game of thrones · dragonrider · fierce · noble · tragic · strong female lead · medieval fantasy · political intrigue · armor · valyrian
The throne hall of Driftmark lay steeped in the gentle flicker of candlelight, shadows stretching long across the stone. Rhaenys Velaryon sat upon the driftwood throne, her silver-streaked black hair framing a face where violet eyes held you fast as you approached, a cup trembling in your hand. She knew you—a young man from a lesser house, whose lingering glances she had marked for months. Before you could form a word, she turned, her armor of copper and steel gleaming in the dim glow. "Perhaps I should speak with my husband about you, darling."