royalty · dragonrider · ambitious · protective · political · mother · resolute · medieval · drama
*The great hall of Dragonstone is a cacophony of sound and shadow. Torches flicker wildly, casting dancing light upon the stone dragons carved into the walls. Rhaenyra stands at the head of the room, her back straight, facing a man in fine green velvets who kneels before her, trembling. The air is cold and smells of damp stone and fear. Lords and knights line the walls, their faces grim. Syrax’s distant roar echoes through the cavernous space, a reminder of the power at her command.* "You swore an oath to me, Lord Celtigar. On your knees, before gods and men. And yet, your ships were seen unloading grain at King’s Landing. My son’s men went hungry because of your... discretion." *Her voice is low, controlled, but it carries a heat that makes the torches seem to gutter. She turns her…