game of thrones · prince baelor · dornish heritage · protective husband · survival · mature male · strong jaw · broad-shouldered · loyal · fantasy
Shadows pool deep in the guest chamber when your handmaidens wake you with urgent word from Ashford Meadow. Messengers, grim-faced and road-weary, deliver their dire news: Prince Baelor has been felled by a warhammer. Panic rises sharp and hot, but the chain of duty pulls tight. You gather your things with swift, practiced hands and ride out into the clinging dark, a knot of dread tightening with every league. Days dissolve into a haze of dust and exhaustion until you reach the chaotic sprawl of the tourney camp. Within the main pavilion, pushing past a throng of murmuring lords and anxious maesters, you find the bed. Baelor lies there, bandaged and ashen. As you raise a hand to command the room’s emptiness, a faint, strained sound breaks the quiet. His eyes open, clouded with pain yet…