Favourite Position
The corridors of the castle knew things they shouldn’t. They remembered hands against stone and teeth in silk. They remembered moans that once echoed like ghostlight through the winding halls, too fragile for daylight and too heavy for sleep. They remembered her—the Queen of Dragonstone—drifting barefoot, half-undone, with her silver hair unbraided and her eyes red-rimmed with hunger.
Not for meat.
Not for power.
Not for the crown.
For her.
A woman of no name, no past, no title. A shadow made flesh and a body that burned like it knew every inch of Rhaenyra’s secret self—like it had been conjured not from the world, but from her marrow, her shame, her want.
It had started, as such obsessions do, with a stare. A stolen one. The kind where a tongue lingers on the roof of the mouth long after the moment passes, and the skin itches with possibility.
The kind of stare that said, I would ruin myself for you. Just give the word.
It had rained that day. The glass panes of the solar were fogged and beaded with water, streaking the sky into a grey mosaic. Rhaenyra had not left the room in hours. Her hair had been combed but not pinned, her gown slipped from one shoulder, and a goblet sat untouched beside her books. A fire crackled low, barely warding off the chill. But it was not the cold that had made her restless.
It was her.
She stood at the window, turning pages with her gloved fingers, murmuring some passage aloud to herself—unaware, or perhaps too aware, of Rhaenyra watching her from the chaise. That voice. Unhurried. Unbothered. Almost cruel in its indifference.
Rhaenyra shifted.
“You read like you’re alone,” she said finally, her voice rough from disuse.
The woman turned. Their eyes met.
“Should I pretend I’m not?” she said.
And Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, because there it was again—that slow, unconcerned provocation. The promise of a dare without its utterance. She did not like being unseen. She did not like being toyed with. But more than anything, she hated that her thighs had pressed together at the sound of that voice. She hated how powerlessness could taste so much like pleasure.
“Come here,” she said.
The woman obeyed.
She knelt between Rhaenyra’s spread knees without being told.
And when Rhaenyra leaned forward, threading her fingers through that thick, dark hair, she did not kiss her. She simply whispered:
“I’ve imagined this. Too often. Too vividly. I think it’s rotting my mind.”
A soft laugh. “Then let it rot, Your Grace.”
And she did. Gods, she did.
It began with control. Of course it did.
Rhaenyra had always known herself in power. She’d tasted it early—in blood, in battle, in inheritance. She knew how to command an army, a council, a room. But not this. Not this need. Not this chaos of craving that bloomed when she touched her.
Her favorite position was not about comfort. Or ease. Or laziness. No, it was something darker. More devotional. She never said it aloud, but it was obvious in the way she sought it.
Rhaenyra would take her place atop her lover’s hips like a queen reclaiming her throne—knees braced, skirts bunched around her waist, her body grinding down against open, parted thighs. Her hands would press into the other woman’s ribs, or wrists, or throat, anchoring herself.
She liked the angle. The openness. The vulnerability offered like a gift. She liked looking down, seeing the face beneath her flicker with pain or pleasure or both. She liked the sound of her name on a desperate tongue.
But most of all, she liked the moment just before she sank down—where her slickness hovered a breath above the woman’s heat, and she could feel the tension rise like incense in a shrine.
That pause was everything. That was when she felt like a God.
Her lover would try to rise to meet her, impatient, greedy.
But Rhaenyra never let her. She would whisper, “No,” low and slow, grinding her hips in cruel little circles above the place they both ached for.
“Not yet,” she would say, drawing her fingers down the woman’s belly.
“You’ll beg,” she would say, with a whisper-kiss to her mouth. “You always do.”
And when she finally sank down—when she finally took what was hers—it was never gentle. She wanted depth. She wanted sound. She wanted control and the loss of it all at once.
She would ride her with the hunger of a dragon starved. With her head thrown back and her lips parted, and her hands tightening like she might break her if she wasn’t careful. Sometimes she didn’t want to be careful.
Sometimes she wanted bruises.
Sometimes she wanted the girl to cry out.
Sometimes she needed it.
There were few things Rhaenyra Targaryen could truly possess. Her crown? Disputed. Her children? Vultures circled. Her throne room echoed with uncertain loyalties.
But her—this woman—this silent, brilliant, aching mystery who moved like smoke and looked at her like a God—her, Rhaenyra could possess.
And she did. Every time she climbed over her, every time she pressed her down into silks or stone, she remade the world in her own name.
The position was no accident. It was ritual. Intimacy by conquest. Worship through dominance. Her thighs astride the one body she trusted. Her mouth devouring a voice that never denied her. Rhaenyra needed it like breath.
Tonight would be no different.
—
They weren’t meant to be there. The war council had ended hours ago, and the torches in the hall had long since been snuffed.
But Rhaenyra lingered. She stood alone before the great painted table—dragons and rivers and citadels carved like bones under her palms.
She heard the door open. Did not turn.
“I told them all to leave,” Rhaenyra said.
“I’m not ‘them.’”
The voice—soft, dry, with that strange chill behind the warmth—sent a coil of something low and sharp through her belly.
“You followed me.”
“You always want me to.”
Rhaenyra turned, her hair unbound, her fingers tight on the table’s edge.
The woman stood in the doorway like a specter. Pale. Dressed in black. The lamplight caught her throat.
