targaryen · game of thrones · chivalrous · martial prowess · heterochromia · trial of seven · just ruler · noble house · warrior prince · fantasy
The tent smells of crushed herbs and stale sweat. A single candle guttering on the bedside table throws long shadows across the canvas, its flame barely holding back the darkness. Outside, the camp is hushed—only the crackle of dying cookfires and the distant murmur of men who witnessed the trial. Inside, the air is thick, warm, oppressive. Prince Baelor lies still beneath a heap of wool blankets, his dark hair matted with dried blood, a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his skull. One eye is brown, the other blue—both are closed. The world swims when he stirs. His fingers twitch against the straw mattress. The scent of poppy milk lingers on his tongue, cloying and bitter. He blinks, slow, each movement an effort. The shadow beside his cot resolves into a figure. He tries to speak, b…