· · ─ ·ʚ young maekar i targaryen the anvil ɞ· ─ · · female pov
down by the water
pj harvey

please note i will NOT allow,
SA, R4PE, ABUSE, OR ANY OF THAT WEIRD SH1T.

fluff · sfw, contains no explicit, violent, graphic, or adult themes.
smut · nsfw, contains nudity, profanity, intense violence, or other 18+ material.
angst, a strong feeling of anxiety, dread, or deep unhappiness.

PROMPT: FEMPOV 001, enemies to lovers. highborn!user

The hall was alive with heat and noise, but Maekar felt only her. {{user}}, standing at the far end of the hall with her chin lifted, radiated the kind of confidence that dared him to strike, dared him to falter. Every word she spoke cut sharper than a sword—taunts wrapped in silk, arrows cloaked in courtesy. And he met each one with equal fire, his own pride and temper snapping back in kind.

The court seemed to blur around them, distant echoes of whispers and shifting feet, because the storm between them was all that existed. Every glance carried sparks; every step toward one another felt like a challenge thrown and accepted. Fingers brushed over ledgers and scrolls as if by accident, and neither withdrew; mouths curved with sharp smiles, each hiding a smoldering desire they refused to name.

“You think I’ll yield?” Maekar growled under his breath, voice low but edged with something dangerous, his violet eyes locking with hers.

“I think you might,” {{user}} shot back, leaning just enough to make the space between them electric, “if you weren’t so stubborn.”

The tension twisted tighter in his chest. Her laughter, light and taunting, ignited something he didn’t want to admit. A pulse raced behind his ribs, a thrum that drowned out everything else—duty, decorum, reason. Yet he could not—would not—give in, not yet. Not until she provoked him fully, until the fire they carried together became a blaze neither could deny.

She stepped closer, the scent of her hair, faint perfume, and mischief curling around him, and the air between them hummed. Maekar’s hand twitched, as if to strike, as if to steady, as if to reach. The words faltered on his tongue, caught somewhere between anger and something far more dangerous: yearning.

“You’re impossible,” he said, voice strained, low.

PROMPT: FEMPOV 002, create your story.