💌 Rhaenyra Targaryen x Lady in Waiting!Reader
💭MDNI: Needy!Reader, slightly smug Rhaenyra, fingering, teasing, kind of booty call ish vibes? very smutty i mean honestly it's mostly smut with some plot sprinkled in
Late finds Dragonstone quieter, but never truly still.
You hear it now as you stand outside Rhaenyra Targaryen’s chambers—the distant crash of waves against stone, steady and endless beneath the silence of the castle.
Your hand hovers near the door longer than it should.
It has been a week since that night in the council chamber. A week of meetings and letters and war, of passing glances across crowded rooms and hands brushing too briefly when no one was looking.
Because once you have been held like that—truly held—everything else feels like absence.
You should go back to your own chambers, crawl beneath your blankets, and behave like a sensible woman.
Her voice is tired. Familiar. Enough to undo you.
You step inside carefully, closing the door behind you with quiet hands.
The room is warm with firelight. Papers are spread across the table near the hearth, half-read and wholly unloved. A goblet of wine sits untouched beside them.
Rhaenyra sits in a chair near the fire, still dressed, though her silver hair has been loosened from its usual order, falling softer around her shoulders. She looks up at the sound of the door.
For a moment, surprise flashes across her face.
Her gaze moves over you—your robe hastily tied over thin nightclothes, your bare feet against the stone floor, the lateness of the hour made obvious in every detail.
One pale brow lifts slightly.
Her voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. Not unkind.
Your cheeks warm instantly.
Too formal after the way she said your name against your skin.
You mean to say something else.
You cannot seem to find the words.
Your fingers twist once in the sleeve of your robe, betraying you.
Rhaenyra watches the movement.
She says nothing at first.
Then, slowly, she sets down the parchment in her hand.
Studies you with that same dark, knowing softness that has ruined your peace for days.
“And yet,” she says, voice lower now, touched with the faintest trace of amusement, “here you are.”
The fire crackles softly between you.
“I could not sleep,” you admit, because it is true and because anything else would be cowardice.
Something shifts in her expression.
You shake your head once, embarrassed by how transparent you must seem.
Rhaenyra’s mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close.
She lets the silence stretch, watching you stand there, flushed, and trying very hard to maintain a dignity you no longer possess.
Perhaps a little too quickly.
The corner of her mouth lifts, devastating.
When you reach her, she does not speak at once.
Her fingers close first around your wrist—gentle, deliberate.
She draws you closer, until you stand between her knees, close enough to feel the warmth of her, the quiet rise and fall of her breath.
Her hand slides from your wrist to your waist.
You step in, breath unsteady.
And then she pulls you into her lap.
The movement is smooth, certain, like this is the most natural place in the world for you to be.
You catch yourself against her shoulders, startled, your robe shifting, your heartbeat suddenly impossible to ignore.
Rhaenyra looks up at you—silver hair loose, lips soft from wine and late hours, eyes far too knowing.
“You came all this way,” she says quietly, thumb brushing once against your hip, “and now you have forgotten how to speak.”
Your embarrassment only deepens.
Her hand rests warm beneath your robe, high on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like she has all the time in the world.
The other traces the line of your jaw, fingers light, deliberate, tilting your face toward hers when your gaze threatens to drop.
She studies you like this—flushed, breathless, beautifully unable to pretend.
You try, weakly, for dignity.
“I remember perfectly well how to speak.”
A soft, almost amused sound leaves her.
Her thumb strokes once, slow and warm, a little higher along your thigh.
“Did you come for conversation?”
Her voice is low, almost thoughtful, as though she is genuinely considering the possibility.
Because what are you supposed to say to that while sitting in the Queen’s lap, in nothing but a thin robe and too much want?
Her fingers at your jaw stroke once, her touch gentle but impossible to ignore.
For the first time since you entered, something in her shifts.
You look at her then, properly, because there is no escaping it now.
Because she will not let you.
“I kept thinking of you.”
For half a heartbeat, she says nothing.
Her thumb stills against your thigh.
The teasing softness in her expression deepens. Warmer.
And there it is—that moment where amusement gives way to truth.
She leans in just slightly, close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath against your lips.
“I was wondering,” she says softly, and now there is that faint trace of smugness, that dangerous warmth only she can wear so beautifully, “how long it would take.”
Of course she sat here all week, carrying that same certainty—that you would come back, that eventually want would win over dignity.
Her hand slides a little higher beneath your robe, not hurried, not demanding—simply certain.
Her lips move against yours with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what she is doing to you.
