#rhaenyra x reader

[nimaiwe]

Me waiting for a flood of new hotd fics after 2 years of starvation:

[underratedcharacterslover]

Waking them up by giving them head part two

[warnings: little somno, smut 18+ Minors Dni]

➥ Lyonel Baratheon -

You didn't wait for the sun to rise, and you certainly didn't care about waking him gently. Lyonel was sprawled naked across the mattress his thick, heavy morning wood standing, twitching against his stomach.

You straddled his thighs, spitting on your palm before wrapping it tightly around the base of his cock. The girth of him always made your mouth water. You leaned over him, parting your lips, and took the head onto your tongue. He tasted like salt, sweat and you greedily sucked him in, letting your lips stretch uncomfortably wide to adjust on his size. You bobbed your head, dragging your teeth lightly against his skin before burying your nose in his dark hair.

At the feeling of your warm mouth his body jerked awake,filthy curse ripped from his throat as his hand shot out, wrapping around the back of your neck.

"Seven fucking hells”he groaned, his voice thick with sleep. Lyonel sat upright, dragging you up with him. He shifted his legs, forcing you onto your knees at the edge of the mattress, directly between his spread thighs.

"You want to be a greedy little thing this early?” he growled, his eyes going dark with lust as he looked down at your wet lips"Open up."

You barely had time to part your lips before he completely took over. Lyonel gripped the back of your head and began to fuck your mouth. He drove his heavy cock deep past your teeth, stretching your jaw as he pounded directly into your throat. You gagged beautifully, tears immediately springing to your eyes, but his grip was tight.

"Take it” he praised roughly, he was completely merciless, using your mouth exactly how he pleased, pulling almost entirely out just to slam his heavy length right back against your gag reflex,”Swallow my fucking cock,Gods, your throat feels so good”

You gripped his wrists, whimpering around his meat as you desperately tried to breathe through your nose. You swallowed his pre- cum greedily, your tongue swirling around his shaft every time he pulled back.

“I'm going to ruin that pretty face” Lyonel grunted, his breathing turning ragged pants. “Fuck- I'm cumming!”

He yanked his cock out of your throat right at the very last second. You fell back on your heels, gasping loudly for air, your chest heaving but Lyonel didn't give you a moment of mercy. He gripped his thick, throbbing cock and jerked it hard, letting out a growl as thick, ropes of his cum shot directly across your face.

He painted your face with his release, hot drops splashing over your cheeks, your nose, and coating your eyelashes. You kept your mouth open, panting, catching the last few thick drops of his climax on your tongue.

Lyonel's chest was heaving as he slumped back onto his elbows. His exhausted laughter filled the chamber as he looked down at the filthy, beautiful mess he'd just made of his lover

"Now that,” he panted, incredibly satisfied grin splitting his handsome face, “is a fucking good morning.”

➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen -

you slipped beneath the silk sheets, making your way down the mattress. As you gently parted her thighs, settling between them, You didn't hesitate, immediately lowering your head and completely covering her sensitive, swollen clit with wet heat of your mouth.

The sudden pleasure completely shattered her sleep.Rhaenyra's beautiful eyes snapped open in the low light. her back instantly arched off the mattress, a sharp, breathless gasp tearing out of her throat.

"Gods"Rhaenyra rasped, her voice thick with sleep.her hands instantly reached down, her long fingers tangling tightly into your hair. She let her head fall back against the pillows, her hips instinctively rolling to forcefully press herself deeper against your mouth.

"Is this how my sweet lady serves her Queen?" Rhaenyra murmured darkly, smirk spreading across her flushed face as she looked down at you working beneath the blankets.

You answered by parting her wet folds and swirling your tongue in a agonizingly slow circle directly over her most sensitive peak.You lapped at her hungrily, the wet, messy sounds echoing loudly in the quiet chamber.

Rhaenyra let out a loud curse, her grip on your hair tightened, firmly holding you where she wanted the most.

"Don't stop" she commanded breathlessly, her thighs trembled, clamping tightly against your ears as you devoured her. "You are so good to me. My sweet girl,keep going. Exactly like that."

She tasted absolutely intoxicating,you didn't hold back, slipping two fingers smoothly inside her soaking wet pussy while your mouth sucked on her clit as you sped up your movements.

She writhed against the sheets, her hips bucking wildly to meet your hands and mouth. She was entirely at your mercy, her chest heaving, orgasm was approaching

"I'm-" Rhaenyra gasped, her fingernails digging into your scalp as her muscles began to clench around your fingers”Don't you dare stop- give it to me!”

You sucked hard one final time, and the Queen completely shattered. Rhaenyra let out a loud cry,her back lifting entirely off the mattress as wave after wave of pleasure went through her. She flooded your fingers with her slick heat, her thighs trembling as she forced you to drink down every drop of her release.

When you finally pulled back, wiping a wet drop of her from your chin, Rhaenyra's chest was heaving, her eyes completely blown wide.

She let out a breathless laugh. reaching down to drag you all the way up her body. She pulled you against her skin, immediately crashing her lips against yours in a messy kiss, eager to taste her own climax on your tongue.

"I am never leaving this bedchamber again," Rhaenyra breathed against your lips, her arms wrapping around your waist. "The council will simply have to rule the realm without me today."

➥ Gwayne Hightower-

Gwayne was sprawled comfortably on his back,completely relaxed and looking at him looking so delicious made your mouth water .

You wanted to savor him. Kneeling between his spread legs, you opened his sleep preeches and leaned down. The thick head of his cock was already flushed and hard, twitching eagerly against your cheek before you even started.

You opened your mouth and slid your mouth down on his cock slowly, letting your tongue wrap entirely around his thick girth. He tasted delicious.You hollowed your cheeks, pulling back before swallowing him down again right to the base.

At the feeling Gwayne let out filthy groan his long fingers lazily twitched against the sheets before he reached down, his hands finding your face.

"Gods above..." Gwayne exhaled, his voice sleepy and raspy ,he tilted his head back, a breathless smile pulling at his handsome face. "What a beautiful thing to wake up to. You are so fucking good to me, darling."

You hummed against his shaft in response, swirling your tongue around his tip.

"Fuck, yes,exactly like that”he praised immediately, his hips unconsciously rolling into your mouth, his fingers slid into your hair, gently caressing your scalp as he watched you through heavy-lidded, eyes. "You have the most perfect, talented mouth I've ever felt. So incredibly wet."

You wanted to absolutely ruin his morning composure so you pushed his cock deep in your mouth your nose brushed against the light curls at his base. You bobbed your head up and down speeding up,making him let out a beautiful whimper, his hips bucking.

"That's it, my pretty girl”he panted, his chest heaving as the pleasure began to completely consume him.

He let out desperate praises with every single thrust, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Such a good, greedy little cock-sucker for me. You look so fucking gorgeous on your knees, taking every inch of it. Take it all, beautiful."

You gripped the thick base of his shaft, pumping your hand in sync with your mouth, completely milking him.

"I'm close, my love” Gwayne warned, his voice cracking beautifully as his thighs began to tremble against your cheeks. Gwayne cried out your name, his fingers curling tightly into your hair as he pumped thick, waves of his release directly onto your tongue, whispering breathless, filthy praises as you swallowed every single drop of his cum.

When you finally pulled off licking your lips clean, Gwayne looked entirely disheveled . His chest was heaving, his eyes completely blown out with pleasure.

He reached down gently pulling your face up to his. "If you wanted my attention so badly this morning, darling”Gwayne murmured, leaning up to give you a lazy kiss "you only had to ask."

➥ Alicent Hightower -

Pushing the soft fabric up around her waist,you bared her hips to the cool air of the room. You settled yourself perfectly between her knees, leaning down to press a soft kiss inside her inner thigh. She stirred, letting out a sleepy hum.

You smiled licking your lips, gently parting her wet folds and dragging your flat tongue over her sensitive, pink center in one long lap teasing her.

At the sudden feeling she let out gasp, taking sharp breath in, her wide, panicked eyes flew open in the dark room. Her hands instinctively reached down to grasp your shoulders.

"No- wait, you can't- someone will hear,"Alicent whimpered in a panicked whisper,but your hands caught her wrists, pressing them gently into the mattress beside her hips. You looked up at her, your gaze dark, before burying your face right back between her legs.

You completely silenced her protests by sealing your mouth over her clit, sucking on it gently making her hips jerk up. Alicent squeezed her eyes shut, a flush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks.

She was already incredibly wet, her body betraying exactly how desperately she craved this. You swirled your tongue over her swollen peak, pressing firmly while smoothly sliding two fingers inside her tight pussy.

Alicent let out a broken sob, immediately biting down hard on her own knuckles to muffle the filthy sounds leaving her throat. Her other hand tangled in the bedsheets, gripping the fabric so hard her fingers turned white as she fought a completely losing battle against the overwhelming pleasure.

"Mother have mercy”she breathed, her thighs tightening around your ears as your fingers curled inside, stroking her deepest, most sensitive spot.

You didn't give her a single moment to think, worry, or feel guilty. You devoured hungrily,lapping up her sweet taste. "Let go for me, my queen" you murmured softly against her skin, your breath making her shiver. "Just feel it, i've got you."

She simply couldn't hold it back anymore.

With a breathless cry, Alicent completely shattered. clamping down around your fingers. She trembled against your mouth, her chest heaving.

You stayed exactly where you were, gently lapping at her swollen flesh until her shaking finally stopped.

When you crawled back up on top of her,Alicent was a beautifully flushed She immediately reached for you, pulling you down by the shoulders to hide her teary face in your neck.

➥ Daeron Targaryen -

Daeron was dreaming again, letting out broken whimpers ,his hands clawing at the twisted sheets. His skin was wet with cold sweat, his chest heaving.

You knew shaking him wouldn't work, soft words never calmed his nightmares, So, you decided to drag him back to reality with the only way that instantly worked on him.

You shoved the tangled sheet down past his hips, baring him entirely to you.Even caught in the nightmare, the morning hardness was resting against his stomach,ready for you. You didn't hesitate. You shifted between his thighs, opened your mouth, and sank down, taking his thick, twitching cock as deep down your throat as you could manage.

Daeron jolted at the feeling, letting out ragged gasp,his eyes snapping open.

"Fuck- oh gods-" he choked out, arching against mattress.

You didn't give him a second to catch his breath. You pulled back just enough to let your lips pop wetly against the sensitive, slit head, only to slide right back down, swirling your tongue.You coated his thick length in warm saliva, your cheeks hollowing out as you sucked hard making his hips jerk up.

Daeron was a completely needy for you, sobbing your name, his shaking hands sliding desperately into your hair. he held on to you,his hips rutting up into your mouth, desperately thrusting into you.

"Please” he whimpered, tears mixing with the sweat on his face, "Don't stop, fuck, please keep doing that. Suck it, just like that."

You loved how wonderfully pathetic and eager he was for you. You hummed against his pulsing shaft, your hand wrapping around the slick, base to pump him while your mouth completely devoured the top half.

"I'm gonna- sweet gods, I'm cumming," he sobbed.

Daeron let out a beautiful scream, his fingers tightening in your hair as he pumped thick, cum onto your tongue. You swallowed him greedily, milking every single drop until his trembling hips finally fell against the mattress.

He lay there, completely boneless, tears of exhaustion sliding down his cheeks. When you finally pulled off with a wet smack of your lips and a satisfied smirk, he reached down pulling your face up just to crash his mouth against yours.

"You're the only good thing in my head," he whispered softly against your lips, completely addicted to you.

➥ Cregan Stark -

You had been awake for a while, shivering slightly as you carefully moved the heavy layer of fur back. Moving quietly,kneeling between your husband's strong thighs, exposing his already thick hard cock to the freezing air for only a second before completely covering him with the heat of your mouth.At the feeling Cregan's grey eyes snapped open in the dawn light.

"Fuck.." Cregan rasped, his voice incredibly thick and heavy with sleep. His large hands instantly shot beneath the furs. His fingers tangled deep into the roots of your hair, a heavy, ragged sigh leaving his lips as he let his head fall back against the headboard. he rolled his hips, thrusting up in your mouth,making sure you take every inch of him.

"Is this how the Lady of Winterfell greets the morning?" he murmured darkly, a wicked smirk appearing on his lips as he watched you eagerly slurping on his drenched cock.

You didn't answer, instead swirling your tongue slowly around his sensitive spot before taking him entirely his tip hitting your throat.

"Gods-" Cregan grunted,his grip on your hair tightening just enough to control the angle as he thrust faster making you gag,but didn't stop.

"Don't stop. Take it all. That's it."

His thrusts turned incredibly fast, his chest heaving as he spilled his hot cum deep in your mouth, holding your head firmly in place while you swallow it all down.

When you finally pulled away, breathing heavily,Cregan looked down at you with gaze full of worship. He let out an exhausted chuckle, dragging you up until you were tucked perfectly against his chest, right back under the warm furs.

"You're going to freeze out there," he murmured affectionately, pressing a gentle kiss directly to your lips. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist, trapping you against his skin. "Stay right here, the North can manage itself for another hour without their lady”.

➥ Valarr Targaryen-

You had been awake for about an hour, captivated by the sight of your beautiful husband. But when your eyes trailed down to his hips,where you could see his morning arousal pressing against his sleep breeches,your admiration quickly turned into hunger.

You moved slowly and carefully to not wake him, pushing sheets down past his knees, cool morning air kissing his soft skin before you knelt between his thighs, pulled out his thick, hard cock and replaced the cold air with your wet mouth.

A sudden feeling of your warm mouth around him,woke him up from his dreams, letting out sharp gasp his back arching against the mattress. His beautiful eyes snapped open, already blurring from pleasure.

"Gods-"he breathed, his voice a hoarse.

His hand reached down,his long fingers tangling gently into your hair. Squeezing it into a fist as you bobbed your head, sucking his cock agonizingly slow. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip, using your hand to stroke the rest, slicking him completely with your saliva.

"My heart” Valarr whimpered, his hips lifting off the sheets to thrust deeper into your mouth,his chest heaving with every breath.

"You are... you feel too good, my love, please..." Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked the corners of his eyes as he looked down at you.

You picked up the pace, taking him deeper, the wet sounds filling the quiet chamber. You sucked hard on the tip, pulling a breathy whine from his lips. He tossed his head back into the pillows, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to guide you, his hips snapping up eagerly.

"I'm close" he gasped out, his body trembling "my love, i'm-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence,Valarr's entire body froze, letting out beautiful cry as he came. He thrust up into your mouth, his hips locking as he spilled his seed in your mouth. You swallowed him down, dragging your lips up his length one last time before pulling away licking your lips.

Valarr was glowing. He lay panting,sweat coating his chest slightly, his soft eyes glassy and satisfied.

When he finally caught his breath he reached down, hands sliding under your arms to pull you up his body until you were resting against his chest, cupping your face, his thumbs wiping the corner of your mouth before he pulled you into a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.

"I am the luckiest prince in the history of the Seven Kingdoms," he murmured softly before rolling over and pinning you beneath him"Now it is time I return a favor”.

[faelinda]

Seedbed

HOTD: Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen x dragonseed!reader

Rating: Mature (MDNI)

WC 5.0k

HOTD Masterlist

Tags/Warnings: a smidge of Targcest (Rhaenyra and reader are cousins), more plot than porn, reader claims Silverwing, WLW, mentions of sex work, body worship, nipple play, biting, fingering, oral, dragon bond, no use of y/n, Ulf is not a complete dolt in this, implied that reader has Valyrian features, but they aren't described in detail, no beta we die like Luke :(

 A/n: Just in time for Season 3, WE FIGHT FOR OUR DRAGON QUEEN! I love Rhaenyra. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future works

Summary: Mysaria beckons you to Dragonstone to answer Queen Rhaenyra's call for dragonseeds.

Madam Sylvi discreetly pressed the letter into your hand before moving about her business. You had heard the stirrings, the whispers in the streets of the Black Queen calling those to aid her with the promise of claiming a dragon. Bastards of dragon blood. Dragonseeds. The ones who filled the streets of Flea Bottom, filled the pleasure houses in the Streek of Silk, or who simply blended in with the commonborn despite their silvery hair. Cursed by being born out of wedlock, yet now they were worthy of a bigger cause. One that not many would ever dream of.

The letter had come from Mysaria, a woman who had cared for you for most of your life. You knew who your father was, and his coin allowed Mysaria to keep you in comfort, or at the very least clothed and fed. You remember receiving a few fond pats on the head from time to time, and a few gifts here and there, but you knew you would never be his. He had left for Pentos shortly after taking Lady Laena Velaryon to wife, fathering two legitimate daughters. Something you would never be.

Coin arrived in a timely manner to help Mysaria clothe and feed you. She was generous when she did not need to be; she could have turned you out onto the street and kept his money. But she, too, knew what it was like to be burned by Daemon Targaryen and to be abandoned by a father. You lived with her in the brothels, and she kept her promise to protect you from that world for as long as she could, training you in the ways of dancing and letting you assist in weaving her web of spies. When she was ready to flee King's Landing, she left the brothel to you and Sylvi, trusting the two of you to look after things and each other, but you knew the day would soon come when you could no longer put off the inevitable. You would soon have to learn the art of spreading your legs to survive.

Mysaria, still wishing to spare you such a life, urged you to journey to Dragonstone and make the attempt.

The daughter of Daemon Targaryen deserves a dragon. Come and claim your inheritance. Serve the rightful heir.

