Goofy
Silence.
Not the absence of sound, but the suspension of it. As though the entire castle held its breath when Rhaenyra touched her. When her hands moved with that slow, reverent precision, dragging fingertips along a collarbone like reading scripture. When her breath hovered just above a waiting mouth.
She never laughed.
Not during these moments.
Sex, for Rhaenyra, was not recreation. It was not relief. It was not indulgence.
It was dominion.
It was devotion.
It was the one ritual she controlled without question.
And her lover—who rarely spoke unless pressed, whose presence crept like mist from chamber to chamber—had come to understand this, too. She did not joke when Rhaenyra lowered herself atop her. She did not tease when the Queen made her weep from slow, precise worship.
But tonight… something shifted.
Perhaps it was the wind—lashing madly through the shutters. Perhaps it was the hearth, spitting sparks like drunk dragons. Or perhaps it was Rhaenyra herself—tired, triumphant, a little wine-drowsy—who allowed the veil to slip.
It began slowly.
Rhaenyra sat behind her, brushing her lover’s hair by the fire. The comb was carved from dragonbone. Her strokes were meticulous, steady, hypnotic.
“You don’t trust the maids?” the woman murmured, eyes half-lidded.
“I don’t trust anyone,” Rhaenyra said plainly. “But especially not with this.”
She gathered the hair in her hands and kissed it. It was soft. Damp from bathing. It smelled faintly of cinnamon oil and candle smoke.
The woman laughed softly. “You treat me like a relic.”
Rhaenyra paused, one brow lifting. “A relic?”
“Something sacred. Untouchable. Fragile.”
“Then you understand me.”
A beat. The woman turned to look at her.
“You’re not always so solemn. I remember… once, in the library—”
“That was an accident,” Rhaenyra cut in, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Was it?” the woman teased. “You giggled like a girl.”
“Blasphemy,” Rhaenyra muttered, but she was smiling now, and it was real. Warm. Wicked.
She stood, placed the comb aside, and circled the chaise.
“Let’s see if you’re still brave enough to say that,” she said, eyes narrowing, voice low.
She guided her to the bed.
The room was warm, shadowed in gold. Outside, the wind roared over stone and sea, but in here it was quiet, pulsing with the weight of something holy.
Rhaenyra undressed her slowly. She knelt, fingers parting folds of fabric like silk skin. Her mouth grazed over knees, thighs, hips. Every movement was silent prayer.
And then she stood and let her own gown fall to the floor. No shame. No hesitation. Just heat.
She climbed atop her slowly, as always—claiming, sealing, surrounding. She straddled her with reverent possession, her weight grounding them both, her hands planted beside her lover’s head like an oath pressed into the mattress.
“You are mine,” Rhaenyra whispered, lowering her mouth to her neck.
“I know.”
“I’ll make you feel it.”
And gods—she did.
The rhythm began slow, heavy. Rhaenyra’s hips moved like the sea—rolling, circling, rising. Her hands gripped the woman’s wrists, then slid up to cradle her face. Their mouths met in something slow and holy.
Her body pulsed, her voice broke. She whispered things in High Valyrian—half-spells, half-promises. She worshipped.
And yet…
A noise interrupted it. A thump, followed by a scrape.
Followed by the unmistakable creak of a bookcase sliding open.
They both froze.
Rhaenyra blinked. “What the fuck was that.”
The woman beneath her laughed—laughed—high and breathless.
“Your secret passage is misaligned again.”
“I told Jace to fix that—” Rhaenyra started, but then caught her own reflection in the polished bedpost and—
She snorted.
It was brief. Embarrassed. But real.
And her lover saw it.
“You laughed,” she whispered.
Rhaenyra looked down at her, hair wild, cheeks flushed, straddling her like a goddess half-shattered by mortal clumsiness.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Rhaenyra tried to keep her face severe. Regal.
But then the woman reached up and tapped her nose gently.
“Your ‘sacred rites’ are going to be haunted by creaking doorways forever.”
Rhaenyra exhaled, half-growl, half-sigh—and collapsed forward, laughing softly against the woman’s collarbone.
“Fuck. You ruin me.”
“You ruin you.”
They laughed together—giddy, breathless—bodies tangled, knees pressing against hips in warm disarray.
And then, just as suddenly, Rhaenyra grew still.
Serious again.
