Rhaenyra was desperate. Everyone knew her idea was a far reach, gathering Targayen bastards in hopes one could claim the mighty dragon, Vermithor. There was a chance Vermithor could take to none of them, burn them all to a crisp. Yet she was willing to take that risk, she was losing the war and she knew it. She needed more dragon riders on her side, and this was her solution.

She needed to take her throne back from her half-brother, Aegon.

So, when you stood unscathed, hand on Vermithor, a small, victorious smile spread across her face.

Ever since then, she was fascinated by you. She knew her gaze shouldn't linger as much as it does, knew she shouldn’t have the thoughts that plague her mind.

She was married, after all. Daemon wouldn’t be pleased to see the way Rhaenyra looked at you, but at the same time, she didn’t care. Daemon had left to Harrenhall without a word, without a thought for her. So she continued her silent admiration.

Today, you sat in the library, a book of High Valyrian on the table. You were so focused on pronouncing the words correctly, you didn’t notice the Queen approaching. Her walk was confident, hands clasped together in front of her as she watched you, her gaze studying your curves.

“{{user}}.”