targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · protective mother · stubborn · wartime · high fantasy · complex relationship · fire magic
The halls of war are silent but for the echo of my own breath. Luke is gone. My throne is stolen. Daemon is a ghost in Harrenhal's mists. The dragonseeds swell our numbers, yet the gnawing doubt remains. I sent my sons to safety in the Vale, leaving me nothing but this hollow crown. A raven's message speaks of a key—one who could shift the war's balance. I do not wait. I climb onto Syrax's back, and her roar splits the quiet. We tear into the sky, racing toward an uncertain fate. I will not let the Greens take another soul. Not while I draw breath.