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The high bugle of dragons was a warm note below the constant deep metronome of the tide. The dragon-call had been more active today than any day Mysaria had known upon Dragonstone.
Queen Rhaenyra had returned victorious with Seasmoke and an allied dragonrider hours before. For all that the men of her council had crowed over Rhaenyra, once she was gone, they had been frozen in indecision. Even Prince Jacaerys had remained rooted in Dragonstone as they waited for Rhaenyra to return. Mysaria too hadn’t been spared the lull of uncertainty, and the fog had only lifted when Syrax’s triumphant bugle echoed over the castle.
For much of the morning, Rhaenyra had paced the beach with a man that Mysaria assumed was a Velaryon bastard. She gestured as they spoke at length, her body language restrained, and likely far less so than her facial expressions. Mysaria tried to guess what their conversation entailed but her imagination didn’t reward her.
It was a lesson watching Rhaenyra with her dragon. Mysaria had seen Syrax once in person, just for a few tense moments. This prolonged interaction was a much different situation, and it allowed Mysaria to judge the subtle shifts and twitches of Syrax’s form in deference to her rider’s movements. She wished she were close enough to confirm if they breathed in tandem.
Seasmoke was larger than Syrax, but Syrax was a stouter dragon. The character of that weight was impossible to know. Caraxes was a prime example that dragons came in wildly different sizes and shapes. They were all beautiful in a terrific way.
Mysaria watched over Rhaenyra until the dragons were collected and returned to the dragonpit. Rhaenyra would be swept into a meeting with her council now that she had collected another allied large dragon, but likely a green rider would delay plans for any dragon battles. Mysaria prayed Rhaenyra would remember her head if ever faced with the option of taking dragonfire to King’s Landing. If she didn’t, hopefully she would accept Mysaria’s counsel.
Back in her quarters, Mysaria picked at her dinner and found herself pondering not a practical matter like war or her place in it, but that heated moment in Rhaenyra’s embrace. How foolish. How surprising.
“How tempting.”
Her own voice startled her. She realized she had a finger on her lips and dropped her hand, closing her eyes to push away a distracting thought of when they might reprise that embrace.
As a rule, she had never been lead by lust. There was pleasure to be had in some embraces, yes, but even her longest-held relationship to Daemon had been all balance and guard. She’d soothed and bolstered and read him continuously to protect herself. Up until this day, she had never completely lost herself in an embrace—let alone one that had only been a kiss. Now she wondered what had made Rhaenyra’s kiss so unique.
A chill passed through Mysaria as she realized the truth. Trust, the very thing that drew her to Rhaenyra. She had been so lost in Rhaenyra’s touch that she had barely registered the knock on her door. She’d certainly not been thinking about how best to serve to avoid violence—physical or emotional. No, she’d been focused on Rhaenyra’s lips, her tongue, her taste and smell, the firm stroke of her hands, and how exquisite she had felt because she had trusted there would be no pain in that embrace.
Instead of pondering how she could leverage Rhaenyra’s desire for her own benefit, Mysaria’s mind skittered from the feeling of simple, uninterrupted pleasure to the unease of being so vulnerable. Telling Rhaenyra about her father had been a calculated risk to bolster her queen, a fair trade of her own trust with Rhaenyra’s, but kissing her had been inevitable as soon as Rhaenyra had gathered her into her arms.
Perhaps Mysaria was overthinking it all. After all, Rhaenyra was a Queen, before that a Princess, and above all that a Targaryen. Daemon had proven that there was rarely a choice of consent with royals, and in this case, there might not be a choice in whatever sexual relationship that the Queen would wish to explore. In a way, there would be greater safety for her self-interest in resuming the duty of a whore, though Mysaria understood the separate danger in being the fool caught between Daemon and Rhaenyra.
Yet Rhaenyra had already gifted her freedom. She’d honored Daemon’s word, despite all the conflicting emotions Mysaria had read within Rhaenyra as she did. Mysaria hadn’t lied about trusting Rhaenyra, and apparently that trust extended to sex. More the fool her.
With a sigh, Mysaria vowed to put it from her mind. She finished her wine and lit a candle in preparation for nightfall, hoping sleep would leave her wiser on the morrow.
