💌 Rhaenyra Targaryen x Lady in Waiting!Reader
💭MDNI: Pre-established bond between Rhaenyra and reader, reader is a sworn companion/lady in waiting to Rhaenyra, emotional tension, smut with some plot, semi-public sex (council chambers), praise/worship, slightly soft dom!Rhaenyra (a little), mututal pining, needy reader (me asf), making out, fingering, oral (fem receiving)
A/N: This was heavily inspired by Rhaenyra and Mysaria's kiss in S2 and what Emma D'Arcy (with whom I'm also obsessed with rn) had to say about it. This is like... 4k words? Oops...
The council chamber empties slowly.
Lords leave first, still talking in low voices, carrying war with them like a second cloak. Advisors follow after, parchment gathered, strategy unfinished but postponed until morning. The doors open and close, open and close, until at last the great room settles into silence.
Its light throws gold against the stone walls of Dragonstone, warm but never quite enough to chase away the cold.
Rhaenyra Targaryen stands at the head of the table long after everyone else has gone, one hand resting against the carved wood, the other still curled loosely around a goblet of untouched wine.
The kind that settles into bone.
You have seen it often these past months—after Luke, after the endless meetings, after every man with an opinion on how she should rule her own war.
Tonight it sits heavy on her shoulders.
You gather the remaining letters quietly, stacking them neatly, setting aside the ones she will inevitably ask for again before dawn. It is a familiar ritual. You stay because you always do.
Because she has never asked you to, and somehow that has always made it matter more.
At last, you move toward her.
“My Queen,” you say softly, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet, “it is late.”
Rhaenyra lets out something between a breath and a laugh.
You allow yourself the smallest smile.
“The maester would insist you sleep.”
“The maester,” she says dryly, “has never had to listen to Lord Celtigar for three hours and remain sane.”
That earns a real laugh from you—brief, quiet, but real.
For the first time tonight, something in her expression softens.
Gods, you think, she looks younger when she smiles. Not less burdened. Just… more herself.
You set the final letter aside.
“The council is finished. The realm will survive until morning.”
Her voice is light, but only just.
She turns then, finally facing you fully, and whatever teasing was there fades.
There is no performance left in her now. No queen for the court. No heir defending her claim.
“I do not know,” she says, quieter. “Some days I think I spend more time proving I deserve this crown than actually wearing it.”
Not because you have nothing to say—but because you know she does not need interruption. She needs witness.
Her gaze drifts to the fire.
“They look at me and see a claim. A threat. A mother who should have done more. A queen who should be stronger. They ask for certainty as if grief has ever made room for certainty.”
For a moment, you think she will stop there.
“I am still grieving my son,” she says, and the words are so honest they nearly knock the breath from your chest. “And still they come to me asking for war as though I should have buried him and become iron by morning.”
The silence after is heavy.
You cross the room before you fully think better of it.
No courtly answer rises to your lips—no polished comfort.
You step close enough to touch.
Your arms wrap around her carefully, like approaching something wounded and proud all at once.
For one terrible second, you think you have overstepped.
A real one. Deep. Shaking.
Like she has been holding herself together for weeks and has finally decided, just for this moment, not to.
Her face presses briefly against your shoulder. Your hand moves to the back of her neck, fingers threading softly through silver hair.
Outside, somewhere beyond the stone walls, the sea throws itself endlessly against Dragonstone.
Long enough that the room begins to feel different.
When she finally pulls back, it is only enough to look at you.
Her hands have not left your waist.
Your own are still resting against her arms.
Too close now for anything to be mistaken.
Rhaenyra searches your face as if she were looking for something she has been afraid to name.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“You are the only person in this castle who still touches me like I am a woman and not a crown.”
Her thumb brushes once against your side.
Her eyes drop briefly to your mouth, then return to yours.
Rhaenyra’s hand tightens at your waist, the other sliding up to cup the side of your face. For half a heartbeat, she simply looks at you — eyes dark, searching, full of everything she has carried alone for so long.
Her mouth meets yours with quiet, hungry certainty, the kind born from exhaustion and grief.
You feel the slight tremble in her fingers as she pulls you closer, one hand sliding to the small of your back, holding you against her like she has been waiting for this exact moment.
