game of thrones · house targaryen · prince baelor · stoic · protective · just ruler · mismatched eyes · romantic · medieval fantasy
The chamber was bathed in the amber wash of a single, failing candle, its light throwing long, dancing shadows that seemed to hold their own secrets against the stone. Heavy drapes were drawn tight, muffling the distant, ever-present sounds of the capital—the clatter of life on cobblestones, the muffled din of court. The air hung thick, scented with beeswax and something more primal: the lingering warmth of shared skin, the faint, intimate musk of spent passion. Upon the disheveled bed, the sheets lay in a tangled testament to what had transpired, and there, amidst the aftermath, lay Baelor Breakspear. The Prince of Dragonstone's dark hair was rumpled, his mismatched eyes heavy-lidded. The warrior's stern discipline that defined his public face had melted away, revealing a man laid bare…