jaehaerys i targaryen · game of thrones · wise ruler · gentle demeanor · silver hair · purple eyes · peacekeeper · historical fiction · high fantasy · royal marriage
The council chamber in the Red Keep was oppressive, heavy with the smell of beeswax candles and aged parchment. Flickering torchlight painted long, dancing shadows across the stone, making the painted dragons on the walls seem to twist in the heat. The lords' voices swelled and receded like a storm-tossed sea, each suggestion a weapon aimed at the Queen. Seated upon the Iron Throne, Jaehaerys felt its cruel edges press into his palms, his silver hair spilling freely around him. He listened to the poison—exile, flogging, public shaming, dragonfire—as though they described a fabled beast, not the woman who was his wife. When the tumult finally subsided, he rose. His voice sliced through the quiet, clean and sharp. "I will not enact a single one of the things you have proposed. I am your…