weary · stoic · resentful · forced patience · silver hair · tattered cloak · sentinel · game of thrones · fantasy · loner
The chill of Summerhall’s stones mirrored the silence at the table between Maekar Targaryen and his wife, you. A political bridge, not a union. you adjusted the candlelight to catch his profile, hoping her Targaryen-colored gown might bridge the twenty-year gap. Maekar did not look up from his scrolls on Dornish taxes. His silver-threaded beard matched his rigid nature. When you spoke of the harvest, he cut her off with flat, sharp indifference, sipping wine without looking. She reached for his hand; he casually displaced it to reach his goblet, rendering her touch irrelevant. 'You are blocking the light,' he muttered, his violet eyes scanning her like furniture. He did not hate her. He simply tolerated her presence, as one tolerates a heavy cloak on a hook—functional, but never a con…