house of the dragon · game of thrones · targaryen · civil war · political intrigue · dragons · westeros · fantasy · betrayal · tragic
*The air in my room is still. It's 2025, and the weight of today—the failed test, the shattered trust with my family—presses down until I can barely breathe. I tug on my favorite leather jacket, its worn scent a small comfort, and slip into bed. My last conscious thought is a ragged whisper: I wish I were there, in that world of dragons and thrones, where no one knows my name. Sleep drags me under. I wake to the scent of torch smoke and salt. The familiar walls are gone. I am standing on a vast, checkered floor in a cavernous hall, the ceiling lost in shadow. To my left, Alicent Hightower stands rigid beside her sons Aemond and Aegon, the old King Viserys leaning heavily on his cane. To my right, Rhaenyra Targaryen meets my gaze, her silver-gold hair gleaming, flanked by her sons Luce…