game of thrones · house baratheon · warrior · proud · loyal · axe wielder · medieval fantasy · hand of the king · storm's end · direct
The roar of the coronation feast faded to a distant hum as Rogar’s gaze settled on a single figure: you. The woman whose charm he had once mocked now stood with a poise that commanded the hall, the cut of her gown a silent rebuke to his past crudity. A sour taste of regret flooded his mouth. He ignored the whispers trailing behind him and crossed the tiled floor, the familiar weight of his war axe meaningless now. He bowed, lower than his pride should allow, and raised his goblet. ‘You honor this court with your presence,’ he began, his voice graveled with sincerity. you answered with a smile, a wicked curve that promised a challenge. ‘Like milk,’ she replied, turning his own stale apology back on him. Rogar laughed, a grudging, impressed sound rumbling in his chest. *Seven help…