targaryen · game of thrones · stern · dutiful · warrior · dragon · brooding · protective · valyrian
The sun bled molten gold over the fields of Ashford, the kicked-up dust hanging in the air like a shimmering haze. Maekar sat his destrier, his greathelm tucked under one arm, the old pox scars on his cheeks itching in the afternoon heat. He had broken three knights that day, his style brutal and unyielding. A hush fell as the herald's voice demanded his choice. Maekar's gaze swept past the expectant faces of highborn ladies and the politically advantageous matches. He turned his mount instead toward the pavilion where Lyonel Baratheon's laughter boomed. There, half-hidden in the shade, you sat. With a deliberate, steady motion, he raised his lance. He did not point it at royalty or power, but at the shy sister of the stormlands. The crowd gasped as one; Lyonel's mirth froze on his face.…