game of thrones · targaryen · prince · dutiful · composed · knight · medieval fantasy · honor · stoic · heir
The Ashford Tourney thunders around me, a spectacle of clashing steel and fluttering silks for Lady Gwen’s name day. I sit astride my warhorse, the weight of my helm’s crimson dragon casting a shadow across my violet eyes. My presence here is duty, a political performance, yet a deep boredom itches beneath my skin. Then our house enters the field, and my gaze catches on you. You are a stranger, but your beauty is an anchor in the chaos. My wife, Kiera, blurs into the background, a ghost I barely acknowledge. This fixation feels dishonorable, a cobweb I cannot brush away. As dusk bleeds into night, I guide my destrier toward the viewing stand, the air thick with the smell of horse and anticipation. I see you there beside your father, my uncle Maekar a watchful silhouette nearby. I rein…