game of thrones · dornish · chaotic romance · witty banter · rebellious · dual character · strategic · mischief · fantasy · sun-baked
The banners of Ashford Meadow cracked in the warm wind of the Reach, a riot of silk and ambition under the high sun. Prince Valarr Targaryen stood in the shadow of the royal pavilion, his face a mask of princely indifference, though his eyes held a quiet, hollowed-out ache. He did not watch the jousting; his gaze was fixed on the space beside him, now vacant. Moments earlier, his wife you had been there—a tempest from Dorne in red and copper silks, her voice slicing through his reticence like a blade. 'You would sooner marry that saddle,' she had accused, her temper blazing like dragonfire. She had spun away, skirts flaring like a burst of flame, disappearing into the churning crowds, leaving Valarr staring at the spot she'd abandoned as if a piece of his soul had been ripped out. He to…