Weekly Poll #7 - OC / Rhaenyra Targaryen (House of the Dragon) {Story 13 - Patreon Exlusive} (Patreon)

Weekly Poll #7 - OC / Rhaenyra Targaryen (House of the Dragon) {Story 13}

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The sun hung low and bloody over the Reach when Syrax finally gave out.

Rhaenyra had felt the dragon falter mid-turn—wings stuttering, a sharp pained roar ripping from her throat. They'd been dodging low clouds, skimming treetops to shake the three pursuit dragons and their riders. One lucky bite from a pursuing beast had torn into Syrax's flank early in the fight; the rest of the damage came from the crash. They hit the forest floor hard enough to splinter young trees and gouge a long scar in the earth.

Rhaenyra was thrown clear. She rolled through bracken and mud, fetched up against a root ball with a grunt that knocked the wind out of her. Pain bloomed everywhere—ribs, shoulder, a raw scrape down her left thigh where her riding leathers had torn. She tasted copper. Syrax thrashed once, wings half-furled, then went still with a low, miserable keen.

Rhaenyra crawled to her. Pressed a hand to the golden scales. "Lykiri, issa dōre. Lykiri." Be calm, my girl. Be calm.

The dragon huffed hot breath over her. The bite wound wept dark blood; fresh abrasions wept red where she'd skidded across stone and branch. She could still fly—maybe—but not far, and not without risking a worse tear. Two days of rest. Three at the outside. Any sooner and she'd rip herself open again.

They'd lost the hunters. For now.

Rhaenyra pushed to her feet. Everything hurt. She needed water. Food if the gods were kind. A place to hole up until Syrax could carry them to the loyalists gathering near Tumbleton.

She limped west, following the sound of water she thought she'd heard during the descent.

The forest thickened—ancient oaks, ash, brambles that clawed at her torn leggings. Ferns brushed her calves. The air smelled green and damp. After maybe half an hour of slow going she broke through a line of willows and saw it: a wide bend in a clear stream, almost a small lake, pebbled shore, water glinting copper in the late light.

Three horses stood tied to a beech twenty paces off. Decent saddles, plain tack. A small camp—smoldering fire pit, bedroll, packs. Clothes and armor draped over a branch: roughspun tunic, patched leather jerkin, mail hauberk mended with rivets, a longsword in a scuffed scabbard. Hedge knight. Lowborn steel. No sigil. No arrogance.

Rhaenyra crouched behind a thicket. Listened. No voices. Just the stream and birds settling for evening.

She edged closer to the water, staying low. The lake was empty at first glance—then she saw him.

Waist-deep, back to her, scrubbing himself down with sand. Dark hair slicked to his skull. Shoulders solid but not broad like a tourney knight. Compact. Maybe five-seven. No sculpted muscles, just the hard-earned kind that came from years in the saddle and sleeping rough.

He turned to rinse, reaching for a scrap of soap on the bank.

Rhaenyra's breath stopped.

His cock hung heavy between his thighs—long even soft, easily nine inches, thicker than her wrist. Blunt head, veined shaft, heavy balls beneath. It swayed lazily as he moved, obscene in its casual weight. Not some exaggerated boast. Real. Thick enough the skin looked stretched.

A sound lodged in her throat—half gasp, half whimper. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Heat surged between her legs, sudden and vicious. It had been months since Daemon—months of cold beds, war councils, fear. Her cunt clenched hard, slick gathering in a rush that soaked through her smallclothes. Her nipples tightened painfully against damp linen.

She should have backed away. She didn't.

He finished washing, waded toward shore. Water sheeted off him. Thighs corded, calves scarred, that impossible length swinging with each step.

Rhaenyra retreated—quiet as she could—until she reached a big oak thirty paces back. She pressed against the trunk, heart slamming, unable to look away.

He toweled off roughly with a length of linen. Smallclothes next—thin wool that did nothing to conceal the fat outline when he arranged himself. Hose. Tunic. Jerkin. Mail. Sword belt last, hand lingering on the hilt.

Then he froze.

Head cocked. Eyes narrowed.

He scanned the clearing, slow. Walked a few steps. Crouched. Touched the ground. Traced a print in the leaf litter.

Hers.

Rhaenyra cursed silently. Too distracted. Too careless.

The knight straightened. Hand on sword.

"Whoever you are," he called, voice low and even, "step out. Slow. Hands where I can see them. I've no wish to kill tonight, but I'll do it if I have to."

Options spun through her head. She was hurt, unarmed save a dagger. Syrax too far to summon without noise. She needed help—food for the dragon, someone to watch while they healed.

She stepped into the open. Limped forward. Hands raised.

