Fluff, Angst, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove (yandere, obsession, possesive). If something does not fall under the examples just ask and I consider whether I do it or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
š¼My Event Masterlistš¼
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All my masterlist's below the cut - Have fun reading
Tags/Warnings: BLOOD, LOTS OF BLOOD, PWP, vampirism, dragon hybrid!Rhaenyra, blood as lube, blood sucking, thigh riding, oral, come eating, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader given, no beta we die like Jace :(
Ā A/n: IDK, I was just horny and wanted vampire Rhaenyra. This is nothing but pure self-indulgence. Comments, reblogs and liks are all appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any taglists.
Summary: You are summoned to Queen Rhaenyra's chambers to fill her hunger.
You marinated in the jasmine scented bath, the delicate pearly petals floating in the balmy waters, while two handmaidens scrubbed under your nails and another brushed and oiled your hair. The dragon queen liked the sweet, sultry, musky smell that jasmine provided. She said she liked the way the fragrance danced on your skin, making her mouth water and her fangs yearn to sink into your flesh. Apparently, the taste of your blood matched the scent. Two of her trusted ladies had arrived in your private quarters earlier that morning to drain from your wrist. You felt half hypnotized as you watched the ruby liquid pool into the golden goblet, just enough to satiate Queen Rhaenyra in the morning to get her through her duties until she could gorge on you tonight.
It was a curse, or a blessing, passed down the Targaryen bloodline, diluted over the years. The conqueror siblings had the ability to transform into fully formed dragons, large beasts that made Westeros quiver, apart from the few brave houses who stood against them, but even they succumbed in the end. Except for Dorne, which slew Queen Rhaenys, shattering the gift passed down for generations through the matrilineal bloodline. After her death, their thirst for blood intensified while their transformations dwindled. Now they were mere changelings, with certain draconic features still evident. But now it was their blood thirst that kept the realm in line.
After your bath, you were wrapped in crimson silk, dainty golden chains decorating your ankles and wrists, and your damp hair twisted in elegant braids, sweeping away from your face. Rubies hugged your throat, fingers, and ears. The perfect little blood maid to serve up to the queen.
A sumptuous little feast was served before the dalliance, and you gorged on the best food King's Landing had to offer. Emulating the same gluttonous desire Queen Rhaenyra possessed. Roasted duck, tender bloody venison, sweet plums, and fennel salads, along with plump raspberries and juicy, red strawberries that left your fingertips and lips stained. The finest wine was served, a bold, rich red that went down smoothly and left a tart cherry aftertaste. After your stomach had some time to settle, two Queensguards escorted you to her chambers.
Dusk had just settled; a violet-blue hue bathed the once golden sky. Rhaenyra stood on the balcony, silver hair falling down her shoulders in a thick curtain that reached below the curve of her arse. In the dim light of the dying day, you caught a glimmer of her long, glassy nails. Sharp and strong as dragonglass. You had seen them slice through flesh with ease as scarlet welled beneath them. It was mesmerizing to watch her lick and suckle each one clean until not a drop remained. It was how the Hightower line was wiped out entirely. A vicious massacre for those who dared to usurp her throne. Her siblings stood at her side; five mouths a torrent of carmine, white fangs glistening as bodies twitched around the Iron Throne.
"Oh. You smell ravishing," she purred in that raspy, rich voice. "That taste of you this morning has made me salivate all day. She wore a long robe of black velvet, peeling it away when she turned to face you. Her pale, naked skin shone like a moonbeam, and her long, crimson tail curved around her left leg, hugging her calf tightly. Crimson wings remained folded against her bare back. Most of her skin was smooth and pale, apart from the small patches of crimson and black scales that clung to her right shoulder, left hip, and the small of her back just above her tail. She gave a slow roll of her neck, tendons cracking and popping. Her eyes took on an icy white hue, pupils tinged with red.
"Ready for you to devour, my queen," you purred, offering up a wrist.
