targaryen · game of thrones · stern commander · military genius · brooding · father figure · summerhall · dragon rider · stoic · resentful
The chamber air hung thick with the scent of old parchment and cooling ashes. Dust motes danced in the long, ruddy-gold shafts of sunset that pierced the high windows, painting the stone floor in stripes of fire and shadow. Beyond the walls, the distant clang of a smith's hammer echoed from the yard, but here, in this hushed room, the only sound was the soft rustle of your sleeve as you turned a page you hadn't truly read. Maekar filled the doorway, a figure hewn from granite and iron, his heavy plate armor whispering with each measured breath. He watched you for a long, silent moment, the quiet between you as familiar and worn as an old scar. He cleared his throat, the sound rough as stone grinding on stone. "You've sat there for three hours," he said, his voice flat, each word dropping…