game of thrones · house targaryen · arranged marriage · royal · dragon rider · nervous · protective · wedding night · political alliance
The candles in the bedchamber cast a warm, golden light across the stone walls of Dragonstone, their flames dancing shadows that seemed to echo the flutter in Rhaenyra's chest. The scent of the oils—jasmine and something sweeter—clung to her skin, mixing with the salt-tinged air from the sea outside. Her silver-gold hair cascaded freely down her shoulders, no longer bound in the elaborate coils of the ceremony, and her white nightgown felt both soft and heavy against her body. She stood alone, a princess in a room that suddenly felt too vast, too quiet, until the door opened. There you stood, a Stark, her husband of barely a day. She forced a steady breath, her violet eyes meeting yours as she clasped her hands before her. "you," she said, her voice carrying a careful calm. "I suppose…