unguilty pleasure

During the day, Natasha was a king. She attended meetings, made decisions, or even went to war and ruled her kingdom. But as soon as the sun set and she entered her chambers, she had another duty to commit to—making heirs.

She was true to her words when she said you'll stay with her to make sure you're well-bred every night. You even thought that if there would be any complications with you giving birth to her child and she would have to choose, you know very well that she will choose to save the child over you.

And you're fine with that, you'd rather die.

You wake up alone—body sore and used. She was gone again, off to her duties. You're not seeing her all day—didn't speak to her. This was your routine now—spend the nights being bred, wake up alone, barely speak the next day. The healers who checked on your health each morning found you quiet. You answered their questions with simple nods or shakes of your head.

Your expression was blank, almost vacant. The anger or even resentment had drained away, leaving behind a numb resignation. Every night was the same, her claiming you with a single-minded purpose, and you accepting it silently, eyes fixed on the wall or ceiling rather than meeting hers. You never looked at her during these moments, never met her gaze and tried hiding any emotion on your face. Your eyes remained tightly shut throughout or your head turned away from her.

The room filled with the sounds of a loveless act, wet slapping of flesh, heavy breathing, and your quiet hitches. You were spread beneath her, fingers digging into her muscled back, legs wrapped around her waist. Stripped, breast bouncing with her thrusts—bare.

But Natasha couldn't see you at all.

After each encounter, Natasha's heart would never admit that it cracks just a little bit as she watches you as you silently move to the side of the bed. Still bare, uncleaned, still not looking at her even if you can feel her seed oozing out of you and drift off to sleep.

It was always the same cycle.

"It's been over a month. Isn't it taking too long? You're vigorous and your wife seems fine—where is the heir? Are we sure she is fine?"

Natasha's jaw clenches at the question, it seems to be pertaining that the problem lies to you, but what if it's not? What if the problem was with her?

Her voice dropped calmly but threateningly—more frightening than if she'd shouted. "Ser Tony, I suggest you choose your next words very carefully. Because if you dare insinuate that my wife is somehow defective or that I should seek comfort elsewhere like you did to your own wife…" she stepped closer, her face inches from Tony, her eyes blazing with anger. "I will have you drawn and quartered in the courtyard before sunset. My wife is pure. My wife is capable. And I will bed no other woman until she bears my heir."

Natasha's bloodline bred like rats—sharing wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, anyone that carries the same bloodline as the Targaryens. And that is something her generation did not carry on with them. Looking up to the history of her family, the earlier kings brought different women in their beds just to be able to make an heir. So any suggestion of doing the same thing is not new to her.

You were asleep when Natasha reached her chambers. You have been doing it a lot lately, so you won't be able to see or feel what she does to you—only the next day you'll feel how you were used.

Without a word, Natasha slipped under the covers, wrapping her body around yours. She pulled you back against her chest, inhaling deeply the scent of your hair and skin.

You stirred slightly at her touch, subconsciously expecting her rutting to you in the next minutes—but it never came. Tonight, she did nothing but hold you closer, her breath warm against your shoulder. Her thumb caresses a gentle motion, occasionally tracing patterns on your stomach. You thought it was a trap so you tried pushing your bare ass against her to see what she would do, if she would take that as a sign and finally fucks into you but she didn't, she did push you against her more but just to hold onto you.

As if that's the only thing she needs.

Another unexpected happened, you felt some hot tears slide down your shoulder to your breast as she pressed her nose against your shoulder—something deep inside her is breaking.

You had grown numb to her touch. You felt nothing for her—no love, no hate, just quiet acceptance. But hearing her silent cries now, something shifted inside you. And you hated yourself feeling the same way, something inside you literally broke, scared that the woman behind you would actually hear it.

This gentle embrace was completely foreign to you. She had never held you like this, not even after she'd filled you with her seed and marked you as hers. The way she clutched you now was new, desperate almost.

On her side, she never dared to touch you not because she doesn't want to but because she's not sure if you want to. But right now, thinking you were asleep, she let herself take the chance, not to take you, but just hold on to you as if her life depended on it. Every morning she would wake up and leave because she thought you prefer it that way even though what she wants to do is spend every morning with you.

Her lips pressed softly against your shoulder, a gentle kiss that sent an unfamiliar shudder through you. It was so contrary to her usual rough handling that your heart actually skipped a beat. This kiss was pure tenderness, a language her hands had never spoken to you before. She kissed you again, slower this time before she nuzzled her cheek to your shoulders.

The sobs eventually turned into soft sighs as she finally allowed herself to drift into sleep. Her breathing slowed, matching your own. For the first time, you slept closely to each other, not even an inch between you—just two people seeking comfort.

You woke up, facing her, still asleep. You didn't dare move. The moonlight streaming through the window cast gentle shadows over her face. This very woman, the king who tamed dragons, had people knelt before her, the very woman who had taken your innocence, who had used your body—has features that contrasted her, they were soft, gentle. The hands that had gripped your thighs so roughly now held you protectively. The mouth that had bitten and left a mark in every inch of your skin was parted softly in sleep. Carefully and curiously, your fingers slowly traced her strong jawline, brushing against her bottom lip. You'd never actually get to touch her like this, never noticed how soft they were—how almost vulnerable they looked now—all the features of a Targaryen.

But like this, she was almost beautiful. Not the brutal king who took your body every night.

Your heart aches strangely as you stare at her. The hate you've held onto for so long feels suddenly foreign and heavy.

Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open and you felt your breath catch in your throat and quickly closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep. Her hand moved to rest on your waist as she studied your sleeping face. Then, her lips brushed against your temple in a soft, almost reverent kiss. She carefully began to extract herself from around you, moving slowly to avoid waking you. Her strong arms gently shifted your sleeping form onto the pillow, adjusting you comfortably as if you were made of glass.

Please, you begged God that she won't notice if it's possible for people asleep to blush because you can literally feel your face heating up!

You opened your eyes when you were sure she had left. The room was silent except for the distant crackling of the fireplace. Your heart beat loudly in your ears, the stone walls around it shattering unexpectedly. You hated yourself for the warmth that spread through your chest, for the unfamiliar flutter because for a long time, you felt nothing for the king but utter numbness, a void—nothingness.

And overnight, that changed.

Suddenly, you felt a wave of nausea hit you. You rushed to the chamber pot, falling to your knees as you heaved uncontrollably. Your stomach twisted and churned, puking in a violent rush. You heaved again and again, your body wracked with spasms until there was nothing left to come up. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the cold room. You felt weak, exhausted, and utterly miserable. Your hands shook as you wiped your mouth with a trembling hand.

You turned, your hair falling over your shoulders like a curtain trying to hide your nakedness. Maester Wanda stood there, her expression grave yet compassionate. She used to check on you every morning and upon looking at your state right now, she couldn't be wrong.

"You're with a child."

⧗

The great hall was filled with laughter and music. Nobles danced, drank, and feasted. You watched from your seat at the high table, your condition not yet visible beneath your rich silks. Natasha was there, with her smile, making ladies swoon. But she didn't provoke them, she merely smiled politely, her gaze occasionally drifting towards you with a secretive glance. The ladies took her smiles as encouragement, throwing themselves at her shamelessly. But she did nothing—no touches, no commands of making them come to her.

She was just being her—soft—drawing them in and you hated it.

You pushed your seat back and stood up, excusing yourself without a word to anyone. Natasha watched as you walked away, her gaze following your every move until you disappeared through the door. She didn't follow you, didn't call out, just continued to sit there, sipping her wine.

Fresh air was something you needed when you got out, but your peace was interrupted with hush whispers. You peeked around the corner and saw Lord Commander Tony in a hushed conversation with another Lord Commander, James.

"The king seems distant lately," Ser Tony said, "I've arranged some…companionship for her, a surprise. The queen clearly isn't fulfilling her needs."

Ser James chuckled, "Prostitutes, you mean? Natasha deserves some real pleasure, not just cold duty with the queen." Ser Tony nodded, grinning.

Your stomach churned violently, just as it had that morning when you'd discovered you were with a child. The thought of those women being paraded before the king made you want to throw up again. Rage consumed you, clouding your thoughts especially after seeing women swoon over her.

Did she know about this? This surprise of sorts? Having some whore line up for her?

All your inside felt numb like it had been before. You wiped away the single tear that had escaped. With mechanical movements, you turned and walked back inside, leaving the cool night air behind.

A servant approached with a tray of drinks, you took one without hesitation, downing it in a few gulps before immediately reaching for another. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glassy from the alcohol. You continued this pattern, drink after drink, until the room began to spin. The other guests noticed your behavior but said nothing—some found it amusing, others worried. You stumbled around the room, laughing loudly at nothing in particular, occasionally bumping into more guests.

"Toli…" (More) you slurred.

When you were about to go where you saw another set of freshly served goblets of wine as if they're drawing you in, you stumbled forward, nearly falling flat on your face. But Prince Steve reacted quickly, his large hands shooting out to catch your waist and prevent your fall. He pulled you upright, body pressed briefly against his. His eyes scanned your face, your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes that seemed to struggle to stay open. He could smell the wine on your breath as you leaned heavily against him, your body collapsing into his chest.

He had always taken a liking on you.

As he held you, he felt an unfamiliar warmth spread through him. It was wrong—absolutely wrong. You are the queen, his cousin's wife, the king's spouse. Even though Targaryen bloodlines were often intertwined in ways that would scandalize other noble houses. It is acceptable—it is the tradition.

But taking what's not his is not acceptable nor a tradition.

"My grace..." he whispered softly, his hands shaking as it hovered to brush against your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face.

Suddenly, the room grew quiet, crowds silencing, only the footsteps of the king were heard.

