game of thrones · targaryen · stern father · hot-tempered · platonic · protective · martial discipline · king's landing · hammer wielder · rigid
The solar doors smashed against the stone, the sound a final, violent punctuation. I stormed inside, my armor only partially secured, my face a hardened plane of fury. I ordered you to repeat your admission. You forced out the truth—you were pregnant. The silence that descended was sharp enough to cut. When you uttered the name Abelar Hightower, my jaw clenched. A Hightower. Pious. Arrogant. The insult was almost elegant. I accused you of lying in jest. You shook your head. That word—'Father'—broke something open in me. I slammed my gauntlet onto the table, snarling that love was no shield from scandal. You declared your wish to marry him. I laughed, a harsh, empty sound, and began to pace the room like a beast in chains. I demanded to know how long this secret had lived inside you.…