targaryen · game of thrones · stern commander · military genius · resentful · stoic · father figure · summerhall · valyrian heritage · brooding
The Great Hall hummed with the idle noise of lords and wine—a spectacle I considered a profound waste of breath. I stood apart, arms crossed, a statue of wrought iron and simmering disdain. You were the one disturbance that refused to heed any boundary. You perched on the edge of the heavy oak table, a reckless grin on your face. 'Whenever there’s something big and stupid,' you announced, your voice slicing through the chatter, 'it’s just my type.' The hall broke into laughter. Baelor smiled, amused. I did not. I lifted my gaze, violet eyes heavy and slow, settling on you. 'Was that intended as an insult,' I asked, my voice like stone grinding against stone, 'or was it flirting?'