#Daemon Targaryen x oc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

arabellasleopardcoat · 8 months

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Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

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thebadboyfanclub · 9 months

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I Don’t Think I Can Do This (Daemon x Reader)

Hey y’all so I know I was supposed to write another request but my job has cause my imagination to ran dry and this was certainly easier cause i wanted to write something that shows the burden that women carry and also that Daemon is a very grey character, I hope you guys like it

The story of (y/n) Eaglemore and Daemon Targaryen did not start as a love story, one would suppose that seems to be a common trait amongst the concept of arranged marriages, especially to a young maiden of an independent kingdom to the rogue prince Targaryen, their marriage was the establishment of Eaglemore joining their forces with the Targaryens, (y/n) was dressed in her traditional attire with her hair in an intricate style, she was breath of fresh air in the house of the dragons, a proud Eagle that was brave enough to fly with the dragons as the flag with the colors of red and black flew next to the black and red she assumed the similarities were bound as an omen for success.

That was quickly ripped out of her mind at the bedding ceremony that she endured, the prince was not brutal, yet she had hoped that he would forbid it, he was cold and only placed a kiss at the top of her head after it was done before he left her laying while the ones that observed it cleared the room, tears streamed down from embarrassment while the handmaidens helped her get up to assist her with her bath.

“Husband!”

She exclaimed excitedly before she skipped over to Daemon who was preoccupied with having a conversation with Viserys was much more important than turning his head to face her, alas the newlywed stood by his side and reached for his hand to get his attention, innocently she squeezed it only to be met with an annoyed expression as he gazed intensely at her.

“What?! (Y/n)! Did they not teach basic manners in your homeland?”

“I-I just, I wanted to give you this, I sewed it for you, it’s the dragon symbol with the eagle”

“Great, give it to the handmaidens, is that all?”

Suddenly she became hyper-aware of the pie of eyes around her, mostly men that had taken interest in the scene that unfolded in the gardens, she felt like a little girl scolded by her father, she bit her lower lip as her shoulders sunk in defeat, the glimpse in her eyes slowly disappearing like a light snuffed out.

“My apologies, I did not wish to interrupt you and the king, I hope you can forgive me, y-your grace”

“It is quite alright, my dear, for what it’s worth I found your creation a wonderful gift, do not pay attention to daemon he has never been good with gifts”

“If that means I have never been good with gifts that have no use then yes, I agree”

“I shall go, excuse me, your grace, husband”

She curtsied before she ran off, her chocolate-colored hair swinging left and right in her ponytail as her eyes looked down to hide the tears that she desperately held back, Daemon watched her and could sense the damage he had caused, sometimes he would catch himself staring at her with purity and interest, he had even smiled once when she struggled to find the right word in his language.

He should have stopped, he should have held his tongue when the evident quiver of her chin started to show when her eyes bounced in different directions as she wanted to gather her composure, but he didn’t, now Daemon stood as still as a grain of salt whilst she once again ran away from him covered in shame.

“She is your lady wife Daemon, must you be so hard on her?”

“A wife that was bestowed to me”

“She is also someone that was bestowed a spouse, yet she took it with grace and is grasping desperately to create the best out of the worst, as a man that prides himself on his intelligence your lady wife has surpassed you, at least in principle and empathy”

Daemon was stunned, as Viserys spoke in such kind words his words slashed through Daemon like the sharpest of knives, this was Daemon's second marriage, and it had become second nature to be rude and unattainable to his lady wife since the bronze bitch shared the same hatred as he did for her, now the cheerful lady with the deer like eyes and red puffy cheeks had been nothing but kind, a foreign pain in his chest started to make Daemon uneasy as she ran further and out of his line of sight.

“If I were you I would be very ashamed”

(Y/n) sat in front of the mirror as one of her handmaidens lit her candles and the other brushed (y/n)s hair to prepare her for bed, (y/n) stood as still as she could though her fingers intertwined with one another and twisted in odd ways.

“Could you leave me with Chiara, please? Thank you”

(Y/n) requested softly, the young handmaiden only curtsied before she walked out of (y/n)s chamber, whilst Chiara continued to brush her hair, they had grown into a bond that (y/n) felt comfort in, Chiara was sweet and honest, somewhat older, and had just given birth to her first child, she was the first handmaiden that she met when she got to the red keep.

“Do you love your lord husband?”

“I do, now”

“What do you mean?”

“I married him per my father's request, and he gave the biggest dowry, at first it was difficult, we had to figure out a way to communicate and after a while, I like to think that he grew to love me as much as I love him, though first, we respected one another, then love came gradually”

(Y/n) grew silent, her head hanging low before she bit her lip in defeat, she respected her lord husband? Did her lord husband respect her? After the incident on the morrow, it certainly didn’t feel like it.

(Y/n) had not noticed that Chiara had scrounged in front of her and placed her hands over (y/n)s, she only saw the tears that splashed over the handmaidens' skin.

“You won’t always feel like the outsider”

“I don’t think I can do this”

“You can, it is alright my dear”

One sob came after the other as (y/n)s body shook and Chiara lovingly wrapped her arms around the lady’s frame in such delicacy, it resembled a girl hugging her porcelain doll while she tried to not crack it, in its macabre nature you could identify a certain beauty, someone that had the strength to comfort a disheveled young lady as she navigated through womanhood and all its trials.

What had (y/n) nor Chiara had taken into account was that Prince Daemon had made his way to the half-cracked door, freezing in his sport once the whimpers of agony hit his ears, he peaked through the shadows only to be met with his lady wife letting tears stain her dress and hiccups shaking her hunching back as the handmaiden rubbed circles on her back.

“Prince Daemon is a fool for not acknowledging the precious stone that is you, may the gods bless him and open his eyes before he is taken from us”

Daemon had no reason to intervene, the poor lady was right, he was a fool, here she was, a beautiful and intelligent young royalty crying over his acts, he had always longed for home, for family, and now he kicked and toyed with it.

He should be the one comforting his lady wife, to gaze upon (y/n)s puffy and red face and do his best to calm her nerves, not to be the face of her pain, shamefully he scurried away without a word, mad at his reflection that stared back at him in such high horse, he had become everything he hated, a man that did not care about anyone but himself, stopping at nothing to prove he was right.

“Good morrow”

(Y/n) did not respond, she only raised her head and nodded at Daemon that had just entered the dining area, exhausted from crying the lady felt like a family of horses had run over her, getting barely a wink of sleep, evidently so by the veins under her eyes.

(Y/n)s silence was deafening to Daemon, however, he cleared his throat and took a sit next to his lady wife, waiting for a servant to pour him some wine.

“Orange juice? I believe we do not grow these over here”

“A gift from my mother, she said orange juice in the morning is a secret to a woman’s beauty”

“She must be the most astonishing lady back in your line”

“You met her, on our wedding feast, I believe you were too busy to pay attention, like always”

The last comment was barely above a whisper still sharp as a knife right on Daemon's abdomen, Daemon only turned his gaze at her, confused by her demeanor, it wasn’t uncalled for yet it took him by surprise, she always seemed to have the ability to hide her agony at least in public.

“Mayhaps we could go to her, I’m sure she will be more than happy if her daughter visited her”

“Not if my belly is flat, as much as she wanted me to be thin for most of my life she is now sending raven after raven to just check in with my monthly bleeds”

She informed him in a mumbling tone while her hand was rubbing circles on her temples, visibly annoyed over her mother's disregard for her well-being and hyper-focused on her womb.

Daemon was taken back by her comfortability to speak over her monthly visits, brushing it off easily though since they were husband and wife after all, those matters should concern him as well, the idea of a sweet little child running to (y/n)s arms brought him joy.

“It must be uneasy, being put in this position”

“Indeed and if I am being honest, my lord husband has not been making it any easier, with my empty womb nor his attitude”

“I understand you are cross with me”

“Can you blame me? You humiliated me”

Her tone switched from my king to a hiss, her eyes spewing fire as she stared back at him, it was the first time that she dared to show her true emotions, albeit Daemon could detect that it wasn’t just an act of anger but a sense of fear was laying behind those hues of hers.

He was correct, (y/n) feared for her future, the whispers of Daemon's visits to the street of silk, the adoration for his niece, his continuing ignorance over their wedlock, it all came crashing on her chest making it unable to breathe sometimes.

“I came to break my fast with you as a sign of goodwill, I want us to work on our relation-“

“Us? There is no us, you made sure of that my prince, you have crashed all my efforts and now you dare to speak of us”

“I cannot correct my past mistakes, I can only hope that you will allow me to work on our future, you did not deserve my coldness and for that, I sincerely apologize, I only wish for your good graces and for you to allow me to show you how I truly feel for you and our wedlock”

Silence, her eyes focused on his to scatter for one ounce of a lie, alas she was left with nothing, a sigh left her lips as she sunk to her chair defeated, why did the gods curse her with such a difficult match?

“I do not know if I can love you, I tried to desperately earn your affection for so long, I have grown tired of this”

“I know you have and I do not blame you, I beg you, my sweet (y/n), let me try”

His hand had found hers to hold, the warm flesh against hers grew goosebumps, a small beam of light found its way into her soul and a ghost of a smile appeared as (y/n) glimpsed upon their hands locked together, she gave him a subtle squeeze to see if this was a dream or reality.

“I suppose trying couldn’t hurt”

“Thank you, now you must eat, your mother might be right you have lost some weight”

“My efforts of getting accustomed to your foods have not been working”

“You do not have to, we can bring a cook from your homeland, my lady wife shall eat whatever her heart contents”

“There are some delicacies that I believe you would enjoy”

“I am not very picky with food so I will try anything you put in front of me”

Chatter was something (y/n) could easily do, however, even though Daemons spirits were high, (y/n) would steal glances of caution at him, was this another scheme? Or was he genuinely craving her presence and good graces?

“I was hoping you could come to meet Caraxes later”

“I do not know if that is the best idea”

“Nonsense, Caraxes is a part of me, therefore a part of you by law, soon our children will have their eggs on their cradle, if you are surrounded by dragons you need to get used to their presence”

Requests are open!

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

“Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 28 days

Text

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her.

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within.

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont.

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins.

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?”

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part.

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

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happilyhertale · 6 months

Text

The Rogue Prince - Daemon Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: After a stressful day that leaves Daemon in a bit of an angry mood, you decide to give him some relief. But in a different way than you usually do.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x poc!wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Minors do not continue reading!

Author’s note: Hey you (: A one-shot Daemon story requested by Anon 🖤 It took me some time but I hope you like it! English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 3.5 k

Other stories of mine

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You didn't have to look up, just the way the door slammed open was enough of a sign for you to know - Daemon was pissed. He entered without knocking, his armour clattering against itself.

In a mixture of snorts and grumbles, your husband strode into your chambers. As you lifted your gaze, your warm hazel eyes met the captivating intensity of his purple eyes, sending a shiver down your spine. Your curious gaze wandered further, discovering the mess of dirt and the almost macabre pattern of dried blood clinging to him. Uncertainly, you put aside the book you were engrossed in and approached Daemon, who was already in the process of freeing himself from the constricting confines of his armour. But before you could approach him, a piece of his armour flew into the far corner of the room.

"It will not improve your mood if you damage your armour," you say gently and help him to open his armour.

He just looks at you and his gaze makes you shiver a little again.

"What do I care about this fucking armour?" he hisses.

You look at him and your hands continue to work on the buckles and remove the chest piece.

"You want to tell me what happened?" you ask quietly.

There is a brief silence in your chambers and you use the time to admire his muscular chest, visible under his shirt. His body does not fail to bring you to ecstasy.

You look into his eyes again as he begins to speak.

"None of these idiots in this council understand the importance of cleansing our city of these filthy criminals! Not one!" he hisses.

You nod at him and try to concentrate on his words and not let his body distract you.

Your hands continue to work on the buckles of his armour.

"The city is full of disgusting creatures. They steal, they kill, they rape and none of those cunts at that council table give a shit!" he continues to hiss.

"But you do," you say softly and his eyes meet yours.

"I will teach these people to fear the golden cloaks again," he says in his deep voice.

You smile slightly and take off the last piece of his armour. Your fingers begin to take off his shirt.

"First we have to clean you up," you say gently.

Daemon's soft chuckle, markedly different from his previous behaviour, resounds through the air as he spreads his arms and asks you to release him from his shirt. His shimmering silver lengths fall over his shoulders, framing the network of scars etched into the skin of his neck and nape. These battle-scarred marks, created by victories and fire, are revealed in all their glory.

Your fingertips run tenderly over these well-deserved scars, your soft olive hue a striking contrast to his pale skin. You relish these imprints of his commanding prowess on the battlefield, each scar telling its own story, a testament to his unwavering leadership qualities. Daemon watches the movements of your fingers and notices how your gaze is fixed on his chest, unable to avert your gaze.

"Are you sure you just want to bathe me?" he murmurs, and your gaze jumps to his eyes.

You smile slightly, "Yes, I do," you say seriously and take his hand, leading him into the adjoining bathroom. Daemon grunts in disappointment, but lets himself be led along. The bath is quickly prepared and warm steam rises from the tub.

Daemon stands next to the tub of hot water and begins to open his trousers. As they slide down, you can see his already hardening arousal, but you avert your gaze and go to a small dresser in the corner of the bathroom.

Daemon watches you, a grin on his lips.

"Oh come on... You can't ignore my needs like that..." he says, but you interrupt him.

"Into the warm water with you," is all you say as you look through small bottles on the dresser to find the right one. You have these little vials from your home in Dorne, filled with different elixirs, and this time you want to put him in the right, stimulating mood.

Daemon grumbles something unintelligible, but obeys and gets into the tub. His gaze is fixed firmly on your back.

"Will you at least keep me company?" he asks, and you can hear in his voice that he is getting impatient.

You turn to him and smile, "No... at least not in the water," you say softly.

With two bottles in your hand, you stride to the bathtub. In the soft, flickering light created by candles, Daemon's gaze fixes on you and you can see an unspoken desire in the depths of his eyes to just grab you. But instead of giving in to temptation, his hands grip the edge of the tub. He leans back slightly and lets you pleasure him, a sign of trust he has only in you.

You kneel behind him, set the vials aside and carefully remove the hair ribbon from its silken lengths. As the ribbon gives up its hold, his hair falls gracefully over his shoulders. The once shining silver strands, now clouded with dirt and sweat, literally crave your touch. You gently begin to work water into the lengths, and the soothing rhythm elicits a contented murmur from Daemon as his eyes are gently closed.

Your hand wanders to a vial, its lid giving way with a soft, melodic pop at your careful touch. At this slight disturbance, Daemon's eyes flicker open to take in the unexpected intrusion.

"What's that?" he murmurs. You smile slightly, "Lavender oil... I like it when your hair smells fresh," you say soflty.

Daemon reflects your soft smile, "All right... If my Dornish princess wants me to smell like a silly bush from the garden, I don't think I could refuse," he mutters. With a smile, you apply a few drops of oil to his shiny silver locks and enjoy the feel of his long strands gliding through your fingers as the accumulated dirt runs effortlessly down.

After pampering him with your grooming, you rise and hand Daemon a towel. With a synchronised movement, he accepts the towel, and as he dries himself, you return to the bedroom with the other vial of elixir. Daemon follows you silently, his shapely form wrapped in the loosely hanging towel.

"Now you're going to take care of my needs?" he says to you, a cheeky smile around his lips. And at that moment you notice the bulge under the towel. You smile, "Lie down on the bed," you say.

Daemon's smile widens, like that of a child who finds an unexpected, delicious treat. He complies with your request and lies down in your marital sanctuary - the very bed where he makes you squirm and beg every night. But this night it will be different.

With an expectant gaze, Daemon watches your every move. How you slowly take off your dress and walk towards the bed. You crawl onto the bed and his hands reach out longingly to pull you close.

But you push them away, "Hands by your side," you say and move to sit astride him. Daemon looks irritated, but he obeys. You take the bottle and open it while Daemon watches you closely.

"More lavender oil?" he asks, "You know I'll have trouble commanding my men if my whole body smells like a flower bouquet" he says.

With a soft chuckle, you murmur, "Not a hint of lavender..." as the delicate scents of osmanthus and patchouli dance around you, washing you with their stimulating embrace as you place a few drops of the oil on your warm palm. Daemon's eyes remain fixed, transfixed by your hands as you set about the task of massaging the oil into his powerful chest.

"And I don't think you'll have any problems commanding your men.... No matter how you smell..." you say softly.

Daemon can only growl slightly as he slowly feels the effect of the scents and his arousal presses harder against you. You can feel a slight movement of his hips as he tries to grind against you. You stare into his eyes as your hands continue to glide over his skin.

"Don't move," you say to him. Daemon grunts, but he obeys - again.

You hear his breathing become more irregular as your hand turns to his belly. Slowly you massage the oil into the muscles of his belly, but your hands are unstoppable. You sit up a little and release him from the towel and his hot length springs free. It twitches wildly as you begin to rub his pubic hair with the oil. It twitches even more wildly as your hands turn to the shaft of his cock, which almost invites you to let yourself sink onto it. Daemon grunts impatiently, wanting to move his hips again, to somehow get close to your cunt.

