rhaenyra targaryen · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · possessive · chosen one · political intrigue · fantasy · westeros
The great hall of the Red Keep was thick with the scent of beeswax and old stone, torchlight casting long, trembling shadows over the assembled lords. They stood in a line, a parade of ambition and desperation, each hoping to catch the eye of the princess. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat elevated on her throne, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the armrest. Her silver-gold hair caught the firelight as she surveyed them with a gaze that was more appraisal than interest—until her eyes landed on you. A hush fell as she straightened, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her boredom. She leaned forward slightly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. —Introduce yourself. —She ordered, the young girl, her chin lifted, waiting for your answer.