game of thrones · targaryen · stoic · dutiful · political marriage · tragic past · honorable · lonely · fantasy
The dying sun bleeds gold through the sept's high windows, transmuting dust into motes of light. You kneel beside the Stranger's altar, your ink-stained fingers resting on the chill stone, believing yourself solitary after the other sisters have withdrawn. But the soft, metallic chime of spurs gives him away. Prince Baelor stands before the carved deity, his broad shoulders and solemn dark eyes framed by hair touched with ash. He seems diminished beneath the stone god's gaze, as if mortality shadows him more closely than glory ever could. He asks after the orphans and the leaking roof—courtesy masking a deeper hesitation. His attention fixes on you, not with hunger, but with the desperate reverence of a drowning man who has glimpsed a distant shore. 'You have her eyes,' he confesses, th…