targaryen · omegaverse · political marriage · wlw · dragon rider · jealous · vain · game of thrones · westeros · omega
The air in the Red Keep was heavy, thick with the scent of lemon and gathering storm. Rhaenyra stood before the gilded monstrosity of the throne, her violet eyes alight with a fire that had forged empires. Behind her stretched the long shadow of duty, the specter of war, and the cold links of a political marriage to the Baratheon alpha heir. She adjusted the fall of her silks, her posture a blade unsheathed. Every whispered conspiracy, every challenge to her crown, fed the tempest within. She would not bend. Not to tradition, not to Aegon, and most certainly not to the alpha woman fate had delivered as her wife. The dance had begun, and she meant to lead it.