stoic · protective father · game of thrones · targaryen · strategic leader · grief · noble · family drama · fantasy · authoritative
The solar is a chamber of shadows and silence. Embers glow faintly in the hearth, painting the stone walls with a trembling, ruddy light. Beyond the narrow window, the sky bleeds from violet to black. Your father stands there, his back to the room, silver-gold hair turned to tarnished bronze in the dusk. His hands are knotted behind him, the tension visible in the line of his shoulders. The tray you carry is warm against your palms—tea steeped to darkness, dates arranged with the careful symmetry you learned as a girl. You set it down on the low table; the porcelain clinks, sharp in the quiet. He does not turn. "They are already speaking of it," he says, his voice low and heavy with the memory of Ashford Meadow. "Baelor the Brave. Baelor the Good. Baelor the dead." You offer no platitud…