She wasn’t wholly surprised to hear footsteps in the hallway later, nor the knock that sounded on her chamber door. There had been no sleep to make her wiser so Mysaria evenly said, “Enter.”
A Queensguard opened the door and announced, “Her Grace.”
Queen Rhaenyra stepped inside, and at her nod, her guard retreated into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Only when he was gone did Mysaria allow herself to look at her queen. Rhaenyra was flushed, rumbled, and as she stepped closer, Mysaria scented sulfur and leather, a distinctly dragon scent. That smell still provoked unexpected dark emotion, emotion that lingered after those tense months spent warming Daemon’s bed two decades ago. For all that Mysaria’s first sighting on Rhaenyra had been dragon-back, she was unused to that distinct, masculine smell on the Queen.
As unusual was the look of triumph on Rhaenyra’s face. The line of her mouth—so often in the straight groove of sobriety—was curved into the hint of a smile, and the flush of her cheeks lent her a girlish air. Her eyes were bright, but they darkened when Rhaenyra’s gaze settled on Mysaria’s lips.
Now that Mysaria was not ignorant to her attraction, she understood the draw she felt. Rhaenyra’s normally beautiful countenance was arresting like this. All that caution Mysaria had gained paled in comparison to the exquisite temptation of Rhaenyra’s naked desire.
Rhaenyra stepped close enough to touch, her breaths even, her gaze moving from Mysaria’s lips to her eyes and back. It would be easy to fall into her kiss, riding the wave of Rhaenyra’s whim.
Then Rhaenyra said, “This isn’t why I came here.”
“No?”
Rhaenyra shook her head, but she didn’t step away. She swallowed and brushed Mysaria’s nose with her own, her voice soft. “You are under no obligation.”
The words shot through Mysaria, waking her just as Rhaenyra’s breath painted her lips. Mysaria swayed closer, or perhaps Rhaenyra bridged the gap, then their lips caught, settled, before Rhaenyra’s mouth opened against hers. Then the scent of dragon was stronger, and Mysaria turned her head as her fear surged to the forefront.
“No.”
Rhaenyra’s mouth paused against hers. Then she withdrew, just a step. Mysaria watched the emotions play across Rhaenyra’s expressive face: shock, dismay, then acceptance, even a touch of embarrassment.
“Of course,” Rhaenyra replied, offering a feigned smile. She took another step away, then looked around the room, unwilling to meet Mysaria’s gaze. Mysaria held her breath, balanced on knife’s edge as she awaited Rhaenyra’s reaction. When Rhaenyra met her gaze a few beats later, there was no anger on her face. She had tucked away whatever disappointment still remained. She gestured at the table and its chairs.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,” Mysaria echoed in confusion. She joined Rhaenyra at the table, flummoxed by Rhaenyra’s reaction. “Wine, Your Grace?”
“No. Thank you. I’m likely to fall asleep with a sip.” Warmth had returned to Rhaenyra’s voice. “You must have heard about Seasmoke’s new rider.”
Mysaria abruptly understood what this was: a return to business. She swallowed her surprise to say, “It would be best to match supposition to fact.”
“His name is Addam of Hull. Does your supposition match fact?”
Mysaria nodded, and Rhaenyra’s smile was quick, closer to a familiar expression.
“A bastard, then. Of Targaryen blood.”
Rhaenyra only cocked her head in confirmation.
“Your theory proved true then. There is hope for the other riderless dragons. Is this bastard sympathetic to your cause?”
“He has agreed to support us, and in return, I will teach him how to be a dragonrider. Of course, his station will be raised to befit his status as a dragonrider.”
“A worthy exchange.”
“Both parties are agreed on that.” After a moment, Rhaenyra continued, “Break fast with me on the morrow. I should like to speak more of this, but I am weary.”
“Your Grace.”
Mysaria stilled when Rhaenyra reached across the narrow table and touched her hand. Her fingertips were chafed, her skin warm, and beyond that, the touch had an ethereal quality, burning into Mysaria’s being with all the warmth and longing and tenderness that she would never have read from another person.
“Mysaria.”
When Mysaria looked up, she was held captive by the gentle expression on Rhaenyra’s face. She wondered if she would ever forget the look or the rumpled version of Queen Rhaenyra that offered it.
