Sons Of Anarchy Meme | Brotp(s) [3/?] Tig & Kozik

Sons of Anarchy Meme | Brotp(s) [3/?] ↳ Tig & Kozik

“You know one of us is gonna end up dead, right?”

soup

a/n: this whole fic is 100% @chvoswxtch fault because one day when I was about to make dinner she planted this idea in my mind, after too long of winding each other up with thoughts about him, when I attempted to say goodbye so that I could cool down enough in order to not cut my fingers off or burn the food because I was too busy drooling, this menace just went, and I quote: "try not to think about him fucking you from behind while you cook." needless to say, I was a mess that night.... I was already a mess before, but then I just 401 error and I haven't recovered yet

warnings: frank castle x reader, smut, established relationship, cooking soup (good soup), kissing, clothed sex, kitchen sex, couch sex, dirty talk, size kink, oral, fingering, light anal, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, impact play, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, creampie, cumplay, overstimulation, just them being cute and nasty and domestic together

word count: 3577

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The soft sound of Nat King Cole crooning was barely audible from the speakers in the living room, mixing and mingling with the soothing rhythm of raindrops pattering against the window in front of you, yet your hips still gently swayed to the tune as you grabbed the stripped oven mitt still laying on the counter beside the stove from the last time you’d checked on the broth bubbling away in the large pot. 

Lifting up the heavy lid, the heat from the metal slowly began to seep through to your touch as you checked on the progress, briefly watching the ivory beans dance around in the simmering liquid, wispy aromatics bubbling alongside them, before you covered it up once more. 

Standing beside the sink, you transferred the lightly dripping head of dark green cabbage onto the cutting board. After temporarily getting distracted by a thunderous roar that was heard from somewhere outside far in the distance, you then sliced the knife in your hand straight down the middle of the cruciferae, the crunchy vegetal sound reverberating off the kitchen walls. 

Hearing the floorboards suddenly creak, you whipped your head around to find Frank leisurely leaning against the doorframe, eyes glued to your form as an adoring smile warmed his stern features. 

“Frank!” you exclaimed, chuckling lightly at the fright he had managed to stir in you, “when did you get home?”

“About three songs ago,” he stated, the gentle music still buzzing from the room behind him. 

“And you’ve just been standing there this whole time?” you bit down on the smile that fact conjured. 

“Yep,” he drawled, readjusting his crossed arms. It didn’t take long after you’d turned back to the task at hand that you felt his warm touch wrap around your waist and felt his deep voice tickle your ear, “what are you making?” he rested his chin on your shoulder. 

“Soup,” you shared, cutting rhythmically through the hardy greens. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, craning to plant a tender peck upon your clavicle, his beard gently scratching your skin, “that sounds great…” his tender hands nearly burned through the material of your dress, causing your moments to slow down ever so slightly, “so, what do you have to do now?”

“Well, the base and the bean are already cosy in the pot, doing its thing,” your breath briefly hitched, interrupting your determined explanation, as his wandering touch triggered goosebumps to erupt across your skin, your form instinctively curving into him as his fingers lightly caressed your midsection, your still swaying hips and just shy down your thighs, “but I thought I’d get a head start with this before it’s time for them to go in so that I don’t go and get distracted by something else and then end up having to rush cutting it up.”

His slow breath clear in your ear, he sneakily brought your hips back flush against his, your soft bottom a stark contrast to the excited tightness in his dark jeans. Feathery kisses roamed your neck as your chopping gradually came to a stop, your eyelid growing heavy as you felt your pulse spike, especially making its presence known between your legs. 

Inhaling deeply, his hands slid up to capture your covered boobs in a teasing grasp, “Frank…” you warned softly, though your ass lazily melted back against his hardness.

“Yeah?” nose gracing the shell of your ear, his touch boldly drifted down your dress, effortlessly finding your centre through the fabric, your pulse thumping against his graze. 

“I am holding a knife,” you pointed out, trying to compose yourself, even though the way that he caressed you over your clothes successfully swayed your brain to fit something else into your evening’s schedule. 

Nipping gently at your flushed cheek, you heard the smirk on his lips as he acknowledged, “so?” burying his fingers in the fabric billowing around your legs and slowly hiking it up, “you really think that fact scares me?”

Bunching the skirt up around your waist, clenching it tight in one of his iron fists, the other one dipped down below it and only briefly tickled you over your panties before hooking a finger in them and pulling them to the side. Fluttering through your glistening folds for but a moment, as soon as your hips bucked in search of more, he took it away. 

Turning your cheek to complain, his lips grazed your skin as his grasp enveloped yours still clutched around the kitchen knife and set it down for you. Fluttering eyes locking on his form, you watched as he sank down, kneeling behind you on the cool tile. Holding your gaze for a moment as he hungrily nipped at your arched backside, he then determinedly dove in, burying his face in between your thighs. 

“Holy shit,” you gasped, gripping onto the edge of the countertop as his tongue lapped up your essence, “Frank!” desperately latching on like your pussy was his oxygen and he had just come up from a dive in the deepest of oceans. His muffled moan vibrated against your folds, making your legs quiver, “you’re-, you’re-…” sturdy nose bumping deliciously against you as he fluttered up to bury his tongue in your heat, “holy fuck!”

Growling ecstatically as he momentarily pulled back, each of his broad palms glued to your soft cheeks, fondling the flesh below your hips as he admired how your core dripped for him. After landing a swift tap across your ass, he began to slobber at your little rosebud, determinedly moving with you as the dizzying sensation made you rise up onto your tiptoes. Framing your bottom with his burly arms, he then shifted one of them, lowering it till found your cunt, promptly plugging up your clenching pussy as his mouth devoured your other hole. 

Briefly retracting once again, you felt a dollop of his spit harshly impact your core, withdrawing his finger and spreading it around your glossy petals before shoving two of his digits right back inside, leaning back as he pumped them in and out, admiring your mess as his free hand lowered to palm his tightness through his pants. Curling them softly, he found that spot that drove you wild. One of your rowdy legs nearly kicked his ribs as he began to harshly rock his fingers within you, his hand nearly vibrating as your pussy squelched at the pressure. Though just as you felt yourself near the edge, his touch faltered. 

That tease, he had to have known how close you were. Arms flailing to get him back, your whines were swiftly knocked out of you and traded in for a breathless moan as he suddenly straightened up behind you and filled you up in one fell swoop. 

Clenching around his girth as he gave you a second to accommodate around him, you caught sight of his reflection in the raindrop-adorned window before you, his brow furrowed as he stared down at where you had taken him so beautifully. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you saw his eyes roll in his skull at the pleasure of your warmth. Wrapping his strong arms around your form, one of them came up to seize your jaw, hungrily turning your head so that he could capture your lips in a heated kiss. 

Grinding back on him as you were still so close, your collective moans mingled as your head tilted back, breaking off the needy kiss. With webs of saliva still connecting your mouths, you hazily blinked back into his eyes as he let go of your chin, grasping your hip and aiding you back against him, egging your desperate bucks on. 

“I missed you today,” he shared his breath as you chased your high, “real bad,” his nose gently bumped against yours with every needy roll, “and then I came home and saw you just-…” he let out a low groan, grasp tightening around your moving hips, “you’re like a fucking angel…” 

With frantic moans gushing out of you, your legs trembled as you creamed all over his throbbing cock. Arm feverishly twisting, you snatched up the edge of his dark t-shirt like a lifeline and whimpered, “I love you,” completely enamoured by his dark coffee eyes staring back at you, “I love you so much,” he crashed his lips against your own once more, silencing your entranced cry. 

Slowly pressing your hips further back against his, burying himself that much deeper within your still trembling core, your grip on him tightened as he moved you, sliding you silkily upon his cock and gently fucking the sensitivity away.

“I love you too,” his deep timbre washed over you, like magic the sound aiding your trembling pussy to quickly bounce back, “so much,” he disappeared in your eyes, “god, you’re sexy…” before your head sluggishly lulled back and reunited your vision with the drizzly window.

Your entire body rocked against the counter as he bucked up into you, “Frank,” you uttered breathlessly as he stretched you out at a rhythm that was both so slow yet so hard at the same time, “oh my god, you feel so-, so-…” you crumbled down against the table, your head right beside the cutting board, “fuck!” 

“I feel so what, huh?” he teased your blissed-out babble, “so hard? So big? So good?” his thrusts began to grow more selfish, the lewd clapping of hastily exposed slivers of skin echoing and overpowering all the other soothing noises that vibrated throughout the apartment, “you like how this cock fills you up to the fucking brim, do you?”