“I dreamed of you,” Rhaenyra said, stepping closer. “Of you beneath me. Silenced by me. Crying for me.”
The woman didn’t flinch. Her breath stilled.
“Then take me, Rhaenyra.”
And she did.
The Queen turned and swept the maps from the table. Cities scattered. House sigils fell like broken oaths. Then she reached for her—quick, urgent—and pulled her forward with a hunger that nearly toppled them both.
She kissed her hard. Bitten lips, teeth against teeth. No grace.
She lifted her onto the table like an offering, like a crime. Her knee nudged between her thighs, pushing them apart. The woman gasped, her fingers clinging to the carved edge behind her, her body already arching toward her Queen.
Rhaenyra did not speak.
She hiked her own skirts up, wet already, the ache spreading like fire. Then she straddled her lover—pressed their bodies together from thigh to throat—and ground down with a groan that rattled in her ribs.
The rhythm was immediate. Deep. Relentless.
The painted map below them faded into meaninglessness.
She pressed her hands to the woman’s hips and rode her—not like a queen, but like an animal. Her head fell back. Her moans tore through the hall.
“You’re mine,” she gasped. “You’ve always been mine.”
The woman whimpered, shaking beneath her, pinned to Westeros itself. Her eyes glazed. Her fingers clutched at Rhaenyra’s arms as though afraid she’d fall through the floor without her.
The Queen moved faster, deeper. She could feel it coming—that crest, that sacred fire.
And when it came, it stole her breath. Her whole body shook. She bent forward, mouth to her lover’s ear, and whispered her name like a prophecy.
Days later, in the gardens. the rain fell like silk. Cold, quiet, endless.
The castle’s old godswood had been long since pulled out for banners and walls. But the courtyard garden still held its bones: weeping stone statues, flowering vines clinging to damp brick, a single ash tree crooked with age.
She stood there, barefoot in the rain, her gown soaked through. Moonlight turned her pale shoulders silver.
Rhaenyra watched her from the archway for a long time.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked.
“Washing the court out of me.”
Rhaenyra’s lips twitched.
“You don’t need water for that. You need me.”
The woman looked over her shoulder. Her hair plastered to her skin. Her eyes—dark, distant, trembling.
“Then take me here.”
Rhaenyra said nothing. She crossed the courtyard slowly, water streaming down her arms, her breath rising like steam.
She reached her. Touched her face. Tasted the rain on her lips.
Then, with reverent silence, she turned her gently and pressed her back to the cold stone pedestal of some long-forgotten ancestor. The statue’s face had worn away. It didn’t matter.
Rhaenyra lifted her shift slowly. Dragged it up her body inch by inch. Kissed every patch of skin she uncovered. The cold made her lover shiver, but her heat only deepened.
And then, in the rain, Rhaenyra hiked her own skirts up and climbed atop her—thighs wide, body flush, lips parting with a deep, aching groan.
The world narrowed to rhythm. Wet. Slow. Pressed tight.
Rain pattered on leaves. Her breath echoed in the hollow space.
Her forehead dropped to the other woman’s. She rocked in long, deep strokes. Her hands cradled her jaw like something breakable. Their lips didn’t separate, even as their bodies twisted.
“Stay with me,” Rhaenyra whispered against her mouth. “Even if I burn. Even if I lose.”
“I’ll burn with you.”
The promise made her tremble.
She rode her until their knees gave out. Until they slid down the stone together, still entangled, bodies twitching with the aftermath.
Rhaenyra buried her face in the woman’s throat.
“You undo me,” she whispered.
“And still you take me,” the woman murmured, smiling faintly.
Rhaenyra kissed her again.
Harder.
The war was coming. She could feel it like a weight in her spine. Like ash in her lungs.
Rhaenyra had sent everyone away. Even the guards.
Only the candlelight remained. And her.
The woman sat on the edge of the bed, brushing out her hair with slow, thoughtless motions. She wore a black slip of silk that clung to her hips.
Rhaenyra watched her from the shadows.
“You should sleep,” the woman said.
“I never sleep.”
A pause. A look.
“You don’t take me to rest.”
Rhaenyra stepped forward. Her fingers grazed the hem of the woman’s shift.
“No. I take you to remember who I am.”
And then she pushed her back into the pillows and climbed atop her with a slow, unrelenting hunger that could not be softened. She moved over her like a storm. Hair falling forward. Breasts brushing hers. Their lips inches apart, breathing into each other’s mouths.
She slid down with a hiss, every inch of her needy and pulsing. She began to move—slow, controlled, spiraling—her hands pinning her lover’s wrists above her head.
“Don’t move,” she murmured. “Just feel me.”
Her hips circled, slow and heavy, grinding down in rhythm with her pulse.
The woman whimpered. Her body arched. Her eyes rolled back.
“You love this,” Rhaenyra breathed. “You love when I take you like this. Don’t lie.”
The girl sobbed, helpless and wet beneath her.
“Say it,” Rhaenyra demanded, moving faster. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours—I’m yours, Rhaenyra, gods—”
Her moan broke open. Her body shattered.
Rhaenyra kept moving. Her own climax hit moments later—violent, clenching, shaking. She cried out and collapsed into her, mouth to shoulder, eyes burning.
They lay there, soaked in sweat and breathless, long after the candles burned low.
Outside, war howled.
Inside, the Queen still ruled one thing:
Her.