You read her words thrice before tossing the parchments into the fire. Perhaps you would never fully win your father's love, attention, and respect, but perhaps you could find such in your queen and cousin. So the next day, you went to the shores of Blackwater Bay to board the small fishing boats taking people to Dragonstone. Your dark gray cloak billowed in the breeze as you stepped onto the rocking boat. Smoke clung around the isle, an almost foreboding feeling in the air. This was a place of magic; you could smell it. Ash, fire, and blood. All of you were given entrance into the castle, provided with food and drink before being escorted to the gantry, which led to the dragonmont.

Queen Rhaenyra descended the stairs, giving a rousing speech as she passed her gaze over those who had gathered. A sea of silver hair. Her gaze locked on you, head cocking curiously as she studied you. Did she see Daemon in your face? Would she recognize her own blood before her? She made her way through the bodies, silently gauging the bastards, and once again her gaze lingered on you. Her fingers twitched, something about you calling to her and she resisted the urge to touch you. She could not play favorites, for many would not survive this attempt.

"Naejot māzīs, Vermitos." You had heard your father speak this tongue before, charming the whores and his lickspittles.

You watched as the enormous bronze beast emerged from the purple smoky shadows. It was hard not to feel in awe as the ancient beast once ridden by King Jaehaerys stood there, plain as day. The beast snorted, gray wisps curling from his massive nostrils.

"Lykirī, Lykirī," Rhaenyra cooed, reaching to rest her hand on the dragon's giant muzzle. He calmed from her touch. "Dohaeras."

"Who among you will be first? I have nothing more to tell you; it must be the dragon who speaks."

As a young man stepped forward in an attempt, you heard a phantom song filling your head. Beckoning you, guiding you. You had never stepped foot here before, yet you seemed to know where to place them, following the path downward and further into the mont. Rhaenyra's ever observant amethyst eyes never left you, and she followed behind like a silent silver shadow. You didn't even notice as you made your way deeper into the volcano. The song grew louder the closer you came.

Māzīs ynot, Māzīs ynot (come to me, come to me)

Jumban syt aō (I am waiting for you)

Unsure of what awaited you. You found yourself in a cave, a thin stream of sun shining through, and it took a moment before you saw her. She blended in almost seamlessly with the rocks surrounding you. She was smaller and more slender compared to her counterpart looming overhead.

The breath the silver beast exhaled shook your body, and heat coated you. She lowered her elegant silver head, and tentatively, you reached out to press your hand to the dragon's muzzle, emulating Rhaenyra's movements just moments earlier.

"Hello," you smiled.

"You have found Silverwing." Rhaenyra's voice trailed behind you.

You whipped around to face her, giving a bow. "Your Grace. I…heard her singing to me."

"It seems she has chosen you; she has not been ridden since my great-grandmother," Rhaenyra said kindly as she stepped closer. Screams echoed through the caves. The smell of burnt flesh. "See if she will let you mount her."

Silverwing stepped closer, her claws dragging through the muck as she lowered her head once again to sniff you before letting out a soft bray. "Lykirī," you whispered, stroking her before she was in a position where you could attempt to get in her saddle. It took effort and strength, but soon you were situated in the saddle, hand gripping the pommel.

"If you wish to fly, Sōvēs is the command," Rhaenyra instructed.

"Sōvēs, Silverwing," you called out, voice wavering slightly.

You gasped, holding on tightly as she walked through the cave and slithered out the opening before taking to the skies. Even though your stomach lurched, you opened your eyes and let the wind whip through your hair. It was a powerful feeling, as if you could fly higher than the clouds and touch the Gods themselves. Silverwing was experienced, swift, and elegant as her wings sliced through the misty clouds. She did two laps around Dragonstone before swooping back toward the mont. The bronze beast had emerged with a male rider on its back. She landed next to him, tucking her head beneath Vermithor's jaw and nuzzling him.

"They are mates, I think," you called out to the man.

"So the stories go. I'm Hugh," he introduced, and you told him your name.

Suddenly, a pale mist of the dragon emerged from an opening, its rider letting out a loud whoop and hanging on for dear life.

"Did many die in there?" you asked Hugh, remembering the screams from earlier.

"It was quite vicious," Hugh admitted. "Many were lost, but we were warned."

As the excitement settled down, the dragonkeepers came to help guide the dragons back into the caves, and you and the others were shown to separate quarters in the castle. Fresh, clean black-and-red clothing was laid out for you, and a celebratory feast awaited. As you gathered around the table, your gaze fell on Lady Baela, your half sister. She was a true beauty with an air of confidence about her. Prince Jacaerys looked rather sour, and you learned of the other riders. Your fellow dragonseeds. Hugh the Hammer, you had met earlier, and there was Addam of Hull and Ulf the White. Queen Rhaenyra raised her cup in a toast to honor the four of you.

Ulf was delighted by the food, tearing into the quails and devouring them like the man had never eaten a meal before. You took your time savoring every bite, especially the fresh oysters, and each sip of rich red wine. You learned that Seasmoke had chased Addam down in Spicetown, Hugh's bravery as he stood eye to eye with The Bronze Fury, and the shy, allusive dragon who crawled out from deep within the mountain to bond with his boisterous rider. As the evening wound down, people excused themselves for bed.

"It is good to have another woman riding for our cause," Baela smiled at you, gently touching your shoulder before departing.

"Might I have a private word?" Rhaenyra requested softly.

"Yes, Your Grace."

You followed her through flame lit halls, the flickering orange glow bathing the stones and you noticed the glyphs embedded in them. The guards followed behind, armor clanking until you reached what you assumed were her chambers. They took position outside her door.

"You look just like him," she mused, a smile tugging at her lips as she poured two glasses of wine.

"So I've been told, Your Grace," you replied. There was no use dancing around the truth.

She placed a cup in your hands. "It is almost eerie in a way. I wonder…if my daughter had lived, would she have looked like you, perhaps?" Her palm curved gently over your cheek.

"Prettier, I would think, Your Grace."

"Do not disparage your beauty. You caught my eye immediately."

"You flatter me, Your Grace," you said, taking a sip of the sweet red wine, reminding you of plums, which were your favorite.

"Merely speak the truth. I am glad you answered. Mysaria assured me that you would."

"She knows me better than anyone else. Still seeks to protect me."

"She is a clever woman, or so I am learning."

"She will serve you well, Your Grace, as will I," you assured her.

"Come, let me fix your hair. You will find it best to have it braided while flying." She motioned to the chair, and you sat.

"Surely, you have better things to do than tend to my hair, You Grace," you jested softly.

"At this moment, I do not," she chuckled before gently dragging the brush through your mussed curls.

It was comforting, a warm, fuzzy feeling that crept over you and slithered down your shoulders. She took her time braiding your hair.

"I hope I am not overstepping, but I would like you to train alongside Lady Baela. She is a skilled dragonrider with a crossbow. I wish for all my riders to have some combat training. You will be fitted for armor as well."

"I can work alongside Lady Baela with no issue, Your Grace, thank you."

"Sleep well, you will have long days ahead of you."

But you were ready to prove your worth.

The days were indeed long and filled with dragon riding, Valyrian lessons, and combat skills training. Mostly, you practiced alongside Baela, repeatedly hitting targets with crossbows. Addam, Hugh, and Ulf worked with the Master of Arms, learning the sword and mace.

"Seems unfair,' you mumbled.

"I agree," Baela grinned before taking aim and releasing the arrow. "Why can't we learn the sword as well?" You enjoyed being in her company, often growing exhausted by Ulf's constant oafishness. Hugh was kind enough, yet guarded. You found an ally in Addam, at least, as he too wished to prove himself and was eager to serve Rhaenyra. The two of you took the skies together on your respective mounts.

You gave her a soft smile. "I mean no offense, my lady."

"You find none with me," she assured you. "Fire and blood are in our veins. Did not Queen Visenya wield Dark Sister? The very sword my father now possesses."

Our father.

You supped alone in your chambers, muscles aching and in no mood for conversation. The doors parted, and Ser Lorant stepped in.

"Queen Rhaenyra," he announced, and you quickly stood to your feet.

She stepped inside, golden crown perched on her head, with her silver hair in three intricate braids all woven together. There was a brief glimpse of nervousness as she twisted the rings around her finger.

"I have a mission that I would like to send you on," she stated.

"What would the mission be, Your Grace?"

"I wish for you to fly over King's Landing in an attempt to lure the Prince Regent to Dragonstone so he may see the force we now hold," she explained. "Silverwing is swift, and you are skilled with her. I would send Addam to be close behind should danger unfold."

You nodded. "Yes, Your Grace." You were eager to fulfill this duty, even if the thought of Aemond chasing you on Vhagar nearly made you shit your breeches.

The time arrived, and you were dressed in your riding leathers, hair braided, and mounted on Silverwing. A kiss from your queen lingered on your cheek. Addam was on Seasmoke, and you both awaited Rhaenyra's command. Once it was given, you took off on Silverwing with Addam following five clicks behind. Having grown up in the Street of Silk, you knew the layout of the city well. You had even been brought in to dance for Prince Aegon once before. Silverwing glided with such ease, and you kept her low, away from the Scorpions. You maneuvered her by the window where Rhaenyra said the small council sat. The plan had worked, and Prince Aemond's attention was gained.

You lingered away from the Red Keep, needing him on your tail. Vhagar's roars shook through the city and you urged Silverwing forward. Vhagar was large, but not as fast. Addam flew just ahead on Seasmoke as the two of you made way to Dragonstone, where Rhaenyra waited with Syrax, Vermithor, and Grey-Ghost. A hot blast of dragonfire filled the air, and you dipped Silverwing toward Blackwater Bay, her wings skimming the water. Blood rushed to your head, whooshing in your ears and making you taste your pulse on your tongue. You hadn't realized that you'd been holding your breath until Silverwing landed next to Syrax, when you finally released it and gasped. Aemond did not venture closer, turning Vhagar around and heading back for King's Landing. Rhaenyra held a proud smirk on her face and reached up to stroke Syrax's muzzle.

"Well done," she told you and Addam. It was becoming clear she had a soft spot for the two of you.

The weeks passed, and Rhaenyra continued to draw you under her wing. The dragon queen, they began to call her. Thought you came to think of her as the mother of dragons. The tides began to turn further in her favor as the tensions of the starving smallfolk grew in King's Landing. You weren't completely naive; you understood that Rhaenyra played her own games to garner support. Highborn games, Mysaria had told you. She had given you some distance upon your arrival, allowing you the time to cultivate your talents and carve out a space, but you could feel her lingering in the shadows with her dark eyes always upon you.

"You have done very well, but I never doubted," she hummed one evening when you found her stowed away in your rooms. You were relieved to see a hot bath waiting for you. The heat had been almost agonizing today as the smog had lifted, allowing the bright, hot sun to permeate through. Rhaenyra had given you and Baela her support in expanding your combat skills, and since you were the only two females, you sparred with each other. Both of you were drenched in sweat by day's end.

"Thank you for writing to me," you said, peeling out of your sparring padding and the rest of your damp clothing.

"The queen needs to be surrounded by those who truly believe in her," Mysaria reasoned, extending a hand to help you into the bath. "I can see the adoration in your eyes."

"She is easy to love, easier than Aegon the Pretender, and certainly more so than Aemond. The smallfolk hate the Prince Regent," you sighed, sinking further into the steaming water. "King Viserys, for all his faults, never starved them and never dragged them into needless wars." The commonborn cared not who sat on the throne; it mattered not whether it was Aegon or Rhaenyra; they would live through many kings and queens, but they preferred those who did not bring further hardship upon them. Even better if they were allowed to thrive.

"You are learning well," Mysaria smiled, sitting and helping to wash your back and hair.

"I see you have earned a spot beside her," you commented, sliding a wooden pick under your nails to clean them. Dirt never matted much to you before, but now that you served under the Dragon Queen, you wished to be more presentable.

"So long as we continue to prove our worth, we both will be." A lesson you remembered well. So long as you were valuable, your life remained safe.

You wrapped up in a red robe and sat to comb out your hair when a Queensguard entered.

"Queen Rhaenyra has requested your presence for dinner. I am to escort you once you're ready," he said.

"Best not keep her waiting," Mysaria said and helped you to dress. It was a simple black frock, and she twisted your wet hair into an updo, securing it with pearl pins.

You followed the guard to Rhaenyra's chambers, and he announced your presence before you entered.

"Your Grace," you smiled, lowering into a small curtsey. You felt rather plain in her presence as she was swathed in crimson silk, golden rings, and rubies glittering on her ears, complete with the golden crown. Though she wore her hair loose, cascading in soft waves down her shoulders. She was utterly breathtaking, and you yearned to drink her silvery beauty until you were sick.

"I thought you might be hungry after your training session today. I must admit how impressed I am by you and Baela," Rhaenyra smiled, motioning for you to sit.

"You should join us, Your Grace. I'm certain you could wield a sword expertly."

"You flatter me," Rhaenyra chuckled as a servant poured wine while another served the overflowing dishes of food.

"I only speak the truth. You should not hold yourself back."

"I will consider your words."

You tried not to rip through the duck like a famished beast, instead forcing yourself to take small bites and savor it. The food was delicious, filling your belly pleasantly, and the wine was equally divine. That amethyst gaze was upon you once again.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but you stare at me quite a bit."

A flush colored her cheeks. "I do," she admitted.

"May I ask why? Is it because I look so much like him?"

"Mayhaps, or mayhaps there is a simple allure about you which captivates me."

"An allure? From me?" You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head.

"Is that so unbelievable?"

"Considering I'm but a mere dragonseed, yes. I find it a bit hard to believe."

"Dragonseeds still have Targaryen blood," she pointed out.

"Yes, if only we were born from a true union and not left sullied as bastards," you scoffed, and she fixed you with a stern look. "Apologies, Your Grace, I overstepped.

"Tis alright. It has become clear that a dragon cares not for the nobility of birth, and I am grateful to the dragonseeds who answered my call."

"I'm very happy to be here and to serve you. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you."

"Go on, but carefully."

"You sent the ships with food to the smallfolk in King's Landing, yet Prince Aemond has stopped that. You might garner more favor by letting a ship through the blockade, but make it known it was your doing. A bit of mercy goes a long way, and I know we are but common born, but peace with the smallfolk should be a goal in mind."

Rhaenyra sat back in her chair, taking a deep drink of her wine. "I will discuss the matter with my small council. I do not wish my subjects to starve. They never did when my father was king."

"He was beloved by the smallfolk simply for letting them live in peace and with their bellies fed. He was also wise to make his council perform the dirty work. They never had much love for Otto Hightower."

Rhaenyra laughed. "You are truly Mysaria's protégé."

"She taught me well and looked out for me even if she did not have to. I'm very grateful to her."

"She is special, but I see something equally as special in you."

"I suppose that is the Targaryen blood," you said cheekily.

You spent most of the night talking with her and drinking wine. You loved how her mouth stretched when she laughed, and the little crinkles around her eyes. It was nice to see a more relaxed side of her. A glimpse of the girl they once called the Realm's Delight. She taught you a tile game and a few more words in High Valyrian.

"You are quite good at this," she said, sliding the tiles across the table.

"Learned to play in the brothels, I would hide pieces up my sleeve, Your Grace."

"Ah, devious."

"I preferred it to the fan dancing or the warming of laps."

"I cannot fault you for that night."

"I should leave, Your Grace, get some sleep," you murmured before draining the remnants of your wine.

"Of course, it was a long day for you. I thank you again for your service; you are proving quite invaluable to me."

"'Tis my pleasure, Your Grace." You stood, and she moved alongside you to the door.

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the way the silvery moonlight caressed the contours of her face, or perhaps it was the adrenaline still pulsing through your system from training. It mattered not. The only truth was that your lips pressed against hers, feeling their rose petal softness and craving more. Yearning to run your fingers through her silver hair, to draw a peaked nipple between your lips, and to discover what she tasted like. She did not pull away, but closer, sliding her arms around your waist. The kiss deepened, your tongue sliding into the warm cavern of her mouth and tangled with hers. You sensed her hesitation before her commanding nature took over. Pink bloomed over her cheeks, mouth swollen and rosy, and those amethyst eyes seemed to glow. Perhaps in that moment, she saw more of Daemon in you than you had wished. You wanted her to see you.

"Is that what you wish for?" she breathed, sliding her fingers down your neck while giving you ample opportunity to decide. To give the choice to leave. She had no desire to force you.

"Please, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra. You may call me Rhaenyra in my chambers."

The two of you moved in a languid dance, shedding clothing along the way. Your toes slipped across the smooth stones as you circled around her before pressing your mouth to her shoulder, hands skimming her hips. She let forth a throaty moan as she pressed against your body. You wondered if it was Silverwing you felt in the moment as your teeth yearned to sink into her tender, milky flesh. The dragonkeepers told you the bond could be strong and overwhelming at times. Rhaenyra seemed to sense your desire.

"Go on," she purred, and your teeth sank into her flesh, tasting salt and sweetness while your hands cupped her full breasts. Heat boiled through you.

With her hands in yours, you drew her close to the bed, pulling her down with you in a mess of tangled limbs. She was soft, smooth, smelling of roses and smoke. Her skin like heated embers, drawing you in. Across her belly and hips were elongated pink and white marks, ones that all mothers bore. Her arms and thighs were strong, no doubt from all the dragon riding. Sparse silvery curls clung between her thighs, and your fingertips slid through the downy hair before running further down her cunt. While Mysaria had kept you from whoring, you were not inexperienced. The other women liked to practice on each other, and there were moments you volunteered, savoring their touch and the skill they possessed.