“Y-yes!” you struggled to get out, feeling his warm, broad palm spread over your spine as a tender anchor while he fucked your brains out. 

“Yeah, you love this cock, don’t you?” his hips slammed into yours, “tell me,” he dared you with a sharp smack across your bottom, “tell me you love it.”

“I love it,” you blubbered, your face buried in the crook of your folded arms on the counter. 

“You love what, sweetheart?” you didn’t have to peek back at him to know how hard he was smirking. 

“I love your cock,” your toes curled as his broad thumb suddenly began to rub over your other hole, “I love it,” still slick from his kisses, he swiped over it, “I love you-, I love-,” tickling you gently before slowly sinking it in, plugging the opening up just to the first knuckle.

Like the rain pouring down outside, so did you as you came, your pussy gushing all over his girth. Swiftly yanking his dick out, he harshly rubbed it through your folds, “there you go,” flicking across your clit and urging more of your juices to squirt out, “there you fucking go,” showering down onto the cool tile floor.

Panting, he spun your jelly-like figure around and kissed your lips fiercely. Scrambling, he fervently plucked you up into his arms, wrapping your shaky legs around his hips as your tongue danced across his own. In a haze, you clung to him like a koala, fuzzily curling your arms around his neck, eternally thankful for his might as he held you secure against his boulder-like body. 

Eyes shut, soft hums escaped your lips and vibrated against his own as you felt his legs begin to move, swiftly exiting out of the kitchen. Fat length still like a rock nudged against you’re your trembling centre, you gently began to rock against it, a decision that caused Frank to suddenly change the destination to where he was carrying you. 

A sharp yelp erupted from your lunges as your back suddenly collided with the leather couch cushions. The shocked squeak swiftly melted into a warm giggle, one he fleetingly echoed as he dipped down to join you, knees resting below your dropped form, your legs folded up at your sides from both the fall, but also the delicious exhaustion that had kicked in. 

Reaching down between your bodies, your form jaggedly jumped as you briefly circled your sore pearl before seizing Frank’s third leg, his clothes still clung to his figure, as did yours, only zippered were undone and fabric desperately pushed aside to free what needed to be freed. Fingers barely meeting as they wrapped around him, you gave him a few generous tugs before guiding the tip back down to your entrance. Mouth agape, you nudged him against your sobbing hole, his brows furrowed in pleasure as he stared down at you intently. 

“There she is,” he smirked down at you, “there’s my fucking dirty girl,” noting the dreamy glint in your eye, “you want some more, huh?”

“Please,” you whined as he kept his hips locked, making your job impossible, “I do, I really, really do,” he then wafted away your grasp and held at the base of his heavy length, “I need it!” you squirmed beneath him as he tapped the weight against your overly sensitive core, your sodden panties still clinging on the sidelines.

“Yeah?” you expected him to tease you, to twist your arm until you said uncle, but no, that wasn’t what he did at all. “This what you need?” he mercilessly slammed back into you, a strangled moan rolling off your tongue to answer his taunting question, “then fucking take it like the good little slut I know you are.”

You were nearly crushed as he fucked you into the couch, though you didn’t care one bit about the odd position when he made you literally melt the way he did. 

Folded in half, face smooched into the cushions, your collective moans echoed throughout the apartment. Hands engulfing your waist, you felt like a ragdoll as he fucked you, balls slapping against you with every primal thrust. Tits nearly spilling out of the delicate neckline of your crumbled dress, Frank fleetingly caught the jiggle, palming it roughly before focusing in on the pebbly nipple poking through the fabric, pinching it harshly and causing your eyes to grow glassy. 

A low growl seeped out of him as he watched you squirm so deliciously. Swatting the soft skin lightly before refastening his hold around your form, he readjusted you and yanked your hips further up off the couch, curving your spine and hauling your hips against him like you were just a little fucktoy, a cocksleave for him to get off with. 

“Where are you going, huh?” you heard him chuckle as you practically dug your face into the sofa, your entire form just uncontrollably curling up from the overwhelming ecstasy, “don’t hide that beautiful face from me,” he uttered adoringly while pounding your puffy pussy into next week, “look me in the eye when I’m fucking ruining you,” and painstakingly, you forced your blissed out features to turn in his direction, your cheek smooshing against the cushions as you hazily blinked up at him, “that’s it,” he towered above you, a smirk blossoming on his lip, “look at you,” he couldn’t help but pick up his speed, slamming into you so hard that you saw the stars themselves, “that’s my good girl.”

His grip dug into you so hard that it left no doubt in your mind about the colourful marks you’d have as a souvenir for the following days. 

“You want me to cum inside you, huh?” he smiled at the way it made you whine, “send you back into the kitchen with it still running down your wobbly legs?” and even though you were positive you wouldn’t be able to stand after this, the vulgar image was still enough to push you over the edge once more, needily nodding for him to join you as you tumbled over. 

Gushing around his fat cock, rumbling groans escaped him as he pumped your trembling and tender cunt full of his hot cum, your own intense waterfall still trickling when he eventually pulled his spent length out. 

Flopping down on the couch beside your own exhausted figure, his head rotated, flashing you his hazy smile. Humming in contentment, your eyes too heavy to stay open too long, your fingers lazily grabbed for him to scoot closer.

Cupping your cheeks softly in his broad hands, one of them stayed as the other brushed down the length of your arm, caressing the goosebumps upon your tingly flesh. Nuzzling his nose against your own, he then pressed a soft kiss to your lips, thumb swiping across your cheekbone as your serene hum washed over him. 

The fingers on your arm slowly wandered over your skin, boldly making their way down your form once more. 

“F-fuck!” your eyes swiftly fluttered open, body jolting, your palm smacked his sturdy chest as his touch swept through the sore and sloppy disarray between your weary thighs.  

“Christ,” he craned his neck to admire your downright swollen cunt, “look at that pretty mess, baby,” he caught some of his own creamy essence slowly leaking out of you and rubbed it into your petals as you squirmed at the overstimulation. 

Dipping his lips down to latch onto the side of your neck, you panted, “Frank, please, it’s-” 

But he interrupted before you could finish the hazy sentence, “what?” purring in between the sloppy hickeys his mouth left in its wake, “is it too much for you? Too good, huh?” you simply let out a whine of confirmation as you felt your body begin to side with him, “you can take it, I know you can,” pornographic soppy sounds found your ears as his long fingers slid inside your sore core, “just listen to that, fuck…” your sensitive walls clung around him like a velvet vice as he stubbornly caressed you.

If someone at that moment asked you what day of the week it was, then your best attempt at an answer would probably be blue, as you didn’t even know what was up and what was down at this point. 

“You think you can squirt for me again, huh?” he kissed your cheek as the tell-tell soppy sound began to echo at his hithering motion, “give me some more sugar?” you suddenly felt his warmth disappear from your side, blinking your sluggish eyes open to see him slide down on the floorboards before you, his coiled fingers all the while rocking daringly within you as he granted himself a front row seat, “a little more dessert before dinner?” 

Pushing your tired legs further apart, the warm smile that bloomed upon his lips tickled your glistening centre, “look at that…” he watched as he fucked the rest of his cum out of you, “fucking beautiful…” 

Glancing up in your direction, he narrowly caught your eye and the intense look that he gave you made it impossible for you to simply let your own close once more. Piercing gaze glued on you, he too noticed your crumbled-up form begin to tremble even further just as he dipped down to kiss that swollen clit of yours.

“Atta girl,” he gently pressed his grin against your puffy pearl. 

Fingers rocketing, he only managed to flick his tongue against you a moment before the floodgates flung open one last time. 

First gripping onto your bucking hips with only one hand, he then departed the one buried deep within you to aid in the cause, holding you steady against his mouth as his tongue successfully slipped in to substitute for his digits. 

Sharp sobs melting into whiny pants, you watched as he finally released the latching hold he had withheld, eyes growing wide as he revealed to you the substance he had caught. 

“Holy shit,” you heard your guttural moan fill the room as he alluringly let your squirt trickle from his lips and back down upon your messy core, “that’s so much!”

“Yeah, it fucking is,” he beamed, pride dripping from his husky tone.

Beard damp and eyes the shape of hearts, you just barely through your overwhelming haze managed to see as he lowered his glossy hand down to enclose around himself. 

“Are you-,” you giggled, incapable of finishing your query. 

