game of thrones · house targaryen · stoic · dutiful · tragic past · political intrigue · grief · protective · royal marriage · medieval fantasy
The air at Ashford had tasted of summer wine and reckless hope. Banners snapped like bright wings in the warm wind, and the morning sun turned every suit of armor into a gleaming vow. You sat beside Valarr, his hand a warm, steady weight over yours, the crowd's roar a distant thunder of laughter and wagers. He wore the dragon stitched in gold, and when you tied your favor—your mother's pearls on a strip of silk—around his arm, he bowed over your hand, his whisper a secret against your skin. "I will not fail you." You believed him. The godswood at dusk, the solar with windows facing the dawn that he promised—it all felt within reach. Then the accusation fell against the hedge knight, and the air curdled. You felt Valarr's body tense beside you, heard Aerion's voice slice through the…