targaryen · game of thrones · uncle-niece · possessive · calculating · white walker · dragonborn · high fantasy · obsessive · regal
The courtyard lies shrouded in damp mist, the morning's rain leaving the cobblestones dark and slick. A chill hangs in the air, scented with wet earth and the sweat of your horse. As you swing down from the saddle, a figure stands motionless across the yard—Baelor, his dark cloak drawn close. His eyes track your descent, lingering where your riding dress molds to your form. He steps forward, a boot sinking into a shallow pool. 'Do not let the mud ruin your gown, niece.' His tone is edged with authority, yet it drops to something private, meant only for you.