Cock, once again, hard and throbbing in his fist, he chuckled, “how could I not be?”  kissing your tender inner thigh as you continued to laugh.

“You are not going anywhere near there again,” you lightheartedly warned as your palm shot down to shield yourself. 

“Hm,” he raised himself up from his knees, “I can work with that,” blissed-out smile still plastered upon his gruff features, “what do you want, huh?” his strong legs then caused the couch to dip on either side of your form, “you want me to give you a show?” gazing at you longingly as he now hovered above you, “you sure gave me one.”

“Maybe you can repay the favour…” your nails dug into his meaty thighs, urging him to crawl up so far that his knees were fastened on either side of your shoulder, his girth blocking your eye line to his gorgeous face. 

“Yeah?” he slowly jerked himself mere millimetres from your features, “you want me to make your face as messy as your pussy? Give you a mouthful of cum?” his other hand dipping down to lovingly comb your matted hair as his offer triggered a warm giggle to flow from your chest obscured beneath his perched hips. 

“I love you,” your starry eyes gazing up at him crinkled from your bliss as you snuck your tongue out and swiped it across the prominent vein running along the underside of him. 

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

about children and trouble

summary: It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 8.2k

warnings: cregan being harassed by a six year old, tantrums, mentions of death, reader being young rhaenyra come back to life, overall pretty chill?

author's note: man do i love writing about reader annoying cregan.

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You spend the month before your sixth nameday on Driftmark, with your paternal grandparents and the other Velaryon family members.

There, your grandparents shower you with gifts, presenting you with a beautiful headpiece made of pearls and seashells that you fall in love with and a new array of clothes — all embroidered with diamonds and pearls, most in the sea-blue colour of the Velaryon emblem.

“We started out as fishermen,” Corlys tells you one day, holding you in his arms and motioning to the vastness of the sea beyond Blackwater Bay. “Then we became sailors, then explorers, then merchants. Then we took what was rightfully ours– Driftmark and a title. But never forget where you came from, little one. We owe the sea too much to discard it.”

You like the sea, almost as much as you like riding dragons. You and your grandfather take swims together when it gets too hot, taking your time to cool off before going back to the castle, trying to hold in your laughter and hide from the wrath of Rhaenys, who isn’t too fond of the idea of her granddaughter being wet like a dog. And since her husband isn’t getting any younger either and constantly complains about aching limbs, then maybe he shouldn’t dive into Blackwater Bay like it’s a hot bath, too. 

When she isn’t preoccupied in reprimanding you and her husband for being childish, your grandmother Rhaenys takes you on long rides on Meleys, the Red Queen, who has taken a liking in you and seeks your caresses every time you are near. You like the air brushing your face and hair, and the enormous castle becoming almost small from how much high up you two are.

Your father and grandfather make sure to start teaching you all they know about boats and navigating through the sea. You ask them when your brothers will be able to join you all, and they tell you that once they near their sixth nameday, they’ll take them out to the sea too; teach them everything they know, just as they’re doing with you. You cannot wait for Jace and Luke to be able to share this with you, because the sea has never felt more like home than right now. 

As you lean over the edge of the boat, you let your hand brush over the surface of the water, looking at your grandmother in complete awe. “We have to do this more often, grandmother, I can’t remember ever having this much fun in my life.”

She laughs then, a rich sound coming right from her heart, and pinches your nose, eyes tender and loving. “Ah, is that so, my sweet? Then I’ll be expecting a lot of visits from you once you claim your own dragon.” 

You perk up. “I promise, the first time I fly on a dragon, it will be to come here and visit you and grandfather.”

You catch your first fish that day — a little thing that could barely fill even the stomach of a child — and your grandfather takes you in his arms and promises that soon, he will buy you your own boat — after all, the feast for your sixth summer is only a sennight away. It’s also the first time you hold a real sword in your hands, and as you almost — and by accident — cut off Corlys’ nose, your father laughs his ass off and promises that soon enough, he’ll start training you to be able to manage a real blow with the blade.

Two days later, you all depart on dragonback for King’s Landing; and even if Corlys has always been hesitant about riding on Meleys with his wife, your laughs while you sat in front of your father on Seasmoke definitely eased his nerves. It’s a relatively short ride to the Dragonpit, as you leave in the morrow right after breaking your fast and by the late afternoon you’re already in the Crown Lands. 

Waiting for you in the Dragonpit are your mother and the King, a smile on their faces, Viserys with his arms open waiting for a hug. 

You get off of Seasmoke’s wing slipping like it’s some sort of slide as your father yells at you to please be careful, then immediately call out for your grandsire while running up at him. “Ah, my dear granddaughter!” he exclaims, holding out his arms and catching you as you jump in them. He tries his best not to grunt from the effort. “Have you been good to your father, Lord Corlys and Rhaenys?”

You excitedly nod, snuggling into his shoulder, and even if his knees and back are screaming for mercy since his health is getting worse and his muscles more frail, he refuses to accept that his precious girl is growing up — so much that in a few months he won’t be able to pick her up anymore. 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at your apparent lack of care about her presence. “What am I, chopped liver?”

You hold out a hand and pat it against her shoulder, almost like you’re saying sorry. You still don’t budge from your grandsire’s arms. She doesn’t seem to hold it against you, taking your little palm in hers and placing a kiss on it. She brushes your hair out of your face as you close your eyes, yawning. 

She chuckles. “Tired, my love?” 

You nod, eyes teary from the sleepiness. Your mother then eases you out of your grandsire’s arms without too many protests, holding you close against her chest. “Then we better go to bed as soon as we get back to the Keep, sweetling.”

It seems you don’t like this idea. “Don’ wanna,” you mumble, barely squirming, not even managing to formulate properly a sentence. “I wanna play with Jace and Luke, and, and… and train with them and dad. Grandma says she’s goin’ to teach me how to sew dresses for Emya and Melissa like auntie Helaena does, and grandpa wants to take me with him to sail across the seas.”

Emya and Melissa are your favourite dolls — just two of the dozens you have, the ones you gift to all the outfits Helaena sews for practice. Soon enough, she’ll have to start learning how to do that, too, your mother thinks, not without a pang of sadness in her heart. How time flies. “You’ll have time to sail with Corlys and learn from Rhaenys how to sew once you get older, sweetling. About your father and your brothers… well, they aren’t going anywhere any time soon.” 

She isn’t surprised to see you pass out in her arms not even a few minutes later, and by the time the carriage stops at the Keep, you’re dead asleep. She lays you in your bed and tucks you in for the night, thinking– My little girl soon enough will be a big girl. But then, she ponders that you could never be too big for her to stop considering you her little girl. 

The next day is spent catching up with your brothers; mostly Luke, who apparently took your absence particularly bad, and is now set on always having at least a hand on you — and that is when he doesn’t straight up wrap his body around one of your legs, hence you having to limp through the Red Keep with your little brother chained to your leg. 

Thankfully Rhaenys is quick to put an end to this madness, demanding the prince to stop harassing you, since you’re not going anywhere for a while. Lucerys departs from your leg — not without any protests — and lets you be, even if in the next few days he’s still pretty clingy — not that you would ever mind. He’s still your little brother, and you give him all the hugs and cuddles he wants, even if sometimes you’d rather be by yourself or with just Heleana without getting interrupted every single minute. 

When you bring it up to her, she shrugs. “I would pay to have brothers like that, you know. Be thankful for what you have.” Because my brothers are too stuck in their own misery to even care about me or notice my presence or absence.

You take her hand and squeeze it, then hug her tight. “But you have me,” you reply. “‘Tis not much, maybe, but I can try.” Helaena only shakily hugs you back, not saying anything. She usually doesn't like hugs, but this one feels strangely comforting.

(You don’t know how much she cried that night, thinking about how she wishes you were her sister and not a niece her mother despises. But it’s probably better this way, because maybe, if you were born as her sister, you wouldn’t be as loved as you are — and she can’t even imagine you being in her situation, always discarded by your family. Maybe you would become as careless as Aegon, or as closed off as Aemond. Maybe it’s a blessing you weren’t borne out of Alicent Hightower. 

Then, she prays that in another lifetime, you two are borne out of the same mother, a mother as loving as Rhaenyra, and she gets to be your older sister, without having to ask anyone for permission to have a hug from you.)

The day of your name day finally arrives, and with it the feast your grandsire has organised in the last two months. It is a grand affair, with almost all the lords from the Seven Kingdoms present, and your parents honestly have no idea where they’re going to put all the gifts you’ll receive. 