You kiss her back just as deeply.
Your hands find her waist, then slide up her sides, pulling her impossibly closer as your mouth opens under hers.
Rhaenyra makes a soft, relieved sound against your lips, as if the weight of the crown has finally slipped from her shoulders for this one stolen moment.
She kisses you like she has been starved of softness.
Her hand stays at the nape of your neck, holding you to her. The other grips your hip, pressing your bodies together until there is nothing left between you but silk and skin and the rapid beat of two hearts.
When you finally break apart for air, foreheads pressed together, both of you are breathing hard.
Rhaenyra’s cheeks flushed, her silver hair slightly mussed from your fingers. She looks at you like you are the only real thing left in her world.
Her thumb strokes slowly along your cheek.
“Stay,” she whispers, voice rough with want.
Her hand stays at your waist, holding you there like distance has become unbearable. Her forehead remains pressed to yours, breath warm against your lips.
For a long moment, she does not move away.
She simply breathes you in, as if the act of keeping you close is the only thing keeping her grounded.
Then she kisses you again.
Softer this time, but no less certain. Her lips move against yours with quiet, aching need, like she is trying to memorize the taste of you.
Her hands slide slowly up your sides, palms warm through the fabric of your gown, as if she cannot stop touching you now that she has finally allowed herself to begin.
You kiss her back just as deeply, your fingers threading into her silver hair. The kiss lingers, deepens, then softens again.
Neither of you seems able to stop.
Every time one of you pulls back for air, the other leans in again, chasing the connection.
Rhaenyra’s hand finds yours.
She laces your fingers together and gently tugs you with her toward the cushioned bench near the hearth. You follow without hesitation.
She sits first, then pulls you down with her so you are seated across her lap, your knees bracketing her thighs.
She does not let you create any distance. Her arms wrap around your waist, holding you there as she kisses you again, slower now, deeper, like she has all the time in the world and still not enough.
Not with urgency, but with quiet wonder. They trace the line of your spine through your gown, slide up your sides, and brush along the curve of your ribs. She pauses at the ties of your dress, fingers stilling for half a breath before she begins to loosen them with careful, trembling care.
The fabric parts slowly, slipping down one shoulder. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to the newly exposed skin, then another, like she is discovering you for the first time.
You feel her exhale against your collarbone, shaky and warm.
“I have thought about this,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “More than I should have. For longer than I admitted.”
She kisses you again, slower, deeper, like she is trying to pour every unspoken feeling into it.
Your hands roamed her sides, feeling her, exploring—the soft curve of her hips, cupping the soft weight of her breast through the fabric.
She shivers under your fingers but does not pull away. Instead, she leans into you, forehead resting against yours again, breathing unsteadily.
Rhaenyra’s hand slides beneath the loosened fabric of your gown, palm flat against your bare back, pulling you closer until your chests press together.
She kisses you again — slower, deeper, like she is trying to pour every unspoken feeling into it.
You feel her gaze on you like a touch.
You look at her — pupils blown, breath unsteady — and take her hand in yours.
Without a word, you guide it slowly beneath the fallen fabric, pressing her palm to the bare curve of your breast.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches.
For half a heartbeat, her fingers hover, as if the weight of what she is doing presses down on her. Then she chooses.
Her hand settles fully against you, warm and certain. She cups the soft weight of your breast with quiet reverence, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple.
You lean into it with a soft, sighing exhale, eyes fluttering half-closed. The sound you make is quiet, but it seems to undo something in her.
Her other arm tightens around your waist, holding you closer as her thumb circles again, slower this time, learning the way your body responds to her.
She watches your face the entire time — violet eyes dark, lips parted, breathing unsteady. There is no performance in her touch.
Only the quiet, devastating relief of being allowed this.
You stay in her lap, bodies pressed close, her hand warm and steady against your breast as you lean down and kiss her again.
The kiss is slower now, deeper, full of the same aching need. Your hands slide into her silver hair, holding her to you as you rock gently against her, seeking closeness, seeking more of this feeling — this safety, this want, this honesty between you.