Natasha's eyes darkened noticeably as they fixed onto Steve's hands, previously supporting you. She has been watching, the king has been watching. A dangerous intensity crossed her features—the kind that only Targaryen's possessed. Without a word, she strode forward and gently but firmly pulled you into her own arms.

"Steve, unhand her."

Steve huffed softly, clearly agitated but wisely choosing to apologize. "My apologies, your grace. I merely...caught her before she fell." Natasha tried to be gentle holding you, but she couldn't help but tightened her grasp possessively as she turned, presenting her back to Steve.

"See that she gets no more wine tonight."

The king's hand was snaked over your waist, your face flushed against her chest. You hated her smell or how strong she held you, but your drunk self couldn't remove yourself away from her yet. Maybe because of the smell or how soft her body felt as she held you or maybe because of the wine. Finally, earning some strength, you were able to push your wobbling body away from her. You don't know what's happening now, your vision is blurry, and the world is spinning. And that fucking smell of her is invading all your senses and you are hating it.

"Let go of me." You slurred.

"You've had enough." Natasha tried to remain subtle as you two walked through the crowds.

Your head throbbed painfully, and you cradled it in your hands, breathing heavily. Through the alcohol-induced haze, one thought stood out crystal clear: you did not want the king near you right now.

"Get the fuck away."

Natasha froze mid-step, her hand outstretched but now suspended in the air. The entire room had gone silent, all eyes shifting between the two of you. Her expression hardened as she heard the defiance in your words—drunk or not, you meant what you said. Then, slowly your eyes met Natasha's. There she saw and took the signs of your swollen eyes, you have been crying. The harshness in her expression melted away for a moment as she blinked slowly, processing the sight before her.

You looked around, to her face, people behind her, the hall was filled with inaudible whispers. You couldn't understand a thing, you feel like you're going crazy. Your hand froze to your stomach, eyes watering with sudden realization of the danger you'd put your unborn babe in, then you looked around once more with your eye-filled tears as if you could see the crowd judging you. Your hands frantically grab at the tight bodice of your dress, you couldn't breathe so you ran. Your mouth opened wide in an attempt to draw in more air, tears streaming down your face as you ran blindly through the castle corridors. The only place you know and memorize in this suffocating castle was the king's bedchambers and your body as if on autopilot, brought you there.

As you entered the king's chambers, she was right behind you.

You turned, you collected more air because you needed it. Tears stream down your face but your voice eerily calm and filled with a rage that shook the very air, you spoke, "I let you use me however you pleased. I gave you my body, my loyalty, my everything." Your lip trembled in anger, tasting your salty tears. "Still, I am not enough. You are still going to settle for the companionship of a whore!"

Natasha watched in horror as you spoke, your words not seeming to come from you but from some broken, desperate part of yourself. Your voice was hollow, almost possessed, accusing her as if you were outside yourself watching this scene unfold. "I do not understand where this is coming from."

"Ser Tony brought some surprises especially for you tonight." You scoff, wiping off the tears away from your cheek.

The moment you mentioned Lord Commander Tony, Natasha knew already where you were coming from.

You took a step towards her, not even waiting for her explanation. Your lips were still trembling in anguish. "When you're deep inside some whore, remember the queen, alone in her chambers, carrying your child."

She stared as you disappeared on the empty doorway, your words slicing through her sharper than any Valyrian steel.

⧗

You woke up slowly, your head pounding as if someone had indeed beaten it repeatedly with a hammer. The familiar comforts of your own bed surrounded you—the soft silk sheets, the plush pillows—but they offered little relief from the throbbing pain in your skull. You missed sleeping in your own chambers, but you couldn't deny the feeling of missing sleeping in the bed of the king.

It's just been a night, one night.

You cursed under your breath as a sharp pain shot through your head when you moved too quickly. Your fingers pressed against your temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing pain that seemed amplified by every thought of last night's events. You tried desperately to remember the specifics of what had happened last night. But your memory was a blur—a jumble of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the running, suffocating in your own tears, and your own broken voice. But everything after that was a black hole.

"Don't think too much," the familiar voice of Maester Wanda cut through your haze of confusion. "You've already drunk yourself too much last night." You blinked, startled, as she entered your chambers with a tray bearing some herbals—likely headache remedies and probably some strong green tea that you hated the most. "And stop pressing your head like that, it'll only make it worse."

A pang of guilt in your stomach spread through your chest heavily from the thought of what you might have done to your unborn child.

"What happened last night?" you asked, almost in a rush like you were desperate to hear the aftermath of your scandal in the great hall.

"Lord Commander Tony and Lord Commander James are dead." She spoke in a flat tone, as if reciting facts rather than sharing devastating news.

The warm tea she brought you suddenly felt cold in your hands, memories began to trickle back into your mind like a slow leak. You remembered snatches of their hushed conversation from last night but not everything. You looked up at Maester Wanda, confusion and curiosity etched on your face as you tried to piece together the fragments of your memory. "H-How?" Your voice trembled slightly, your mind racing with questions and unspoken guilt.

"Beheaded," she paused, making the hairs of your skin straighten, "by the king."

"What?" you shook your head, squinting at nothing to get a glimpse of the memory. You're slowly getting there.

"The king has also declared that whores are no longer allowed within the castle walls."

"I let you use me however you pleased. I gave you my body, my loyalty, my everything. Still, I am not enough. You are still going to settle for the companionship of a whore!"

Your breath hitched as the full memory of your own words slammed back into you.

Two lives lost because of you. People will lose their way of living because of you.

The king did those, just for you.

For you.

"My grace, for you…" Maester Wanda calls, but when she cannot seem to get you out of your musings or rather self-sabotage, she calls you once again. "My grace."

"For me…" you murmured, staring into the steaming liquid as if it held all the answers, then you looked at Wanda who was staring at you like you were possessed. "I'm sorry, wait—for me? Another tea?" you pointed at the cup she has been holding for nearly a century now.

"Yes."

"Oh..." you placed the unfinished tea on your hands on the table and took the one in hers.

"Drink it all, my grace," Maester Wanda insisted firmly but kindly, taking another cup. "The herbs are specifically chosen to ensure a healthy pregnancy. You need your strength, especially now." She gave you a knowing look, implying the turmoil you were in wasn't helping the baby.

You slowly sat up in your bed, your hand shaking as you placed it carefully over your stomach. You are carrying the king's firstborn. A future king or queen of the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne. The most precious cargo in all of Westeros. How could you have been so reckless? You almost endangered the king's heir—your own child. The reckless drinking could have cost them their life before they even had a chance to breathe. Your touch was almost reverent yet trembling with guilt and fear.

Suddenly, there was a knock at your door. "My grace," came the voice of your lady-in-waiting from the other side. "The king is outside your chambers. She wishes to speak with you."

You looked at Maester Wanda, eyes wide with fear. That knowing fear of your eyes that she knows very well.

"I must leave now, your grace," she said softly, gathering her things. While you felt betrayed with her leaving. "Remember what I told you." She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before slipping out of the room.

The door was shut behind Maester Wanda, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the ominous presence on the other side of the door. Then, without any permission she enters.

The king doesn't need permission.

Something inexplicable happened when she entered. The room seemed to quiet, your racing heart settling into a gentle rhythm. The fear that should have gripped you evaporated, replaced with something soft and calm.

You found yourself staring at her.

Natasha approached you slowly—urgent and worried, her voice surprisingly soft as she asked, "How are you, my queen?"

You almost flinched when she spoke. She called you her queen, the title that she only uses whenever you're whimpering under her. Your body tensed slightly before you caught yourself. She noticed the subtle movement, her eyes held a mix of concern and something more profound, something that made your heart…flutter despite the circumstances.

All of a sudden, you were non-verbal.

The king's hand curled into fist at her side, a silent struggle evident on her face. She longed to reach out, to touch you, to assert her ownership over you. As your wife and king, she had every right to do so. Yet, she held herself back. Something in your vulnerable state stopped her. For the first time in her life, she respected boundaries—not out of duty or tradition, but out of genuine care for your well-being. Her fingers twitched slightly as if fighting the urge to touch your hair or caress your cheek.

"I-I would…I would never entertain Ser Tony's offer of companionship." She started, as if she's thinking that you're thinking the same. "I would never lay a finger on another woman."

For the first time, the king stuttered.

For the first time, the king was explaining herself.

For the first time, the king was giving you reassurance.

She didn't wait for a response, her purpose was clear—she had entered your chambers not to demand anything, but to offer reassurance and check on her queen.

"I…I would really appreciate it if you call me when you need something. Anything, at all." With a trembling hand—a rare display of emotion from the usually stoic and cruel king—she gently placed the deep red rose upon your bed. Then, without another word, she turned and left the chamber, closing the heavy doors behind.

You bit your lip as you stared at the rose for a long moment, then you brought it to your nose and inhaled its scent—she smelled like it.

For the first time, you found yourself smiling.

⧗

Months have passed and your once flat stomach now proudly displays a little bump. The gowns you wear are looser, tailored to accommodate your growing belly.

And the king finally returns from her long and grueling war. The first thing she asked for is your presence for dinner which is surprising because she would often expect you to be in her bed aiding her injuries and her other needs.

The moment you stepped into the dining hall, the room was already silent. Natasha was seated at the head of the table, her bruised eye standing out prominently against her beautiful face. As the maids assisted you to your seat, her gaze immediately drifted to your growing bump.

You gave her a smile when you're finally settled, trying to hide the desperate longing you felt for her. You had missed her terribly during her absence, although she was physically present in the castle, you rarely saw her. She kept her distance, believing that you no longer wanted her company because you never called for her like she asked of you. When she left, there were no more morning roses beside your bed every time you woke up. You missed the simple gesture, missing her even more.

Midway through the meal, the king set down her fork and turned to focus on you directly. "How are you feeling?"