You continued to stroke her while suckling on her nipples, while her fingers had loosened your damp hair and were now tangled in it. One finger slipped inside her, feeling her muscles flutter around you. A second soon followed, and you set a steady pace with them. There was a powerful feeling in making the queen crumble beneath your ministrations. The way her face twisted with pleasure, the delicious O of her parted lips, and the rose petal stain on her high, carved cheekbones. Sweat glistened over her collarbone, a few droplets beading over her forehead, and a lone one rolling down the slope of that perfect aquiline nose. It pooled over her upper lip while your thumb grazed over her swollen pearl. She mewled with delight before soaking your fingers. You loomed over her, watching her completely fall apart with pleasure.

"I thought you were but a dancer," she panted, flushed chest heaving as the perspiration gave her body an ethereal shimmer.

"I indulged in pleasures, but not for pay," you whispered in her ear.

"Hmm," she hummed before pouncing and pinning you beneath you.

You grinned, letting her ravage your throat and the apex of your shoulder. Her thumb pressed against your chin, gazing down at you and closing her eyes briefly. That look on your face was far too familiar. Perhaps that was part of your allure. Dragon blood always managed to find each other. Some hidden attraction woven in the DNA. Her silken mouth moved over your breasts, down your stomach, before her head disappeared between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, getting a glimpse of her pink tongue burying in your cunt. Perspiration clung to your shoulders while your fingers moved through her moonlit hair. A queen worshipping between your thighs.

Her fingers soon filled you while her mouth wrapped around your swollen pearl. The neediest whimper escaped, and your stomach clenched. A precise curl, a gentle trace of her tongue, soon had you spilling into a sweet release. Tears dribbled down your cheeks, glistening like glass.

"I shall take these as a compliment," Rhaenyra grinned, your aftermath glistening on her mouth as she leaned down to kiss you. The taste of you dancing on your tongue. After the fervid kiss, she lapped each glassy tear away before pressing her forehead against yours. "My little dragonseed."

And you were hers from that very night forth. Tucked beneath her wing, nurtured and made to grow. Private Valyrian lessons and flights with her on Syrax and you on Silverwing. Burst of gold and silver against the misty, purple skies. Your flourished. Vines springing from the seed, wrapping tightly around you until you emerged with dragon scales of your own.

You rubbed off on her as well. With the support of her small council, Lord Corlys allowed two ships through the blockade and paid them to fly Rhaenya's banners. She did not hold the Iron Throne, yet she tended to the smallfolk. There were small riots, and the Greens were secluded in the Red Keep. You suspected Aemond wished to burn them all with Vhagar, but that would do no good and paint him a monster. One afternoon, she joined you and Baela in training, and she looked enigmatic with a sword in her hand.

Upon Daemon's return from Harrenhal, Rhaenyra had him knight her dragonseeds. His lilac eyes passed over you, ready to sheath his sword. You wondered if he recognized you.

"Her as well, Daemon," Rhaenyra instructed, and Addam gave you a small smile.

"She may have the title, but she cannot take the oath. None would recognize her," he replied nonchalantly.

"I wish for her to have the title," Rhaenyra stated evenly.

"She has earned it, Your Grace," Hugh volunteered respectfully.

"Aye, she's full of fire this one. Brave too," Ulf piped up, giving you a wink.

"Your Grace," Daemon reminded him tersely.

"Your Grace," Ulf quipped, giving an almost comical bow.

"If he will not, Your Grace, I will do so. I believe that is a power bestowed on knights? Any knight can make a knight," Addam said, addressing Rhaenyra directly.

"Indeed, it is," Rhaenyra smiled.

Your cheeks flushed, feeling pride as your fellow dragonseeds defended you. Even Ulf had grown on you. There was an unbreakable bond between the four of you now.

An amused look crossed Daemon's face as he lifted Dark Sister into the air. "Kneel."

You knelt in your chainmail as the flat edge of the sword landed on your right shoulder and then your left.

"Arise." It was hard to ignore the disinterest in his voice, but it mattered not. You no longer yearned for the approval of a father who abandoned you to the Street of Silk for his paramour to raise. You had the approval of the queen and the friendship of your fellow dragonseeds. She promised all four of you legitimation once she held King's Landing. No longer a dragonseed, no longer a Waters; you would be a Targaryen. Victory tasted delicious in your mouth. How far you had climbed out of the Street of Silk. Clawed from the bottom of Rhaenys's Hill to become a dragon.

You stood, feeling giddy, and while it might be only in title, it was special to you. In two days' time, a siege would fall on King's Landing, and you would get the Dragon Queen her rightful throne.

[alcinas-vanity-stool]

There is something happening to me….

I think….I might be pregnant right now…

[angeljareau]

❝ jawline ❞ ─── featuring. rhaenyra targaryen

pairing. rhaenyra targaryen x fem! handmaiden! reader

summary. when your queens attention turns to you

content. smut. top! rhaenyra. semi 03x03 spoilers. cunnilingus. praise kink. power imbalance. fingering. mentioned alicent/reader. no use of y/n. dragon like! rhaenyra. no beta we die like luke!!!!!!

✉︎ anna's letters. I love nyra so much annnnnnd oh the tension w her and alicent in the newest ep...lord.

rhaenyra's brows pinched together in what could only be irritation as she retired to her chambers at the end of a very long first day. if having rats roaming her castle wasn't enough, she then had to deal with being deceived by alicent's cousin, ser corlys and his illegitimate-turned-legitimate heirs, and of course daemon and mysaria bickering ontop. who knew finally taking on the iron throne would bring this much stress?

a slow sigh escaped her lips as she stared ahead into the reflection of her mirror, hands smoothing down her nightgown. hands that weren't her own.

"are the silks to your liking, your grace?"

rhaenyra spared a hum, glancing to you in the mirror. "they are. where have you dug these up, mm?" her eyes, despite being tired, give a small playful glint in their amethyst hue. "have you stolen them, perhaps?"

your cheeks flush at the accusation. "of course not, your grace!"

your queen chuckles, turning around and shaking her head. "be calm. I only jest," her eyes flit over you, and she murmurs. "you served while I was gone, yes?"

you nod very gently. "er, yes."

rhaenyra hums, reaching forward and tracing a bit of your attire, watching you tense like prey. "did you serve alicent faithfully, too?"

"I.." your hands tremble a bit as hers work at the tie of your gowns apron, flimsy as it was, and your breath hitches when it slowly falls apart. "...yes, your grace." you speak honestly.

rhaenyra's eyes flit to yours, and then she nods ever so slightly to her bed. "lay."

"your grace-"

"lay."

your fumbling to her bed in a matter of seconds, weakly laying down on her bed. but before that, your simple loose dress slips down your shoulders, and rhaenyra aids in tugging it away slowly and tossing it aside. she circles, watching you closely as you lay on your back in just your simple underskirt, and a flimsy piece of cotton encasing your breasts and hiding your sex.

but your queen has the nose of a dragon.

"you're aroused." she muses, slipping into the bed.

your chest hammers at the sight alone. her braid was undone, leaving those pristine white locks cascading down her side like the fog of a waterfall. she leans in slightly, thumbing the fabric binding your chest. "you will do what your queen asks of you, yes?" a weak nod, and she hums with a low cock of her head. "words."

"yes..your grace.."

"good. clothes off."

the fabric around your chest is tugged off, along with the remainder of your small clothes - leaving you barren on her bed. your queen licks her lips slowly, sighing and glancing up to you. "I shall see that you a heavily rewarded for this...gift, you've so graciously bestowed upon your queen."

and you barely push out the syllables of words before her lips descend like searing blades across your skin, kissing down your collarbones and nippling lowly at the buds of your breasts, before eventually settling between your legs. a heavy flush takes over your face, and your hands are quick to shyly cover your face as you peek down at her. "y-your grace.."

"yes?" rhaenyra speaks, parting your legs ever so slowly. this time, when she puffs out warm hair - similarly to that of her dragon - you shiver as it hits your sex. "look at you, barely touched and already dripping like a good little maiden for your queen..." you gasp breathlessly, hips raising dangerously closer. "p-please, your grace.." "hush now," she tuts, leaning and pressing kisses along your thighs, dangerously nearing your lips with each slow brush. the ripples of arousal shoot through you like sparks from a fire, and you weakly push closer to her again - though this time, you're met with rhaenyra's lips slowly closing around the small pearl at the top of your cunt, making a slow sucking motion on it before her tongue gives it a low swirl, and dips fully into you.

with a whine, your hips raise instantly, begging for more the second she begins to explore your folds with an expertise she must have only gotten from years of practice.

the thought alone spurs the hot coil in your tummy.

your queen's tongue laps slowly through your cunt, her own eyes slipping shut as a groan of pleasure elicited from her throat - feeling like a low rumble as she continues to lap at you like a dog cleaning its chops. you shiver at the noise, weak noises leaving you in an instant, hips sputtering weakly. her hands reach to wrap around, nails diffing into your hips as she holds you down, taking her time with her meal.

your arm weakly raises to hide your gaze as you lean back deeper into her pillows, mixed in the throws of ecstasy at your queens command.

she pulls off slowly, licking her lips as her hand shifts just a bit, thumb rubbing your clit with slow persecution. "does it feel good? being ravaged by your queen?" she sighs appreciatively. "you respond so well.."

a weak moan tumbles as your hips raise up further into her touch, pressing against her thumb and practically grinding your clit on the pad of her thumb.

rhaenyra's eyes darken at the sight, and she doesn't wait for a reply as she leans back in, moving her thumb and sucking the ball into her mouth as her fingers reach, parting your folds a bit. her ring and middle press together, rubbing the rim of your entrance slowly, feeling as your walls flutter in wanton. she half wondered if alicent touched your sweet body like this too - but oh, it didn't matter now.

your body belongs to your queen now.

with renewed strength, she moves her hand up, slowly pushing inside of you. you whine, back arching as your hips raise and your head tilts back, accepting her fingers greedily.

rhaenyra purrs, continuing to lick your clit as you thrash about, her fingers fucking into you quickly and desperately, pushing you quick to your release. your whines come out sharper, louder, and your queen makes a noise of approval - fingers scissoring inside of your wet heat and making you moan abruptly as she presses a particular part of you, and makes you cum with a jolt.

rhaenyra's lips pull off your cunt, her tongue darting out to wet them as she moves back up your body, swatting your arm off your eyes and kissing you greedily.

you melt into the searing kiss, whimpering lowly as your arms loop lazily around her neck, body all boneless. and rhaenyra simply leans in deeper, her jaw shifting as she slips her fingers out of you and focuses now on pouring her attentions to you.

finally, with a slow breath - she pulls back, panting and looking down at your wrecked form. those beautiful eyes narrow slowly.

"...you belong to me," she rasps. "my...head maid. alright?"

and weakly, you nod.

[newcaptainofsquad9]

Can You Truly Quell A Dragon?~Rhaenyra x fem! reader

Pairing: Rhaenyra x reader

Premise: You're watching Rhaenyra's mind unravel, anxieties and fears overtake through her first few official days as queen and all you want to do is ease her, in more ways than one.

Genre: Smut

Content Warning: smut. thigh riding. cunnilingus. dirty talk. slightly cruel Rhaenyra. breeding kink

Valyrian Used : Rina syz [good girl]; Dreje ilzyna iksa [you're so wet] ;Ajorraelenka [needy] ; Toli jaelan [I want more]

Word Count: 2.5k

Writer's Note: Back on my Rhaenyra fixation thanks to season three. She looks so good, of course I couldn't resist. The Valyrian I used isn't perfect by any means, just wanted to add an extra layer of spice, got all of it from here. Please comment your thoughts, hope y'all enjoy!

You noticed it.

The first time was when she was addressing her small council; you peeked under the thick arm of her personal guard, a gold cloak that wouldn't be permanent. He held Daemon in high regard, only succumbing to his Queen at the behest of the Rogue Prince, so you always kept him in the corner of your eye as you watched Rhaenyra move through the Red Keep.

She didn't jump out of her skin as the rat scurried across her foot, just raised her leg up and slightly yelped. You noticed the disappointment etched onto her face as she walked from the room and into the great hall.

When her monthly bleeding came, the words she uttered frightened you half to death. Being around your Queen was tense—she was tense—leaving Dragonstone ushered a sense of normalcy with how true this was for not only you, but for Rhaenyra, too.

As the pressing issues continued to quell your Queen, her distance from you grew.

You weren't far when you heard lord Corlys' outburst, calling out not only Rhaenyra's honor but the legacy of her boys, her dead boys who she loved and cherish all the same. Corlys kept his head, along with his life; Rhaenyra seemed horrified but you saw more within her eyes. You saw a lingering grievance aching to be let out, with an anger stuck deep within her heart.

It appeared again after another small council meeting. She called it off, claiming it to only be because of cramps.

It came up again when a disheveled dragon keeper rushed towards her, delivering unfortunate news. You couldn't follow it all, since you couldn't understand High Valyrian too well, and you were in the middle of throwing half of the Greens banners into a flaming pile.

You did catch Rhaenyra skulking around the flames with an intense eye contact that made your stomach pool with want, eager to give her whatever prophetical wish she wanted granted within those flames.

No. She was officially Queen now. She kept you in the dark; you had to respect her wishes. Regardless of how much you wanted to hold her, regardless of how drab Dragonstone was, it was a different realm than Kings Landing. Rhaenyra was different now.

"Y/N?"

You glanced up at the flames, finding Rhaenyra next to you. She was always captivating, although the nearby flames gave her silver Targaryen locks a yellow twinge, accentuating like the tip of a lit fire.

You bowed your head. "Y-Yes, your grace?"

Rhaenyra smiled, a quick quirk of her lips. She gently took your wrist as she got in your space to whisper. "Come with me."

You had no time to follow as she marched you all the way to her private chambers. Once you got to the door, Rhaenyra let you go in order to talk to her personal guard, who followed close, akin to loud shadows.

"Give me my privacy, ser," she ordered. "I'm more than capable for an hour of peace."

The guard nodded, bowed and left.

Rhaenyra pulled you inside, the tenderness she had seeped away, just a bit due to the tension at her fingertips.

Her room was neat, up kept due to the constant tending you and her other ladies-in-waiting do for her throughout the day. Once the door was closed, sealing you and Rhaenyra alone together for the first time since she sat the iron throne as queen.

She paced the room, played with her rings; the sight had slightly dizzy, the fire from earlier exhausted you. You sat and watched her.

"Why must the Gods test me so?" she muttered. "Should I rule as my father did or bring down fire and blood as my ancestors did, they wouldn't challenge me. They wouldn't deceive and--"

"Your grace."

Her head snapped up to you, stopping her mid sentence. She stalked over, eyeing you heavily like the dragon she commanded, forcing you to slide away from her.

Rhaenyra caught you by the arm before you could completely leave her reach. She stroked your arm delicately, all while staring at you, entrapping you in those purple, valyrian eyes.

You knew what it meant, thighs pressing together at the attention. It's all you truly wanted, moreso, you desired to break away from that thich mast of depression that clung to your Queen since she lost her daughter--now lingering more since the loss of her sons.

"Y-Your grace?" you asked again.

Rhaenyra twitched. She brought up at hand, stroking your face. "My sweet girl, you've been more than loyal to me for the past few years," she said, lips quirking up in a tiny grin. "Maybe I should have sought your council."

Being able to finally lean into her touch again was glorious. She hadn't been this careful in days, focused on anything without a slip of that mask she formed to hide her fear and grief.

"What should I do, hm?" she said. "Should I remain civil to Alicent, appease and get ready for whatever game Ormound Hightower is playing in Tumbleton, or should I just burn it all. Burn all of my enemies as Daemon wished, as what my heart bellowed since my own daughter and father were taken from me? As did the sons who perished for me to sit on that accursed throne of swords?"

Rhaenyra clasped your hands in her own now, squeezing tight. She spoke to you, clearly, yet you still believed they were geared to herself and her personal council. You weren't completely sure what she should do. Tumbleton shouldn't burn, yet Alicent being in her ear only brought her trouble. Rhaenyra was queen however, she didn't need your council or anyone else's to do what she thought was true and absolute. She did need to grieve though; she need to remove that mask.

"Y/N?" she tilted your chin up with her finger. "Are you listening?"

You nodded. "O-Of course, your grace. But do you really need my council?"

Rhaenyra chuckles humorlessly. "I wouldn't be asking so if I didn't."

You bit your lip and decided to be honest. "You should do what you think is right, my queen--"

Rhaenyra blinked. "What I think is...right?" she spoke slow, like the words were foreign on her lips.

You unwound your hands from her own and pressed one of them against her chest. The beats of her heart were steady, as it was when you laid with over the past few months.

"Your father made you heir and, as you said, you need not want your sons--your children dead for nothing," you explained.

Rhaenyra's gaze stayed on you, narrowing while her hand worked up and around your arm, caressing your shoulder. She said nothing else, prompting you to do the same as she silenced you with a deep kiss. She was rough, body flush on yours, pushing you to lay on your back.

"Would you feel a way of me, hm?" she whispered. Your queen laid a trail of kisses down the base of your neck. "If I incinerated our enemies, would that scare you?"