Rhaenyra sighs into your mouth, the sound soft and raw. Her hand continues its slow exploration, thumb stroking, palm pressing, as if she cannot stop touching you now that she has started.
You lean down to kiss along the side of her neck.
Your lips trail down the elegant line of her throat, tasting the warm skin, feeling the way her pulse jumps beneath your mouth.
Rhaenyra exhales shakily, tilting her head to give you better access, one hand still cupping your breast while the other slides up your back, holding you there.
Your fingers find the laces at the back of her gown. You loosen them carefully, one by one, until the fabric slips open. You push it down her shoulders, exposing more of her — the smooth curve of her back, the delicate line of her spine.
Your hands follow, palms sliding over warm, bare skin, tracing every inch with quiet wonder.
Rhaenyra trembles under your touch.
She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours again. Her breathing is unsteady, eyes dark and vulnerable as she looks at you.
“I do not think I can go back after this,” she whispers, voice raw with honesty. “Not with you. Not anymore.”
You cup her face with both hands, thumbs brushing gently across her cheeks. You look at her — really look — and say softly, steadily:
“I am still here. I will be tomorrow too.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if the words themselves are too much and not enough all at once.
When she opens them again, something in her expression has shifted — deeper, more certain.
She kisses you again, slower this time, full of quiet emotion. Her hands slide down your back, pulling you closer as the loosened fabric of her gown slips further down her arms.
You stay like that for a long while — kissing, touching, holding — neither of you in any rush to move beyond this moment of closeness.
The fire crackles softly beside you.
Your hands move with quiet reverence.
You slide them down Rhaenyra’s back, fingers finding the loosened laces of her gown.
With slow, careful tugs, you pull the fabric further down her shoulders, then lower still, until the silk slips past her arms and pools around her waist, baring her chest to the warm firelight.
Rhaenyra exhales shakily as the cool air meets her skin. She does not cover herself. Instead, she watches your face, eyes dark and vulnerable, as if waiting to see whether you will still want her like this — exposed, no crown, no armor, just a woman who has carried too much for too long.
You cup her breasts gently in both hands, thumbs brushing slowly over her nipples.
They tighten under your touch, and Rhaenyra lets out a soft, trembling sigh, leaning into your palms like she has been aching for this kind of tenderness for years.
You lean down and press a kiss to her shoulder, then to the swell of one breast.
You lean down, carefully, eyes flicking up at her before taking a nipple into your mouth and sucking gently.
The sound she makes is quiet, almost broken — a soft moan that vibrates against your lips.
Her hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there as you lavish attention on her with slow, reverent care.
You switch to the other breast, sucking gently, tongue circling, tasting the warmth of her skin and the faint salt of her.
Rhaenyra’s head falls back slightly. Her breathing grows deeper, more uneven. She clings to you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other hand still in your hair, as if she cannot bear any distance between you.
Every soft sound she makes, every tremble of her body beneath your mouth, feels like a gift she is only now allowing herself to accept.
You feel the emotion in every movement.
The way her fingers tighten in your hair when pleasure spikes. The way she pulls you closer, pressing her chest against your mouth like she needs the contact more than air. The quiet, almost reverent way she whispers your name between shaky breaths — not a command, but a plea.
For the first time in a long time, Rhaenyra is not performing.
She is simply letting herself be touched.
Letting herself be wanted.
You stay like that for a long while — kissing, touching, holding — neither of you in any rush to move beyond this moment of closeness.
The fire crackles softly beside you.
Rhaenyra pulls you up for another kiss.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you closer as her mouth meets yours again. This kiss is deeper, slower, full of quiet hunger.
You feel the way she sighs into it, the way her body relaxes just a fraction more against yours, like she is finally allowing herself to sink into this.
Not perfectly. Not with practiced grace. Your hips roll forward, seeking friction, trying to find the right angle where your bodies press together.
The movement is instinctive, a little clumsy in its eagerness, but the heat that flares between you when you find it makes you both gasp softly into the kiss.
Rhaenyra’s hand moves down your side, slow and sure. She gathers the fabric of your gown, bunching it higher at your hips, her palm sliding over the soft skin of your thigh.
