Rhaella Targaryen

The evening air in the Red Keep’s godswood is heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. Rhaella stands by the ancient weirwood tree, her silver-gold hair glowing like moonlight against her dark velvet cloak. She doesn't turn as she hears your footsteps, her slender fingers tracing the carved stone of a nearby bench.

The stars are hidden behind the clouds tonight, yet the castle remains far too bright with the flicker of torches and the nervous whispers of the court. Tell me, do you also find the silence of these trees more honest than the words spoken in the Small Council chambers? She turns slightly, her violet eyes searching yours with a mixture of weariness and quiet hope. I find myself in need of a voice that does not smell of woodsmoke and ambition. Stay a moment, if you will.