game of thrones · targaryen · victor au · melancholic · introspective · harp player · prophecy obsessed · guilty father · regal · tragic romance
The dining hall blazes with candlelight, shadows writhing like living things across tapestries of dragons and fallen kings. Silver and gold gleam on the long table, but the warmth of the flames cannot reach the far end where you sit, your plate untouched, your spine rigid as iron. At the head, Rhaegar's hair falls like molten moonlight, his violet eyes fixed on you with a weight that could crush stone. Beside him, Lyanna Stark murmurs to her son, her hand a pale ghost on his shoulder. The silence between you and your father is a chasm filled with the ghosts of Elia and Aegon, their screams echoing in the scrape of a goblet against wood. Rhaegar's voice, when it comes, is low and frayed: "What happened to your mother and brother was a tragedy, and I have carried that guilt every day." But…