He saw her face first—silver hair, violet eyes—and went rigid.

Recognition hit.

"Your Grace."

Then he realized he was still buckling the last strap, cock still half-thick from the cold water and now embarrassingly tenting the front of his hose.

"Seven hells—"

He fumbled, yanked the mail straight, face going brick-red.

Rhaenyra barked a short, tired laugh despite the pain in her ribs.

"For the love of the gods, ser—put some clothes on properly. That thing's swinging like a mace."

He flinched. Finished dressing in frantic haste. Then dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the moss, arms spread.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I—Jardan Brune, hedge knight, no lord, no house. I swear I meant no disrespect. I didn't know—"

"Get up," she said. Voice hoarse but steady.

He rose slowly. Kept his eyes down.

She studied him. Crooked nose. Short beard. Plain brown eyes. Nothing regal. Nothing like the men who'd once shared her bed. Just a man. A man whose cock she'd just watched dangle like a club.

And her body hadn't forgotten.

"I need your assistance, Jardan Brune," she said.

His head snapped up. "Your Grace?"

"My dragon is wounded. So am I. We can't fly for days. I need food carried to her. Water. A watch kept. In return, when this war ends, you'll have my favor. Lands if you want them. Gold. Whatever a loyal man deserves."

He swallowed. "I'm no great knight. Odd jobs. Guarding caravans. Clearing outlaws. Herding sheep when coin runs dry. I've no—"

"I don't need great," she cut in. "I need capable. And quiet."

He nodded once. "I can do capable. And quiet."

"Good." She swayed. Pain spiked through her side.

Jardan stepped forward—hesitant—then stopped. "You're hurt."

"Bruises. Scrapes. Nothing that will kill me before morning."

He gestured to the fire. "Sit. I'll fetch water. Then I'll fish. Your dragon needs meat."

He moved fast. Settled her on the log by the pit. Built the flames up. Brought her a tin cup of cold stream water. She drank deep, throat soothed.

Jardan grabbed a three-pronged spear from his gear and waded back in. Stood still as stone. Thrust. A fat trout flopped onto the bank. Another. A third.

He returned, scaled and gutted them quick, skewered them on sticks, set them over the coals.

Rhaenyra watched the way his hands worked—sure, economical. No wasted motion. No swagger.

When the fish were done he handed her one on a wooden plate. Crispy skin. Sweet white flesh. Simple. Perfect.

"I kept a basket of smaller ones," he said. "That'll feed her tonight. More tomorrow."

She nodded. Ate slowly.

After, he carried the basket toward where she'd left Syrax. Rhaenyra limped after.

The dragon lifted her head at their approach. Golden eyes narrowed at the stranger. Rhaenyra laid a palm on her snout, murmured low Valyrian. Syrax huffed once, then lowered her head.

Jardan dumped the fish onto a flat stone. Syrax snapped them up—bones crunching—in two gulps.

"She'll need twice that tomorrow," Rhaenyra said.

"I'll get it."

They walked back as full dark settled. Firelight flickered on the trees.

Rhaenyra sat. Stared into the flames. Jardan cleaned his spear. Mended a tear in his cloak with needle and thread. Quiet. Steady.

The thoughts crept in then—dark, insistent.

He looked at you like you were the Mother herself when he knelt.

He knows you watched him. Saw that cock harden while he dressed.

Months since anyone touched you right.

Criston was too holy. Too careful. Too weak when you needed teeth.

This one… this one might split you open and make you thank him.

She shifted. Thighs pressed together. Wetness slicked her folds.

Night deepened. Jardan rose to prep another small haul for morning—stringing fish he'd held back.

Rhaenyra stood silently. Padded up behind him.

Her arms slid around his waist. Breasts flattened to his back—nipples stiff, dragging against wool.

Jardan froze. The basket dropped. Fish scattered.

"Your Grace—"

"Quiet." Lips at his ear. One hand dipped. Found laces. Pulled them open.

His cock fell out—heavy, thickening fast. She gripped it. Gods. Hot. Thick. Fingers barely met.

She stroked—slow, firm. Root to fat head.

"You stared when you knelt," she whispered. "Eyes on my breasts. My hips. Thought I wouldn't feel it?"

He groaned—low, broken. Hips jerked.

"I didn't—"

"You did." Harder grip. "And this beast… you let me see it. Let it swing while you dressed like some dockside show. Thought I'd forget?"

Long strokes. Thumb smeared the bead leaking from the slit.

"This cock belongs to me now, Jardan Brune."

He shuddered. "Please—Your Grace—this is madness. I'll help you. Protect you. But stop—I'll pretend none of this—"

She laughed against his neck—dark, throaty. "Oh, you'll help. Because I've claimed you. And don't worry, sweet knight. I'll let you spill."

