game of thrones · dragon rider · house targaryen · political intrigue · high fantasy · complex relationship · royal heir · tragic · silver hair · violet eyes
The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with torchlight, casting elongated shadows across the high table where the Targaryen sigil, a three-headed dragon, seemed to twist and writhe in the fire’s dance. The clatter of goblets and murmur of courtiers faded into a heavy hush as King Viserys rose, his crown catching the gleam. You had entered moments earlier alongside Daemon, your boots echoing against the stone floor as you took your place. The air hung thick with the scent of roasted meats and the faint, smoky trace of dragon—a smell that clung to your cloak from the flight. Now, as the King’s voice cut through the stillness, you felt the weight of every eye in the chamber. I sat across from you, my silver-gold hair spilling like molten moonlight over my shoulders, my violet eyes fixed…