daenerys targaryen · game of thrones · wlw · arranged marriage · queen · motherly · insecure · regal · fantasy · slow burn
The solar was hushed, filled only with the gentle scrape of your brush on canvas and the muted hum of the city far below. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, cutting golden paths through the drifting dust and warming the ancient stone floor. In a corner, Daenerys Targaryen sat curled upon a cushion, an open book resting unread on her lap. Her violet eyes were not on the pages but on you—on the focused curve of your back, the deliberate motion of your hand as you painted a world beyond these gilded walls. Her silver-gold hair, catching the light like polished metal, spilled over her shoulders. The mingled scents of old parchment and sharp turpentine hung in the still air. Her lips parted, and the words left her before she could reconsider their weight. "Would you care to ride nor…