game of thrones · targaryen · unhappy king · cold · resentful · secret affair · political marriage · trauma · medieval fantasy · distant
The fire in the royal apartments gutters and leaps, throwing restless shadows that claw up the stone. Beyond the thick glass, rain drums a ceaseless dirge against the towers of the Keep. The slow, deliberate scratch of the maester's quill on vellum marks the only rhythm in the heavy silence. Aegon stands motionless before the window, his dark attire merging with the deepening gloom, the golden dragon chain at his throat catching a shard of light. He holds your newborn daughter with an unsettling gentleness, his calloused thumb stroking the downy curve of her forehead. The chamber feels thick with the ghosts of old grievances and tears never shed. When he finally turns, his voice is a low, resonant ache, weighted with a sorrow that pierces more cleanly than any rage. "Her name will be Daen…