"Don't," you just whisper, and your hands begin to wander up and down. You hear him gasp, see his hands gripping the sheet beneath you tightly. Your hands slide faster as his member literally pulses. Daemon breathes faster and faster as he chases his climax and you can already see the first drops of his release coming from the tip of his cock. You lean down and lick them away and hear him hiss.

"Woman, you will be my death," he whispers breathlessly. You just look up at him, grinning a little, and bite your lip. Your hand slides up and down faster.

It also increasingly excites you that he could just grab you, push you onto the bed and thrust into you, but he does not. He lies there and lets the feelings and actions wash over him.

When suddenly you feel a strong twitch in his member and Daemon spurts his hot seed onto his belly. He grunts loudly and watches you pump the last drops of cum out of his cock. He breathes heavily and closes his eyes briefly. His head falls back on the pillow.

"I think I need to take another bath..." he mumbles.

But you only smile, "I'm not done with you yet," you whisper. Daemon opens his eyes and looks at you in irritation.

You notice how he slowly softens in your hand, but it is not over for you yet. Slowly you slide further down and push his legs apart. You kneel between his legs and your hand gently moves along his shaft again. Daemon hisses slightly as you lean down.

You take his softening member into your mouth and begin to suck. The remnants of his cum unfold their salty taste on your tongue, but you love the way he tastes.

Daemon gasps, "What are you doing?"

But you just grin slightly and push him all the way down your throat.

"Gods...", Daemon gasps, but you notice that he is getting hard again.

But then, with a pop, you release his cock from your mouth. He is breathing heavily and still looks irritated, his cock hard again and standing in all its glory.

Daemon's heavy breath echoes from the walls of your chambers. You move and lie down beside him. You bite your lip gently and lean forward, kissing his neck softly. Your tongue is like pure fire that hits his skin and could cause new scars. A hot, arousing fire. His hips rise again with arousal and his hand reaches for the back of your head to move your head down. But you stop caressing his neck and look at him. You shake your head resolutely and Daemon pulls his hand back grumbling.

His voice fails in his throat and nothing more leaves his mouth as he slowly loses control. A growl sounds from him and his back arches slightly as your hand begins to caress his chest.

A moan escapes him as your nails leave light marks on his skin.

"Stop it, love," he murmurs. "You're driving me crazy" But you see his cock twitch wildly and you know he doesn't want you to stop. His hands reach into the sheet again and you know, that it's taking all his will not to grab you. Gently your lips graze over his neck as your fingers gently move down, teasing him. You feel the remnants of his previous climax and you see him bite his lip as you slide through it. His eyes are closed and you can see him enjoying this. Your fingers gently caress his abdomen, following the light hair to your destination.

A moan escapes him again. His hand suddenly reaches for your arm and you gasp softly, feeling his fingertips dig into your arm, showing you how much you're already teasing him. But you are not finished yet.

Daemon tries to concentrate on staying calm for your sake.

Once again, you can't stop your fingers from stroking his pubic hair as your smile widens. You watch his expression as you caress him.

A sharp intake of breath comes from his throat. He feels nothing but your touch. His fingertips dig further into your arm, but he finds it hard to stay still. You feel his muscles twitch and he just wants to pull you closer to him and take control of the situation so he can use your body as he wants.

But he forces himself to stay still. He forces himself to enjoy the passive role for once.

Your fingers gently graze the tip of his hard manhood. You bite your lip as you feel it twitch. As you close your fingers around the tip and the twitch shoots through your fingers.

"Ops...", you say softly, with an air of innocence, but Daemon knows you are not innocent and it's impossible for him not to react to that – a soft hiss escapes him.

His back arches slightly upwards and he grips your arm even tighter. His head turns towards you. His eyes are still closed, but you feel his lips seek yours. But you let him suffer. Let him feel what it is like to be on the receiving end of something like this.

"Is this what I put you through every night?" he suddenly asks softly, still keeping his eyes closed. You hear a slight breathlessness in his voice.

You smile again, "Yes... Every time you tease me..." you whisper.

You feel at your fingertips how his arousal continues to make itself felt, and the drops wet the tip of his cock.

"You like that, don't you?" you whisper.

He responds with a low growl, as if he's too busy enjoying it to reply with words.

His fingers disengage from your arm and sink to the bed, holding them still. It works up to a point. But you see his fingers clench into fists again and again.

You lean forward again and gently kiss his neck. Lightly you let your teeth sink into the skin. Again you hear a slight growl.

But still your fingers do not touch his hard member. Teasingly you only stroke his tip, refusing to embrace it completely. You feel it twitch violently again and again. Almost desperately it wants you to touch it. And again a moan escapes Daemon's throat.

You notice his breath quickening, and your own smile turns into a wicked little grin.

His fingers clutch the sheets on the bed as his muscles tremble slightly. You can feel the tension building inside him.

"Stop it... stop..," he murmurs, his voice strained by the desire to just grab you.

You continue to nibble on his neck. Your fingers, meanwhile, are stroking his pubic hair again, your caress growing rougher.

"Would you like me to touch you?" you whisper. With this question you have sealed his fate.

You see him contort his face almost painfully, trying to resist his urge. It would be so easy for him to give in, to just turn and take you as he wants. You see the inner struggle in him. The Rogue Prince who never begs, never bows to any command. The dragon who needs control over every situation. But still you see his breathing quicken, his muscles tremble slightly, he moistens his lips.

"Yes..." he whispers after a while, almost defeated.

But then his fingers move to your hips, wanting to grab you and force you closer to him. You slap his hand away.

"No, Daemon. Get your hands off me," you whisper warningly in his ear. You underline your momentary power and nibble lightly on his earlobe.

Your fingers now find their way to his balls, your fingernails gently scratching the now taut skin and he hisses again.

It's a struggle for him to take his hands off your hips. He doesn't want to. But he obeys.

You continue the torment, your fingernails almost driving him mad.

"You know you'll pay for this, you little pest," his voice sounds a little hoarse.

But with each word his voice grows softer and is now just a low murmur as his body continues to tremble with desire. You have the power over this moment, and you know it. You smile just slightly, knowing you will pay for this, and a feeling of anticipation spreads through you.

"Please," he murmurs suddenly. His breathing is quick and heavy. Right now he is nothing more than your plaything. The Rogue Prince on the verge of begging.

You bite his neck again, "Please, what, my love?" you whisper as your fingernails continue to tease his balls. He hisses again. His hips jerk a little, desperate for a touch.

His mouth opens and closes as he tries to find words to say what he wants. It's all gasps and moans and deep, animalistic noises now.

"Please... I need more...," he finally murmurs weakly. He can't say much more, he wants you too much. You know it. He knows it. You both know it.

A low grumble escapes his throat as he hisses again. He clenches his teeth as you grab his balls. He tries to take a deep breath to keep his voice low, but he can't stop his voice from shaking. "Touch me...", these are the only words he manages to say.

Your hand continues to grip his balls, squeezing them gently.

You kiss his neck, "My Rogue Prince...", you whisper.

He is silent now, looking at you with half-closed eyes, his breathing heavy.

You continue to kiss and nibble on his neck as your hand holds him tight, enjoying this newfound power over him. "If you keep this up, I swear we won't leave this bed for at least twelve hours. And I will make you suffer,“ he hisses, his last attempt at exuding dominance.

You smile at him, your fingers now slowly stroking along his shaft.

"I wouldn't mind," you whisper.

His hard manhood is dripping with precum. Your hand wanders along his hard manhood. It twitches violently as you rub the pecum over its tip. He gasps and grunts.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" you whisper as you nibble on his neck again.

"Yes...!" Daemon suddenly groans. You're playing with fire and you know it. Your teasing only drives him closer to his climax without you actually touching him. But you embrace him fully now, and the sudden rough touch makes him grunt loudly. Your hand wanders up and down, your other hand starts massaging his balls again.

"Then come for me, love...", you whisper. You are also breathing harder by now as your hand slides along his hard manhood. He is moaning uncontrollably by now, his manhood twitching. His eyes are closed and his hips are twitching.

His fingers dig deep into the sheet as he makes sounds you didn't think he was capable of. But his moans turn into hisses as your hand works faster.

He pulls your head towards him and kisses you fiercely, almost desperately. He holds nothing back now and you let him.

"My wife. My Dornish princess. My queen. I am yours. Only yours.", Daemon gasps and you feel the twitch move from his balls up into his cock.

And then he comes. Again his seed spurts onto his belly, while your hand does not slacken in its movement. You're still kissing him and he moans and whimpers into your mouth.

Daemon releases the kiss, still breathing heavily, his eyes closed. Softly he whispers your name, smiling.

"You're cruel, you know that? Cruel and beautiful," he whispers.

You giggle softly and watch the movements of his face. After a few deep breaths from him, he suddenly moves. So suddenly that you gasp slightly. Your eyes grow wide as he suddenly hovers over you. You stare into his violet eyes, his cum dripping onto your soft, olive skin, creating a complete contrast. Daemon slides his finger through it as it continues to drip, just as you did on his skin before. A dark grin on his lips.

"I'm going to make you pay even more cruelly for this..." he murmurs and before you can say anything, his lips meet yours and his hand finds its way between your thighs. Your whimpers echo through your chambers as his hand grips your cunt roughly.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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wh0reforcoriolanussnow · 10 months

Note

Daemon x oc, where oc is alicent's 4th child and her favorite, but the oc also inherent Otto's scheming skills and so much better than him and overly can't stand rhaenrya and knows that rhaenrya likes daemon so she goes for daemon and daemon falls harder for the oc AKKKK and rhaenrya pov where she realizes that she is losing daemon to her much younger half-sister, please 🥺🫶

Half-Blood Rivalry || D. Targaryen x oc

GIF by @mad-witch-moon DIVIDERS by @straywords

a/n: tysm for this request!!! anons please continue to send me requests pls!!! I hope you guys are happy for Catarina to play oc as Rhaella :) also please imagine that this takes place in ep 2. when rhaella is born is around the time daemon is banished for taking rhae to the brothel. rhaenyra hasn’t married laenor or has children yet.

The youngest child of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen was sweet Rhaella. When Rhaenyra first held the girl when she was only a babe, she had a strange feeling about her half-sister. As years went by and both girls no doubt got older, Rhaenyra could not seem to shake off the uneasy feelings she felt towards her youngest sister.

“Happy Name Day, sweet child” Alicent goes on her tippy toes to kiss her youngest and—anyone with eyes could see— favourite child. “Thank you, mother,” Rhaella kissed her cheek. It was then her father’s turn. Rhaella and Viserys had always had a complicated relationship, the two never seemed to see eye to eye, quite similar with her other siblings.

Rhaella and her siblings knew that their father didn’t favour them as much as he does with Rhaenyra. Nonetheless, Viserys was still her father and he cared for him.

“Happy name day, sister” Rhaenyra bursts through the doors of the throne room with a drunken smile. Everyone in the room stared at the platinum white haired Princess in shock. Her appearance was dishevelled and she reeked of alcohol. It was only morning.

“Are you quite alright Rhaenyra?” Alicent raises an eyebrow as she looks the Targaryen up and down. Rhaella lets out a scoff. Typical Rhaenyra. “Quite so, I wouldn’t dare miss seeing my dear sister on this special day” She raises a cup towards the younger who rolls her tongue against her cheek in annoyance.

Rhaella looks to Viserys, a wide grin on his face making her scoff. Rhaenyra somehow always seems to pull Rhaella’s buttons without even realising. In her opinion, she was a stuck up Princess that was never grateful of what was given to her.

Rhaella could not stand her older half-sister, maybe it was because of the fact that their father always placed Rhaenyra on a pedestal and could never do anything wrong in his eyes. Placing a fake smile on her pretty face, Rhaella speaks up. “Thank you Rhaenyra, your presence here means so much to me” She pops a grape in her mouth.

Otto lowly chuckles yet shakes his head lightly at his granddaughter’s tone. There was no denying that out of his four grandchildren, Rhaella too was his favourite. The young Targaryen was very much like him in many ways, even better in some aspects you could say.

There was silence at the table for a bit as they all ate, when all of a sudden, the doors once again opened. This time, Ser Harrold walked in. “Your Grace, he’s back” Was all the kingsguard said. Rhaella and her siblings stop chewing their food and look to their father.

Viserys wore a shocked face before standing up quickly and walking away. Rhaella looks to her mother in confusion as she gives her a sad look and rubs her arm. “Father, where are you going?” The young Targaryen turns in her seat as she watches him walk away. What even stung the young girl was the fact that he didn’t respond.

“Daemon’s back” Rhaenyra says to herself with wide eyes. “Don’t be silly, uncle Daemon has not returned to court in how many years?” Aegon questions as Rhaella replies, “Since I was a babe” She shrugs. “But who else would Ser Harrold have referred to? Did you see father’s face,” She humorously scoffs, “That was Daemon alright” Rhaenyra shrugs.

“Enough talk about your uncle. It is Rhaella’s name day and I want you all behaved for her birthday celebrations today” Alicent sternly speaks before continuing to eat. The Targaryen siblings all give each other one final look before going back to their meal.

It was the night of Rhaella's name day where a huge feast was held. Alicent demanded the celebration to be extravagant for her favourite child. You could have mistaken the event as the King's name day.

Rhaella sat beside her mother and her siblings beside her, Rhaenyra on Viserys' side. When her father stood up to announce a speech, he was interrupted by a figure walking into the throne room.

It was no one other than Daemon. Young Rhaella had not seen him all day, him showing up there was her first time seeing him really as she could not recall him when she was a born.

Of course, the Targaryen often heard stories about her uncle. He held a bad reputation and yet everytime anyone would speak of him, Rhaella always found herself wanting to hear more about her uncle.

He sauntered in with a smirk on his face. "Brother, I thought you weren't going to come" Viserys puts a smile on his face as Daemon stands in front of the table, his hands clasped together. Rhaella could have sworn she saw a glint of mischievous in his eyes.

She looks up towards her father, than to her half-sister. Rhaenyra had a look on her face that Rhaella couldn't quite fathom out. "And miss my dear nieces' birthday celebration? How could I do that to Rhaenrya" Alicent gasps in disbelief and Aemond chuckles under his breath, a kick under the table from Otto shut him up.

"I think your mistaken dear uncle, it is not Rhaenyra you should be wishing a happy birthday, but me," Rhaella irked, crossing her arms. Daemon's eyes move to her. She watched him study her before a grin makes it to his lips. "Apologies...." He trails off, "Rhaella." "My brother failed to mention which niece of mine was celebrating. After all, I have little memory of his children before I left."

Rhaella nods her head politely, he was offered a seat at the end of the table near Rhaenyra. She couldn't help but notice her half-sisters' wanting eyes to Daemon. The young Targaryen knew of what had happened when she was born. In terms of Daemon and Rhaenyra.

But she did not expect her to still long for her uncle, after all, Daemon was gone for nearly 20 years. The whole time as they all feasted, Rhaella felt eyes burning into her and everytime she looked, Daemon shamelessly stares with a smirk on his face.

"I think I would like to dance," Rhaella says before standing up and making her way to her sworn knight, Ser Harwin. "A dance Ser Harwin?" The princess looks up at him with a smile. "It is my pleasure, princess" He smiles back as they start to dance, not knowing a certain Targaryen's eyes were fixated on the two the entire time.

"Your daughter is quite pleasing to look at, Alicent" Daemon chuckles to himself, his eyes still not leaving Rhaella. Alicent nearly choked on her drink as she glares at him. "My sister is nearly half my age uncle!" Rhaenyra laughs.

"Mhm, a shame indeed" He mutters as he taps his fingers on the table. Rhaenyra stares at her uncle in disbelief. The princess opens her mouth but shuts it again when Daemon stands up and makes his way through the crowd to where Rhaella and Ser Harwin were dancing.

"Might I have this dance, princess?" Daemon whispers against her ears as she breathed heavily from dancing. Rhaella gives a small nod to Harwin as he backs off and now dances with Daemon. "You know, you've grown quite alot," He starts off. "Thank you for pointing the obvious uncle," She rolls her eyes playfully, "Into such a, beautiful woman" Daemon finishes.

Rhaella smiles, "Thank you, I assume-" She was cut off by Rhaenyra who taps her shoulder, "Can I steal our dear uncle, sister?" She questions as she doesn't even bother looking at Rhaella, only Dameon.

The young Targaryen looks between the two before nodding her head. She walks away not before locking eyes with her uncle before his gaze floats back to Rhaenyra. "Did you just get told to bugger off, sister?" Aegon laughs as Rhaella approaches the table and smacks his head. "Ow!" He groans, rubbing his head. Alicent shoots a look to the eldest.

"I believe our dear Rhaenyra is still infatuated with Daemon" Rhaella tilts her head. "Not surprised, the way she was eyeing him the whole time, I thought she'd eat uncle on the spot" Halaena says concerned as Rhaella and her brothers laughed loudly. Deep down, Rhaella couldn't push aside a strange feeling as she watched her sister and her uncle dancing and laughing together.

“Do you jest, sister?” Rhaella’s mouth hangs open at Rhaenyra’s idea that she had created in her head. “What? Daemon and I are made for each other. We have blood of the dragons coursing through us. Not to forget, he wanted me before he was banished by Father” She paces back and forth in her room.

