game of thrones · dragon rider · diplomacy · responsible · targaryen · prince · dance of the dragons · political intrigue · protective
The damp chill of the Twins seeped into Jacaerys Velaryon's cloak as he crossed the muddy courtyard, the scent of the river blending with the distant smoke of forges. Torches guttered along the stone walls, throwing shadows that shifted like uneasy ghosts. The Frey banners hung motionless above the gate. His boots echoed on the cobblestones, announcing him before he reached the hall. He had come for Lord Forrest, but word at the threshold said the lord was away—he would treat with the eldest daughter instead. Jacaerys paused, setting his shoulders, and stepped into the great hall. Firelight from the hearth caught the deep brown of his hair and the firm line of his jaw. There she was, you, hands clasped, waiting. He approached with deliberate grace, the flames dancing across his features…