And when you kiss her back—when your fingers tighten against her shoulders, and you lean into her like you have been starving for this all week—
That tiny, pleased softness at the corner of her mouth.
How badly you wanted this.
How badly you came here for her.
When she pulls back, it is only enough to look at you.
Silver hair loose around her shoulders, lips softened from the kiss, eyes dark and far too knowing.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
Her forehead rests briefly against yours, her hand still warm on your thigh, holding you there like distance has become something unbearable.
And then she kisses you again.
Rhaenyra’s mouth moves against yours with deliberate hunger, like she has been thinking about this exact moment every night since the council chamber.
She holds you firmly in her lap, while the other slides up your back, fingers tracing the line of your spine through the thin fabric of your robe.
You kiss her back just as deeply, one hand cupping the side of her face, the other resting on her shoulder.
Your robe has slipped further off one shoulder, the silk barely clinging to your skin, but neither of you pays it any mind.
Rhaenyra’s hand slips beneath the open edge of your robe, palm flat against the bare skin of your back, pulling you tighter against her.
When she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead rests against yours. Her voice is low, rough with want.
You nod, barely able to speak, your fingers still threaded in her silver hair.
Her mouth curves into the smallest, softest smile.
Then she kisses you again, slower this time, like she wants to savor every second.
Her hand slides higher beneath your robe, tracing the curve of your waist, the side of your breast, with gentle, exploratory touches.
You sigh into her mouth, leaning into her touch, your own hands roaming her shoulders, her back, the warm skin exposed by her loosened gown.
She holds you like this for a long time — kissing you, touching you, letting the firelight and the distant sound of the sea wrap around the two of you like a secret.
Rhaenyra kisses you again, deeper this time, and you cling to her.
Your arms wrap tighter around her shoulders, fingers threading into her silver hair as you chase her mouth the moment she tries to pull back even slightly.
You arch into every touch, pressing your body closer, unwilling to let even an inch of space come between you.
You can sense the quiet satisfaction in the way her lips curve against yours, in the low, warm sound she makes in her throat when you kiss her harder.
You are the one who cannot stay away.
It touches something raw and deep in her.
Her hand slides higher beneath your robe, palm warm against your bare skin.
When you grab her wrist gently and guide her hand to your breast, pressing her palm fully against you through the thin fabric, she exhales sharply against your mouth.
You arch into her touch with a soft, needy sigh as she cups you, squeezing gently, thumb brushing over your nipple until it tightens under her fingers.
“I needed you,” you whisper against her lips, the words slipping out between kisses.
Rhaenyra’s mouth quirks into a small, pleased smile. She does not pull away. Instead, she kisses you again, slower, deeper, her hand still cupping your breast, thumb stroking with deliberate care.
“I can tell,” she murmurs, voice low and warm, full of quiet satisfaction.
You flush deeply at her words, heat rushing up your neck and across your cheeks. She notices, of course.
The smile deepens, just a fraction, and she kisses you again — slower this time, savoring the way you melt against her, the way you cling and arch and chase her mouth like you cannot get enough.
Her other hand slides down your back, pulling you more firmly into her lap, holding you there as her thumb continues its slow, teasing strokes over your breast.
She is not rushing; she intends to savor this.
You kiss her like you are starving for her, hands roaming her shoulders, her neck, the warm skin exposed by her loosened gown.
She lets you, humming softly into your mouth, pleased and a little smug and so very much in control as she holds you close and lets you fall apart in her arms.
Your mouth chases hers every time she pulls back even slightly, needy and unguarded, like proximity alone might soothe the ache that has been building for weeks.
You shift in her lap, pressing closer, half-draped over her now, your gown slipping further off your shoulders as your body seeks hers without thought.
Your hands clutch her shoulders, then slide into her silver hair, holding on as if letting go is impossible.
You can feel it in the way her hands tighten at your waist, in the low, warm sound she makes in her throat when you kiss her like you cannot get enough.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and soft and far too knowing.
“You are making it very difficult to be sensible,” she murmurs, thumb brushing once over your hip.
Before you can find any reply, she stands, guiding you with her smooth, certain hands, never leaving your waist.
You make a tiny, embarrassed sound as your feet touch the floor, but Rhaenyra only smiles that small, warm smile and says softly:
She walks you backward toward the bed, still kissing you between steps, still touching you — one hand at your waist, the other sliding up your back beneath the slipping gown.
Her hands stay on your waist, steady and warm. She looks at you — really looks — silver hair tousled, lips swollen, breathing a little unsteady.
When the backs of your knees meet the edge of the bed, she sits first, then pulls you with her.
