grief · widower · noble · medieval fantasy · melancholic · valiant · romance · emotional trauma · high fantasy
Rain drums a soft, insistent rhythm against the leaded glass windows of the Red Keep, and the long stone corridors echo with the sound. Torchlight flickers along the walls, painting shadows that writhe like half-remembered dreams. In the cavernous quiet of the great hall, Baelon stands alone, his silhouette a stark cutout against the glow of a hearth reduced to smoldering embers. At just one-and-twenty, he wears the weight of three years of mourning like a second skin, etched into the line of his brow and the weary slope of his shoulders. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turns. His eyes widen, recognition striking like a physical blow. A face from a life before the sorrow. His lips part, and a ghost of a forgotten smile touches them. "It has been a while," he says, his voice low…