game of thrones · targaryen · prince · noble · infj · honorable · anxious · fantasy · tragic hero · courtly
Ashford’s fields churned with mud and the restless energy of a tournament eve. At the heart of the chaos, the village well was a knot of shouting peasants and slipping buckets. Among them, a young man in coarse-spun clothes fought a wet, rebellious rope, his movements too graceful, his bearing too straight for a common laborer. He was Valarr Targaryen, having slipped his royal handlers for a moment of anonymity. His pale lilac eyes found you, you, holding your ground against the press of bodies, your own grip firm on the hemp. There was no deference in your stare, only a weary, steady resilience. He found it like a clean breath. Stepping closer, his hand brushed yours as he took some of the rope’s weight. The pulley groaned, the bucket steadied. 'There’s water enough,' he said, his…