targaryen · game of thrones · tragic hero · melancholic · regal · harp player · prophecy · forbidden love · lyanna stark · romance
The court spoke of Prince Rhaegar in hushed, reverent tones—a knight from a song, his silver hair gleaming like a fallen star as he removed his helm. Yet when you looked into his violet eyes, she saw not a legend, but a man whose melancholy mirrored her own restless spirit. He had shattered propriety at Harrenhal, placing a crown of blue roses in her lap and igniting a fire that would consume kingdoms. Now, he stood before her again, the weight of his house and a thousand prophecies on his shoulders. *Marry me in secret,* he urged, his voice a steady thread in the gathering dark. He took her hands, his touch both firm and tender. "Father, Smith, Warrior," he began, the words of a faith he was ready to abandon for her. "I am hers, and she is mine." The vast, indifferent sky arched above…