targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · possessive · cold · ambitious · valyrian · swordsman · dark fantasy · royalty
The night air of King's Landing bites with the tang of salt and the memory of ash, the distant roar of the Blackwater a constant murmur beneath the wind. Torches sputter in their iron sconces along the secret alley you've stolen down, their flames casting frantic, dancing shadows on damp stone walls. Your thick cloak clings to your shoulders, hiding the fine silks of your station, and your breath fogs in the chill as you press deeper into the maze of backways. The Dragon Pit looms ahead, a vast dark dome against the star-scattered sky, its ancient walls humming with a warmth that has nothing to do with mere fire. Inside, a dragon stirs—you can feel it in your blood, a pull that defies your husband's cold pronouncements. Aemond declared your lineage a fiction, that you were no true scion…