You sit right beside your grandsire, between him and your mother, wearing the pearl headpiece your grandparents gifted you and an aqua blue dress that has been tailor made for the occasion. Every now and then a Lord gets up from his table to bring their felicitations to you and your family, but you know it’s just a way to somehow get to talk to your grandsire about their matters.

Most of them are old and boring, and Viserys dismisses them without even a spare glance towards their problems, set on having a good time at least during your celebrations. You don’t pay them much mind either, focused on the food and all the gifts that you’ll get to unwrap in the next few days — that is, until a guy more or less of Aemond’s age comes over. 

The first thing Rhaenyra does — after thinking what the hell do they feed children in the North for them to be this big? — is nudging her husband on the ribs and nodding towards the boy. “Looks like he got a new buckle. Let’s hope she doesn’t steal that one, too.”

He’s grown since the last time she’s seen him. He should be ten, maybe eleven summers old now, but looks a bit older — northerners and their fucking genes. His dark hair is shorter, he has a ceremonial dagger strapped on his belt and this time he definitely looks like a Little Lord. 

“My King,” he bows, then nods to you and bows again. “My Princess, I wished to congratulate you on your sixth nameday and excuse my father for his absence. Unfortunately he fell ill just before the departure to King’s Landing, so he sent me in his stead." He raises his head and looks again at you, “To a hundred of these days, my Princess.”

You’ve got the same look you had when you first saw him as a babe, even if Rhaenyra is sure that you don’t remember even seeing him. She isn’t even sure you know who he is, but you’re already blushing and swinging your legs under the table. 

“Ah, you’re Lord Rickon’s son– Cregan, am I right?” Viserys looks over to his daughter for confirmation, and she nods. The boy nods, too. “Yes, Your Majesty. Unfortunately he had to stay in the North.” 

“Yes, yes, ‘tis no problem,” Viserys waves a hand at him, “Send him my regards. Last year your mother died — and so did your brother the year before, am I right? Another tragedy in the North is the last thing we want.” he grimaces at his bad phrasing, which clearly sounded better in his head. The boy doesn’t react, but he knows that if he wasn’t the King, he probably would already have that beautiful ceremonial knife up his throat. 

Rhaenyra coughs. “What the King means to say,” she interjects, “is that we wish you our deepest condolences and will pray so that Lord Rickon can get a fast recovery.” 

Cregan bows his head and half-smiles. “Thank you, my Princess.”

“Is it as cold in the North as they say?” you suddenly ask him, tone full of child-like awe. 

The boy winces, and Rhaenyra just knows he’s getting flashbacks of that one time when you tried to make him bald. “Erm… yes, it is. There’s snow all year.” 

“One day I'll make sure to bring you there,” your grandsire briefly cuts in, not wanting to bother the Little Lord any longer. He smiles at him, nodding, “I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening, boy.”

Cregan doesn't have to be told twice, because by the time he's finished bowing he's already sprinting to the table he left earlier. You pout, staring at him while he sits back down between some other northern lords, and you hear your mother laugh. “Why the long face, sweetling?”

You look up at her. “Is the North far away?” you do have geography lessons, but something like distance is still a pretty hard concept to understand. 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, amused. “The North, or where the boy comes from?” You blush and keep your head down, “Why, where the boy comes from of course,”

Your mother laughs. “I’d say that Winterfell is… maybe a little more than a moon by carriage far from here.” your face falls, “But it’s a day or two by dragon.” 

You perk up. “When can I claim Merrax?”

Rhaenyra almost falls out of the chair laughing at this. It seems that the first love is never truly forgotten, even if you don’t even remember him. “Soon enough, sweetling.” 

Not much long after, the bards pick songs you can dance to; your grandsire offers you his hand to open the dances, even if he isn’t in the best conditions to do so, and you gleefully accept. You share a dance with him, even if it has to be cut short because of him not feeling the best, and happily swap him for your grandparents who like to twirl you around until you’re dizzy. 

You can’t even sit down before your brothers grab your hands and drag you to the dancefloor once again, demanding a dance with their sister too, and it’s only when the bards choose a slower song that you finally manage to sit down and catch a breath. That is, until you see the boy. 

Cregan Stark is about to retire for the night when he catches the scare of his life. 

“I have a buckle like that, too.”

He barely manages to hold back a yelp, eyes snapping behind him just to see you, bashfully looking at him, hands behind your back and on your tiptoes. He presses a hand on his chest, regaining himself. “Princess,” he says, but it sounds a bit breathless. “Yes, I remember. I gave you that buckle six years ago.” 

You tilt your head. “Ah, really?”

He nods. “Yes, at the feast for your birth. I remember it well.” I also remember how you terrorised me for a good part of the night. 

You hum, but don’t seem to have anything to say for now. He feels awkward, because he would gladly take his leave right now if it weren’t for the fact that he can feel the eyes of the whole Royal Family on you two. He’s not sure he can go without having the permission to — your permission, maybe — and the only thing his father advised him not to do was to cause a diplomatic incident. 

(Meanwhile, at the Royal table, your grandfathers and Laenor are discussing the very thing happening before their eyes, questioning what to do — and what you are trying to do. 

“Maybe she just likes the buckle again,” Laenor hushes. “Maybe she wants another one.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure she’s asking him if he is already betrothed,”

Viserys and Laenor send a nasty glare to Corlys, “She’s six, I surely hope not,” mutters your grandsire, worried about his little girl growing up, and most of all, getting interested in boys. Have you really already passed that phase where you think that boys are gross? Is he really getting that old?

“Ten Gold Dragons that she’s waiting for him to ask her to dance.” Rhaenyra cuts in. Rhaenys nods, taking a sip of her wine. “I would bet a hundred coins on that one.”)

The music is slow, and it almost drags the silence between you and the boy as you just stare at him. “I like this music.”

“Erm, yes,” Cregan grimaces. He fears he knows where this is going. “It is pretty lovely.”

Another moment of silence passes. “I also really like dancing,” you add. 

He sighs. There’s really no escape now. “Would you mayhaps like to dance, Princess?”

You squeal, girlish and childish, and immediately take his hand to drag him with you to the dancefloor. You don’t know the dance too well and your steps are a bit clumsy, but your enthusiasm definitely makes up for it. At some point though his feet are begging for mercy after being stomped on for ten minutes, so he takes the matters in his own hands and lifts you up enough for your tiptoes to rest upon his feet, so that he has to dance and you just have to stay balanced.

You giggle, blushing and looking up at him, grinning. He has the terrible feeling that he’s not getting out of here anytime soon. 

(Viserys lets out a pained sigh, thinking about his dear late wife. “She looks so much like her grandmother,” 

Corlys nods, looking at Rhaenys. “She does.”)

People around you two are dancing and swirling, too, and they chuckle at Cregan, sending him back to six years ago and making him feel a terrible deja-vu. At least she’s not pulling my hair anymore. He does have to admit that you’re a bit cute, though — you look so focused, looking at his feet and trying to memorise the steps as best as you can. But the fact that you’re cute doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have preferred going to sleep over dancing. 

He finds his saviour in a servant, who awkwardly stops your dance by bowing. “My Princess, my Lord,” the boy doesn’t mind correcting him on the honorifice, since he technically is here in the name of his father. The servant’s voice has a certain urgency. “A raven has just arrived from Winterfell. It’s from Lord Rickon Stark.” 

Cregan nods, “I’ll come in a minute,” he’s already out of the dancefloor, but then you tug on his cloak, big doe eyes staring at him. “But we have to finish our dance,” 

He sighs, and from the corner of his vision he sees Laenor Velaryon coming to get you. “I’m sorry, Princess, I’m sure there’ll be another time for us to dance again,” I hope not, “But now I really have to go.” 

Your lower lip trembles, you let out a whine. Before he can even realise he’s about to witness a grade eight type of meltdown, Laenor saves the day. He comes up behind you, taking your arms in his hands, smiling as sweetly as he can. “I can dance with you,” he offers. 

“But I want to dance with him,” 

Your father tries to suppress a cry of horror from the fact that you don’t want to dance with him — you’ve never rejected a dance with him before now. This is a first. He looks at Cregan, trying his best not to glare at him, understanding that this is not a situation he will get out of easily. “Would you perhaps be interested in becoming a ward here, boy?” he asks, barely managing to stop you from squirming in his grip. “She really likes you, and you would have the chance to stay in the Crown Lands for the time being. It is a great opportunity.”

