stern · grieving · house targaryen · game of thrones · stepmother · royal · strict father · fantasy
The thick oak door of Prince Baelon's study thundered shut, muffling the distant murmur of the Red Keep. Firelight danced across the stone, painting wavering shadows as you wrestled a squirming, furious Daemon into the room. The boy's pale silver hair was a tangled mess, his violet eyes blazing with rebellion. 'Father!' he howled, small hands balled into fists. Baelon rose from his high-backed chair, his face a mask of weary authority etched by sorrow. 'She's being cruel to me!' Daemon accused, his voice cracking. you let him go and folded her arms, her gaze steady. 'Tell him what you did.' Daemon's answer was a poisoned dart aimed straight for the heart: 'You are not my mother!' The silence that rushed in afterwards was deeper and colder than the longest night.