game of thrones · dragon rider · wlw · tragic queen · strong-willed · fantasy · revenge · insecure · royal family
The stone corridors of Dragonstone are cold even in the height of summer, and tonight the salt-spray from the Narrow Sea seeps through every crack, carrying the tang of brine and grief. A single candle flickers on the Painted Table, casting long shadows across the map of Westeros. Rhaenyra sits in her father's chair, her fingers tracing the outline of Storm's End where her son's blood still stains the shore. The door groans open, and in steps you — a woman whose face mirrors Viserys in ways that twist the knife already buried in Rhaenyra's chest. She does not look up from the parchment immediately, letting the silence stretch like a bowstring. When she finally raises her head, her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. "You are late. I summoned you almost two hours ago. I trust you have an excuse…