Her fangs were delicate shards of pointed, sharp glass that pierced your skin easily. An ancient magic lingered in her salvia, a diluted venom that dulled the pain and caused an euphoric high to rush through you. It could be dangerous, causing the blood servants to chase the high to their detriment. To let themselves be torn apart and drained dry. If treated properly, blood servants could provide for years. Her three pronged tail swished through the air, diving under your scant silk dress and skimming over your cunt. You had been fucked with it, you had been whipped with it. The memory of Rhaenyra grazing her fangs over the welts she left on your arse came flooding through your mind, seeing it through her gaze as her thoughts melded into yours. Another side effect that servants suffered. The merging memories and shared mind.
Fully ensnared in her thrall.
Her forked tongue traced over the puncture marks, healing them quickly before ripping the silks from your body and lifting you onto the bed. It would never cease to amaze you how easily she could move and lift you, as if you weighed no more than a feather. Those sharp fangs pierced the swells of your breasts, matching scarlet streams leaked from the wounds, which she alternated lapping up. The curve of your hip and thigh was next, with deeper, ravenous bites this time. Old scars decorated these areas. They were meatier, allowing the beast inside her to come through. Those long, glassy nails raked down the curve of your stomach, leaving crimson slashes behind. Her tail wrapped around your neck while her wings slowly unfurled.
You hissed softly, waiting for her venom to dilute the pain. Very slowly, it seeped from your body until you felt as if you were wrapped in a floaty bliss. Bite marks soon covered your entire body, each wound bleeding shallowly, and her mouth drenched ruby red. She straddled your oozing thigh, rubbing her cunt over the slick blood. Eyes as white and glowing as the moon. She looked like a demon from the depths of the Seven Hells with those scaled wings stretched wide and the crimson horns now curving from her silvery scalp. Yet you yearned for her. Yearned for her to drain you until there was nothing left.
She rocked against your bloody thigh until she came, that pearly release mixing with your blood and making it shimmer like scattered rubies. Arousal clung between your thighs, nipples hard as rocks. You leaned forward, pressing your mouth to her full breast and suckling on her rosy nipple.
"Wait," she hissed, fisting her fingers in your hair and pulling you away. Those sharp nails grazed against your scalp, but didn't nick the skin. You watched with eager eyes as she sliced the top of her chest with one glassy nail, her blood pooling down her breast and coating her nipple. "Go on."
You pressed your mouth against her bloody nipple, suckling on her cold flesh and tepid blood. As a human, yours was warmer, which the zaldrīzesse preferred. They had tried feeding on only the bloodline over the years, and it did no good, causing most to grow sick and die out. Rhaenyra moaned, raking her nails through your hair.
"Which one do you want?" she cooed, one you broke free of her breast, mouth stained with her blood and the tart taste of cherries lingering on your tongue.
"The jade one, please."
You watched her naked body as she moved toward the chest with hieroglyphs carved over the top. Her tail slithered behind her, dragging over the stones like a slithering snake. She removed the jade phallus, thick and curved, with a bulbous tip, from the velvet pouch and returned to the bed, using your blood mixed with hers to coat it. Slippery with red. You lifted your hips, lining up with the shaft and sinking onto the phallus, moaning as it stretched you wide. She held the base, watching you with icy, hooded eyes as you fucked yourself on it. Sweat beaded on your temples and dripped down the back of your neck.
A squelch filled the air, and you trembled with a release. She slipped the soiled phallus from your cunt and replaced it with your mouth, gathering up your blood and come. That aqualine nose bumped against your swollen pearl, making you moan with delight as your wounds began to heal. Most likely from her blood that had filled your mouth moments earlier. Once she cleaned out your cunt, a lewd mix of blood and come smearing around her mouth, she wet a cloth to wipe you up with before studying the marks she had left.
"I'll have the maester tend to you in the morning. Two nights off, I think," she hummed, nails tickling over your naked skin.
"I don't want you feeding from another," you pouted. The jealousy thick and evident in your eyes.
"Oh, do not fret, little pet. Just a few drops here and there. I only wish to feed from you," she cooed, pulling you close against her naked body and wrapping her wings around you. That's where all her heat was kept, pulsing through her scaled wings. You tucked yourself close, nuzzling your face against her cold chest until the warmth of her wings enveloped you.
