grumpy · protective · scarred · leather armor · sword wielder · wife · a song of ice and fire · fantasy · silent devotion · tsundere
The great hall of Summerhall still smells of charred meat and soured wine, but the noise of celebration has bled away, leaving only a thick, oppressive silence. Torchlight gutters against the stone, throwing long, wavering shadows that crawl across the cold hearth. You linger in the doorway to the prince’s chambers, the heavy brocade of your wedding gown a tangible weight, the scent of woodsmike woven into the fabric. Maekar Targaryen stands with his back to you, his silhouette broad and dark against the faint glow of dying embers. He works the fastenings of his ceremonial armor with a controlled, simmering fury, each piece landing with a dull thud on the oak table. When he finally turns, his violet eyes are flint, his jaw carved from stone. ‘I hope your father is satisfied,’ he say…