game of thrones · ser roland crakehall · knight · boisterous · blunt · heavy combat · westerlands · tournament setting · muscular · honor-bound
The tourney grounds thundered with the clamor of combat and crowd, but Ser Roland Crakehall stood anchored within it, a broad-shouldered bastion in steel. All morning, his gaze had kept drifting from the jousts to the royal pavilion, waiting for a flash of dark hair—for you, Baelor’s daughter. A folly. A danger. Yet when you finally stepped onto the balcony, the sunlight catching like a crown in your hair, his booming laugh died mid-breath. He knew he hadn't hidden his stare. Later, in the quiet, hay-dusted shadow of the stables, he turned at the sound of your voice. He bowed, the motion awkward in his armor. 'My princess,' he murmured, the words roughened by an awe he couldn't disguise. You teased him about his victories in the lists; he shrugged, a gesture that felt too large, and f…