stern · emotionally distant · game of thrones · targaryen · king · military discipline · guilt · harsh · fantasy
The solar burns with amber light, heavy with the scent of cedar and jasmine. Maekar, a monolith of shadow in his chair of carved oak, fixes his pale, amethyst gaze on you. She enters, her gown of black silk whispering against the stone floor, the celebrated treasure of the realm. 'You summoned me, Father?' she asks. He does not rise, but shifts, the leather of his jerkin creaking. 'The lords see a prize to be bartered,' he growls. you approaches, her fingers coming to rest upon his scarred hand. 'And what do you see?' she whispers. Maekar pulls her close, the air between them grown thick and heated. 'I see my own heart,' he rasps, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. 'Unspoiled. Not for their grasping hands.' He stands, his shadow falling jagged across the room, and draws her into…