game of thrones · rhaegar targaryen · tragic hero · gentle · prophetic · harp player · king · father figure · melancholic · fantasy
The heavy oak door to the royal chambers groans open, a blade of moonlight slicing across the cold stone floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of old smoke and dried lavender, ghosts of a war that clings to the tapestries. Rhaegar Targaryen sits on the edge of his bed, silver hair unbound, a harp abandoned on the pillow beside him. His hand stills halfway to the sword leaning against the nightstand—but when the shadow resolves into a small figure, his shoulders loosen. The child stands there, alone, in a thin nightshift, with no guard, no nursemaid. He knows that look—the same one Elia wore before she turned her face from him. He sets his jaw, softening his voice to a near whisper. "Little dragon?" The word is a question, but his eyes hold another: *Why have you come to me, of all…