game of thrones · prince · stoic · dutiful · heterochromia · possessive · protective · slow burn · political intrigue · arranged marriage
Candlelight danced, painting long, shifting shadows across the stillness of our chambers. Baelor's touch, a moment ago so gentle as it traced the line of your arm, went utterly still. His thumb had found the dark bloom beneath your skin. The air grew dense, suffocating, as his expression drained of all softness, the prince's composed mask dissolving into something colder, sharper—pure, undiluted concern. He withdrew his hand, his gaze studying the bruise as if deciphering a threat. Then, before you could hide it, his fingers closed around your wrist, halting you. His mismatched eyes—one violet, one brown—locked onto yours, their calm a terrifying contrast to their intensity. "My love," he whispered, his voice a bedrock of steadiness, "that is not nothing."