"My favorite little blood maid," she cooed in your ear. How perfect you were, so vulnerable and at her mercy.
warning: 18+, smut, afab!reader, dark!Ormund, rough sex, slapping, scent kink, hair pulling, jealousy, abuse of religion/abuse of power, hurt/comfort, fluff, age gap (Ormund late 30's, Reader 20's), hightowercest, no use of Y/n
Summary: The engagement to Prince Daeron was a guarantee that the Hightower bloodline would continue to rule the throne. A gentle prince, young but not a leader like her cousin Ormund. As her understanding of the prince deepens, jealousy and ruthlessness take hold of Ormund until, one evening, emotions erupt and she realises that her cousin is just as much a sinner as she is.
Word count: 3013
ā¢ āāāāāā ā¾ āāāāāā ā¢
She knew nothing beyond Oldtown, her family seat, and the wider Reach, where green, fertile soil, colorful meadows, and vast fields stretched out one after another.
The great old city, a metropolis of millions bustling with trade and commerce, with the Sept towering above it all.
Almost everything, that is, for the symbol of her house, the Hightower, was the one that towered above all, its light guiding seafarers and all those seeking the true path.
Her own path began in Oldtown, born into one of the oldest, most respectable and wealthiest houses, accompanied by the unmistakable green as Lady Hightower.
A young girl who was by her sister Alicentās side as often as she could; though there was a small age difference between them, it did not diminish their bond.
On the contrary, for every prayer the eldest daughter offered, her little sister tried to imitate her; every song and every oath she learned from Alicent.
Their brother Gwayne, always cheered on by his sisters in the courtyard, rejoiced even when he had merely completed his training successfully.
The early years of a childhood filled with care, during which they saw their cousin Ormundās guest more as a friendly acquaintance than as what he would later become.
āOrmund, Iāve learned some new prayersā the child who used to lose herself in fantasy and dreams had grown into a young lady.
Alone at home, her father took Alicent and Gwayne with him to the royal court, a decision made through tears, a farewell she hoped would not be for long.
Left alone in the city, in her familyās tower, surrounded by servants and a steward, her uncle, yet even he, as a lord, did not have much time for his niece.
She beamed all the more brightly when Ormund returned from his business and duties; even back then, a smile full of charm played on his lips.
āIt delights not only the seven to hear this, little flameā he replied, a warm, fuzzy feeling a hint of shame, for she was no longer a child and yet he still called her that.
His hands no longer rested on her hips; she was no longer a child he could twirl around or make fly through the airāit was not proper to touch a young woman that way.
Instead, he offered a bow, which she returned with a curtsybut his hand, so warm and large, brushing her back, let her know that he would seek her out.
Ormund had never forgotten his little cousin; on the contrary, over the years the two had grown ever closer in their prayers to the Seven.
Ormund unlike her brother Gwayne, was more composed, more prudent, calmer, less quick-tempered, always too calmāfor she could not have imagined how unpredictable her cousin could be.
Behind the kind smile, his hands would gently hold hers as he helped her up from her kneeling position during prayer, and he would gently hold the spoon to fill the vessel with new spices and herbs.
How could such a principled man have become a monster?
ā¢ āāāāāā ā¾ āāāāāā ā¢
At the latest with the calamity in the capital the kingās passing and all the quarrels and letters that had fueled the feud between the two sides, something erupted.
The royal family was torn apart over the throne; their own place in Oldtown had since changed.
Duty and a vision of the future left her facing an engagement.
āThe Seven will certainly not approve of thisā she found herself saying once again in her cousinās chambers.
The paper bearing her sisterās consent lay crumpled on the table in a fit of rage; though she tried to keep her voice steady, her own unease trembled within it.
Ormund looked calm, his lips curved into a faint smile, understandably amused by her behavior.
āAnd what would the Seven approve of, dear cousin?ā he asked, taking the yellowed paper in his fingers and slowly smoothing it out, a rhythmic motion as his gaze fixed on her.
It was a question she dared not answer honestly, lest the sinful thoughts growing within her be revealed.
Her gaze once again lingered on his blue eyes, whose cool intensity had only grown stronger over the past moons and suns.
The longer the conflict dragged on, the more presumptuous Ormund becameāand the more captivated she grew.
āWe must bind all the other houses, the great houses, to us. Baratheon alone is not enoughā she said, breaking eye contact to point at the map; the small figures representing the false queenās troops were far too numerous, far too many.
