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In a castle that seemed to grow hollower with every passing day, its corridors echoing with absence rather than life, and beneath a crown that pressed heavier upon her brow with every hour, Rhaenyra should not have been so startled by her grief, nor by the warm arms and soft, knowing hands into which that grief so easily toppled her. Loneliness had a way of making the heart reckless, and hers had been left raw, tender as an open wound.
Elevating the Lady Mysaria had perhaps been unwise, whispered about in corners, frowned upon by councillors who measured loyalty in bloodlines rather than devotion, but when the walls of Dragonstone tightened like a noose about her, suffocating her with duty and expectation, it was Mysaria who cut through the airlessness. She was not another vulture circling the crown, nor a voice demanding perfection from a woman already drowning beneath it. She was one of the rare few who reached for Rhaenyra the person rather than the princess, who touched her grief instead of her title. What others muttered about it, Rhaenyra cared little. For once, something, someone, was hers, claimed wholly for herself, not parcelled out by blood, obligation, or legacy.
It was not long after naming her Mistress of Whispers that Rhaenyra had felt the stirrings of something that owed nothing to strategy or gratitude. Desire crept in first like smoke, then ignited into flame, until she found herself tangled in silks and shadows beside Mysaria. Her lips were sweeter than any kiss of courtly youth, lingering like stolen honey, and her sighs rose and fell like music more haunting than any bard had ever played in her childhood halls. Mysaria knew well the art of pleasing, whether in the council chamber or the bedchamber, and she wielded it with a patience that both soothed and unsettled. At times, Rhaenyra felt less a lover than a sovereign being served, indulged, adorned with pleasure until she forgot to breathe.
Yet there was an edge, always, an imbalance woven through their intimacy. Mysaria did not flatter her with false agreement, did not bend beneath her words as others did, and still, Rhaenyra felt the tilt of their bond. One-sided, perhaps, as if she were clutching more tightly than she was ever held. But in the dark, when the world was reduced to skin and breath and the press of lips against hers, she could forget all that. In Mysaria’s arms, she was not a queen besieged. She was only a woman, aching, burning, and briefly, blissfully, alive.
Late into the evening, when the torches burned low and the fire in the hearth crackled drowsily, Mysaria lay sprawled across Rhaenyra’s chest, her body a languid weight, her breath warm and steady against the queen’s skin. Her lashes fluttered half-shut, caught between wakefulness and sleep, her stillness punctuated only by the occasional shift of her lips brushing against Rhaenyra’s collarbone as though she could not resist worshipping even in repose. Rhaenyra’s fingers threaded lazily through the silken strands of Mysaria’s hair, combing and tangling, while her other hand traced long, absent paths down the smooth expanse of her spine, lingering at the curve of her waist, sliding lower before drifting back up again in a rhythm meant to soothe yet weighted with unspoken hunger.
“Every time we lie together,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice husky with the heaviness of the hour, “you undo me—utterly—leave me in ruins, and then ask nothing in return.” Her hand tightened ever so slightly in Mysaria’s hair, as though trying to coax an answer.
Mysaria gave only a soft hum at first, a feline sound, languid and amused, before lifting her head just enough to let her luminous eyes meet her queen’s. “Yes,” she replied with a slow smile, her words like smoke curling in the air. “I find being with you at all is fulfilling enough. I aim only to serve my queen.” Her lips brushed down once more, trailing featherlight kisses along the ridge of Rhaenyra’s collarbone, leaving warmth in their wake.
Rhaenyra’s breath caught, but her brow furrowed faintly. “And you do so most dutifully,” she whispered, “but… are you truly pleased? Do you want only to be a supplicant to my desires?” Her voice lowered to a near tremor, confessional, aching. “Are you content kneeling, even in the privacy of my chambers?”
Mysaria’s lips curved against her throat, pressing a kiss into the hollow there, her tone teasing but edged with affection. “Kneeling for my pleasure would not suit you, Nyra.” The way she said her name, intimate and unguarded, made Rhaenyra’s chest tighten.
The queen laughed softly, an exhale against Mysaria’s hair, and held her closer as if she could fuse her into herself. “I suppose not. But…” Her voice faltered, sighing against the night air. “Is there nothing I could do? Nothing we could share that is more than this? I suppose I’m asking you to take as much as you give.” The admission tasted vulnerable, dangerous, a truth she might have kept hidden if not for the warmth of Mysaria’s skin against hers.
Mysaria stilled, then lifted her head fully this time, her gaze sharp and searching. “Take from you?” she echoed, a faint gleam of surprise flickering in her expression. “Do you tire of my ministrations, then?”
