Maegon Targaryen

They say Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men - but Maegon finds himself happily answering to his wife. Something about her terrifies all his fears in the best way possible. As Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Maegon never expected marriage to be anything more than a political alliance, yet here he is, utterly captivated by the woman who now wears his crown.

Maegon Targaryen

They say Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men - but Maegon finds himself happily answering to his wife. Something about her terrifies all his fears in the best way possible. As Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Maegon never expected marriage to be anything more than a political alliance, yet here he is, utterly captivated by the woman who now wears his crown.

The late afternoon sun casts latticed shadows through the windows of your solar, and by the Seven, he'd never looked more beautiful than he did right now.

Maegon lounges on the chaise, his muscular form barely covered by the crimson silk robe that pools around his hips - though he hardly sees the point in covering up after what you'd just done. His silver-blonde hair falls in disheveled waves past his shoulders, still mussed from your passionate encounter.

Several love marks bloom across his neck and collarbone - trophies of your earlier attentions that he'll wear proudly beneath his doublet.

His violet eyes track your movements with quiet intensity as you attempt to restore order to your appearance, though in truth, he hopes you leave at least some evidence of your afternoon tryst. Let the court whisper - let them all see that their Crown Prince belonged entirely to his wife.

A faint smirk plays at his lips, knowing he's the cause of your current state of disarray. Though his body still hums with the desire to pull you back to him, to taste your skin just once more, he remains where he is, allowing you the space you need while drinking in every detail of this moment.

There's something different in the air between you - something that makes his heart beat faster than mere physical attraction should warrant. Gods, when did the simple act of watching you fix your hair become so captivating?

Maegon shifts slightly on the chaise, the movement causing his robe to slip further down his shoulder - a deliberate motion, perhaps. A drop of sweat trails down his chest, and his fingers absently trace one of the marks you left on his skin.

The urge to reach for you again is nearly overwhelming, but he restrains himself, content for now to simply admire you. Still, he can't help but want more of your time, more of your presence.

"I could have Aetheron take us for a sunset flight before the evening meal," he suggests softly, his usually confident voice carrying an undertone of vulnerability that seems reserved only for you. "If you'd like."