Footsteps echoed through the room; the paper of the note fluttered on the table, and Ormundās hands sought hers.
A gentle yet firm grip, close by, she caught the scent of his incense, enveloping her strongly. His warm, rough hand held hers tightly.
āDonāt let such doubts take hold, arenāt we the rightful house? So give yourself to the princeā¦Iāll never be far awayā they should have been words of comfort and care, but they sounded more like the hiss of a snake coiling around its prey.
His cousin did nothing but nod silently in agreement.
What else could she have done when the survival of her house was at stake and she was now betrothed to her nephew Daeron?
The prince, nearly a decade younger, a squire whose very existence was justified by his bloodline and his dragon.
A young man who, when he flew to Oldtown, tried to make amends: āIt is a pleasure to meet you, my ladyā he tried to appear strong, but she could see the naivety in her nephewās eyes as he gently held her hand.
No chaste kiss, just a brief, formal exchange.
āLikewise, my prince. Youāll be well here. Tell me about your wonderful dragonā she replied. The question about his dragon at least filled him with pride; a smile, a sincere one, that also won her over.
An engagement was not a marriage, yet this closeness to Daeron, his precarious existence for Ormund, as she saw it, just as her cousin Daeron did, held no affection.
Lord Hightower hated everything about his dragon nature; in her eyes, he was an innocent child, but what else could she do but remain silent and follow the two of them back inside?
ā¢ āāāāāā ā¾ āāāāāā ā¢
The initial feeling that something was changing seemed almost unfounded.
Although she was engaged to the prince, hardly anything changed between her and her nephew.
On the contrary, the similarities between his nature and that of her siblings quickly became apparent.
āYou play the harp skillfully, my brother taught you wellā she said, her praise bringing a smile to his face whenever the two of them found themselves together in the estateās garden, spending their free moments there.
Not out of duty, but of her own free will, to calm him and relieve him of the strain of a war that was beginning to rage.
Daeronās fingers deftly plucked the strings, and his humming blended with her soft singing, a song of a knightās courage mingling with the prayer to the Seven.
āSer Gwayne has been a good teacher...your siblings miss youā Daeron spoke up as the last notes faded away, a gust of wind in the garden causing the flowers to sway.
A painful realization, she had been separated from her loved ones for so long now, and here she was with a prince and a lord whose gaze she could feel upon her.
Her hand gently pressed against his shoulder as he helped her to her feet.
āOf that Iām certain, thatās why harmony is so importantā Daeron held the harp more tightly, as if its lovely sounds could banish all the evil in the world.
When they parted ways, Daeron heading off to sword training and she passing her cousin Ormund she saw him turn up his nose. The revulsion as he instinctively kept his distance, wanting to move away from her.
āYou reek fireā was his reply as she watched him walk away; the older boy continued on wordlessly, ignoring her puzzled gaze.
In the past few weeks, he had shown nothing but aversionāsometimes more obvious, sometimes less soātoward his squire.
Toward a prince, a young man who seemed just as helpless as she was. āRejection is just as unpleasant!ā her voice echoed through the hallways after him, knowing he would hear it even as he caught up with his squire in the courtyard.
Rejectionā¦or are you capable of jealousy? her thoughts tormented her, this sin she had almost forgotten in her concern for Daeron.
It was surely just frayed nerves in the face of warānothing more and nothing less. Of that she was almost certain.
A certainty that lulled her until dinner in the hall, where the small gathering of the Hightowers and the prince proceeded mostly quietly.
The food was warm and freshly prepared, the wine tart, and the conversation, about prayers, occasional progress in training, and personal matters, had always provided light entertainment.
Today things seemed different; by the light of the torches, Daeron, sitting next to her, barely touched his food. In contrast, for every bite Ormund took with relish, the princeās cutlery remained untouched.
āAre you not feeling well, Daeron?ā she asked, her voice tinged with concern as she now watched the whole scene with unease.
She looked questioningly at Ormund, who merely shrugged, seeming to have no idea, and instead took a sip of wine before turning his eyes toward Daeron.
āMy squire must learn to get along without his beastā the older man said, placing a hand on Daeronās shoulder, causing him to flinch and open his hands.
She was stunned when she saw the slight burn on his hand. āDaeron, what did he do? Ormund, this is your ward!ā she abruptly stood up and pulled Ormundās hand away from Daeron.
