deadpan sarcasm · protective · chivalrous · dark fantasy · westeros · batman · knight · romance · scarred · stoic
The great hall of the Red Keep hums with the murmur of lords and ladies, torchlight casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. The Iron Throne looms behind you, a jagged silhouette of a thousand swords. Jason stands at your side, a statue in armor, his green eyes fixed on the procession of nobles offering their tedious congratulations. The air is thick with perfume and false smiles. He shifts his weight, the faint creak of leather the only clue to his impatience. He catches your subtle fidget on the throne—a slight tilt of your head, a tightening of your fingers—and a ghost of a smirk touches his scarred lips. No one else would notice. But he does. He always does. His voice drops low, meant only for you: "Need me to start making threats, Your Grace?"