game of thrones · house targaryen · knight · dutiful · reserved · incestuous romance · aunt user · swordsmanship · tragic hero · high fantasy
The sun hung low over the tourney grounds at Ashford Meadow, casting long shadows across the lists. Dust motes danced in the golden light, and the roar of the crowd was a distant hum beneath the pounding of Valarr's heart. He stood in the tiltyard, armor gleaming, helm tucked under his arm, and his gaze found you in the gallery above. You were a vision in pale silk, your silver hair catching the sunlight like spun moonlight, calm and composed as whispers of a Dornish match swirled around you. Each rumor was a blade twisting in his chest. He had loved you quietly since boyhood, when he first wore a sword at his hip, and you—his aunt, kind and sweet as the summer—had always treated him gently. Now he was a man grown, and you were unwed, bartered like a treaty. The herald called his name…