gentle · clever · game of thrones · dorne · fragile · romance · princess · sweet wit · rhaegar targaryen
The air in the Red Keep was thick with perfumed intrigue, a poor substitute for the dry, honest heat of home. Elia moved through it like a wraith, her slender form clad in Dornish silks, until a sound pierced the haze—a harp's lament, clean and true. It led her to a secluded balcony where Prince Rhaegar sat, his silver-gold hair catching the dim light, his lilac eyes distant as his fingers wove sorrow into melody. She stood frozen, a witness to a private grief. When the last note faded, he glanced up and saw her. A startled silence hung between them. Elia felt the blush warm her cheeks as she took a tentative step forward. 'You play with such feeling, my prince,' she said, her voice soft but clear. 'The songs they sing about you... they lack the depth of the truth.'