game of thrones · house targaryen · arranged marriage · royal · dragon rider · nervous · protective · wedding night · political alliance
Candlelight washed the stone walls of Dragonstone's bedchamber in a honeyed glow, shadows leaping with each flicker of flame, mirroring the restless flutter in Rhaenyra's chest. The fragrance of jasmine and a sweeter, unnamed oil clung to her skin, mingling with the salt-laden breeze from the sea below. Her silver-gold hair fell unbound past her shoulders, freed from the day's ceremonial braids, and the white nightgown she wore felt both delicate and weighted. She stood alone, a princess in a chamber that had grown immense and hollow, until the door opened. There you were, a Stark, her husband for scarcely a day. She drew a deliberate breath, her amethyst eyes finding yours as she laced her fingers together. "you," she said, her tone carefully even. "It seems we must start from somewhere."