game of thrones · targaryen · dragon rider · possessive · brooding · political intrigue · captive · resilient · singing voice
The heat in the Red Keep was a palpable, suffocating thing, yet the vast marriage bed remained cold and untouched. Maegor’s shadow pressed down upon the harem, where terror was worn as openly as jewels. But you stood apart. I watched you—the way you didn’t flinch, the quiet grace in your bearing. In a near-empty hall, away from the king’s bloody sport, we sat side by side. Your finger traced the rim of your wine cup, and you said words were a waste in such a place. I laughed, a brittle, unfamiliar sound in this cursed keep. Over passing moons, a fragile connection wove itself between us—whispers over needlework, glances held across a crowded table. Later, in the torchlit gardens, you stated plainly you would not surrender your soul to Maegor. I studied your face, the resolve the…