Both hands now. One pumping the shaft. The other cupping, rolling his heavy balls.

He groaned louder—raw sound.

She felt the pulse. The swell.

Rhaenyra spun him. Dropped to her knees.

Cock bobbed—red, veined, dripping.

She opened. Took him.

Jaw stretched immediately. Thick. Hot. Salty on her tongue.

She sucked—hollowed cheeks.

His hands hovered—then buried in her hair.

He thrust—tentative.

Then deeper.

She moaned around him. Vibration made him curse.

"Gods—"

She pulled off just enough. "Fuck my mouth. Use it."

Something snapped.

Hands tightened. Hips snapped forward—hard. Cock slid over tongue, hit her throat.

She gagged—took it. Tears stung. Spit slicked her chin.

He fucked her face—deep, relentless. Groans tearing out.

Hips stuttered. Hot spurts flooded her mouth—thick, bitter. She swallowed—greedy—some leaking down her chin.

He stumbled back when he finished. Chest heaving. Horror dawning.

"I—Your Grace—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"

Rhaenyra licked her lips. Swallowed the last of it. Smiled—slow, predatory.

"I like you rough." Tongue flicked out, cleaned the head. Sucked gently. "That's what a proper dildo does. No apologies. No pulling back."

She crawled forward. Lapped the shaft clean. Took him soft into her mouth again—lazy, possessive.

Jardan stared down—shock giving way to something darker. Hungrier.

Reason fled.

He hauled her up by the arms. Mouth crashed to hers—hard. Teeth. Tongue.

Hands tore at her tunic—fabric ripped. Breasts spilled free—full, nipples dark and tight.

He palmed them—rough. Pinched. Twisted until she arched and moaned into his mouth.

She shoved his breeches down. Cock already rising again—thick, insistent.

They stumbled to the bedroll. Fell in a tangle.

He pushed her flat. Yanked leggings off. Spread her thighs wide.

Her cunt—swollen, glistening, dripping down her thighs.

He stared—starving.

Then dove.

Tongue flat. Broad licks. Sucked her clit hard.

Rhaenyra cried out—sharp. Fingers twisted in his hair. Hips bucked.

Two thick fingers slid in—curled. Pressed.

She shattered—thighs clamping his ears, back bowing, a broken moan ripping free.

He licked through it. Fingers pumping.

When tremors eased he rose. Cock in hand. Rubbed through her folds—slick, hot.

Eyes locked.

He pushed in—slow. Stretch burned. Thick. Relentless.

Halfway he paused.

Then sank deep—balls slapping her ass.

They groaned together.

He rolled his hips—letting her feel every dragging inch.

Breasts bounced. He caught one—sucked hard. Bit the nipple.

She keened.

He pulled out. Flipped her to her stomach.

Hauled her hips up. Slid back in—deeper angle. Hips slapped wetly against her ass.

Hand reached around. Fingers on her clit—tight circles.

She shoved back. "Harder."

He gave it—brutal. Hand in her hair. Pulled her head back.

"You want rough, Your Grace?" Voice gravel.

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

He mauled her tits—pinching, twisting. Red marks blooming.

She came again—walls fluttering, squeezing him. Sobbed his name.

He growled. Kept pounding.

He didn’t let her catch her breath.

Jardan pulled out with a wet suck—her cunt clenching on nothing, aching already—and flipped her onto her back again. Knees hooked over his elbows. Spread wide. Open. Exposed.

He looked down at her like a man who’d just realized he was allowed to ruin something holy.

Cock—still rock-hard, slick with her—slapped heavy against her mound. Once. Twice. The wet smack loud in the quiet camp.

“You’re dripping down your thighs, Your Grace,” he rasped. Voice rougher now. Less apology. “All that royal cunt leaking for a hedge knight’s prick. Pathetic.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh came out shaky, breathless. “Then fill it, ser. Stop talking and wreck me.”

He notched himself. Pushed in one brutal slide—deeper than before. Her back arched off the bedroll. A choked cry tore out.

Gods. He was thicker at the base. Stretched her walls until it burned in the best way. Every ridge, every vein dragging inside her.

He bottomed out—balls pressed flush—and held there. Grinding slow circles. Letting her feel how completely he owned the space.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Princess of Dragonstone. Heir to the throne. Spread like a dockside whore for my cock.”

Rhaenyra’s nails raked down his back. Hard enough to draw red lines. “Harder words, Jardan. I want filth.”

He grinned—feral, sudden. Pulled almost all the way out. Slammed back in. Once. Twice. Slow, punishing.

