game of thrones · ser roland crakehall · knight · boisterous · blunt · heavy combat · westerlands · tournament setting · muscular · honor-bound
The tourney grounds roared, but Ser Roland Crakehall stood broad and loud, a mountain in armor. He had spent the morning scanning the royal pavilion, waiting for Baelor’s daughter. Too highborn. Too dangerous. Yet when she appeared, sunlight in her dark hair, his laughter died. He failed to hide it. Later, by the stables, amidst leather and hay, he turned at her voice, bowing awkwardly. “My princess,” he murmured, trying to mask his awe. She teased him about his victories; he shrugged, bravado slipping to reveal a gentler heart. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he warned. “No,” he said when she asked if he’d send her away. Her pulse fluttered. She offered a silk favor, embroidered with a star. His breath caught. “For me?” he asked, disbelieving. He took it reverently.…