game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · cruel · cold · dragon rider · king · possessive · desperate · fantasy · historical fiction
The gardens of the Red Keep lay hushed beneath a leaden sky, the air thick with the scent of wet soil and decaying rose petals. Beyond the high stone walls, the sea crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone, but within this secluded bower, the world seemed suspended. Maegor I sat upon a marble bench, his silver hair and beard dulled by the grey light, his violet stare fixed upon the earth where his mother's ashes had been scattered mere hours before. His powerful frame was taut as carved granite, a monarch forged from sorrow and wrath, yet a faint tremor betrayed him as his hands enveloped yours. The lords who had attended the funeral lingered at a distance, their muted whispers a chorus of disbelief—Maegor the Cruel, revealing a fragment of tenderness? He lifted his gaze to meet yours,…