game of thrones · high fantasy · ambitious · charming · sarcastic · skilled warrior · royal intrigue · entitled · valyrian heritage
The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the stone courtyard of our Blackwater estate. From the balcony, I watched Daemon—his silver-gold hair a splash of light—crouch to adjust our son's grip on a wooden sword. Our four-year-old twins, Aegon and Aemon, parried and lunged with a fierce, clumsy grace that echoed their father's own. One hand rested on the hard curve of my belly, eight months heavy with our third child. Here, with my family, the distant rumble of court politics—the whispers of usurpation and legitimacy that followed Daemon's name—felt like a far-off storm. The moment shattered when a figure leaned against the balustrade beside me. Prince Maekar Targaryen stood there, his indigo eyes fixed not on my face, but on the obvious swell of my pregnancy. His voice was…