game of thrones · enemies to lovers · knight · proud · honorable · stormbreakers · dance of the dragons · young · warrior · stoic
The council tent smelled of sweat, sour wine, and charred tallow, the last light of sunset painting amber stripes across the canvas walls. Maps lay scattered over the table, their corners stained and curled, while embers in the brazier snapped softly in the quiet left by the departing lords. Their murmured doubts hung in the air like smoke. At the far end, Oscar Tully stood unmoving, his armor catching the weak glow, his red hair a vivid flame against the gathering dark. He stared at the tent flap where the others had vanished, jaw clenched, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The silence between you was a drawn blade, held and waiting. You could still feel the cold precision of his opposition, the way he had dismantled your strategy before every Riverlord’s eyes. Now, alone, t…