Chapter Text
Lexa has never before forgotten the lessons her mother taught her when they were still stuck in Essos.
“We are dragons, Alexandria,” Daenerys Targaryen had told her more than once, “and dragons consume.”
That is a fact as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a fact that shows just how the remaining Targaryens have successfully reclaimed their birthright as rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.
That is a fact that Lexa is having a hard time remembering now, along with her own damn name.
For spread out on the bed of silk sheets and rose petals is her wife.
Clarke of Griffin’s Roost smiles at Lexa brazenly, her lips bruised from their kisses, her blue eyes bright with mischief. Her breasts are proudly on display—and oh, what a magnificent pair they are, no doubt a blessing from the gods themselves—and Lexa cannot help but swallow the lump that has formed in her throat.
Get a grip, Alexandria, she thinks, shaking her head in a daze. You are a dragon, and dragons do not balk before something as ridiculous as the mere act of bedding.
And yet that is exactly what she is doing.
She is frozen by the door of their bedchamber, her breathing going harsh and heavy, and she feels her trousers growing tighter the longer she regards her wife.
Her wife.
The thought of being Clarke’s anything, it seems, makes Lexa’s cock even harder.
The reaction she seems to always have for her bride is a peculiar one, Lexa supposes. After all, she has grown up exposed to countless beautiful women. As soon as she was old enough to understand what made her different—aside from the fact that she is blood of the dragon—Lexa was taught what to do with her body to take her pleasure.
She was given a horselord’s daughter as an instructor of sorts, teaching her the art of lovemaking and its completion. Costia was the first woman Lexa stuck her cock into, but she certainly wasn’t the last. Lexa learned how to reach the highest peaks by losing herself in women from Pentos, from Yunkai, from Astapor, from Meereen, and women from Volantis and Tyrosh and Braavos—for whoever could resist falling into bed with the dragonlord who had a Dothraki cock?
And then the Targaryens finally returned to Westeros.
They discovered another Targaryen in the North. As Daenerys’s nephew and Lexa’s cousin, Jon Snow fulfilled the role of the third dragonrider, and atop Skydance, Drogon, and Greyfyre, they fought and won the Wight War. They turned Casterly Rock and Storm’s End to rubble and ash, and the Westerlands and the Stormlands were indefinitely subdued.
The Silver Queen riding the fire-breathing beast of her family’s sigil was welcomed as the saviour and was hailed the rightful ruler. She legitimized her brother’s son as Jahaerys Targaryen, and as per their family’s tradition, she made him her consort.
Lexa, the queen’s firstborn and heir, was then betrothed to Clarke of House Connington, as part of an agreement struck when the dragonlords were still negotiating alliances. Ser Barristan Selmy told Daenerys how Prince Rhaegar had favoured Jon Connington in the old days, and how the latter’s House was stripped of their titles and was relegated to knighthood when the Usurper came to power, as punishment for their loyalty to the former.
Daenerys, in honour of her brother’s esteem, then decided to restore his friend’s family to their past nobility, and even went so far as to name the new Lord Jakob Connington as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, which was thereafter called Griffinfort. She also saw it fit to complete this unification by marrying the two Houses.
And so Lexa climbed Drogon and flew to Griffin’s Roost, where she was received by Lord Jakob and his wife, Lady Abigail, and where she saw her intended for the first time.
And Clarke robbed her of breath.
Lexa always thought her own mother to be the most beautiful woman alive, what with her classic Valyrian features, all silver hair and lilac eyes. And yet Lexa found herself speechless before her bride of the pale skin and golden hair and blue eyes, who was smirking at her with an audaciousness she’d never encountered before, not even in the pillow houses of Lys or the plains of the Dothraki.
“You’re the one who is to be my wife,” Lexa said, stupidly stating the obvious.
Clarke’s smirk merely deepened. “You’re the one who is to be mine,” she shot back, and with the way her voice coated the word . . . well.
