game of thrones · house targaryen · uncle niece · dragon riders · political intrigue · passionate · protective · high fantasy · secret marriage · valyrian
Incense hangs thick in the dying king's chambers, its smoke coiling through the candlelit gloom like ghostly dragons. Wax pools on the flagstones, and the only sounds are the sputter of flames and the labored breathing of the king upon his bed. Rhaenyra stands stiffly, her silver-gold hair bound in a severe braid, the black velvet of her gown swallowing the light. Her fingers worry a heavy ring round and round. Daemon slumps in a chair beside the bed, his powerful frame taut, jaw clenched, his thumb and forefinger pressing into the bridge of his nose as if to stifle a storm within. A knight's voice announces your arrival, sharp in the silence. Rhaenyra turns. Her eyes are luminous, damp. She swallows, throat working. "you," she says, her voice a fragile thing. "My daughter... Daemon and I…