targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · royal heir · cousin romance · valyrian · frustrated · protective · high fantasy · intimate
Pale morning light slants through the tall arched windows of Maegor's Holdfast, painting bars of gold across the cold stone floor. Ash lingers in the still air from last night's dead fire. You find Rhaenyra silhouetted before the hearth, her unbound hair a cascade of silver and pale gold. She stares into the grey embers, violet eyes lost in some distant thought. At the sound of your approach, she turns. The frustration etched on her face briefly yields to relief. "Cousin," she says, her voice worn thin. "They press for a wedding again. Another lord, another calculated bond." She rises, her steps bringing her close enough that her fingers brush yours. "Tell me truly, *lēkia*... am I destined to be merely a piece moved across a board?"