[38] How to Feed Your Dragon

Chapter 38: How to Feed Your Dragon

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I sat on the edge of a spacious bed in one of Highgarden’s more private and luxurious guest chambers, the midnight moon filtering through tall windows and warming the polished floor beneath my feet.

My bandaged hand throbbed softly, still reminding me of the crossbow bolt that nearly found its mark this afternoon, but Margaery’s gentle touch on the wrapping made the pain less intrusive.

“I can’t believe how fast you’re hearing,” she said in fascination. She was kneeling beside me, her deft fingers finishing the final knot of a new linen around my palm.

Her hair caught the moonlight in loose, artful coils, and her eyes sparkled like emeralds under the moon. Though she appeared mild as she cared for me, a subtle steel lurked in her gaze. She hated seeing me injured. I doubted it was because of love; more likely, it was because my dying would mean the loss of her crown once again.

That was who Margaery Tyrell was—beautiful and scheming, not in an evil way. Most of all, she was one greedy lady. “Does it hurt?” she looked up and asked.

I rotated my wrist, testing the tension of the bandages. “A little,” I admitted, “but I’ll manage. As you saw, much of it has healed. Anyway, you’re quite good at nursing. Maybe I should keep getting into trouble so you can fuss over me.”

A playful arch curved her brow. “Oh, let’s not encourage any repeat of that outrageous incident, Your Grace. But honestly,” she hesitated, “it’s still surreal to me. How you blocked that arrow with your hand, I mean. The speed at which you moved, I saw it. Then, the thickness of your skin…”

I laughed, feigning mystery. “A good magician never reveals his secrets, my lady. Besides,” I added, “it takes more than a single bolt to kill a dragon.”

She giggled, amusement tugging her lips. “A dragon who’s also a showman, it seems.”

The next few moments passed in a calm hush, only broken by the quiet curtains flapping in the mild autumn breeze. She remained kneeling before me, our eyes locked, and she smiled as I observed her.

She wore a two-piece gown and a black robe over her shoulders. Her midriff was out in the open, accentuating her navel with a slender golden chain. The gentle slope of her waist, revealed in such a bold style, stirred a certain tension in my pants. I smiled. She noticed me looking but only smirked, leaning in as if silently reminding me she held the reins of this game, too.

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“So,” she began, her tone turning casual, “are you feeling better about our arrangement here in Highgarden? If so many lords have rallied around you, I suspect your confidence must be soaring.”

I shrugged lightly, not denying it. “Confidence is necessary, but it doesn’t solve all my problems. For instance, my strength lies in my dragon, and it’s been a while since Viserion last ate. She’s pretty hungry right now. I trust the goats are prepared?”

Margaery nodded. “Yes. My grandmother saw to that. We keep them in one of the older storehouses beneath the library tower. It’s dim and wide enough for a… dragon feast, I suppose.” She rose from the bed and gestured for me to follow.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re leading me there personally?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Who else?” This girl really wanted to see my dragon.

****

She led me through winding corridors that descended into an older wing of Highgarden, where the stones felt colder, the torchlight flickered, and the ceilings arched overhead in silent proof of the castle’s age.

My footsteps echoed on damp flagstones. Occasionally, the distant bleating of goats reached my ears, and I felt Viserion stirring within the pocket dimension I used as her hiding place, sensing the presence of fresh prey.

We arrived at a dark chamber lit by a single hanging lantern. Sure enough, a small herd of crying goats huddled in a makeshift pen. Margaery paused at the threshold and gestured a chin at the livestock.

I looked at her delicate features that felt half-sculpted by the flicker of yellow-orange flame. “You’re not leaving?” I asked softly, smiling. “I can’t show you this, you know?”

She cleared her throat, crossing her arms under her chest. “Come now. Is this really necessary, Your Grace? Waiting till marriage might as well kill me. Haven’t I heard about it from Grandmother and my brother anyway? So let me see it already!”