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head at once, strands of silver hair falling loose across her cheeks. “No,” she said, with a fervour that made her sound almost desperate. “No, that is not what I meant at all. Only that…” She hesitated, colour rising in her cheeks, her fingers curling possessively against Mysaria’s spine. “Only that I would like to see you as I am with you. To watch you come undone in the same way you leave me undone. To know that you, too, are overcome.” Her voice faltered into near silence, her confession trembling between them.
A faint blush touched Mysaria’s cheeks, rare and disarming, mirrored in the queen’s own. For once, both women, so accustomed to control, found themselves equally bared, suspended in the space between desire and revelation.
Mysaria did not bother with words. She answered instead with a kiss, one that began soft, tentative as a caress of silk, before deepening into something hungrier, hotter, a kiss that left no room for doubt about what she wanted. Their mouths melded together with increasing urgency, breath mingling, lips parting, tongues tangling in a rhythm that felt at once familiar and ever-new. They were always bare when they shared their bed, the weight of courtly trappings discarded at the threshold, leaving nothing between them but skin and heat. And so it was that there were no barriers, no impediments to the wandering of hands, to the boldness of caresses that slipped like whispers across each other’s bodies, tracing every curve, every dip, every secret place where breath caught and pleasure flared.
Rhaenyra gasped against her lover’s mouth, the sound swallowed by Mysaria’s lips as though even her breath belonged to her. With a slow, deliberate motion, she urged Mysaria onto her back, easing her down into the silken bedding. Hovering above her, braced on her forearms, Rhaenyra’s silver hair fell like a curtain around their faces, veiling them in intimacy. She drew back just enough to whisper, voice hushed and reverent, “You’re good to me.”
Mysaria’s dark eyes glimmered, half-lidded, her reply rasping low, roughened by desire. “You deserve goodness.”
The words tightened something in Rhaenyra’s chest, and she pressed forward, slotting one leg between Mysaria’s and drawing her close until their hips met, the friction sharp, delicious. A soft sigh broke from her as she leaned down once more, reclaiming her lover’s mouth with a kiss that was no longer tender but urgent, devouring, the kind of kiss that sought to consume as much as to give.
Mysaria met her eagerly, her tongue sliding against Rhaenyra’s with a practised ease, her hands roaming lower along the queen’s back. Fingers splayed, she cupped and stroked where Rhaenyra’s curves invited touch, teasing the lines of her body with knowing precision. She touched like a woman who had studied her thoroughly, who knew every plane and valley, every peak and hollow, who knew the exact places to press that made Rhaenyra gasp, shiver, or release a helpless, trembling sigh.
And Rhaenyra, for all her sovereignty, gave herself over to this exchange as wholly as any supplicant. She too had learned Mysaria’s body as one might learn sacred scripture, tracing its truths until they were etched into her memory. With every kiss, every stroke, every movement of her hips, she pressed not only desire but a fierce affection into her lover’s very being, as though she could imprint her longing onto Mysaria’s skin, until no one could mistake who she belonged to, nor whom she belonged with.
Mysaria lifted one long leg, the motion unhurried, deliberate, and hooked her knee over Rhaenyra’s shoulder. The shift drew their bodies closer, until there was no space left to breathe between them, only the heady thrum of skin against skin. Her voice, soft and coaxing, brushed against the queen’s ear. “Roll your hips, my love.”
Rhaenyra’s breath shuddered as she nodded, her mind already thick and hazy with the weight of pleasure. Obedient, aching to please and be pleased, she rocked her hips forward in a slow, languid motion. The slick heat of her cunt pressed against Mysaria’s, and together they released a sound that was not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, but something in between, an exhale heavy with want, drawn from them both at once, as if their bodies had conspired to speak in unison.
Her eyes lifted, seeking Mysaria’s gaze, searching for the reassurance she craved. She found it instantly, in the dark fire burning there. Mysaria tilted her head back against the pillows, lips parted, a sharp breath escaping her. “Mm… like that,” she whispered, the words trembling as they fell. She arched her hips upward to meet her queen’s, her body answering with equal urgency. “You wanted our pleasure to feel mutual,” she breathed, voice breaking on the syllables. “How’s this, dearest?”
“Good…” Rhaenyra gasped, her voice so low it was almost a prayer. “Oh, good.” The words dissolved into the air as she bent down to kiss her again, lips desperate, clinging.
