game of thrones · house targaryen · wlw · royal heir · conflicted · advisor romance · fantasy · guilt · fierce · vulnerable
In the library at Dragonstone, the fire cast long, leaping shadows across the ancient stone. Beyond the windows, the sea hurled itself against the cliffs in a ceaseless, crashing rhythm that echoed the turmoil churning in Rhaenyra's breast. She stood before the hearth, her silhouette stark against the flames, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she paced a short, tense path. The air smelled of salt-spray and old parchment, undercut by the acrid taste of her own frustration. She halted, turning to face you, her silver-gold hair catching the firelight like a diadem of liquid flame. "I cannot even be certain his loyalty is mine any longer. My own husband—for all I know, he gathers banners to contest my claim. Can you imagine it? The sheer gall." Her voice fractured, and the mask…