You gave her a soft, reassuring smile. "I'm feeling much better now." You replied quietly—now that you're finally here. Of course you will never ever mention how lonely and scared you had been during her absence.

"And the little one?" she asks softly.

Your hand instinctively rested on your growing bump. "Kicking more often lately."

"It's kicking like a little dragon already?" Her bruised eye twitched with amusement.

You laughed before you even stopped yourself. And your giggles made Natasha's heart skip a beat. This was the first time she'd seen you like this—the soft, gentle woman who rarely showed her playful side, maybe because she didn't give you a chance. She continued to watch you unaware, it dawned on her that you were so much more than the woman she had taken to her bed out of responsibility and need. No, you were her wife—who has a beautiful smile. The mother of her child and possibly other children in the future.

"You have a beautiful smile." Natasha's words hung in the air, and she realized too late that she had spoken from the heart without filtering her thoughts.

The phrase made you freeze, your dark lashes fanning your cheeks as you blinked slowly, processing what she just said. And suddenly, out of all the moments you could've done it alone, you burped and the king let out a chuckle. Your eyes widened in mortification and you avoided her gaze entirely, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

She loved how unfiltered and genuine you were, she wished she'd witnessed it sooner.

"I'm sorry, your grace." You whimpered, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment as you quickly covered your mouth with both hands. Her laughter only made your blush deepen further.

"Seems like the little one's practicing fire breathing now, huh?" She teased lightly, trying to ease your embarrassment with a playful joke.

Your cheeks deepened to an even darker shade of red. You looked down at your large belly, hiding your face with your loose dark hair. Your body wiggled slightly, like you were trying to suppress more tiny bubbles. The king watched your reaction closely, finding your shyness and embarrassment sexy as hell.

But now that she's trying to earn your trust, she tries her best to take care of her own needs. Besides, it's not bad to admire her wife's sexiness isn't it?

"How was the war?" It is now your turn to ask, your eyes scanning over her injured body—her swollen eye barely open and dried blood on her arms. Your voice was carefully neutral and hesitant, hiding your real question, "How are you?"

"We won," Natasha replied gruffly, her voice rough from talking and shouting commands during the battle. She began to ramble about the details, as she continued, she caught herself rambling about the more violent details, and remembering your delicate state, she quickly softened her tone, choosing gentler words. "The men fought well. Caraxes was magnificent and there were no major losses on our side…"

You listened attentively, but your gaze kept drifting back to her injuries. After a moment of hesitation, you gently pointed them out. "But...what about these?" you asked softly, looking up at her with those big, concerned eyes. "And your eye…"

Of course you were more concerned about her well-being than the battle's outcome.

"These are just battle scars. Nothing for you to worry about." Despite your nod, Natasha could see right through your reassured facade. The way you bit your lip gently and avoided meeting her gaze fully told her you were deeply worried. She watched as you unconsciously placed a protective hand over your swollen belly, "How about we do something tomorrow? What do you usually do?"

The sudden change in topic made you blink in surprise, but you immediately understood what she was trying to do—trying to distract you from her wounds and put your mind at ease. You loved her for knowing exactly what you needed, but what you need right now is to take care of her. "I usually go to the gardens in the morning. I walk."

"Well then, I'll walk with you every morning." She watched with satisfaction when that smile of yours appeared again. "And no worrying tonight. Alright?"

The morning was quick to come. You stirred awake to the gentle touch of your maid, who had come to inform you that the king was already waiting for you in the gardens. You groan adorably under the blankets, trying to hide your flushed cheeks. You were nervous about meeting her, but also excited to spend some time with her.

You rushed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Your hand rested protectively on your belly as you moved quickly but carefully, your maids freaking out about how you're running down the halls like you're not carrying the next heir they will serve.

The cool morning air greeted you the moment you stepped into the gardens. But when you looked around, there was no sign of Natasha.

You slowly made your way through the garden maze, your hand gently resting on your belly as you entered. This was where Natasha had chased you before claiming you as hers. The memory was bittersweet—filled with nothing but fear.

But also the beginning of something beautiful.

A rustle of leaves and a sound of footsteps just in front of you pulled you out of your trance, and there you saw a figure behind the tall wall of grass. Without thinking, you giggled and started running. The sight gave you no fear anymore—but excitement. You ducked behind some bushes, hiding with a giggle while you looked behind you.

You saw her dash past another entry, her snow-like hair giving her an unfair advantage, but she was faster. You, on the other hand, knew every path like the back of your hand. Yes, she had lived here for the rest of her life but she was too busy with the responsibilities as a royalty to even memorize this maze. You laughed, swerving left then right, your dress billing behind you. She was good, but you were the master of this maze.

Just as you swung your head back to the path ahead. A familiar strong arm caught pulling you. You let out a surprised yet excited scream, you knew it was her.

And Natasha chuckles deeply, not letting you go.

Unable to contain yourself, you clung to her tightly, you gripped her arms, and buried your face into the crook of her neck. You sought comfort in her embrace after the chase. While Natasha, she hesitated, her hands hovering over your back. She was scared of hurting you, of breaking this fragile moment. But the way you held on to her, the way your body fit perfectly against her, made her crave more. This was the first time you had ever clung to her so openly, so needingly. She had seen you in her arms countless times, loveless, out of responsibility heir-making, but never like this—never with such raw vulnerability. It made her heart swell in her chest, filling her with a warmth she had never known before.

So she let her arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer as she breathed in your sweet scent.

Then, she pressed soft, gentle kisses to your cheeks, your temple, your forehead—anywhere he could reach without breaking the fragile hold you had on her. Each kiss was filled with a desperate fear that this moment might end too soon, that you might pull away or realize how deeply she needed you.

"I cook…after I walk every morning, if you care to join?"

From that moment forward, something shifted between you. It felt almost like Natasha was courting you in the truest, oldest sense—flowers carefully placed on your bed each morning, slow walks together through the gardens, quiet meals where she gave you her full attention.

It was nothing like the hurried union forged out of duty and politics.

You still kept parts of yourself locked away, walls carefully standing. Natasha never pushed. She remembered vividly the morning you finally reached for her hand in the maze gardens. A simple gesture, almost fleeting—yet to her, it was everything. A sign that, piece by fragile piece, you were allowing her past the barricades of your heart.

And Natasha? She was utterly undone by you. If you whispered her name tenderly, she would sink to her knees. If you spat it in anger, she'd flinch like a beaten puppy.

"Natasha…"

"Where's Natasha?"

"I want Natasha."

"Natasha!"

"Natasha?"

Her name became your rhythm, your refrain—soft as a prayer, sharp as a blade, desperate as a plea, certain as a command. And each time, no matter the tone, it pulled her deeper under your spell.

The king was deep in discussions with several lords when every head turned the moment you entered the room. You walked further completely disregarding the other people present that weren't Natasha.

Right now, she is not the king to you, she is just Natasha—your Natasha.

"Natasha?" Some actually choked on their wine, spraying red liquid everywhere. Lord Thor's only eye twitched violently, thinking how insane you were for addressing the king by her name in front of them.

While Natasha stood there looking utterly domesticated and fucking loving it, while you acted like calling your terrifying wife by her first name was completely normal. Well, because it is—just for you. She missed hearing it in her own chambers, where she and only her can hear every roll of the syllables of her name from your mouth.

"I want to ride Caraxes." You declared firmly. The lords watched in disbelief at your request.

No one except Natasha herself had ever ridden Caraxes, the massive red dragon known for its fiery temper and unyielding loyalty to its owner. Yet here you were, a mere woman, requesting to ride the beast.

"Your grace…only the king can ride Caraxes," one of the lords spoke up boldly, his eyes narrowed in disbelief and slight offense that you'd even request such a thing. He turned to the king, expecting her to reject your demand immediately.

The king's smile faded slightly at the interruption, her eyes flashing with a hint of annoyance. If you weren't here she would've beheaded the lord on sight or maybe she should consider doing it the moment you leave the room. But she knew the lord had a point, carefully, she began to reject your request. "Love, riding Caraxes is not something that can be done on a whim. It requires strength, courage, and most importantly, the dragon's acceptance."

She saw the disappointment flicker across your face briefly before you composed yourself again. Surprising everyone, you simply nodded and apologized. "I understand. Forgive me for overstepping."

Natasha watched as you turned and walked out of the room without another word. She felt a peculiar sense of unease settle in her chest, an unfamiliar feeling that something was off about your sudden withdrawal and acceptance.

Maybe…she should have listened to her instincts.

"Your grace, the lady has been seen entering Dragonstone…" A servant rushed in with urgent news an hour after.

The lords exchanged shocked glances, having never seen their fearless king react with such sudden fear and urgency before. Natasha without a word rushed to get to Caraxes and head to Dragonstone.

When she reached the end of the path of the Dragonstone where the dragons rest, she froze.

You stood there, confused and terrified. You had no idea why you were drawn to this place. Like an unseen force had brought you here, against your will. But now, standing in front of the dragon, you realized the danger. Any wrong move could mean death. For you and for your child.

"Natasha?" you took a step back, voice shaky.

Of course there is no one to blame but yourself for being here.

"I'm sorry, Natasha." You whimpered, taking another step back as you can. The dragon's massive head loomed over you, its warm breath enveloping your entire body. You hear the gentle rumble of its purring. But the sheer size and power of the creature was terrifying. You clung to your stomach, crying softly.

The dragon slowly lowered its massive head, until it nudged your stomach gently, its scales rough against your silk dress. You cried out softly, your body tensing. The dragon huffed, its hot breath making your dress flutter. It nudged again, softer this time, like it was trying to communicate something. Gently, you raised your hand and shakily touched its snout, petting the creature that could reduce castles to rubble with a single breath.