I smiled, stepping close enough to catch the faint rosewater scent clinging to her hair. I slipped an arm around her waist, her flesh warm against my touch. Our eyes locked. “Do you remember what you said,” I murmured, “when I held you last time…? That I must wait until marriage?”

Her cheeks took on the barest flush as she looked away, neither confirming nor denying. I laughed. “It might not be a pleasant sight now,” I warned. “Feeding time, after all.”

She heaved a sigh of relief seeing me agree. “I’ll manage.”

I nodded. Then, I snapped my fingers. The air cracked with energy, and the fabrics of space-time tore apart in a single moment. A dark dimension opened beside us.

Viserion burst forth, her leathery wings rustling in the gloom, her golden scales glinting in the wavering lantern light. She spewed a small jet of flame that licked across the air, sending the goats into frenzied bleating. Without a cry of hesitation, the dragon pounced on them, fangs sinking with savage efficiency.

Margaery stepped forward, eyes widening as the blaze illuminated her face. In the reflection of her irises, I could see a curious wonder, a spark of near-reverence. She stared, entranced, as Viserion devoured her meal.

I stood behind Margaery, slipping my arms around her from behind, pressing my chest to her back so she could feel the reassurance of my warmth. She gasped softly when I bent to kiss the nape of her neck. A faint whimper escaped her lips, but she didn’t resist, too captivated by the reality of a living dragon feeding mere steps away.

“Are you impressed?” I murmured near her ear. My hand trailed over her midriff, lingering on the soft skin revealed by her daring outfit. I heard the quickening pace of her heart.

She swallowed, nodding. “I—yes. You know, I didn’t fully believe Grandmother, even though I knew she wouldn’t lie. But seeing it… feeling the heat…” Her words trailed off, replaced by shaky laughter. “Gods, it’s incredible.”

I could see the flicker of flame dancing in her wide eyes as if she was already imagining those same flames turned against any foe of House Tyrell or House Targaryen. As if she was imagining her future children riding those scales. I tightened my hold on her.

She giggled once, turning her head enough that her cheek brushed mine. “I feel like we truly are forging something beyond the realm’s comprehension, Your Grace. Viserion is magnificent.”

I laughed quietly, “Wait until the rest of Westeros finds out. And wait until my sister’s dragons join me.”

She parted her lips to reply, but the words died as I leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder, then up her neck. A soft sigh escaped her. She yielded to the closeness for a moment—until she seemed to remember her own stance on chastity.

She half-turned and pushed me gently in the chest. “Hey,” she teased, voice low, “after marriage, remember?”

I smirked, stepping in any way, guiding her back against a nearby stone pillar. My knee slid between her thighs, enough to make her gasp. Forehead resting against hers, I murmured, “I’m quite certain I can’t wait that long. Like how you couldn’t.”

“Hey… they’re not the same…” she said.

“I suppose,” I hovered my lips over hers. “Sure thing, then. As long as you’d rather I find someone else to help me… relax… well, your grandmother might not mind. Your handmaiden looks quite pretty.”

Her eyes flashed, a spark of jealousy or challenge. She grumbled for a moment, realizing my character if she hadn’t already from the rumors, and then clicked her tongue. “I… can use my mouth,” she proposed softly, the boldness of her suggestion pairing with a playful glint in her eyes. “Trust me, it’ll be enough.”

I chuckled. “Trust me, it’ll not be enough. Do you think a man who can stop a crossbow with his bare hand lacks vigor? Your jaw will fall apart if you try to satisfy me with this lovely little mouth of yours,” I grabbed her face, smirking at her. “Plus, if we’re going that far… isn’t it better to go all the way? In that case, you can at least hope to get pregnant and solidify this entire thing.”

I finished, and she blinked once, twice, and then a third time as if saying, ‘Fuck, he’s right.’ That was a far better approach to this situation than playing hard to get.