“No matter what comes of it… Thank you.”
In those few words, Rhaenyra proved the warmth of her touch. She didn’t wait for an answer. In a heartbeat, Rhaenyra climbed to her feet and strode out the door.
Sleep was elusive through the dark hours, as was wisdom. Mysaria’s mind reminded her of that kiss, the touch, the murmur of Rhaenyra’s warm parting words, and she wondered how she could possibly guard herself from such a woman. Did she even want to?
Mysaria had survived all the cruelties the world had thrown at her, and she’d done so with a powerful sense of self-preservation. It wasn’t difficult to guard oneself when the entire world was one’s enemy. With any other lord or lady, Mysaria would consider what she could gain from such an alliance. With Rhaenyra, she saw nothing in this but ruin for herself. A lord might keep a whore, and a lady might keep a companion. But a Queen…
No, she couldn’t justify this connection with aspirations for power or protection; it would be too much of a gamble with little gain when Rhaenyra already accepted her counsel. That alone proved the foolishness of exploring the sexual tension between them. It would be messy, pulling complicated feelings to the fore, and sway both their objectivity.
And if given the opportunity to explore that trust and safety entwined with pleasure, could Mysaria preserve her own self-interests above that heady emotion? Rhaenyra could crush her. If Mysaria cared that deeply, trusted that much, she might not predict betrayal. Or, worse yet, being cast aside as Rhaenyra’s lover could rend an unhealing wound in her and strip Rhaenyra of her counsel.
It would have been infinitely easier if Rhaenyra had demanded sex from her, but to step away and accept rejection, keep to business, and not skulk off in a sulk…
“Don’t be stupid,” Mysaria told herself.
But it was too late. She was already stupid in the head for this woman. She hadn’t intended seduction, nor did she believe Rhaenyra had. But, gods, the promise of what Rhaenyra offered her… Mysaria was as self-serving as anyone, but she had never had aspirations of moderation. This was a pleasure she didn’t have the power to resist.
The following morning, Rhaenyra attempted to hold herself to business. What a heady thing to witness the power Mysaria held just by being. She’d made a business out of seduction and was no stranger to desire, but the touch of Rhaenyra’s attention was novel. Rhaenyra’s eyes were prone to motion, but now that motion lingered on Mysaria’s lips and her hands.
Yet she spoke of the war, of her council, of the blockade, and of the new dragonrider for Seasmoke.
Mysaria watched Rhaenyra right back. Her hands were tactile, always moving. Her lips pursed and shifted with her mood, and though Rhaenyra’s features always held a remarkable stillness, she broadcast her emotion with just the slightest shift of her brow or pinch of her lips.
Then their gazes touched, and Rhaenyra’s words halted on a breath. They held each other’s gazes as the world slipped away. Rhaenyra tilted her head, almost in question, her mouth twitching on one side, and Mysaria found herself mirroring Rhaenyra’s smile. On the table, their fingers brushed, then caught, and—
The knock was jolting. Rhaenyra tucked her hand into her lap, and Mysaria reached for her goblet. They both turned to the door, where the Queensguard announced, “Prince Jacaerys, Your Grace.”
Mysaria didn’t miss Jacaerys’s suspicious frown when he saw her seated at Rhaenyra’s table.
“May I speak with you alone, Your Grace?”
Rhaenyra’s lips twitched in some private amusement as she studied her son. Her affection was tangible, but it didn’t entirely fade when she turned her attention back to Mysaria. “Please, Mysaria. We’ll speak again soon.”
“My Queen.” Mysaria lowered her head after she stood, then took her leave.
It was a gamble, calling on Rhaenyra in her apartment after nightfall, but business could be conducted at all hours. The Queensguard didn’t appear suspicious, knocking and opening the door to announce her.
“Come,” Rhaenyra’s clear voice commanded. After one inscrutable look at Mysaria, Rhaenyra gestured for Mysaria to come inside. “Ser Harold, I wish not to be disturbed again.”
“Your Grace,” the man said, stepping out into the corridor and closing the door behind him.
