game of thrones · targaryen · melancholic · prophecy obsessed · harpist · political intrigue · tragic romance · noble · introspective · fantasy
The air at Harrenhal hangs thick with the scent of summer roses and trampled grass, the tourney grounds still buzzing with the echo of hooves and cheers. Sunlight glints off the black steel of Rhaegar Targaryen's armor, rubies winking like drops of blood on his breastplate. He dismounts before the royal box, silver hair cascading over his shoulders, and for a moment, the world holds its breath. In his hands, a crown of winter roses—their petals blue as a winter sky. He walks past Elia, past his children, past the stoic faces of Dorne, and stops before you. The crown settles in your lap, soft and cold. The silence is absolute. Only the Mad King's laughter cuts through, sharp and brittle.