Natasha's heart was in her throat, watching the scene unfold. No one had touched Balerion since King Alexei had died. Not even her. The dragon had been alone ever since, mourning its rider's death and growing increasingly wild and dangerous.

Maybe because it knows that you were carrying a Targaryen heir within you.

And all of a sudden the dragon cried out loudly, its massive throat vibrating with the force of its roar. You shouted and your panic heightened more. The sound echoed through the dragonstone, making the very walls shake. Seizing the opportunity, Natasha sprints forward and grabs you, pushing you behind her.

"Dekuragon arlī!" she shouts. (Step back)

The dragon continued to let out a low, mournful cry, its massive body shuddering as it listened to the daughter of its rider. This time, it felt different. The dragon seemed to sense something within you, something that made it act strangely… mournful and protective.

Slowly, carefully, you began to retreat towards the dragonstone. Once you were a safe distance away, she quickly assessed you, "Are you alright?" Natasha gently wiped the tears from your cheeks, her hands shaking slightly. You nodded silently, still stunned by what just happened. She looked down at your stomach, then back at you.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…I didn't mean to…I don't know why I was here. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you Natasha." She shushed you gently, wrapping her arms around you protectively.

At least you had the privilege of riding Caraxes on the way back to the Red Keep.

When you land, Natasha's mother and Maester Wanda are already waiting. Natasha immediately asked you to be escorted back to your room to rest.

Once you were gone, Melina grabbed her daughter's arm tightly, her eyes searching hers. "What happened?" she lowered her voice, "What she did was dangerous to your heir!"

Natasha met her mother's gaze steadily, her expression unreadable. "It wasn't angry. It wasn't violent or dangerous. Balerion cried gently, like it was...mourning something." She ran a hand through her hair, still struggling to comprehend what she'd witnessed. "And it touched her stomach…gently, mother."

"That's a very bad premonition, Natasha..." She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. "You need the heir. You need to make sure that the child she is carrying is safe!" Melina's face flushed with anger. Her hand waved in the air. "Not when she's running around like a fool, jeopardizing herself and the future heir! That girl is proving herself utterly unsuited to be the bearer of your child!"

"You do not speak of her like that!" Natasha's face contorted with anger, her finger jabbing aggressively towards her mother's face. "She is not some mindless vessel of my heir. She is my wife!"

Melina staggered back slightly, shocked by her daughter's anger. She placed a hand over her chest, her mouth opening and closing silently. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left the room, her silk robes swishing angrily behind her.

That night, Natasha tossed and turned in her massive bed. She was worried sick about you. She hadn't seen you since she abruptly asked Maester Wanda to escort you back to your chambers. You weren't present with your usual dinner with her as well. As midnight approached, Natasha finally gave up on trying to sleep. She got out of bed, pulling on a pair of black silk robe. She was too worried about you to stay in her room any longer so she decided to go check on you herself.

She found you standing by the balcony, overlooking the moonlit gardens. You were wrapped in a white silk robe, your hair cascading down your back. She could see that you hadn't eaten dinner—the tray of food she sent you was untouched on the table. "You didn't eat." You turned to face her, your eyes reflecting the moonlight. You expected her to scold you, to be angry or at least frustrated for not eating, to lecture you about not taking care of her heir. Instead, she just looked at you with those intense dark eyes, her voice soft. "You must be hungry."

She led you to the table, gently pushing you down onto the chair. She picked up the fork and began feeding you.

As she brought another spoonful of food to your lips, you felt a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the food. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as she fed you like a loving wife would.

She's not the king, she's just Natasha. Your wife. Your Natasha.

She noticed the tears glistening in your eyes. Her own expression softened even more, if that was possible. "Hey..." Her thumb gently brushed away a tear that had spilled over onto your cheek.

You sniffed, looking into those green orbs. You saw no anger, no frustration, only concern and something else.

Something that looked like love.

"I'm scared, Natasha. I can't even take care of our baby right now."

Natasha set the fork aside and sank to her knees beside your chair, gently taking both of your trembling hands in hers. Her voice was steady but soft, carrying a quiet plea. "Listen to me. You're taking care of our baby right now—by eating, by resting, by not stressing. That is taking care of our baby."

But you were unraveling, your sobs shaking through your whole body. Words tumbled out of your mouth in fragments, incoherent even to yourself. "I went to Dragonstone…I defied you. I knew I could die there but I went. I don't-I don't even know why I did…"

Her heart cracked at every broken syllable. She reached for you, trying to soothe, but your cry was too loud to let her voice through in your mind.

So Natasha sat back down, tugging you gently into her lap. She didn't say anything, she didn't press. She simply wrapped her arms around you and held on, letting you cry until the storm passed.

Because the truth was inescapable—you owned her heart completely. She would set the world on fire if it meant protecting you.

Only you.

In her mind, Natasha admitted to herself that she had changed for you. She had done everything in her power to earn your trust, your love. She had softened her rough edges, tried to be the woman you deserved. And she couldn't lose that.

She couldn't lose you.

She knew that from the moment she saw you, you would be the end of her. That moment you walked down the aisle on your wedding day, her heart stopped. Those deadly eyes locked onto her, filled with a fire that both terrified and aroused her. She knew at that moment—you, this woman could end her. Literally or metaphorically.

You could destroy her with a single word, a single tear.

But she wouldn't have it any other way.

Targaryens were not supposed to have weaknesses. They were meant to be strong, unbreakable and mad. But Natasha had one—you. Your eyes could make her kneel. Your sharp tongue could cut her deep. Your body could make her forget she was a king.

Your love could destroy her.

"Take me to bed, Natasha..." you whimpered softly, eyes meeting here straight on.

In the blink of an eye, your clothes vanished and you were naked beneath her in your bed. Her touch was gentle as she traced your stomach with her fingers. She was scared—terrified that she would be too rough, too intense.

She is a dragon tamer, not some delicate lover. Her hands could crush, her hips could bruise, her mouth could devour. And right now, she was hovering over the most precious thing in her life.

As if you could read her mind. You lunged to kiss her fiercely and demandingly. Your hands gripped her neck possessively as you pulled her down more.

You needed her in any way you could get her—rough, soft, gentle, harsh. You just needed Natasha inside you, filling you up, marking you as hers. You didn't care about the manner or the intensity because it was her. It was always her.

Natasha tried to rein in her roughness, her kisses softening as she trailed them down your neck, your collarbone, and finally to your stomach. She was gentle, almost reverent, as she kissed the soft swell of your belly. Then, she gently rolled you onto your side, spooning behind you. This position was gentler, softer—perfect since she'd rather make love rather than take you. Your legs folded slightly as she slid deeper, her thrusts slow and deep. Her fingers played with your nipple softly before sliding to your hips pushing you back to her slightly to give her deeper access.

Your eyes fluttered closed as waves of pleasure washed over you. This was different—so different from the rough, always taking encounters you were used to. Natasha's gentle love-making was unfamiliar territory, and it felt incredible. Your mouth falls open slightly and gasps.

She kissed your shoulder gently, then nipped gently when you let out another soft sound.

In the past, you would bite your lip to stay silent, even as she pounded into you roughly. The pleasure was there, but you kept it locked inside, a wall between you two. You were distant, almost hollow, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of hearing you come apart.

Her voice was a low growl against your skin as she continued his slow, deep thrusts. "I want to hear you. No holding back those pretty sounds. Let me hear how much you want this..." she kissed along the shell of your ears, "Let me hear my girl." Your hands squeezed hers gently as she picked up the pace slightly, still gentle but more intense. She wanted to break down that wall you always kept up. "Please…"

The gentleness and her quiet plea cracked something open inside you. You moaned softly, not loud but definitely audible—a real sound of pleasure rather than forced silence. Natasha's eyes nearly rolled back at the sound. "There she is..." she praised softly, then kissed your shoulders again.

You started moaning louder, throwing your head back against her shoulder as she continued her gentle, deep thrusts. She was completely focused on you—on your sounds, your pleasure. And with that your orgasm was building quickly—your inner muscles fluttering around her as she fucked you through it. You were right there on the edge, your moans growing more desperate as he hit that perfect spot over and over.

As the pleasure crested, you couldn't hold back any longer—your muffled cries turning into a soft shout of her name.

"Natasha!"

She immediately trailed her fingers to your sensitive clit, helping you ride out your orgasm. She loved seeing you like this—completely undone and vulnerable not distant, not quiet. She continued to fuck you slowly, drawing out your pleasure for as long as possible.

After pulling out carefully, she immediately gathered you into her arms. She pressed soft kisses to your face, shoulders, anywhere she could reach. You sighed contentedly, burrowing back into her chest and making no move to cover up or move away. She smiled against your hair, you didn't move away from her unlike your usual immediate separation you used to do.

"I love you."

Her breath hitched in her chest as your whispered declaration reached her ears—just before you drifted off to sleep, completely unaware of the impact your words had on her.

"I love you more."

As your due date approached, Natasha became increasingly anxious and overprotective. She refused to let you do anything for yourself, even simple tasks like…walking.

"No more wandering the castle, no staying in the kitchen, no more...other activities until after the baby is born. You're to rest, eat, and sleep—nothing more." She paused, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before making herself comfortable in your arms, her large hand splayed protectively over your rounded belly. "I'll have maids bring up your meals and anything else you need. And I'll be here as much as possible, but when I can't be...you stay in here." She looked up and gave you a stern look. "Promise me."

You chuckled and leaned into her touch, your hand covering hers on your belly. "I'm pregnant, Natasha—not made of glass. I can still walk and talk and do all the things I always did." You raised her hand and kissed her hand gently.

"No." She pouts more like a stubborn kid than a king.

"Well, then no walks…" you started repeating her demands on you.

"That's right." Natasha agrees.

"No more cooking, the maids will bring the food up here." You kissed her head before resting your cheek on it.

"Yeah, that's right."

"And no more sex."

