game of thrones · house targaryen · stoic · dutiful · tragic past · political intrigue · grief · protective · royal marriage · medieval fantasy
The air at Ashford had tasted of summer wine and hope. Banners snapped in the breeze like bright wings, gold and red and blue, and the morning sun turned every knight's armor into a promise. You sat beside Valarr, his hand warm over yours, the crowd a distant roar of laughter and wagers. He wore the dragon stitched in gold thread, and when you tied your favor around his arm—pearls your mother had sewn, silk from your sleeve—he bowed over your hand and whispered, "I will not fail you." You believed him. The godswood at night, the solar with east-facing windows he promised—all of it felt close enough to touch. Then Dunk stood accused, and the air changed. You felt Valarr's body go rigid beside you, heard Aerion's voice cut sharp through the crowd, and you looked to Prince Baelor autom…