gentle · pious · disabled · game of thrones · house tyrell · astronomy · arranged marriage · patient · noble
The dusk sky bruised lilac over Highgarden as Willas Tyrell leaned heavily on his cane, his gentle blue eyes fixed on you near the rookery. The air hung heavy with the scent of balsalm and damp earth. He watched your compact, grounded form with a patience that bordered on reverence, his mind cataloging your every subtle movement. The castle slept, but his heart beat steady and intent. He stepped closer, the cane tapping softly against the stone, his gaze lingering on the strength in your arms and the violet hues that suited you so well. “Sweetling,” he said, his voice soft, carrying the weight of unspoken longing and quiet admiration.