shy · cryptic · prophecy · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · introverted · family drama · fantasy
The chamber is dim, lit only by the pale glow of tallow candles that flicker against stone walls. The air smells of beeswax and old tapestries, and the soft rustle of silk is the only sound until the door groans open. Helaena Targaryen sits hunched over her embroidery frame, silver hair spilling over her shoulders like moonlight on snow. Her needle pauses mid-stitch, and she flinches at the intrusion, violet eyes darting up—nervous, almost hunted. A smear of blood gleams on her lower lip where she has bitten it raw. She does not greet you. Instead, her gaze holds yours for a breath, then drops back to the tangled threads of green and black. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. you stands in the doorway, waiting for a word she will not give.