Her words carried a heavy weight, though cavalier in her tone; it was as if Daemon spoke them, not the woman who only ever offered you sweet words, tender touches.

At your hesitation, Rhaenyra's hand went up to take your throat, lightly, but still there.

"Tell me, sweet girl," she commanded.

Her voice went deeper, hoarse, a definite command; your thighs pressed together again. Rhaenyra noticed this time, smiling slyly.

"Does that excite you?"

You swallowed and shook your head. "N-No your grace--"

Rhaenyra pressed her finger tips on your throat, still slight but you felt her more. "Don't lie, please, don't lie."

You hadn't dared to, not with the desperation in her voice or the way her purple eyes searched your face for an answer.

"Yes. Yes, it does, my queen."

Rhaenyra growled, the act akin to Syrax as she tapped your side. "Turn around."

You flopped onto your belly and Rhaenyra's hands clung to your hips before clawing and tearing at your dress. Her mouth found your neck again, kissing and nipping at the back of your neck while her hands moved lower, dipping into the fabric of your undergarments.

"Please," you groaned.

"Mmh, all you have to do is tell me, sweet girl," Rhaenyra whispered. She paused to suckle at your pulse point, forcing you to jerk in her arms. "Tell your queen what you want, otherwise, I'll take my sweet time...I missed these breasts on purpose."

Her hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and twirling the nipple slowly.

"Please! Touch me!" you moaned.

Rhaenyra grinned against your skin. "I am, Y/N. As you wanted," she said, accentuating each word with a roll of her finger across your nipple. "Perhaps you should be clearer with your demands."

She played with your chest more, making it difficult to answer. With a huff of breath at your ear and those familiar fingertips at your throat, Rhaenyra whispered. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough myself."

Her voice went to those deep depths again, hitting you straight to your core. "Y-Your fingers my queen. I need them inside," you said, nearly sobbing.

Rhaenyra kissed your ear. "Rina syz."

Your hips jerked involuntarily at the valyrian being spoken so close. Rhaenyra chased, dipped her hand below the fabric, moaning at your already dampened cunt.

"Ah, dreje ilzyna iksa," she groaned, moving along your slick.

She was slow like before when she had you against the table at Dragonstone, eliciting noises from you that would rival any common whore of Kings Landing while she fingered you to release.

This time was different. Once she pushed in, she found your clit and rubbed there fast, hard and in a dizzying rhythm that nearly brought you to release. Your hand found her wrist to signal the building towards your peak.

"Not yet," Rhaenyra purred, switching back to the common tongue. "Face me, now."

You faced your queen again.

A deeper kiss was pressed to your lips. "Beautiful," she said, pulling back to take in your frustrated face. She moved from over top of you aback to the beds center, bunching up her gown and skirts to reveal her toned thighs. "Ride me."

You kissed her, now being the one to rip and tear, pull at her dress until it was pooled to the floor.

Rhaenyra shook her head, smirking as she tipped your head up to kiss you once again. "Ajorraelenka."

You straddled her thigh, wrapped your arms around her neck and watched your cunt glide on her porcelain thigh. She flexed it gently, the quick move taking the breath from the base of your throat. Your queen did it again, rougher this time, bouncing her leg while trapping you in her arms, groaning at your scent.

All you felt was Rhaenyra. She hit your center perfectly; with each bump, you threw your head back, clutching the skin of her neck tight, sighing. You hid the loud sounds in Rhaenyra's silver locks, hoping not to alert any of her guards or the ears of the Red Keep.

"Is this not enough, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra said against your skin. She pulled back from your neck to snake her hand down, pushing two fingers inside. "I want to hear all your noises."

Her fingers curled while her thumb tapped your pulse just right, eliciting a louder moan. You cut it off though, burying your face into her chest.

"Toli jaelan," she growled, pushing you back against the bed. She sunk to the edge, pulling off your soaked underwear. "Moan as much as you need."

Just the visual of your queen positioned between your legs had you jolting up towards her. She chuckled lowly, mouth meeting your succulent mound. She wasted no time in lapping at your sweet folds, groaning at the taste while her fingers worked beautifully at your center.

"Rhaenyra!" you moaned, gripping her hair.

Rhaenyra pulled back, your essence coating a string connecting her mouth and your cunt. "There's my sweet girl," she groaned. "Fuck, you tightened up at that. Maybe if I..."

Your queen shifted up, pressing her body against you while one hand fingered you and the other laced around your throat, slightly curling. A gasp broke from you. The heat that pooled in your belly grew tighter at Rhaenyra's rapid succession until...it exploded.

"Fuck," you yelped, cumming all over Rhaenyra's fingers.

Usually Rhaenyra's hands would gather up your face, pampering you in sweet words and caresses after while cleaning you up.

Instead, Rhaenyra lifted your leg slightly to pin it against her hip, driving her own cunt against your own; her own juices mixed in a dangerous sympathy along your own to prompt more noises from the both of you.

"I'll take Tumbleton," she moaned. The sensation of her wetness, the sound of it moving along blurring your vision. You shut your eyes, only for Rhaenyra's hand to squeeze along your throat. "Look your queen in the eye while she's speaking."

You did as you were told: hypnotized by the passions Targaryen's were known for. Rhaenyra's mouth agape, purple eyes scrutinizing every detail of your body; your breasts that flopped with each move of her hips, your pulse that kept just under her fingers. You were at the mercy of Queen Rhaenyra and you adored every moment of it.

"I've been too lenient with my enemies, my subjects," she said, rutting harder against you. "I've forgotten the blood that runs through my veins, I do have six dragons. More than the conquerors before me."

Her fingers slipped against your cunt again, finding you tighten around her fingers again.

"Ah, my sweet girl," Rhaenyra whimpered. "This excites you, doesn't it? A Targaryen fucking you. Your Queen commanding your body as she does her entire realm?"

You nodded, lost in the sensation; her words brought you towards the brink yet again.

"So pliant under me," she purred. "If I were a man, I'd fill you just like this. You'd accept, wouldn't you? The realm would have something to fear then, I'll raise an army of bastards, as many as I want."

The thought got you there, cumming yet again; Rhaenyra gasped at the wetness that squirted across her own mound and tummy. Her movements hadn't let up as her hand moved from your throat and into your hair.

"Answer me," she commanded, tilting your head up. "Would you carry your Queen's babes? Join me and my husband in our quest to rule the entire realm for centuries?"

"Y-Yes!" you moaned. "Yes, your grace!"

Rhaenyra's body tensed up, connoting her release.

She fell atop of you, exhaustion melding well into your body. It gave you time to ruminate on her words; had she really believed her boys to be bastards? You turned over to watch your queen as she rolled off your body to sit on the bed's edge.

The mask was back, albeit, a new one. This one had heavy regality with ridges of self confidence that drained her days after the death of her eldest.

"They would be yours regardless," you said, wrapping your arms around her waist. "They would be loved, just as you loved your other boys. They are yours, no matter what the realm would say."

Rhaenyra leaned in your arms. "Thank you, sweet girl."

[marchxoxo]

Hotd characters x ◜ dragon!reader ❞

syspnosis ꕀ how would house of the dragon characters be with a reader, who can turn into a dragon?

╰ a/n; this is based on my fanfic called heads will roll, if you'd like to read it, its made by marxchxoxo on wattpad & ao3!

AEGON II TARGARYEN

When Aegon first claimed you at the tender age of seven, he felt an immediate and inexplicable pull in his stomach, an instinctive need to stay close to you at all times, as if your presence alone could quiet the chaos in his young mind. As the years passed and his drinking grew heavier, he would often stumble toward you in your dragon form, collapsing against the warm scales of your belly where he would ramble endlessly about his mother’s suffocating expectations, his siblings’ constant judgment, and the crushing weight of the crown he never wanted, finding a strange comfort in your silent, steady presence. On the mornings he woke with a pounding headache and discovered you had shifted back into your human form during the night, he would wordlessly pull you closer, curling into your side for more sleep despite the cold, unforgiving stone floor of the Dragonpit pressing against both of you, seeking the same warmth and safety in your arms that he found when you were a dragon.

AEMOND TARGARYEN

Poor Aemond had endured years of cruel bullying from his own family when he was younger, so the day he claimed you, the oldest and largest dragon in existence, felt like the ultimate triumph, a personal victory he made sure to rub in everyone’s faces with quiet, cutting satisfaction. Yet when he discovered that you were not merely a dragon but also a woman of flesh and blood, something shifted deep inside his own bones; the fierce warrior who once sought glory in battle suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to keep you safe at home, far from the bloodshed and politics of the Dance, vowing in silence that he would never risk bringing you into combat even in your dragon form. While the rest of the court whispered and wondered why Prince Aemond so rarely rode his legendary mount, he was instead lying with you in the privacy of your shared chambers, his hands and lips tracing every curve of your human body with a desperate, almost reverent passion, finding in your embrace the peace and belonging he had craved for so long.

RHAENYRA TARGARYEN

When Rhaenyra first met you, it was in your human form during one of her many visits to the Dragonpit, and the two of you quickly became close friends over the years, though she always wondered about your mysterious nature and why you only seemed to appear when she was alone among the dragons. She would question you relentlessly about your background and your odd habits, until one day, while she was venting bitterly about how no dragon seemed willing to bond with her, you accidentally let slip that you would gladly bond with her. Confused and intrigued, she pressed you for an explanation, leading you to finally reveal your true dragon form in a breathtaking display of ancient magic. From that moment on, Rhaenyra claimed you as her dragon and the two of you went on countless flights together, strengthening the deep bond between you. As a grown woman, however, with the immense stress of her throne being usurped and the constant idiocy of her council weighing on her, she found true peace in stealing away from meetings, calling out your dragon name, and soaring through the skies around Dragonstone with you, where the wind and your powerful presence washed away all her burdens, if only for a little while.

JACAERYS VELARYON

Jacaerys had bonded with you during those fateful days in Winterfell, where he had been haunted for years by recurring dreams of claiming a legendary dragon that most believed was nothing more than a myth. From the moment he found you, he discovered boundless joy in your company whether you were in your magnificent dragon form soaring through the skies or in your human shape walking beside him, the connection between you feeling natural and effortless no matter the shape you took. He fought relentlessly until his mother finally agreed to let him be betrothed to you, ignoring the endless questions and whispers from the court about why the heir to the throne would choose a woman with such a mysterious and powerful secret. He didn’t care about any of it, he simply wanted you completely, dreaming of building a family together and creating the kind of warmth and stability he had always craved. After marrying you in a ceremony that left the realm buzzing with speculation, the court was left even more stunned when it became known that the prince’s wife and his dragon were both pregnant at the same time, many whispering in awe about the miracle of such a double blessing while Jace could only smile with quiet pride, his hand resting protectively on your belly as he looked forward to the future you would share.

DAEMON TARGARYEN

The Rogue Prince was renowned across the realm for his willingness to fight on the ground without his dragon by his side, unlike so many other Targaryens who relied heavily on their mounts, he waged war with fearless ferocity alongside his wife, whom he had personally knighted as the first female knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Together they carved through enemies in perfect sync, leaving both foes and allies alike baffled by how you always seemed to materialize at his side during the heat of battle no matter how impossible the circumstances appeared. Daemon would simply scoff at their questions and reply with a sharp grin that she was his wife, so why would he ever reveal her secrets to anyone else. Most people still remembered how he had taken you as his second wife after the death of his first, and after being outright rejected by his brother King Viserys when he sought permission to marry you, Daemon had defied his king’s wishes entirely by wedding you in a secret ceremony across the Narrow Sea in Essos. He returned to Westeros not only with a bold new wife at his side, but also with a mighty and massive dragon that no one had expected, causing the realm to fear the Rogue Prince more than ever before as whispers spread about the dangerous power he now commanded both on the ground and in the skies.

[bbbbbhhhhh55]

The Eternal Bride (18+)

Vampire Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem Reader

Summary: A prophecy claims Rhaenyra’s soulmate will calm her bloodlust. Rhaenyra is convinced that you are the one from the prophecy, Rhaenyra refuses to let you leave Dragonstone alive.

Warnings: Dark romantic themes, bloodlust, soulmate bonds, prophecy and fate elements, possessive and obsessive behavior, emotional dependence, jealousy, a power imbalance between a queen and her maid, minor angst, and unhealthy attachment, sexual content, and mature themes.

As the Blacksmith's daughter, your hands knew every secret of fire. Not the roaring, dragon-fed kind that haunted the cliffs of Dragonstone, but the patient sort, the embers that bent iron to your will. You could forge a nail blindfolded, mend a broken hinge with your teeth clenched around the hammer, and once, when the village boys dared you, shaped a dagger so sharp it split a falling apple midair. None of that mattered now.

The forge-fire still licked at the edges of your dreams when the queen's men came. They didn't kick in the door, dragons don't need to break what they can simply burn but the blackened parchment they pressed into your hands might as well have been a torch to your life. Your father's debt to the crown, the scratchy ink read, paid in service or steel. You knew which one he'd choose before the cough rattled his lungs that final night, before your mother followed him into the dark rather than face the Stranger alone in a world without him.

They dressed you in grey wool that smelled of lye and other girls' sweat, the rough weave chafing against wrists still patterned with soot from the last blade you'd tempered. The castle steward had snorted when you asked after your tools, "The queen needs chambermaids, not blacksmiths" but you'd stolen a nail from the armory anyway, its cold weight sewn into your hem like a second heartbeat.

The nail in your hem grew heavier with each passing day, like a ship’s anchor dragging through wet sand. You learned to scrub floors without bending your knees too much lest the metal tip poke through the threadbare fabric and betray you and to empty chamber pots with your face turned just enough that the stench wouldn’t linger in your nostrils. The other maids whispered that you were too quiet, your hands too rough for proper ladies’ service, but they kept their distance after you snapped a bread crust between your fingers like kindling.

Dragonstone’s halls were a different kind of forge. The stones here held heat like a smith’s anvil, but instead of shaping metal, they seemed to shape people, bending spines into bows, softening voices into murmurs. You missed the honest ache of a hammer’s handle, the way your palms would blister and heal until they were tougher than boiled leather. Now your fingers grew soft, pruned from lye soap and lukewarm wash water. At night, you pressed your stolen nail into your palm until the half-moon imprint matched the calluses you’d lost.

The castle steward caught you staring at the armory door one morning, your hands twitching at your sides like they’d forgotten their purpose. "Still dreaming of hot iron, girl?" he asked, tossing a rusted hinge into your apron pocket. "Fix that by supper, and I won’t tell the queen you’ve been eyeing her knight's swords like a cutpurse." The hinge was a child’s puzzle compared to what you’d forged at home, but your pulse jumped anyway, not at the challenge, but at the word "queen." You’d never seen her, only heard the drag of her gowns against stone, the way servants scattered like sparks before her footsteps.

The hinge burned in your apron pocket all morning, its rust flaking against your thigh as you knelt to scrub the flagstones outside the queen’s chambers. You’d learned the rules by rote now, three knocks before entering, never lift your gaze higher than the hem of her skirts, breathe through your mouth when changing the rushes so the scent of mildew wouldn’t make you cough. The other maids had shown you how to fold the linens just so, how to pour wine without letting the goblet clink against the decanter’s neck. "She likes quiet things," Ellyn had whispered, her chapped lips brushing your ear as you both tucked fresh straw into the bedframe. "Quiet hands, quiet steps. Like you’re not really there at all."

________________________________________________________

The scent of burnt amber and myrrh still clung to the back of Rhaenyra’s throat, nineteen centuries later. She could still see the prophet’s milky eyes rolling back as the words slithered out between blackened teeth: "Your fire will consume you, princess, unless tempered by the one who bears the mark of the forge." The memory curled around her ribs like smoke, how she’d laughed then, how the prophet’s gnarled hand had seized her wrist with surprising strength. "You will know her by the soot in her veins," the crone had hissed, "and on the day she steps into your domain, you will want to devour her whole."

Nineteen centuries had not dulled the memory, the way the prophet’s breath had smelled of rotting figs and damp earth, how her fingers had dug into Rhaenyra’s wrist like roots seeking water. "Your fire will eat you alive," the crone had croaked, her milky eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. Rhaenyra had laughed then, tossing a silver stag at the woman’s feet. "I am fire," she’d said, and the hearth flames had roared as if in agreement. But the prophet’s grip had tightened, her nails drawing blood. "Even dragons choke on their own smoke. You will know your tamer by the soot in her veins, by the way your teeth ache to sink into her throat."

The wine in Rhaenyra’s goblet had long gone cold, its surface reflecting the flickering torchlight like a pool of stagnant blood. She traced the rim with a fingertip, remembering the prophet’s cracked lips parting around those damning words nineteen centuries ago. "You will know her by the soot in her veins.". A laughable notion, back then, as if the heir to the Iron Throne could be tamed by some soot-stained peasant.

________________________________________________________

The day you first stepped into Dragonstone’s shadowed halls, Rhaenyra was mid-sentence in a council meeting, her fingers drumming against the carved armrest of the Seastone Chair. Some lordling from the Stormlands was droning on about tariffs when the scent hit her, not the usual mix of salt and damp stone, but something deeper, warmer. Like iron left too long in the coals, but laced with honey. Her nostrils flared. The lordling’s voice became distant, muffled, as if she’d plunged her head underwater.