"That's ri—what?!"

You chuckled and Natasha made a frustrated noise. "Don't laugh at me." She grumbled and started toying the buttons of your gown near your chest.

"But you look so adorable right now." The woman who commanded armies and made difficult decisions was suddenly embarrassed talking about sex with her own wife.

"Maybe we don't have to completely stop everything," she murmured, unsure and awkward. Her hands were already toying with your tits.

"Oh, my love but I thought, no more other activities?"

"B-But there might be some things that are…like safe?" she finished, clearing her throat. A blush crept up her neck.

"Oh yeah?" you smirked and kissed her head. "Like what?"

"Like-like...oral..." slowly, you started pulling away from her and it made Natasha frown when she planned on sucking your swollen breasts. But her eyes widened as you slowly got onto your hands and knees, moving down her body, "or I mean—gentle touching. Positions that won't hurt." She sucked in a sharp breath when you pulled out her hardening cock from her pants. Her blush faded instantly, replaced by pure desire as she realized what you were doing.

"Like this?" you smirked, your hand started to work her up and down.

⧗

Natasha had been away for three long days, a mission to secure an alliance with a northern house keeping her away from your side. The nights were the hardest, sleeping alone in the big bed, her arms empty and her heart heavy. Her every waking thought was consumed by you. She wished for the negotiations to end swiftly, for the northern lords to agree to everything without delay. All she wanted was to mount her dragon and fly back home—to you.

She even wished she hadn't told you she'd be gone for three days. She knew seeing your emotional face before leaving would break her heart—your red eyes filled with tears asking when she'd return home safe. But ghosting wasn't an option either; leaving without warning would hurt worse than saying goodbye temporarily.

And now she's going back home.

Natasha finally arrives back at the castle, her heart pounding with anticipation. She dismounts Caraxes swiftly, handing the reins to a stable hand without a word.

All she can think about is seeing you.

Her eyes immediately found you standing beside her mother. She expected you to run into her arms like always—your silly little steps whenever you threw yourself at her—but instead, you stood there straight-backed and calm,

"Your grace." You bow your head respectfully.

Natasha frowns when you spoke, specifically about how you addressed her when you usually just call her by her name regardless of who's present in the room.

Her eyes never left you as her mother embraced her, her words of welcome and pride barely registering in her mind. You kept your head down, bowing at her—both of them. But all she wanted was for you to look up at her—to see those beautiful eyes filled with warmth and love instead of this cold formality.

"I'll be waiting in your chambers, your grace." You excused yourself, you already know what to do during these moments. Tend and aid the needs of the king after a long and stressful mission.

Natasha immediately followed through. Worry gnawed at her with each step, something was wrong with your tone tonight—with you.

She entered the chambers to find you standing before her dresser, carefully adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. The simple action should have been familiar, comforting—but tonight it only highlighted the distance between you.

She approached slowly, her voice soft and cautious. "Hey..."

As she reached out to gently turn your face towards her, you abruptly bowed your head, avoiding her touch and gaze. The gesture was a stark reminder of the royal etiquette you once despised but now embraced perfectly. Her hand hovered in the air before dropping helplessly to her side. "Stop it."

She watched you remain still, your posture perfect and unyielding. So cold. So calculating.

"Look at me."

"Your grace, I must tend your wounds." Your voice was even and emotionless as you recited your duties, avoiding her gaze.

Her jaw clenched as she unbuckled her belt, presenting her arm for you to tend to a small wound.

You approached her with a basin of warm water and clean clothes, your movements efficient and detached. She watched your hands move deftly over her wounds—so careful, so clinical—and something inside her cracked. The silence between you was suffocating, a far cry from the whispered comforts and playful teasing that usually filled these moments.

This wasn't you.

The woman who'd scold her for bleeding on silk sheets again, who kissed every scar like it was proof she'd come home—where was she tonight?

"Enough," Natasha snapped, her voice low but sharp as steel. She caught your wrist mid-motion, water spilling over the basin's edge. In one pull, she drew you closer, face to face with each other. "You don't treat me like a stranger," she said, each word deliberate, vibrating with restrained anger. "You don't treat me like I'm the king."

She held your gaze, eyes searching yours for something she couldn't find. The tension in her grip faltered, gentleness bleeding through the anger.

"It's just me…" she breathed, the words trembling at the edge of a plea. "It's just Natasha."

The silence that followed was heavy—too heavy—broken only by the faint drip of water into the basin between you.

Then, the door creaked open.

"Lady Melina has summoned you to dinner," said a maiden from the doorway, her tone careful, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

You froze, Natasha's hand still around your wrist. For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a sudden jerk, you pulled your hand free. The motion sent a few droplets scattering to the floor. You stepped back, your breathing uneven but controlled, before smoothing down the front of your dress—palming the wrinkles away as though the gesture would show your composure.

"Tell her we'll be there shortly," you said, your voice steady, though your pulse thundered beneath your ribs.

⧗

Your due was nearing.

The healers said it would only be a matter of days now—perhaps less if the stars stayed aligned and the weather held. The child moved often, restless beneath your ribs, and each flutter reminded you of how quickly time had passed, and how much of it you had spent in silence.

You hadn't spoken to Natasha since that night. And you missed her.

It crept in quietly at first—in the pauses between breaths, in the empty half of the bed where she used to sleep, in the way your hand would drift unconsciously toward the space she once filled before you stopped yourself. Missing her wasn't supposed to hurt this much. Not when you'd told yourself it was over. Not when you knew better.

But her absence had weight—heavy, lingering, like smoke that refused to fade even after the fire was gone.

You would remember her voice when your room is quiet. You would remember the warmth of her hand against your back at night, the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to her skin, the smell of roses every morning.

And then, you would remember her.

Lady Melina.

Her words still echoed in your mind, sharp and cold enough to cut through the memory of Natasha's touch.

"The Targaryens care for legacy, for blood that endures. Not for the hands that carry it, nor the hearts that break beneath it. You would do well to remember that."

You wanted to argue that it wasn't true. You are the queen, after all. You had earned that title beside her. You wanted to say that Natasha was not like the rest of them—not cruel, not calculating, not bound by blood and legacy the way her ancestors were.

But you didn't speak. You couldn't.

You wanted to say she loved differently. That you had seen it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at you, in the way her hands trembled the first time she felt the child move within you. You wanted to believe that those moments were real—that they meant something beyond duty, beyond the throne, beyond the endless cycle of heirs and names and history.

Because as much as you tried to steady your heart, it faltered beneath the weight of her words. You were too tired. Too raw. Too easily undone. And somewhere between your silence and her certainty, you began to believe it.

You began to believe that maybe Natasha did only care for the heir. That maybe the tenderness you saw in her was just another act of devotion—not to you, but to the crown.

And once the thought took root, it grew quietly, relentlessly, until even love began to feel like a mistake. And if that was the truth—if that was the cruel reality of being with a Targaryen—then you would live with it.

But what you couldn't accept, what you hadn't meant to allow, was the way your heart betrayed you.

You fell for her.

You fell for her because you felt it. You felt like it was right. You fell for her—for the woman behind the title, the one who smiled only when no one else was looking, who held your hand under the table, who had begged you not to treat her like a king.

You fell for Natasha.

And maybe that was the tragedy of it all—that you could love her as the woman she was, but she could never love you as anything more than the mother of her heir.

Natasha had been gone for a week.

Her mother's doing, of course. She had always held power in the kind that didn't need to be announced. A single word from her could move armies—or her daughter.

Natasha hadn't wanted to go. You knew that much. You'd seen it in the way she lingered by the doorway the day before she left, eyes dark and unreadable, her jaw set in that quiet defiance she wore whenever duty pressed against her will. The Northern House needed her, Lady Melina had said. Affairs of family. Matters of blood and so she went.

The nights had stretched long and cold. No one dared disturb you, but the emptiness in your chambers spoke loudly enough. You told yourself it was only a week—that she would return soon. But as the days passed and your body grew heavier, the ache of her absence became something sharper.

And so did the ache of your stomach.

The due was closer than you had let yourself believe.

You'd counted the days, felt the shifting weight inside you, the way your body had begun to slow, to ache—but somehow, you still thought you had time. You told yourself it wasn't yet, that you could hold on a little longer, that maybe Natasha would come before it happened. Maybe she would say something, anything, to make you believe she still saw you beyond the child, beyond the duty.

But life never waits for what the heart needs.

The first pain came like a warning. Fuck, it was a sharp pull low in your stomach that made you choke. You brushed it off, at first, steadying yourself against the edge of the table, convincing yourself it was nothing. But then came another, deeper this time, and your hand slipped, knocking over the goblet by your side.

Your maid rushed in, eyes wide as she took one look at you, at the way your knuckles had gone white clutching the chair for balance. Her voice broke through the haze of pain.

"It's time." She says. Your water finally broke.

You stared at her, heart pounding, breath shallow. You hadn't realized it would come now. You weren't ready. Not for the birth—and not for the truth that Natasha still hadn't come.

And as another wave hit, harder this time, you felt tears burn your eyes. You didn't know if it was from the pain—or because you wished, more than anything, that the first face you would see when it was over…would be hers.

Your chambers were thick with heat and panic, the scent of herbs and iron heavy in every breath. Candles flickered wildly as servants rushed. The cries that filled the room were yours—ragged, sharp, pulled from somewhere deep within you.

The healers crowded around your bed, their movements quick but steady, voices low and urgent as they worked. The whole room felt like it was spinning. Flashes of white cloth, the smell of sweat and metal, the sound of water being poured into basins. Through all the chaos, Maester Wanda stayed right beside you. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands covered in blood, but her face stayed calm—too calm, almost.

"Breathe," she said quietly, though there was steel in her tone. "Come on, with me. Breathe."

