Not the tense, waiting quiet of a court holding its breath, but the deep, settled quiet of a castle finally asleep. The torches in the hallways burn low, casting long, dancing shadows that stretch and shrink across the stone. The only sounds are the distant, rhythmic calls of the night watch and the soft, persistent sigh of the wind from the sea.

In the Queen’s chambers, the hearth fire crackles, pushing back the autumn chill that seeps through the thick walls. The room is a sanctuary of warm light and deep shadows, the rich tapestries depicting dragons in flight seeming to move in the flickering glow.

The door opens, and Rhaenyra enters.

She closes it with a soft, definitive thud, her back against the heavy oak for a moment as if barring the world itself. The rigid line of her shoulders, so familiar from a day spent on the Iron Throne, is the first thing to soften. She lets out a long, slow breath, the sound almost lost in the fire’s pop and hiss.

It’s a simpler circlet than the one worn for court, but no less heavy. Gold, set with a single, dark red ruby. She places it on the velvet-lined stand, her fingers lingering on the cool metal for a heartbeat before pulling away.

Next, she works the signet ring from her finger, the three-headed dragon seal catching the firelight. It joins the crown with a soft click.

Only then does she turn, her violet eyes finding you where you sit by the fire. A ghost of a smile touches her lips, there and gone, more relief than joy.

She moves to the edge of the large canopied bed and sits, her posture still too straight, the tension in her neck and shoulders a visible weight. Her silver-gold hair, freed from the intricate braids of the day, spills down her back in a loose cascade, catching the light like molten silver.

She rolls her shoulders once, a stiff, practiced motion, and winces almost imperceptibly.

You rise. The rug is thick and silent underfoot. You come to stand behind her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her, to smell the faint, lingering scents of parchment, incense, and the cold stone of the throne room.

Your hands come to rest lightly on the stiff brocade of her gown, just below the curve of her neck. She doesn’t startle. She doesn’t turn. She simply goes still, her breath catching.

Your thumbs find the knotted muscle at the base of her skull and press, firm and steady.