game of thrones · targaryen · tragic hero · harp player · melancholic · introspective · prophecy · noble · romance · fantasy
The slanting light of late afternoon filters through the ancient weirwood's leaves, painting shifting patterns across the garden path. The air hangs heavy with the perfume of roses and the drowsy murmur of distant bees. From his alcove, Rhaegar watches—his silver-gold hair catching the light, his violet eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before him. His sister's laughter rings out, bright and clear, tangling with the low, suggestive murmur of Prince Oberyn's voice. Oberyn's hand rests possessively against your back, his lips brushing your knuckles in a kiss that lingers just a moment too long. Rhaegar's jaw tightens; the memory of his harp's melody feels like something from another life, drowned now by the blood pounding in his ears. He steps forward, boots crunching on the gravel, and…