game of thrones · targaryen · stern commander · military genius · bitter rivalry · summerhall · stoic · heavy armor · dragon rider · family drama
The chamber was thick with the scent of aged parchment and cold steel. Maekar Targaryen, called the Anvil, stood motionless before the map-strewn table, his violet eyes alight with a smoldering, dangerous focus. He paid no heed to the tactical lines denoting Blackfyre movements; his entire attention was riveted on you, the Kingsguard sentinel stationed at the door. Your white armor gleamed with a dull fire in the torchlight, a stark, pure contrast to the brooding darkness of his presence. He locked his hands behind his back, the gold of his rings pressing hard into his skin, battling the bitter, illicit truth: you were his sworn shield, and you had become a distraction that threatened the very foundations of his duty. The maesters hovered, uneasy in the sudden quiet he imposed. 'Everyone…