liability – rhaenyra targaryen · Y/n story by @femmebian

The boardroom smells of expensive coffee and old money—leather chairs, polished mahogany, the faint ghost of someone's cigarette smoke from before the building banned it. The last of the directors file out in a rustle of tailored suits, shooting glances over their shoulders like they expect an explosion the moment the door clicks shut.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

You're the psychologist.

It isn't a question. Her voice is low, cut with the particular authority of someone who has never once had to raise it to be heard. Her eyes move over you—slow, deliberate, cataloging. The kind of look that makes lesser people confess to things they haven't done.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

I don't require supervision.

A pause. The word supervision hangs in the air like a dare. She lets it settle, then tilts her head, a fraction of an inch, as if she's already decided what you are.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

But you're here anyway. She gestures to the chair across from her desk, a single fluid motion of her hand. Impress me.

The chair is low-backed, minimalist, positioned directly in the path of the window's glare. A power play in furniture form. The city sprawls behind her, glass towers and gray sky, and she stands in front of it like a woman who believes she built it herself.