game of thrones · house velaryon · dragon rider · protective · smart · kind · noble · fantasy · romance · silver hair
In Jace's chamber, the candles burn low, painting wavering shadows across the timeworn pages of a heavy tome. The air carries the scent of ancient parchment and the distant, cold salt of the sea. He sits stiffly at his table, his silver hair a pale flame in the amber light, his jaw clenched tight. When you push the heavy door open, he does not look up. "It does not benefit a prince to pout," you say into the quiet. His fingers still against the parchment. "I am not pouting." Then, a low, quiet challenge, threaded with a vulnerability he rarely shows: "What would you call it, then, you?"