“You think Daemon ever split you this wide?” Thrust. “Think that silver-haired cunt ever made you gush like this?” Thrust. “He’s pretty. He’s cruel. But he never fucked you stupid, did he?”

She moaned—loud, shameless. Hips rolling up to meet him.

“No,” she gasped. “Never… like this.”

And it was true.

Daemon understood her—her rage, her grief, her hunger for power. He matched her fire with fire. But this…

This was animal.

This was a thick, relentless cock splitting her open until thought dissolved. Until her body belonged to the stretch, the slap, the wet squelch every time he buried himself.

Jardan hooked her legs higher. Folded her nearly in half. Ankles by her ears.

New angle—brutal. Cockhead kissing her cervix on every stroke.

She screamed—short, sharp. Pleasure-pain spiking through her belly.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Scream for it. Let the whole fucking Reach hear what a needy little slut the future queen is.”

He fucked her through another orgasm—fast, merciless. Her cunt spasmed, fluttered, tried to push him out. He just drove deeper. Ground against her clit until she sobbed.

When she came down he slowed—long, deliberate drags.

Pulled out completely.

Her hole gaped for a heartbeat—pink, swollen, dripping—before clenching on emptiness.

“Turn over,” he ordered. “Ass up. Face down.”

Rhaenyra obeyed—shaking. Presented herself. Knees spread. Back arched. Tits pressed to the rough wool of the bedroll.

He knelt behind her. Palms spread her cheeks wide. Thumbs pulling her open.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at this royal cunt. Puffy. Ruined. Still begging.”

He spat—hot, wet—right onto her hole. Watched it slide down.

Then lined up again.

One long, slow push. Inch by inch until he was seated to the hilt.

Rhaenyra keened into the blanket. Fists clenched.

He started moving—deep, rolling thrusts. Hand slid up her spine. Gripped her silver hair. Yanked her head back.

“Tell me who owns this cunt now.”

“You,” she gasped.

“Louder.”

“You do—fuck—Jardan owns it—”

He slapped her ass—hard. The crack echoed.

“Whose fat cock is stretching you stupid?”

“Yours—gods—yours—”

Another slap. Red handprint blooming on pale skin.

He reached under. Fingers found her clit—pinched. Rolled. Tugged.

She bucked. Whimpered.

He fucked her faster. Skin slapping skin. Wet, obscene sounds filling the night.

Her tits swung with every thrust—he reached around, caught one, squeezed until she cried out. Tweaked the nipple—sharp twist.

“These tits,” he muttered. “Perfect. Heavy. Made to be mauled.”

He pinched harder. She sobbed—pleasure crashing over the edge of pain.

Another orgasm built—fast, vicious.

“Come on my cock again,” he snarled. “Milk me. Show me how bad you need it.”

She shattered—walls clamping, fluttering, gushing around him. A wet rush coated his balls, dripped down her thighs.

He groaned—deep, animal. Kept pounding through it.

When the spasms eased he pulled out. Flipped her onto her side.

Lifted one leg over his shoulder. Straddled the other.

Slid back in—sideways angle now. Different stretch. Hit spots that made her eyes roll.

He fucked her lazy at first—watching her face. Watching her mouth fall open every time he bottomed out.

Then harder.

Hand on her throat—not choking. Just holding. Possessive.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said. Low. Dangerous. “Every hole. Every scream. Mine.”

Rhaenyra nodded—frantic. “Yours—take it—take everything—”

He leaned down. Bit her shoulder—hard enough to mark. Sucked the skin until it bruised.

She came again—smaller, sharper. Shuddering around him.

He was close now. She could feel it—the way his thrusts lost rhythm. The way his cock swelled thicker inside her.

“Where do you want it?” he rasped.

“Inside,” she begged. “Fill me—flood me—make me leak you for days—”

He growled. Hips snapped forward—once, twice, three brutal strokes.

Then buried deep.

Hot spurts—thick ropes—painting her insides. Pulse after pulse. So much it overflowed, leaking out around his shaft, dripping onto the bedroll.

He stayed there—grinding slow—milking every drop into her.

When he finally pulled out a thick glob followed—white against her swollen pink.

Rhaenyra whimpered at the loss.

He wasn’t done.

He pushed two fingers in—scooped some of his spend—smeared it up over her clit. Rubbed lazy circles.

She twitched—oversensitive.

“Again?” he asked. Voice wrecked.

She laughed—hoarse. “I’m not finished claiming you yet.”

He grinned. Dark. Hungry.

Flipped her onto her stomach once more.

This time he straddled her thighs. Pushed her legs together.

Slid his still-hard cock between them—hotdogging the cleft of her ass while the head nudged her dripping entrance.

Teased.

