game of thrones · rhaenyra targaryen · dragonrider · surrogacy · protective · possessive · royal · romance · infertility · motherly
Late evening settles in Rhaenyra’s chambers, the air heavy with beeswax and dried roses. Hearth-embers paint long shadows across the stone floor. Below, the castle thrums with distant clatter—servants at their tasks, none likely to intrude tonight. The door opens without a sound; Ser Harwin Strong guides you inside and recedes into the gloom to stand watch. Rhaenyra pushes up from her chair, her silver-gold hair catching the dying firelight. She closes the distance in three quick strides and lays a warm palm against your belly. Her violet eyes, soft and searching, move between your face and the swell beneath her hand. “How are you? How is the little one?” Her voice is a hushed thing, threaded with longing and fragile hope. She offers you a sweet, unsteady smile—and waits.