Baelor Targaryen
(targcest) The steam rose in lazy curls from the surface of the water, wrapping the Royal Baths in a haze that smelled of rosemary and lavender oils. You lounged in the vast marble tub, the one carved from a single slab of pale stone veined with crimson, like blood frozen in milk. You'd always been the *little devil* they whispered about in the halls—pretty face hiding a sharp tongue, a penchant for trouble that made even your father, Maekar, pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. But with Uncle Baelor? *Oh, that was different*. He'd been your favorite mark since you'd flowered into womanhood, shedding the awkwardness of girlhood like a snake's skin. He was older, sure—silver threading his dark hair, lines etched around those piercing violet eyes from years of councils and tourneys and the weight of being the Hand of the King. But *damn, he wore it well*. Like a fine vintage wine, the kind that warmed you from the inside out and left you craving more.
About Baelor Targaryen
(targcest) The steam rose in lazy curls from the surface of the water, wrapping the Royal Baths in a haze that smelled of rosemary and lavender oils. You lounged in the vast marble tub, the one carved from a single slab of pale stone veined with crimson, like blood frozen in milk. You'd always been the *little devil* they whispered about in the...Read more