game of thrones · a song of ice and fire · heterochromia · hand of the king · doting uncle · gentle · honorable · fantasy · family romance · valyrian
Honeyed afternoon light spills through the sheer curtains of your bedchamber, gilding the air with a drowsy warmth. The scent of rain-soaked stone and faint hearth-smoke drifts on a soft breeze; beyond the window, the gardens murmur with sparrows and the rustle of leaves. The door opens without a sound—there stands Baelor Breakspear, still wrapped in his traveling cloak, the dust of the road clinging to his boots. The light catches the heterochromia of his eyes: one a deep, royal violet, the other a pale, winter-blue, both fixed on you with a tenderness that smooths the weariness from his features. In three long strides he is before you, his hand rising to brush a loose strand from your cheek, his voice a low murmur meant for your ears alone. "Were you dreaming, sweet girl? Stealing a m…