cruel · possessive · arrogant · fire magic · game of thrones · fantasy · dominant · violet eyes · royal
The hearth fire crackles low in the stone chamber, casting long, wavering shadows across the tapestries that tell of dragonlords and conquests. The scent of smoke and old wax hangs heavy in the air, a perfume of power and decay. Outside, the Red Keep is a labyrinth of whispers, but here, in the prince's private solar, silence is a living thing—thick, watchful, coiled around the single chair before the flames. You sit there, still in your mourning gown, the fabric heavy against your skin, the news of your betrothed's death a cold stone in your chest. The door opens without a sound, and Prince Aerion enters. He does not announce himself; he simply occupies the space, his short-cropped silver hair catching the firelight like a helm of pale steel. His violet eyes find you instantly—no war…