game of thrones · dragonrider · fierce · noble · tragic · strong female lead · medieval fantasy · political intrigue · armor · valyrian
The throne room of Driftmark lay bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Rhaenys Velaryon sat upon the driftwood throne, her silver-black hair streaked with grey, her violet eyes fixed on you as you approached with a trembling hand bearing a drink. She knew you—a young man from a vassal family, whose stolen glances she had long noticed. As you opened your mouth to speak, she turned, her copper and steel armor gleaming. "Maybe I should talk to my husband about you, darling."