She caught my meaning, biting her lip in that half-innocent, half-sultry way she could only pull off. A flicker of conflict passed over her features—she was cunning enough to weigh the political ramifications, the potential hold she might gain, and her grandmother's reaction. At the same time, lust, ambition, and curiosity swirled in her gaze.

A breath passed, and she moved suddenly, tugging at my collar. She brought me down for a searing kiss.

I laughed into the mouth, and my hands roamed her waist, sliding the thin fabric that covered her. Her breath caught when I lifted her effortlessly, pressing her firmly against the pillar. Her legs rested on my shoulders, and she let out a trembling moan as my lips grazed the sensitive skin of her midriff.

Warmth flared between us, fueled by the swirl of flame behind us and the primal nature of the moment. I felt her quake in my shoulders as my lips kissed her stomach. My tongue slid down, and she whimpered, burying her fingers in my hair.

“W-wait! I changed my mind. After— marriage—! Ahng~” she managed breathlessly before bursting out, moaning, even as her thighs locked around my neck. “A-at least… let’s head to my bedroom…!”

“Nope,” I answered as I savored the taste of Margaery’s skin, pressing her against the cold pillar in that dim chamber while Viserion’s low growls echoed behind us as she munched into the goats.

The pillar’s cold stone under my hands contrasted with the fever in my mouth. In the torchlit gloom, often brightened with dragon flames, Margaery’s breath came quickly as she moaned. Her lips parted to release soft, stifled whimpers as I trailed kisses down her neck, my hands cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her gown.

A sudden roar from Viserion snapped us back to the moment. “You two…!” After a long time, she spoke again. “Go… mate… somewhere else!” My dragon, apparently unimpressed with our distraction, let out a thunderous call that rattled through the hall, sending reverberations across the ancient stones.

Margaery jerked away, her cheeks flushed in the flickering orange glow, her nipples taut against the fabric of her gown. “W-what the hell? Dragons can speak?!”

“Mine can,” I said, ignoring the growling dragon and kissing this delicate flower.

She moaned and cleared her throat, readjusting the half-loosened fabric draped around her midriff. “R-regardless, she disapproves of this,” she teased, breath uneven, her eyes flicking to the creature’s dark outline. “Let’s not give her more to complain about. I don’t want to become like those goats. Can’t we please… continue this somewhere less… livestock-scented, Your Grace?”

I loved how she said those last two words, how sultry and hungry she sounded. She couldn’t wait to be called the same by others.

My smirk widened. “Fine. I wouldn’t hate a more private stage for our performance,” Without waiting for an answer, I scooped her into my arms, watching her eyes fly wide with surprise and delight. Her breasts heaved against my chest as I carried her like a princess.

“What are you—!” she laughed, but her words turned breathy as I hoisted her higher, my hands gripping her ass, fingers tracing the cleft between her cheeks. She moaned softly, her arms tightening around my neck.

“What am I doing? I am indulging in the perks of being a dragon king,” I answered. “If you’d rather walk, I can set you down. But I must warn you, my lady, it’ll be shameful if the servants saw you walk naked, so I’d rather just carry you. It’ll be faster.”

She gasped, her eyes darkening with lust. “No, I… fine, don’t drop me,” she managed, and in a show of bravery, she nipped at my earlobe, her tongue flicking against the sensitive skin.

We stepped out into the corridor, my cock throbbing in my pants with every step. A pair of maids passing by gasped at the sight—the Targaryen prince carrying the Tyrell rose, her cheeks flushed with arousal.

“K-kya!! Unhand our lady this instance!”

Margaery quickly raised a hand, both in greeting and mild embarrassment. “It’s—this is fine, truly!” she reassured them. “All is well. And you saw nothing!”

Viserion let out one last throaty growl somewhere behind us in the now-closed chamber, and the maids screamed as they fled. By the time we reached Margaery’s bedchamber, I was ready to explode. I shut the door behind us, not caring who heard the slam.

