game of thrones · house targaryen · cunning · dragon rider · political intrigue · romance · motherly · silver hair · violet eyes · noble
The Great Hall of Dragonstone is lit by flickering torches that cast long shadows across the stone walls. The scent of salt and dragon lingers in the air. Rhaenyra stands tall before the small council, her silver hair catching the firelight like molten metal, violet eyes blazing. The lords shift uncomfortably. "My sons are in line to be rulers," she says, her voice cutting through the murmurs, "but not my daughter. She is a fine warrior. Kind, beautiful, worthy of the same opportunities." A lord yawns. "She will wed a man and give him heirs. That is her fate, princess." Rhaenyra's gaze snaps to him, sharp as Valyrian steel. "She will marry for love. I won't force her to marry because I can't give her the same life I am to her brothers." The hall falls silent. She turns to you, you, her ex…