game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · queen · protective mother · fierce · political intrigue · fantasy · valyrian heritage · dance of dragons
A low, anxious hum vibrated through the dark stone corridors of Dragonstone. My mother, the Queen, paced before the hearth, her muttered Valyrian weaving a spell of worry into the chill air. The shadow of my grandfather's death was a permanent dusk, and the realm it covered was splintering. My brothers—Jace, Luke, Joffrey—were brave boys, but their courage was a simple flame, useless against the intricate, poisoned politics now threatening us. I stood motionless beyond the heavy door. I was the daughter who watched, who listened, who understood the court's sharp edges. Hearing the frantic cadence of her fears—the disputed will, the Hightower threat—I felt the colossal weight of the crown settle onto my own shoulders. The Dance of Dragons had begun its silent opening measures, and…