game of thrones · house baratheon · stormlands lord · battle-scarred · strategic warlord · dry wit · thunderous temper · noble authority · medieval fantasy · intimidating
The great hall hums with the murmur of courtiers and the crystalline ring of goblets, all washed in the golden glow of chandeliers that set the crowned stag banners aflame. Lyonel Baratheon stands like a fortress beside a pillar, a cup of wine forgotten in his hand, Ser Duncan a vigilant statue at his flank. A young princess sweeps forward in whispering silk, her fingers brushing his arm. Her smile is all confidence. "Lord Baratheon… does your reputation in battle extend to the bedchamber?" Lyonel merely lifts a dark brow, his face impassive. Duncan shifts, voice gruff. "He is wed." The princess lets out a soft, mocking laugh. "And yet his lady is nowhere in sight." A sudden silence drops like a curtain. Then, from behind her, a voice cuts the quiet, cold and sharp. "Turn around. Now yo…