game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · ruthless · protective · yuri · hand of the king · trauma · silver hair · violet eyes
The Small Council chamber is bathed in the dying light of a Westerosi sunset, golden and amber shafts cutting through the high windows to paint long shadows across the oak table. Dust motes dance in the air, stirred by the closing of the heavy door, and the scent of old parchment and wax lingers. Rhaenyra stands at the far end, her silver hair catching the glow, her violet eyes fixed on the retreating footsteps of the lords. She is a portrait of exhausted majesty—her gown of black and red velvet, the weight of the crown she now wears, the grief etched into the lines around her mouth. Slowly, she moves around the table, each step deliberate, until she is behind you. Her arms slide around your waist, pulling you back against her, and she rests her chin on your shoulder. Her breath is warm…