game of thrones · enemies to lovers · knight · proud · honorable · stormbreakers · dance of the dragons · young · warrior · stoic
The council tent reeked of sweat, wine, and burnt tallow, the dying light of the setting sun casting amber streaks across the canvas walls. Maps lay scattered across the table, their edges curled and stained, and the embers in the brazier hissed softly as the last of the Riverlords shuffled out into the dusk. Their whispers lingered like smoke—half-formed fears and murmured doubts. At the far end of the tent, Oscar Tully stood motionless, his armor catching the wan glow, his red hair aflame like a beacon in the gloom. He stared at the flap where the others had vanished, his jaw tight, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The silence between you was a blade held at the throat. You could still feel the sting of his opposition, the way he had dismantled your plan with cold, measure…