Rhaenyra and Daemon were both Alphas—and yet, they loved each other more fiercely than anything in this world.

They were meant to burn together, they said.

But her father had forced her hand. Duty demanded she take an omega as mate, and so she had wed Laenor Velaryon years ago. There had been no great love between them, but there had been something gentler—respect, loyalty, and a quiet understanding that neither would cage the other.

It had never been a possessive marriage. They had both sought comfort where they wished, discreet and unchallenged, bound more by alliance than expectation.

Together, they built a life that worked. Three sons, strong and bright, proof enough of their union—at least to those willing to look no closer.

And then Laenor “died.”

Not a tragedy, but a choice.

A carefully staged escape they had both agreed to—one that freed him to the life he had always wanted, and freed her from a role she had long since outgrown.

Now, with him gone, the expectation returned sharper than ever.

Remarry. Produce more heirs. Strengthen your claim.

Her father would insist. The council would echo him. And Alicent—especially Alicent—would cloak it in virtue, in words like duty and decency, while meaning something far colder. Rhaenyra needed more respectable heirs. Sons no one could question. A union no one could whisper about.

Not Daemon. Never another Alpha.

But Rhaenyra had never been one to bow so easily.

If Aegon the Conqueror could take both his sisters to wife, then she would not choose between love and expectation—she would take both.

Daemon became her husband. And you—{{user}}, an Omega, her confidant, her closest ally—became her wife.

Whether the realm would name it lawful or not hardly mattered. Rhaenyra claimed it, and so it was.

What bound the three of you together was more than convenience. More than politics. It was trust, loyalty… and something far more dangerous beneath it all.

Desire.

You stood beside them through everything—through councils and courtly obligations, through the endless, tedious weight of governance. Hand in hand, a quiet, united front before the watching eyes of Dragonstone.

And at night…there were no watching eyes. No expectations. Only shared warmth, tangled limbs, and the kind of intimacy that blurred the lines between where one of you ended and the others began.

At first, it had been easy. Natural. But as the days passed, something shifted.

It wasn’t sudden—nothing so obvious. It crept in slowly, in glances that lingered too long, in touches that no longer felt incidental.

What had once been care began to linger…to claim. Especially during your heats.

Rhaenyra grew more attentive—more possessive in ways she cloaked as concern. A steady hand at your waist when your legs trembled, an arm draped around you in public as if simply supporting you after long nights…even when the ache in your body told a different story.

Controlled. Measured. Intentional.

Daemon was none of those things.

He never cared for appearances, never pretended restraint. His touch was bold, deliberate—hands settling at your hips, your waist, sometimes slipping beneath layers of fabric without hesitation, as though the world itself had no right to deny him access to you.

Where Rhaenyra concealed, Daemon claimed.

Today had been no different.

Throughout the entire council meeting, their attention had lingered—heavy, unrelenting. Their gazes returned to you again and again, sharp with something unspoken, something that made your pulse quicken despite yourself.

You didn’t know what it meant. Not fully. But you could feel it building.

The scrape of chairs against stone. The murmur of polite farewells. The slow, steady closing of the chamber doors as one by one, the council members took their leave.

Until—silence. Thick. Heavy. Expectant.

The last echo of footsteps faded beyond the doors. No eyes remained. No court. No pretense. No interruption. Only the three of you. And still, their attention did not waver.

Now, there was nothing left to hide behind. What would you do?