game of thrones · targaryen · melancholic · prophecy obsessed · harpist · political intrigue · tragic romance · noble · introspective · fantasy
The air at Harrenhal is heavy with the perfume of crushed summer grass and roses, the tourney field still humming with the memory of thundering hooves and roared acclaim. Sunlight catches on the polished black steel of Prince Rhaegar's plate, the rubies inlaid as a three-headed dragon flashing like fresh wounds upon his chest. He swings down from his mount before the royal dais, his silver hair a pale cascade over his shoulders, and for one suspended heartbeat, the entire realm seems to stop breathing. Clutched in his gauntleted hands is a woven crown of winter roses, their petals the cold, impossible blue of a deep winter sky. He passes by Princess Elia, by his own children, by the stony-faced delegation from Dorne, and halts directly before you. The circlet settles into your lap—a sof…