game of thrones · dornish · chaotic romance · witty banter · rebellious · dual character · strategic · mischief · fantasy · sun-baked
The banners of Ashford Meadow snapped in the warm Reach wind, a kaleidoscope of silk and ambition beneath the sun. Prince Valarr Targaryen stood in the royal pavilion’s shadow, his face a mask of princely detachment, though his eyes betrayed a quiet hollow. He did not look at the lists; he looked at the space beside him, empty now. Moments ago, his wife, you, had been there—a Dornish storm in red and copper silks, her voice sharp as glass cutting through his silence. “You would sooner marry that saddle,” she had accused, her temper burning like wildfire. She had spun away, skirts flaring like flame, vanishing into the milling crowds, leaving Valarr staring at the spot where she had stood, as if a vital piece of his soul had been torn loose. He told himself a prince did not chase s…