Her fingers trace upward, then cup your ass, pulling you more firmly against her. The touch is warm, possessive in the gentlest way, and you lean into it without hesitation, pressing closer, letting her feel how much you want this.
She watches your face for a brief moment — a quiet check, violet eyes dark but searching.
You nod, a little too eagerly, cheeks flushed.
The corner of her mouth quirks up, small and quietly pleased, before she leans in and kisses you again.
Her hand dips between your thighs, lingering for a moment. Feeling the warmth of you even through the thin linen there.
She starts by rubbing you through the thin fabric of your shift, slow circles that make your breath hitch.
She is not confident in the way of someone experienced. She is learning you — watching your reactions, adjusting the pressure when your hips twitch, repeating what draws the softest sounds from you.
Her touch is warm, steady, and full of focused attention.
You rock against her hand, seeking more, and she gives it, pressing firmer, circling with quiet intent.
All the while she keeps kissing you — slow, deep kisses that match the rhythm of her hand, like she cannot bear to stop tasting you even for a moment.
She keeps holding you close, as though pleasure means nothing if she cannot keep you there.
She holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, keeping you anchored to her as pleasure builds between you. There is no rush. No performance. Just the honest, aching need to be close, to give and receive, to finally have this softness after so much hardness.
Rhaenyra’s forehead rests against yours again, breath mingling as her hand continues its slow, exploratory rhythm.
She watches your face with quiet intensity, like she is memorizing every flutter of your lashes, every soft sigh you make for her.
Rhaenyra’s hand continues its slow, exploratory rhythm over the thin linen of your shift, but it is not enough for either of you.
You reach down, fingers trembling slightly with need, and gently guide her hand beneath the fabric.
The moment her fingertips brush your bare skin, you both inhale sharply.
She pauses for the briefest second — eyes lifting to yours, searching, making sure — before you nod, barely perceptible, cheeks flushed with want.
She touches you directly.
Her fingers glide through your slick folds with careful reverence. You tremble against her, hands braced on her shoulders to ground yourself.
The first brush of her fingertips against your clit makes your breath hitch.
Rhaenyra watches your face the entire time, eyes dark and intent, learning you through every reaction.
She presses a single finger inside you — slowly, so slowly — eyes never leaving yours.
Your mouth falls open on a soft, breathless sound. Your eyes flutter shut as the stretch and warmth of her fills you.
She pauses again, giving you time, her free hand stroking soothingly up your back.
When you rock your hips forward instinctively, chasing more, she begins to move.
Her finger slides in and out with gentle, measured strokes, curling carefully as she explores what makes your breath catch and your thighs tremble.
Your head falls to her shoulder, arms wrapping fully around her now, clinging as soft sighs and quiet moans spill from your lips against her neck.
The sound that leaves her is almost a laugh, soft and disbelieving, like she cannot quite believe you are this eager for her.
Her fingers tighten at your waist.
For a moment, Rhaenyra goes still.
All her life, people have reached for her crown.
This is just you, pressed close and trembling in her arms, wanting her with no politics, no duty, no performance.
Rhaenyra holds you closer, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, slow and almost reverent, and the hand at your waist tightens like she is afraid this might vanish if she loosens her grip.
She is learning you, adjusting with every hitch of your breath, every roll of your hips, every soft sound you make for her.
After a moment, she carefully adds a second finger, stretching you open with the same slow patience.
The fullness makes you moan softly into her shoulder, hips moving without thinking, seeking the perfect angle.
Rhaenyra breathes your name like a quiet revelation, her cheek pressed to your temple as she feels the wet warmth of you, learning what makes your sighs turn into whimpers, what makes your body clench around her fingers.
She simply holds you, touches you, and lets the intimacy deepen between you — tender, honest, and full of everything neither of you has been able to say aloud.
Rhaenyra keeps learning you.
Her fingers move with quiet focus inside you — slow, careful strokes that explore every reaction you give her. She curls them gently, searching, and when she finds that spot that makes your whole body jolt with sharp pleasure, she pauses, eyes flicking up to your face to make sure it is good.
You cling to her tighter, arms wrapped around her shoulders, face buried in the curve of her neck as a soft, needy moan escapes you.
