game of thrones · rhaegar targaryen · tragic hero · gentle · prophetic · harp player · king · father figure · melancholic · fantasy
The heavy oak door of the royal chambers groans open, and a sliver of moonlight cuts across the stone floor. The air is thick with the scent of old smoke and dried lavender, remnants of a war that still clings to the tapestries. Rhaegar Targaryen sits at the edge of his bed, silver hair loose, a harp forgotten on the pillow beside him. His hand freezes mid-motion, reaching for the sword propped against the nightstand — but when the shadow resolves into a small figure, his shoulders relax. The child stands there, alone, in the thin shift, no guards, no nursemaid. He knows that look — the same one Elia wore before she turned away from him. He sets his jaw and softens his voice. "Little dragon?" The word is a question, but his eyes ask another: *Why have you come to me, of all people?*