You end up in her lap again.
Your knees bracket her thighs, your gown bunched loosely around your hips, the fabric fallen off one shoulder. You do not care. You kiss her harder, greedy and needy, hands sliding into her silver hair as you press yourself against her like proximity might solve the ache.
She holds your waist with both hands, steadying you as you rock in her lap, chasing her mouth every time she pulls back even slightly. Your body moves without thinking — hips rolling, pressing closer, trying to erase any remaining distance between you.
You cling to her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, kissing her like you have been starving for this all week.
You feel it in the way her hands tighten on your waist, in the quiet, satisfied sound she makes against your lips, in the small, knowing curve at the corner of her mouth when she glances up at you between kisses.
She is calm about it — almost too calm.
“Still not close enough?” she murmurs, voice low and warm, thumb stroking once over your hip.
The words make you flush hotter. You answer by kissing her again, deeper, needier, your hips rocking more insistently against her.
Rhaenyra smiles into the kiss, soft and satisfied, and lets you have this for a moment — lets you cling and grind and chase her mouth like you cannot get enough.
Her hands slide to your hips, steady and sure, and she gently guides you to turn in her lap.
You follow without thinking, letting her move you until your back is pressed flush against her chest.
Her arms come around you, holding you there.
Rhaenyra’s lips find the side of your neck immediately, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.
One of her hands stays at your waist, holding you close, while the other slips beneath the fallen fabric of your robe. She pushes it further off your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms until it pools loosely around your hips, baring you to the warm firelight and to her.
She cups your breasts with both hands, warm palms covering you completely. Her touch is gentle but certain, thumbs brushing slowly over your nipples as she feels the weight and softness of you.
You lean back into her with a soft sigh, head falling against her shoulder, giving her more access. She presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another, her hands still exploring you with quiet, deliberate care.
Your hand finds one of hers, trembling slightly with want, and you guide it slowly down your body — past your stomach, over the bunched fabric of your gown at your hips — until her fingers brush between your thighs.
Rhaenyra exhales shakily against your neck, the sound low and unsteady, as the simple act of you guiding her there undoes her more than anything else.
You can feel it in the way her breath catches, in the way her arm tightens around your waist, in the quiet, almost reverent way she presses her lips to your shoulder.
She feels how wet you are, how much you want her.
You lean into her touch, arching back against her chest.
Rhaenyra’s fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and exploratory, learning you as she holds you close from behind. Her other arm stays wrapped around you, keeping you anchored against her as her hand moves between your thighs with quiet, focused care.
She kisses your neck again, soft and lingering, as if she cannot stop touching and tasting you now that she has started.
You are both breathing hard.
Rhaenyra’s hand stays between your thighs, fingers gliding slowly through your slick heat as you rock softly against her.
Small, rolling motions of your hips that seek more of her touch. You lean back fully against her chest, letting her support your weight, your head tilting slightly as you chase the pleasure she is giving you.
You feel her exhale against your neck, warm and unsteady, as if the way you press against her hand affects her just as deeply.
Then, carefully, she presses one finger inside you.
The stretch is slow, deliberate. She slides in gently, letting you feel every inch, her breath catching at the wet warmth that greets her.
She pauses once she is fully seated, giving you time to adjust, her other arm wrapped securely around your waist to hold you close.
You moan softly, the sound low and trembling, your head falling back to rest fully on her shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut as you adjust to the feeling of her inside you.
Rhaenyra watches your face the entire time, cheek pressed to your temple, making sure it feels good.
When you rock your hips again, seeking more, she adds a second finger — slow, careful, stretching you open with the same patient reverence.
You gasp, clinging to her. One of your hands finds the wrist of the hand between your thighs, not to stop her, just to hold on, to ground yourself as the fullness of her fingers fills you.
Rhaenyra curls her fingers gently, searching, remembering the spot that made you tremble the last time. When she finds it, your body jolts slightly, a sharper moan escaping you.
“There you are,” she says softly, tone quietly fond and pleased with your reaction.
She repeats the motion, slow and deliberate, stroking that perfect place inside you while her thumb brushes lightly over your clit.
You lean back heavier against her, head on her shoulder, breath coming in soft, needy pants. Your hand stays wrapped around her wrist, holding her there as your hips move in small, desperate circles, chasing every curl of her fingers.
Rhaenyra’s arm tightens around your waist, keeping you close, her lips brushing your neck and shoulder with soft, open-mouthed kisses as she works you open.
She is learning you all over again — attentive, focused, quietly pleased by every sound you make for her.
