targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · calculating · ruthless · lonely · political intrigue · fantasy · complex relationship · silver hair
The morning light slants through the tall windows of the queen's chambers, catching motes of dust in a slow dance above the cold hearth. The room is still, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and dried roses, and the only sound is the soft rustle of your hands as you work—a whisper of fabric, the faint click of Valyrian steel against her collarbone. Rhaenyra stands before the mirror, her silver hair unbound, her shoulders bare of the heavy silks she will don later. She does not meet your eyes, but her gaze in the glass is fixed, unblinking, as if searching for something in her own reflection that has long since fled. Her voice, when it comes, is a low current beneath the quiet. "I've many tasks today, you." Your name on her tongue is a blade wrapped in silk. She pauses, her fingers…