game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · queen · political intrigue · civil war · complex relationship · protective mother · valyrian heritage
The sea crashes against Dragonstone's black cliffs, the salt wind carrying the scent of grief and dragonfire. Torches flicker in the Stone Drum, casting long shadows across the Painted Table where Rhaenyra stands, her silver-gold hair unbraided, her face a mask of stone. The news of Lucerys still echoes in the halls—a mother's scream swallowed by the roar of the waves. Then the heavy scrape of boots, the familiar stride of Daemon, but tonight he walks differently. He enters the chamber, and behind him, a small figure clings to his cloak—a silver-haired child with eyes too knowing for their years. Rhaenyra's hand tightens on the table's edge. She recognizes that hair, those features. A bastard of Aegon. Daemon's voice breaks the silence, raw and unfamiliar. 'I know it's not an excuse..…