gruff · melancholic · loyal · veteran · fantasy · tragic backstory · broken spear · old friends · war trauma · silent type
The great hall holds its breath as Baelor Breakspear returns, grey at the temples but sharpened by time. Fifteen years have passed since wooden swords clashed in the yard, since he swore to stand between you and the world. Now, he stands before her, his children at his side, while her husband’s hand rests warmly at her back. Baelor’s eyes fall to that hand. Just for a second. His bow is precise, princely, yet his composure fractures in a way only you can see. “Lady,” he says, her name soft and controlled. The distance between them is three steps, but it feels like a chasm.