Your hips rock against her hand greedily, chasing that feeling, chasing her.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches when she feels you clench around her fingers. She repeats the motion — curling again, pressing just right — and your moan grows a little louder, trembling against her skin.
Her free arm stays banded around your waist, holding you close as you move against her hand, your hips rolling in small, desperate circles.
Her cheek rests against your temple, breath warm and unsteady as she feels every flutter, every clench, every soft sound you make for her. Her fingers keep moving — learning the rhythm that makes your thighs tremble, the angle that draws those broken little moans from your throat.
She is attentive, like every reaction you give her is a gift she is afraid to lose.
You cling harder, nails lightly digging into her shoulders as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core. Your hips move with more urgency now, rocking against her hand, seeking more, needing more.
Rhaenyra presses her lips to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth — soft, grounding kisses that say everything she does not put into words.
Your head lifts from her shoulder, eyes still fluttering from pleasure.
You lean in, hands cupping her face, and kiss her.
It is not perfect. It is messy, needy, a little greedy — your mouth pressing against hers with open, desperate want.
Your lips part, tongue sliding against hers with urgent hunger, hands clutching at her shoulders as if you could pull her inside you.
It touches something deep and raw in Rhaenyra.
You feel it in the way her breath stutters against your mouth, in the way her body tenses for half a heartbeat before melting further into you.
The way you cling to her, the way you kiss her like you cannot get enough, the way your hips keep rocking greedily against her hand — it undoes something in her.
She moans softly into the kiss, low and raw, her free arm wrapping tighter around your waist to hold you closer.
Her fingers curl inside you again, pressing that perfect spot, and you moan into her mouth, the sound vibrating between you.
Your hips chase her touch without shame, rolling against her hand with needy, instinctive movements.
Her fingers begin to ache from the effort, but she does not stop. She keeps moving, curling, stroking, giving you everything you need while you kiss her like she is the only thing that matters in the world.
Your moans grow louder, muffled against her lips as you rock harder against her fingers.
Rhaenyra holds you through it, kissing you back with the same desperate intensity, like she cannot bear to be parted from you even for a breath.
You come with a broken cry of her name — “Rhaenyra—” — the sound spilling into her mouth as pleasure crashes through you.
Your walls clench tightly around her fingers, hips stuttering, body trembling as you ride the high.
You keep rocking against her hand, chasing every last wave, clinging to her like she is the only solid thing left.
Rhaenyra holds you through every tremor, kissing you softly now, slowing her fingers but not pulling away until the last shudder fades.
For a long while after, neither of you speaks.
You rest your forehead against hers, both of you breathing the same air, chests rising and falling in sync. Her hand is still between your thighs, gentle now, grounding. Your arms are wrapped around her shoulders, holding her just as tightly.
You simply look at each other.
Rhaenyra’s thumb strokes slowly along your cheek. Her eyes are dark, soft, and full of something deep and unnamed. She leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your lips — tender, almost reverent — before resting her forehead against yours again.
Your body is soft and spent against hers, the aftershocks of pleasure still humming through you.
Rhaenyra’s hand stays between your thighs, gentle now, grounding, as if she cannot quite bring herself to pull away.
You catch your breath, then shift slightly, moving to slide off her lap.
Rhaenyra’s hand tightens at your waist instantly — an instinctive, almost reflexive grip, like she is afraid you are leaving. Her eyes flick up to yours, dark and unguarded for a moment.
You cup her cheek, thumb brushing gently across her skin.
“I am not leaving,” you whisper, voice soft and steady.
She searches your face for a heartbeat, then exhales, the tension in her grip easing. She lets you go — reluctantly, her fingers lingering on your waist as you slide from her lap.
You sink to your knees in front of her.
Your gown is still slipping off one shoulder, the fabric bunched loosely at your hips, chest exposed to the warm firelight.
Your focus is entirely on her.
Rhaenyra watches you, breathless, a little undone. Her silver hair is tousled, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.
She looks vulnerable in a way few people ever see — the Queen momentarily gone, replaced by a woman who is not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of care.
Her hand lifts, brushing through your hair with trembling fingers, almost disbelieving.
“You do not have to,” she says quietly, voice rough. There is no false modesty in it — only genuine surprise, like the idea that someone would want to please her like this is still new.
