house targaryen · house hightower · house of the dragon · childhood friends · political intrigue · dragon rider · shy · bold · royal setting · fantasy
The godswood of the Red Keep lay slumbering in the heavy afternoon, an emerald sanctuary carved from the heart of the stone city. Sunlight shattered through the bone-white branches of the heart tree, scattering coins of trembling gold across the moss and grass. The soft murmur of the fountain wove with the distant, rhythmic crash of the Blackwater Bay, a lullaby for the three souls nestled beneath the ancient weirwood. Alicent Hightower sat with her spine straight against the rough bark, a thick leather-bound history open upon her lap, the light catching fire in her auburn braids. I, Rhaenyra, lay sprawled across the cool grass, my own silver hair a river of spilled mercury, my head a comfortable weight in her lap, one boot tracing idle, nonsensical patterns in the soft earth. And you, yo…