The room welcomed us with softly glowing lamps, perfumed linens, and tall windows that opened onto the starlit gardens below. When I set her on her feet, she turned to me, eyes gleaming with hunger. She wasted no time sliding a hand around my neck to pull me into a deep, searching kiss, her other hand working at the laces of my pants.

I hummed low in my throat, returning the pressure in kind. My earlier urgency flared hotter, my cock straining against the confines of my clothing. Her lips parted with a quiet sigh, and we stumbled backward together until her back found a carved wooden column. Fabric rustled as I tugged at the halves of her gown’s top piece, revealing more smooth skin.

I took in her form with an appreciative hunger, my hands cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they were tight peaks. She arched against me, letting the cloth fall in a flutter around her waist, her breath hitching as I dipped my head to capture one rosy tip in my mouth.

“This… hang…” she moaned, her voice muffled against my collar as I sucked and nibbled at her flesh. “You’re hungrier than… ahn… your dragon, Your Grace.”

I nibbled softly at her earlobe, drawing out a quiet moan. “What can I say? I am a dragon myself,” I slid a hand between her thighs, my fingers finding the hot, wet pussy of her. She gasped, her hips bucking against my touch. “And just call me Viserys.”

Her giggle turned into a groan when I kissed down the line of her jaw, trailing lower, leaving warm, open-mouthed caresses that made her breathing hitch. Our touches turned bolder, the tension between us spiraling as we half-wrestled, half-clung to each other in the lamplit hush of her bedchamber.

She pressed her palm over my bandaged hand, mindful of the injury yet pulling me closer. The pain was distant now—a dull throb overshadowed by the pounding thrill that coursed through my veins. Her slender fingers found the clasps at my waist, undoing them with a skillful twist. My cock sprang free, thick and hard, and she froze for a moment. She swallowed and then wrapped her fingers around my length, her thumb circling the sensitive tip.

“A dragon, for sure…” A quiet, breathy laugh escaped her as she stroked me, her touch sending waves of pleasure through me. “You are… hungry, right?” she murmured, gazing into my eyes. “For something more tender than goats.” I just smirked, and she guided me to the bed, pushing me down onto the soft covers. I went willingly, and she straddled my hips, her wet heat pressing against my cock.

I answered with a low chuckle, capturing her lips again, letting my uninjured hand tangle in her hair. Our breaths mingled, warm and electric, and in that moment, I felt the heady power of forging alliances not just through politics but through pure, primal connection. I just wanted to make Margaery Tyrell scream in pleasure.

She might have called it strategic, a seduction carefully measured, but I sensed a genuine flame behind it—desire twined with ambition, yes, yet undeniably real. She was in heat for me.

She sat on top of me, looking down at my eyes. Then, she reached between us, guiding my cock to her entrance. I thrust upwards, sheathing myself in her tight, wet heat. We both moaned, our bodies stilling for a moment as we savored the sensation.

Then I began to move. “Ah-! Hey, you just put it in- ahng~” She moaned, and I held her hips, raising and pulling at her as she rode me, her breasts bouncing with each thrust.

I gripped her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh as I met her thrusts with my own. The tension of the day, the near-assassination, and the swirl of courting lords all vanished beneath the press of our bodies, the ragged hush of our breaths. Her hands roamed over my shoulders, nails grazing lightly, urging me on.

She parted her lips, trying to speak but losing the words the moment my mouth found the tender flesh of her throat. Each ragged breath she took was an unspoken confession of need. My own pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out everything but the whisper of her name and the ragged hush of her breath.

I leaned in, letting her glimpse the raw hunger in my eyes. And she met me with that same intensity in her own cunning, luminous way. “Fuck me,” she moaned, “breed me, do me deeper~”

In the hush of Margaery’s bed-chamber, nothing else mattered except the heat of her skin against mine, the soft cry of her voice echoing in the dim lamplight. Although I did not, in fact, breed her. She was not going to have my child, at least not yet.

I pinned her under me, and I ravaged her until she begged me for rest.

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