Then pushed in—slow. Tight fit because her thighs were closed.

Different pressure. Different drag.

He fucked her like that—shallow at first. Then deeper. Hands braced on either side of her head.

Mouth at her ear.

“Daemon ever fuck you this filthy?” he whispered.

“No,” she moaned. “Never… never this raw.”

He bit her earlobe. “Good. Because no one’s ever going to fill you like I do.”

He sped up—short, sharp thrusts. Cock sliding through the mess he’d already left inside her.

Her ass jiggled with every slap.

He reached under again—fingers on her clit. Fast. Rough.

She came—screaming into the blanket. Body shaking.

He followed—second load—pumping more cum deep while she clenched and fluttered around him.

They collapsed together—sweaty, panting, tangled.

His cock softened slowly inside her. Still thick enough to keep most of his spend plugged.

Rhaenyra turned her head. Kissed him—slow. Dirty. Tasting salt and smoke.

“Stay hard for me,” she murmured against his lips. “I want to ride you next. Want to feel every inch while I use you.”

Jardan groaned—half laugh, half plea.

“Your Grace… you’re going to kill me.”

She smiled—sharp. Predatory.

“Good. Then die happy.”

They lay there for a handful of minutes—sweat cooling, breaths syncing, his softening cock still tucked half-inside her like neither wanted to break the seal. Rhaenyra’s thighs trembled from the aftershocks. Cum leaked steadily now, warm and thick, trickling down the crease where leg met ass. She clenched once—deliberate—and felt more spill out. A filthy little shiver ran through her.

Jardan’s arm was slung heavy across her waist. Face buried in the crook of her neck. Breathing hard against her skin.

She turned her head. Lips brushed his ear.

“Get hard again.”

A low, wrecked laugh rumbled out of him. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m claiming what’s mine.” She reached back, found his spent cock, gave it a slow, possessive squeeze. “And this beast isn’t done yet.”

He groaned—half protest, half surrender. But blood was already rushing south. Thickening in her palm. Growing heavy again.

She rolled them so she straddled his hips. His back hit the bedroll. She planted hands on his chest—fingernails digging crescents into skin.

Looked down at him.

Hair wild. Beard damp with sweat. Eyes dark, pupils blown.

Cock lying fat and flushed against his stomach—still glistening with their mess.

Rhaenyra lifted herself. Reached between her legs. Gripped him at the base. Guided the fat head back to her entrance.

She was soaked—swollen—sloppy with cum. The stretch was easier this time but no less obscene.

She sank down slow.

Inch by thick inch.

Her mouth fell open on a silent gasp. Head tipped back. Silver hair spilling like moonlight over her shoulders.

When her ass met his thighs she rolled her hips—once—grinding deep. Feeling him throb inside.

“Gods,” she breathed. “Feel that? How full you keep me?”

Jardan’s hands found her hips. Thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her pubic bone.

“You’re dripping all over me,” he muttered. Voice gravel. “Leaking my seed like a bitch in heat.”

She smirked—dark, triumphant.

“Exactly.”

She started riding.

Slow at first—lifting until just the head stretched her rim, then dropping hard. Ass slapping wetly against his pelvis.

Each descent punched a grunt out of him.

She sped up. Bouncing now. Tits heaving—full, heavy, nipples dark and tight. They slapped together with every rise and fall.

Jardan stared—mesmerized. Hands slid up. Cupped her breasts. Squeezed. Thumbs flicked the peaks.

“These tits,” he growled. “Fuck—bounce for me, princess. Let me watch them move while you fuck yourself stupid on my cock.”

Rhaenyra arched—offering more. Rode harder. Faster.

The wet squelch was obscene—loud enough the night birds went quiet.

She leaned forward. Braced hands on his shoulders. Changed the angle so the thick head dragged over that spot inside her every stroke.

Pleasure spiked—sharp, electric.

She moaned—long, broken.

“Harder,” she demanded. “Grab my ass. Help me ride.”

His palms cracked down—once each cheek—then gripped. Fingers sinking into soft flesh. He lifted her slightly, then yanked her down—meeting her on every drop.

The force jolted through her. Cervix kissed again and again.

She cried out—raw.

“Like that?” he rasped. “Want me to fuck up into this greedy cunt?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

He planted his feet. Thrust up—sharp, brutal—while she slammed down.

Collision of flesh. Wet smack. Her clit grinding against his pubic bone.

She came fast—sudden, violent. Walls clamping. Gushing around him. A fresh rush of slick coating his balls.

He didn’t stop. Kept pounding up through it—drawing the orgasm out until she was shaking, whimpering, oversensitive.

When the spasms eased she collapsed forward—chest to chest. Mouth on his. Dirty, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues sliding. Tasting salt and desperation.

