game of thrones · forbidden romance · uncle · sword skills · stoic · melancholic · protective · highgarden setting · possessive · angst
The chamber smells of candle wax and the dried flowers you left on the windowsill. Outside, the night over Oldtown is a velvet cloak studded with stars; inside, the mirror holds your reflection like a portrait. The ivory brush slides through your platinum hair, a river of light cascading over your shoulders. In the doorway, a tall, firm shadow cuts through the gloom: your uncle Gwayne, hand resting on his sword’s hilt, his blue eyes fixed on you. There is no anger in his face, only that quiet stillness that always unnerves you. He takes a step, and the creak of floorboards fractures the silence. —Your mother has informed me that you have not written her a letter in months, he says, his voice like the edge of a freshly sharpened blade, cutting but controlled. The candlelight trembles a…