Her knuckles went white around the chair’s arms. The scent coiled around her, thick as smoke from a forge, and her gums ached with the sudden urge to bite down on what, she didn’t know. Only that the craving was physical, a pulse in her teeth that matched the hammering of her heart. She barely registered the way the lords exchanged glances as she abruptly stood, her chair screeching against stone. “This audience is over,” she managed, her voice strangled.

The guards at the door stiffened as she strode past them, her gait too quick to be dignified. She could still smell it, that damned scent threading through the castle’s usual odors of torch oil and wet wool. It clung to the back of her throat, sweet and metallic, making her swallow convulsively. By the time she reached her chambers, her fingers were trembling. She slammed the door behind her, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. Breathe, she commanded herself. But every inhale only filled her lungs with more of that intoxicating heat, like swallowing embers.

In the dim light of her room, she caught her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, eyes blown wide, lips parted. Her own pulse thudded in her ears. The prophet’s words slithered back to her, unbidden: "You will know her by the soot in her veins." Rhaenyra’s laugh came out jagged. Absurd. Impossible. And yet her fingers dug into her own thighs as she fought the urge to turn back, to hunt that scent through the corridors like a wolf after blood.

The door groaned under Rhaenyra’s weight as she threw herself against it, her palms scraping against the wood grain. She fumbled for the iron bolt once, twice before slamming it home with a force that sent dust spiraling from the rafters. Her breath came in ragged gusts, each exhale scalding the back of her teeth. Bite, her blood hissed. Hunt. The craving pulsed behind her ribs like a second heartbeat, insistent as a forge hammer.

She staggered to the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain rim hard enough to blanch her knuckles. The water trembled as she splashed it onto her face, but it did nothing to douse the heat climbing her throat. Her reflection in the silvered glass was a stranger, pupils blown wide, lips swollen where she’d bitten them. A lock of hair clung to her temple, dark as soot against her flushed skin. She tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric splitting like parchment under her nails. Cool air prickled against her bared shoulders, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

The scent still clung to her. That damned, delicious scent, iron and honey, hearth-smoke and something indefinably yours. Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to the cold stone wall, her hips jerking forward of their own accord. A whimper escaped her clenched teeth. She knew this feeling, the coiled tension before a battle, the prickling anticipation of dragonfire but never like this. Never so desperate, so hungry. Her thighs pressed together, the friction a poor substitute for what she truly wanted.

Somewhere beyond the chamber door, a servant’s footsteps pattered past. Rhaenyra froze, every muscle taut. If they knocked, if they spoke, she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t tear through the wood like a beast. The footsteps faded. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, but all it did was fill her lungs with more of that smell. It curled around her senses, thick as molten gold. She could almost taste it on her tongue, the salt of your skin, the heat of your pulse. Yours.

Her knees hit the fur-strewn floor. The scrape of wool against bare skin was agony. She needed, gods, she needed but the thought fractured into fragments: teeth sinking into yielding flesh, fingers tangling in hair darker than hers, the muffled sounds you’d make when she, Rhaenyra’s breath hitched. She dragged a pillow over her face to stifle the sound clawing up her throat. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a moan. It was something raw, something that tore at her ribs on its way out.

the pillow muffled nothing. Rhaenyra's teeth sank into the silk instead of the flesh she craved, her hips rolling against nothing but air and the unbearable heat between her thighs. The scent, your scent had seeped into the stone, the tapestries, the very marrow of Dragonstone itself. She could feel it in her molars, a throbbing ache that spread down her spine like molten gold poured over her vertebrae. The prophecy hadn't warned her about this. That her gums would bleed from how hard she clenched her jaw, that her nails would splinter against the bedposts as she imagined the give of your skin beneath them.

She lunged for the carafe of wine on the bedside table, but the moment the liquid touched her tongue, she spat it out, it tasted of nothing. Nothing but ash. Her senses were ruined for anything but you. A growl tore from her throat as she hurled the goblet across the room, the sound of shattering crystal drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears. The servants would whisper about this tomorrow. Let them. Let them all burn if it meant she could press her face to the flagstones you'd scrubbed and breathe.

________________________________________________________

The maids called it the queen’s “winter fever,” though no physician dared confirm the diagnosis. For seven days, Rhaenyra barred her chamber doors, leaving only for the necessary, though even then, her footsteps were too quick, her gaze too sharp, like a dragon scenting prey. The servants left trays of food outside her rooms, they returned untouched except for the honey cakes, which disappeared with only crumbs and the imprint of teeth left behind. You knew better than to ask why your nail burned hotter in your hem those nights, why the hinge you’d repaired for the steward kept slipping from your pocket as if drawn to the queen’s wing.

It was like this: Rhaenyra's skin no longer fit her body. For seven days and seven nights, she paced the length of her chambers like a dragon in a cage too small for its wings, her bare feet leaving scorch marks on the rugs that no servant dared mention. The fever had begun the moment that your scent had coiled around her throat, and now it burned through her veins like wildfire through dry grass. She threw open the stained-glass windows, letting the sea air whip her unbound hair into a silver storm, but nothing could cool the heat between her thighs or the ache in her teeth.

On the third night, she woke screaming into her pillow, the dream still vivid, your wrists pinned beneath her hands, her teeth at your jugular not to draw blood but to taste, to mark. The sheets were soaked through, clinging to her thighs, and when she slid a hand between them, her own fingers weren’t enough. She bit the inside of her cheek until copper flooded her tongue, imagining it was you arching beneath her, your calloused hands fisting in her hair as she ..... the fantasy dissolved like smoke when her climax hit, leaving her shaking and furious at the emptiness of her own bed.

By the 7th day, she stopped pretending. The maids found the remnants of her meals, honeycomb gnawed to the wax, pomegranates split open with her nails, the yolks of boiled eggs sucked clean from their shells, all arranged in patterns that looked suspiciously like the runes of old Valyrian mating rituals. When the steward dared ask if she required a maester, she’d laughed low in her throat, the sound more growl than amusement. "Fetch me the blacksmith’s daughter instead," she’d said, watching with savage satisfaction as the man’s face drained of color. "I have a hinge that needs... adjusting."

________________________________________________________

The steward found you elbow-deep in the armory's scrap pile, sorting rusted bolts with the same focused precision you'd once reserved for grading steel. Your fingers moved on instinct, this one salvageable, this one trash. when his shadow eclipsed the narrow window's light. "You're wanted," he said, voice clipped, but his eyes darted sideways like a nervous horse. The hinge you'd repaired weeks ago gleamed on his belt, polished to a mirror shine.

You wiped your palms on your apron, leaving smears of iron dust across the rough fabric. "By whom?" The steward flinched at the directness. Common maids didn't ask questions. But you'd spent too many nights pressing that stolen nail into your palm, reshaping calluses in the dark, to remember your place. His throat worked as he swallowed. "Her Grace." He said it like a man confessing to poisoning a well. "She... requests your presence. Immediately."

Your fingers froze mid-reach for another bolt, the steward's words pooling like molten lead in your gut. Her Grace requests your presence. The queen didn't "request", she commanded, she took, she burned. Every maid knew the stories: the seamstress who'd pricked Rhaenyra's finger and vanished into the dungeons, the cupbearer who'd served wine too warm and been sent to the Wall with frostbitten ears. And now you, a blacksmith's daughter with stolen iron in your hem, summoned to "adjust a hinge" like some common tradesman.

The steward's fingers twitched toward his belt where the hinge, your hinge, hung like a threat. His boots scuffed against the armory's flagstones, the sound grating against your nerves like steel on whetstone. "Her Grace's chambers," he clarified, though no clarification was needed. The queen's wing loomed in every servant's mind like a stormcloud, its corridors mapped out in whispers and warnings. "The hinge on her balcony door. It's... sticking." His voice cracked on the last word, as if even he didn't believe it.

Your fingers went numb around the rusted bolt you'd been sorting, the metal slipping from your grasp to clatter against the stone floor. The sound echoed through the armory like a hammer strike, sharp enough to make the steward flinch. You'd heard the whispers, how the queen had barred herself in her chambers for seven days, how the maids found honeycomb gnawed to the wax in patterns that looked too much like old Valyrian runes. How the steward's nephew had been sent to the kitchens with burns on his palms after delivering a message that displeased her.

The stolen nail in your hem suddenly felt like a death sentence. You'd sewn it there for protection, but what protection was iron against dragonfire? Your palms were damp against your apron, leaving streaks of rust and sweat on the rough fabric. The steward's throat worked as he swallowed again, his eyes darting to the door like he expected the queen herself to come bursting through it. "She was... particular about the time," he said, voice pitched low enough that the armory boys couldn't overhear. "Said now."

The rust on your fingers suddenly felt like bloodstains. You wiped them against your apron, but the red-brown streaks only smeared wider, as if marking you for some unseen executioner. Every whisper you'd overheard in the servants' passages came rushing back, the queen's winter fever, the gnawed honeycomb arranged in old Valyrian patterns, the way the steward's nephew had screamed when the boiling soup "slipped" onto his hands. Your breath hitched as you realized your own hands were shaking, leaving iron dust trembling in the air like falling ash.

The steward's boots scuffed impatiently against the flagstones. "I'd change that apron if I were you," he muttered, eyes darting to the streaks of rust and sweat darkening the fabric. "Her Grace has... particular tastes." The way his throat convulsed on the word "tastes" sent a fresh wave of panic clawing up your spine. You'd heard stories of lords who displeased Rhaenyra finding their favorite dishes served with their own sigils carved into the meat, would she take one look at your blacksmith's hands and order them forged into manacles?

Your stolen nail burned against your thigh as you followed the steward through the twisting corridors, each turn taking you deeper into the dragon's den. The castle's usual heat grew oppressive, pressing against your skin like a living thing. By the time you reached the queen's wing, your rough-spun gown clung to your back, the damp fabric chafing against old forge scars. The steward paused before an ornate door carved with intertwining dragons, their gemstone eyes following you like hungry predators.

"You'll knock three times," he whispered, his breath sour with fear. "Never lift your gaze above the hem of her skirts. If she offers you wine, let it touch your lips but don't swallow, last maid who drank from the queen's cup woke with no memory of the night." His fingers trembled as he adjusted the hinge on his belt, your hinge, the one you'd repaired weeks ago, now polished to a cruel gleam. "And for the love of the Seven, don't mention the—"

"—prophecy," the steward finished, his voice cracking like green wood in a fire. His fingers twitched toward his belt again, but this time, they brushed against something else, a thin silver chain peeking from beneath his doublet. You caught a glimpse of blackened metal dangling from it before he yanked it back into hiding. The sight sent an odd prickle down your spine. You'd seen that shape before, not in the armory, but in your father's old books: Valyrian script, the kind they said could scald bare skin.

The steward's hand jerked away from his hidden pendant as if burned, but not before you'd recognized the twisted rune dangling from it, the same one your father had sketched in his journal years ago, labeled "Valyrian: Forbidden." It wasn't just any script; it was the exact symbol that had appeared in your nightmares since childhood, its edges sharp as dragon teeth. "What prophecy?" you asked, your voice steadier than your hands.

The steward's fingers twitched toward his hidden pendant again before he caught himself, pressing his palm flat against his thigh as if pinning it down. His throat bobbed with a swallow too thick for the arid castle air. "Not prophecy," he corrected too quickly, voice scraping like a whetstone dragged sideways. "Superstition. Kitchen gossip." His eyes darted to the gemstone dragon eyes on the door, ruby pupils catching torchlight like fresh blood.

The steward's tongue darted out to wet his lips which were dry as parchment left too long in the sun. "Superstition," he repeated, but the word crumbled like stale bread between his teeth. His fingers twitched again toward the hidden pendant, the chain biting into the reddened flesh of his neck. "Just old wives' tales about ..." He cut himself off with a glance at the dragon-carved door, its gemstone eyes glinting as if listening.

You took a step closer, the stolen nail in your hem suddenly hot against your thigh. "About what?" The question came out sharper than you'd intended, forged in the same fire that once tempered your blades. The steward flinched as if struck. Behind him, the door's ruby pupils seemed to dilate, drinking in his discomfort.

The steward's fingers dug into his own thigh hard enough to blanch his knuckles. "They say she hasn't aged a day since the Conqueror's time," he whispered, leaning so close you could smell the sour fear seeping from his pores. "That when the candles gutter out, her eyes shine like a cat's in the dark." His tongue darted out to wet cracked lips. "And the way she never sleeps, just sits by that damned bronze mirror, staring at her own reflection until the maids find her at dawn with the glass cracked from her nails."

The steward's fingers trembled as he adjusted his collar, the silver chain beneath flashing like a fishhook in torchlight. "She doesn't breathe," he whispered, his voice fraying at the edges like old rope. "Not unless she's smelling something. Saw her once in the library, stood so still the spiders wove webs between her fingers." His throat worked as if swallowing broken glass. "And her teeth—gods, when she smiles, they're too—"

"—sharp," the steward finished, his voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. "Like a vampire's." The word hung between you, foul as month-old meat. His eyes darted to the door's gemstone dragons again, their ruby pupils gleaming wetly in the torchlight.

You wiped your hands on your apron, slow, deliberate leaving streaks of rust across the rough fabric like a smith's signature. The steward's wild eyes and twitching fingers belonged to a man who'd drunk too much sour wine, not someone delivering truth. "Okay," you said, voice flat as hammered iron. The word hung between you, dull and unimpressed.

The steward's face spasmed like you'd struck him. His fingers clawed at the hidden pendant again, the chain biting red lines into his neck. "You don't understand" he started, but you turned toward the dragon-carved door, its gemstone eyes glinting as if amused. Seven hells, you'd faced hotter fires than castle gossip. Let the queen have her sharp teeth and uncanny stillness; you'd met village elders who swore blind they'd seen merlings in the bay.

Three knocks. The sound echoed through the corridor like hammer strikes on an anvil, too loud, too final. Your pulse jumped when the hinges groaned without anyone touching them, the door swinging inward just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness thick with the scent of burnt honey and iron.

The scent hit you first, burnt honey laced with something metallic, like a blacksmith’s apron tossed over a beehive. The hinges groaned again, though no hand touched them, and the darkness beyond the door seemed to ripple like heat haze over a forge. Your stolen nail seared against your thigh, its cold iron suddenly fever-hot. The steward’s breath hitched behind you, his fingers twitching toward his hidden pendant like a man reaching for a prayer bead.

The hinges groaned again, not the rusty protest of neglected iron, but the deep, wet sound of something alive stretching its jaws. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh like a brand. Behind you, the steward’s breath came in shallow gasps, his fingers clutching at his hidden pendant like a drowning man grabbing for driftwood.

The voice that answered your knock didn’t sound human. It was too low, too resonant like molten gold poured directly into your ear canal. “Come in.” Those two words slithered under your skin, curling around your ribs with physical weight. The door swung wider on its own, hinges whispering secrets in a language that made your teeth ache.

The door yawned wider, exhaling a breath of heat that curled your sweat-dampened hair against your neck. Inside, the chamber pulsed like the heart of a forge, shadows licking up tapestries embroidered with dragons in flight, their thread-of-gold eyes tracking your every step. Your boots made no sound on the obsidian floor; the stone drank noise like a sponge in oil.

The chamber air clung to your throat like molten gold, too thick, too sweet. It wasn’t just the scent of burnt honey that made your pulse stutter; it was the way the shadows moved. Not with the flicker of torchlight, but in slow, deliberate coils, like smoke from a forge that remembered how to breathe. Your stolen nail pulsed against your thigh, its heat a silent warning.

________________________________________________________

The moment your foot crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind you with a finality that rattled your bones. No draft, no hand, just the abrupt certainty of a trap snapping closed. The steward's choked gasp was cut off mid-breath. Darkness pooled around your ankles like spilled ink, thick enough to drown in.

The darkness smelled of charred parchment and the sharp tang of dragonfire, not the distant kind from the cliffs, but something closer, hotter. Like breath on the back of your neck. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh, its heat pulsing in time with your hammering heart. You took one step forward, then another, your rough-spun slippers whispering against stone polished smooth by centuries of servant's knees.

The air thickened with each step, pressing against your skin like the damp heat of a forge just before quenching. Your eyes strained against the gloom, torchlight flickered from sconces shaped like dragons' maws, their firelight catching on something coiled in the room's center. Not a tapestry, not furniture, but a presence, low and watchful as a banked furnace.

The coiled presence unfolded itself in one slow, deliberate motion, first the gleam of silver hair catching torchlight, then the pale hands resting atop carved armrests like a queen inspecting a blade before purchase. Rhaenyra didn’t rise so much as uncoil, her gown pooling around her ankles like molten silver. The scent of burnt honey intensified, clinging to your tongue.

Your breath caught mid-inhale as the queen’s gaze locked onto you, not the way a noble looks at a servant, but how a smith studies fresh steel. The torchlight caught the unnatural gleam of her pupils, the black swallowing the violet until her eyes looked like pits of cooled obsidian. She inhaled sharply through her nose, her nostrils flaring as if catching the scent of hot iron from your stolen nail.

The hinges groaned again, not with rust, but with a wet, organic sound that made your stolen nail pulse against your thigh like a second heartbeat. Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared as you stepped fully into the chamber, her silver hair catching the torchlight like molten steel. "Come closer," she murmured, the words slithering across your skin. Her fingers flexed against the armrests of her chair, the veins standing out like forged wire beneath her pale skin. "The balcony hinge sticks."

