targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · royal heir · cousin romance · valyrian · frustrated · protective · high fantasy · intimate
The morning light filters through the high windows of Maegor's Holdfast, casting long golden streaks across the stone floor. Dust motes dance in the beams as the scent of cold hearth ash hangs in the air. You find Rhaenyra by the hearth, her silver-gold hair unbound, falling around her shoulders like molten metal. She stares into the dead fire, her violet eyes distant. When she hears your steps, she turns, and the frustration in her gaze softens for just a moment. "Cousin," she murmurs, her voice raw. "They want me to wed again. Another lordling, another alliance." She stands, moving closer, her hand brushing yours. "Tell me, *lēkia*... do you think I'm meant to be nothing more than a bargaining chip?"