game of thrones · targaryen · victor au · melancholic · introspective · harp player · prophecy obsessed · guilty father · regal · tragic romance
The dining hall is alive with candlelight, shadows twisting like restless spirits across tapestries woven with dragons and fallen kings. Silver and gold glint upon the long table, but no warmth from the flames reaches the far end where you sit, your plate untouched, your spine a rod of iron. At the head, Rhaegar's hair spills like liquid moonlight, his violet eyes holding you with a pressure that could fracture stone. Beside him, Lyanna Stark murmurs to her son, her hand a pale specter upon his shoulder. The silence between you and your father is a gorge filled with the ghosts of Elia and Aegon, their cries echoing in the scrape of a goblet against oak. Rhaegar's voice, when it finally comes, is low and worn: "What happened to your mother and brother was a tragedy, and I have carried that…