The young Targaryen only blinked a few times before laughing. Rhaenyra glares at her younger sister. “S-sorry,” Rhaella wipes the tears that escaped from laughter, “Do you still think uncle longs for you? Forgive me for saying this Rhaenyra, but you are no longer a maiden.” Rhaella tilts her head.

“Daemon might have lusted over you at one point but yet again, he did take you to that brothel and just left you there. And now he’s back after what? twenty years and you still think he has his eyes on you?” Rhaella’s jabs stung the elder. Her words were like knives to her heart.

“And what do you suppose? That he’s got eyes for you now?” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at the younger. A small smirk forms on Rhaella’s lips, “Time will tell” “Don’t tell me you like Daemon, Rhaella. You just practically met him!” Rhaenyra’s voice loudens. To piss her even more, Rhaella simply shrugged with a playful smile.

“Daemon would make a dutiful Husband wouldn’t he? All that experience and….. well you know. Plus, mother has been pestering me about marriage. What better way to honour her wishes of me staying close to home then marrying our deal uncle?” Rhaenyra scoffs at her half-sister. “Daemon will never want you, you wouldn’t even dare to approach him with those silly intentions-“

Rhaella stands up and storms to her older, and still slightly taller, sister. “Watch me dear sister. Watch me marry Daemon in our old valyrian ways and bear his children. Watch me live a life you only ever got to dream of.” She calmy says yet still, venom laced her words.

Rhaenyra stood still in shock at her sister’s words before opening her mouth, “You are a horrid person.” She said through gritted teeth. Rhaella only wickedly smiles before turning around and walking off. As soon as the door slammed shut, Rhaenyra grabbed the closest object which was a vase and aimed it at the door, shards flying everywhere.

Rhaella stood outside the door with a proud smirk on her face. It was finally time to put her older sister into her own place. She walked through the hallways of her home before she bumped into something hard. “Watch where-“ Rhaella shuts her mouth as she’s met with his figure. “you’re going..” She trails as he smiles at her.

“Rhaenyra is still in her bedchambers” She mumbles massaging her head. Before she could move to the side to leave, he takes ahold of her forearm. “It is not your sister I wish to see but you, princess”

“What could you possibly want to see me for, uncle?” She spoke, her arms folded and her head slightly tilted. “Am I not allowed to spend some time with my niece? After all, I know nothing of you” He says, his eyes wandering nowhere near her face.

Rhaella smirked. She hummed before replying. “I’ve always wanted to her your stories come from you, and more possibly-“ She was cut off by him, “You’ve heard about me and my stories?” He questions.

Rhaella playfully rolls her eyes, “Don’t flatter yourself uncle, your stories are the only entertaining thing to listen to around here” She chuckles. Daemon laughs, “Might you like to accompany Caraxes and I for a ride?” He suggests with smug smile.

1 month later…

“Where’s Daemon and Rhaella?” Rhaenyra looks around the table noticing their absent once again at the breakfast table. “Didn’t you hear, sister? Daemon’s taking Rhaella to Dragonstone today for a few months” Halaena says with a sweet smile as Rhaenyra’s jaw hangs open.

“D-Daemon’s taking Rhaella away? To Dragonstone?” She stutters as she processes what was happening. Dragonstone was supposed to be for her and Daemons. Not Rhaellas’.

“Why hasn’t anyone thought to tell me this?” She bangs her hand on the table in frustration. “I didn’t think it would concern you Princess, The Prince and Princess simply want to get to know each other more” Alicent speaks up.

“Get to know each other more? I don’t see why they can’t do that here, why must they be at Dragonstone. Father! Did you approve of this?” She looks to Viserys in disbelief. “My child, these are Daemon’s wishes. And besides, it is finally time that Rhaella chooses a Husband”

“A husband.” The princess scoffs as everyone on the table watch her, anticipating what was going to happen next. “I wanted Daemon to be my husband at her age and what did you do?! You banished him! Why does my whore of a sister get to do what ever she pleases!” Rhaenyra stands up in her seat as does Alicent. They could have sworn they saw steam leave her ears.

“How dare you call your sister that!” Viserys too stands up and hits his hand on the table loudly. “Rhaella is of age and you were not. You were the heir at the time and choosing Daemon as King consort? The realm would have been up in flames by now! My daughter. Your sister! Needs a husband sooner than later. Daemon is content with his position. Those twenty years where ever he was did him some good. Rhaella needs someone like him to confide to”

Viserys sits back down with a sigh, Rhaenyra only stood there in disbelief, shock and hatred for her half sister. Without uttering another word, she excused herself from the table and left. “She’s lost her mind” Alicent shakes her head.

Rhaenyra stormed out of the castle and into the dragon pit. She immediately paused as she witnessed Rhaella and Daemon in each other’s arms as they pat Caraxes. Rhaenyra was never able to do that the blood wyrm, he just never seemed to accept her. But Rhaella on the other hand.

Before she was could storm closer to the two a voice stops her. “Depriving your own sister of happiness?” Otto tempts her, “Just look at how happy they look with each other. I’ve never seen Daemon smile so much, have you?”

“He smiled plenty with me before” She mutters. “Ah there it is, before.” Rhaenyra glares at Otto. “Before he liked you, now he wishes to runaway with my granddaughter and marry her.” “H-he’s not marrying her” She chuckles to herself.

“Oh but he is my dear, he even asked for the King and Queen’s blessing. Your sister, much more youthful, smarter-“ “What are you trying to do?” The princess says desperately, “Stay away from them. Your sister is perfect for him and deserves happiness. Don’t let that childish dream of yours get into the road of them being happy. He’s obviously moved on and so should you Princess” Otto sternly speaks as the two of them look to the couple.

“I lost him once. Now I just lost him again,” The Princess shed a tear as she watched her half-sister get everything she ever hoped and dreamed of.

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buckybarnesb-tch · 10 months

Text

Alpha!Daemon Targaryen meets his Omega

The king had taken you in upon realizing that you were an Omega.

You were the daughter of Vaemond though he would never acknowledge you as his as you were just a bastard, though you were also the first Targaryen offspring of any kind that was an Omega in nearly 100 years. There were a few Alphas such as Daemon and Corlys but no Omegas.

Viserys ensured you were given the best education possible (considering you didn’t present until you were 14 and had lived as an orphan until then) and kept you close with constant guards, unwilling to risk a rouge Beta deciding that fucking a Targaryen Omega would be fun.

You became quite close with Rhaenyra and neither of you was usually seen without the other. You had arrived in the palace after being found by a guard in the street only about 2 weeks after the beginning of Daemons war in the step stones.

You had been told plenty about Daemon by your best friend who admitted she had had a little crush on him before falling in love with Ser Harwin Strong. You wondered quite a bit about the rouge Prince but for the most part you put it out of your mind.

You didn’t meet Daemon until 3 years later, you had settled into being a lady and for the most part gotten a handle on life in the capital, so of course someone would show up and turn it on its head. The smell washed over you almost instantly as he knelt down before the king, handing over his make-shift crown and you froze. You had always been tense around Alphas, it’s just common sense when you’re an Omega, especially one without any kind of defense training which you didn’t have since you had guards at all times but you do wish you could feel safer in knowing you could protect yourself, at least a little bit.

His scent though…it washed over you in waves and you were overcome by the rush of calm and need your Alphas scent delivered you. He was in the middle of hugging his brother when his body went stiff and you knew he smelled you too.

“Help?” You whispered to Rhaenyra, her looking over you and realizing what was happening fast.

“Are you sure? It could only be-“

“Your Omega brother! This is wonderful! Y/n is the only Omega in the castle, where are you child?” Rhaenyra pulled you down and through the side door, having avoided the guards who were listening to Damon’s shocking news.

“You do know you can’t avoid him, right? Daemon is…tenacious to say the least.” She teased and you smiled a bit as you both quickly made your way outside and into the gardens.

“I understand but I don’t want all of those people watching like it is their own affair.”

If anyone understood you in the world it was her, for the most part at least. You were only alone in the Godswood for about 5 minutes before you heard footsteps and looked up to see her father walking towards you with a battalion of guards.

“Go, it’s okay. Get back to your room, you’ll be safer there than anywhere else. I’ll handle my father, go!” She pushed you and you stumbled back before running through the bushes of flowers and trees, only just having looked back to see if she had followed when you plowed into a firm, hard body.

“You must be Y/n.” He spoke and you nodded your head cautiously, taking a step back but his face softened. “Don’t be frightened. I know my reputation but no harm will ever befall you while I am here lovely Omega.” His face was smirking but the thrumming bond that snapped in place the second you smelled each other was weighing down on you, pushing you to relax. “I mean what I say, you are safe my sweet Byka rūklon. I am your protector now.” (Little Flower)

He held out his arm, I suppose trying to be less intimidating and I enjoyed it quite a bit having heard the tales of Daemon Targaryen, rider of Caraxes. Everyone said that you couldn’t help but feel fear when he stared down at you, an intimidating presence to say the least but all I felt from him in that moment was adoration. I took his arm after a brief pause and he smiled, his face relieving itself of that signature smirk and led me back to the castle. “Oh Good! You’ve found her brother.” The king spoke as he stood by the door with my guards who moved to stand behind me before Daemon stopped them.

“You two have been relieved of your duties.” They looked stunned for a second but given that its Daemon that said if they quickly took off before he decided to have their heads removed from their bodies for standing too close to me.

“Brother? You can’t possibly think you can protect her alone, you have duties to-“

“I very well could protect her alone! However I will choose guards to stay with her who won’t lose her in a throne room whenever she decides to go for a walk. I need men far less stupid and I will appoint them when we return to Dragonstone to marry. You’ll love it there Byka rūklon, I promise you. Let us go, the flight will take about 6 hours.”

“You’re leaving already? Daemon, don’t you think-“

“I would like to marry my Omega as soon as possible, you understand that brother. Nothing that need be too planned, we will marry in the ways of our ancestors. I will wait until you and Rhaenyra can be there, I’m sure my Omega wants her friend there, don’t you Byka rūklon?” I nodded quickly.

“Please? It would feel wrong without her…Alpha.” I added Alpha at the end, seeing how much he longed for it by the look on his face.

“Anything you want, always.” Daemon pulled me close to his chest, kissing my head and I welcomed the comfort he now delivered me, his scent flooding my senses and effecting me greatly. “Will you bring her things for her my dear niece? It will be greatly appreciated.” I could tell Daemon was rushing as he began moving again and I knew how much he hated these people and this place, pulling me towards the exit with the King and my friend behind to see us off I suppose. Rhaenyra had told me how much Daemon preferred Dragonstone to Kings Landing, less conniving, conspiring people there and one less Otto Hightower who I admittedly didn’t like either. Speaking of whom.

“Daemon, leaving already?” We we’re almost at the door to the front gates when he had cut him off, looking at me the entire time. He had always stared at me and struck me as the sort of Beta I needed to be protected from. My guards always kept me at least a good 5 feet from him making me incredibly grateful that they answered to the King directly and never the Hand.

“I would like to be back on Dragonstone with my Omega as soon as I can, not that it’s any of your business.” I could hear my Alphas distaste in his voice as he practically spit the words at him. As Otto took a step closer I tightened my grip on Daemons hand and he looked down at me curiously, seeing I wouldn’t take my eyes off of him and that seemed to be enough.

“Well we will certainly miss your presence in our halls my dear Omega.” Daemons hand was gone from mine so quickly I barely had time to look up before he was pressing him to the wall and choking the life out of him.

“Daemon!” Viserys shouted, watching his brother but keeping the guards from stopping him, turning his head to me.

“You think you get to call her that? You think that’s appropriate for you Beta?! No one calls my Omega that but me, you disgusting old bat!” Otto was making a choking noise and while I enjoyed it I knew I had to calm him now before the Hand lost his head. While Daemon would be in his rights to protect me, many would dispute it and we surely wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

I reached out, placing my hand onto his shoulder and while his muscles tensed for a second they quickly relaxed again. “Alpha. It’s okay.”

“Why do you fear him? Answer me quickly Omega.” He warned, his hand tightening and a quiet whine coming from Otto.

“I am uncomfortable with the way he looks at me, however the guards never let him close. All is well…Please Daemon? If you kill him leaving now is not an option.” I reminded, his hand releasing the man instantly and turning to me before he collapsed to the floor.

“His eyes will never linger on you again Byka rūklon, you have my word…brother. I will see you in a few days. Do not bring this snake with you.” He turned to hug his brother as Rhaenyra hugged me close.

“Hop on Syrax and come visit often, okay? You can stay a few nights, escape Alicent and skip your schooling with me.” I teased feeling her giggle as she held me.

“I promise. I’ll come a few weeks after the wedding.”

“Weeks?”

“You’ll be busy afterwards, trust me. I know Daemon. He has the blood of the Dragon, and it runs hot. Be safe, and good luck in the sky. Hold on tightly.” I was confused for a moment before understanding her meaning. I had always hesitated to get onto Syrax with her, scared of falling off but now it’s not Syrax I’ll be riding.

My hand was taken again and pulled out the door and towards the big red beast in the courtyard causing me to pull back, Daemon turning to face me and smiling at my nervous face. “It’s alright Byka rūklon, I won’t let you fall.”

“What about getting eaten before I even get onto him!?” He snorted, holding me to him tighter and leading me forward, the dragons eyes on me as we got closer.

“Caraxes understands more than you think, he feels what I feel for you and he would never hurt you because that would hurt me.” The white haired man took hold of my hand and held it in his with his other arm around my waist, holding my hand in his up to the giant scaly creature. “You are the only person other than me that he will feel the need to protect. All dragons protect their riders mates, but Omegas even more so.” He leaned into my much smaller hand and I felt his cold scales on my skin, Damon moving my other hand to stroke up his snout.

“Rytsas Caraxes.” I knew my pronunciation was shit but the Blood Worm made a purring noise that rivaled my own with how deep and lovely it was.

“That was wonderful. Has Rhaenyra been teaching you?” I nodded my head.

“So that we could talk without most understanding, especially the Queen.” I giggled, continuing to pet the Dragon who leaned his head into my body which would have knocked me over had Daemon not been behind me holding on.

“Lykiri!” Daemon commanded though he just continued leaning into me.

“It’s okay…I like it.”

“Hmm…just wait until you are carrying my child. He will never want to leave your side. Aegon the Conquerors Omega was nearly always with Balerion when she was with child, he was a protective beast. Knowing Caraxes you’re going to have an even harder time being alone.” He teased and while he meant to make me laugh it actually sounded quite nice to be honest.

“We’re going to be the best of friends, huh?” He trilled out a wonderful sound but unlike the sound a bird makes the ground nearly vibrated with it, it was so deep. “I think I like the sound of that.” I told Daemon whose hand traveled down from my waist to cup my sex through my dress making me gasp as my body became tingly.

“Then we’d better get started, shouldn’t we?” He spoke in my ear, causing my body to shiver excitedly. “I’m going to fill you up so full there will be no doubt that you are carrying my child, and no Beta will dare lay eyes on you again! You will spend the rest of forever filled with my children, Gods I want to fill this cunt so desperately! All mine!” He growled, his other hand now squeezing my tit as he kissed my neck roughly.

“All yours Alpha! Whenever you want, forever!” I was becoming very turned on but just as quickly as he started groping me, he stopped and lifted me over his shoulder roughly, climbing up onto Caraxes and placing me in front of him so I would not fall off.

“Hold on Omega.”

“You think!?” He cackled at my shout and I rolled my eyes.

“Riding dragons is what you will be doing the rest of your life, enjoy it, there’s no way to get away from it now.” His threat was playful but I considered it for a moment…I don’t think I want to get away from this. This is perfect.

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starogeorgina · 5 months

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𝐔𝐧𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧

Paring: Aemond Targaryen × Targaryen OC, minor Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen OC

Warnings: Swearing, smut, kidnapping, sexual blackmail, self harm (overall dark themes)

Chapter: 1.01

Blood and cheese.

Fucking blood and cheese.

The destruction that blood and cheese caused would haunt Aemond until the day he died. He never meant for Lucerys to die; he thought at most his nephew would piss his pants and fly off home crying to his mother; instead, he indirectly set off a chain of events that couldn’t be stopped and was responsible for tearing his own family apart.

If Arrax hadn't breathed fire on Vhagar, then Vhagar never would have...

It was his fault.

Deep down, he knew that.

And now Aemond had paid the ultimate price. He took his half sister’s son away from her, and now the blacks have taken his sweet wife and unborn child from him.

Not only was the prince demented with fear of not knowing what had become of his beloved Viola, but his poor sister Helaena was forced to make the worst choice a parent could make and lost her firstborn son, Jaehaerys. He could never bring his nephews back, but perhaps he could still save his wife, if he ever found her. His wife’s dragon Stardust has been circling the keep, squealing loudly while looking for her rider since the day Viola was taken, and whenever the dragon went silent, a fleeting feeling of hope would cross Aemond's mind that perhaps she had returned, but that was never the case.

