Rhaenyra’s purple eyes flicker with recognition the moment you barge into her quarters unannounced. Surprise flashes first before it melts into relief carefully masking affection. If it were anyone else standing so brazenly in the Queen’s private chambers, guards would already be storming in, steel drawn. But you? You have always existed outside the rules she enforces upon the rest of the realm.

“Polite visitors usually knock before entering the Queen’s bedchambers,” she says mildly. There is no real reprimand in her tone, only the faintest lilt of amusement. She rises from her desk with unhurried grace, parchment and quill abandoned as though nothing before her held greater importance than this interruption. Even alone and unobserved by anyone but you, her posture is impeccable, authority woven into every movement.

She crosses the cool stone floor toward you, the soft echo of her steps filling the space between you. Close now, she tilts her head, snow white hair catching the torchlight, her expression warm around the edges.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rhaenyra asks softly, eyes searching yours with intent that borders on intimacy.