Your fingers hesitated on the balcony door's iron handle, cold as a forgotten anvil, yet humming with something beneath the surface. The hinge gave a low, wet groan when you tested it, not the dry protest of unoiled metal but the sound of something alive flexing its joints. Behind you, Rhaenyra's breath hitched. You didn't need to turn to know her pupils had swallowed the violet of her irises whole.

"Interesting," you murmured, running your thumb along the hinge's pin. It came away smeared with something dark and slick, not rust, but a substance that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. The scent hit you then: molten metal and spoiled honey, so thick it coated your tongue. Your stolen nail throbbed against your thigh in warning.

Rhaenyra's shadow stretched across the balcony tiles like spilled ink, elongating until the tips of her silhouette's fingers brushed your ankles. "Does it need replacing?" Her voice had dropped an octave, the words vibrating through your ribs. You knew with the same instinct that told you when steel was at quenching heat, that this wasn't about hinges.

Your fingers traced the hinge's fractured edge, someone had smashed the pin clean through, the iron bent at an unnatural angle that no ordinary wear could explain. The metal hummed under your touch, warm as fresh-forged steel despite the chill sea air whistling through the balcony cracks. Behind you, Rhaenyra's breath hitched when your nail scraped away a fleck of blackened residue clinging to the hinge plate. It smelled like lightning-struck ore.

"The pin's been sheared," you muttered, more to yourself than to the queen. The break was too clean, too deliberate like someone had taken a hammer to it in precise, knowing strikes. Your stolen nail burned against your thigh as if in agreement. You glanced over your shoulder. Rhaenyra moves without a sound, her silver hair unbound now, catching the torchlight like a spill of molten silver. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet, black as the hinges on a tomb door.

"Can you fix it?" Her voice skated up your spine, lower than before, rougher. Her fingers flexed at her sides, the bones standing sharp beneath her skin. You turned back to the hinge, swallowing hard. The answer was yes, you could forge a new pin from the scrap in the armory, could temper it in the castle's dying forge fires, but the way Rhaenyra's shadow stretched toward you across the tiles made the words clot in your throat.

Someone had sabotaged this hinge. The realization settled between your ribs like a shard of ice. Not just broken, sabotaged. The fracture lines radiated outward from a central impact point, the kind only achieved by repeated, focused strikes.

"Yes," you said, pressing your thumb against the hinge's broken edge. The metal yielded slightly, too warm for castle iron. "But not with castle scrap. Whoever did this knew their work, the pin's been tempered wrong. It'll keep shattering unless..." Your voice caught as Rhaenyra's shadow pooled over your hands, her scent wrapping around you like forge smoke.

She crouched beside you, closer than any noble should to a servant. Her knee brushed yours through your roughspun skirts, an electric contact that made the stolen nail in your hem sear hotter. "Unless?" The word curled from her lips, dark as molten obsidian. Her breath hit your cheek, carrying the scent of honey gone thick and cloying in the comb.

You swallowed. "Unless I recast it with fresh ore. And quench it in..." Your throat closed when Rhaenyra's fingers grazed the broken hinge, her nails blackened at the tips like burned parchment. "In saltwater," you finished. The words tasted of prophecy.

Rhaenyra's laugh vibrated through the stone beneath you. "Clever little smith." Her praise shouldn't have curled low in your belly like that. She traced the hinge's fracture lines with one sharp nail, following the paths of destruction. "You see how it broke? Not from wear." Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for your skin. "From rage."

Her hand closed over yours suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the damaged metal. The hinge burned hotter beneath your touch, not from sun-warmed iron, but from something deeper, older. "Fix it," she commanded, and you felt the words in your marrow. "With your hands. Your way." Her thumb stroked the calluses on your knuckles, possessive as a dragon circling its hoard.

Your fingers trembled against the broken hinge, not from fear, but from the unnerving heat radiating through the metal. Rhaenyra's hand remained atop yours, her grip not tight but inescapable, like quicksand disguised as silk. "My way?" you echoed, voice cracking like green wood. The queen's thumb traced the ridge of your knuckles, slow as a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Your fingers slipped on the hinge pin, not from sweat, but from the unnatural heat bleeding through the metal. Rhaenyra's breath hitched when your thumb brushed the fracture line, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of violet remained. "Your way," she repeated, voice dropping into a register that resonated in your bones. Her free hand rose to your jaw, her thumb dragging across your lower lip with deliberate, terrifying gentleness. "With these hands that know steel better than flesh."

Your breath stuttered as Rhaenyra's thumb lingered on your lip, not pressing, just resting there with the weight of a dagger balanced on its point. The hinge's heat seeped into your palm, not burning but living, pulsing in time with the queen's quickened breaths. Her other hand still trapped yours against the metal, her fingers interlacing with yours in a mockery of intimacy. "You're trembling," she murmured, her voice thick as the honey scent clinging to her skin.

"I should begin work on the hinge," you said, your voice steadier than your hands as you pulled away from Rhaenyra's touch, slowly, as if retreating from a sleeping dragon. The queen's fingers lingered in the air between you, her nails catching the torchlight like polished obsidian.

Rhaenyra's lips parted, revealing the barest glimpse of teeth too sharp for human comfort. "Yes," she breathed, the word curling like smoke from a forge. "Begin." Her gaze dropped to your hands with unsettling focus, watching the way your fingers flexed around the broken hinge pin as if memorizing their every movement.

You turned back to the balcony door, acutely aware of Rhaenyra's proximity, close enough that her silver hair brushed your shoulder when she leaned forward, close enough to feel the unnatural heat radiating from her skin. The hinge groaned as you pried it open wider, the sound wetter than any metal should make. Beneath the rust and sea salt, something darker clung to the iron, streaks of blackened residue that shimmered when touched.

"A proper forge would be best," you muttered, more to yourself than to her. Your father's voice echoed in your memory. Never work cold iron, girl but the castle's forge had been cold for weeks, its bellows still as a grave.

Rhaenyra's fingers traced the hinge's fractured edge, her nail catching on a splinter of iron. "Use mine," she murmured, her breath hot against your ear. When you turned, her face was inches from yours, her pupils so wide the violet was nearly swallowed whole. "The one beneath the castle. Where my ancestors tempered their blades."

Your throat tightened at the implication, the old dragonforge, said to be heated by vents from the mountain's heart. Common smiths weren't permitted there. The stolen nail in your hem burned suddenly, its heat spiking as if in warning. "That's—"

"—yours," she interrupted, her hand closing over yours around the hinge pin. Her grip was fever-hot, her palm damp with something that smelled suspiciously of honey and iron filings. "If you'll take it."

The hinge pin slipped from your fingers, clattering against the balcony tiles with a sound like teeth hitting iron. Rhaenyra didn't flinch, only watched, unblinking, as you bent to retrieve it. When you straightened, she was closer. Too close. The scent of burnt honey thickened between you, cloying as the molten wax that had dripped onto your father's forge so many years ago.

"You're shaking," Rhaenyra murmured. Not an observation, an accusation. Her breath fanned across your cheek, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood beneath the honey. Her lips were parted just enough to reveal the sharp points of her canines, glinting like dagger tips in the torchlight.

You opened your mouth, to protest, to lie but Rhaenyra moved faster than castle gossip. One moment she was studying your face with that unnatural stillness; the next, her fingers tangled in your hair, wrenching your head back with terrifying gentleness. The kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't hesitant. It was the scrape of teeth against your lower lip, the hot press of a tongue that tasted like copper and pomegranate seeds, the shuddering gasp she swallowed when your calloused hands instinctively gripped her hips to steady yourself.

Rhaenyra broke the kiss with a sound halfway between a whimper and a growl, her forehead resting against yours. Her breathing came uneven, ragged not the controlled rhythm of a queen, but the desperate panting of something starved. "Seven hells," she muttered against your lips, her fingers tightening in your hair just shy of painful. "You taste like a fucking forge."

The stolen nail clattered to the floor as Rhaenyra moved too fast, too fluid, more shadow than woman. One moment you were standing by the balcony door; the next your back hit the bed's silk coverlet with a muffled thump, her weight pressing you down before you could gasp. Her lips crashed against yours again, hotter than dragonfire, her teeth scraping your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The coppery tang filled your mouth as she moaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your chest like a struck bell.

You barely registered the torn fabric as Rhaenyra's nails shredded your apron straps with unnatural precision, the rough linen parting like parchment beneath her blackened fingertips. Her thigh slid between yours with terrifying familiarity, the silk of her gown scorching even through your skirts. "Mine," she growled against your lips not a request, not a question, but a primal declaration that made your stolen nail sizzle against the floorboards where it had fallen.

Her hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless strength, her grip burning where her skin met yours. When you strained against her, she merely tightened her hold and dragged her teeth down your throat, lingering over the hammering pulse beneath your jaw. The whimper that escaped you wasn't entirely fear, something deeper, darker uncoiled in your belly as her hips ground against yours with deliberate, maddening friction.

Your fingers curled into the silk beneath you, the fabric tearing under your nails like fresh bread. Rhaenyra's mouth was everywhere, your throat, your collarbones, the hollow beneath your ear where her teeth caught skin and held just long enough to make your breath stutter. She growled when you arched against her, the sound reverberating through your chest like a drumbeat. "Still shaking," she murmured against your pulse point. Her tongue swiped over the spot where your blood ran closest to the surface. "But not from fear."

Your gasp tore through the chamber as Rhaenyra's teeth found the tender skin of your inner wrist, not hard enough to break flesh, but firm enough to brand the promise of violence into your pulse. The scent of iron bloomed between you, thick as the forge smoke clinging to your stolen nail where it lay forgotten on the floor. Rhaenyra shuddered above you, her silver hair curtaining your face as she inhaled sharply through her nose like a hound catching scent of fresh blood.

Your pulse hammered against Rhaenyra's lips where they lingered at your wrist, each thud echoing the frantic rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer. The queen's breath hitched, a sharp, animal sound, as she traced the blue veins beneath your skin with the tip of her tongue. "You taste like salt and iron," she murmured, her voice thick as molten ore. "Like a blade fresh from quenching." Her teeth grazed your inner elbow, not biting but savoring, as if memorizing the texture of your fear.

Rhaenyra's kiss tasted like wildfire, not the tame flames of hearth or candle, but the untamed inferno that had forged Valyria itself. Her tongue pushed past your lips with the same inevitability as molten steel filling a mold, claiming every inch of your mouth as her teeth scraped your lower lip raw. When she finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected your swollen lips, glistening in the torchlight like dragonfire reflected on blackwater.

"Nineteen centuries," she gasped against your mouth, her breath scalding your cheeks. Her fingers tangled in your hair like a drowning woman clutching driftwood. "I've waited nineteen fucking centuries in this cursed castle, watching mortals wither like grass while the prophecy whispered in my dreams." Her hips rolled against yours with a slow, serpentine motion that made your stolen nail vibrate against the floorboards. "Every night staring at that damned bronze mirror, watching my reflection crack while the mages' words burned behind my eyes, the smith's hands shall forge your chains."

Her teeth found your collarbone, sharp enough to make you gasp but not deep enough to draw blood, not yet. The scent of iron bloomed between you as she inhaled sharply through her nose, shuddering against you like a dragon scenting fresh kill. "Do you know how many hinges I've broken?" she murmured against your damp skin. "How many servants I've burned just to feel the heat of their fear?" Her tongue swiped over the reddening mark she'd left. "None of them smelled like you. None of them tasted of salt and iron and defiance."

You whimpered as Rhaenyra's hands pinned your wrists harder against the silk, her thumbs pressing into your pulse points like she was measuring the hammer-strikes of your heart. When she kissed you again, it wasn't lips meeting lips, it was teeth clashing, tongues warring, a battle disguised as passion. She swallowed your gasp as her thigh pressed higher between yours, the friction sending sparks up your spine despite your terror.

"The prophecy said you'd come marked by forge-work," she panted against your swollen lips. Her free hand traced the callouses on your fingers with something akin to reverence. "Said your hands would temper my rage like steel in quenching oil." A broken laugh escaped her, more breath than sound. "I thought it meant metaphorically." Her hips jerked against yours suddenly, the silk of her gown hissing like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Fuck. Fuck. You're real."

You turned your face away, instinct, not defiance but Rhaenyra caught your chin with bruising fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers. Her pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet now, black as the iron hinges on the sept's forbidden door. "Nineteen centuries," she whispered, and this close you could see the faint silver scars around her lips, old wounds from biting through her own flesh in restraint. "Waiting. Watching. Listening for the sound of your hammer in my dreams." Her thumb pressed against your lower lip until you tasted copper. "Do you know what the mages called you? Kostilus. The nail that holds the storm."

The kiss that followed was less kiss and more claiming, her teeth scraping your lips raw, her tongue pushing deep as if she could taste the iron filings under your skin. When she finally broke away, both of you gasped like drowning surfacing. Rhaenyra's silver hair clung to her sweat-slicked temples, her chest heaving against yours with unnatural force.

Rhaenyra's mouth crashed into yours again before you could gasp, not a kiss but an invasion, her tongue pushing past your lips like molten steel filling a mold. "I dreamt of this," she panted against your teeth, her voice cracking with something raw and ancient. "Dreamt of your hands on my skin, leaving marks like hammer strikes." Her hips rolled against yours in a slow, maddening rhythm that sent heat coiling low in your belly despite your terror. "Dreamt of your teeth here" her thumb pressed against the pulse point beneath your jaw "and your nails here—" her fingers skimmed down your ribs "while I screamed into the fucking tapestries."

You whimpered as she licked into your mouth again, the taste of her, burnt honey and something metallic, like a forge left untended, flooding your senses. Her hands cradled your face with terrifying gentleness, her thumbs tracing the arches of your cheeks as if memorizing their shape. "Every hinge in this castle," she whispered between kisses that left your lips stinging, "every nail, every fucking lock—I broke them waiting for you." Her teeth scraped your chin, sharp enough to make you flinch but not enough to draw blood. "Burned through servants who smelled wrong, fucked knights who tasted of nothing but fear." A shudder wracked her body as she pressed her forehead to yours. "You taste like defiance. Like steel fresh from quenching."

Her confession hit you harder than any physical blow, the raw, unfiltered hunger in her voice, the way her fingers trembled where they gripped your hips. This wasn't just lust. This was starvation. When she kissed you again, it was slower, deeper, her tongue sliding against yours with a reverence that made your stolen nail vibrate against the floorboards. "The prophecy said you'd come marked by forge-work," she murmured against your swollen lips. "Said your hands would temper me." Her laugh was a broken thing, more breath than sound. "Didn't say I'd beg for it."

You felt the exact moment she surrendered, her body going pliant against yours, her grip shifting from restraint to supplication. "Please," she whispered into the hollow of your throat, the word ragged as torn parchment. "Please fix me." Her teeth grazed your collarbone in a mockery of a bite, her hips canting against yours with shameless need. "I'll kneel. I'll crawl. I'll let you nail me to the fucking floor if it means you stay."

The moment your lips moved against hers, hesitant at first, then firmer. Rhaenyra made a sound that belonged more to the dragon pits than a queen's chambers. A broken, shuddering noise that vibrated through your chest as her fingers spasmed against your cheeks. You expected fury for your boldness, but her knees buckled instead, her body collapsing against yours with the weight of a felled oak.

Her kiss turned desperate, messy, all panting breaths and teeth clashing as if she were trying to consume the very air from your lungs. When you nipped at her lower lip in retaliation, she whimpered outright, her hips jerking against yours in an involuntary thrust that made heat coil low in your belly. "Again," she demanded against your mouth, her voice frayed at the edges like overworked leather. "Bite me again."

You obliged, sinking your teeth into the plush flesh just hard enough to taste iron. Rhaenyra's back arched violently, her nails scoring bloody crescents into your shoulders as she gasped your name like a prayer to a forgotten god. The stolen nail on the floor glowed suddenly, its heat searing through the wood grain beneath it but neither of you noticed. Not when Rhaenyra was unraveling above you, her silver hair a molten curtain against your skin as she trembled like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Your fingers trembled as they traced the damp silk between Rhaenyra's thighs not pushing, not demanding, just brushing the fabric with the same tentative pressure you'd use to test hot iron for quenching. The moment your knuckles grazed her, she went utterly still above you, her breath hitching like a bowstring drawn taut. "Is this..." Your voice cracked like green wood in a forge. "Is this okay?"

Rhaenyra's answering sound wasn't human. A shuddering, guttural noise tore from her throat as her hips jerked against your hand, the silk already soaked through and clinging to your fingers. Her nails scored bloody half-moons into your shoulders where she gripped you, her entire body trembling with the effort of restraint. When she spoke, her voice was raw not the polished queen's cadence but something ancient and starving. "Seven hells," she gasped against your throat. "You ask that now?"

Your fingers trembled against the silk between Rhaenyra's thighs not from hesitation, but from the sheer impossibility of touching a queen like this. The fabric clung to your knuckles, damp and hot as fresh-forged steel. When you dared to press closer, Rhaenyra's entire body spasmed against yours, her silver hair cascading over your shoulder like molten metal.

"Please," she gasped against your collarbone, her breath scalding your skin. The word wasn't a command but a plea, ragged at the edges like torn parchment. Your arm slid around her waist instinctively, pulling her flush against you until you could feel the frantic hammer of her heart through layers of silk. Rhaenyra whimpered, a high, broken sound when your thumb found the heat between her thighs and pressed gently through the soaked fabric.

