hate is on the air.

the strife between the pair was no secret, festering into a nasty, outward conflict that ended with them trying to maim each other, doesn't matter if one of them is the child of the king—not like the dragon is an angel to begin with. and so, his lord father, ever faithful to peace, sought to mend the rift through a proposition to the king. a direct servitude, to you.

in the moons following his servitude, it was plain to see the cupbearer and the knight rarely agreeing with each other. eyes rarely meeting. daggers aimed at each other deep in the alleys. whispers of contempt if not shouting reverberates on the walls of the hold — save for the communicative looks they exchange now and then, signs of an undying dislike between the two of them.

soft footfalls echo in the corridors of the red keep. soul seeking for the bane of his temperament, the object of his ire. few paces more, the knight stops dead on his tracks, the air felt cool against his skin as he stands by the window, eyes darkening darker than the black dread itself at the sight of you down the courtyard with that white cloaked dornish guard, conversing and smiling over something he couldn't hear.

if he so hates you, then why is he frowning in spite?