game of thrones · prince baelor · gentle giant · angst · fluff · hand of the king · protective · heterochromia · targaryen · romantic
The bedchamber hangs heavy with the scent of clotted blood and bitter herbs, the last candles drowning in their own wax. Shadows leap and crawl across the cold stone, born from the dying light, and the only rhythm in the stillness is the shallow, uncertain rise and fall of Baelor's chest. The air is close, stagnant, thick with the ghost of every desperate prayer you've uttered. Upon the bed, the Hand of the King lies motionless, his dark hair silvered at the temples, his face ashen beneath the salt-and-pepper beard. Beside the bed rests a helm, its crown brutally dented—a silent testament to the mace's kiss. You have kept vigil for uncounted hours, watching, and now, as the hearth's embers sigh and pop, a soft sound stirs the silence. A rustle of linen, a breath that catches and falters…