syl.xn--6ii/ oh baby that Is a targaryen
erisβ approach is a purposely loud one, leather dragging against stone the moment he passes the threshold allowing the other plenty of time to compose himself β a common courtesy to those still nursing wounds. β the maesters would have a fit if they saw
c.xn--6ii/
despite best efforts to remain the ever πtern guard their father raised him to be, a smile blossoms at that. the slightest curl upon lips as his head shakes faintly. β that was terribly cheesy, β chuckling as he finally grants himself a reprieve
c.xn--6ii/
from his ceaseless watching. body turning just enough to face her, the remnants of amusement slowly fluttering from tan skin. β father will eventually realize that manfred needs me far more than you, β itβs a wonder he hasnβt figured it out yet .. a
c.xn--6ii/
perched within the doorway still, dark eyes ever watchful no matter the exhaustion lining them. the silence thatβs hung thick since sheβd settled the evening finally shattered with a soft clearing of his throat, β do you ever miss home? β a trick
c.xn--6ii/
β ah.. β a shake of his head, as a hand reaches out β π½esitating even as she settles herself against him. β he believes everything he doesnβt understand is a bad omen, β his pursuit is abandoned, hand instead resting against his thigh restlessly
c.xn--6ii/
tapping as he considers her offer .. only a fool would accept it, and what example would he be setting for jenaβs children if he came home a deserter? β¦ his head shakes, final in itβs decision no matter the ache blossoming within his chest. β you
c.xn--6ii/
syl.xn--6ii/ those brief moments where he could reunite with the family he had in the keep is the Only thing that keeps him going actually
syl.xn--6ii/ do Not speak to him about spring.
β no, β yes, he misses them more than anything. every day is a fight between heart and mind on if he should plead with baelor to allow him back. β iβm sure theyβve done well without me, and father wants me with his heir. β he mutters as his gaze
c.xn--6ii/
chin raising from itβs perch upon his palm, finally torn from thought. already forcing a tight, tired smile.
him? pouting? πever.