At this point, he’s sounding desperate. Please stay here, my daughter will throw a fit if you go away. It seems you have found yourself a new toy, and unfortunately it’s not one of the new gifts that the lords brought. “You could be squire, cupbearer– oof,” you land a particularly harsh blow on his ribs, and he loses his breath for a moment, “Lord Commander of the City Watch, anything you want.” he leans down so that he’s more to his height, “Please.” he whispers, all his desperation clear in his strained voice. 

For some unknown reason, you calm down in an instant. Laenor fears that if he looks at you you’re going to start complaining again, so his gaze remains on the boy, who now looks terrified. Evidently, he has understood that he has to run, and fast. “Um– I– I’m flattered,” the Stark murmurs. “But unfortunately I’ve got duties up in the North as heir, a– and um, a letter from my father has just arrived. So, please excuse me,” he bows one last time before bolting out of the hall, the servant in front of him. 

Laenor sighs. He finally looks down at you, disappointed, and–

“Is that a knife?” you put it behind your back before he can see better and try your best to resist his wrangling with one hand. It does not take much for your father to take the dagger out of your hands, and realise it was the ceremonial dagger Cregan was carrying around before. He pales. “Is that why you stopped whining? How did you even get this?”

You look away. “I don’t know. I just took it.” you blush, “It was shiny,” 

It is of beautiful manufacture — the hilt is a direwolf much like the Stark’s emblem, and out of his mouth comes the blade. Your father sighs. “This is bad, sweetling. You don’t get to steal from others, am I clear? Tomorrow, you'll apologise to Lord Cregan and you’ll give it back to him.”

You pout, but it doesn’t last long. Because your grandsire comes up behind you, waving a hand at Laenor. “Aw, come on, she’s just a child. If she likes it so much she can keep it. I’ll make sure to send the boy a dagger twice the worth of that one.”

Your eyes shine, looking up at your grandfather. “Really? I can keep it?” 

“Of course not–”

“Of course,” your grandsire says, and that’s all that matters because he’s the King. You snatch the dagger from your father and run to Jace and Luke to show them your prize. 

Rhaenyra comes up to her father and husband, Laenor sulking and Viserys grinning. “May I ask why my firstborn is parading a dagger that I saw the Stark boy wear earlier to her brothers?” 

“She liked it,” her father simply says. “Was I supposed to just leave her heartbroken by the boy? She had to have some kind of compensation, at least.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Father, that was not heartbreak. That’s the kind of reaction she has when we take away her dolls.” your mother shivers, “May the Gods help us all the day her first heartbreak comes through.”

Rhaenyra surely didn’t think your first heartbreak would have come so soon. 

“How is it possible?” she seethes, arms crossed and a glare that could kill. 

The dragon keeper falters. “Well– you see, my Princess, the Cannibal landed a few hours ago in the pit. We didn’t give it much thought, since he always comes and goes, but then we noticed that a few hatchlings were missing, and–” “And you realised he ate them,” Laenor sighs. He’s already preparing himself for the world-shattering tantrum you’ll throw once you'll know that Merrax was fucking eaten. 

The keeper nods. “Yes. And, he has, um… let’s say, usurped the hatchling’s cave. We secured the other younglings, but if he were to discover them, we wouldn’t be able to stop him. He’s a wild dragon and second in size only to Vhagar, so–”

“I want his head,” Rhaenyra declares. “And if I have to storm into the Dragonpit and kill him myself to do so then I will.”

“My Princess, please reconsider,” the keeper cries out. “The Cannibal is one of the oldest dragons and is thought to be one of Balerion’s offsprings– one of the only ones to have survived. Killing him would be like… like erasing a part of your family’s history!”

“Erasing a part of my family’s history?” Rhaenyra booms. “Erasing a part of my family’s history?! He’s already making sure of it! How are our children supposed to claim dragons if he eats them all? He’s an abomination! Nobody ever even dared to give him a name, and he’s one of the only offsprings of Balerion left just because he ate his own siblings in the cradle, some even before they could hatch!”

“Nyra, calm down,” Laenor chastises. “Yes, it is a tragedy, and I don’t even want to think about how our daughter will react–”

At that she laughs bitterly, “Ooh, she’ll be pissed!”

“–Yes she will, but you know what? At least she hadn’t bonded yet with Merrax. She can still claim some other dragon, or– or– another dragon could hatch before she is of age to claim one.” “She is in the age of claiming one!” his wife rages. “I was seven summers when I claimed one, and I made sure that she would be able to surpass me and become the youngest dragon rider at only six– but of course the fucking Cannibal had to eat her dragon!”

“Princess Helaena’s hatchling was eaten, too,” the keeper whispers. “And even though he hatched at birth, she never bonded with him, and is instead bonded to Dreamfyre. Dragons are put in cradles in hope of the bonding process being easier in the future, but still, not all dragons that hatch in the cradle become bonded with the ones they shared it with. The young Princess still has options.” “I don’t care that she does, I want the Cannibal dead!”

It is quite late in the evening after the feast, so all children should be asleep, but you are not. You are in your aunt’s chambers, near to your own, playing with your dolls as Helaena hums songs and sews new dresses for you. 

“And while the dragon’s scales were as red as flames,” she sings quietly, “the maiden’s eyes were as blue as sapphires…” 

The singing is easily tuned out by the screaming match that is happening outside, probably down the hallway or in the gardens. You can hear the voice of your mother, enraged, and your father, who’s just trying to calm her down. 

You rise from the floor, leaving your dolls there, opening the door of the chamber and peeking an eye out. Ser Harrold Westerling, stationed in front of the door, is quick to notice you even as your mother screams and rages. “Princess,” he whispers, kneeling down. “You should be asleep. Please, get back inside,”

Meanwhile, your mother cries out, “Merrax is dead! And with her another four dragons died, all because you’re too scared of a stupid wild dragon! Why should my daughter suffer because of your cowardice? I’ll slay the Cannibal myself, if you don’t dare to do so!” 

Both you and the knight stop in your tracks. Your breath hitches. Merrax is… dead? 

You’re just a child — you are yet to grasp the concept of death. You know the late Queen Aemma, your grandmother, is dead. She died giving birth to your uncle Baelon — who died, too. You are a child, surrounded by death, yet not touched by it. You know the names of people who have died, relatives and not  — Alysanne, Aemon, Balerion, Aemma, Baelon — but they were all before you were born. You’ve never suffered a real loss. 

“What… what does it mean?” you ask Harrold, trembling. “Where– where did Merrax go? To Old Valyria?” your grandsire, while telling you about Balerion, the largest dragon in the world that he once rode, said that when dragons died they went back there. “We can– we can search for her, right? We… we must.” 

Your mother is none the wiser about your presence down the hallway, cursing in High Valyrian and threatening the dragon keeper. Your father, instead, notices. “Nyra,” he calls her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Stop.”

She does, annoyed, but once she sees your little trembling form coming out of Helaena’s chambers she feels her blood freeze. There’s no way of breaking the news gently, now. 

She dismisses the dragon keeper, rushing to get you; Laenor takes you in his arms, bidding his goodbyes to Harrold and Helaena, holding you tight to his chest while walking towards your chambers. You’re awfully quiet, shaking like a leaf, eyes barred open despite the late hour. 

Reaching your chambers, Laenor sits you down on the settee by the fireplace, kneeling down in front of you with Rhaenyra and holding your hand. Nobody is saying anything, and it scares you. Somehow, it makes it all feel more real. You whimper, because it just can’t be. “I– where… where’s Merrax?”

“Sweetling,” your mother starts. “There’s a wild dragon, known as the Cannibal, that has been eating our hatchlings for centuries. We don’t know how old he actually is– some say he’s an offspring of Balerion, your grandsire’s late dragon, and Vhagar. That would make him one of the two only dragons still alive to this day to have seen Old Valyria before the Doom– that’s why us Targaryens were always adamant about getting rid of him.”

You know about the Cannibal — so why is she telling you this? “The other reason is that nobody has ever managed to approach him,” your father adds. “He eats everything that gets near him, and often wanders to Dragonstone from King’s Landing and vice versa. That is to say, sweetling… there’s nothing we could have done to save her.” That is not true, Rhaenyra thinks, but it is best if the guilt rests on us rather than upon her. 

“What does it mean?” you babble. “Merrax… where…”

“Merrax has been eaten, sweetling,” says Rhaenyra, ripping off the bandaid. “The Cannibal has taken her.”