She lifted herself slightly, eyes locking onto the woman’s face with renewed intensity.
“But I do take you seriously,” she whispered. “Even when I laugh.”
“I know.”
“I’m not always sacred. But when I take you—when I climb you—I mean it. Every time.”
“I know,” the woman said again, and something in her voice cracked open.
So Rhaenyra bent low. Slid her body down, hips grinding slowly again. Her laughter faded into breathless moans. The heat returned. The rhythm.
She didn’t laugh again that night.
But her smile lingered, soft and secret, long after her lover had fallen asleep beneath her.
And in the dark, as the wind howled and the sea crashed below the cliffs, Rhaenyra whispered:
“Sacred or not… you make me forget my own myth.”
—
Morning on Dragonstone was never gentle.
The sea was too loud. The wind too sharp. The sky too wide.
But in Rhaenyra’s chambers, the world remained muffled—sheets warm, candle stubs low, and limbs tangled like knotted roots.
She woke with one hand already curled possessively around her lover’s hip.
The other was beneath the woman’s back, fingers splayed against the ridge of her spine as if to keep her there. Still. Tethered.
The woman was still asleep, or pretending to be—her face turned toward the crook of Rhaenyra’s throat, her breath soft and steady.
Rhaenyra didn’t move.
She lay there, blinking into the canopy, listening to the sea crash against the rocks below like dragons still fighting in her blood. She was sore—deeply, deliciously—and her thighs still trembled faintly from the hours before.
She looked down, tucked a lock of hair behind the woman’s ear.
And whispered, “You snore, by the way.”
The body in her arms stirred. “Do not.”
“You do. Like a little cub under a blanket.”
“That’s rich, coming from the woman who moaned so loud I’m certain the ravens have resigned.”
Rhaenyra gave a sharp little laugh through her nose. Then she tilted her head and kissed her lover’s forehead with something dangerously close to tenderness.
“I can moan as loud as I like. I’m the Queen.”
“Does that make your moaning royal?”
Rhaenyra grinned, and then—gods forgive her—she snorted again. A real one. It surprised even her. She covered her mouth and rolled onto her back, momentarily stunned by herself.
The woman turned toward her, smiling wide. Wicked.
“I’ve never seen you laugh twice in twelve hours.”
“Write a poem,” Rhaenyra muttered, cheeks flushed.
“Should I include the part where you almost slipped off the bed reaching for that damn candle?”
“I meant to do that.”
“Of course you did.”
A beat. Rhaenyra turned her face toward her, half-smiling, half-glowering in the sheets.
And then she climbed over her again, slow and sudden, straddling her body with a deliberate weight.
She leaned down until their noses brushed.
“Mock me again,” she whispered, voice soft as silk, “and I’ll tie your hands and make you apologize with your tongue.”
The woman’s smile faltered—just barely.
Rhaenyra smirked.
“I see you still know when I’m serious.”
She began to move her hips again, not with hunger, but with something lazy, self-satisfied. A slow morning possession. She watched her lover’s expression shift—smile fading, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut.
Sacred again.
But the laughter lingered beneath it, buried in the breath between thrusts. In the crooked smile that broke when their teeth knocked. In the gasp that ended in a chuckle because Rhaenyra’s hair got caught in the bedframe.
For all her worship—for all her reverent claiming—Rhaenyra was letting herself enjoy her.
And it felt dangerous.
When they came together again, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t primal.
It was warm. Wrapped in silk and smirks. The kind of climax that left them breathless and flushed, laughing against each other’s mouths as they trembled.
Afterward, they lay tangled, breath slow, hands stroking sweat-slick skin.
Rhaenyra rested her chin on her lover’s chest, watching her.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m allowed to be human.”
The woman reached up. Brushed a finger down Rhaenyra’s nose. “Because you are. Even when you don’t want to be.”
Rhaenyra was quiet for a long time. The kind of silence that cracked porcelain.
Then she whispered: “Don’t ever laugh at me.”
“I never have.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“…But I will laugh when your knee hits the chamber pot again.”
“Gods.”
Rhaenyra groaned, buried her face in the woman’s shoulder, and bit her—not hard, but with enough vengeance to make her squeal.
They both dissolved into helpless laughter again, naked and flushed and utterly, recklessly alive.
And for once, Rhaenyra didn’t stop herself.