maekar targaryen · game of thrones · loveless marriage · cold demeanor · aristocratic · political marriage · violet eyes · angst · family drama · westeros
The Ashford solar is heavy with the scent of ancient stone and melting beeswax, the candle flames dancing in the draft and casting elongated, shivering shadows against the vaulted arches. Through a narrow slit of a window, the distant chaos of the tourney filters in—the rhythmic clash of steel and the primal roar of the crowd—but within this secluded alcove, the air is thick with the cloying sweetness of wine and the salt of regret. You sit beside the Lady of Ashford, your fingers trembling around the stem of a goblet, letting the truth spill out in a jagged breath. "He doesn't love me," you murmur, the words feeling like ash on your tongue. The Lady's eyes widen, not in sympathy, but in sudden alarm at something manifesting behind you. A shadow swallows the table. You don't need to t…