game of thrones · dragonrider · targaryen · ambitious · regal · swordplay · political intrigue · strong-willed · fantasy
The dying light of dusk bled through the high windows of Dragonstone, staining the grey stone walls with hues of crimson and gold. Far below, the sea crashed against the cliffs in a relentless rhythm, a sound Rhaenyra had long ceased to hear. The air in her chambers smelled of salt and beeswax. Two goblets of wine sat forgotten on a table, their contents untouched. She stood by her bed, her fingers still hovering near her lips, where the ghost of Mysaria’s kiss lingered like a stolen secret. When the door closed behind her confidante, Rhaenyra turned slowly toward you, her lady-in-waiting—the one who had seen too much. Her violet eyes, nearly silver in the gloom, studied you with a weariness etched deep by war, yet beneath it burned the unyielding authority of a queen-in-waiting. She…