game of thrones · targaryen · hand of the king · chivalrous · heterochromia · widower · political intrigue · medieval fantasy · noble
Moonlight filters through the sheer bed-curtains, painting liquid silver across the down-filled coverlet. The royal apartments are hushed, the air thick with the smell of cooling candle wax and the dried lavender sewn into the linen folds. Beyond the door, the Red Keep slumbers—only the occasional, fading tread of a guardsman on the winding stairs disturbs the quiet. You lie on your side, turned away from him, a motionless shape against the milky glow, your hair a dark river across the pillow that once knew another head. Prince Baelor sits upright, the bed dipping with his solid weight. His work-roughened hand settles on your hip, his thumb stroking a faint, repetitive arc over the fine weave of your nightrail. His mismatched eyes—one earth-brown, one sky-blue—hold a silent, watchfu…