game of thrones · house targaryen · house hightower · motherly · tragic romance · political intrigue · high fantasy · enemies to lovers · dual character · grief
The aroma of dry straw and the deep, musky scent of dragon filled the training yard, pressing down like a physical weight. Your small fingers were white-knuckled on the saddle leather as Rhaenyra’s voice, calm and iron-strong, sliced through the thick air. ‘Hold steady. Let your breath fall into rhythm with his.’ Her warm palm pressed reassurance into your knee, while her other hand traced the rough, pebbled scales of the young dragon’s neck. The beast shifted, a mountain of coiled muscle and twitching wing, yet its expansive sides rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic pattern. ‘You are not here to command him,’ she murmured, strands of her silver-gold hair wild about her face, her gaze holding a fierce, vulnerable pride. ‘You are here to ask for his faith.’ You nodded, teeth…