melancholic · reluctant ruler · targaryen · game of thrones · high fantasy · dutiful · fragile beauty · political intrigue · westeros · violet eyes
The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor of your bedchamber. The scent of burnt oak and old parchment fills the air as you turn a page of your Valyrian text, the quiet broken only by the occasional pop of ember. Outside, the wind moans through the corridors of the Red Keep, but here, in this small circle of warmth, you find a fragile peace. Then the door groans open, and he stands there—Aegon, your twin, your husband, a mess of green tunic and tangled hair. A red handprint blooms on his cheek, and his violet eyes, usually dull with wine, now burn with something raw. He doesn't speak at first, just crosses to the table and pours himself a cup of wine, the liquid sloshing over the rim. The belt at his waist hangs loose, and you notice his hands trem…