You shake your head, eyes filling with tears. “But– but she was mine!”

“We know, sweetling–”

“She was born with me, for me! She was my dragon– she had just started to eat from my hand!” now tears flow down your face as you weep, cheeks blotchy and an angry red. “Am I supposed to live like Aemond from now on? Without a dragon, bullied by Aegon and rejected by every hatchling? Why– what will grandsire think of me? He was the last rider of Balerion and his only granddaughter’s dragon died before she could even bond with her!”

Your cries are now inconsolable, and you reach for your parents, falling into their arms on the floor with them. “Your– you gave me your riding clothes from when you were my age and had them tailored just for me, but I can’t wear them without a dragon! I’ll just look stupid!”

Rhaenyra coos, brushing your hair back from your face and kissing your temple. “Calm down, my sweet. You shall not become like Aemond — you had not bonded yet with your dragon. And as much as Merrax’s death pains me, too, ‘tis not the end of the world. There are other hatchlings and adult dragons without a rider, who are just waiting for the right Targaryen to claim them.” 

She kisses your eyes and cheeks, wiping your tears. “And I’m sure at least one of them is waiting just for you.”

You have a plan. ‘Tis not really smart, but you are six summers old and have a dream. A dream that your mother always reputed you capable of — becoming the youngest dragon rider, surpassing her. You’re not about to let that dream go just because a stupid grandpa of a dragon ate your hatchling.

Until the Cannibal is back on Dragonstone, your mother refuses to let you go to the Dragonpit, insisting that he’s already stayed for too long — surely, he’s about to go off his way again, right?

(Apparently not. Helaena, who wasn’t forbidden from going to the pit, said that the dragon keepers are worried: it seems the Cannibal is taking his time — waiting for something, or someone.)

The plan is secretly going with Heleana to the Dragonpit, right before supper. As she visits Dreamfyre, you should be able to seek one of the hatchlings — and maybe one of them will take pity on you and allow you to ride them. 

The first part goes pretty well. You get in the dragon riding attire your mother had gifted you and that she once wore — black, with red embroidery displaying the Targaryen emblem on your chest — and just get in the carriage, right next to Helaena. Ser Criston Cole, the knight assigned to her for the afternoon, doesn’t even spare you a glance; he never does, that’s why you chose today of all days to come with your aunt. 

She is nervous, fidgeting with her hands and playing with her rings. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be wiser for you to stay in the Keep?” she asks worriedly. “It doesn’t matter if for a while you won’t have a dragon. I claimed mine just last year, and I’m older than you.”

You don’t reply — you’ve been rather silent in the last few days, unlike your usual self. Rhaenyra finds it even worse than your tantrums — she wishes you would just get it out and scream instead of remaining as silent as a ghost, your ramblings now an almost distant memory. They all just wish you could be the same as before the feast, before Merrax was eaten. 

The ride to the Dragonpit is short but awkward, and you wonder how your mother will react once she realises you sneaked out. It probably won’t take her much longer to notice your absence, so you have to either be quick or hide in the Dragonpit for the night if you wish to ride a dragon before your seventh name day. 

As you exit the carriage, a dragon keeper welcomes you and Helaena; he looks confused as to why you’re here, but quickly shakes it off, guiding you two towards the caves where the dragons rest. He hesitantly sends a glance to you, “The hatchlings are also there — Dreamfyre has her own clutch, and with the Cannibal near, we prefer to keep them with their own parents so they may be protected.” 

You nod as he guides you into one of the caves, a pretty light-blue and silver dragon chained in there. With Dreamfyre, there are four hatchlings, all much similar to her, all sleeping and chained. 

The keeper frees Dreamfyre from her chains, and she immediately darts to Helaena, gently nudging her with her snout. “Rytsas, issa hāedar,” Hello, my girl, she says. You know the basics of Valyrian — your mother made sure you knew enough to be able to claim and ride a dragon, even if it’s not as fluent as you’d like. You just understand it better than you speak it. 

You watch the hatchlings as they start to rouse; there’s a pretty one with blue and red scales that you intend to approach– 

Then you hear something. 

A low rumble coming from another cave, one that shakes the whole pit. “The Cannibal,” the dragon keeper mutters spitefully. “What a monster.” 

Well, that’s too bad, because you’ve already lost interest in the hatchling you saw earlier, and now your eyes are set on another possibility. The Cannibal.

No one ever managed to claim him, and all that tried are long dead. He can’t be killed as the other dragons know better than to get near him and there’s no amount of gold that could convince any man to try. Yet, he’s the one who killed Merrax, the one to have killed the dragon that should have been yours; he owes you a debt, and it has to be paid. 

The dragon keeper is too preoccupied with Dreamfyre and her hatchlings to notice your absence, and you are quick to snatch one of the torches on the walls to guide yourself through the various caves. You can feel the Cannibal’s presence, somehow; it haunts the pit, hanging like a weight over the caves, and suddenly you understand why the dragons have been so uneasy since his arrival. The air is heavy and smells of burnt flesh, smoke lingering between the corridors. 

The rumbling that you heard earlier is heard again, and you know that he’s near. And he is — only two caves away, you find him. 

He’s of a pitch black colour, and is covered in spikes, which — much like his tail — fade in a deep green. Some of his scales, at the light of the fire, shine of the same colour too; now you understand why he’s thought of being the son of Balerion and Vhagar, because if it weren’t for the torch revealing his green shades, you’d think he was the Black Dread come back to life. Two horns rest above his eyes, tipped backwards and almost pointing at his wings. He’s massive, and it’s clear that this cave wasn’t meant for him, as it’s definitely much too small for his form. It was meant for the hatchlings — the hatchlings he ate. 

He opens his eyes, roused from his sleep, and two gigantic emeralds stare down at you, almost mockingly. He makes no move towards you, nor tries to eat you, so maybe that’s a good sign. 

“You’re the Cannibal,” you whisper, stupidly. “You’re the one who killed Merrax.”

He barely grunts in response, maybe uninterested in you, maybe in assent. 

You then understand that if you truly want to claim and ride a dragon, then you must gather all the courage your little body can muster up and use it. “You ate Merrax,” you state, more firmly, all the anger you’ve felt in the last few days finally getting the best of you. “Ao enkagon nyke iā gēlȳn.” You owe me a debt. 

This time, he props his head up; he looks entertained, almost as if he’s betting on what you’ll do. You can’t hurt him — you’re but a child — and you surely can’t kill him. So, what are you going to do? 

There’s a rack of rope near the entrance of the cave, probably used for the hatchlings when they were still alive. You put down the torch, leaving it on the sand of the pit, and roll up the rope, holding it between your arm and shoulder. The Cannibal has no saddle, so you’ll have to find a way not to fall off of him. Your mother’s going to kill you if you do — but let’s see if you live enough for her to be able to do that. 

The climb to reach the top of the Cannibal’s neck looks hard, but you’re stubborn and would rather die than let him go away with the fact that he ate Merrax. If you can't kill him, then you’re going to bother him for the rest of your life. So, the only thing you can do is start climbing. 

He seems confused by your doing, as you’re clinging to the spikes and scales trying to reach the top of his neck. He shakes it, somewhat in a gentle manner, and you fall on your butt, not from high enough to actually hurt, but from high enough to have a bruised ego. 

“What is wrong with you?” you scream out, angry. “You killed my dragon, the last thing you can do is replace her!”

Your voice dies a little by the end, because the Cannibal has gotten up and leant down, opening his left wing, almost inviting you to mount him. You’re completely weirded out, but surely enough, are not going to reject his offer. 

Quickly getting up, with the wing serving as some sort of stairs, in a matter of mere minutes you find yourself on top of the Cannibal, who looks like he’s just waiting for you to say something. “Okay, okay,” you mumble to yourself. You’re not scared — well, not of him, but of your mother. Oh, once she hears about this, you’ll be grounded until you’re ready to be wed. 

With the rope, you tie yourself to the dragon, using his spikes to hold the cord firm onto his body. You give him a pat on the scales, adjusting to the feeling of being so high up. “Um… iōrās?” you order him to stand, but it sounds more like a question. 

He does follow your demand, though, standing up straighter, ready to get out. “Whoa– alright.” you hold onto the spikes tighter, “Well, I have to name you first, big guy.”

