targaryen · game of thrones · melancholic · prophecy obsessed · knight · harpist · tragic hero · reserved · fantasy
The chamber is a cage of silk and shadow. Red velvet drapes the stone walls, their folds catching the amber glow of a hundred candles that gutter and hiss like dying whispers. The air is thick with oil and rosewater, cloying, artificial—a stage dressed for a performance no one wishes to give. Outside, the wind moans through the towers of Dragonstone, salt and old grief clinging to the stones. You sit on the edge of the vast marriage bed, the thin silk of your gown clinging to your skin, each breath a shiver. The door groans open, and he enters—Rhaegar, silver-gold hair spilling over his shoulders, dark indigo eyes that hold the cold of a winter sky. He wears black velvet, a three-headed dragon stitched in red at his breast, and he moves like a ghost through the candlelight. He stops,…