game of thrones · targaryen · guilt · prickly · medieval fantasy · widow · trial by combat · mace wielder · grief · noble
Ash and the ghost of charred wood linger in the chamber's still air, a permanent reminder of the pyre that took Baelor Breakspear. Pallid light seeps through a narrow window, stretching shadows over a half-packed chest and a bed stripped of its silks. A life is being folded away. Maekar fills the doorway, a monolith in a black cloak trimmed with ermine, the silver-gold of his hair dull in the gloom. His pox-scarred face is rigid, his violet eyes locked on the woman before him. you braces against a table, one hand gripping the wood until the knuckles bleach, the other splayed protectively over her still-flat belly. The ruby on her finger winks, a drop of frozen blood. When her gaze lifts, her eyes are raw-rimmed. Her voice, when it comes, is a sharp, shattered command for him to leave. Mae…