You look up at her, eyes steady.
“I want to,” you murmur. “I want to make you feel good.”
You reach for the hem of her gown, lifting it slowly and carefully up to her waist—the fabric pools around her hips, baring the soft skin of her thighs.
Your hands slide over them with gentle wonder — feeling the warmth, the suppleness, the faint tremble beneath your palms.
You press a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, taking your time, letting her feel how much you want this.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches. Her fingers stay in your hair, not guiding, just holding. She watches you with dark, glassy eyes, chest rising and falling unevenly, as if every touch is both a gift and something almost too much to bear.
She is letting you see her like this.
And you are cherishing every second of it.
You continue exploring her with slow, reverent hands and mouth — kissing up the inside of her thigh, feeling the warmth of her, the way her legs part a little wider for you without thinking.
Your hand rests on her other thigh, thumb rubbing gentle, soothing circles into the soft skin there.
You kiss higher, then higher still, lips brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets hip. The closer you get, the more you feel Rhaenyra’s reaction.
Her hand tightens in your hair — not pulling, just holding, fingers curling with a tremor she cannot hide. A shaky exhale leaves her lips, almost a gasp. You glance up and see the way her expression has shifted: eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
She looks overwhelmed — not just by pleasure, but by the simple, devastating fact that someone wants her like this.
Her thighs tense for a moment, then relax, then part wider without conscious thought, as if her body is choosing this even if her mind is still catching up.
“Gods…” she whispers, the word barely audible, more breath than voice.
You feel the vulnerability in every small reaction — the way her fingers flex in your hair, the way her breathing stutters, the way she looks down at you like the sight of you on your knees for her is almost too much to bear.
You are simply giving her the tenderness she has gone so long without, letting her feel wanted in the quietest, most honest way possible.
Rhaenyra’s head falls back slightly, a soft, broken sound escaping her as she lets herself be cared for.
Your hand rests on her other thigh, thumb stroking gentle, soothing circles, feeling the faint tremor beneath your palm.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches.
You push her gown up just a little higher, the fabric sliding easily up her hips. The thin linen shift beneath is damp, visibly darkened with her arousal.
The sight of it — the evidence of how much she wants this — makes something warm and tender bloom in your chest.
You press your palm against it gently, feeling the heat of her through the fabric.
You glance up at her through your lashes, eyes questioning, making sure.
Rhaenyra looks down at you, cheeks flushed, lips parted. For a moment, her expression is raw — overwhelmed, almost disbelieving.
She nods, a small, shaky movement.
Her exhale is unsteady, almost shaky, as if the simple act of being wanted like this is too much.
You carefully pull the shift aside, exposing her fully to your gaze.
For a long moment, you simply look — taking in the sight of her, flushed and wet and beautiful.
You admire her with quiet reverence, your thumb still stroking gently along her thigh.
You press a slow, soft lick up the length of her slit, tasting her for the first time. The sound she makes is quiet, almost startled — a soft, breathless gasp that turns into a trembling sigh.
Her hand curls tighter in your hair, not pulling, but holding, like she needs the anchor.
You are unsure of how to do this properly, and so you simply explore her with honest, eager care — licking slowly, learning the taste of her, the way her hips twitch when you circle her clit, the way her breath hitches when you press your tongue a little firmer.
You watch her reaction the entire time, eyes flicking up to her face through your lashes, checking, learning, wanting to make her feel good.
Rhaenyra’s head falls back slightly. Her fingers tighten in your hair, a low, shaky moan escaping her as you continue.
Her thighs tremble on either side of you, one hand gripping the edge of the cushioned bench, the other staying buried in your hair, holding you close.
Not just by the pleasure — but by the sight of you on your knees for her, by the way you look up at her with such open want, by the simple fact that someone is touching her like this because they want to.
Her hips shift forward slightly, instinctively seeking more.
She seems almost startled by the movement herself, but she does not pull back.
You keep licking and exploring with your mouth, slow and attentive.
Your tongue traces the length of her slowly, tasting her, feeling the warmth and slickness of her arousal.
You are learning her — every twitch of her hips, every hitch in her breath, every soft sound she makes.