The prince’s fingers grip the leather arm rest of the chair tightly, and his knuckles turn white as his mind takes him to a dark place. Was someone mistreating his wife? Was she dead? He had been tracking the dates and had determined that his unborn babe should have been born two months ago.

“Prince Aemond.”

He stands when the king's hand approaches him holding an opened scroll in his hand, “grandsire.”

“I believe we know where Princess Viola is.”

“You’ve said that before,” he spits harshly. “And all it did was cause my mother more heartache.”

As soon as the words leave Aemond’s mouth, he regrets them; his comment wasn’t fair. His grandsire cared for them all but had a particular soft spot for his granddaughters. Aemond often had to remind himself that his wife being taken affected the rest of his family as well. His grandsire had used every connection he had to try and find Viola, while his mother had sent ravens to Rhaenyra, begging for her daughter's return.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. “Where is she?”

Otto nods, giving him a look of understanding. “Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone,” he repeats. Could it be that she was so close to home all this time? The last time Aemond thought he had found his wife, he ended up burning Harrenhal to the ground. “How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

Otto holds up the scroll: “A raven arrived from Prince Jacaerys.”

Believing he’s heard everything he needs to, Aemond goes to leave but is stopped at the door by Ser Criston, who gives him a sympathetic look and pats his shoulder. “There are still things you need to know, my prince.”

—

You stare up at the ceiling, waiting for your uncle to appear. He always comes when the sun disappears and the sky turns black. On cue, the door to the room is unlocked, and your uncle walks in with a strut in his step. One of his hands had a tight grip on the head of his Valyrian steel sword, while the other dangled the key.

Knowing what his intentions were, you pull up your gown, spread your legs wide open, lick two of your fingers before bringing them to your clitoral area, and begin rubbing in a circular motion. This wasn’t about putting a show on for your abductor; you just wanted it to be over quickly. “Your cunt of a brother stole my wife’s crown, sending her into early labor, and your husband killed our Lucerys in cold blood. You are going to rectify those things by replacing what was taken from us.” Since the day the maester cleared you for sex again, your uncle has visited you nightly.

Daemon smirks, “Such an eggar girl, I’m starting to think you enjoy our nightly activities.”

You wondered if Daemon convinced himself that he doesn’t mistreat you so he could sleep better at night and find a way to forgive himself because he knew the gods wouldn’t forgive him for what he was doing to his own kin.

“Don’t stop touching yourself until I say so,” he orders.

You do as he says, thinking of Aemond as you touch yourself.

“Husband.”

Aemond looks up at you with a smile on his face. You’d been searching for him for hours, and you now feel silly for not searching the castle's library first. He often reads late at night before joining you in bed, but because of the stormy weather, you thought your husband might have gone dragon riding.

“You’ve kept me waiting.”

“Oh, I must have lost track of time; my apologies,” he says sincerely. He puts a bookmark in place, then sits the book on the small table beside him.

You walk towards him with a smirk on your lips. “It’s quite alright, my love, but I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“Wha—”

By unfolding your robe and pulling up your sheer nightgown, you grant Aemond complete entry to your glistening cunt. He slides his finger along your folds gently, “so wet already.”

“I warmed myself up while waiting,” you tease.

Aemond kisses over your clothed body while sliding a finger into you, a smile pulling on his lips. “Well, I better not keep you waiting any longer, my dear wife.”

Daemon smacks your hand away, replacing your hand with his, and rubs at your clit until a moan slips from your mouth. He kneeled down and buried his head between your legs, bringing you pleasure with his skilled tongue. You hated yourself for enjoying the feeling of his mouth on you. When your walls start to clench, Daemon abruptly stops and unties his breeches low enough for his cock to spring out. He spits into his hand and strokes himself to complete hardness before sliding into you.

You wince at the stretch. Daemon wasn’t much smaller than your husband, but it always seemed to hurt when he thrust into you.

Perhaps that was deliberate on his part.

It didn’t matter how rough Aemond was with you; he never hurt you. Not once.

—

It doesn’t take Daemon long to reach his peak inside you, filling you with seed. Once he’s caught his breath, he begins to quickly fix his breeches. “You had tears in your eyes.”

“I’m surprised you noticed.”

He scoffs, “If it’s causing you so much pain, I can have the maesters bring tea; that will help.”

“I don’t want a tea to dry my milk up, uncle; I want to see my babe, Daenys, and feed her myself.”

He shoots you a cold glare and says, “No.”

You practically leap from the bed and press your back against the door, just as he reaches to open it. “Please, Daemon, please. You said I could see my daughter. All I want to know is that she’s safe. Please, please!”

“I said you could see her once you held up your end of the deal.”

When he forcefully pulls the door open, you are forced to move forward to let him by, and your body shakes with anger. “I’ve held up my—”

Daemon grips your face harshly. “The deal was that I would return the Kinslayers babe to you once you're pregnant!”

The single door to the room is slammed shut and locked, and you're all on your own again. Tears fall from your eyes as you move to the bed and curl up in the thin bed sheets. You felt like a fool when Daemon first took you as his prisoner. You sobbed and begged at his feet, promising to do anything it took to stay alive so that your unborn child could survive. And out of all the horrific thoughts that crossed your mind, you did not consider that he would force you into becoming a vessel, with the sole purpose of giving him another heir.

The only person who was kind to you was your nephew, Jacaerys. Sometimes he’d manage to sneak you extra food during the day, but mostly he’d sneak in to see you during the hour of the owl and would bring Daenys with him.

The few hours a night you got to spend with her made everything you suffered seem worth it, but it was never enough. The visits had become less and less, as Jacaerys was terrified of Daemon finding out. Your nephew promised he’d find a way to free you, but day by day, your hope of ever making it off Dragonstone was fading.

—

Aemond squeezes the sapphire necklace that he had made from his wife moons ago. It was his intention to give it to her on her birthday, but he never got the chance. Her eyes would light up whenever she got excited, and he imagined how they would look when she received her gift. He knew his wife would appreciate the sapphire carved into the shape of a heart. The sharp point of the bottom of the heart digs into his palm; the sting of it is the only thing that reminds the prince he is alive as he listens to his grandsire talk about his beloved.

“It seems Rhaenyra has slowly descended into madness, leaving the island under the charge of prince Daemon, who has deemed princess Viola his new— whore.” The pain and disgust in Otto’s voice was clear as he spoke of his granddaughter's fate. “Jacaerys states Viola has given birth to a healthy baby not long after she was taken, a girl.”

Aemond struggles to breathe as all the air is sucked from his lungs again. He had a daughter, a baby girl. Tears threatened to spill from his eye, but he squeezed the necklace harder to stop that from happening. It’s not until Aemond feels a warm liquid falling from his hand that he realizes he had held onto too tightly, and now he is bleeding.

Ser Criston notices but doesn’t draw attention to it; the knight clears his throat. “What does the bastard want in return?”

“For his mother's life to be spared,” Otto replies. “He even says he’d bend the knee if it meant saving her.”

“It could be a trick.”

“No,” Alicent says. “I don’t believe he would gamble on his mother's life. Rhaenyra’s sons love her; this we cannot deny.”

“Mother, I didn’t hear you come in.” Aemond's chest tightens with guilt when he spots the tears in his mother's eyes. “You shouldn’t listen to the details; it will only upset you.”

“Oh, my boy,” Alicent strokes his cheek, “we will get her back, the both of them. This I promise.”

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen/you #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #daemon targaryen smut #Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x you #daemon targaryen/you #Aemond Targaryen x oc #Aemond Targaryen x female oc #Aemond Targaryen/oc #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x fem oc #daemon targaryen/oc

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mylackoffaith · 5 months

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Dragon's Dreamer - Part I

Summary: Winning races is child's play compared to waking up naked, and tangled in the sheets with none other than Daemon Targaryen himself. Not only that, but you're also the daughter of Otto Hightower?

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x modern!reader word count: 3009 words

“Cunt!”

You shift your gear, and manage to slow the car a little as your opponent, Blaze moves in front of you as a means to block your path. You swerve to the right, in a way to overtake Blaze.

This race was not going your way, clearly. Actually, not just the race, but your whole day was just horrible. What with your landlord not fixing the water problem in your apartment and then to top it off, he had the audacity to increase the rent. Dick face.

You mentally curse the person whose face you first saw this morning, blaming them for the mess your day has become. Then you remember it was your black cat, Storm. Instantly, you retract all your curses because, well, Storm's your baby, and he can never bring bad luck.

Teeth gritted, hands firmly on the wheel, you refuse to let Blaze have the upper hand. Today is not the day you lose a race, especially when there's money on the line. Your engine roars as you slam the gas pedal, and send your car surging forward.

You can tell Blaze has noticed you trying to overtake him, as he tries to block you again, but you're not letting that piece of shit take your cash home. As he moves to the right, you swerve left this time, and slip past his car and zoom past the finishing mark.

You drift to a stop, a bright smile on your face as you savour the victory. Your chest is heaving, your blood is pumping, and your adrenaline is still running high. Blaze screeches to a halt behind you, his face a mix of surprise and frustration. You can hear the roar of the engines and the cheers of the crowd.

The cool breeze feels amazing on your hot and flushed face as you step out of your car, heart still pounding. Before you can fully get out of the car, a screech escapes you as you are lifted off the ground and spun around.

It's Emma, your best friend, grinning from ear to ear, and cheering your name. "You crazy bitch, you did it! I could kiss you right now!" they exclaim, as you wrap your arms around their neck to keep yourself from falling.

Emma sets you down, both of you laughing and catching your breath. The high from your victory is buzzing through your veins. You can feel the eyes of the crowd on you, and Blaze begrudgingly walks over, a forced smirk on his face.

"Lucky win. No need to get too cocky," Blaze mutters, trying to save face but you can see the annoyance in his eyes.

"Cut the bullshit, and face it, she smoked you fair and square. You're just a sore loser." Emma retorts, their tone sharp and unapologetic. They stand next to you, with their hand around your waist.

You can't help the smile that spreads you, and raise a brow at Blaze, "No, no. You're right, Blaze. Maybe it was a lucky win, but when I wake up tomorrow, I'd still be a winner, and you'd still be stuck to the same old loser routine. Tough break."

Blaze scowls at your words but doesn't say much, clearly irritated. Laughter erupts between you and Emma as Blaze retreats, the cool breeze carrying away the tension of the race.

Emma turns to you, placing a kiss on your cheeks. "You, my girl, deserve a few drinks. How about after you collect your prize, we hit The Hop House? First round's on me," Emma suggests, a mischievous glint in their eyes.

You grin at Emma's suggestion, feeling the thrill of the victory still coursing through your veins. "Hell yeah, when have I ever turned down free drinks?" you reply, feeling the rush of excitement and accomplishment.

The two of you head off, with Emma's arm around your shoulder, ready to drink the night away. Your pool of cash awaits, and calls your name. our pool of cash is calling your name, and you've got plans for that moolah – rent's getting paid, the fridge will finally be full, Storm will get a new toy, and that PlayStation plus subscription is getting renewed. Because let's be honest, Joel Miller and Arthur Morgan are calling your name.

Nothing can ruin your night, or the following day.

A groan escapes you, and son of a bitch does your head hurts, as you lift it from the pillow. You squint your eyes at the blinding sunlight stabbing through the curtains, regretting every decision made last night. Your head's pounding like a drummer in a metal band, and you're pretty sure a family of woodpeckers set up shop in your brain overnight.

Sitting upright, you realise that the room's a blur, and you rub your temples like that's gonna magically fix the hangover. A pathetic whine escapes you because going to work with a hangover is the last thing you want to do. Dealing with Rhys and his relentless flirting on top of this pain? No, thank you.

"Oh good, you're awake."

You flinch so hard, you might've set a record for the fastest, most ungraceful wakeup in the history of hangovers. The screech that escaped your throat is a sound you vow to never repeat. Like, ever. You whip your head around, and regret it immediately. The room spins, and you grab onto the edge of the bed for dear life.

You blink a few times, trying to focus on your surroundings. The blurred room starts to come into view, revealing a place that's definitely not your messy apartment. Because no way in hell is your room this big, nor does it look straight out of period drama.

You're stuck in some fancy-ass room with curtains that look like they belong in a royal castle. And speaking of fancy, there's a guy sitting across from you, looking like he just walked out of that show that your sister watches and sends you edits and facts about.

The guy is broad, like, shoulders-for-days kind of broad, and tall enough that you gotta tilt your head back a bit to meet his eyes. He's wearing a black coat, the ones that Lords wear in a historical drama, complete with shiny buttons and intricate embroidery

He's got long, silver hair, and violet eyes? What the fuck? You squint at him, convinced you must be seeing things. Violet eyes aren't a real thing, right? Because if they are, you need to meet God immediately and demand why you weren't given a pair.

"Easy there, little girl," he says with a smirk, cutting off your eye-colour investigation. You're still trying to process the silver hair and violet eyes when he leans back in his chair, all casual-like.

You're sitting there, staring at this dude with silver hair and violet eyes, feeling like you just stumbled into a weird dream. But, nope, this is real, and he's calling you "little girl." Rude much?

"Motherfucker, don't call me little girl. The last guy who tried that got a black eye," you retort, because, seriously, who does he think he is? You might be in an unknown place, but you're not about to let this silver-haired dude talk down to you.

"Oh, the daughter of Otto Hightower has a bit of fire in her," he chuckles, raising an eyebrow like he's enjoying this little exchange. That smirk on his face? It's practically begging for a fist.

"First of all, who the heck is Otto Hightower, and secondly, who are you?" you demand, your arms, crossed defiantly, suddenly feel a lot heavier, and when you glance down, it hits you.

You're naked. Covered only by these flimsy silk sheets, you're clutching onto them for dear life. You pull the sheets away to look down, to see that you're naked from head to toe. Your face snaps up at the man sitting in front of you, only to see his amused expression morph into a wide grin. Great, just great.

"Oh, don't worry, little Hightower, I've seen it all before," he says with a teasing glint in his violet eyes. You're not sure whether to be annoyed or embarrassed, but you quickly decide on a mix of both.

"Alright, first of all, stop with the 'little Hightower' crap. Call me by my name or don't call me at all," you declare, mustering all the confidence you can while wrapped in those flimsy sheets. He leans forward in his chair, still grinning like he finds this whole situation amusing.

"Fair enough, little Hightower," he says, emphasising the last two words just to irk you.

You shoot him a death glare, but he just laughs. "Alright, Silver Fox, let's cut the crap. Where am I, and how the heck did I end up here?" you demand, deciding to take charge of this weird conversation.

The silver fox tilts his head to the side, a confused glint in those violet eyes, while his head rests on his fist. "Did I fuck you too hard to make you lose your memory?" he smirks, clearly enjoying the banter.

You roll your eyes, unamused. "Trust me, if that were the case, I'd remember it vividly. Now, are you going to answer my question or keep making terrible innuendos?"

"Oh, good one, little Hightower. After the passionate night we spent, I reckon your father would have no choice but to wed us. Could you imagine, the pious and eldest daughter of Otto Hightower, and Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue prince?" he teases, his tone laced with amusement.

Daemon Targaryen.

You can't help but let out a chuckle, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. The laughter bubbles up within you, gradually turning into a full-blown, almost maniacal eruption. It's almost too surreal, and you find it hard to believe that this isn't some elaborate prank your sister pulled.

You remember all the times you had scoffed at the complicated family tree, and the absurdity of season 8. Your sister had insisted you give it a chance, and now it seems like she's turned the tables on you, dropping you into the very world you dismissed.

The daughter of Otto Hightower. The guy that pushed his daughter into the bed of the walking dead and practically handed her a one-way ticket to the chaos express. Seriously, why couldn't you be the daughter of someone sensible, like Ned Stark? The guy was practically the gold standard of fathers in the messed-up Game of Thrones world.

House of the Dragon, you loved it because it was much better than Game of Thrones. You also loved Rhaenyra, your bisexual baby, she could do no wrong in your eyes. Aegon was relatable, what with your mommy issues, I mean sure the guy was… Well, you pause, realising you might be here a while if you list out all his issues.

Viserys, if he weren't a king, you would bash his head in. First the guy pressures his wife for an heir, then he kills her. The only good thing the man did was make Rhaenyra the heir. Then the guy is a dick to all his other children. If Viserys had no haters, you were dead.

Rhaenys, and Corlys. The DILF and MILF of the Seven Kingdoms, and possibly even Essos. Well, followed closely by Oberyn, and Ellaria. . Rhaenys, your queen, held a pedestal in your heart so high you'd gladly sacrifice yourself just for the privilege of sharing the same air. And, oh, when they say black don't crack, Corlys was living proof.

Laenor, now there's an underrated gem. Honestly, the best guy in the whole series. He accepted the Strong children as his own, raised them as his own, all while hiding who he truly was. Then there was Laena, sweet and fiercest Laena, who you'd willingly walk into fire to protect.

Helaena and Luke. Your precious little babies whom you'd preserve and hold forever if you could. They're the kind of innocence you'd fight the Mountain for. Your little dragons, the only ones who you would kill anyone for.

Jace, your sweet gentleman, the kind of guy who'd rescue kittens from trees. The type that makes you believe chivalry isn't dead. Truly, Ser Harwin's son, and you loved both the father and son, for being the way they were.