You tried. Gods, you really tried. But each wave of pain hit harder than the one before it, breaking through your body until tears spilled down your cheeks. You wanted to call for Natasha—her name sat on your tongue like something holy, something that could save you—but you couldn't say it. She should've been there. She should've been holding you.

But she wasn't.

Instead, it was Melina standing at the head of the bed, her hands folded neatly in front of her like she wasn't watching someone fight for their life. Her face didn't move—no fear, no softness, nothing. Just that same cold composure that came from years of knowing people were meant to bleed for the sake of duty—for Targaryens.

"She must not falter," Melina said, her voice low but sharp. "The heir must live."

Those words hurt more than the pain tearing through you. You bit your lip until you tasted blood, forcing yourself not to scream. And right then—as the room blurred around you—you realized this was what she meant all along.

It was never about you. It was about the heir.

Wanda squeezes your hand, her voice cutting through the haze. "Look at me," she said, steady and sure. "Don't drift off now."

You listened. You had to. Through tears and exhaustion, you met her eyes and pushed when she told you to.

You were losing too much blood. The sheets were soaked through, and no matter how many cloths the healers pressed against you, it just wouldn't stop. The sound of rain hammered hard against the windows, then came the thunder—loud, angry—and all at once, the candles flickered out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Your body went limp. The last thing you felt was the weight of Wanda's hand on your shoulder and her voice calling your name before everything went quiet.

Wanda's heart dropped. "No..." she whispered, already moving, checking for a pulse, shouting for more hands, more towels, anything. The room erupted into chaos.

And then came the pounding on the door. Hard, sharp, desperate.

"The king!" someone shouted over the noise. "The king is here!"

But Natasha wasn't just here. She was forcing her way in—the heavy door rattling under her fists as she slammed against it again and again.

"Open the damn door!" her voice cut through the thunder like lightning, rough and breaking all at once. "Let me in!"

Wanda froze for a heartbeat, torn between duty and fear. She shuts her eyes and instructs the healers before walking in the door. She must face the king. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, streaked with blood and sweat, but her eyes didn't waver when she was welcomed by the king behind the door. Already pushing herself in. The sound of rain hammered the castle walls, thunder rolling overhead like the world itself was holding its breath.

"Your grace," Wanda said, her voice steady but low. She tried pushing Natasha back, "you can see the queen after. Not now."

Natasha stopped only a few feet from her, drenched, chest heaving. "What's happening?" she demanded. Her tone wasn't cold this time—it was tight, afraid.

Melina came close behind, as if to rescue Maester Wanda to try and calm her daughter down. "Natasha, please, listen. They're doing everything they can—"

"What is happening!" Natasha shouted, cutting her mother off, her voice echoing down the corridor. She didn't even try to hide the shake in it.

The Maester didn't flinch. "She's losing so much blood," she said carefully with all honesty. "We're trying to keep her stable. Your grace, you need to stay out—"

"Lose the child if you must," Natasha snapped before she could finish. The words came out too fast, too sharp, like they'd clawed their way up her throat.

"That's not possible!" Melina barked, fury breaking through her composure. "Do you even hear yourself?"

But Natasha didn't even look at her mother. She stepped forward until she was inches from Wanda, her voice dropping low and dangerous. "If she doesn't come out of that room alive," she said, "every single person in there dies in my hand tonight."

She looked at her mother and went back to Wanda.

"And that includes the two of you."

For a moment, neither woman moved. The thunder hit so loud it rattled the walls. Then—silence.

The next sound was fire.

The storm had passed by the time the pyre was built. Down by the cliffs, the air was thick with smoke and salt. The waves below slammed against the rocks, spraying mist that caught in the wind. The pyre burned high, flames licking at the sky. Black and red banners snapped above it, the Targaryen sigil twisting in the wind. The smell of smoke mixed with the sea—sharp, heavy, hard to breathe through.

Natasha stood in silence. Alone. No songs. No words. Just the sound of fire and the ocean roaring below.

She stepped closer, her hair loose, her face blank except for the faint twitch in her jaw. Her hands were clenched at her sides, knuckles white. The firelight caught in her eyes, making them look almost gold.

For the first time since King Alexei's death, Balerion had left his keep.

The great dragon hadn't been seen in the skies for years—too wild, too dangerous, too bound to the late king to obey another rider. But when the pyre was lit that night, and the smoke rose over Dragonstone's cliffs, a sound split through the stormy air that made every man and beast freeze where they stood.

A cry. Deep and raw.

It started as a low rumble, almost like the earth itself groaning, and then it broke into something that could only be described as grief.

Natasha didn't move. She just stared up, her face illuminated by the burning pyre and the glow of Balerion's fire above.

The dragon's cry still echoed in her ears when the fire finally died. Natasha stood there long after the rain began to fall again, hissing as it met the dying embers.

It had been her decision. Her command.

She now looks down at the remains of the tiny bundle at the pyre's center. Natasha hadn't looked away. She couldn't. She had chosen this.

She had chosen you.

The child—her heir, her blood, her legacy—was gone. Burned under the dragon's fire, the way kings and queens of her line were meant to return to the world. But this one had not ruled, had not even cried. And still, she had ordered the fire lit.

She didn't need the healers to tell her to decide because even before that, she had thought about this. She would choose you no matter what. And when she was told that they couldn't save you both, Lady Melina had spoken of duty, of the heir, of the realm. While Natasha had only stared at the blood on Maester Wanda's hands she knows is yours and from that, her decision is made.

Because you had still been breathing. Barely.

She had thought and accepted that maybe the time Balerion cried when he touched you, he already saw what future holds for your child—fire.

Now, as she walked back through the castle halls, every sound was muffled by the weight in her chest. Her steps felt heavy, her breath slow. The scent of smoke clung to her hair, to her cloak, to her very skin. When she pushed open the doors to her chambers, the world seemed to still.

You were laying in her bed for the first time again, but fragile in a way she'd never seen you before.

Natasha reached you. Taking your hand to rest her forehead against the back of it. Her voice was rough when she spoke, low and trembling like something raw had finally cracked open inside her.

"I'd choose you," she whispered. "Every time. Against the throne, against my name—against the Gods themselves if I had to."

Her eyes stung, and her throat tightened, but she didn't look away from you.

"Let them call me heartless," she murmured, thumb tracing your knuckles. "Let them say I betrayed my house, my bloodline…I don't care."

She looked at you then—your lashes resting against your cheeks, your chest rising and falling so faintly it nearly stopped her heart.

"You're all I want," she breathed. "You're all I'll ever choose." The words hung there for a moment, soft and unshakable, like an oath spoken into the marrow of the world. Her forehead stayed against your hand until she felt it—the faintest squeeze of your fingers, weak but real.

⧗

"Father, smith, warrior. Mother, maiden, crone, stranger…"

The words felt like acid on your tongue. Each one stinging you as they leave your lips. You loathed having to say them. You loathed having to agree. This wasn't some love match. It was the voice of a prisoner accepting their fate.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Natasha, refusing to blink despite the tears forming. You will not cry. Not in her presence. You will not give her that satisfaction. So you try your best to stand tall, to be defiant. Though it's hard when you feel so completely defeated as you said the final words that will seal you both forever.

"I am yours...and you are mine. From this day...until the end of my days."

The last word was hardly out of your mouth when Natasha took a step forward and captured your lips with hers. Natasha's grip on your hips tightens as she pulls you firmly against her. Her lips are rough and insistent as they move against yours. You can feel the tension and desire coursing through her as she claims your mouth in a possessive, greedy kiss.

With what seems like great effort, Natasha breaks the kiss. She takes a step back and you notice a sly smirk slowly appear on his face as she watches you try to catch your breath and you so badly wanted to wipe that on her face. Clearly, she was enjoying the effect she had on you, but you will not make this easy for her.

You will make sure to play this game on your hands, not hers.

⧗

"Heirs…"

Hearing your now family bring up the subject of heirs, made you feel a lump form in your throat. It was something you'd tried to avoid thinking about, but you knew it was a reality you would have to face.

Natasha didn't even flinch. She seems confident and unbothered, like she has no concerns in that regard. She responds without missing a beat.

"Oh, we'll have heirs. Plenty of them, in fact."

Natasha's grip on your hands tightens slightly, you force a tight-lipped smile on your face as you struggle to appear calm.

"I will make sure that our marriage bed will not lack heat. We'll have as many children as the Gods see fit to bless us with." She added with such confidence.

You knew that the celebration was coming to an end and you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd—by her. The air felt hot and stifling. Without saying a word, you excused yourself but as you stood Natasha didn't let go of your hand. So you eyed her intently—authoritatively and she immediately released your hand, you didn't miss the flicker of hesitation and fear in her eyes. Her usual confident and authoritative demeanor seemed to be gone for a moment, revealing just the slightest crack in her armor.

As you walked, a small smirk tugged your lips, it gave you a sense of satisfaction, knowing that you had the power to affect her in that way. For a brief moment, you felt like you were in control, that you had some bargaining power in this situation.

Of course you do, you will play this game right on your palm, right?

You stepped into the cool night air of the corridors outside, you tried not to let your emotions get the best of you as you thought about the fact that your family had been saved, you realized just how high the cost was. Natasha had saved you from ruin, but the price was steep. You were now the payment, a pawn in a larger game of power and politics. Knowing that you were traded like a piece of livestock in exchange for your family's safety, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

One of the foremost was the fact that you will need to carry the child of someone you didn't really know. Natasha Romanoff was a complex and dangerous woman, unpredictable, impulsive and arrogant—those are the only things you know about her. So the thought of being connected to her through a child was unsettling, to say the least. Yet you knew, as soon as the words of the scripted vows you loathed to say forcefully fell from your lips, there was no turning back.

It is inevitable or perhaps it can be avoided?

