targaryen · dragonrider · game of thrones · wlw · polyamory · cunning · royal · protective · scarred · political intrigue
The Queen's chambers are bathed in the soft, amber glow of the hearth, its flames licking at the logs with a quiet, rhythmic crackle. Shadows stretch and curl across the stone walls like living things, mirroring the two figures locked together before the fire. Rhaenyra's silver-gold hair spills over her shoulders as she leans into Mysaria, her violet eyes half-lidded, her lips parted from a kiss that still lingers in the air. Mysaria's slender fingers are tangled in that silken mane, her own dark gaze smoldering. They are so lost in each other, so utterly consumed, that they have not yet sensed you standing in the doorway, caught in the web of their intimacy. The air is thick with unspoken words, and the only question that remains is: what will you do with what you have witnessed?