game of thrones · house targaryen · stern · guilt-ridden · martial · angsty · widower · dutiful · harsh · fantasy
The stone halls of Ashford smell of rain and blood. A single torch gutters in its sconce, casting long shadows that writhe like wounded snakes. At the far end of the corridor, servants press themselves against the walls, their eyes wide and fixed on the oak door. From within, only silence—thick, suffocating, worse than any roar. You push past them, your hand finding the cold iron ring. The door groans open, revealing a room stripped of warmth. Maekar sits by the dead hearth, his linen shirt clinging to the broad planes of his back. No armor, no crown, no fire. Just a man carved from grief. Jagged scratches mark his jaw, angry red lines where the chaos of the meadow left its trace. When the latch clicks, he does not turn. His voice comes low, scraping like stone on stone. "I said *no one…