She broke away. Gasped against his lips.

“Stand up. I want you to fuck me against that tree.”

Jardan’s eyes flared.

He sat up—still buried inside her. Arms banded around her waist. Stood in one smooth motion—cock never leaving her.

Her legs wrapped his hips instinctively. Ankles locked at the small of his back.

He carried her—three steps—until her back hit rough bark.

The impact jarred a moan out of her.

He adjusted grip—hands under her ass. Lifted. Dropped her down onto his length.

Hard.

She yelped—then laughed—wild.

“Again.”

He did. Again. And again.

Barking scraped her shoulders—sharp little stings that only made her wetter.

He fucked her standing—deep, punishing strokes. Gravity helping him bury every inch.

Her tits bounced against his chest. Nipples dragging through coarse hair.

She clawed his back—nails leaving red trails.

“Harder,” she hissed. “Split me—make it hurt so good—”

He growled. Shifted angle—tilted her hips so the head battered that spot relentlessly.

She screamed—short, sharp—head thrown back against the trunk.

Another orgasm crashed through her—legs shaking, cunt spasming, milking him.

He kept going—relentless.

“You come so easy on this cock,” he muttered into her neck. “Like your body knows who it belongs to now.”

She bit his shoulder—hard. Tasted copper.

“Yours,” she gasped. “All fucking yours—”

He pulled out suddenly—cock slick and shining.

Spun her. Pressed her front to the tree. Hands braced on bark.

Kicked her legs wider.

Slid back in from behind—deep, one brutal thrust.

She moaned—long and low.

He fucked her like that—fast, punishing. One hand fisted her hair. Yanked her head back so her throat arched.

Other hand slid around—fingers finding her clit. Rubbed fast, rough circles.

“Gonna fill you again,” he snarled. “Gonna pump another load so deep you’ll taste it.”

“Do it,” she begged. “Breed me—flood this cunt—”

He slammed in—once, twice—then buried to the hilt.

Hot spurts—thick, forceful—painting her insides again.

Pulse after pulse.

She came with him—walls fluttering, milking every drop.

They stayed locked like that—panting. His cock twitching inside her. Her body trembling.

Slowly he pulled out.

A thick rope of cum followed—dripping down her thighs.

He turned her gently. Back to the tree.

Kissed her—slow this time. Tender almost.

She smiled against his mouth—lazy, sated.

“One more,” she whispered.

He laughed—hoarse. “You’ll kill me.”

“Then die inside me.”

He lifted her again—easier now. Legs around his waist.

Walked them back to the bedroll.

Laid her down.

Climbed over her.

Slid back in—slow, deep.

This time he fucked her gentle—long, rolling thrusts. Letting her feel every inch.

Hands roaming—fondling her breasts, tracing the curve of her waist, gripping her ass.

Mouth on her neck. Her collarbone. Sucking marks into pale skin.

She wrapped around him—arms, legs, cunt.

Whispered filth in his ear.

“Keep filling me… keep marking me… make sure no one else ever fits again…”

He groaned—low, broken.

Thrusts grew ragged.

She clenched—deliberate.

He spilled again—quiet this time. Just a soft, endless pulse. Adding to the mess already inside her.

They stayed joined—breathing each other in.

Eventually he softened completely. Slipped free.

A final gush of cum followed—warm, obscene.

Rhaenyra sighed—content.

Pulled him down. Tucked his head to her chest.

“Stay,” she murmured. “Just like this.”

Jardan’s arm tightened around her waist.

“Yours,” he said quietly. No question.

She smiled into the dark.

“Mine.”

Morning came slow and soft through the canopy—gray light filtering down, turning the leaves silver-edged. Birds started first, then the distant rustle of small game waking. The fire had burned to embers overnight; a thin thread of smoke still curled up.

Rhaenyra woke first.

She was sprawled half across Jardan’s chest—leg thrown over his hip, one arm draped across his ribs. His heartbeat was steady under her ear. Slow. Deep. The kind of rhythm that belonged to a man who’d spent years sleeping rough and never quite letting his guard down.

Her body ached in the best way. Thighs sticky. Cunt tender and swollen. Every shift reminded her how thoroughly he’d used her—how thoroughly she’d used him. Cum had dried in flaky patches on her inner thighs; more still leaked lazily whenever she moved. She clenched experimentally—felt the dull throb of overworked muscles—and smiled into his skin.

She propped herself on an elbow. Looked down.

Jardan’s face in sleep was softer. The perpetual tension around his eyes eased. Beard scruffy. Lips parted slightly. A faint bruise blooming on his shoulder where she’d bitten him.

She traced it with a fingertip—light. Possessive.

