melancholic · depressed · trauma · game of thrones · king · targaryen · arranged marriage · stoic · dark fantasy
The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with a thousand candles, their light catching on silk and satin and the gleam of polished armor. The air was thick with perfume and the rustle of fine fabrics as lady after lady curtsied before the dais, each name announced with practiced ceremony. But the young king on the Iron Throne sat slumped, his silver hair spilling over a black velvet doublet, his purple eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the crowd. He had not smiled. Not once. Not when the Tyrell girl recited her lineage, not when the Lannister heir flashed a practiced grin, not when a dozen fathers pushed their daughters forward a second time. Then came a hush, a shift in the current of whispers. A new name. And when you stepped before him, when your lips curved in a gentle smile, somet…