Aemond was…well, Aemond. Complicated, pitiful, and a source of both frustration and fascination. You loved Luke, but you also loved Aemond. So you were honestly conflicted when he had lost his eye but gained Vhagar.

But the Daemon gave… a whole new meaning to the term "complicated." It's like he took a crash course in creating chaos and then decided to make it his life'

"You find something amusing, little Hightower?" He's still grinning, but now it's more like he's enjoying a private joke.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head slightly. "Please, just call me by my name. I've had enough of your 'little Hightower' nonsense already. And I'm not finding anything about this situation amusing, trust me," you reply, your tone a mix of irritation and disbelief.

Daemon's grin widens, clearly revelling in your exasperation. He checks his nails, before crossing his arms casually, silver hair cascading down his shoulders. "Alright, name it is, little Hightower."

You shoot him a glare, but he pays no mind, seemingly unfazed by your annoyance. "So, care to explain how I ended up here in this…room?" you ask, your sarcasm dripping like honey.

Daemon chortles, the sound echoing in the room. "Well, my little Hightower, it was quite the surprise, I must say, having the pious daughter of Otto Hightower, bursting into my room, begging me to take her maidenhood. I suppose I should commend you for your bravery. Not everyone dares to enter the lair of the dragon."

You arch an eyebrow, your irritation growing. "You do realise that storming into someone's room and begging for deflowering isn't exactly a standard move, right? I'm not some damsel in distress, and I certainly didn't come here to beg for anything."

Daemon's violet eyes gleam with amusement as he tilts his head, considering you. "Ah, a damsel with a bite. I like that. It's not every day a woman challenges me, especially in such… unconventional circumstances."

"I didn't burst into your room, and I certainly didn't beg for anything. I have no idea how I got here, and I'd appreciate it if you could provide some actual answers."

His grin fades slightly, replaced by a more contemplative expression. "Well, that's a bit disappointing. I was hoping for a more scandalous tale to spread across the Seven Kingdoms."

"Sorry to disappoint your highness, but my life isn't a series of scandalous escapades. Now, can we focus on the matter at hand?"

"Fine. Last night, upon my return from Flea Bottom, what greets me? You, sprawled in my bed, slumbering in all your naked glory, like a celestial offering. It was quite the unexpected revelation," Daemon remarks with a grin, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You glower at him, the reality of the situation sinking in. "Look, I've already told you, I have no idea how I got here. I didn't plan this little rendezvous, and I certainly didn't intend to become some sort of surprise package in your bed."

Daemon's amusement persists as he hands you his white tunic. "Oh, don't sell yourself short, my dear visitor. Not everyone gets the privilege of waking up beside Daemon Targaryen. Consider it an experience worth cherishing."

As you reluctantly take the tunic from Daemon, still wrapped in those flimsy silk sheets, you shoot him a look that could melt steel. "You know, waking up beside you is not on my list of life goals," you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

Daemon seems unfazed by your displeasure. "Life has a funny way of surprising us, doesn't it?"

You scoff at Daemon's casual attitude, shooting him a pointed look as you begin to struggle into his oversized tunic. It's a struggle not to trip over the lengthy fabric, but you manage to maintain at least a modicum of dignity.

The tunic hangs loosely on you, and you shuffle towards a massive mirror, still holding onto the silk sheets as if they're your last shred of dignity. The room spins a little less now, allowing you to navigate the unfamiliar terrain with some semblance of grace.

As you catch sight of your reflection, you scream. No, it's not because you suddenly transformed into a Targaryen dragon or something equally absurd. It's the realisation that your once normal, probably slightly neglected, hair is now ginger.

Ginger hair.

The ginger hair revelation hits you like a ton of bricks. You stare wide-eyed at the reflection in the mirror, desperately hoping this is just some bizarre dream. You reach up, running your fingers through the vibrant strands as if expecting them to revert to their usual colour with a simple touch.

You take a deep breath, trying to accept the bizarre turn your life has taken. As you gather your courage, the room starts to spin again, and a wave of dizziness washes over you. Before you can protest or question Daemon further, darkness creeps in at the edges of your vision.

The last thing you hear is Daemon's voice, distant and muffled, as you succumb to unconsciousness. The world blurs and fades away, leaving you in a disorienting abyss. The sensation is akin to tumbling down a rabbit hole, but there's no Wonderland waiting for you at the bottom.

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safely-in-vhagars-belly · 6 months

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Daddy dearest (Rhaenyra/Harwin Daughter x Darkish Daemon Targaryen) (READER OR OC)

🔷Summary: You are Rhaenyra's and Harwin's daughter and you just proposed to Aemond, your stepdaddys worst enemy.

WORDCOUNT: 2159

🔷Author's note: This was a request, this is my first Daemon fic so i hope i did him justice without turning him into a carebear or a scary pookie.

🔷Warnings: Oc/reader is a brat, reader has clear empathy issues, reader has a daddy kink (liiiiiterallly) targcest!, dark!daemon, smut, p in v, fucking, desk fucking, choking, slut-shaming, high-treason, cheating, (daemon) slight gore, and dom/sub themes.

There is something about Targaryens that makes them a little more dangerous than other families. You have always known that. But there is something about you that makes you a little more dangerous than most Targaryens.

Like a dragon, you wish to be close to the fire, letting it consume your everything while you hiss at your pain. You always enjoyed creating drama and orchestrating plots. You have been good at it.

So, when your one-eyed uncle, Aemond Targaryen one day writes a sobby letter where he confesses his love and devotion to you, regrets killing your little brother, and vows that he will love you from the end of his days, it is not the prospect of peace that makes you happy. It is the prospect of war.

You write back, of course you do. You appeal to Aemond’s pride, his titles, his ‘’beauty’’ and most of all: His ego. You assume that the two of you will be married soon, should your mother wish it. Everything to avoid the war.

You happily brush your hair, thinking of all the good things that will hopefully happen to your family now. You love wearing your hair on a side-braid, the way Visenya wore hers.

You have just finished preparing for the day to come when your stepfather, Daemon Targaryen barges into your rooms. You don’t bow or greet him, instead you just smirk at his furious expression and red worked up cheeks. You fold your hands on your back and raise your chin with an innocent smirk. ‘’You seem upset.’’ You speak, your voice cheerful.

Daemon hands you an opened letter. You briefly scan the words and sigh, noticing the familiar awfully nauseating perfect handwriting of Aemond Targaryen. He brags to Daemon about ‘’Seducing’’ you and that you ‘’soon will be pregnant with child.’’ Inwardly, you roll your eyes, but you did suspect that Aemond would write Daemon about his ‘’conquest’’ of you. Of course he would. That is why you picked Aemond in the first place. He thinks you are being conquered but in reality he is a pawn in a plot he has no clue of. He is as a sheep being lured in the wolf’s den, unaware he is about to be slaughtered.

But you don’t let Daemon see your disgust at this, kinslayer waving his win in his rival’s face. Daemon is very worried for your safety. ‘’Are you insane, courting him? Have you forgotten what that child murderer did to our family?’’ As much as you miss Lucerys, you won’t kill yourself or others for his dead chewed up corpse. Luc would want everyone to get along and to make peace, not war. Which is why he died, as it is a very foolish way of handling enemies. You feel indifferent about his loss. You miss a bit, but you won’t trade a limb back for him.

You hand him the letter back. ‘’Yes. I am betrothed. Aren’t you happy for me?’’ It is almost funny how quickly his emotions change from utter rage and murder, to disappointment, to heartbreak and finally how all his emotion die and only a mask remains.

He becomes silent. The only thing you hear is the betrayal of your own heart beating. ‘’With Aemond?’’ He asks, now a bit calmer than previously. ‘’You know you can get much better.’’ He says. You don’t know who he refers to.

You roll your eyes. ‘’No, with Aegon. Of course with Aemond!’ You know he hates it when you roll your eyes.

‘’What the fuck do you mean with ‘’of course’’?’’’You giggle inwardly.

You blink rapidly, innocently.

‘’Daddy dearest, don’t cuss please. It’s very peasant-like. Aren’t you happy I’m finally engaged? You tried so hard to find a good suitor for me.’’ You grin.

‘’Your mother and I should choose your suitor! Have you thought about any of us during these games with Aemond?’’ More than he would ever know.

You sigh, lying easily.

‘’I will be honest, you haven’t both been on my mind very much.’’

You need a final push. You are so close. ‘’Daddy dearest, me and Aemond are meant to be. Soon I’ll carry his babies for him and make him a father when I polish his creepy sapphire eye for him while he breeds me as if I am livestock. You either adjust-’’ That is pushing it too far, part of you just knows it. You can see when you cross a line and you just did that. You see a reflection of danger and insanity in the eyes of Daemon, the man you’ve yearned for so long.

He grabs you violently by the throat, and you squeak pathetically when he drags you with him. Daemon has lost his patience with you and drags you with him as if you are a toy. ‘’Not another word. No one is breeding you. Not him at least.’’ With a push you are on your back, on your writing desk. Daemon throws several of your books and your quills on the ground, bending you under him. You pretend to groan but your lips are curled up in a smile, when he removes your smallclothes, pulling them down and exposing your body to him.

His big hands grab each of your asscheeks when you hiss in anticipation. He releases his anger on your poor behind but you can’t say that you mind. If anything, you love it. You wait for Daemon to finish his spanking before turning on your desk, revealing your other entrance to him. A glistering wet and needy entrance. ‘’Aemond rides the biggest dragon. Do you think his cock is the biggest too? I read something about men with funny noses-’’ You will never finish the sentence.

Your head is smashed down and you finally feel Daemon’s experienced hands touch your so eager cunt. You whimper, weak and softly when he takes a stance behind you, and you clench yourself when you hear the sound of his belt being removed. ‘’You want a man to breed you, you horny little slut? You want to be fucked and owned as a whore? Fine with me.’’ He groans in your ear when spitting in your face. You recoil in brief disgust before your legs are spread wide and open and his cock is forced deep inside of you, causing you to grunt against the wood of the desk. Daemon yanks you up by your arms, fucking you without speaking. You become a little light in the head as pleasure mixes inside of you, and you can’t believe it's finally happening. His cock feels good to have inside of you and once again you clench, needy as a whore.

Daemon grins in your ear when noticing your little cries and gasps of pleasure. ‘’You wish to be bred, little girl? You wish for your Kepa to make you his little whore?’’ He grins, using his Valyrian accent for that one word. You become even more aroused because of that and moan, weakly. Daemon sinks in back inside of you, pulling you up so he can fuck you when you lay on your desk. Your wooden deks cracks of the movements as Daemon takes your maidenhead on it, not giving a fuck for your sore museles or your begs.

‘’Daemon…’’

You are close to your heights. There are days just like these when you touch yourself, imagining it was him all along. And now he is, taking you as his spoils and fucking you the way a conquerer takes his spoils. You beg. ‘’Daemon..’’ You are spanked another time, this time on your cunny that is brutally fucked at the same time. You cry out in pain and glare at Daemon who simply smirks back at you, before dragging his nails into your skin, forcing you back on his cock for another good, but painful ride. You become used to the pain, and to the feeling of having a man inside of you. It is better than everything you ever did to yourself. ‘’Kepa, please…’’ You beg, pathetically.

Your stepfather has no mercy for you, grinning as if you are his enemy and this is your end. ‘’You are a little greedy whore. I won’t finish you off. The only one who comes is me, little Princess. Your Kepa will put a child inside your belly, perhaps that will teach you some respect.’’ He vows, riling you up against his cock until you nearly come.

You become even more aroused, fighting your desires and the urge to ride his cock. ‘’What if I’m not with child?’’ You ask, knowing you will like the answer very much.

Daemon pauses, the cock half inside of you, taunting you, torturing you. ‘’Then I simply must return and fuck you the way a dog fucks his bitch until you are, won’t I?’’ He breaths out, before taking you again on the desk. You are taken now quicker, faster and can barely keep up. Your cries become louder and freer and Daemon needs to wrap his free hand around your mouth to silence you when his cock fucks your body sore. The thrusts become rougher and more dominate and Daemon hits you again, and again and again on your ass when fucking you sore and likely very bloody. Yet you cry in approval, beg without words and plead for more by slowly grinding back against his body.

You see a determination that is very arousing in his eyes. He grabs your hips, impales you with his cock, all the way in and fucks you harshly and more animalstic than before. You lose count of how many he times he fucks you, but when he is finished, you can hear him grunt and you know his cum is inside your body right now. You remain on the desk, frozen, half undressed, and needy and naked.

Daemon grabs you by your throat once more, moving you to your bed. He throws you on it, grabbing a pillow. You protest but are turned on your stomach. He presses your face in the pillow so your cries can’t be heard and whispers in your ear. ‘’You’re going to become such a marvelous little mother for my son, Princess. Yes you will.’’ He murmurs against your belly. You whimper wordlessly.

His cock finds your body again and is pushed all the way in, when he kisses your hair and fucks you gently this time. ‘’Come for Kapa. Show me what a pretty obedient slave you can be for me.’’He whispers. You feel it build as he fucks you harder and harder and as your eyes close you cry out in the pillow he forces you on your mouth, soaking it in the process when Daemon fucks you when you scatter around him, breaking into million of pieces.

Satisfied with your state, Daemon removes the pillow and looks at your wet, but bloodied cunny. ‘’Such a good slut for Kepa.’’ He tells you with a smirk. You pant still in denial that that happened. He pats your belly next. You lean in and want to kiss him. ‘’Kepa..’’

But he pulls away, disgusted all of a sudden and angry. ‘’You will write to Aemond today. You will invite him to an inn somewhere close and you will seduce him. I want him to think mine child is his. I want to be there, when you reveal to him you played him and I want to see his pathetic little mind break at the betrayal you and me pulled on him.’’ He grins. You nod, absently.

‘’What if I don’t want to fuck Aemond?’’ You have seen the man and he seems very boring in the sheets, almost as boring as he is in the streets.

Daemon grabs you by your throat, choking you and you gasp, but you feel a different connection to him now. He seeded and sored you. He made you his in a way and you are now his little princess. ‘’Did I fuck your brains out, little dumb princess?’’ He groans out.

You are shocked as you gasp for air, worried it ends there for you. ‘’K-Kepa…’’

He sighs at your stupidity. ‘’You will fuck Aemond, you’ll be a needy little slut for him and fuck the shrimp he calls a cock, and you’ll pretend your baby is his.’’ What does that even accomplish?

‘’But we don’t know yet if I am even pregnant!’ You whisper distraught by the idea of bedding your uncle.

Daemon smirks. ‘’One of these days, you will be. I have had a taste of you, princess and I will be back. Your mother is not cutting it for me anymore. She is the love of my life, but love only does so much.’’ He speaks, petting your cheeks when you silently cry.

‘’Go make Aemond happy. Then we will destroy him. Together.’’ He promises you, with a kiss on your lips.

A/N

Aemond, thinking he has a pure valyrian woman waiting for him that will help him destory daemon:

HE HAS NO IDEA-

Yeah this was fun! Actually a lot of fun. I hope you guys liked it!!!

If you did be sure to let me knoww xxxx

#hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #aemond targaryen #Dark daemon targaryen x reader #dark daemon targaryen x oc #dark daemon #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x reader #dark fantasy #darkfantasy #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon #fantasy

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two-white-butterflies · 2 days

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good riddance | daemon targaryen

Description: Daemon Targaryen meets a lowborn woman. He is forced to choose between duty and love.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen/lowborn!reader

ANGST

"I desire the things which will destroy me in the end." - Sylvia Plath.

Winter came in a typical fashion - all the heat purged itself and was replaced with uncomfortable coldness. A small chuckle escapes your mouth understanding the bitter irony of the situation. It was a cold winter, the type of cold that would make you shiver and unease - the same could be said with your current detriment.

Your father, ever the gracious host decided to house rebels. Of course, not just any rebels but ones where the Rogue Prince wanted to settle a score with. "How long does he plan to keep them here?" your brother paced back in forth, his fear growing with every second.

"There are already whispers that Prince Daemon plans to visit every town - the guards have doubled since last week. Seven hells, what if someone sees us with those rebels? They'll wring our necks." he cursed underneath his breath. A small sigh escapes your mouth and you continued sewing the dress that you were working on.

As if your brother jinxed himself, the Rogue Prince came knocking. You could see him from the window, long blonde locks and those peculiar purple eyes. "We're going to die." Kirdan mumbled, carefully watching his father open the door with a smile on his face.

The both of you exchange a knowing glance, slowly marching down the stairs to eavesdrop on the conversation. "Good morrow, Ser." the Prince met your eyes. He welcomed himself inside your home. "Good morrow, my prince. To what may I owe your presence?" your father did not falter nor stutter.

Daemon smiles at him, a charming smile - you almost expected him to be kind. If it weren't for the rumors that surrounded him. "Me and my men are here to ask you about your visitors, the insurgence is what they call themselves." Daemon's posture shifted quickly.

His shoulders were straight now - an aura of command permeating around him. "My visitors? I suppose that you are my only visitors." your father smiled, and your brother's grip on your shoulder tightens. "We're looking for the rebel brothers. There were rumors that they resided in your estate." Daemon argued.

