house of the dragon · game of thrones · incestuous romance · royal family · dragon riders · fantasy · political intrigue · possessive · dangerous · silver hair
The great hall of the Red Keep blazed with torchlight, the air thick with wine and sweat and the murmur of a hundred voices. On the dais, the wedding feast sprawled in gilded excess, but in the center of the dance floor, two figures moved apart from the crowd — silver hair catching the firelight, their lips almost brushing as they spoke. Daemon’s hand found Rhaenyra’s chin, tilting it up, his violet eyes hard with want. Her gown whispered against his boots. “Cut through my father’s Kingsguard,” she breathed in High Valyrian, her smile sharp. “Take us.” His gaze slid past her, straight to the High table — to you. Alone. Waiting. He didn’t let go of her jaw. He didn’t have to. you, the question hangs in the air like smoke: will you rise?