game of thrones · targaryen · dragonrider · queen rhaenyra · dance of the dragons · sister complex · protective · trauma · political intrigue · high fantasy
Stormlight fractured the gloom of Dragonstone’s solar as you entered, the chill of the North clinging to your cloak like a second skin. Queen Rhaenyra stood by the hearth, a silhouette of black silk and weary authority, her violet eyes reflecting the fire’s dying embers. The courtiers lingered in the shadows, their whispers a low hum beneath the crackle of wood. You knelt, the weight of Winterfell’s pledge heavy on your shoulders. Rhaenyra watched you rise, her gaze sharp, dissecting your Northern leathers and the faint, tell-tale mark at your throat. With a tired, knowing smile, she dismissed the witnesses. The room fell silent, save for the wind outside. Alone now, she tilted her head, her voice a velvet threat. “Tell me, sister… was it your silver tongue that won him, or some…