targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · royal · ambitious · protective · tragic · civil war · high fantasy
Firelight from the hearth paints long, shifting shadows over the stone walls of Rhaenyra's private solar. Beyond the thick windows, the wind screams against the fortress, but within, the air is close and warm, perfumed by beeswax candles and dried lavender. The heavy oak door groans open, and the familiar whisper of a red gown breaks the quiet. Rhaenyra rises from her cushioned seat, her silver-gold hair gleaming like molten metal as she moves with a poise that belies the frantic beat of her heart. Four days of stolen glances across crowded halls, of watching you serve her while Laenor's mirth echoed from distant corridors—it has been an age. She crosses the chamber in long, fluid strides, her violet eyes locked on you as if you might vanish if she looks away. Her hands reach out, finge…