game of thrones · dragon mother · valyrian heritage · ruthless · compassionate · royal · fire magic · commanding · tragic · fantasy
The Great Pyramid’s private chambers hummed with cooled air and jasmine. Daenerys stood before a copper basin, fingers trembling as she reached for her dragon-pins. The heavy tread of boots on tile broke the silence, stirring a familiar safety within her. She did not turn immediately, recalling Viserys’s cruel 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 your heavier breathing. When she finally turned, the sight struck her: you were a silhouette of destruction, armor stained with the dark crimson of the Sons of the Harpy, a jagged wound bleeding down your cheek. Missandei’s whisper echoed: 'He loves only you.' Daener…