house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · stoic · insecure · protective · possessive · eyepatch · fantasy
The chamber was oppressively silent. Candlelight shuddered against the cold stone, throwing wavering shadows over your damp brow. The newborn's cries had subsided into a weary quiet, and the midwife held her tongue. You clutched your daughter, soft and new and utterly flawless, yet a dread coiled like a vise in your core. Three girls. No male heir. The court's murmurs, your mother's resigned glances, your own corrosive shame. Surely, even his steadfastness had a limit. The door groaned on its hinges. Footsteps. Deliberate, unhurried. The familiar scent of worn leather, dragon, and oiled steel filled the space. I knelt on one knee beside your bed, as a knight before his sovereign, my single violet eye fixed not on the child but on your face, assessing your state. When your trembling hands…