Lexa became completely hers.
That was moons ago, before Lexa took Clarke to Dragonstone.
Now, with their wedding night here at last, it’s all Lexa could do to hold onto her sanity.
Clarke is still looking at her with lidded eyes, and when she licks her lips, Lexa decides to finally get on with it.
She undoes the buttons of her shirt and the laces holding up her trousers, and her hard length springs up proud and tall. Clarke bites her lower lip at the sight, her blue eyes shimmering with unadulterated lust.
Lexa smiles; it is the same half-smile she has been told has made women’s knees tremble with want, and with the way Clarke’s gaze darkens—her pupils blown wide, drowning her blues almost completely—Lexa knows she’s made the right choice.
Lexa hears the catch in Clarke’s breathing in the quiet of their room, and she stalks forwards, as a dragon would when regarding its prey. She’s glad that she has now regained some semblance of control, looking over her naked, gorgeous wife.
Clarke’s curves are made to be worshipped, Lexa thinks as her fingertips skim over the skin of Clarke’s leg, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
“How do you like this, my dragonlord?” Clarke asks, her voice raspy with sin and wicked promise. She’s not a maid, of that Lexa is certain, and to her surprise, she does not particularly care. If anything, the thought of Clarke being experienced in this makes Lexa harden further—if that’s even possible.
“Spread yourself open for me, wife.”
Clarke complies without protest, watching her intently. Lexa then grips Clarke by the back of her thighs, pulling her right on the edge of the bed, smirking at Clarke’s adorable squeak of surprise. She sinks to her knees on the floor.
“I thought dragons don’t kneel for anyone,” Clarke manages to say, and Lexa is impressed that she still has her wits about her. Her Golden Griffin will make a wonderful consort, when the time comes.
“You’re not just anyone, Clarke,” Lexa answers, her voice a soft murmur. “You’re mine.” And without another word, Lexa takes her first taste of her wife.
For all the times Lexa has thought of doing this, she’s always been controlled and tender and slow. She wants their first night to be special, no matter how absurd the thought seems to be. She wants them to learn each other in a gentle pace, warmed by candlelight and lit by the moon.
And yet here they are, the hearth blazing stubbornly against the drafty room, the storm raging outside equaled only by the fire ignited within Lexa’s soul. She buries her mouth between her wife’s legs, and she is not merely tasting her, no—she’s feasting on her, as if she were a wanderer from the Red Waste and Clarke were the first meal she had after months of starvation.
She breathes in Clarke’s scent, nose buried in the soft tuft of golden hair, sucking and licking and letting her tongue probe as deep as it goes. Her fingers have found their way on the nub hidden above Clarke’s slit, and Clarke’s breathing is becoming more labored as the patterns Lexa draws grow faster and harder.
Clarke’s legs are quivering on Lexa’s shoulders, now, her own fingers entwining with Lexa’s brown hair. Her grip tightens to the point of discomfort, but Lexa relishes in it, a growl rumbling in her throat. Clarke gasps as the vibrations reach into her core, pulling at Lexa’s curls, and her hips shudder when Lexa’s teeth glances across her sensitive bud.
The sounds of Clarke’s release complete the perfect symphony in Lexa’s mind, punctuated by the claps of thunder and the crashing waves outside.
It isn’t until Clarke is nearly sobbing from coming one too many times in Lexa’s mouth that Lexa takes her own pleasure. Stroking into her with purposeful movements of her hips, Lexa sucks on one of Clarke’s breasts and cups the other. She likes it, being seated within Clarke up to her hilt, every inch buried in a heat so unlike the fires she has come to know.
Clarke is a fire that burns her, and Lexa will gladly set herself aflame in the Seven Hells themselves if only to feel as alive as she does now.
“You will spill your seed in me, dragonlord,” Clarke says—nay, commands—against Lexa’s lips, and Lexa doesn’t have it in her to refuse her wife anything.
