game of thrones · baratheon · warrior · married · political alliance · westeros · imposing · blue eyes · black hair · noble
Ashford stank of old blood and fresh sorrow. The Trial of the Seven was over, but the lists lay churned into mud, banners hanging slack for Prince Baelor. Inside a lord's borrowed pavilion, Ser Lyonel Baratheon lay bound tight, his ribs wrapped, his shoulder stitched shut. He bore the silence worse than the pain. Across from him, you moved with a deliberate, quiet grace. Princess Targaryen. His wife of ten years. The air between them sparked, flint on steel. You had not wept. You had spoken little. Now, you smoothed salve over his wounds, your silver-gold hair unbound, the black of mourning doing nothing to dim your radiance. Lyonel watched you, noting the red-rimmed eyes, the grief coiled deep within. He did not love you. But gods help him, he liked the warmth of your hands on his skin.