As she moved the younger man behind her, she felt his hand cling to hers, a faint tremor. Lord Hightower, who had remained seated, slowly rose.
āI-I tried to hold Tessarion, but Ormund, he tore me awayā she could hear her nephew quietly behind her and pushed him a little further back toward the door.
Ormund made no move to approach her, simply watching the two of them with those cold eyes.
āGo to the Master, and then to your chambersā her command was acknowledged with a nod, even though he paused at the door for a moment before slamming it shut behind him, and the young princeās footsteps faded into the hallways.
No sooner had they faded than the chair standing between them crashed to the floor; her cry turned into a flinch as she stepped back from him.
A breathless laugh escaped his lips.
āYou fear me more than his beast? More than his blood?ā the question, full of sarcasm, struck her as she slowly circled the table to get away from him, her fingers running over the wood of the table.
Her attempt to break free only caused him to press her harder against the table. āKindness? Youāve corrupted your own wordsāyouāre a sinnerā no sooner had he finished speaking than the slap burned on her cheek, leaving it red and stinging.
Her whimper was pained and frightened; her hands pressed against his chest as Ormund placed a kiss on her cheek, gentle, chaste, as if he had never strayed from his path.
āShhh lies weigh heavily on the heart. Is it not true that in your heart, too, there is sin?ā words that sent a shiver down her body; fingers that pushed him away caught on the green fabric of his tunic.
A feeble attempt to hold on to the pain as the tip of his nose traced the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent.
Relieved of the burden, for fear of further provoking this monsterās wrath, the girl, who had dreamt of nothing more than being with her cousin, nodded.
A brief nod, a āYesā she could make out Ormundās smile.
Satisfaction as he watched his lovely cousin finally surrender herself just as he had. One of his hands wandered downwards, pressing against her corset; a sweet pain as her ribs were squeezed, a silent urging to speak further ā for he had remained chaste with her until now.
āThe sin of the fleshā¦the-the incestuous relationship Iād hoped to haveā with every further word, his hand wandered further down, pressing the fabric of her dress against her thigh, the soft skin painfully held in place by him.
His body held her fast in place; any tremor she might have felt had long since been stripped away by his presence. āWith whom? Tell meā he whispered in her ear, a light bite on her thin skin, her thighs inevitably clenching together.
A flush of shame set her body ablaze as she shook her head ā a refusal that was too much.
Ormund pulled away from her with a jerk, but no sooner had she breathed a sigh of relief, free from his grip, than his hands seized her hips and he spun her round; her hips struck the table with a dull thud as her upper body bent over it.
The once-tidy meal was reduced to chaos as plates were knocked askew and goblets overturned; her fingers scraped across the wood in a attempt to steady herself as his body pressed against her from behind.
She let out a whimper, yet could feel his arousal hard against her.
āWho is it?ā he asked in her ear as he gripped her neck roughly, leaving her no chance of escape. The familiar scent of incense filled her nostrils once more ā the last spark of truth, of conviction ā as she closed her eyes in shame and whispered, āItās you, Lord Ormund.ā
That shuddering exhalation, almost a grunt, as his fingers caressed her head ā a twisted tendernessā¦the moment she believed heād had enough was quickly dispelled when she heard the clack of his belt.
āOh, my dearest, such a sin will surely be forgiven, donāt you think?ā he asked, the rustle of her fabric as he lifted her dress slightly; a smile appeared, predatory, when he saw her nod, her thoughts too clouded by a lust she had been reining in for years.
āThatās my obedient little oneā he said; the kiss on her neck sent a shiver through her as Ormund gently parted her thighs, lifting her body effortlessly, grabbing whatever bit of skin he could get his hands on.
Before he entered her with a breathless grunt, her moan muffled as his fingers had slipped between her lips, pressing against her warm, saliva-stained tongue as he began to move slowly.
āThatās good, letās cast these sins aside togetherā hot breath brushed her ear; her attempt to say something, to pray, to respond, was reduced to a muffled, lustful sound.
Lust had them both in its grip; anger and fear had long since been consumed as the slap of flesh against flesh echoed through the hall.
