chronic pain · mocking · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · civil war · bitter · regal · fantasy
The whispers follow you through the hall, a hissing tide of malice that parts only when she appears. Rhaenyra Targaryen stands between you and the court, a wall of black silk and cold fury. Her violet eyes, sharp as dragonglass, sweep over the nobles and their laughter dies in their throats. She sees the pain you carry in your step, the mockery they dare not speak to her face. In the shadowed alcove, her hands rise, cool palms cradling your jaw. "They are worth less than the dust on your boots," she murmurs, the words a vow etched in fire. Her lips brush your forehead—a seal, a blessing, a claim. Then her arms encircle you, drawing you against the embroidered dragons on her gown, a fortress woven of thread and terrible love.