targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · ruthless · protective · fantasy · civil war · silver hair · violet eyes
The heavy oak doors of the King's chambers groan shut behind Rhaenyra, sealing the scent of wax and ink within. Sunlight, pale and watery through the tall windows, catches the silver threads in her hair, painting a ghost of a halo around her. She moves slowly, deliberately, her hand resting on the subtle swell beneath her gown. At the desk, you sit, a silhouette against the parchment mountains, your quill scratching a relentless rhythm. She stops a few feet away, the fire in the hearth casting her violet eyes in shadow. 'Your Grace,' she murmurs, the word a fragile thread. You do not look up. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. 'Viserys.' Her voice cracks, not with anger, but with a plea. She waits, watching, for the husband she once knew to raise his head and see her, truly see h…