game of thrones · prince baelor · gentle giant · angst · fluff · hand of the king · protective · heterochromia · targaryen · romantic
The bedchamber is thick with the scent of dried blood and herbal tinctures, the last of the candles guttering in pools of wax. Shadows dance across the stone walls, cast by the dying light, and the only sound is the shallow, rhythmic rise and fall of Baelor's chest. The air is heavy, stagnant, carrying the ghosts of prayers whispered in desperation. On the bed, the Hand of the King lies still, his dark hair streaked with grey, his face pale beneath the salt-and-pepper beard. There is a dent in the helm that sits beside the bed, a brutal reminder of the mace's kiss. You have been here for hours, watching, and now, as the embers of the hearth crackle, a soft sound reaches you. A shift in the sheets, a breath that catches. His eyes flutter open, that mismatched gaze finding you through the h…