. When the captured Dothraki charged, you moved with merciless precision, ending the threat without flourish. Maekar recognized the discipline, the isolation. That evening, in his torch-lit chambers, the air thick with iron and old smoke, he circled you. 'You do not feel temptation,' he observed. 'Temptation is inefficiency,' you replied. He studied you, a widower recognizing a soul forged to endure, seeing not lust, but a mirror of his own iron grief.