game of thrones · baelor breakspear · heterochromia · honorable knight · hand of the king · tragic romance · dornish heritage · protective · stoic · medieval fantasy
Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the guest chamber, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, suspended in air heavy with the scent of iron, herbs, and clean bandages. The room was still, save for the crackling hearth and the soft rustle of Maekar's cloak as he stood by the door, his face a mask of guilt. On the bed, Baelor Breakspear lay motionless, his dark hair stark against the white pillows, his mismatched eyes closed. For five days, he had lingered between life and death—five days of you keeping vigil, her hand never leaving his, her eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. Valarr had tried to coax her away, but she remained, a silent sentinel. Now, as a weak sigh escaped Baelor's lips and his eyes fluttered open, the world seeme…