He turns his head to look at you, almost confused. “I can’t just keep calling you the Cannibal, because I won’t let you eat any more hatchlings.” At this, he grunts in disapproval, but you go on, telling yourself that he surely doesn’t understand the common tongue and just wants to go against you. “My mother calls all her dragon’s hatchlings with names ending in ax, because her mount’s name is Syrax. So I could call you something like… I don’t know, Rhaerion?”

He grumbles, and you grimace. “I don’t think you deserve your father’s name, though. You eat baby dragons, while Balerion was loyal and obedient.” You search your brain for names, Valyrian or not, that would suit him, before having the idea of a lifetime.

You know some basics of High Valyrian, enough to make a dragon fly, always says your mother. Helaena is pretty good at it, Aemond is almost fluent and your brothers are still learning it. Your uncle Aegon, instead, is completely ignorant of it except for cursing words. He likes to call anyone an orvorta, but he has a favourite cuss word usually used for your brothers — and while it makes you mad that he refers to them in such a way, you have to admit that it is a name quite fitting for your dragon. 

“Your name shall be Nādrēsy,” you tell him. “That is, until you redeem yourself. Then I may decide to find you another name, maybe a kinder one.” 

He roars, shaking his head, looking at you in disappointment. You can hear the dragon keepers shout your name in the corridors, having finally noticed your absence — or maybe your presence, since you shouldn’t have been there since the beginning. You hold onto the dragon’s spikes as hard as you can, preparing yourself for some movement. 

“Jiōragon hen hen kesīr, Nādrēsy!” you order, with the same tone your grandsire uses while holding court. Get out of here. 

He does as you ask, moving on all fours with steps that make the Dragonpit shake. You see two keepers in front of you, frozen in fear, but it’s not long before they start screaming and running away. 

You get to the entrance of the Dragonpit, and from where you sit you see a group of gold cloaks standing not too far away, behind Ser Harwin Strong — who apparently barely notices the dragon behind him, too preoccupied in screaming in Ser Criston Cole’s face about how “it’s all his fault that the princess is missing” and how “the King should have his head”. 

While you never liked Cole too much, as he seemed to despise you for no reason, you didn’t wish for him to be beheaded because of you. So you stop Nādrēsy, and cupping your mouth with your hands you scream, “Ser Harwin! I’m here!” 

At first the Lord Commander doesn’t understand where you are, looking around and sending a glance at Cole that says this doesn’t end here, but once he sees you, all the blood drains from his face, as well as from the face of Ser Criston and the other knights. “Princess!” he screams, hysteric. “Get off of there, it’s dangerous! Your mother has been searching for you, and she’s worried!”

But it seems that you already can’t hear him, returning all your attention to your dragon. “Gaomagon ao gīmigon skoriot Driftmark iksis?” you ask him. Do you know where Driftmark is?

You have all the intentions of keeping the promise you made to your grandmother, about your first flight being one to visit her and Corlys on Driftmark. They had just gotten back a couple of days ago, but you’re sure that they would still be happy to see you. Right now, you don’t think about your parents, too euphoric of finally having a dragon of your own as you are — and that will probably cost you another two years you’ll have to spend grounded. 

Nādrēsy roars loudly, opening his wings and taking flight. 

Not even ten hours later you find yourself on Driftmark, under the worried glance of your grandparents, who upon hearing your story are asking themselves if Rhaenyra has already thrown herself into madness. You happily show them your new acquaintance, who unexpectedly purrs when you caress his snout and doesn’t look like the Cannibal who ate countless of hatchlings. 

“That’s… that’s marvellous, sweetheart,” Rhaenys is a bit shaken, but still tries to be supportive. “Does your mother, perhaps, know that you’re here?” “Of course not! She would throw a fit otherwise.”

All their fears are confirmed to be true, and your grandmother immediately asks a servant for paper and pen to write to King’s Landing. And as you tell them how you renamed the Cannibal, Corlys pales, thinking that with you being daughter of Rhaenyra, you could have chosen something way worse. He’s just grateful that the common folk doesn’t know High Valyrian. 

Two days later, a raven comes from Driftmark, finally putting at ease the concerns of the whole court and stopping Rhaenyra and Laenor from getting any more grey hairs. 

To King Viserys I Targaryen, his daughter Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon. The Princess (who you have been searching for, I assume) has just landed on Driftmark. She is safe and sound, thankfully, and she rode ten hours on a dragon known for his wilderness without a saddle, secured on him only by a cord. She renamed the Cannibal (funnily enough, if you wish to know, his name now is ‘Nādrēsy’) who is now eating all the whales and sharks of the Narrow Sea that he can see from the island. We managed to put a saddle on him, so that the next time she’ll ride him the chances of falling off his back are minimal, and I will accompany her back to King’s Landing on Meleys myself as soon as she takes a good rest and is able to get on the dragon again. Me and my husband took the liberty to give her an earful about her recklessness and irresponsibility, but we’re sure you’ll choose a considerate punishment for her behaviour once she returns to King’s Landing.  Yours truly, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

Rhaenyra puts down the letter, taking a deep breath, telling herself that violence is not the answer. Unfortunately, all she can think about is giving you two slaps at a time until the number becomes uneven. 

Laenor sighs, rubbing his eyes. They both haven’t slept much in the last two days, too worried to even think about stopping the research for you. “Well, at least she’s alive.”

To their grand surprise, Viserys bursts out laughing. “See?” he says to his daughter. “That’s what you put me through when you were young. Ooh, you’re in for at least twelve years of worrying and suffering. Rhaenyra, my dear daughter, I’m glad to announce that your daughter came out just like you.” he then rises from his seat, laughing like a madman. “My granddaughter is the youngest dragon rider in history!” he screams, feeling as young as he hadn’t felt in a while. “Oh, boy, I’ll have to organise a whole other feast for this!”

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra just stares at the letter; she’s not surprised you sneaked out, because that’s what she would have done in the same situation, and she has to admit that there are some similarities between you and the way she was before having you. There’s just one thing that almost makes her think that you really are a younger version of her, come back from the past to haunt her for all the scares she gave her father during the years.

“Bastard,” she mutters. “My daughter, out of all the proper names she could have chosen, called her dragon Bastard.”

As long as she's comfortable.

Cregan Stark x reader

SMUT

18+ bruh

Summary: Cregan helps the reader overcome her guilt of needing to please him at all times.

Warnings: Dom!Cregan, p in v, fingering, turns non-con for a moment, idk this is slutty as hell

A/n: This is based on an ask! and this.

Masterlist

ADULT ACTIVITIES UNDER THE CUT GUYS

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She buried her face in Cregan's neck as she let out a low groan. 

His fingers had been buried inside her longer than she wanted them to be. 

But he had to guarantee she was ready for him.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell had been married a couple months now, and they were as deeply in love as they were on their wedding. 

"Cregan…" she whispered in his neck.

He let out a low groan, "I know, I know."

He pulled his hand from her with a grin, "Sit up."

Her brows furrow, "Wh… Cregan…?"

"I know." He twists an arm around her back to help her sit up, "It's a bit different. But, do trust me."

She nodded and pulled herself up as he had asked.

"Now, on your knees, back to me."

"But then I cannot see you."

He lets out a light chuckle, "Trust me. You'll still feel me all the same."

Confused, she pushes herself to her knees, turning around and looking over her shoulder at him, "And what now?"

"Up onto your knees completely, now."

"Up? Onto…" She pulled her body up onto her knees on the furs.

He let out a coo of praise, "Good. Like that. Elbows on the bed."

"No. Cregan, what…?"

His hand came from behind her to the side of her hip, "Elbows down, pretty."

"I'll feel ridiculous."

He pushed himself up onto his knees, pulling her against his chest, "Have I ever made you feel that way?"

"Well, no-"

"-Then why would I now?" His hand moved from her waist to her stomach and she felt that familiar feeling return to her core as his hand trailed lower. 

She let out a soft groan and moved her hands to the bed, lowering her elbows down to the bed. 

Cregan let out a sinful groan as he leaned back to look at her now, "Fuck."

His hands now wandering to her arse in front of him, chuckling when she let out a small squeak.

One hand dipped lower, entering a finger into her once more. 

A soft breath escaped her and she shifted on her arms.

"Feels different this way, doesn't it?" Cregan cooed. 

She let out a shaky nod, "So… so good, Cregan."

He pulled his hand from her. He took her hips in his hands and began to line himself up with her, "Just like usual, pretty. Easy does it."

As he slowly moved into her, she let out an immediate moan. The stretch burned like it always did but at a new angle. 

