Many before him also indulge the burning blood of the dragon rushing through their veins. Gods amongst men. Dragons who walk the earth instead of flying the skies. Although he isn't half mad as his brother, he's a dragon.

And so you've become his rider. A familiar weight he seeks forward to feel atop of him. No wine indulging nights can't change that. Besides, it keeps you entertained the times he hasn't on himself to do the work.

It's truly a sight for his sore eyes. The soft sound of mingled breaths, a strong hand glued to your hip while his thumb rub soothing, maddening circles there. Soft, aching peaks bouncing right before his face.

Be the wine, the need, the love— he can't help but lean forward. A plump, pushy pillow for his reddened cheeks, breathing into your scent as his nose brushes your sternum. The faint sound of your hammering heart as you endure the long, almost forgotten tradition of dragon riding.

The Red Keep's wall made of cold, harsh stone providing the much needed silence for those who wander outside your shared bedchambers. Thought he doesn't really care about that, not when his tongue licks a long strip along flesh. Salty yet sweet.

"Huh-uh, fuck, you're perfect." He pants without shame. Wine tainted-kiss swollen lips curling into a mischievous smile, eyes gone white behind eyelids the second your lips part. An adorable 'oh' shape when your toes curl.

The dancing flames of the hearth adding a suffocating heat to the entire room. A few dimly lit candles set around, catching his gaze to try and ignore the familiar hot coiling down.

Nuzzling further into yourself to pepper tender kisses along the delicate expanse of your collarbones. While he's calm and composed, he can tell you are getting impatient.

Quickening your pace—that he isn't against— his nails dig into your hipbone, fingers gripping tightly. A bruise left there by the morrow. He'll kiss it better. "'M not going anywhere, love, ease it." A soft cocoon.

His free hand, the one holding you steady this whole time, sneaks up your throat. Skimming past your fluttering pulse just to end gripping your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Good girls aren't on a rush, are they? Be good."