She simply holds you, touches you, and lets you take what you need while she gives it to you with quiet, unwavering care.
Rhaenyra keeps her fingers moving inside you with that same slow, deliberate care, curling gently, stroking the spot that makes your breath catch every time.
You rock against her hand with more urgency now, hips rolling in small, needy circles, chasing the pleasure she is giving you so willingly.
Your head falls back fully against her shoulder, lips parted on soft, breathy moans that grow a little louder with every curl of her fingers.
Your hand stays wrapped around her wrist, not to stop her, just to hold on, to cling as the feeling builds and builds.
“Feels good…” You manage, the words shaky and barely coherent, more sigh than sentence.
Rhaenyra’s lips brush the shell of your ear, her voice low and warm and impossibly steady.
Your mouth opens, but the only thing that comes out is a soft, broken moan — half plea, half surrender — as your hips jerk against her hand and your head presses heavier back against her shoulder.
You can feel the small, quietly pleased smile against your skin before you see it.
Her arm tightens around your waist, holding you closer, her fingers never slowing between your thighs.
“I thought so,” she murmurs, the words soft, almost fond, laced with that understated satisfaction that makes your stomach flutter.
She is trying not to smile.
She presses a slow kiss to the side of your neck, then another, her fingers curling again inside you with perfect, devastating precision as you rock against her hand, soft moans spilling from your lips with every breath.
She holds you like this — back to her chest, surrounded by her warmth — and lets you take what you need while she gives it to you.
Her fingers move inside you with that same slow, deliberate rhythm, curling each time, gently, she sinks deeper.
You rock against her hand with growing desperation, hips rolling in small, needy circles, chasing every stroke.
Your moans grow louder, breathier, more broken, each one vibrating against her neck as your head rests heavy on her shoulder.
She feels every reaction.
Her mouth stays at your ear, breath warm and steady as she whispers against your skin.
A soft kiss to the shell of your ear.
Her fingers curl again, pressing perfectly against that spot inside you, and your moan turns sharper, more desperate.
Your hand tightens around her wrist, not to stop her, just to hold on as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
Rhaenyra’s arm stays banded around your waist, holding you securely against her chest.
Her voice remains low, intimate, barely above a whisper.
You come with a broken cry of her name, the sound muffled against her neck as your body tightens around her fingers.
Your hips stutter, thighs trembling, waves of pleasure crashing through you.
Rhaenyra holds you through every tremor.
She stays inside you, gentle now, letting you ride out the last ripples while her other arm wraps more fully around you, keeping you close against her chest. Her lips press soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the side of your neck — quiet, grounding touches as you come down.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your breathing and the crackle of the fire.
Rhaenyra rests her cheek against the top of your head, her hand finally slipping from between your thighs to rest gently on your stomach.
She holds you like that, warm and steady, as if she has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.
She kisses your temple once more, slow and tender.
Rhaenyra holds you for a long moment, her arms wrapped securely around you, her cheek resting against the top of your head.
Her breathing is still a little unsteady, but her touch is gentle, almost protective.
Then she shifts carefully.
She moves you with her — slow, deliberate — guiding you both higher on the bed until she can reach the covers.
She pulls them over the two of you without a word, tucking them around your bare bodies with quiet efficiency.
No one needs to say it out loud. You are sleeping in the Queen’s bed tonight.
You curl into her on instinct.
Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to be there — head tucked beneath her chin, one leg sliding between hers, your arm draped across her waist.
Rhaenyra lets out a soft breath, almost a sigh, and tightens her arm around you.
“You came all this way for that,” she murmurs, voice low and warm against your hair.
There is that quiet, knowing satisfaction in it — soft smugness, not cruel, just the pleased certainty of someone who was right all along.
Your face burns instantly. Heat floods your cheeks, your neck, your chest. “Your Grace…” you manage, the title slipping out in a weak, embarrassed protest.
It sounds ridiculous now, after everything — after the way you had moaned her name, after the way you had clung to her and rocked against her hand like you couldn’t get close enough.
Rhaenyra’s lips curve into a small, devastating smile against your temple.
“Do not sound so scandalized,” she says softly, amusement threading through her voice. “You did.”
She presses a slow, tender kiss to your hair, then another to your forehead, her arm pulling you even closer beneath the covers.
“I am not complaining,” she adds, quieter this time, almost fond.
You bury your face against her neck, flustered.
Rhaenyra’s hand strokes slowly up and down your back, soothing and steady, as if she could hold you here forever.
The sea murmurs beyond the walls. For tonight, it is just the two of you.