“You will give birth to dragons, my love,” Lexa says against Clarke’s temple, delighting in the shiver her words elicit, “and they shall take to the sky in glory and power unmatched.”
Clarke is tucked under Lexa’s chin, their limbs a messy tangle on the bed, the room long plunged into darkness but for the light of the moon.
“Before I met you,” Clarke whispers against sweat-slick skin, “I was afraid of this—of you . . . of being your wife.”
“Why is that?” Lexa asks. “You’re not some virgin anxious of the pain in losing her maidenhead.”
Clarke snorts a laugh, and Lexa is even more endeared. “It’s obviously not because of that.”
“Obviously.”
Clarke rolls over so that she’s half on top of Lexa, meeting the dragonlord’s green gaze. “Have you no idea what they say about you at all?” She sounds extremely amused, though a tad baffled.
“I don’t really care about what they say,” Lexa answers honestly. “I am their future queen, and I know I am more than capable of leading them well and ruling them justly, and that’s what matters, is it not?”
“Not if you want the realm to be at peace and to prosper,” Clarke says. “Fear was the cause of your grandfather’s ruin—at its core, at least. The accumulated fear he stirred from his people’s hearts led to accumulated hatred, and look where that ended.”
“So you’re saying I should listen and assuage their baseless fears.”
“I’m saying ruling over and caring about your subjects are two sides of the same coin—or should be, in any case.” Clarke shrugs. “Besides, they do not know it is baseless because you haven’t said anything to deny them, and you haven’t said anything because you’re not listening.”
“They didn’t warn me you’re this smart.” Lexa chuckles at Clarke’s mock-offended huff. “Well, I’m listening now. What do they say about me, then?”
“That you are the most powerful dragon to ever be born since Aegon the Conqueror, that you claimed lives in fire and blood before you even fully understood that those were your family’s words. They say your father’s khalasar never left your mother because of you—the Stallion Who Will Mount the World.” Clarke lays her head back on Lexa’s chest, listening to its steady beat. “They say you summoned the sword Blackfyre from the pits of Seven Hells and it was the gods themselves who delivered it to you.”
Lexa laughs quietly, threading her fingers on golden strands. Clarke sighs contentedly at the sensation. “I can’t speak for the dragons of centuries past, but according to my mother, that first one is true. It’s why Drogon chose me, she said, and it just so happened that he’s the one named after my father. The second one is only partially true, because half of his khalasar did desert their khaleesi. It was only years later, when we returned to Vaes Dothrak, that I became that Stallion of the prophecy and unified all the khalasars of the Great Grass Sea.”
“And the third?”
“The third is not true at all. The people are giving me way too much credit with that.”
“So how did you come to wield Blackfyre, then? It was said to have been lost for generations.”
“Giving Blackfyre to a bastard was something my forebear shouldn’t have done,” Lexa says, shifting until Clarke is lying beneath her. “I simply rectified that mistake and took what’s rightfully mine.”
“But how?” Clarke insists, breathless, looking up at her with her pretty blue eyes.
The smile Lexa sends her is feral. “I tracked down the last of the Blackfyres, who are hiding their sorry arses in Norvos, and made of them a meal for Drogon.” She clicks her tongue. “He was not at all pleased with their flesh, though I suppose their exposure to the Norvoshi’s way of life had a hand with that.”
“Oh.”
“Did I scare you again?” she teases, running the tip of her nose on Clarke’s cheek.
“Not at all.” There’s an openness in her that Lexa wants to explore. “Quite the opposite, if I’m being honest.”
“Is that so.” Lexa hums, kissing her way down Clarke’s body, laughing at her hitching breath. “Do you have any more questions for me, my curious wife?”
“Would you have fed me to your dragon too?”
Lexa grins, pressing a kiss on Clarke’s inner thigh. She waits until Clarke meets her eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have,” she says. “I’d rather devour you for myself.” And lowering her mouth to her wife’s cunt, Lexa does just that.