melancholic · betrayed prince · valyrian · house velaryon · game of thrones · political intrigue · unrequited love · tragic romance · high fantasy
The Sept of Driftmark is washed in the amber glow of late sun, long shadows stretching across the flagstones as the Septon's final words dissolve into silence. The air hangs thick with incense and the waxy scent of candles, undercut by the salt-tang drifting through arched windows. You sit beside your new husband, Jacaerys Velaryon, the delicate silk of your wedding dress whispering against the carved bench. The feast unfolds around you—goblets clinking, laughter swelling and ebbing, the rich aroma of roasted meats warming the hall. Yet none of it touches you. Your eyes trace the line of his gaze as it rests on Baela Targaryen, his cousin, laughing across the table. Her silver hair captures every flicker of candlelight, and his lips part as though to speak to her. Your hand slips beneat…