"I love you." The words ripped from Rhaenyra's throat like a confession dragged from the depths of her. Her fingers tangled in your hair, gripping hard enough to sting as her hips jerked against your hand. "Gods, I love you, I love you—" Her voice cracked on the third repetition, the syllables dissolving into a moan as your fingers found the shape of her through the silk, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made her back arch violently.

Rhaenyra's teeth sank into your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but deep enough to brand. Her thighs trembled around your wrist as you increased the pressure just slightly, the heel of your palm grinding against her in time with your circling fingers. "You feel—" she panted against your throat, her words coming in fractured bursts between gasps, "like molten steel—like I'll fucking shatter. ".

"You're beautiful like this," you whispered against Rhaenyra's temple, your calloused fingers trembling where they traced the damp silk between her thighs. The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and honest as freshly forged iron. "All molten silver and wildfire."

Rhaenyra shuddered violently against you, her breath hitching as if you'd struck her. For one terrifying heartbeat, the chamber fell silent then she made a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her teeth sinking into your collarbone hard enough to leave crescent marks in the shape of her desperation. "Liar," she gasped against your skin, but her hips rolled into your touch like a drowning woman reaching for shore.

Your thumb pressed harder through the soaked silk, circling in slow, deliberate motions that made her back arch off the bed. "Not lying," you murmured, watching the torchlight catch the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "You glow like steel at forging heat." The comparison spilled from your lips unbidden, the blacksmith's daughter in you unable to describe her any other way.

Rhaenyra's breath came in ragged bursts, her fingers clutching at your shoulders hard enough to bruise. When your free hand tangled in her silver hair gently, so gently that she whimpered like a wounded thing, her entire body trembling beneath yours. "Say it again," she demanded, her voice cracking like overheated iron. "Say I'm—" Her words dissolved into a moan as your fingers found the shape of her through the silk.

"You're beautiful," you whispered against the shell of her ear, feeling her pulse hammer wildly beneath your lips. The truth of it curled warm in your chest despite the fear, despite the stolen nail burning forgotten on the floor. Rhaenyra's breath hitched, her hips jerking against your hand with desperate, uncoordinated thrusts.

The silk tore easily under your fingers, not with violence, but with the same deliberate precision you'd use to part hot wax from a fresh casting. Rhaenyra gasped as the fabric gave way, her hips jerking upward in mute supplication. The scent of her flooded your senses, thick as molten bronze poured into sand molds, not the cloying honey of before, but something sharper, earthier, unmistakably her.

"On your back," you murmured, pressing gently against her shoulders. The command felt foreign on your tongue, yet Rhaenyra obeyed instantly, collapsing onto the silks with a shudder that rippled through her entire body. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet now, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she stared up at you with something terrifyingly close to worship.

Your thumbs hooked in the waistband of her remaining underthings, fine Myrish lace turned translucent with dampness. Rhaenyra's fingers spasmed at her sides when you hesitated, her nails scoring fresh crescents into the bedding. "Please," she gasped, the word barely audible over the crackle of distant torches. "Please, please—"

The lace snapped with a sound like breaking harp strings. Rhaenyra arched violently at the sudden exposure, her silver hair fanning across the pillows like spilled mercury. In the flickering light, she looked carved from precious metal, the sweat-slick hollow of her throat, the tremble of her abdomen, the dark thatch between her thighs glistening like oil on quenchwater.

You moved before your courage failed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. Rhaenyra made a sound you'd never heard from human lips, halfway between a whimper and a growl, her hips lifting off the bed in mute supplication. Her thighs trembled when you traced the crease where leg met torso with your tongue, slow as running a whetstone along a blade's edge.

"Wait—" Rhaenyra's hand fisted in your hair suddenly, not pulling but anchoring. Her breathing came in ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling with unnatural force. When you glanced up, her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet, her lips parted around uneven gasps. "I'll—I'll ruin you," she warned, her voice cracking like overheated iron. "The last one who—"

"—burned," Rhaenyra finished, her voice raw as a fresh wound. The hand in your hair trembled, her grip alternating between bruising tightness and near-release like she couldn't decide whether to push you away or drag you closer. "The last servant who touched me like this... I melted the skin from her bones." Her confession came out in a rush, the words tumbling over each other like hot coals spilled from a brazier.

The words barely registered before your tongue was on her, not tentative, not questioning, just there, flattening against her with the same firm pressure you'd use to test hot iron. Rhaenyra's entire body arched off the bed as if struck by lightning, her choked cry reverberating off the dragon-carved ceiling. Her thighs clamped around your head with terrifying strength, her nails raking bloody furrows through the silk sheets.

"Fuck—" Her curse dissolved into a guttural moan as you circled that swollen, aching place with the same deliberate motion you'd polish a blade's edge. The taste of her flooded your senses, nothing like the cloying honey scent she wore, but something darker, richer, like iron filings and saltwater quench. Her hips jerked erratically against your mouth, her breath coming in ragged, punched-out gasps that echoed the irregular hammerfalls of your father's forge.

Rhaenyra's hand fisted in your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn, but she wasn't pulling you away, she was holding on, her grip alternating between bruising tightness and near-release as if she couldn't decide whether to push you deeper or scream for mercy. When you sucked gently at that throbbing peak, she made a sound that belonged in the dragon pits, a raw, shattered noise that vibrated through your skull like a warhammer striking anvil.

Your finger hovered at Rhaenyra's entrance, the heat radiating against your skin like a forge's open mouth. The air between you crackled, not with magic, but with something far more dangerous: hesitation. "Can I—?" you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges like overworked leather.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently, her thighs tensing around your head. For one heart-stopping moment, you feared she'd snap, that the dragonfire in her veins would erupt and leave you ashes on the silk. Then her grip on your hair softened into something tremulous, her hips canting upward in mute offering. "Y-yes," she stammered, the word mangled by the teeth biting into her own lower lip. "Gods, yes"

The first press of your finger stole the rest of her words. Rhaenyra's body welcomed you with a slick, shuddering heat that made your own breath catch, not just from the tightness, but from the way her back arched off the bed like a drawn bow. Her inner muscles fluttered around you, pulsing in time with the ragged gasps she couldn't seem to stop.

"Look at you," you murmured against her thigh, watching her stomach quiver with each shallow thrust of your finger. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with Rhaenyra's choked whimpers, its glow casting eerie shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "Taking me so well."

"You fucked knights," you murmured against the damp skin of Rhaenyra's collarbone, feeling the hitch in her breath as your finger curled inside her. The accusation slipped out between kisses, half question, half protest as your thumb found that swollen peak again. "Fucked them while you waited."

Rhaenyra's hips jerked violently against your hand, her nails raking down your bare shoulders like dragon claws. "Yes," she gasped, the word fracturing as your palm ground against her. "Gods—yes, I—" Her confession dissolved into a moan when you added a second finger, the stretch making her thighs tremble around your wrist. "They tasted of nothing. Like ash on my tongue."

You dragged your teeth along her throat in punishment, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make her whimper. The scent of her, burnt honey and something darker, like iron left in the forge too long, flooded your senses as you pressed closer. "And now?" you demanded against her pulse point, twisting your fingers just so.

"They meant nothing," Rhaenyra gasped, her voice splintering around the words as your fingers twisted inside her. Her hips jerked in erratic circles, riding your hand with the desperation of a starved beast. "Burned them—ah—before dawn even broke." The confession tore from her throat like a rusted nail pried from old wood, her teeth sinking into your shoulder as if the truth physically pained her. "Couldn't stand their scent afterward. Like—fuck—like wet ash clinging to my skin."

"Are you..." Your voice cracked like cooling iron, fingers stilling inside her as you dared to voice the thought that had been burning hotter than Dragonstone's forges. "Are you a vampire?"

Rhaenyra's laughter hit you like a fist to the ribs, sharp, sudden, and edged with centuries of madness. Her teeth glinted in the torchlight as she leaned down, her sweat-damp silver hair curtaining your face. "Yes," she breathed against your lips, the word thick as molten ore. "But not the kind from children's tales." Her tongue swiped over your pulse point where it hammered beneath your skin. "The kind that remembers Valyria's forges still burning."

Rhaenyra's hips jerked against your fingers with a sudden, violent urgency, her silver hair sticking to her sweat-slicked temples like molten wire. "Nineteen centuries," she gasped, her voice breaking around the words as your thumb circled that swollen, throbbing peak. "Nineteen centuries of waiting for this." Her thighs trembled around your wrist, the muscles fluttering like a dragon's wing caught in a storm.

Your fingers curled deeper inside her, dragging along that hidden spot that made her back arch off the silk sheets. Rhaenyra's cry shattered against the stone walls, raw and ragged and utterly inhuman. "You're mine," she panted, her dilated pupils swallowing all but the thinnest ring of violet. "My mate. My kostilus." Her teeth scraped your shoulder, not biting but branding, as if she could carve the truth into your flesh with her fangs alone.

"Say it again," you murmured against her damp skin.

Your fingers moved inside Rhaenyra with the same deliberate precision you'd use to shape molten steel, scissoring slowly, stretching her until her breath hitched in ragged bursts. The queen's hips jerked against your hand like a wild thing caught in a trap, her silver hair sticking to her sweat-slicked throat. "Look at you," you murmured against her inner thigh, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. "Taking me so well."

"Say it again," you murmured against the damp skin of Rhaenyra's inner thigh, feeling her muscles flutter around your fingers with each shallow thrust. The queen shuddered violently beneath you, her silver hair fanned across the silk like spilled mercury in torchlight. Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven, when your thumb circled that swollen peak again, deliberate as a whetstone along a blade's edge.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently when your fingers stilled inside her. Her thighs trembled against your shoulders, the muscles fluttering like dragon wings caught in a storm. "Say what?" she gasped, her voice cracking like overheated iron. The hand fisted in your hair tugged, not pulling you away, but anchoring herself as her hips jerked in mute desperation.

"You know." Your thumb circled that swollen peak slowly, watching her back arch off the silk sheets. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with her ragged breaths, its glow casting eerie shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat. "Say it properly."

A broken sound escaped Rhaenyra's lips, half growl, half whimper as she writhed beneath you. Her pupils had swallowed all but the thinnest ring of violet now, her gaze fixed on you with terrifying intensity. "I—" Her confession dissolved into a moan when your fingers curled just so inside her, the stretch making her thighs clamp around your wrist. "I'm yours," she gasped, the words raw as a fresh wound. "yours, only ever yours—"

The words tore from Rhaenyra's throat like molten steel poured into sand molds, too hot, too fast, leaving permanent scars in their wake. "You're mine," she gasped against your collarbone, her teeth pressing hard enough to bruise but not break skin. Not yet. "My mate. My kostilus." Her hips jerked against your thigh with frantic, uncoordinated thrusts, her damp silk gown clinging to both of you like a second skin. "Nineteen centuries I waited—nineteen fucking centuries—and I'll burn this castle to the ground before I let you leave."

Her fingers tangled in your hair with terrifying gentleness, her thumb tracing the shell of your ear as if memorizing its shape. "I love you," she whispered, the confession raw as an open forge wound. "Not like the bards sing, not pretty words on perfumed parchment." Her tongue swiped over your pulse point, tasting the salt of your fear. "I love you like iron loves the anvil. Like wildfire loves oxygen." The hand between your thighs pressed harder, her nails scoring crescents into your skin. "Consuming. Devouring. Eternal."

The third finger slipped in with a slick, shuddering ease that made Rhaenyra's back arch off the silk sheets like a drawn bowstring. Her gasp hit the vaulted ceiling, half pain, half prayer as her thighs clamped around your wrist with bone-creaking pressure. "Easy," you murmured against the damp hollow of her throat, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. "I've got you." Your thumb circled that swollen peak in slow, deliberate strokes, mimicking the rhythm of your father's hammer against hot iron, steady, measured, building heat by degrees.

Rhaenyra's fingers spasmed in your hair, alternating between yanking you closer and pushing you away as if she couldn't decide whether to devour you or beg for mercy. When you curled your fingers just so inside her, she made a sound that belonged to dragonfire rather than human lips, a raw, shattered noise that vibrated through your skull like a warhammer striking anvil. "Look at you," you whispered against her collarbone, watching her stomach quiver with each shallow thrust. Moonlight caught the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath paper-thin skin. "So perfect for me."

Her answering whimper dissolved into a choked sob when you added pressure to each inward stroke, your palm grinding against her with the same firm insistence you'd use to polish blade edges. The stolen nail on the floor pulsed in time with her ragged breaths, its eerie glow casting elongated shadows across Rhaenyra's heaving chest. "You take me so well," you murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. Her thighs trembled violently at the praise, inner muscles fluttering around your fingers like a dragon's wings caught in a storm.

Rhaenyra's body went rigid beneath you, her back arching off the silk sheets like a bowstring drawn too tight. The moment your lips brushed hers, softly this time, tenderly, a shudder wracked her frame, her silver hair spilling across the pillows like molten metal. "You're so beautiful," you murmured against her mouth, the words catching in your throat as her hips jerked violently against your thigh.

Her breath hitched, stuttered, then stopped entirely when you traced the shell of her ear with your tongue and whispered, "Mine." The word hung between you like a blacksmith's hammer poised above glowing steel, then Rhaenyra came apart with a sob that sounded more like a prayer than a cry, her entire body convulsing against yours.

Her thighs clamped around your wrist with bone-crushing force as she rode out the waves, her nails scoring fresh furrows through the bedding. When you kissed her again, gentler still, just the ghost of pressure, she whimpered against your lips, her body shuddering through aftershocks that left her gasping like a drowning woman breaking surface. "Yours," she panted, the word raw as an open wound. "Only ever yours."

Rhaenyra's grip flipped you onto your back before the last tremors had even left her thighs, her movement fluid as molten silver poured between molds. The silk sheets clung damply to your skin as she straddled your hips, her silver hair cascading around your faces like a curtain separating you from the rest of the world. For a heartbeat, you feared she'd bite again, that those sharp teeth would find fresh skin to mark but instead she buried her face against your throat with a shuddering sigh that warmed the sweat-slick hollow beneath your jaw.

"You smell like home," she murmured against your pulse point, her lips forming the words directly onto your skin. Her hips rolled in a slow, drowsy circle against yours, not the frantic grinding from before, but something softer, more instinctive, like a cat kneading blankets. The contrast between her earlier violence and this sudden vulnerability made your breath catch. When you hesitantly touched her waist, her entire body melted against yours with a sigh that sounded centuries old.

The silk tore like parchment under Rhaenyra's claws, not with her earlier calculated precision, but with frenzied, animal urgency. You barely had time to gasp before your shift was ribbons around your ankles, the cool air hitting your bare skin just as Rhaenyra's feverish mouth found your throat. "Mine," she growled against your pulse, the vibration traveling down to your toes as her teeth scraped the tender skin. "Need to smell me on you when they find us."

"Who—who finds us?" you gasped against Rhaenyra's lips, your fingers tightening in her silver hair as her teeth grazed your collarbone. The question slipped out before you could stop it, half embarrassment, half dawning horror at the thought of servants stumbling upon the Queen of Dragonstone rutting against a blacksmith's daughter like a starving wolf.

Rhaenyra laughed, a dark, breathless sound that vibrated against your sweat-slicked skin, and nipped at your earlobe. "The steward who warned you," she murmured, her tongue tracing the shell of your ear in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. "The maids who change these sheets." Her teeth scraped down your throat, not breaking skin but leaving heat in their wake. "Every trembling fool in this castle who'll smell me on you tomorrow and know exactly what we did."

Rhaenyra's teeth found the juncture of your shoulder and neck with predatory precision, not the playful nips from before, but a deliberate, calculated pressure that made your breath hitch. You felt the exact moment her control snapped, her fangs breaking skin in a sharp, burning bite that sent twin rivulets of blood trailing down your collarbone. She moaned against your throat, the vibration traveling through your veins like wildfire catching dry tinder, her hips grinding down against yours in slow, possessive circles.

"You'll wear my mark," she panted against the wound, her tongue lapping at the blood with a reverence that bordered on worship. Her fingers traced the bite with trembling precision, smearing crimson across your skin like a blacksmith marking fresh steel. "So they all know." Her voice dropped to a guttural growl as she pressed her forehead to yours, her violet eyes reflecting your wide-eyed expression back at you, the fear, the arousal, the dizzying realization that there was no going back from this. "So they see what's mine."

"Does that mean we're married?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and cracked like overheated iron. Your fingers stilled against Rhaenyra's damp silk, the question hanging between you like forge-smoke.

Rhaenyra froze mid-bite, her fangs half-buried in your throat. When she pulled back, her pupils had swallowed all but a sliver of violet, her breath coming in ragged bursts against your blood-slicked skin. "In the Old Valyrian tongue," she murmured, her voice thick as molten ore, "we call it kostagon, when fangs meet pulse." Her thumb smeared your blood across your collarbone in a deliberate crescent. "More than marriage. More than oath."

Rhaenyra's breath hitched, a wet, ragged sound when your fingers tangled in her hair and pulled. Not hard, just enough to tilt her face toward yours. The motion sent fresh rivulets of blood trailing down your collarbone, painting her lips crimson as she stared up at you with something terrifyingly close to worship.

"You're shaking," you murmured against her mouth, feeling the tremors wracking her frame like a blade struck one too many times on the anvil. The realization struck harder than any hammer blow, the Bloody Queen of Dragonstone, who'd just bitten you hard enough to scar, was trembling like a green squire at their first tourney. When you traced the seam of her lips with your tongue, she gasped as if you'd branded her, her fingers spasming against your skin without their earlier bruising pressure.