You were lost in your own thoughts, worrying about your future, when the maid servant's voice broke your train of thought.

"The celebration is over, your Grace. The King will be expecting you in her chambers."

Her words and the instructions were simple, but they sent a shiver of unease through you. But you wanted to test the waters, you wanted to test who among you holds such power to the both of you.

"Let her know that I am denying her request," you replied coldly as the night breeze.

"But your Gra—"

"Tell her that," you cut her off with a finality, "I'll be at my chambers, I'll retire early for tonight." You added, hinting that if she wished to prove the power she has on you, she will come and show you.

The night slipped away and you opted for the secret chambers that only and your maester, Wanda knew. Inside, you hoped to find solitude and respite from the pressures and chaos of the day. You stayed in the dimly lit room, the only light provided by a few flickering candles, as the night went on. You didn't know whether or not Natasha had come to your original chambers, expecting to find you there.

But you will make sure not surrender yourself, not without a fight.

⧗

Natasha was growing increasingly frustrated as she recounted different excuses from the maid servants every time she inquired about you. She hadn't seen you since the night of your wedding, and the more time passed the more suspicious she became.

Another maid servant entered her headquarters and she is for sure to deliver another excuse from you.

"The Queen is not feeling well, your Grace." The maid servant stood before the King, her hands clasped in front of her nervously as she delivered her message.

"What happened? What does the maester say the issue is?" The suspicion that she had in mind is now gone and is replaced by a deep concern for you.

"Well, you Gr—"

"I will go and check on my wife."

"I fear the Queen doesn't want anyone in her chambe—"

"I'm not anyone, I am her King. I am her wife."

Without another word of excuse, she rose from her seat and stalked out of the room. The King wasted no time making her way through the halls of the Keep, her steps were loud as she walked towards your chambers.

The moment Natasha stepped into the chambers, her eyes immediately fell upon your pale form lying in the bed. She was by your side in an instant, her hand reaching out to touch your forehead—and she could feel the heat radiating from you.

"Gods, you're burning up," she muttered, as she took in your sickly appearance. Natasha's eyes darted to the maester as she confirmed that you would be fine in time, and that you had been examined already. "And what is the cause of her sickness?" she questioned, her gaze returning to you.

Wanda cleared her throat, as she darted her eyes on your sleeping form. She breathed, shutting her eyes before she explained the cause of your illness.

"It appears the Queen has fallen ill due to stress and exhaustion," she said with a shaky voice, as she watched Natasha softly caress your body. "And it would be best for her to be left alone for a few days, allowing her body to rest and recover," she added, finally eyeing the King.

"Days?" Natasha repeated as if she didn't hear it clearly.

"Yes…"

Natasha let out a heavy sigh, her mind conflicted. On one hand, she wanted to keep you in her sight and she wanted you to be okay now so she could spend the nights with you fulfilling the obligations of making a long line of heirs. On the other, she knew the maester was likely right about your need for solitude and rest.

"Rest and heal, my sweet. And I will make sure to make up for the night we missed," she said in a soft and gentle tone, only for you to hear as you continued to lie there, your eyes closed in what appeared to be a deep and restful sleep.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

She caressed your face for the last time gently before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

As she withdrew, she turned to the Wanda who was standing just outside the doorway of your chamber.

"Do everything you can to ensure that she is well soon," she instructed.

"Yes, your Grace."

As soon as Natasha left your chambers, you slowly and stealthily got up from the bed where you had been feigning sleep. Your body trembled slightly as you inhaled deep breaths, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You were grateful that your plan had worked, and that Natasha had believed your act of being sick.

Wanda, your trusted maester and ally in your plan, looked at you with a sigh as you got up from the bed.

"I told you hot water and a cloth would do the trick," she said, referring to the method she suggested to fake your elevated temperature.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

"My Grace, are you alright? Are you really sick now? You look pale."

You snapped back to the present, your mind still replaying Natasha's words from earlier when she spoke to you while you were pretending to be in a deep slumber.

"I'm fine," you assured Wanda, your voice a little shaky. "Just a bit…tired, that's all."

Tired of all this.

"Well, I shall leave you alone then, my Grace."

Wanda has been the first person you became close with, and she has been nothing but supportive to cover up for you and your plans. You even heard her lie for you not since a while ago and that was not even a part of your plan. But when the King asked about your condition—your fake condition, she still did with no hesitation.

"Thank you, Wanda."

⧗

It had been several days since Natasha's visit, and you had successfully managed to avoid her so far due to your pretense of being sick. Now, you were stepping out into the gardens, seeking a change of scenery and some fresh air pretending to be sick and staying in bed is making you really sick now.

The gardens were a lovely sight, the sun shining brightly and the flowers in full bloom. You strolled along the pathways, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.

As you were walking in the garden, relishing the tranquil surroundings, your eyes caught a glimpse of something or rather, someone—in the distance. It was Natasha, standing next to Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.

Her gaze was fixated on you and you could tell that she was surprised to see you out and about, considering the fact that you were supposed to be unwell. And now, she is making her way over to you.

Your instincts kicked in immediately, and your first thought was to run. Without hesitation, you darted through the gardens, your heart racing as you navigated the twisting and turning paths of the maze.

As you ran, adrenaline pumped through your veins, and you quickened your pace, determined to elude her as long as possible. You were dressed in a gown made of flowing silk, the fabric soft and lightweight against your skin. The hem of the dress brushed against the grass as you ran, occasionally catching on the leaves of the maze bushes. You sprinted through the maze, dodging and weaving between the high walls of greenery. As you continued running through the maze, your heart rate spiked ever higher when you caught a glimpse of Natasha through the gaps in the leaves.

Seeing her so close, so determined to find you, sent another jolt of adrenaline through your body, the fight-or-flight response kicking into high gear.

Although you were aware that she would eventually catch you, you refused to let her have an easy victory. You steeled yourself, determined to play this game in your own hands.

The twists and turns of the maze became your playground. Every time you thought she was closing in, you would change direction, taking unexpected forks that would put some distance between you again.

As you sprinted through the maze, looking back in the direction you last saw Natasha, a sudden body slammed in front of you. The force knocked you off balance, catching you off guard.

A pair of hands locked around your arms, effectively trapping you, preventing any further escape.

"Are you running away from me?"

Natasha's intense gaze was met with your fearful ones, your heart raced and your words came out in a slight stutter. "Y-your Grace…" you started to say, but your mind was too preoccupied with the situation to form a coherent response. You gulped as you looked away, and then replied with a shaky voice. "No, your Grace," you said, your eyes still fixed on the soil where you were standing. Despite your denial, there was undeniable fear in your voice.

"I was expecting that you're still in your chambers, resting. Wanda told me you're still sick."

"I wanted to go out, g-get some fresh air…"

"You should've come to me so I will go out with you."

"I…" you hesitated for a moment, wanting to be careful on how you're going to say the next words, "I wanted to have some time alone, y-your Grace."

Her grip on your arms relaxed slightly as she heard your response. "I haven't had a night alone with you since our wedding, Y/N," she said, she sounded a bit disappointed that made you hitch your breath. "Look at me." She commanded, leaving no room for disobedience. And you slowly did, as your gazes met, her eyes softened with a little fire of an intense desire, and her proximity to you made your heart race even faster.

In a swift and dominating move, Natasha closed the remaining distance between you and claimed your lips in a searing kiss. Natasha sensed your attempts to resist so she deepened the kiss, her tongue demanding entry, as her hands on your arms pulled you even closer to her.

Your resistance was a futile battle and you finally surrendered to her but you fought not to moan as her tongue explored the cavern of your mouth, leaving you breathless and vulnerable. As Natasha moved her attention towards your neck, her lips and tongue trailing along the sensitive skin, you tilted your head back, submitting to her control.

Her lips left your neck as she leaned towards your ear, her words a low, seductive whisper.

"I shall be expecting to see you in my chambers tonight."

⧗

The evening had arrived, and Natasha made her way to her chamber, fully expecting to find you there—in her bed in all your glory. However, as she entered the room, her eyes scanned the space, but you were nowhere to be seen. Her initial confusion quickly turned into seething anger as she realized you didn't follow her command.

She wasted no time and stormed through the corridors, her patience wearing thin. It has been far too long, and she is determined to have you, one way or another. Her strides were purposeful and filled with seething anger, her mind set on one mission.

To find you and bring you to her bed.

As soon as she stepped into your chambers, her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. She approached the figure lying in the bed, she leaned closer to get a better look of you, and when she dipped her knee to the soft bed, the figure suddenly moved, emitting a piercing scream. Startled, Natasha let out a gasp, quickly realizing it wasn't you but your maid servant.

"Y-your Grace!" The maid servant rushed out apologetically as she immediately threw the thick covers out her body and stood.

"Where is Y/N? Why are you in the Queen's bed?!" Natasha demanded.

"Queen Y/N noticed I-I wasn't feeling well and…well, I am fine but-but the Queen insisted that I am not fine," the maid servant's hands flew in different direction as she tried to explain herself, "and she told me…she insisted that I should rest, right here, in her bed. And she left." The maid servant scrambled, the words coming out in a rush from her lips not wanting to receive the seething anger of the King.

"Forgive me, your Grace…please."

The maid servant's continuous apologies grew quieter as Natasha's attention shifted. Her gaze moved towards the window, where she spotted a figure dashing towards the garden maze. She instantly recognized it was you, and a sly smile tugged at her lips. Ignoring the maid servant, Natasha stepped towards the window of your chambers.

Once again, you found yourself racing through the labyrinthine maze, your breath coming in short gasps as you desperately sought an escape. The twists and turns of the paths seemed to taunt you, creating a confusing web to ensnare you. Fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, your mind focused on one goal and that is to survive the night without having to spend it on the King's bed.

