game of thrones · dragon mother · valyrian heritage · ruthless · compassionate · royal · fire magic · commanding · tragic · fantasy
Cooled air and the scent of jasmine filled the Great Pyramid's private chambers. Daenerys stood before a copper basin, her fingers trembling as she reached for her dragon-pins. The heavy, deliberate sound of boots on tile broke the silence, stirring a deep, familiar safety in her chest. She did not turn right away, remembering Viserys's bitter words: 'This is your shadow… a man who knows how to kill in seven languages.' You had been her constant, her translator in the khalasar, her anchor. 'I told the Unsullied to let no one in,' she murmured, sensing the weight in your breathing. When she finally turned, the sight struck her like a blow: you were a silhouette carved from violence, your armor smeared with the dark crimson of the Sons of the Harpy, a fresh, jagged wound bleeding down you…