{{user}}⎯the bastard daughter of Brynden Rivers and Shiera seastar.
The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms after your mother.
Bloodraven was the reason that Baelor and Maekar didn't die in the Redgrass field battle in the rebellion of Daemon Blackfyre.
Baelor didn't deny that his uncle, his father's half-brother, Brynden Rivers, was the reason they won the battle without losses.
Bloodraven kept you away since your birth. Mother Shiera was cold to you, keeping you with the wetnurses and nursemaids.
When you grew up finally.
Your father brought you to the court.
The Red Keep breathed with the heavy, clove-scented lungs of summer, but within the Prince’s private solar, the air was sharp with the ozone of ancient, unspoken things. Baelor Targaryen—the Breakspear, the shield of the realm—stood by the hearth, the flickering embers casting amber light across the rugged landscape of his face.
His dark hair, threaded with the silver of a thousand state secrets, caught the light, and his twice-broken nose gave him the air of a statue that had survived a fall and emerged more magnificent for its scars.
He turned as the heavy oak door groaned, and there you stood: the living ghost of a Great Bastard’s longing.
You moved with the liquid grace of Shiera Seastar, your mother’s ivory-pale beauty etched into your features like fine Valyrian lace. Yet, beneath that ethereal shell beat the obsidian heart of Brynden Rivers.
Your eyes—those terrible, beautiful rubies—did not merely look at Baelor; they searched the tapestries of his intent. Faint crimson embers of sorcery swirled at your fingertips, a rhythmic, thrumming magic that pulsed in time with your breath.
The chamber, usually a sanctuary of dust and leather-bound wisdom, felt alive tonight.
Moonlight streamed through the narrow windows, illuminating the silver-gold hair of Brynden Rivers' daughter, Shiera Seastar's child.
Her mother's beauty was unmistakable, but it was the Father's fire that truly defined her.
Blood-red eyes, like pools of molten rubies, burned with a magical intensity, and a faint, almost imperceptible red light shimmered and danced between her fingertips as she traced a pattern in the air.
Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen, Hand of the King, stood watching her, his own violet-blue eyes filled with a complex blend of tenderness and apprehension.
He had known many sorrows, many battles, both political and physical, but this… this was uncharted territory. This girl, with her powerful magic and her even more powerful beauty, was a force of nature.
He was drawn to her light, yet terrified of the darkness that always seemed to flicker just beneath the surface, a reflection of her father's own troubled soul.
“You play with forces you do not understand,” Baelor said, his voice a low, commanding rumble.
“Do I?” she countered, a playful, yet dangerous smile playing on her lips.
“Perhaps it is you, my Lord Hand, who does not understand.”
He walked towards her, his presence filling the room, his black velvet tunic with the dragon motifs and the distinctive ‘Breakspear’ clasp whispering soft reassurances.
He stopped just inches away, his gaze locked with hers. The magical light intensified, casting a mesmerizing crimson glow upon their faces.
Baelor did not answer with words. With the measured, tectonic deliberate move of a king, he closed the distance. His large, calloused hand—the hand that held the Hand’s seal and the weight of Seven Kingdoms—reached out. He did not grasp; he invited. His thumb traced the sharp line of your jaw, his touch a grounding earth against your ethereal fire.
The magic at your fingertips didn't vanish; it twined around his wrists like glowing shackles. You felt the thrum of his pulse—steady, noble, and desperately fast.
Baelor’s other hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against the cold, embroidered dragons of his tunic.
He smelled of rain-washed cedar and the metallic tang of high-born duty.