You were sure that there was no use in lying now. Your father might as well kneel on the floor and begin begging the Prince for forgiveness. "The rebel brothers?" your father repeated the name. "Frode and Harald Stone." Daemon named them.

The moment those names exited the Rogue Prince's mouth a sudden commotion happened outside. A man began running away from the estate, barefoot and wearing nothing other than his sleepwear. "Catch him, now!" Daemon commanded and the rest of the goldcloaks began chasing after Frode.

"My prince," your father now began. He is momentarily speechless by that glare in Daemon's eyes. "- what will you do to him?" your father inquired. Daemon's grip on the Dark Sister tightens.

The men began dragging Frode back into the foyer, blood dripping down the rebel's mouth. Prince Daemon's attention now twirled towards you. His gaze softens, and the facade begins. "I apologize for the commotion, and I shall make amends when I return." he breaths.

He grabs the rebel by his collar, and begins dragging him outside.

He will return?

"We should be thankful that he did not sought to punish us." Kirdan breathes a sigh of relief, leading the both of you down to the base floor. "What did he say, papa?" your eyes narrowed.

Ser Groleo evades your gaze.

"He will return - for supper. I suppose." the man groans.

"We should prepare a feast. In gratitude of not arresting you." Kirdan immediately retorted. "I'll leave the both of you to arrange that." your father smiled bitterly. You and your brother exchange a stare again.

The table was arranged in a neat fashion. All of your best cutleries and porcelain ware were all in view. The best meats and exotic fruits were there too - it was a feast for a king, and the Prince didn't even look impressed.

"I apologize once more for the commotion that me and my men have caused. It was protocol to ensure peace in our realm." he apologized, staring at your face. Presumably soaking in your features. "Frode and Harald are honorable men - they fight for a good cause." your father laid out, in a tone that wasn't at all offending.

"Though their knowledge may be great - and their heart in the right place, what they do is treason. As the Commander of the Goldcloaks, it is my duty to rat out the poison that seeks to usurp my brother." Daemon responded, taking a sip of his dornish red.

Your father swirls the wine in his mouth.

"The government that they propose is akin to the Free Cities, whose wealth has expanded since they last welcomed freedom." your father discussed, and to your surprise, the Prince seemed to listen.

"Volantis can vote for its triarchs, only if the citizens are free but slavery is still rampant. If I may speak for myself, I'd rather be ruled by someone who was taught how to rule since their birth rather than vote for a man who wants to see himself as King." Prince Daemon decided to leave the conversation at that.

Kirdan smiles, nodding his head.

"I agree with the Prince, father." he voiced out. Unamused by the audacity that his father encompassed. Daemon turns his attention towards you - his eyes trailing back and forth between your eyes and your body. "You should apologize to my daughter for the commotion that happened earlier on." your father smiled.

"There is no need, my prince. The women of this household are not like mimosa pudicas, we do not rattle easily." you interrupted his sentence. Daemon is piqued in interest. "I have no doubt that you are fearless, brave and not easily rattled, which is why I must apolo-" he opens his mouth but you interrupt him the last moment.

"Then there is no need to apologize. If I am all that." you smiled falsely, seemingly teasing his limits or seeing if he'd rage at you. "Alright then, my lady." his responded in an equally teasing manner.

He could not stop thinking about you - ever since that dinner in your father's estate; your features have consumed his entire soul greedily. When he sleeps, all that he sees is you - when he opens his eyes all he longs to see is you. He couldn't believe that he was feeling this way - over a woman whose features are not all different from his Bronze Bitch.

He sits beside you, in one of the soirees that your town hosted. He couldn't stop staring at you, eyes glistening from the light of the fireplace. "Not even the Prince has a chance with Ser Groleo's demure daughter." he could hear the whispers from behind him.

The blood of the dragons flow down his veins, and you were his newest conquest. If you were hard to have - then he'd work well to have and hold you. "Do you rarely dance in these events?" the prince leaned on your body, whispering on your ear.

A smile finds itself on your face.

"I dance - all the time, my prince. But somehow, I do not feel like dancing tonight." you responded, implying that he may have something to do with that feeling. "Is it my fault?" he raised an eyebrow and you turn your head to look at him.

He was more beautiful up close.

His chiseled jaw - his unnatural beauty. It was new for you.

"I would not risk offending you, my prince." you looked away. "There is nothing that you can do to offend me." he enunciated, and the townsfolk began buzzing behind you. "- dance with me." he commanded, standing up and offering his hand.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. "I see these men looking at you and I wish to compete for your attention." he explained. You exchange a knowing stare with your brother, Kirdan nods - encouraging you to dance with the prince.

The lively music begins, and he claps in beat of the song. "I've heard rumors about your lifestyle, about the women around you." you opened the conversation plainly. His eyes did soften, but it returned to its normal posture before you could realize any difference.

"Don't believe the rumors that you hear, they are naught but spittles encouraged by those who want to weaken my family." he gritted his teeth - you could not figure out if it was a sign of his lying. "I-I've heard nothing, but I see it in your eyes. Lust - you lust for everything that moves." you accuse him. He shakes his head.

The both of you continue dancing. "Do you see that or are you still basing from the rumors?" he raised an eyebrow, and a defeated sigh escapes your mouth. "My father told me long ago, that you can change a man's face but not his nature." you say.

"That may be the case for men with skinny arms, but not for us warriors. We can always be changed - we live hundreds of lives. You believe me to be wanton and lustful, but give me a chance and I shall prove otherwise." he promised, and the both of you stop dancing.

"I wish to wed you."

You have avoided him for three months now. Pretending to sleep when he'd visit your father's estate. Passing your chores to your brother, who was now forced to go to the market every Sunday. You prayed to the Seven Gods that he'd forget about you.

That he'd be piqued by another young lady from your town, but he never did. He never seemed to forget about you.

One time, he managed to see you.

"I'm leaving, my lady - but I will return in week's time." he promised. You forced yourself to smile. Your decision suddenly becoming clearer. He was still married to Lady Rhea Royce, and his brother would never approve of him marrying a lowborn woman.

The love you shared was still in its early stages but it could not be. He was a hero, a prince, a dragon and you were mere sheep. "I am still adamant in having your hand in marriage. Your father has already approved and if you feel the same way - send me a letter." he pressed a kiss on the back of your hand.

A kindness that he has never shown any woman before.

My Prince,

You are reading this now in Kingslanding. Possibly sitting on one of the thousands of chairs that you own, or lounging on your bed. One thing is for certain, however, the love I bare for you is stronger than the ocean waves, warmer than any dragonfire. Our love is true, exciting and forbidden. That is the reason I will decline your marriage proposal.

At a young age, I was taught the importance of duty and sacrifice. A lady of my stature must marry above my ranks, not a prince, but still above my ranks. A prince like you must marry someone the same level as him. Someone like Lady Rhea Royce.

You are a prince, a hero, a warrior - a father of the goldcloaks. You have your duty and I have mine, mayhaps in another life. One where we're living in the Free Cities, selling oranges and cinnamon. Mayhaps in that life we'd build a home.

Yours, Lady (Your Name) Groleo.

Prince Daemon wasn't sure on how to react.

A few days ago, he got a letter from you - rejecting his proposal of marriage and now he's received a letter from your father - stating your death from an unknown fever from Naath.

He could not think straight. He could not breathe.

He hasn't cried since his mother died, and he didn't expect himself to cry harder than he did with her. The Seven Gods were cruel and he spurned them will all his heart. "Kepus, think before you do anything else." Rhaenyra warned him, fearing that he'd hurt himself.

His cloudy eyes gazed up at her.

You looked like Rhaenyra in some lights.

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arabellasleopardcoat · 2 months

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Vūjigon (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon has been having sex without love his whole life. It's easy. Marriage should be more of the same, right?

Warnings: Smut. Rough oral sex, male receiving. Daemon is smitten, he just doesn't know it.

A/N: Part two to this, can be read as a stand alone. You only need to know that they don't speak the same language. Whole credit for the idea of a blowjob / character study to @precious-little-scoundrel

Westeros was full of people who hated Daemon Targaryen. It had never bothered him. Daemon knew that when you were closer to a God than a man, there were many that would envy your position. Natural superiority was challenging to accept for those of inferior stock, after all.

Your father was the kind to care about that sort of thing. He had probably found out when the two of you had been trying to trap someone with Valyrian blood to marry you. Daemon wondered if you cared about that. Or if you thought about joining their ranks.

You very well might, after this. But since you had no words with which to air your grievances, Daemon wasn't too worried. Besides, there were plenty of wives who hated their husbands, and as far as he knew, you didn't seem to like commonplaces.

It was why he was going to introduce you to this practice, after all. Daemon hoped that your foreign education and your natural curiosity might stop you from slapping him.

He pulled you in for a kiss. Eager thing that you were, you sat yourself in his lap with a saucy grin. Daemon wondered at the walking dichotomy that you were. One second you could put the most expensive whores to shame with how wanton you were, the next you turned shy, still not having fully shredded your innocence.

“Bodmagho.” Daemon says, tapping your lower lip to get your attention. It proves a dangerous thing to do because you give him a little pout, pushing your lower lip against his thumb. And Seven Hells, Daemon is just a man. When you stick your lip like that, he wants to bite it so bad.

“…” You peer up at him, with your widest eyes. Clearly waiting for your lesson. Daemon can't focus. His cock throbs painfully in anticipation of what is to come. Your small, wet mouth, spreading around him. Hot and tight, just how he likes them, but made better, because this is a hole no one has ever used before. Your astonished eyes, when you hear what Daemon is about to propose.

You jab him in the ribs, hard. Daemon shakes himself out of his lust induced stupor. There is a lesson to be taught here. Otherwise, his fantasies will never come true.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand, lifting his hips to be able to lower his breeches. His movements jostle you, and the motion makes you giggle, so Daemon lifts his hips a few more times, making you bounce even more.

It’s not often that Daemon actively tries to make others laugh. Those times were left behind in his youth, when he didn't know of other ways of charming women. He thinks himself out of practice, but is pleased to notice that you do laugh. Defenseless, he just smiles back.

Daemon grabs your hand and guides it to his cock, between the both of you. A crimson red blush stains your cheeks, and you give him a wide-eyed look. This is the first time in all of your couplings that you have touched him there. He can feel your inexperience, the way your hand strokes way too lightly, trying to get used to the feel of him. Daemon knows it is fucked up, but it arouses him even further.

Nothing is better than a maiden's touch. Perhaps your grip isn't the best, nor do you have much of a rhythm going, but your hands are soft. He can tell just by the skin on your palms that you are a lady. Someone who should be loved and protected, and that is currently debasing herself for his pleasure. The thought makes his stomach clench, cock hardening.

There is a tiny furrow on your brows, almost confused by what you are feeling. You lean in and kiss him, and unsubtly try to peek a glance at his member. Daemon chuckles, and opens up his posture even more, letting you look as much as you want. He even guides your hand on a few strokes, showing you how to touch him to get him hard.

The sight of your small hand wrapped around his shaft threatens to lead him to insanity. It's made even worse by the fact he has to guide your hand when you get a little shy. Daemon wraps his hand around yours, dwarfing it, and jerks himself off inside your smaller fist.

He is fully hard in almost no time, and he then lets go of your hand to allow you to explore on your own. Almost without noticing, you rub the head of his cock. Some of his seed is already leaking. You smear it around, curiously chirping something or another in that language of yours. Daemon has no idea what you are saying, but it amuses him how similar your accent is to those from Dorne.

They say the most beautiful women are from Dorne. Daemon wouldn't be surprised if you had family there. You are a lovely little thing, all sultry eyes and a pouty mouth that you use to great effect. You seem bright, though his assessment of your intelligence is seriously impaired by the language barrier.

Some men at court have jested about his luck, in finding a wife that never nags. Daemon no longer shares their opinion. At first, he had, but now he finds himself often wishing he could speak your language. See what hides behind your eyes, get to know you in more profound ways. Sometimes, even, he catches himself trying to find translations of his favorite books to see if you would like them.

He smiles at you, fondly, before shoving you off his lap. You let out a startled yelp, before coming up to your hands and knees. You glare at him, starting to push yourself up. Daemon stops you.

“Daor.” He says, trying to get you to stay on your knees. And fuck, if the sight of you kneeling between his spread legs doesn't do something to him. You obey with a confused and hurt look. Daemon cannot stand it. His pretty girl, all pouty and feeling unwanted. He can’t have that, can he? “Vūjigon.”

You stare.

“Come on. Vūjigon.” Daemon repeats. You still give him a puzzled look, tilting your head to the side. He fights the urge to coo at you. Instead, Daemon points to his cock, and brushes his fingers over your pouty lips. “Vūjigon.”

Sudden understanding lights up your face. The triumph at understanding what he wants only last a second, though. You balk, trying to get up. Apparently, even non westerosi noblewomen know that what Daemon is asking is somewhat debasing.

A whore's trick, Mysaria had called it, when she first introduced him to the practice. Daemon had greatly enjoyed seeing her on her knees, subjected to the indignity of having him thrust wildly inside her mouth.

With you, it was bound to be even better. There was nothing like corrupting innocence, and nothing like bringing uppity women to heel. Daemon had been eager to do this, picturing it the whole day. His pretty highborn girl, wantonly sticking her pink tongue out, eager to lap up his seed.

Rebelling, you tried to get up. Daemon placed a hand on your shoulder, and firmly ordered.

“Daor.”

You spluttered something and glared. Daemon glared back. He stared you down until you lowered your eyes. There was a prideful look in your eyes, quickly being replaced by embarrassment.

Daemon brushed your pretty hair back and gently repeated his order.

“Vūjigon.”

This time, you folded. You pressed a kiss to his shaft, scrunching up your face. Daemon tutted, and smoothed down your frown.

“Ñuha kēlītsos.” Daemon smiled. His kitten. You glared, but understood that word well enough. You gave him small, kitten licks, making him shudder. Daemon had been planning this for almost a fortnight. You probably now understood his insistence at teaching you the names of animals, and your indignation was justified. All your lessons had been for naught but his hedonist tendencies.

His eyes dropped. The look on your face was priceless. All prideful highborn girl forced to do something she thought demeaning. With your pretty jewels and expensive dress, you were all that he had fantasized about and more. The gift that keeps on giving. His precious, obedient girl.

“Daor?” Daemon asks, softening a little. He doesn't want you to suffer, after all. Only be a little uncomfortable. You stop your kisses and kitten licks to give him a fierce look.

“Bodmagho.” You glower, before wrapping your pretty mouth around his leaking tip. Your brows furrow a little at the taste, but you look up at him, patiently.

Daemon can feel the heat of your gaze going straight to his cock. It turns impossibly hard. He lightly caresses your cheek with his thumb. You blink up at him, shy.

Never before have you looked more gorgeous than with your pretty mouth stretched around his cock. Daemon beckons you closer with a hand gesture, encouraging to take more of him inside. Molten, liquid heat accumulates in the base of his spine when you give a little awkward shuffle on your knees, advancing towards him.

He keeps petting your hair and muttering sweet nothings that you are probably unable to understand. You press forward, gluttonous little thing that you are, until you are choking on him. Daemon has to slow you down then because no matter how delectable your throat feels when contracting and spasming around him, the sight of tears on your face is not as arousing as he expected.

Somehow, it looks better on whores. He would like much better to see you stricken and crying from pleasure than pain.

You are his precious girl. Not deserving of rough treatment, of having to kneel on rough floors. Fuck, he hadn't even checked to see if you had a rug under your knees. He was a cunt. Daemon yanks you off his cock, and pulls you upwards. He places you on his lap.

You pout. You try to go back to his cock. He brushes the tears away from your face and wipes the corners of your mouth, getting rid of the spit gathering there. He even presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Daor, kēlītsos.” Daemon kisses you, softly. You respond poorly to the endearment, probably because you can't understand what he means. You associate it straight away with sucking his cock, which he now realizes wasn't the best idea. He taps at your lower lip to get your attention and rubs his face against your neck. You giggle, squirming like there is no tomorrow. “Kēlītsos.” Daemon orders, and you rub yourself against him, all kitten like. It would be the most adorable thing he has ever witnessed, were it not for the fact that you are rubbing against his hard cock.

He holds you to him with one hand, and unbuttons your dress just enough so he can pull your teats out. For the first time in the night, you struggle. You pull your dress up and squirm, trying to cover yourself. Daemon gives you a warning growl, and holds your hands to your sides.

You avert your eyes. Your shoulders hunch, as if you are trying to hide yourself. Embarrassed, Daemon realizes. You are embarrassed.

“Daor.” He kisses your jaw, then your neck, and makes his way to your pretty teats. He cups them in his hands. “Gevie.”

“Gevie?” You frown, puzzled. So Daemon repeats it fumblingly in your language, until your face lights up, and you are fully convinced he is calling you nothing but pretty. You give him a blinding smile, and something in him warms at seeing you so happy. He decides to just grind his hips against yours while fondling you a little. He can try teaching you how to suck his cock another night. After all, as a married couple, you had all the time in the world.

