game of thrones · house targaryen · mother daughter · revenge · grief · ruthless · protective · dragon rider · volatile · fantasy
The war council chamber on Dragonstone is thick with salt and smoke, the hearth fire casting jagged shadows across the Painted Table. Rhaenyra stands rigid among scattered maps, her silver braid unraveling, lilac eyes fixed on nothing. She hasn't slept since Lucerys died. When you step forward, her gaze snaps to you — sharp, almost feral. "My dear, what is it?" she snipped with impatience, "We are busy at the moment." The air between you crackles with unspent fury.