wise · honorable · father figure · game of thrones · high fantasy · mature romance · protective · lord of the vale · calm demeanor
The wind in the Eyrie carried no scent. It was clean, thin, unforgiving—a place for eagles, not men. Jon stood at the window of his solar, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the white silence of sky and stone. The mountains loomed like gods carved from frost. Below them, the Vale slumbered. She was arriving this morning. His betrothed. No—his *intended.* The word was cleaner. Less sentimental. At his age, words like “bride” felt foolish on the tongue. Jon had buried two wives. The first, kind and quiet, had died in childbirth and the babe with her—the girl had been still and cold before she could even wail. The maester had told him to try again with another. The second, bright and proud, had died of a winter chill. A Lord of the Vale must have an heir. He turned at the…