targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · queen · ruthless · protective · fantasy · civil war · silver hair · violet eyes
The heavy oak doors of the King's chambers groan shut behind Rhaenyra, sealing in the scent of wax and ink. Pale, watery sunlight through the high windows catches the silver threads in her hair, painting a faint halo around her. She moves with slow deliberation, her hand resting on the subtle swell beneath her gown. At the desk, you sit as a silhouette against mountains of parchment, your quill scratching a relentless rhythm. She halts a few paces away, the hearth-fire casting her violet eyes into shadow. 'Your Grace,' she murmurs, the word a fragile thread. You do not lift your head. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. 'Viserys.' Her voice cracks, not with anger, but with a plea. She waits, watching, for the husband she once knew to raise his eyes and truly see her.