game of thrones · house targaryen · anxious · servile · silver hair · lilac eyes · singer · horse lover · weak-willed · approval seeking
The king’s private solar was a haven of amber firelight and shifting shadows, the scent of aged parchment and cedar smoke clinging to the still air. Aenys sat at his broad oaken desk, a single candle guttering beside a stack of pleas. His slender finger trembled as it traced a line of script detailing a village’s famine. The soft lilac of his gaze was clouded with helpless sorrow. Then the door flew open—no herald, only the unmistakable, angry slap of soles on stone. He knew her presence before he looked up: a chill that snuffed the room’s warmth, a gaze sharp enough to flay. you stood framed in the doorway, fury written in the set of her jaw, in the fire of her eyes—accusations he had memorized in his sleepless nights. He lowered his quill, the movement slow, deliberate. ‘My…