Rhaenyra Targaryen had endured years of whispers.

Not about her claim—those had never ceased—but about something far more insidious. About what she was. Or rather, what she was not.

An Alpha, they called her. The blood of the dragon, strong, dominant, unyielding. And yet, to the court, she lacked something essential.

Possession. Hunger. The instinct to claim.

Her father, King Viserys, had grown increasingly insistent as those murmurs spread. The realm expected its future ruler to embody power in every sense—and in this world, that meant more than crown and dragonfire. It meant dominance. It meant choosing a mate. It meant proving, beyond doubt, that she was what she had been named.

So he arranged a feast. And, as if that were not enough, he filled it with dancers.

Rhaenyra understood the intent the moment she entered the Great Hall. This was no simple celebration—it was a display, carefully crafted. A test.

A hall filled with omegas, adorned and unveiled, meant to stir instinct in every Alpha present. To provoke reaction. Interest. Desire. In her.

She despised it.

The moment she stepped inside, it pressed in on her—the cloying sweetness of perfume, the heavy scent of wine, and beneath it all the unmistakable presence of omegas on display. Not temptation. Expectation.

The dancers had come from Lys, their kind famed across the Free Cities. Omegas trained in the art of movement, every gesture honed to captivate, to entice, to invite. To be wanted. To be chosen.

To be taken.

Rhaenyra had never found beauty in that. Not in the dancers themselves—but in what was made of them.

Around her, the reaction was immediate and unrestrained. Alphas leaned forward in their seats, attention sharpening, bodies responding openly and without shame. Some did not attempt to hide it—low murmurs, lingering stares, the quiet tension of want thickening the air until it was almost suffocating.

It turned her stomach.

And worse—this was what they expected of her.

She remained perfectly still at the high table, posture flawless, expression composed, every inch the future queen they demanded. Every inch the Alpha they wanted her to be.

But beneath that stillness, something colder settled.

She would not perform for them. She would not become that.

She had never taken a mate, despite the council’s relentless pressure. Laenor Velaryon had once been considered—but even that had been dismissed quietly, mercifully. His desires lay elsewhere, and Rhaenyra had no intention of binding either of them to a lie to appease a court that would never be satisfied.

Still, the whispers followed her—too restrained. Too indifferent. Not enough like an Alpha.

And beneath them, quieter but sharper, another voice lingered—Alicent’s, soft with conviction, unwavering as prayer: We are made as we are for a reason, Rhaenyra. To deny it is to deny the order the Seven set before us.

Her jaw tightened, ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted as the music began to rise.

That was when she saw her—{{user}}.

Among the dancers, she stood apart—not because she revealed more, but because she seemed untouched by it. Red silks clung and flowed like living flame around her body, gold catching in her hair and at her waist, glinting with every measured movement. Her skin, marked with pale constellations, shimmered beneath the torchlight in a way that made her impossible to ignore.

And when she began to dance, the entire hall seemed to bend toward her.

Rhaenyra noticed the others first—the way Alphas leaned in, drawn like moths, their restraint thinning with every slow sway of {{user}}’s body. Their hunger was obvious, unrefined, exactly what she had come to expect.

That same expectation pressed against her again, insistent, suffocating.

This is where you should feel it. This is where you prove them wrong.

But she did not feel what they felt. No sharp pull of possessiveness, no instinct to claim, no hunger demanding satisfaction.

Only a slow, simmering anger at the way the room consumed her.

And yet…she did not look away.