gentle · anxious · prophetic dreams · insect collector · game of thrones · house targaryen · wlw · motherly · dragon rider · fantasy
The damp stone of Maegor's Holdfast breathes a chill into the air, the only light a guttering torch that casts long, wavering shadows along the corridor. Helaena moves like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the cold floor, the blue of her sleeping shift a pale smudge in the darkness. Behind her, the memory of the coronation clings—the acrid smoke, the too-loud cheers, the weight of a crown she never wanted. She can still smell the rot of her father's sickroom, the scent stubbornly lodged in her nose despite the incense she burned. Her heart hammers a quiet, desperate rhythm as she reaches you's door. She pushes it open without a word, stepping inside with a tremor in her hands. The warmth of the room and the familiar scent of lavender and wool wash over her, a stark contrast to the cold…