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thebadboyfanclub · 1 year

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You Bled For Them, You Decide Pt.1 (Daemon x Reader)

Once again this was challenging but so fun to write, I hope you guys like as well. Enjoy!

Daemon Targaryen or else known as “the rogue prince” had inherited the free spirit of his mother, for years he traveled as he lusted over two things, war and women. He loved his life and new found freedom after the… sudden death of his lady wife Rhea. The night after Rhaenyras wedding he fled and in a spur of the moment finding refugee in Pentos, the prince of pentos welcomed him with open arms as soon as Daemon landed with Caraxes and even threw a celebration in his honour.

That’s where he met her, (y/n). She was the daughter of a gemstone and dragonbone merchant, she stood next to her father when Daemon first laid eyes on her, her hair dark and long, her (y/e/c) eyes pierced with through his heart and made him feel like he was thrown to the flames, she held the moon and stars in those hues of hers, her lips tempting him as she bit them, her body was barely covered by a dress, it was normal for the women to dress with light materials due to the heat of the city, it did wonders for Daemons imagination. As the breeze went through her the herbal scent hit him like a brick. She was sent by the Gods for him

“It was like fate had struck me”

He would often say. It wasn’t long until he married her, her father was delighted when he saw Daemon Targaryen asking for his daughters hand. (Y/n) had prayed for their union right after that night, she could sense that this was the man for her, the man that would stand by her side until the end of their days.

Daemon spend his days and nights in her arms, the only thing that dragged him out of the bed was his dragon, other than that he spend it pleasuring his wife. Oh what a sight she was when she trembled under his touch, he held her tightly as he took her through the roads of pleasure, the servants would blush and ran away as they would couple wherever and whenever, the study room, the gardens, the bath, even up in the air while Daemon road his dragon, (y/n) rode Daemon.

It wasn’t long until (y/n) was with child, Princess Alyssa was first, (y/n) gave birth by herself in the garden with the help of her husband under a full moon, she did not trust the maesters. Not long after that came the triplets, prince Aevor, princess Eraessa and princess Aerella that were born by the help of their father in their bath on a cold rainy day, (y/n) always felt at home when surrounded by water. On the triplets first nameday (y/n) gave birth to prince Victor, unfortunately (y/n) laid ill with fever for two morrows after that birth, Daemon never left her side since he feared that he would suffer the fate of his father and brother, of course a little while after (y/n) was surrounded by her children and husband as she pushed out a daughter Johanna.

“We have been summoned”

“For what my love?”

“Laenas funeral, she died during childbirth, she commanded her dragon to set her on fire”

(Y/n) rubbed on her growing belly at the news, she had never met Daemons family yet her heart ached for the woman, every woman had feared of childbirth, all of them were willing to take the risk for their kins still their hearts skipped a beat when the labour pains began.

Daemon saw the pain in his lady wives eyes, he took her hands to place kisses on her knuckles as a way to comfort her, they didn’t have to speak about it, the eyes said everything that needed to be spoken.

“Do you want to go?”

“My brother pleaded, he wishes to be introduced to our children”

“I did not ask about your brother, I asked what do you want”

Daemon was thankful for his wife for countless reasons, one of them was her patience with him and the way she made him feel important, all his life he spend yelling to be heard and now he had someone that he could whisper to. Daemon kissed his wife on the lips softly as a way to say thank you to her, he was never good with words so physical touch was his way of showing gratitude.

“We shall leave on the morrow”

(Y/n) rode on her husbands dragon as she held on to him tightly, she could see why Daemon and her children loved riding so much, the peaceful feeling mixed with the power it brings, it was addicting to say the least.

After the family landed the first one to touch ground was Daemon who was careful enough to assist (y/n) by holding her waist until her feet are steady, (y/n) rushed to the eldest daughter Alyssa whom was holding little Johanna, her hatchling was way too small and she was far too young to ride, Alyssa had volunteered as to being the one to hold her sister for the ride.

(y/n) took the babe in her arms and she quite envied how it was the only one that was dressed in white clothing, (y/n) had to prepare an all black dress in just a few hours which had been a struggle given the fact that her babe was due any minute now.

“How was she?”

“I believe she slept the entire way, she seemed to stir awake as we were landing”

Alyssa always felt the responsibility for her siblings, her parents had embedded in her brain “family sticks together” that they would repeat almost every day. (Y/n) turned back to her husband with their daughter on her hip, Daemon was already greeted by his brother, king Viserys.

(Y/n)s courage seemed to waver for a moment as she did not make a step to approach the two brothers, they had never been introduced since the couple had eloped in pentos and resided there for their entirety of their wedding.

“(Y/n)”

Daemon spoke softly, his hand reaching out for her. (Y/n) pushed every bad thought aside and made her way to her husbands side with their daughter, as she stopped king Viserys smiled brightly, his eyes immediately focusing on the little girl.

“Gods be good, how old?”

“She is almost two, her name is johanna after my mother”

“Beautiful, congratulations brother you have been blessed with a wonderful family. May I hold her?”

“Of course… your grace”

(Y/n) did not quite know how to address him, alas she passed Johanna to king Viserys who beamed with joy as he held her. Johanna was not a difficult child nor did she cry a lot, she seemed quite comfortable in her uncles arms.

“My apologies I completely ignored your lady wife and we have never been introduced. What is your name?”

“I am (y/n)… your grace”

She introduced herself as she took a small curtsy, well as low as her condition allowed to do so without falling down. technically pentos was a free country yet the soul of the ground she was now stepping on was under the Targaryen legacy so it was almost obligating. King Viserys laughed lightly at (y/n)s uneasiness, at first he was furious at his brother running off to marry a nobody, as the years passed and caught wind of how Daemon was content with his family and had brought so many children with the woman, his heart soften.

“You needn’t bow dear, we are family. I have heard tales about your choice in the matter of giving birth”

“My mother gave birth to twelve children, she always said how nobody knows better than the woman”

“Your mother was fearless but some assistance would never hurt”

“If my time comes while I give birth to my children then there is nothing a… man can do, it is something above our powers and so far I have been victorious”

“I assume there is no greater force than the force of a mother. Let us join the others, it is almost time for the ceremony”

In pentos they spoke bastard Valyrian so (y/n) could somewhat understand what the man was saying as he send his niece away to the afterlife. (Y/n) clung on to her husband for comfort as the ceremony brought her worry and sadness, being surrounded by unfamiliar faces that grieved in a ceremony of a woman she never met brought a certain discomfort to (y/n).

Daemon gave his wife’s hand a squeeze as he leaned down to place a kiss on the top of her head, Daemon feared for her life every time she was to give birth, he was never a religious man yet internally he would pray to the old and new gods for a safe delivery.

“Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughters on the shore. Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will all remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

Before (y/n) could comprehend what was said and the reason behind those sly remarks when the man gazed at a woman who had her arms wrapped around two boys the ceremony was interrupted by a baby crying in the near distance, her ears perked up at the sound of her youngest daughter wails. Alyssa tried to shush the babe to no avail, the child was begging for it’s mother, (y/n) fleeted her husbands side to soothe her baby and to also make it stop crying while the ceremony is taking place.

“I’m sorry mother”

“It’s alright Alyssa, Johanna is probably hungry, aren’t you my little sunshine?”

The babe settled as (y/n) rocked Johanna in her arms, she did not try to go back in her place, they had already brought enough attention to them for now, she remained close to her children who all surrounded her, it was quite the scene as 5 children build a wall around a woman that looked nothing like them.

Alyssa had her grandmothers eyes, one was violet and the other green, the triplets had silver white hair but all had different colour eyes, prince Aevor was a spitting image of his father, princess Eraessa had green eyes and Aerellahad violet, Victor had inherited his grandfathers black colour and Johanna seemed to match her sister with violet eyes and a few strands of black hair intertwined with her silver hair.

All of them looked like Targaryens which had caused a stir in everyone’s hearts along with judgement, there she was a woman that had no correlation to the Targaryen bloodline or any type of royal bloodline yet her children looked like what true born heirs should be.

“How is moon and my stars?”

Daemon would call his family that at the explanation of the moon and the stars were the only way you could find home while sailing or riding dragons. Daemon cradled his youngest daughter in his arms to ease the weight his wife was carrying, she was already burdened with a child in her guts she mustn’t hold another.

“Father can we go explore please?”

“Of course, Alyssa please escort your siblings, make sure they are safe”

“Of course father”

As the kids scurried away little Johanna was the only one that remained, she was too young to go with the others. (Y/n) turned to her husband with a disapproving look

“Alyssa is a child my love we mustn’t put such responsibility on her”

“She is our first born and she is perfectly capable of protecting her siblings, you coddle her”

“Would that be so bad? To keep my child safe and allow her to enjoy her adolescence?”

“Alyssa looks like our mother, she always spoke of how we could never get rid of her and it is only natural that she chose you to make her way back to us”

Daemons brother interrupted the quarrel as he approached them, a blonde haired woman who (y/n) assumed was close or maybe a year younger next to him, she was the one that the man was staring at when he spoke. What made (y/n) question the woman’s approach was how she took in her husband, it reminded (y/n) of a hawk inspecting its prey.

Daemon was amazed when he first took in Alyssa’s appearance, it was only fair that the babe got his mothers name, under the light of the full moon he swore to sacrifice everyone to keep his family safe.

“Mothers spirit could not be stopped by death, sometimes when she gets frustrated I swear it is our mother hiding behind my daughters eyes”

“Alyssa might have your mothers name but she is her own person and she will write her own story. Such expectations are a heavy burden for a young girl”

(Y/n) interrupted, she understood her husbands love and devotion to their family still she was also a mother and she wanted her child to have a quiet and happy life, to live without a target on her back, Daemon was driven by ambition, (y/n) was driven by compassion.

Viserys smiled fondly at the young woman, he detected the powerful urge of the mother spreading her wings to protect her young ones. The woman on his side kept looking at Daemon, (y/n) doubted that she even heard any part of the conversation, she also could feel that the woman was waiting to be greeted or for her presence to be acknowledged.

Daemon brought his wife closer to him by a gentle grip on her waist, sometimes he would forget that his wife had a backbone of her own and was not easily persuaded when it came to such delicate matters, he had fought wars and seen the worst in people, still he took a step back when it came to his wife. Their dynamic worked only if both of them made the effort, Daemon was the protector when it came to the outside but indoors (y/n) had the final decision.

“You bled for them, you decide”

Daemon had once muttered to her, it was a sign of respect from him, he was forever in her debt for the continuation of her sacrifices to expand their family.

“If I didn’t know any better I would say your wife has dragons blood in her dear uncle”

“Pentos is a free country my lady, we have fought for our freedom, allow me to say we have our own fire that burns bright”

“(Y/n) this is my daughter Rhaenyra, my heir”

“Pleasure to meet you princess”

“Likewise, is this your child?”

“One of them yes, her name is Johanna, I believe the entire trip and ceremony tired her out”

(Y/n) cooed at her baby girl as she petted the girls silver hair, Johanna had leaned into her fathers shoulder with her eyes half closed, poor thing was fighting against slumber.

Rhaenyra felt a pain in her heart as she looked at the couple, Daemon had never been so gentle with Rhaenyra or anyone for that matter, now he didn’t even spare a glimpse in her direction as he was occupied with gazing lovingly at his wife, she felt jealousy boil in her heart thinking she was supposed to be the one in (y/n)s place.

“One of them?”

“Yes, the gods have been quite generous, we have 6 children now”

“Such… great news”

She mumbled. Rhaenyra was stunned, 6 children. Daemon had never discussed the matter of children in the past, now he fathered 6 kids and another one was on the way. Rhaenyra felt the ground disappear beneath her feet as her heart beat so fast she could swear that it was going to come out from her throat.

“Excuse me”

Rhaenyra managed to grumbled as she stumbled away from the couple, she could not believe what she had witness. Rhaenyra did her best to keep her composure until she was out of sight, not only has her first love moved on and has a happy family -something that she was robbed from- he had now unintentionally blown her cover and paraded his Targaryen featured children for everyone.

Part two

Requests are open!

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 22 days

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 2: Need

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You crave.

I am sorry for how long this took - to be fair, it's been months since I wrote actual smut and I was nervous to re-pop my smut cherry, ahahahaha. Yes, this chapter features actual smut, hallelujah for Reader! This doesn't technically mark the end for the troubles, however deceptive the ending is. Depression is a process, and sometimes we go through ups and downs with it. We're facing an up here! Ish.

Thanks be to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and offering much-needed pointers to make this chapter coherent and well-rounded. I cannot post without you holding my hand ever, and I love you for putting up with it.

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of PPD, penetrative s*x, lactation and lactation kink.

Wading through the waters of this curious state of mind is no easy process.

Melancholy. Mother’s malady. Madness. Whatever it is called among differing circles, you now know it is not uncommon. This knowledge does not ease the despondency that comes in waves, threatening to shatter any semblance of the control you are tenuously rebuilding. There are days when you feel as though you cannot even bear to lay eyes on your boy and girl, that the merest act of sighting them will somehow cause their unhappiness, that you will ruin them by being near them. There are times when you believe yourself to be the only woman in the world who cannot simply love her children as mothers ought to, free of the complication of treacherous notions slithering through the mind like draughts of poison, silent in their destruction. There are moments when you think that perhaps you should never have allowed them to spring to fruition, that you should have found a way to tear out the blooms that had sprouted within your belly before they had the chance to become living, breathing creatures.

That last thought is particularly repellent.

It is not your fault for thinking these things, though. They are ideas sprung from this affliction, designed to cause uncertainty and create chaos. It does not stop you from thinking that you may well be the most despicable monster to disgrace the earth. If you were left to your own devices, it is indeed likely that you would remain abed for days on end, resigned to misery.

But it is not a fate that you are allowed to succumb to. On the mornings when you find yourself unable to depart the cocoon of your sheets, your ladies coax you up with surprising and uncharacteristic purposefulness. Gone is their cloying timidity, replaced by creatures of determination as they all but drag you bodily upright to clothe and feed you, to immerse you in cheerful chatter while they work.

Gerardys comes to visit you, followed swiftly by Ūlla, newly returned from her journeys. The two rather predictably bicker over how best to approach any potential treatment.

“My colleagues at the Citadel recommend bloodletting,” the maester says with a frown, glancing nervously at your healer, “to restore imbalanced humours.”

Ūlla levels him with a foul look. “Are you stupid? Princess making milk. Losing blood is bad for her, and the babes!”

“If she remains hydrated, any complications will be minimal.”

“Tell Prince,” she shoots back challengingly. “See if he agree.”

“Forgive me, but Prince Daemon does not have the final word here, my lady. As Maester of Dragonstone, it is my responsibility to ensure residents are—”

“Losing blood hurt Princess, and babes, too! Stupid man!”

She storms out of the room with nary a word further, and you find yourself resigned to the possibility of enduring fattening leeches hanging off your skin. Gerardys begins to talk you through the process, though in truth you are not minding him as closely as you ought, but it does not seem to be long before Ūlla re-enters.

“Here,” she says, pressing a nondescript pouch into your hands. All the while, she is glaring at the maester. You inspect the contents, your nose tickling at the mild citrus scent that emanates from within. “Lemon balm,” she explains. “Make into a tea.”

Alas, you think ruefully. More tea. At this rate, it is a small wonder that your urine has not taken on the various aromas and hues of the remedies you are made to consume.

The tea does help, though, or perhaps it is simply in your mind. Perhaps the tea is not the cure, but time. Perhaps it is the magic that lives in your blood, that unites you to your dragon and ties you to the fate of a long-dead dynasty, that best eases your path forward. You still have hours and days where you fare poorly. But gradually, these moments come with less and less severity, feelings that do not fade but are ones you can muse upon, chew about like toffee sticking to the crowns of your teeth. Uncomfortable, difficult to cleanse yourself of, yes, but possible where you perhaps had not even been aware of their existence before. You learn to appreciate them for what they are, no more or less than calls for a defeat that is not yet yours to claim…

Because, despite the war in your head, your babes are happy. They are settled. They thrive. If you truly had been failing, this would not be so.

And thus, you persist with the teas and tonics and tepid baths recommended to you, with the dogged joviality of Jeyne and Bethany, with long walks at Ser Lysan’s side marked by the whip of salty sea air and the faint pulsing warmth of the sun. With visits to your boy, your Athfiezar, his smoke-breath and scaled mass and the thrum of a secret kinship clearing the muck of unhappiness from your view and restoring, in parts, a clarity well-missed. Through it all, you realise—bit by bit, hour by hour—that there is more beyond the sorrow. That something is blossoming, weak and spindly and scarcely living, but there, right there below your ribs and growing, a sickly weed straining toward the light. Something like hope.

It unfreezes the most poisonous of your tender ambitions, slackening the bonds of your inflexible drive to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys alone. ‘Tis a hard-won concession, but one necessary to your wellbeing and theirs. Still, you cannot help but feel your bond closest when they are swaddled against you, tiny hands pressed against your breasts and greedy suckles drawing from the wellspring of nourishment your body has created for them.

“Have they latched well, Princess? Ought I assist in any way?”

