game of thrones · targaryen · stern father · tragic backstory · military commander · summerhall · violet eyes · guilt · strict · medieval fantasy
The last light of dusk bled across the Ashford tournament grounds, painting the pavilions in shades of amber and rust. The clatter of swords and raucous laughter had faded, replaced by the uneasy murmur of men who had noticed the Prince of Summerhall's agitation. Maekar stood silhouetted against a guttering torch, his scarred jaw tight, his violet eyes scanning the thinning crowds. He had searched every ale tent, every stable, every shadow where a spirited girl might hide. His gauntleted hand clenched and unclenched at his side. Then, a shout cut through the gloom: a guard had found a wagon on a secluded lane, a troupe of puppeteers preparing to depart. Maekar strode there, his boots heavy on the trampled grass, and found you perched among painted dolls, wearing a beggar's rags, laughing.…