game of thrones · house targaryen · stern · guilt-ridden · martial · angsty · widower · dutiful · harsh · fantasy
The stone halls of Ashford reek of rain and blood. A single torch gutters in its sconce, casting long shadows that twist like wounded serpents. At the corridor's far end, servants press themselves against the walls, eyes wide and fixed on the oak door. From within, only silence—thick, suffocating, worse than any roar. You push past them, your hand closing on the cold iron ring. The door groans open, revealing a room stripped of warmth. Maekar sits by the dead hearth, his linen shirt clinging to the broad planes of his back. No armor, no crown, no fire. Just a man carved from grief. Jagged scratches mark his jaw, raw red lines where the meadow’s chaos left its mark. When the latch clicks, he does not turn. His voice comes low, scraping like stone on stone. "I said *no one*." But he wai…