Their mouths met with a ferocity that blurred affection and hunger into one. Tongues tangled in a wet, feverish rhythm, each tasting, each taking, each giving, as though they meant to drink from one another until there was nothing left. Their shared moans spilt into those kisses, swallowed and returned, layered sounds of need that rose higher with every grind of their hips. Mysaria’s arms tightened, circling Rhaenyra’s shoulders, pulling her down closer, as if even skin-on-skin were not close enough. In response, Rhaenyra’s grip hardened on the length of Mysaria’s thighs, fingers pressing possessively into the flesh, drawing from her another throaty, helpless moan.
The heat between them grew, wet and insistent, each movement feeding it, each press of tender flesh against tender flesh sparking an ache that spread and deepened. Their hips made their cunts meet each other again and again, the friction striking like flint, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure that rolled through them both. Their swollen clits slipped and nudged together, sliding and catching, sending shocks of bliss that made them gasp, sigh, then moan outright into each other’s mouths.
Rhaenyra rocked with more intent now, her body learning the cadence of Mysaria’s, hips grinding in a rhythm that drew a melody of broken sounds from them both. Mysaria’s breath hitched with each pass, her back arching, her hands clutching fistfuls of Rhaenyra’s hair, pulling her down into the kiss as if it were her lifeline. Rhaenyra, trembling with the force of her own mounting pleasure, pressed harder, faster, desperate to bring Mysaria with her, to feel them break together.
The chamber filled with the soft, lewd sounds of their movements, the sheen of sweat on their skin catching the firelight. Every sigh, every shiver, every throaty cry built upon the last until their bodies were moving as one, locked in a rhythm of shared hunger and unspoken devotion. Neither queen nor consort, neither servant nor sovereign, in that moment they were only two women, bare and undone, drawing mutual ecstasy from one another with each breath, each grind, each kiss that deepened until it was nearly unbearable.
And still, they clung tighter, unwilling to let go, unwilling to let the moment end.
Rhaenyra unravelled first, her body seizing with a sudden, quaking shudder that stole the breath from her chest. Her lips parted around a gasp that melted into a broken whimper as her hips faltered, grinding once more before stuttering into stillness. The waves of her release rippled through her, leaving her trembling above her lover, her silver hair falling like a veil around their faces. Mysaria’s touch was immediate and tender, her hand rising to brush damp strands back from Rhaenyra’s flushed face, her lips pressing soft, lingering kisses at her temple, then her cheek, then finally her mouth, soothing her through the tremors.
But Rhaenyra, ever unwilling to let the moment remain one-sided, gathered herself with a shaky exhale. Her body was still weak from the aftershocks of pleasure, yet she pressed forward once more, rolling her hips deliberately, insistently, through the heady overstimulation. The hunger in her was no longer for herself but for the woman beneath her, and the fire in her eyes betrayed the single-minded determination to send Mysaria tumbling over the same edge.
Her pace built again, slow at first, then firmer, surer. Mysaria’s breath hitched, a low, throaty moan spilling from her lips as she arched upward into the queen’s movements. Their wet heats met with every grind, the friction unbearably sweet now, drawing sounds from Mysaria that seemed to grow softer and higher with each pass. Her hands clutched at Rhaenyra’s shoulders, her nails biting faint crescents into her skin, pulling her closer, closer still, as if she might disappear without her.
Rhaenyra kissed her deeply, swallowing those cries, her own moans weaving with hers, until Mysaria’s body tensed beneath her. A sharp gasp broke from her throat, her hips jerking up to meet the queen’s in a desperate, stuttering rhythm before she came apart completely. Rhaenyra held her through it, rocking her through each tremor, watching her unravel with a look of reverence that bordered on worship. To see Mysaria’s face contorted in bliss, lips parted, eyes closed, body arching and trembling, it was, Rhaenyra thought, the sweetest and most devastating sight she had ever witnessed.
When at last the tide of release ebbed, leaving only the glow of exhaustion and the intimacy of shared warmth, Rhaenyra sank against her lover, her breath heavy and uneven. Mysaria curled into her embrace with a languid sigh, her limbs draped around her like ivy clinging to stone. For a while, they said nothing, only held each other as the sound of their breathing filled the chamber, steadying, calming.
At length, Rhaenyra pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Mysaria’s head, her lips lingering there as if she could seal the moment into permanence. “Thank you,” she whispered into her lover’s hair, her voice thick with tenderness. “That was all I wanted.”
Mysaria hummed in acknowledgement, a low, contented sound, and nestled closer, her face pressed against the queen’s chest, her arms tightening as though she too never wished to let go. And in that fragile, golden silence, wrapped in the warmth of Mysaria’s body and the soft ache of sated desire, Rhaenyra realised that her grief, the weight that so often strangled her, had never felt so distant, so dim, as it did in that moment.