WARNING: a bit of light sex
She barges into his chambers as soon as he lets her in. More than oft times, she is minding her steps and in general, her manner to not be unbecoming of Queen of Seven Kingdoms, but tonight she does not care enough.
It is a rare moment that he is still in his own chambers at the hour of owl, and not in that milksop vapid woman's chambers.
She will not leave it to fate; she is going to take what is rightfully hers.
Lyanna feels indignation rising in her, upon entering and seeing no warm welcome. His head is down staring with attention on reading whatever he wishes not to leave for to-morrow and paying her the respect that is her due. His shimmering hair is down and open, almost a veil about his face. When was the last time she brushed her fingers through his silvery strands? Two moons ago? Three moons? No, his hair had been up every time she met him. The hot summer is smouldering even for a dragon. She cannot remember when. Distress is wreaking havoc in her belly. Mayhap in her dreams. He is always in her dreams. Sometimes dancing with a dragon, sometimes chasing a lion, but never with a wolf. Never.
She clears her throat.
He looks up, and he is as if has seen her just now in his chamber. He knew she had been standing behind those doors, wishing to see him. He allowed her presence but now has been ignoring her and acting as if forgetting her.
"Ah, my lady. It is late, why are you not in your apartments?"
She does not beat around the bush. She is not tonight for pleasantries.
"You have not come to me. You ought to come more."
He pushes back his chair, stands up while says, "please do sit my lady."
She complies, waiting for his answer.
Rhaegar strides to the dark red patterned upholstery armchair. The clinking of his boots on the white stones can be heard. He lounges on it. His high-knee boots rest upon the velvet cushioned footstool. He stares at her, his indigo eyes catching the light of candle, turning them into the captivating eyes that she would have drowned herself in if he gave her another night just like the past. Then he smiles. A smile that says too many things at once, yet nothing at all. That she is an idiot again asking such a stupid question. That she dares more than she has a right to. That She is an ignorant northern woman not understanding the ins and outs of Southron culture. Or it can mean nothing except his alluring ethereal visage, or she wishes the last.
He is displeased.
He is every bit a king and she hates him when he acts like that before her. She is not some other woman. She is his wife, his queen, the mother of his son, the prince that was promised.
"Dear Lyanna. I hope you have been not remiss on your duties as a Queen. Need I remind you, my lady, of a few of those?"
He did not say but it is clear. You as a Queen cannot question a King. Cannot demand from a King.
"I apologise, but it has been a fortnight since you visited me in my chambers for nightly activities."
She cringes inside. She is pathetic, a bitten dog. What has become of the she-wolf, but cannot… will not lose her husband to that insipid milksop!
"Is it?" He arches his eyebrows, showing his royal bloods. "How strange. I thought just yesterday I was with you."
He is puzzled, but not in a way as if he has forgotten something. No, it is more like he does not know it has passed that much.
So her cunt is so sweet for you, husband mine, that you forget me, she thinks
"You miss me." Neither question nor wonder just a statement.
Say it. You are strong Lyanna. The she-wolf of Winterfell. You will be ashamed not of your desires.
"I am, husband, besides as a woman I have needs too that only my husband can sate them."
He watches her in silence. She holds his gaze, she will not squirm before him. She is a wolf, and does not fear a dragon. He broke the spell that he has casted on her when sits up and walks step by step towards her. She looks up, waiting not knowing for what. He stretches his hand, she puts hers in his and he pulls her towards himself, leaving her off balance, then turns her around, pushes her into the nearest wall, her side of face flat on the wall same as her hands. She is breathless. Everything happens so fast.
"Then you shall have your wish, my lady, my little wolf," he murmurs, his smooth and rich voice igniting a fire within her.
"Yes!" Oh, he is so close. He is so commanding. It is as if like those blissful days, nights, that each night he would take her multiple times at the Tower of Joy.
He gathers a fistful of her gowns, tugging down her small clothes. Not wasting time he touches that little curious nub above her entrance until she is wet and hot, then coaxes her to open her legs wider and… he is in her. So big that she is going to burst from being so full of him. She digs her nails into the tapestry, feeling satisfied by ruining the intricate gold brocades that are so reminiscent of Lannisters.
His thrusts are at a swift pace, but she is savouring them all the same.
He caresses that nub up and down, up and down and in circular motions, then twisting it and…
She howls just as the she-wolf that every northern knows her as one.
Her howls turn to little noises and her blood is ringing in her ears no more, coming back to her senses.
He pulls out and…
She hears, his hand slides up and down his dragon, once, twice, thrice, fourth and then her arse and thighs are wet and sticky from his seed, wasting those precious dragon seeds, just as his mother always says.
Shame crawls all over her body, cold and hot at the same time. Cold hands, sweaty underarms and her head starts swirling.
One moment imagining if she lets herself faint, what would Rhaegar do? He would be sick with worry, and would carry her to Maester, by himself and not sleep a wink, waiting for her to wake up.
Yet another image crashes onto her mind, mercilessly burning the other image and making her bleed from inside by the trust of it. He shall send for Maester and then after making sure she is not in danger, would order the servants to carry her to her apartments and would not glance her way. He would walk straight to the other queen and would only later, when she recovers consciousness, ask through a guard if she is alright and that would be that.
She is stupid for thinking of that. She does not need to guess or imagine. He already has done the same, just a few years ago, when she was sick and shivering from Southron winter cold of all things, embarrassing for a Stark.
She is absently aware he is wiping her clean gently with a soft cloth. Her husband can be so considerate, but again, he is Rhaegar. His manner never leaves him only changing slightly, colder, bolder or distant, but always there.
She wants to say, so you pull out from her too.
Or am I a bitch? The wolf-bitch, as those milksop's loyalists call her amongst themselves, ready to be mounted by the dragon, at the end, only able to get a handful of ash.
But she does not.
If only she had not lied that one time…
Her now sullied small clothes back to place, her gowns finally fixed and down, words of care whispered into her ear.
"You have to rest, my lady. It is already late. Do not let the shadows under your eyes grow much."
A kiss on her head.
Once again she is behind the closed doors. Nothing gained, and nothing given, only she is less herself and he is more stranger.