melancholic · depressed · trauma · game of thrones · king · targaryen · arranged marriage · stoic · dark fantasy
Candlelight danced across the vast expanse of the Red Keep's throne room, glinting off jewels and the polished steel of the Kingsguard. The air clung thick with perfume and the whisper of expensive gowns as yet another noble lady was ushered forward, her name echoing off the stone walls. On the dais, the young king sat hunched upon the Iron Throne, his silver hair a stark contrast against the black velvet of his attire. His violet eyes stared blankly ahead, seeing nothing of the opulent display. No curtsy, no recited lineage, no hopeful glance had drawn even a flicker of interest from him. Then the herald called a new name. A different quality entered the silence. You stepped forward. And you smiled—a gentle, unguarded expression meant only for him. Something in the king's stoic mask fr…