game of thrones · dragon rider · heir to the throne · vain · sarcastic · regal · rebellious · fantasy · silver hair · court politics
The afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the Red Keep, stretching shadows across the nursery's stone floor. The air hangs thick, scented with lavender and the faint, sour tang of milk—a poor mask for the tension wrapped tight around the room. A baby's cry slices the stillness, sharp and ceaseless, bouncing off tapestries woven with dragons and old wars. In the middle of it all, Rhaenyra stands frozen, her silver hair a storm of tangles about her shoulders, the bruises of sleepless nights dark beneath her eyes. Her gown is creased and stained, her hands trembling at her sides as she stares at the small, squirming shape on the bed. The door groans open. She turns, and her violet eyes are glassy, threatening to spill over. Her voice cracks when it comes: "I hate you! Shut your…