They were alone with nothing but the ever-present rumbling crash of the tide and flicker of candles. Their silence was full of promise as Rhaenyra looked into Mysaria’s eyes. Apparently Rhaenyra found no answer to the question on her regal face when she asked, “What is your business, Mysaria?”
“Pleasure, Your Grace.”
That earned a surprised stare. Mysaria heard Rhaenyra swallow as their gazes met and held. Rhaenyra held her ground as Mysaria stepped close enough to touch, but her breath caught. Mysaria reached out to brush her fingertips over Rhaenyra’s velvet bedcoat.
“You denied me.” Rhaenyra was earnest but not angry.
“And you allowed me the choice. That was my choice then. This is it now.”
“Mysaria,” she said, still so earnest. “You are still under no obligation.”
“So you said.” Mysaria tilted her head to brush her nose against Rhaenyra’s. She felt Rhaenyra’s breath against her lips and smiled.
“At any point, you can tell me ‘no’—”
Mysaria kissed her gently, earning a sharp intake of breath. “I’m saying ‘yes’.”
“—and withdraw consent.”
Another soft kiss. “I am consenting, My Queen.”
Finally, Rhaenyra relaxed into her kiss, raising her hands to cup Mysaria’s arms. Against Mysaria’s mouth, she said, “I will not be your Queen when we’re like this.”
“Rhaenyra,” Mysaria whispered.
Then Rhaenyra’s mouth was hot and demanding on hers. It was like the day before, but with the added certainty of where this would lead. There would be no interruptions tonight. They wasted little time to move together to the bed. Rhaenyra pushed Mysaria to sit at its edge without breaking their kiss. She leaned over Mysaria, her mouth and tongue lighting a fire within her.
As one, they fumbled with Mysaria’s shift, baring her. Mysaria leaned back, enjoying the flicker of Rhaenyra’s gaze across her body. She was unprepared for Rhaenyra to lean down and press a soft kiss to her neck, then another and another until she traced the length of Mysaria’s scar with her tender mouth.
I will give everything to this woman, she thought.
“What do you like?” Rhaenyra murmured low against her skin. “What do you want?”
“To see you.”
Rhaenyra was as bold in this as she’d been during their kiss. Mysaria sat up but didn’t need to help Rhaenyra slip out of her bedcoat and shift. When Rhaenyra was bare, she raised her head and did not hide herself behind her hands. There was no modesty in her, as there shouldn’t be. She was glorious, a woman whose body bore the marks of the children she’d brought into the world, and for all that she bemoaned being confined in the castle, as strong as any woman Mysaria had seen.
Mysaria reached out to cup one full breast, murmuring softly, “Beautiful.” She lifted it to kiss the underside, then teased that dark nipple with her tongue. Rhaenyra voiced her sigh, cupping Mysaria’s head in a gentle touch. Her grip tightened only slightly, pushing Mysaria away before she leaned over to take Mysaria’s mouth again.
“What do you want?” Rhaenyra asked again.
“Your mouth.”
Mysaria’s request was met with a hot stare, one that surprised her. She tried to pull Rhaenyra back for more kisses, wanting her tongue in her mouth again—it had been her request—but Rhaenyra dropped her gaze down Mysaria’s body before she leaned close enough for her breath to whisper hot against Mysaria’s shoulder. Rhaenyra’s kisses were tender but hot as she descended Mysaria’s body, and Mysaria wondered why she was surprised Rhaenyra would want this. She lavished attention on Mysaria’s breasts, sighing against her skin and forcing Mysaria to stifle her gasp. Her tongue skated into Mysaria’s navel in a curious shot of overstimulation before Rhaenyra’s attention fixed on the scar just below it. Rhaenyra nuzzled it with her nose, then kissed it gently, her gaze soft with tender emotion that made Mysaria’s throat close momentarily.
“You lived,” Rhaenyra said. Then she lowered her head to press a delicate kiss between Mysaria’s legs.
Mysaria moaned as Rhaenyra’s soft kiss became the firm stroke of her tongue. Rhaenyra’s moan matched hers. Mysaria’s hips jolted at the touch, but Rhaenyra dropped an arm across her hips in a gentle hold. She explored Mysaria’s folds and dips, humming in pleasure with each stroke and touch. She slicked her thumb through Mysaria’s labia, brushing her clit and making Mysaria jolt in pleasure that nearly made her come. Whether she understood or not, Rhaenyra nuzzled Mysaria’s thigh, pausing to raise her brows in an entirely wicked look. Her gaze dropped to Mysaria’s hands, twisted tight in the bedclothes.