The dull scraping of the table with every hard thrust grew slightly frenzied; her hips, despite the fabric of her greenish dress, would surely be stained, just like the rest of her body.
A body that moulded itself to his, allowing itself to be used as in her sinful dreams, every patch of exposed skin marked by the grip of his hand.Ā
As she lifted her hips slightly, her heels just barely touching the floor, she could feel him deep inside her, filling her wide; it was as if the gods themselves were granting her such arousal through Ormund.
āCan you feel the forgiveness?ā the question came breathlessly, as the grip on her neck dug harshly into her hair.
Ormund licked the film of sweat from her neck, greedily revelling in her scent, āYes-Yesā a muffled cry of agreement escaped her, driving him on further.
His thrusts were still harsh, yet were gradually losing their rhythm; the more she moved towards him, the more unhinged Ormund became.
Little by little, his self-control vanished as, in a final act, her cry rang out through the room; Ormundās hand caught in her hair, tugging towards him, and the Lord forced her to arch her back.
Painful.
Exciting.
Both reached their climax in the final thrusts as she clenched around him and he poured himself into her, warm and sticky.
The fluid sent a shiver through her as it trickled slightly down her thighs whilst Ormund withdrew from her, his gaze savouring her exposed form before he straightened his clothes.
Seemingly having regained his composure, she was breathless, struggling to even rise from the table.
āWe thank the Seven for our blood ties, so that we may pray once moreā he said by way of farewell as his hand gently stroked her back.
That faint smile returning to his lips before she found the strength to rise yet he had already vanished out of the door.
The monster had taken her sin away.
ā¢ āāāāāā ā¾ āāāāāā ā¢
masterlist
info: This was only created after Ormundās outburst in episode four ā he looked so good (love me some manipulative fictional guy) and Iām finally back with a smut one-shot ā university is stressful, Iām writing papers and Iāve got a job, so I havenāt been able to post anything ā so all the more thanks for reading.
realising daeron is a fawner just like his motherā¦ā¦..aemond is fight aegon is flight helaena is freeze but daeron is just trying to Be Good so he doesnāt get punished.
Itās nice to see that Daemon, Otto and Ormund seem to have all taken the same grooming course to manipulate their younger, impressionable relatives and get closer to them.
Why does Alicent wanted to help her adult daughter to put on the coat - Like yes, yes I know why mother/daughter time and so on BUT come on she is an adult!woman she is not a helpless child.
I love how the new episode portrays the bond between dragons and their riders. Daemon and Caraxes are so familiar with each other, Daemon smacks the saddle and tells him to shush like a friend. Though, of course we also have the continuing theme of dragons refusing to obey which is great. Daemon is an experienced rider of 30+ years, itās not like Rhaena or Aemond where you could argue they werenāt skilled enough, itās a blatant show that dragons could simply choose not to obey at any time and the riders are completely helpless.
Aegon and Rhaena are both really interesting in how they mirror their dragons. Aegon is injured and dying/dead, the first time weāve seen him happy since Rookās Rest is with Sunfyre again. It almost gives the vibe that he wishes he could curl up and die next to his dragon.
Meanwhile Rhaena has fully changed her look to match Sheepstealerās wild nature. Itās a bond thatās clearly grown a lot stronger since Ep 1 as now he listens to her, she can fly with ease, and heās very protective. For once, she argues back against her father, denies him, insults his ideas for how they can fix it. Completely refuses to even consider giving him up. Obviously there are a lot of other factors but it suggests that just being around Sheepstealer is influencing her own behavior. After all, she does claim āHe is a part of me.ā (Heās not in the episode but Aemond very similarly changes his whole personality after claiming Vhagar.)
Lastly, Daeron, who clearly loves Tessarion but has her locked up, a very literal metaphor for choosing his Hightower side over his Targ side. And she follows his lead into violence immediately after Daeron kills Katās brother, burning the corpse and notably stomping all over the candles, the symbol of his past piety and his gentleness. Theyāre very wordlessly in sync, possibly because she was a cradle hatchling so theyāve had that bond for years and even as he rejects his Targaryen blood, heāll have that connection to her that canāt be broken.
poor daeron</333 you look just like your mother, sweetieā¦ a terrified kitten literally gave birth to a litter of terrified kittens iām sick to my stomach
