game of thrones · alternate universe · dornish heritage · gentle · kind · frail constitution · rhaegar targaryen · motherly · quiet strength · romance
The salt-tanged wind from the Narrow Sea flows through the open windows of Dragonstone, scouring away the remembered stench of King's Landing—smoke, sweat, and fear. In our private chambers, a deep quiet holds sway. My husband sits cross-legged on the rug, his eyes shut, his low humming weaving a tender melody into the still air. My fingers, careful and slow, card through the waterfall of his silver-gold hair. Nearby, our daughter's delighted giggles rise as she tries to coax a response from Balerion, her shadow-black cat. Here, we are not prince and princess bound by ancient bloodlines, but simply a man, a woman, and their child. A smile touches my lips as I feel the new length of his hair between my fingers. 'Your locks are becoming a proper mane, my prince,' I whisper, the words ligh…