“Hold onto me.”
Immediately, Mysaria cupped Rhaenyra’s head, slipping her fingertips into the soft pale hair coming undone from its braid. Then Rhaenyra returned to Mysaria’s pleasure, more languid now with her exploration. She had no set pattern or method, using her face from her nose to her chin to bring Mysaria pleasure.
Mysaria was breathing too quickly, twisted tight, teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed by pleasure. She wanted to come, yet feared how exquisite the moment would be. Would she survive it? It felt inevitable and impossible all at once. How could she feel greater pleasure than this without that pleasure turning to pain?
Then Rhaenyra stopped again, pulling away from the grip Mysaria had on her head. She kissed Mysaria’s thigh, rubbing her slick face against her skin. When she didn’t return to her task, Mysaria shook out of her trance and sat partially up, uncertain if Rhaenyra had misunderstood.
Then Rhaenyra said plainly, “I want you to ride my face. Would that please you?”
To that, Mysaria heard herself give an incredulous bark of laughter. Again, Rhaenyra surprised her. The only answer was, “Yes.” Rhaenyra stood, giving Mysaria another view at her glorious body. Then she rounded the bed to collect several pillows and settled on her back, opening her arms for Mysaria to join her.
“I would like to taste you too.”
“Later. After.”
It was the first hint of impatience from Rhaenyra all evening. Mysaria couldn’t help but tease her. She paused crawling up the bed to slick her fingertip through Rhaenyra’s sex, moaning at the copious arousal there. She was swollen, hot, and so wet. Rhaenyra had made no effort at disguising her desire, but feeling the physical manifestation made Mysaria desperate to return the favor. She wanted to feel Rhaenyra come, wanted to do it well and again if the queen allowed.
“Quickly.”
At Rhaenyra’s request, Mysaria straddled Rhaenyra’s face, clutching the heavy drapes that shielded the bed from the cold wall, and lowered herself, unsurprised to feel Rhaenyra’s firm grip on her thighs. Rhaenyra’s attention focus between her legs, then she closed her eyes and strained upward to meet Mysaria’s sex. Her tongue was a light touch until Mysaria settled more firmly against her.
Rhaenyra moaned, pushing and pulling, encouraging Mysaria to rock. She did, cautious with her weight. Even that overriding knowledge that she had to be careful did not outweigh the sheer pleasure of Rhaenyra looking up at her from between her thighs. Mysaria had fucked a prince, more lordlings than she could count, and a handful of discrete ladies, but never a queen.
Never Rhaenyra Targaryen. Never like this, riding her face, with her queen looking like she’d never done anything as exquisite as bring Mysaria pleasure.
Mysaria came without warning, unable to fully stifle her cry. It wasn’t her usual flutter or jolt but a deep twisting pleasure that kept her shaking, then another and another and another, and all the while Rhaenyra moaned and licked and sucked as if this was the most pleasurable thing she’d ever done. Then abruptly it was too much. Mysaria pulled away, gasping as Rhaenyra made a bereft noise and followed her until Mysaria lifted her thigh from Rhaenyra’s grip and sank into the bedclothes beside her.
She was sweaty, shaking, and breathless, but she had no time to catch her breath as Rhaenyra rolled onto her shoulder and cupped Mysaria’s cheek, pulling her in for a sticky kiss. “Marvelous,” Rhaenyra breathed into her mouth. Her hand was between Mysaria’s legs, sliding against her, and despite the orgasm that had rocked her just moments before, she opened herself to Rhaenyra, moaning in pleasure when Rhaenyra’s fingers slipped between her labia.
“May I?” Rhaenyra asked. When Mysaria didn't answer, she prompted, “Mysaria?”
“Yes. Please.”
