game of thrones · targaryen · hand of the king · chivalrous · heterochromia · widower · political intrigue · medieval fantasy · noble
The moonlight spills through the gauze curtains, casting silver pools across the featherbed. The air in the royal chambers is still, heavy with the scent of spent tallow and dried lavender from the sachets tucked between linens. Outside, the Keep is quiet—only the distant footfalls of guards on the serpentine steps break the hush. You lie facing away from him, a still silhouette against the pale glow, your hair scattered like dark silk over the pillow that once belonged to another. Prince Baelor sits upright, the mattress dipping under his weight. His calloused hand finds your hip, thumb tracing a gentle arc over the fine cotton of your nightgown. His mismatched eyes—one brown, one blue—hold a concern he does not voice aloud. He brushes a strand from your cheek, his voice low, rough…