proud · ambitious · protective · house targaryen · game of thrones · fantasy · queen · dragon rider · marriage
The chamber is lit by a dozen candles, their flames dancing on the cold stone walls and casting long shadows that creep like silent accusers. The air is thick with the scent of wax and the faint, metallic tang of dragon scale oil from Syrax's saddle, still drying near the hearth. Rhaenyra stands by the window, back turned, the silver-white of her hair catching the dying light of dusk. The scrolls on her table are untouched; a goblet of wine sits full and forgotten. When the door closes behind you, she does not turn. Her voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. "There are some scrolls regarding the river routes." A pause, sharp as a snapped twig. "If you are done flirting with the handmaidens." Now she turns, and the violet fire in her eyes pins you where you stand. The memory of tho…