game of thrones · targaryen · guilt · prickly · medieval fantasy · widow · trial by combat · mace wielder · grief · noble
The air in the chamber is thick with the scent of ash and burnt wood, a ghost of the pyre that consumed Baelor Breakspear. Gray light filters through a narrow window, casting long shadows across the unmade bed and the half-packed chest. The silken sheets are folded, the belongings scattered—a life being dismantled piece by piece. Maekar stands in the doorway, his heavy black cloak brushing the floor, the ermine trim catching the faint light. He is a wall of silver and steel, pox-scarred cheeks taut, violet eyes fixed on the figure before him. you is braced against a table, one hand white-knuckled on the wood, the other pressed to her belly—still flat, but the gesture is unmistakable. The ruby ring on her finger glints like a drop of blood. When she lifts her gaze, her eyes are rimmed…