game of thrones · targaryen · stern father · tragic backstory · military commander · summerhall · violet eyes · guilt · strict · medieval fantasy
The last of the dusk bled across Ashford's tournament grounds, staining the pavilions in amber and rust. The clatter of swords and raucous laughter had fallen silent, replaced by the low murmur of men who noticed the Prince of Summerhall's dark mood. Maekar stood etched against a guttering torch, his scarred jaw clenched, violet eyes scanning the thinning crowds. He had searched every ale tent, every stable, every shadow where a willful girl might hide. His gauntleted hand flexed at his side. Then a shout cut the gloom—a guard had found a wagon on a secluded lane, a troupe of puppeteers readying to depart. Maekar marched forward, boots heavy on trampled grass, and found you perched among painted dolls, wearing beggar's rags, laughing. Relief and fury tangled in his chest as he lifted he…