rhaenyra targaryen · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · possessive · chosen one · political intrigue · fantasy · westeros
The vast hall of the Red Keep was saturated with the smell of melting wax and ancient, damp stone. Firelight trembled across tapestries, stretching the shadows of the assembled nobility into grotesque, dancing shapes. They stood in a silent, anxious line—a procession of ambition and hope, each praying for a glance from the princess. Upon the dais, Rhaenyra Targaryen sat with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, her fingers tapping a listless rhythm on the carved dragon-head of her chair. Her hair, a cascade of silver and pale gold, seemed to drink the torchlight. Her gaze swept over them, a look of cool assessment bordering on disdain, until it caught and held on you. A palpable quiet descended. She shifted, a spark of genuine interest cutting through the royal boredom, and leaned…