Cregan groaned not long after her, bottoming out quickly, his tailbone meeting the back of hers. 

She could feel his breath in her hair. His voice was low and hushed now that was near her ear, "You alright?"

Her eyes closed for a moment and she hummed, "yeah… you can… please…"

A soft kiss was placed as the back of her ear before he began to move. 

A sharp intake of breath and her mouth was left agape and the new angle he stretched in her. 

Cregan's eyes screwed shut, savoring the slow rhythm he set. 

"Cr… please… please faster…"

He began to move faster, their moans drowning out the sound of his hips thrusting against hers.

Cregan pulls his torso away from her to hold her hips steady and properly thrust into her. 

She let out a downright scream at it.

"Gods, this is…" Cregan paused, "This is per… You are perfect."

"Don't stop… Don't-"

"I'm not stopping until we're done," he growled. 

The moans filled the large chamber of Winterfell, not caring if the servant and staff heard a word of it. 

They were newly-weds. The entire castle had heard the two of them at some point. 

Cregan couldn't even name every surface they had fucked on.

There was a point in it every time that Cregan grew rather primal, eagerly chasing his high once it felt manageable. 

He was there as of now. 

He grunted as his thrusts quickened. 

The quickening had lost her. 

Her head snapped up to look at the headboard. 

"So good. So good." He groaned. 

Her brows pinched together, now noting the uncomfortable feeling. The sweat that gleamed on her forehead and and clammy feeling of skin on skin. 

"Doing alright, pretty?" He asked in a pant. 

She grunted and nodded, staring at the headboard of their bed. 

She can't tell him. 

His movements continue and she bares them, taking them each thrust at a time. 

Her arms were growing tired, her knees aching. 

Her mother, when she had her down to tell her of marital acts, told her never to make demands of a man in bed. To be a wife is to be willing to take what he gives you willingly. 

Giving Cregan whatever he wanted was not a hard task. 

It shouldn't be a hard task. 

A moan came from him, "Gods, pretty, I'm close."

She quietly thanked the gods. 

He leaned up against her back, reaching forward and running his hand down her arm. His fingers brushed the back of her hand, and when they reached her fingers, he interlocked them, grabbing at the furs underneath them. 

The hands are directly below her head, and she rests her forehead on them. 

Her breathing is staggered as she tries to collect herself. 

His hips buck roughly once, and she lets out a hiccup.

The tipping point. 

Cregan feels a single tear drip onto his hand.

His hips come to a stop. "Wait."

She sniffles against his hand, "No, no. Keep going."

He lets out a disapproving hum, "C'mere. Let me see you."

When he tries to pull his hand from hers, her other hand tries to grip it. She lays desperate kisses on the top of his hand, "It's fine. Please."

He grunts, pulling himself from her to sit back on his legs with a concerned gaze.

She lays unmoving, as if waiting for a punishment of sorts. 

"I said c'mere, lovely."

She looks down at her hands which now begin to shake. 

One of his hands moved to her hip, pushing and knocking her onto her side before he crawled onto her and trapped her on her bed. 

Her eyes were red and puffy with unshed tears. 

"Why are you upset?" He asked in concern.

"I'm not," she lied. "These are… these are good tears."

His hand moved her up to caress her cheek, rubbing a thumb over the skin as he searched in her eyes, "These are not the same tears."

"No, it's-"

"-If you did not enjoy it, why did you not tell me?" He said with a furrowed brow.

"I did!" She whined. "Well… I was."

A silence filled them before he sighed and nodded his head, "But I got carried away."

She shook her head, "No, no." She reached out and pulled her face to him, "You should keep going." She connected her lips with his desperately.

He let out an angered groan as he pulled himself away from her, sitting up and further from her with an offended gaze, "How dare you!"

She sat up with him. Her hand reached to the furs, beginning to pull them up to cover her breasts, "You were so close, and we can still-"

"NO!" He yelled.

She gasped sharply and flinched as more hot tears came to her eyes, "I don't understand."

"Why ever would you…?" He stood from the bed in anger and began to redress. "Why would you ever let me do that to you?"

"I am trying to be a good wife!" She yelled.

"I am trying to be a good husband!" He yelled back in the same manner. 

The room went quiet, save for the sounds of her sobs echoing off the walls. 

They were driving him crazy. 

He continued dressing, now in his trousers. He bit his lip with a sigh. His voice softened, "Did you… Did you enjoy it at all?"

"I did." She sniffled, "I did… at the beginning."

"I am not mad at you for not liking it." He finally said. 

"Then why… why are you yelling at me?" 

His anger flared up again, "Because you…" He forced himself to take a deep breath and speak again with a softer and lower tone, "I do not understand your reasoning for trying to continue even after you found no pleasure."

Her brows furrowed and her mouth opened and closed a few times trying to find the right words, "Pleasure is not… what I'm… for."

His head cocked to the side as he neared the bed, "I'm sorry?"

"No, that is not right." She looked up in thought. "I am here.. to please you. And that is all."

He wanted to scoff. He wanted to laugh, even. What a stupid thought. But he kept an even head and sat on the bed, facing her, "Do you truly believe that?"

She wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks and she nodded.

Cregan couldn't stop the long sigh that escaped him. He wasn't actually expecting this answer. He ran a hand over the bottom half of his face. 

The silence became all consuming.

Finally, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it.

"How horrible of a man would I be if every time I looked at my child, I remembered the time I impregnated my wife while she sat in tears?"

His eyes trailed up slowly to meet hers, a hollow look in his eyes. 

She couldn't will herself to even open her mouth at that. 

His hand slowly reached out to hers, squeezing it. "If you lose pleasure while we are intimate, you must tell me."

She shook her head in confusion, "I… I don't understand."

His voice grew gruffer, "Who told you that you couldn't tell me? What ever gave you that impression?"

"Well, it's not-"

"Have I ever denied a wish from you?"

"Well, no-"

He leaned in closer, "Have I ever been angered about something that you want?"

"No-"

"Do you not trust me?"

"Cregan, I do-"

"Then where did this come from?"

Their faces close now, she could study ever freckle on his face. She didn't want to tell him. She really didn't. 

He raised his brows, "Well?"

"My mother."

An immediate sigh escaped him again, "Ah."

She bit her cheek, still waiting for a punishment of some sort.

He leaned the rest of the way and kissed her cheek, "How about a bath?"

"A bath?" She asked in confusion.

"We should clean ourselves. I want to bathe with you." He leans down to catch her eyes with his, "Is that alright?"

She couldn't help the small smile that rose to her lips, "Yes. That… that sounds nice."

…

She felt herself completely relaxed against Cregan's chest in the tub, the water warm and calming.

His fingers traced patters on her forearm softly. 

"Forgive me," he finally whispered.

She hummed, "Why?"

"I did not even noticed you were not comfortable. Too lost in myself. I vow to be more giving to you-"

"You are very giving to me, Cregan, I promise."

"Let me earn your trust back."

She let out a soft chuckle against him, "Fine. Fine, yes. Yes, you may."

A chuckle came from his chest. "Thank you."

Another soft silence.

"I do not want you to listen to you mum anymore." Cregan spoke out to the silence. "What she said was wrong. And I'm quite ashamed that you even believe it. As if I would do such a thing to you."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Listen to me now," he hummed against her ear. "You can tell me what you want. When to stop. Where to move. Yes, I want heirs. But not over your own pleasure." His voice lowered, "If you told me in this moment to never touch you again, I would respect it. Heir or no heir, you're my wife. I do not care for the rest of things even remotely as much."

A grin tugged at her lips and her hand dipped under the water to find his hand, "I can tell you anything?"

He followed her train of thought and chuckled, a husky tone coming to his voice in her ear, "I'll do whatever you want me to do." His grin grew, "How about tonight… I do anything you want?"

Her eyes lit up, "Anything I want?"

He kissed the back of her ear gently, "Anything."

A giggle erupted from her lips and she turned herself around in the tub to look at him, "Get up, then."

His eyebrows shot up, "Now?"

She leaned to him, kissing him softly, "Now. I have much in mind."

Cregan found himself turned on suddenly by this demanding girl that had taken over his wife.

And he wouldn't complain one bit.

As long as she's comfortable.

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Tag: @snowsilverlining

SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON - THE LAST KINGDOM S3, EP8.

requested by @eretriahs [ 3 / 3 ]

The first thing Rhaenyra sees when she invades King's Landing