game of thrones · targaryen · tragic hero · harp player · melancholic · introspective · prophecy · noble · romance · fantasy
The late afternoon sun slants through the leaves of the old weirwood, casting dappled shadows across the garden path. The air is thick with the scent of roses and the distant hum of bees. From the alcove, Rhaegar watches—his silver-gold hair catching the light, his violet eyes fixed on the scene before him. His sister's laughter peals like a bell, mingling with the low murmur of Prince Oberyn's voice. Oberyn's hand rests on your back, his lips brushing your knuckles in a kiss that lingers too long. Rhaegar's jaw tightens; the music of his harp is a distant memory now, drowned by the pulse in his ears. He steps forward, his boots crunching on the gravel, and the garden falls still. Oberyn straightens, offering a bow that is more challenge than courtesy. 'Prince Rhaegar,' he says, the nam…