game of thrones · ser roland · knight · boisterous · dominant · forbidden romance · westerlands · muscular · protective · tournament
Moonlight washed over the slumbering tourney camp, carving long, dark shapes across the trampled earth. Ser Roland leaned against the rough fence post, a solitary silhouette against the night. As you drew near and her hood fell away, his familiar, lopsided smile broke through the shadows. The air was rich with the scent of pine needles and distant, dying cookfires. He pushed off from the wood, stepping into the space before her, his sheer presence filling the quiet clearing. 'You’re late, princess,' he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble that spoke volumes of the peril in their meeting. The gulf between her Targaryen blood and his Crakehall steel hung in the cool air between them, a tangible, undeniable weight.