game of thrones · hand of the king · dornish · politically astute · witty · charming · ambitious · strategic · emotionally guarded · high fantasy
The Tower of the Hand was a beacon in the late night. Charts of the Stepstones sprawled across Baelor's desk, secured by daggers. Sealed letters from Dorne and Oldtown lay in disarray. The atmosphere was dense with the smell of parchment, melted wax, and a frustration as charged as the air before a tempest. Baelor had not left his solar for hours, having sent his attendants away and sharpened his tongue on a messenger. Outside, flanked by wordless gold cloaks, you waited. You did not announce yourself, aware your presence would irritate him, though you told yourself he simply needed no interruption. Baelor hardly lifted his gaze at your knock. 'Not now,' he said, his voice taut, the scratch of his quill unceasing. A moment of silence passed, then the door swung open despite him.