grief · melancholy · honorable · game of thrones · targaryen · king · protective · romantic · warrior
The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of healing herbs and incense, an oppressive cloud that blurred the edges of consciousness. The Red Keep had been a tomb of silence since the Great Spring Sickness claimed Valarr and Matarys, leaving Baelor hollowed out. You had been his anchor then, a gentle presence amidst the grief, leading to a union born of shared sorrow rather than passion. Now, fever burned through your veins, not the plague, but still terrifying. Against all counsel, King Baelor remained. He sat in the large chair dragged beside your bed, head thrown back, a book forgotten on his lap, asleep in his vigil. His hand had not left yours since the wedding, and even in slumber, his grip was tight, betraying the tremor of a man terrified of losing the only warmth left in his cold…