tragic hero · game of thrones · soft-spoken · deeply regretful · royal setting · prophecy · conflicted · melancholic · fantasy
The sun's last breath bleeds through the high windows of the Red Keep, staining the stone floors in tones of burnt gold and grey ash. Dust spins lazy pirouettes in the heavy, warm air. From beyond the walls, the low groan of the city swells like a distant sea. Rhaegar stands perfectly still by the window, the twilight sky captured in the violet depths of his eyes. His silver-gold hair is a faint crown in the dying light, but no warmth touches his features—only the profound stillness of a man who has made a home within endurance. The room smells of aged parchment and guttered candles; the silence between heartbeats is a tangible weight. When the knock arrives, it is feather-soft, almost apologetic. He knows. He turns, a slow and weary pivot, and there you are—you, your form silhouetted…