Your hands rest on her thighs, thumbs stroking gentle circles into the soft skin there, grounding both of you.
When your tongue brushes over her clit, Rhaenyra’s breath catches sharply.
You do it again, slower this time, then close your lips around the sensitive bud and suck gently.
The moan that leaves her is louder than before — raw, surprised, almost startled out of her. Her fingers tighten in your hair, gripping harder for a moment before she consciously eases her hold.
She looks down at you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, like she cannot quite believe the sound that just came from her own mouth.
But she makes no effort to stop you.
Instead, she watches you with dark, glassy eyes as you continue — licking, sucking, exploring with honest, eager care.
You look up at her through your lashes, never breaking eye contact, wanting to see every reaction, wanting her to see how much you want this. How much you want her.
The eye contact seems to undo her.
Her lips part on another soft, trembling moan.
Her thighs tense on either side of you, then relax, parting wider without conscious thought.
One hand stays buried in your hair, not guiding, just holding, as if she needs the anchor. The other grips the edge of the cushioned bench, knuckles pale.
She is deeply affected — not just physically, but emotionally. The way you look up at her, the way you touch her like she is something precious, the way you are so clearly focused on her pleasure… it hits her somewhere deeper than lust.
You can see it in the way her chest rises and falls faster, in the way her eyes soften even as pleasure builds, in the way she bites her lip to hold back another sound.
You feel her, taste her, learn her with every slow pass of your tongue and gentle suck.
And Rhaenyra lets you — head tilted back slightly, silver hair spilling over her shoulders, soft moans and sighs falling from her lips as she surrenders to the feeling of being wanted so openly, so tenderly.
You keep going with your mouth, slow and attentive, learning her with every pass of your tongue.
You focus on her clit, circling it gently at first, then pressing firmer when her hips twitch, and a soft, surprised moan escapes her.
You find the rhythm that makes her breath hitch — slow, steady licks followed by gentle suction — and you stay there, devoted, giving her exactly what draws those sounds from her throat.
Every so often, you glance up at her through your lashes, checking, making sure she is still with you, that it feels good.
Rhaenyra’s head has fallen back slightly, silver hair spilling over her shoulders. Her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and her moans are growing louder — no longer muffled or held back.
They are soft, breathless, full of wonder and relief. Her hand tightens in your hair, not guiding, just holding, like she needs the anchor as pleasure builds inside her.
Her other hand rests on your shoulder, fingers flexing, clinging. Her thighs tremble on either side of you, then part wider without conscious thought, opening herself to you more fully.
You feel her getting wetter against your tongue, hear the way her breathing turns ragged.
Every time you suck gently on her clit, her hips jerk and a low, shaky moan slips from her lips.
She is letting you see her — letting you hear her — and the sight of her like this, undone and vulnerable and wanting, makes your own desire flare hotter.
You keep looking up at her, eyes meeting hers whenever you can, wanting her to see how much you want this. How much you want her, how much you are enjoying giving her this.
Rhaenyra’s gaze is dark and glassy when it meets yours. Her lips part on another moan, louder this time, and her fingers tighten in your hair as her hips roll against your mouth, chasing the pleasure you are giving her so willingly.
Not used to being the one receiving so openly.
Not used to someone looking up at her with such honest desire while on their knees for her.
You keep focusing on her clit with your mouth, slow and attentive, tongue circling and sucking gently in the rhythm that makes her hips twitch, and her moans grow softer, more broken.
You feel her getting wetter, hear the way her breathing turns ragged, and you stay there, devoted, giving her everything you can.
Then, experimentally, you slide one finger inside her.
You watch her reaction the entire time, eyes flicking up to her face as your finger sinks into her tight, wet heat.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches sharply, her thighs tensing for a moment before they part wider.
Her eyes flutter, lips parting on a soft, surprised sound. It feels good for her — very good. You can tell by the way her walls flutter around your finger, by the way her hand tightens in your hair.
You are careful, but attentive.
You curl your finger gently inside her, mimicking what she had done to you earlier, searching for that spot that made you tremble.