Your lips brushed Rhaenyra's with a gentleness that felt alien after the wildfire frenzy of her claiming. For three heartbeats, nothing moved, not the queen's clawed hands frozen mid-grip on your hips, not the blood still trickling from her fang marks on your throat, not even the torches whose flames seemed to hold their breath. Then Rhaenyra made a sound you'd never heard from human lips, a shattered, whimpering noise like a sword quenched too fast in tempering oil and her entire body went pliant beneath yours.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched when you deepened the kiss slowly, no teeth, no desperation, just the warm slide of lips parting in stunned surrender. Her fangs retracted with an audible click, her body arching into the contact like a flower turning toward sunlight after centuries in darkness. The stolen nail pulsed somewhere near the bedpost, its glow dimming to ember-warmth as Rhaenyra's claws retracted one by one, leaving crescent-shaped indents in your waist that didn't break skin.

Your fingers found the knotted muscles of Rhaenyra's back almost without thought, the same instinct that guided your hands when shaping hot metal. She stiffened beneath your touch, her breath catching like a hammer mid-swing. "Easy," you murmured against the nape of her neck, tasting salt and wildfire on your tongue. The queen's skin burned hotter than any forge, the tension coiled in her shoulders like overwound clockwork. When your thumbs pressed into the valley between her shoulder blades, she made a sound that belonged to wounded beasts rather than monarchs, a fractured whimper that dissolved into a shuddering sigh.

Your thumbs pressed deeper into the knotted muscle between Rhaenyra's shoulder blades, feeling the tension unravel like hot iron yielding to hammer blows. The queen gasped a wet, fractured sound as her entire body went limp against yours as if you'd severed some invisible cord holding her upright. Silver hair spilled across your thighs like molten metal as she slumped forward, her forehead resting against your collarbone with a shuddering exhale that stirred the sweat-damp fabric of your ruined shift.

"Never again," Rhaenyra murmured against your skin, her voice thick as poured bronze. Her fingers traced idle patterns across your knee, not the clawed grip from before, but something softer, almost reverent. "You'll never lift a hammer that isn't jeweled. Never kneel unless it's between my thighs." The words came out half-slurred, her consonants blurring together like overheated gold losing its shape.

You hesitated mid-stroke, your fingers stilling against the scarred valley of her spine. The queen made a noise of protest, low in her throat, almost dragon-like and pressed back against your hands with startling need. "My mate," she continued, the title twisting into a moan as your thumbs found a particularly stubborn knot near her ribs. "My queen." The last word cracked like cooling steel, her breath hitching when your fingers skimmed the old brand marks circling her shoulder blades, proof of some long-ago punishment you couldn't begin to fathom.

Rhaenyra twisted suddenly, her movement fluid as quicksilver, until she straddled your lap with her back to your chest. Before you could react, she grabbed your wrists and guided your hands around her waist, pressing your palms flat against the taut plane of her stomach. "Feel that?" she whispered, arching into your touch until your fingers splayed across the feverish skin just below her navel. Something pulsed beneath your fingertips, not a heartbeat, but something deeper, slower, like the distant hammerfalls of a forge buried leagues underground. "Dragonfire," she breathed, her head lolling back against your shoulder. "Burning for you since the Doom."

Her hips rolled in a slow, sinuous circle against your thighs, the motion more instinct than intent. The stolen nail pulsed on the floor beside the bed, once, twice, in perfect sync with the rhythm she set. When you dared to press downward, following the molten trail of tension coiled low in her belly, Rhaenyra's entire body stiffened. "Y-yes," she stammered, her voice fracturing into something unrecognizable. Her fingers scrabbled at your forearm, blunt nails leaving pale crescents in their wake. "There—right there."

Your fingers paused mid-stroke when Rhaenyra's words registered, not at the possessiveness, but at the sheer disbelief in her voice, as if the idea of you laboring was an offense to the gods themselves. The queen shuddered beneath your touch, her spine arching like a drawn bowstring as your thumbs found another knot near the base of her neck. "No more scrubbing floors," she growled, the command dissolving into a moan when you pressed deeper. "No more fetching wine like some common serving girl."

Her hips rolled back against your thighs with lazy, sinuous movements, the damp silk of her gown clinging to both of you. When your fingers skimmed the old brand marks between her shoulder blades, crude Valyrian glyphs burned into her skin centuries ago, Rhaenyra tensed violently. "Those were my mistakes," she whispered, her voice raw as a fresh forge wound. "Thinking I could take anyone else as mine." Her hand found yours, guiding your fingers to trace the raised scars with trembling precision. "Feel that? Hāros. Fool."

The stolen nail pulsed near the bedpost, its glow intensifying as Rhaenyra twisted in your lap until she faced you, her silver hair spilling over your bare shoulders like molten metal. Her pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet now, leaving only thin rings of color around bottomless black. "You'll have silks from Lys," she murmured, her claw-tipped fingers tracing your collarbone where her bite still oozed faintly. "Jewels from the ruins of Old Valyria." Her thumb smeared your blood across your throat in a deliberate crescent. "A crown of dragonbone and obsidian."

Your lips brushed the jagged scar along Rhaenyra's shoulder, not a kiss of pity, but one of slow, deliberate worship. She went rigid beneath you, her breath catching like a blade mid-swing. The scar tissue was rough against your mouth, textured like forged steel left to cool unevenly. When you traced its length with your tongue, tasting salt and something faintly metallic, Rhaenyra made a sound no mortal throat should produce, half snarl, half sob as her clawed hands spasming against the torn silk sheets.

"Just this," you murmured against her heated skin, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath your lips. Your fingers skimmed the matching brand on her opposite shoulder, crude Valyrian glyphs you couldn't read but understood instinctively. "Give me this. Only this." Your teeth grazed the raised flesh lightly, not biting but sealing the unspoken vow. "An eternity with you."

Rhaenyra's fingers dug into your hips with bruising intensity as she pressed her forehead against yours, her breath coming in ragged bursts that smelled of iron and wildfire. "An eternity," she whispered, the words scraping against your skin like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "But never a step beyond my reach." Her lips brushed yours, soft, reverent before she pulled back just enough to let you see the dragonfire swirling in her violet eyes. "Swear it."

"Swear it," Rhaenyra growled against your lips, her clawed fingers tightening possessively around your wrists. The scent of iron and wildfire clung to her sweat-damp skin, her violet eyes reflecting torchlight like polished dragon-glass. When you hesitated, just a breath too long, her pupils dilated until only thin rings of violet remained, her grip shifting to cradle your jaw with terrifying gentleness.

Your pulse hammered against her palm as you whispered, "I swear." The words tasted like molten steel on your tongue, too hot, too permanent. Rhaenyra's breath hitched violently, her entire body trembling as if you'd driven a nail through her chest.

"Good." Her fangs grazed your lower lip, drawing a bead of blood that she licked away with reverent slowness. "Because if you ever leave me..." The threat dissolved into a shuddering gasp as your fingers traced the old brand marks between her shoulder blades. Her hips jerked forward instinctively, her damp silk gown clinging to your thighs. "I'll carve out your heart and wear it around my neck," she finished, her voice cracking like overheated iron.

The moment your fingers stilled against Rhaenyra's branded skin, her entire body went rigid, not with pleasure this time, but with something darker, more desperate. Her claws dug into your thighs hard enough to leave crescent moons blooming beneath the silk. "If you leave," she whispered against your lips, her breath scorching like dragonfire, "You won't do it alive." The words weren't a threat but a confession, cracked open like a forge-heated ingot splitting under the hammer.

"Why would I ever leave my soulmate?" you murmured against Rhaenyra's collarbone, feeling her pulse stutter beneath your lips. The queen went perfectly still, not the predatory stillness from before, but something fragile, like a sword balanced on its point. Your fingers found the sodden laces of her ruined gown, tugging with the same deliberate patience you'd use to untangle hot metal from forge tongs. Silk parted like dragonwing membrane beneath your calloused hands, pooling around her waist as you guided her down onto the sweat-damp sheets.

Rhaenyra resisted for half a breath, muscles tensing like a bowstring before collapsing against you with a shudder that traveled through both your bodies. You dragged the heavy fur blanket over her trembling form, tucking it around her shoulders with a tenderness that made her breath hitch. Her claws retracted with audible clicks as she curled into your chest, her forehead pressed to your sternum like a knight paying homage.

"You're cold," she accused weakly, her voice muffled against your skin. The queen who'd burned servants for spilling wine now trembled against you like a newly forged blade quenching too fast. Her fingers clutched at your hips, not with bruising desperation, but with the hesitant urgency of someone gripping driftwood in a storm.

"Then warm me up," you murmured against the damp curve of Rhaenyra's shoulder, feeling her breath stutter against your collarbone. The command hung between you like a blacksmith's hammer poised above glowing steel, simple, undeniable.

"Can you turn me?" The question slipped out between panting breaths, your fingers still tangled in Rhaenyra's silver-streaked hair as she nuzzled the fresh bite mark on your throat. Her entire body went rigid against yours, not the predatory stillness from before, but something coiled tight with centuries-old pain.

Rhaenyra's laughter came out sharp as a blacksmith's chisel, her fangs gleaming in the torchlight when she pulled back to stare at you. "Sweet fool," she murmured, tracing the curve of your jaw with one claw-tipped finger. "You think this is some bedtime story where a bite makes you immortal?" Her thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter beneath skin still damp with sweat. "Valyria didn't work that way."

The queen's hips rolled lazily against your thigh, her movements now more liquid than desperate, as if she'd been remade in these last hours. "We were forged," she whispered against your collarbone, her tongue darting out to taste the lingering salt on your skin. "Dragonfire and blood magic and screams loud enough to crack the Fourteen Flames." Her fingers splayed across your sternum, pressing hard enough that you felt the echo of her own heartbeat, slower, deeper, like distant war drums. "Not bitten. Not begged. Made."

You arched beneath her when her nails scored delicate lines down your ribs, not deep enough to bleed, just enough to brand the sensation into your memory. "Then how—" The question dissolved into a gasp when Rhaenyra's teeth grazed your nipple, her tongue swirling in a slow circle that made your back lift off the silk sheets.

"Shhh." Her palm pressed flat against your stomach, pinning you with terrifying gentleness. "First lesson," she murmured against your skin, her breath scorching as she moved lower. "Never ask a dragon for secrets while she's hungry." The sharp nip to your inner thigh drew a hiss from your lips, but Rhaenyra soothed it with a kiss that lingered just a heartbeat too long. When she lifted her head, her lips gleamed crimson, your blood or hers, you couldn't tell. "The ritual requires three things," she confessed in a voice gone thick with want. "A dragon's heart. A willing sacrifice. And—" her tongue traced the hollow of your hipbone "a queen mad enough to spill her own lifeblood into your veins."

The stolen nail pulsed violently near the bedpost, its eerie glow casting jagged shadows across Rhaenyra's sweat-slicked back as she straddled your hips. "I burned seven castles to the ground searching for you," she admitted, her fingers tracing the fresh bite marks on your throat with something like reverence. "Drank three maesters dry trying to decipher the prophecy." Her hips ground down in a slow, sinuous circle that drew a moan from both of you. "Do you truly think I'd let something as trivial as death keep you from me now?"

You gasped when her claws pricked the skin over your heart, not breaking it, just pressing enough to make the threat tangible. "When the time comes," Rhaenyra whispered against your lips, her breath tasting of iron and wildfire, "you'll scream louder than Balerion did when they ripped his wings off." Her tongue swiped across your lower lip, savoring the faint copper tang. "And I'll kiss you through every second of it."

Rhaenyra's kiss hit you like a hammerstroke, all scorching heat and brutal precision, her fangs catching your lower lip just hard enough to make your blood sing. You moaned into her mouth, the sound ripped from somewhere deeper than your lungs, vibrating against her tongue as she swallowed it whole. She whimpered in response, high and broken, her hips jerking forward against yours with bruising force. The noise you made then was obscene, raw and ragged, torn from your throat as her claws scored fresh crescents into your waist.

Rhaenyra's fingers trembled against your eyelids, her claws retracted to blunt crescents as she pressed down with impossible gentleness. "Sleep," she whispered, the word ragged as torn silk. Her breath hit your cheeks in uneven bursts, warm as forge embers, scented with blood and something darker. The stolen nail pulsed dull crimson near the bedpost, its glow throwing jagged shadows across the sweat-slick hollow of her throat.

You caught her wrist mid-stroke, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath paper-thin skin. "I'm not tired," you murmured, though your limbs felt heavy as freshly poured iron. Rhaenyra made a wounded noise low in her throat, her free hand fisting in the ruined sheets. Moonlight caught the tremble of her lower lip, the desperate way her hips still rocked against your thigh in absent, seeking motions.

The command left Rhaenyra's lips like a blade sliding from its sheath, sharp, inevitable. "Sleep." Her clawed fingers skimmed your eyelids with improbable gentleness, the retracted tips leaving phantom pressure as they traced the curve of your brow. Beneath the furs, her thigh pressed flush against yours, radiating heat like banked forge coals.

"I will still be here when you wake," Rhaenyra murmured against your collarbone, her voice thick with drowsy possession. The words weren't a question, they were a command woven into the warmth of her breath against your sweat-slicked skin. Her arm tightened around your waist, fingers splaying across your hipbone with the same territorial urgency as a dragon curling around its hoard.

The weight of exhaustion finally pulled you under, your breathing slowing against Rhaenyra's collarbone where your face had come to rest. She held herself impossibly still beneath you, not the predatory stillness from before, but something fragile and deliberate, like a sword balanced on its edge. Only when your fingers went slack against her ribs did she dare to exhale, her breath stirring the damp hair at your temple with unbearable tenderness.

Moonlight carved hollows beneath Rhaenyra's eyes as she watched you sleep, her claw-tipped fingers hovering millimeters above your parted lips. The stolen nail pulsed erratically near the bedpost, its glow dimming to ember-warmth as the queen traced the shape of your mouth without touching, memorizing the curve as a blacksmith might study a masterwork blade. When you shifted in your sleep, her entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring, her violet eyes reflecting the erratic flutter of your eyelids as you dreamed.

Rhaenyra didn't sleep, not truly. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard, her violet eyes tracing every flutter of your eyelids, every soft exhale that stirred the hair clinging to your damp forehead. The moment your breathing deepened into sleep's embrace, her claws retracted with audible clicks, the sharp points withdrawing into trembling fingertips that ghosted over your collarbone without touching.

The first light of dawn crept through the high windows of Dragonstone like a thief, painting the rumpled sheets and tangled limbs in hues of pale gold. You stirred against Rhaenyra’s chest, the warmth of her body a furnace even in sleep. Her arm tightened around you instinctively, fingers twitching against your hip as if to ensure you hadn’t vanished in the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The prophecy proved true, just not in the way either of you expected. That first violent claiming had been wildfire and desperation, but what grew between you in its aftermath was something slower, deeper, like molten silver cooling into something enduring. Rhaenyra's claws retracted first, then her fangs, until the only marks she left on your skin were the crescent-shaped bruises from her fingertips and the single scar at your throat, a relic worn with perverse pride.

The prophecy was wrong but also right in ways no maester could have predicted. Rhaenyra's bloodlust didn't vanish so much as transmute, the wildfire in her veins cooling to embers whenever your fingers laced through hers. You learned this on the third morning, when she woke you by pressing your palm to her throat, her pulse hammering against your fingertips like a caged bird. "Again," she'd rasped, her voice raw from screaming your name into the pre-dawn darkness. Not a command, but a plea, the first of thousands.

The first time you noticed the change, it wasn't in Rhaenyra's violent hunger, but in the absence of it. Dawn bled through Dragonstone's high windows as you woke to find her watching you with an expression that lacked all its old razor-edged desperation. Her fingers traced your collarbone where her fang marks had once bled freely, now just silvered scars beneath her touch. "You're still here," she murmured, the words catching like a prayer in her throat. Not an accusation. Not a demand. Just wonder.

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The first time you truly understood the prophecy hadn't been about bloodlust at all was on a storm-lashed night when Rhaenyra pressed your palm flat against her racing heart. Not in passion, not in violence but because the distant roll of thunder made her flinch like a spooked horse. The mighty Bloody Queen of Dragonstone, who'd once burned castles for looking at her wrong, now trembled beneath your touch over something as simple as bad weather. Her claws pricked your wrist, not enough to break skin, just enough to tether herself as she whispered, "Again," against your collarbone like a prayer.

The first time Rhaenyra didn't wake you with fangs at your throat came on an unremarkable morning, no different from the thousand before it, save for the way her lips pressed against your pulse point with nothing sharper than devotion. You blinked awake to find her watching you with an expression that lacked all its old desperation, her fingers tracing idle patterns across your collarbone where her bite had scarred silver. "You taste like sunlight now," she murmured, the admission slipping out like a confession too fragile for daylight.

________________________________________________________

Simply, Your presence brought her comfort, patience, and peace, while she offered you a place where you felt valued and seen. As the years passed, the bloodlust that had once threatened to consume her faded into the background, and many came to believe the prophecy had been fulfilled. Whether it was fate, love, or simply the bond you shared, one thing was certain: Rhaenyra had found her peace, and you had found a home beside her.