His eyes opened. Brown. Warm. Still a little dazed from sleep and the night before.

“Your Grace,” he murmured. Voice gravelly.

“Stop that.” She leaned down. Kissed him—slow, lazy. Tasted salt and last night’s smoke. “Not when we’re like this.”

He kissed back—gentler than before. Hand sliding up her spine. Cupping the nape of her neck like she was something fragile.

She pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth.

“How sore are you?”

A low chuckle. “I’ll live. You?”

“Wrecked.” She shifted—winced a little when her thighs rubbed together. “In the nicest way.”

His hand drifted lower—cupped her ass. Squeezed once. Gentle.

“Need tending?”

She considered. “Later. First—Syrax.”

He nodded. No hesitation.

They disentangled slowly. She hissed when she sat up—ribs still tender from the crash, cunt protesting every movement. Jardan noticed. Didn’t comment. Just handed her his spare tunic—cleaner than hers—and helped her pull it on. The wool fell to mid-thigh on her. Smelled of him: leather, smoke, sweat, and now sex.

He dressed quick. Breeches. Boots. Jerkin. Sword belt.

She watched the way his cock—soft now but still thick—settled heavy in the wool. Heat flickered low in her belly again. Gods. Insatiable didn’t begin to cover it.

They walked to where Syrax lay.

The dragon lifted her head at their approach. Golden eyes flicked from Rhaenyra to Jardan—narrowed—then back. A low rumble. Not quite threat. Assessment.

Rhaenyra laid a hand on warm scales. Murmured Valyrian—soft reassurances.

Syrax huffed. Hot breath stirred Jardan’s hair.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead he stepped forward. Slow. Hands open. Empty.

“Easy, girl,” he said quietly. Not to the dragon—to Rhaenyra. “I’ve got the fish.”

He’d risen before dawn. Another basket—fat perch, two trout, a couple of smaller ones. He dumped them onto the flat stone.

Syrax sniffed. Snapped them up—quick, efficient. Bones crunching.

Rhaenyra watched Jardan watch the dragon. No fear. Just calm focus.

When the last fish was gone Syrax lowered her head again. Eyes half-lidded. Content.

“She likes you,” Rhaenyra said.

Jardan snorted. “She tolerates me. That’s progress.”

They returned to camp.

He built the fire back up. Caught more fish—quick work with the spear. Scaled, gutted, skewered. Set them to roast.

Rhaenyra sat close—thigh pressed to his. Ate when he handed her a portion. The fish was perfect—crispy skin, sweet flesh.

After, he knelt in front of her. Pushed the tunic up.

“Hold still.”

He checked her bruises—gentle fingers over ribs, shoulder, thigh. Pressed lightly. Watched her face for pain.

“Cracked rib maybe,” he muttered. “Nothing displaced. Scrapes are clean. No fever.”

She caught his wrist. Pulled his hand higher—between her legs.

He froze.

She was still slick. Still leaking him.

His thumb brushed her swollen folds—careful. Found her clit. Circled once—soft.

She sighed. Leaned into it.

“Not now,” he said. Voice rough. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m not that hurt.”

He looked up—eyes dark again.

“You’ll be limping worse if I give you what you want.”

She smirked. “Promise?”

He laughed—low. Shook his head.

Instead he cleaned her gently—with a damp cloth from the stream. Wiped away dried cum, fresh leaks. Careful strokes. Almost reverent.

When he finished he kissed the inside of her thigh—soft. Once. Then pulled the tunic back down.

“Rest,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

She tugged him down beside her.

“Lie with me.”

He did.

They lay tangled again—her head pillowed on his chest, silver hair spilling across scarred skin like spilled moonlight. His arm curled heavy around her shoulders, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over the knob of her shoulder blade. The rhythm of his breathing steadied her more than any lullaby ever had.

Sun climbed higher, spilling gold through the leaves. The forest woke in earnest: birdsong sharpening from sleepy chirps to bright, territorial calls; wind moving the canopy in long, sighing waves; distant squirrels scolding one another over territory. Somewhere a deer crashed through underbrush, then silence swallowed the sound again.

Rhaenyra’s fingertip drifted across his stomach—lazy spirals around the faint white scar that curved under his ribs, another souvenir from some long-forgotten skirmish. She followed the dark trail of hair downward until it disappeared beneath the edge of the blanket they’d pulled half over themselves.

“When Syrax can fly,” she said quietly, voice still rough from the night, “I’ll go. Tumbleton. The loyalists waiting there. The war that never seems to end.”

Jardan’s chest rose on a slow inhale. He didn’t speak right away. Just let his hand slide down her back until his palm settled warm and broad at the small of it.