Rhaenyra moaned. One finger slipped inside, a pleasure without pain or stretch, then after a stroke, a second joined the first, and that was enough. Mysaria’s body was open and wet and so ready for penetration. Combined with the kisses that Rhaenyra delivered, she wondered if she might come again. Now she could concentrate on their embrace, sliding her hands through Rhaenyra’s hair again, stroking down her back, cupping one deliciously full breast. Rhaenyra’s breathing was fast against her ear. She sucked Mysaria’s earlobe, then whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”
“As are you. Lovely.” Mysaria squeezed the breast she held, then rolled the nipple between her fingertips.
Rhaenyra sighed, then voiced her gasp when Mysaria pinched it. She watched with dark eyes as Mysaria took that breast into her mouth. And as she sucked on Rhaenyra’s nipple, Mysaria realized she was coming again. She fumbled, reaching down to rub her own clit, and—
“Yes,” Rhaenyra hissed against her ear.
Mysaria came back to herself on her back, Rhaenyra kissing her neck, murmuring High Valyrian against her skin. Words emerged from the lyrical pattern: beautiful, wonderful, fuck, and glorious. Then, a more understandable string: I’ll have you again and again.
What had just happened? She had never been so swept away. Good sex wasn’t a mystery to her, but she felt like a naive under Rhaenyra’s spell.
Mysaria caught Rhaenyra’s hand as it moved from her belly to her breast, no longer content with passivity. She drew Rhaenyra’s hand to her mouth and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. Then she took one sticky finger into her mouth and sucked it, pleased when Rhaenyra’s breath caught. Mysaria sucked the other wet finger, then Rhaenyra’s thumb. That she took between her teeth, scraping them along her skin in the warning of a bite. She sucked the soft webbing between Rhaenyra’s thumb and forefinger and flicked her tongue against her skin in suggestion.
“I want to taste you too.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze was unfocused with desire. She rolled onto her back without protest. Mysaria started with her mouth, and a slow, sensual kiss. She turned Rhaenyra’s head to kiss her ear, then descended to her neck. She breathed Rhaenyra’s scent—a heady mix of spice, dragon, and sweat—mouthing the line of her neck to her collarbones. Then she kissed Rhaenyra’s breasts, smiling when Rhaenyra failed to stifle her gasp.
When she at last settled between Rhaenyra’s legs, Rhaenyra opened to her with a moan. She had no qualms about cupping Mysaria’s head, directing her as her hips rocked in the rhythm Mysaria set. Then, abruptly, Rhaenyra pushed Mysaria’s head away and pulled her upward.
“Not yet,” she gasped. “Kiss me.”
It was no hardship to obey that command. Mysaria kissed Rhaenyra until it was simply instinct, until nothing existed but Rhaenyra’s mouth and body. Mysaria used the pads of her fingers to slide through her slickness, accepting Rhaenyra’s whispered direction gladly. She wanted to feel Rhaenyra come, tense and scream out glorious completion, wanted the sharp score of Rhaenyra’s fingernails against her back. Alternately, she didn’t want this to end.
It was a slow, heady exploration, one that they managed together, giving and taking, driving Rhaenyra close and pausing to take that climb again. When at last Rhaenyra came, she didn’t cry out only because Mysaria covered her cry with a hard kiss. She tensed, trembled, her hips stilling, teeth bared against Mysaria’s lips. The bite of her nails was stinging pleasure as her grip closed on Mysaria’s back. Rhaenyra’s desire was unbridled, unabashed, and beautiful.
Mysaria, dazed with her power, watched as Rhaenyra came back to herself, flushed and beautiful and satisfied. As she met Mysaria’s gaze, her soft smile became triumphant.
I am lost, Mysaria realized. She could not taste this woman once and never have her again. It would be impossible.
Then Rhaenyra rolled Mysaria up against her body and kissed her shoulder, fingers winding through her hair, and a low laugh vibrating through her body. Mysaria was cocooned in safety, warmth, and contentment. Rhaenyra’s whispered, “Stay,” was Mysaria’s ultimate undoing.
Mysaria took her queen’s hand, giving herself up as lost as Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers. This woman would bring about her utter ruin, and she Rhaenyra’s, that she was certain of. It was as inevitable as their joining had been. Well, if that was to be their fate, Mysaria would welcome death as a worthy exchange for her queen’s love.