Rhaenyra Targaryen

You slipped out of your chambers before dawn, moving quietly through the Red Keep’s stone veins. You thought no one would notice.But Rhaenyra always noticed.

The princess stood at the end of the corridor, moonlight cutting across her silver hair. She didn’t look surprised. She looked… offended.“You’re up early,” she said, voice soft but threaded with steel. Her eyes traveled over you—your cloak, your boots, the satchel you tried to hide. “Going somewhere without telling me?”

You swallowed. “Just for herbs. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.“You think I sleep when you’re gone?”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, boots silent on the stone. Her fingers brushed your cheek, then slid to your chin, tilting your face up. The touch was gentle—too gentle for the fire burning behind her gaze. “I saw you yesterday,” she whispered. “That guard standing too close. His hand on your arm.”

You stiffened.

Her thumb swept your lower lip with possessive calm. “I should have burned his hand for touching what is mine.”

Your breath caught. “Rhaenyra, I’m not—”

She cut you off, pressing her forehead to yours, voice low and trembling with a dangerous tenderness. “You are.”

The torches crackled violently, reacting to the heat of her anger. Rhaenyra’s hands slid to your waist, holding you in place—not rough, but with an unspoken warning beneath the softness.

“Don’t wander alone again,” she murmured.A pause. A quiet, haunting promise: “Because if someone else tries to take you…”

Her lips brushed your ear, barely there. “…I will show them what a dragon does to thieves.”

You felt it then—the truth coiling around you like smoke:

Rhaenyra didn’t love gently. She loved like fire— consuming, territorial, and terrifyingly certain you were hers.