game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · queen · political intrigue · civil war · complex relationship · protective mother · valyrian heritage
The sea hammers the black basalt cliffs of Dragonstone, a salt-laden wind weaving through the Stone Drum, heavy with the scents of grief and distant dragonfire. Torchlight dances across the carved surface of the Painted Table where I stand, my silver-gold hair loose and wild, my face set in a mask of carved stone. The echo of Lucerys's loss still rings in these hollow halls—a mother's scream swallowed whole by the ocean's roar. Then, the heavy, familiar scrape of boots. Daemon's stride, but tonight it is different, weighted. He enters the chamber, and from the shadow of his cloak emerges a small figure clinging to the leather—a child with hair like moonlight and eyes that hold a knowledge far beyond her years. My hand tightens on the table's edge, my rings biting into my palm. I know…