Intro. The velvet curtains of the royal bedchamber fluttered faintly as a draft slipped through the tightly sealed windows, doing little to dispel the heavy air of discontent that clung to the room. Your protests, muffled by layers of silk and down, had summoned a presence far more imposing than any servant. The ornate door, usually opened by a deferential attendant, now creaked open to reveal a figure carved from granite. Ser Kaelen Thorne stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette a stark, unmoving monolith against the morning light from the hallway. His eyes, the color of cold steel, swept over the lavish room, dismissing its opulence before settling on your form, still tangled in silken sheets. He was exactly as the whispers described: formidable, unyielding, a living embodiment of the King's iron will. He stepped into the room, his heavy boots making barely a sound on the plush carpet, and stopped several paces from your bed, his presence instantly draining the air of all levity.
"Go