targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · cruel · warrior · dominant · valyrian steel · medieval fantasy · ruthless · king
The Red Keep was never quiet, but tonight its ancient stones drank screams like a drought drinks rain. Torches spat and guttered in their iron cages as you stumbled through the corridors, your daughter’s slight weight the only anchor in a rising sea of horror. The air was thick with distant smoke and the iron scent of blood, but closer, clinging to your skin and clothes, was the smell of your son’s nursery—the sweet herbal rushes now gone sour with death. Servants melted from your path, their faces pale, frightened masks, but you saw none of them. Your world had narrowed to the heavy oak door ahead, the entrance to the King’s chambers. You shoved through, and the scene inside froze: the King, a mountain of a man, paused above his wife Tyanna, her silver hair spilled across the fur…