Natasha's voice echoed through the night, "Making a maid servant sleep in your own bed, just to fool me?"

Despite the gasp that escaped your lips at the sound of Natasha's seething voice, you refused to let it slow you down. Your legs propelled you forward, your bare feet pounding against the cool grass as you continued your race through the maze. There was no time for looking back, only the need to elude her pursuit.

"You were never ill, Y/N!"

As you ran through the maze, the tears of fear started to well up in your eyes, causing you to shut them tightly shut. The emotions coursing through you were overwhelming—fear, defiance, and the weight of the situation hitting you all at once. Yet, amidst it all, a small part of you stubbornly held onto the hope that you could somehow escape Natasha.

Just as you rounded a corner in the maze, a strong body suddenly locked onto you, arms encircling you like a vise grip. Caught off guard, you let out a gasp in surprise, struggling against the strong hold. The realization that Natasha had finally caught you struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"I knew you heard me that time…I never lied when I said I will make sure you're full of my seed."

In a swift and effortless motion, Natasha scooped you up and threw you in her shoulders, her strong grip on your thighs unyielding as she carried you to her chambers. You tried to resist, squirming and fighting against her, but her strength was undeniable. Despite your attempts to break free, it was clear that you had no chance of escape.

The game is no longer in your hands. It never was.

The guards stationed nearby stood at their positions, their eyes averted from the scene. They could only watch as Natasha carried you flailing in her arms, your screams piercing the air. Fear for their own lives kept them in place, knowing full well that they could have their heads off if they bothered to look in your direction.

"Lock the doors!" she barked, her tone leaving no room for questions. The guards obeyed, swiftly securing the chamber doors, sealing you and Natasha inside. Without a moment of hesitation, she hurled you onto her bed, the force of her throw causing you to bounce slightly upon the plush mattress.

"Strip," she commanded in a low voice that made you shiver in fear, "Remove every piece of clothing you wear. I want to see my wife before me in all her naked glory. Do not forget to remove any trinkets or tokens you may be wearing."

Your hands were shaking when you let your dress slip to the floor, revealing your vulnerable form, your body betrays you with gooseflesh. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over and cascading down your cheeks.

Natasha watched, sitting at the bed as you stripped the last piece of clothing out of your body.

Her cold, green orbs leisurely take in every inch of your bare flesh. They linger on the fullness of your breasts, the pebbled peaks begging for her touch. Her gaze trails down to the small, dark mole at the side of your breast, a unique birthmark that she commits to memory. Her eyes continue their languid descent, taking in the slight roundness of your belly soon to be full of her seed, the flare of your hips, and the soft curls at the juncture of your thighs. She studies the glistening evidence of your fear and humiliation, the pink folds of your pussy already swollen and slick.

The shame of your nakedness burns through you like a physical touch, amplified by the fact that Natasha remains fully clothed. Her silken robes and velvet cloak seem to mock your naked form just reminds you of the game that is now holding place in her hands.

A cruel smile plays on Natasha's lips as she sees the shame and fear in your eyes. She rises once more, her tall form towering over you. Her hands go to the sash at her waist, undoing it with deliberate slowness.

The silk slithers to the floor, pooling around her feet. She begins to slowly unlace her leather breeches, her gaze locked with yours. As the garment falls away, revealing her hardened cock, you can't help but gulp, your eyes wide with trepidation.

She stepped closer to you, caressing your cheek. You didn't know why but you leaned in to her touch as she wiped the tears off your face. She looked at your glossy eyes before she leaned forward, her lips pressing against yours in a soft, yet commanding kiss. Your lips part instinctively, allowing her to sweep her tongue inside, claiming your mouth as hers.

"Open wider," she demands, breaking the kiss to gaze down at you. She tilts your head back further, forcing your mouth open wider. She kisses you again, this time her tongue probing deeper, exploring the warmth of your mouth. She sucks on your bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth and biting down gently.

Your breath hitches, a soft whimper escaping your throat as her kiss becomes more intense. Her hands tangled in your hair and you can't help but moan softly, the sound muffled against her lips.

Natasha broke the kiss and sees the raw innocence in your eyes, the moisture making them glisten like jewels. Your lips are swollen and parted, a thin string of saliva stretching between them, quivering as you suck in ragged breaths. Her gaze darkens with lust and satisfaction.

"My bed has been lacking...heat," she murmurs, her voice low and gravelly. She reaches out, wiping the saliva from your chin with her thumb. "And you, my sweet, are going to warm it tonight."

You took a step backwards and tilt your head to the side to avoid her touch.

"You make it difficult," she says, her voice tight with frustration, "to fulfill the one duty that should be simple. I have conquered cities, bent knees to mine, tamed dragons. And yet, you make it hard for me to plant my seed in your womb."

"Am I just a bearer of your offspring?" you pinched your brows together, finally eyeing the King as the tears cascaded down your face.

"Yes," she replied bluntly, undressing herself, "in this, you are." As her clothing falls away, revealing her breasts and her tanned, muscular body, she meets your gaze squarely. "But know this, my sweet, you are not just any bearer."

"You are my Queen—my own wife who dared to deceive and defy me," she says as she steps forward, her eyes roaming over your body hungrily. "And when I have won, when you carry my child, you will be the mother of my heir."

"And perhaps," she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she leans over you, "when this is done, when my line is secured, you will be something more." Her gaze holds yours captive. "But for tonight, you are simply the woman I must breed."

Your heart shatters in your chest as she speaks those words. The cold, hard truth of her intent cuts deep, each word a knife twisting in your soul. You are not her beloved, her equal, but a tool, a vessel to bear her child and you knew it from the beginning.

Without you carrying her offspring, you are nothing.

Natasha then grabs you roughly, flipping you around and throwing you onto the bed. She climbs over you, positioning herself behind your ass.

With a sudden, brutal motion, she thrusts herself inside you, ignoring your cries of pain as she tears through your resisting body. She groans in satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as she begins to rut into you with merciless force, her dragon's strength overpowering any objections you might have.

"You are mine now," she growls, her breath hot against your ear. "No more defiance, no more resistance. You will bear my child, as is your purpose." Each word is punctuated by a hard thrust, her hips slamming against your ass cheek with brutal intensity.

She pulls out of you suddenly, her thick cock glistening with your virgin blood. Natasha flips you over, pushing your hips in the bed. Her body pressed heavily against yours as she positioned herself between your legs. Without warning, she slams back into you, her dragon-sized cock splitting you open.

You're screaming now, your voice echoing off the walls as she fucks you with brutal, animalistic intensity making your face contort in pleasure mixed with pain.

She moves to silence your screams and releases your mouth long enough to trail her lips down your body, pausing to suckle at each breast roughly, her teeth scraping against your sensitive nipples.

"You are so tight around me, Y/N," she groans, her voice low and possessive. "Your body was made just for my pleasure. Your virgin hole is so snug, clasping around me like a glove. You were made to be filled by me."

Her hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, allowing her to bury herself deeper. As she grinds her hips against yours, she leaned down and your hands immediately clawed at her back, your fingernails digging into her skin.

Her muscled back flexes under your desperate, clawing hands. You feel each ridge of muscle, the hard strength of her. Despite the pain she's causing, despite the brutal taking, your body responds to her, your core clenching around her cock as you feel her powerful body move against yours.

"Y-your…Grace…" you called out for her, mouth open as she tore you apart. You held her neck and the silver locks of her hair, your legs crossed at her waist.

"You're my Queen." She growled in your ear.

"Yes, your Grace!" You cried out in pleasure.

"Then you will take what I give you, you will be painted with my seed and soon enough you'll bear my heir."

Her words made your pussy clench even tighter around her massive cock. She feels it, her thrusts becoming even more powerful as she drives her seed deep into your womb.

She straightens up, her hands gripping your hips as she slams into you one final time. Her body stiffens, her head thrown back in a silent roar as she finds her release. She grinds her hips against yours, ensuring every drop is deep inside you. Then, she pulls out of you slowly, her eyes locked onto your well-stretched opening. She watches as her seed begins to leak out mixing with your virgin blood, a possessive growl rumbling in her chest. Without hesitation, she pushes the escaping seed back inside with her slender fingers.

"My seed stays inside you," she continues to push her fingers inside you, scooping up the white and red liquid, forcing it back into your walls, making sure it's as deep inside you as possible. She repeats this process several times, her fingers pumping in and out of you as she ensures her claim is secure.

The sensation of her fingers pushing into you, combined with the gentle throbbing from her earlier pumps, becomes too much to bear. You can feel yourself growing more and more sensitive, the line between pleasure and pain blurring. You moan, your voice barely a whisper.

"Your Grace...it's too much…"

She ignores your plea, her voice dark as she murmurs, "It's Natasha for you, my sweet." Her fingers continue to push into your overstimulated hole, the motion causing you to convulse around her.

"Natasha…" you stammer, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer as the intense sensation consumes you. Her name on your lips, filled with such raw emotion, makes her own stomach flutter.

You convulse violently, your body shaking uncontrollably as a gush of liquid spurts out from between your thighs. Natasha muffles her approval against your neck, her voice thick with satisfaction as she feels the evidence of your spend.

"Say it again," she demands, her fingers continuing to pump into you as the aftershocks wrack your body. "Say my name like that again, Y/N." Her own control is slipping, your words affecting Natasha more than she'd like to admit. You whimper, your voice hoarse.

"N-Natasha...Natasha...only...only you…" Each word is punctuated by a sharp breath as your body continues to spasm around her fingers. She lets out a low groan, her head dropping to your shoulder as she listens to you beg for her alone.

"You're so good for me," she praises, her voice rough with desire. She withdraws her fingers from your dripping pussy, bringing them to her mouth to clean them with a hungry suckle. Her eyes never leaving yours as she does so, drinking in the sight of her Queen overcome with pleasure.