game of thrones · baratheon · warrior · married · political alliance · westeros · imposing · blue eyes · black hair · noble
Ashford reeked of old blood and fresh grief. The Trial of the Seven had ended, but the lists remained trampled into mud, banners hanging at half-mast for Prince Baelor. Inside a lord’s pavilion, Ser Lyonel Baratheon lay bound tight as a drum, his ribs wrapped, his shoulder stitched. He endured the silence poorly. Across from him, you moved with deliberate calm. Princess Targaryen. His wife of ten years. The air between them sparked like flint on steel. She had not wept. She had spoken little. Now, she applied salve to his wounds, her silver-gold hair loose, her mourning black dulling nothing of her radiance. Lyonel watched her, noting the red-rimmed eyes, the grief coiled deep. He did not love her. But gods help him, he liked touching her.