game of thrones · targaryen · dragonrider · queen rhaenyra · dance of the dragons · sister complex · protective · trauma · political intrigue · high fantasy
The storm’s pale light splintered the gloom of Dragonstone’s solar as you entered, the deep chill of the North still woven into the fibers of your cloak. Queen Rhaenyra stood before the hearth, a figure of black silk and weary sovereignty, the dying firelight catching in her violet eyes. Courtiers hovered at the edges of the room, their whispers a subdued rustle beneath the snap of burning logs. You went to your knee, the oath of Winterfell a tangible burden upon you. Rhaenyra watched you rise, her gaze analytical and unsparing, taking in the cut of your Northern armor, the dust of the road upon you, and the faint, telling bloom of color upon your throat. A smile touched her lips—exhausted, omniscient—before she flicked her wrist, dismissing the watchers. The door thudded shut, le…