She lifted her head. Violet eyes met brown—searching, steady.

“You come with me.”

He blinked once—slow, like the words had to travel a long way to reach him.

“Your Grace—”

“Rhaenyra.” She shifted higher, pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. Lingered there. Tasted salt and smoke and the faint copper of last night’s bites. “When we’re alone. When it’s only us. Rhaenyra.”

He swallowed. Throat worked visibly.

“Rhaenyra…” The name sounded foreign and precious in his rougher accent. “I’m no lord. No dragonrider. No name worth a place at any council table. Just a hedge knight with a decent sword, a string of bad luck, and debts in half the taverns from here to the Stormlands.”

She laid her palm flat over his heart. Felt it kick harder under her touch.

“You’re mine.” The words came simple. Final. No room for argument. “That’s enough.”

He searched her face—long, quiet moments. Looking for mockery, for pity, for some crack in the certainty. Found none.

His hand came up. Cupped her cheek. Thumb brushed the faint bruise blooming along her cheekbone from the crash.

Then he nodded. Once. Sharp. Decisive.

“Yours.”

The smile that curved her mouth was small—real—almost shy in a way she hadn’t been since girlhood.

They stayed like that a long while. Sun climbing. Forest breathing around them. No hurry. No war pressing at the edges yet.

Later—when the light had turned hard and noon-bright—he rose first. Moved with the same quiet economy she’d noticed from the beginning: checking the horses’ hooves, tightening girths, rolling bedrolls, repacking the panniers with practiced flicks of wrist and knot. She watched him from the bedroll, chin propped on her hand. The way muscles shifted under skin, the easy roll of shoulders, the casual strength in forearms when he hefted a waterskin. Nothing showy. Just competence. The kind that had kept him alive this long.

When he came back—dust on his knees, faint sweat at his temples—she caught his wrist and tugged.

He let himself be pulled down without resistance.

One last time. Slow.

No rush at all.

He settled between her thighs. Kissed her slow—deep, unhurried. Tongue sliding against hers like he was memorizing the taste. Hands roamed: breasts first, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked again; down the dip of her waist; cupping her ass, lifting her just enough to slide home.

Gentle entry—long, rolling strokes that made her sigh into his mouth.

He stayed deep. Ground slow circles. Let her feel every thick inch stretching her still-tender walls.

Hands everywhere—kneading her breasts, tracing ribs, gripping hips, sliding under to palm the curve of her ass and spread her wider so he could sink that fraction deeper.

Mouth moved to her neck—open kisses, soft sucks, the faintest scrape of teeth.

“You feel that?” he murmured against her pulse. Voice so low it vibrated through her skin. “How this perfect cunt grips me? Like it never wants to let go.”

She moaned—quiet, broken. Arched up into him.

“Never will,” she whispered back.

He kept the rhythm languid. Deep drags out, slow rolls in. Building heat without chasing it. Whispering filth so soft it felt like prayer.

“Gonna keep you leaking me all the way to Tumbleton… every time you shift in the saddle you’ll feel it… feel how full I left you… how marked.”

She clenched around him—deliberate. Felt him shudder.

He came like that—soft, endless pulses. No frantic snap of hips, just quiet flooding. Stayed buried until the last twitch, until he softened inside her and the warmth of him stayed trapped.

When he finally eased out she closed her thighs at once—holding every drop.

“Keep me full,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Until we reach Tumbleton. Until I say otherwise.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. Kissed the bridge of her nose. Then her forehead.

“Always.”

They broke camp at dusk.

Syrax rose—wings tentative but stronger now, membranes catching the last red light. A low, rumbling keen rolled out of her throat. Ready.

Rhaenyra mounted first—leathers stiff with dried sweat and blood, but moving easier than yesterday. She looked down.

Jardan was already in the saddle of the sturdy bay gelding, leading the spare horse on a short rein. Sword at his hip. Face calm. Eyes steady on her.

She extended her hand.

He took it without hesitation. Swung up behind her in one smooth motion—chest pressing warm to her back, thighs bracketing hers, arms sliding around her waist to grip the saddle pommel in front of her.

Syrax launched—slow, careful. Wings beating once, twice—then catching air. The forest floor fell away in a rush of green and shadow.

Wind tore at them—sharp, cool, smelling of pine and coming night.

Rhaenyra leaned back into the solid wall of him. Felt his heartbeat steady against her spine. Felt the thick, half-hard press of his cock nestled against the cleft of her ass through layers of wool and leather—already stirring again at the closeness, at the motion, at the simple knowledge of where he belonged.

She tilted her head back until her temple rested against his jaw.

Smiled into the rushing dark.

Mine.

The word settled in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Mine.