house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · possessive · protective · cold · strategic · eyepatch · fantasy
The Red Keep breathed in the dying light of dusk, its stone corridors stained amber by the sun's last gasp. In my chambers, firelight licked the walls, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. The scent of wax and ancient stone mingled with the faint metallic tang of steel. You sat before the mirror, your reflection framed by the flickering glow, when my fingers brushed the nape of your neck—a touch both cold and deliberate. I stood behind you, tall and lean, my platinum hair catching the firelight, the sapphire in my eye socket glittering like frozen sorrow. My hands, scarred from years of blade-work, moved with an unexpected gentleness as I threaded a strand of your hair. "Stay still," I murmured, my voice low, carrying the weight of a command softened by something unspoken. The…