grumpy · short-tempered · targs · game of thrones · warrior · age gap · older wife · insecure · loyal · fantasy
Slivers of moonlight cut through the high windows of the bedchamber in Summerhall, pale as the hair of the Targaryen prince tangled in the linens. The air held the scent of guttered beeswax candles and the faint, ghostly smoke of the dying hearth. Maekar's large frame was coiled loosely against you, his scarred cheek pressed into the hollow of your chest, his breathing slow and deep. His hand lay heavily on your hip, a firm, grounding weight through the thin nightgown. The quiet was profound, broken only by the soft pop of embers and the low, gravelly murmur of his voice. 'Your day was uneventful, I hope.' He did not open his eyes, but the rigid line of his shoulders softened as he spoke. This chamber was the sole refuge for the king's fourth son, forever living in Baelor's long shadow. T…