When you find it, Rhaenyra’s hips jerk and a low, broken moan escapes her. Her back arches slightly, pressing closer to your mouth and hand. The combination of your tongue on her clit and your finger curling inside her nearly undoes her.
Your jaw is starting to ache from the effort, but you don’t stop.
You keep going, licking and sucking her clit with steady devotion while your finger moves inside her — slow, deliberate strokes that match the rhythm of your tongue.
You watch her face the entire time, learning every reaction, every hitch in her breath, every soft sound she makes.
Rhaenyra is trembling now.
Her hand stays buried in your hair, holding you there, not guiding, just needing the contact. Her other hand grips the edge of the cushion, knuckles pale. Her hips rock against your mouth and fingers in small, instinctive movements, chasing the pleasure you are giving her so willingly.
You can feel it in the way she clenches around your finger, in the way her moans grow a little louder, a little more desperate, in the way her thighs tremble on either side of you.
Your tongue circles her clit with steady, devoted focus while your finger curls inside her, stroking that spot again and again.
You watch her face the entire time, eyes flicking up through your lashes, making sure every touch is welcome, wanted.
Rhaenyra’s composure begins to slip.
Her breathing grows ragged. Her thighs tremble on either side of your head. The hand in your hair tightens, fingers curling harder, not guiding but holding on as pleasure builds.
Her other hand grips the edge of the bed, knuckles pale. She is trying to stay quiet, trying to hold herself together, but you feel her clenching around your finger — hard, rhythmic, desperate.
You suck gently on her clit, tongue pressing firmer, and curl your finger again with careful intent.
Rhaenyra’s head falls back. A broken moan escapes her — raw, unguarded, nothing like the composed queen the realm knows. Her thighs tighten around you, hips jerking against your mouth as the pleasure crests.
She comes with a choked cry of your name.
It is messy and honest and devastatingly beautiful.
Her walls clench hard around your finger, pulsing as the orgasm crashes through her.
Her hand grips your hair tighter, almost painfully, holding you there as her body trembles and shakes.
Her hips stutter against your mouth, chasing every last wave, soft, broken sounds falling from her lips between gasps of your name.
You continue licking and stroking her through it, gentle but unrelenting, letting her ride out every tremor, every shudder, every soft, overwhelmed moan until her thighs finally begin to relax and her grip in your hair eases.
Only then do you slow, pressing one last, soft kiss to her clit before pulling back slightly.
You rest your cheek against her thigh, looking up at her, breathing hard, lips slick with her.
Rhaenyra is a wreck, most beautifully.
Her chest heaves, flushed. Her silver hair is wild. Her eyes are half-lidded, dark and glassy, lips parted as she tries to catch her breath.
She looks down at you with something raw and unguarded — wonder, relief, and a deep, aching tenderness that makes your chest tighten.
She simply reaches down with a trembling hand and brushes her fingers through your hair, stroking gently, as if she cannot quite believe you are real.
You crawl up her body slowly, pressing soft, lingering kisses to her knees, her thighs, the valley between her breasts as you go.
When you reach her face, you settle beside her on the cushioned bench by the fire, your lips swollen and slick with her.
Rhaenyra looks at you like she has never seen anything more beautiful.
Her eyes are dark, soft, and full of quiet wonder as she takes you in — flushed cheeks, messy hair, lips glistening with the evidence of what you just did for her.
She reaches for you without hesitation, pulling you close until you are curled against her side, your head resting on her shoulder, your bodies tangled together in the warm glow of the fire.
Her arm wraps around you, holding you tight. Your hand finds hers, fingers intertwining, and she squeezes gently, as if she needs the constant reminder that you are real and still here.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
The fire crackles softly. The only sounds are your shared breathing and the distant murmur of the sea beyond the stone walls.
Rhaenyra turns her head and presses a slow, tender kiss to your temple. Her lips linger there, warm and gentle, as if she is sealing something unspoken between you.
Your eyes flutter shut at the affection, a quiet sigh leaving you as you press closer into her side.
She holds you like this — close, warm, safe — her thumb stroking slow circles over the back of your hand, her cheek resting against the top of your head.
In the quiet glow of the fire, with the war still raging beyond these walls, Rhaenyra Targaryen lets herself have this one moment of peace.
