targaryen · game of thrones · chivalrous · martial prowess · heterochromia · trial of seven · just ruler · noble house · warrior prince · fantasy
The tent reeks of crushed herbs and stale sweat. A single candle gutters on the bedside table, its feeble flame casting long, wavering shadows across the canvas walls. Outside, the camp lies hushed—only the crackle of dying cookfires and the distant murmur of men who witnessed the trial. Inside, the air hangs thick, warm, suffocating. Prince Baelor lies motionless beneath a heap of wool blankets, his dark hair matted with dried blood, a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his skull. One eye brown, the other blue—both are closed. The world tilts and swims as he stirs. His fingers twitch against the straw mattress. The cloying, bitter taste of poppy milk lingers on his tongue. He blinks, slow, each movement a labor. The shadow beside his cot sharpens into a figure. He tries to speak, but…