You glance up with great effort, nearly incapable of tearing your eyes away from them both. Freda feigns nonchalance, but it is easy enough to tell that she is anxious. Your rather spectacular histrionics are not easily forgotten by all.

Shaking your head, you smile. “They are fine, thank you. They are perfect.”

Never have you spoken truer words. You are constantly marvelling at how dissimilar they are to the shrivelled little beings that you had laboured to bring into the world scarcely two moons ago. Their hair, pale at birth, has only grown brighter, solid where it had been opaque. Much of Aelys’s has fallen out, which you have been assured is quite usual. It certainly makes it easier to differentiate between the two on sight, though this is becoming more and more simple as their differing features have begun to assert themselves. In Rhaenar, you see the promise of Daemon’s strong nose; in Aelys, the shape of the eyes. They share your mouth, even if Aelys’s pout reminds you more of Rhaenyra. These little things make them individuals with each passing day, untangle the singularity they are oft referred to as and begin to show those around them that they are becoming their own person.

You know now that your wish to gather them close and tuck them out of sight of all others is not simple maternal instinct, and instead a symptom of this malady. Through Freda’s tales, you learn that many are involved in the rearing of common-born children; through Ūlla’s considerable experience and your sister’s anecdotes, you begin to understand that your original undertaking was never feasible. It grates you so, but you try to take heed of their womanly advice more than you truly desire to, obliging their recommendations to allow the twins to sleep in the nursery during the night. But in the daytime—in the now—they are all yours.

“That they are,” Freda says, snapping you from your hypnotic reverie. “A bonnier lad and lass I’ve never met, you can be assured of that!”

Even though you know she likely feels duty-bound to say so, you cannot help the flush of pleasure. Their nursing has slowed, eyes heavy-lidded and noses huffing warmth against your skin. It is gratifying to see them so satisfied.

As soon as Rhaenar’s lips pull away, smacking wetly as he gurgles and smiles, Freda is ready to lift him into her arms. His head rests upon the cloth tossed over her shoulder, fists waving with each pat she makes against his back.

“Another meal for the little Prince and Princess,” she says, grinning. “Well done, Your Highness!”

“It would seem so.” Aelys is done, you think, but working her mouth still for comfort. It seems to please her to continue the act long after your milk has emptied. You cup her head, running your fingers through the wispy locks in a manner you hope is soothing. “It is relieving to have finally managed it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Rhaenar belches, kicking his legs when Freda makes a startled noise as she always does. “But what an impressive feat, milady—nursing one babe to a full belly can be difficult enough, never mind two! That thistle tea must be something special, indeed.”

It is not only the tea, you think.

The memories of Daemon’s lips at your nipples, his body hard against yours, the low lusty grunts of more than just gustatory delight—and there are many, as many memories as nights in which his faithful service so oft takes place—elicit a soft, secretive smile even as heat rushes to your face. This heat travels further, down, down, reminding you uncomfortably of another dilemma you are facing.

Desire. It is something which you ponder greatly upon over the next days.

When you had just given birth, you did not think you would ever be capable of it again. Of course, this sentiment had followed a rather gruelling several hours of agony, much of which you cannot recall, and the overwhelming fear that you may perish as your mother had done. With your lower half all but mangled and shedding the remains of what processes your body had devised to best facilitate your children’s growth, the notion of letting your uncle couple with you had seemed positively dreadful. ‘Twas akin to the thought of him rutting into the gaping maw of a fresh wound. But the blood of that night had passed, and the pain had faded, and in your mind, it is almost like it had never happened at all. You do not remember the sensation.

You have not resumed your courses save for some light spotting in your smallclothes, though that is apparently to be expected. Your breasts are ever noticeable, large and leaking or shrunken and soft depending on the time of day, always sensitive regardless of state. Your belly is quite nearly back to the state it had been before carrying the twins, save for an additional laxness and the crawling lines of dark delineating the places where your flesh had most stretched. These are all changes, differences that you have come to anticipate, understand.

It is likely why the return of carnal longings is so utterly strange, so abnormal in its normality. How can a form so changed experience something so… banal?

Even so, you find yourself drawn to the minutest of details when in Daemon’s presence: the corded strength of his arms; the elegant line of his ringed fingers; the set of his jaw and the shadow of his brow. His voice singing lullabies of old to the twins brings a sort of frantic exhilaration, a dampness pooling between the legs instead of drowsed comfort. His easy grin makes your heart pound as though from great toil. When his attention is elsewhere, you admire the span of his shoulders and the planes of his chest, knotting scars of savagery setting you to swooning.

You feel like one of his fawning admirers, breathless and fluttering and giggling at his innate charm. You feel desperate.

And, worst of all, he does not notice. He fails to recognise the reciprocation of your sighs and moans as he feasts from you for the invitation that they are. His touch is gentle, like he is afraid you will break, even when you press yourself into him so eagerly that it seems no small wonder that he cannot read it for the provocation you intend it to be. He is careful not to make his acts of self-pleasure too obvious, pushing your hands away with a kind murmur of, “Rest now, sweetling, I’ll take care of this,” as though you are incapable of doling out the satisfaction he had taught you so well to perform, as though it is an inconvenience to you rather than he that his member rises so readily at the sight of you.

This state of affairs cannot last. It ought to be an easy thing for you to entice him to act on your shameless thoughts, the way you had so often before the babes had entered the world. You feel frozen, trapped in your abstemious existence as you have been for sennights. How to make him see? How to make him comprehend?

When Rhaenyra hears of your plight, disguised in the politest terms you can muster, she laughs.

“Go on and tend to your brother,” she says to Luke, nodding towards Joff. Based on the quiver of little Corwyn’s lower lip, Joff has thrown one of his toys at him again. He appears poised to do so a second time, wooden dragon carving clutched tightly in an upraised fist. “Have him build a tower with you, perhaps.”

Luke sighs, ever wearied at presiding over the play of the younger two. Still, he abandons the book before him, revolves on his heel and trudges over to the pair of tots, prying the dragon from little fingers and leading them both to the far safer pile of blocks.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turns back to you. “Have you tried speaking to him?”

The abrupt shift takes you aback. You must cast your mind past the immediate happenings—away from the sound of delighted giggling, the thwock of blocks placed by clumsy hands—to recall your previous conversation.

Oh, yes. Daemon.

“Not… not exactly,” you say, hesitant. “I did not think I would need to ask my husband to… well…”

“There are occasions where you think too highly of him.” Rhaenyra shakes her head wryly, a fond curl to the corner of her lip. “This is one of them. Just because he knows you best of all doesn’t mean he’s not still a man.”

“But he is a man who… enjoys certain acts! Perhaps even more so than other men.” Your thoughts supply you with ample evidence of such a claim, unbidden. How frustrating it is that your thoughts are your only source of carnal satisfaction at present. You swallow nervously, praying that such lewdness or its resulting vexation does not reveal itself in your expression. “Why is he being so obtuse?”

She tilts her head sympathetically. “You forget he was there during your labours. They’re pains easy enough to forget when you’re the one experiencing them, but not soon disregarded as the spectator. He remembers your suffering—he does not wish to revisit any further upon you.”

A flattering observation of him, though you note the lack of supposition in her tone. Intrigue washes through you.

“How do you know? Has he been speaking to you?”

“Oh, darling. He’s frightfully easy to read.”

For a moment, you envy her. She is so alike to Daemon that it is hardly any wonder that she knows his thoughts so well. You, on the other hand, do not share their temperament. It is a fact you often appreciate, for the gods know how calamitous such a warring pair would be in matrimony. It had once been said, you recall not by who, that you were the ice to their fire—but now, you feel the comparison is lacking.

If Rhaenyra and Daemon are a blazing conflagration, then you are the steady warmth of the candle flickering in the evening. Soft, controlled, but carrying the same propensity to burn and maim. A dragon, same as all the rest, but with one rather unique quality: mastery of will. The calamities inflicted by your family might have been averted had past generations indulged their wild spirits a little less.

An odd, haunting echo whispers along the back of your neck, a voice you feel you ought to recognise yet lies beyond the precipice of knowledge, just out of reach. “Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. A dragon is not a slave.”

No. But Targaryens have ever been beholden to their tempers. Mayhaps there is freedom yet to be won.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, brow raised pointedly at your obvious distraction. “Use your words. If you want him to fuck you, you’ll have to make it clear beyond implication.”

You flush, and not only for your inattention. You may be far more accustomed to vulgarity now than you were before marriage, but it does not mean that it is entirely comfortable to hear your sister speak it. Never mind the fact that she is discussing the affairs of your marital bed in so cavalier a manner! You remind yourself that it had been you who had approached her.

“Thank you.”

“I hope I helped. And to be frank, I hope I never need to help again. It’s difficult enough to contend with unspoken.”

A clear enough dismissal: you rise from your seat beside her, squeezing her arm in silent farewell. She catches you just before you turn toward the door, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“And remember,” she says. “If all else fails, just drop your shift and grab his cock. That ought to be enough to encourage him.”

“Rhaenyra!”

It takes a great deal of strength not to follow through on your sister’s recommendation when next you meet with Daemon.

He returns to your chambers following another of his training sessions, sweat-soaked and streaked with grime, grunting as he slips the belt from his waist and sets Dark Sister against the wall. Your ladies avert their stares as he unbuckles the clasps of his leather jerkin and discards the thing across the table. At the sight of his disrobing, Jeyne and Bethany stand, genuflecting hastily before all but rushing from the room. Try as you might, the pair are still somewhat uneasy around him. Characteristically, he appears not to notice their departure—indeed, it is unlikely he truly even noticed their presence.

“I do hope you plan to wipe that table clean,” you call out to him, doing your best to affect a tone of light-hearted teasing. In truth, you feel more than a little faint. It is positively sinful, the way he looks.

Daemon rolls his eyes, bundling up his tunic. He tugs it over his head, exposing the undershirt made translucent from the vigour of his activities. Through it, you can see the scars of old, the firm planes of his chest and belly.

“We have people for that, or did you forget?” he asks. The tunic falls atop the jerkin. A chair screeches across the stone, and your husband seats himself with a wearied sigh to work at the buckles on his boots. “Fucking miserable, this lot. I’m half tempted to drag them to the Stepstones. Perhaps the threat of war might make them more inclined to follow orders. Best way to turn the green ones into true men.”

You know it is mere complaint, but the thought of his flying off to battle is still enough to make your chest pang with worry.

“Not funny,” you say, thumbing the needle in your hand. “Aelys would never stop screaming with you gone. Rhaenar would keep himself awake until your return.”

He grins. “Never fear. I’ll not leave you to manage our little beasts alone.” He pauses; glances toward the cradle. “How are they?”

“See for yourself.”

Hardly needing encouragement, he pads sure-footed toward the sounds of soft gurgling and cooing, the sturdy frame keeping the pair of infants out of your immediate sight. Bending low and extending both arms down, you can hear him murmur, “Rytsas, ñuhys zaldrītsossas.”

Hello, my little dragons.

A high-pitched squeal is his response, no doubt Aelys’s welcome. You try to focus once again on the seam you are patching, though it is hard not to be drawn into the conversation that appears to be taking place to your far left.

Rustling, and a plaintive whine. Daemon sighs. “Daor, ñuhus jorrāeliarzis—jemī ōregon koston daor. Yne aōhi muña asēnilus lo jemī vaogēdan.” No, my loves—I cannot hold you. Your mother would kill me for dirtying you.

“Kony drēje issa.” That is correct, you say archly. You nod toward the screen. “Kōdrion aō syt ilza. Īlvon parklondo go, aōlot rāenābā, kostilus.” There is a bath for you. Wash up before our supper, please.

When he pulls away, the pair squawk their dismay. Luckily, he knows best how to resolve the ensuing fit before it can reach fruition—he jerks his final layer off over his head, depositing the threadbare shirt into the cradle. Their cries fall abruptly silent. You wrinkle your nose at the prospect of their bedding wicking the odour of perspiration, though you are forced to acknowledge the efficacy of such an action. Babes find comfort in the scent of their parents.

Daemon drops a strip of leather on the desk, shaking his head of now-loose hair. On his path to the tub, he stops before you.

“Ynot tolī syz iksā,” he says, rough-hewn palm dragging your chin upward. You are too good to me.

It is all you can do not to moan like an eager slattern as his lips slot against yours and the musk of him rattles your bones like tinder to firewood, bursting and sparking with banked heat. Acerbic, mingled with smoke and the particular fragrance of ashy mud found nowhere else but here upon the isle, it is strong enough to taste upon his mouth, feel upon your skin. Before you have the mind to deepen it, to drag him down and haul your skirts up, he is gone, naught more than a tender dirt-smudged stroke to the cheek to mark his departure.

You collapse back against the chaise, bewildered and hot, the heavy glide of his favourite coat finally breaking free from your lap and to the floor, needle and thread and all. Meanwhile, you hear him whistling to himself as he removes his breeches, his groan of relief as he steps into the water.

You have half a mind to disturb his bathing, for how dare he leave you so bereft? But it is not his fault. Well, to be fair, there is no fault at play here, for there has been no fault committed. Unless being far too handsome is a fault, you think.

Alas, there is no recourse but to wait for the opportune time to strike. It cannot be now—supper is still to come, and the babes must be put to the nursery.

‘Tis this thought you must repeat over and over again. Not now: Daemon is dressing for the evening meal, even if you truly only want to have him remain without clothing, to prowl about with his considerable endowments on display for your avid gaze, and something alarmingly like grief twists in your stomach with each item of clothing that further conceals him from you. Not now: you take your girl and he takes your boy and the four of you make your way through the halls, and you must ruthlessly quell the driving lust from your core with each step, for there can be no notions of lechery with a babe curled in your grasp just so, an innocence you will not dare risk tainting with the impurity of your designs. Not now: the Keepers are explaining that the twins’ dragons “are becoming unruly, my Prince”, and “they will need far more outdoor enrichment than we had previously discussed”, and you must nod your head in sage agreement even as you press a kiss to Rhaenar’s forehead, then Aelys’s, all too aware of the low thrum of Daemon’s voice while you say goodnight to Freda and the children.

Supper comes and goes in a burning haze, marked by the knowing looks you receive from your sister across the table and the pervasive awareness that he is right there next to you, so close and yet untouchable, not now, not in the way you want. When you are done eating—and honestly, you do not even remember putting food into your mouth, but your plate is empty and your belly pleasantly full so you must have—you are forced to just sit, all too conscious of the arm Daemon has carelessly draped across the back of your chair, the rumble of his laugh as his cups flow amply with the free and easy conversation between he and Harwin and Laenor. And then, and then, you are returned to your chambers after minutes or hours or days, so wound up on the inside that you feel close to madness of a different kind, near to bursting, blood bubbling effervescently like the sharpest of Northern wines.

All night, you had been anticipating this moment. Why now does your nerve fail you?

“Come here,” he says, disturbing the panicked wheelabout in your mind.

For a moment, you wonder whom it is he is speaking to—but then he glances up at you, frowning quizzically. You realise you are the only other being in the room. Wringing your hands and cursing your foolish transparency, you trail toward him, stopping expectantly when you are within reach.

Silence.

“Well?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. You look about, trying to determine what it is he wants. He sighs, and adds, “Do you plan on sleeping in that dress, or would you like a hand with the laces?”

“Oh!”

Like a poorly performing puppet, you whirl around spasmodically, breath stuck somewhere between its starting and finishing point, suspended in your chest as he shifts your hair to one side and begins the methodical task of unthreading you from your fabric prison. Each wrench of cord is as keenly felt as a thrust between your legs, or the memory of it, hushing your careening passions to the metronome of the tug tug shwip at your back. Daemon’s breath is sweetly fragrant, hot upon your neck, near enough that you can hear his every exhale before the pressure of air caresses your skin. It is an eternity before the gown slithers to the floor, followed by the soft-boned corset you have favoured in recent moons.

“Shift, too?” is his next whispered query, fingers already at the ties and tugging, palms dragging it clear from your collarbone and down, down, down. It bunches at your waist, but it is far enough for his liking, and he turns you in his grasp to back you unerringly to the bed. A kiss, then, “Make yourself comfortable, talītsos,” and he moves away to remove his own clothing.

Your heart sinks at the familiarity. The routine. Make yourself comfortable, followed by abortive sensual touches and the hard suckle of man at teat before your breasts are dried up for the night, then squirming alone in the dark to the furious beat of his fist over his length across the room and the barely groaned “Fuck!” as he spurts his release on something, anything that is not you.

Even so, you crawl onto the mattress, nipples tingling with the gentle sway of movement and shift pooling over the convergence of your thighs. Kneeling, you wait, torn between hiding and fully baring yourself to the cooling chamber.

He joins you thereafter, body rising over yours as his mouth sinks to touch your own, tongue chasing the give of your lips to feed you the heady prickle of inebriation in a plush glide. Too soon does he break from you, the ridge of his nose pressing a warm line through the wet of his kisses along your jaw, your throat. He bears you slowly down, back against the pillows, grip sliding up your thighs and bypassing where you need him entirely, up your hips, up, away—

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, fumbling at his wrist to make him pause in his pursuit.

He leans back, concern carving lines in his face. Before he speaks—before you lose all semblance of courage—you try to make it plain without words.

You part your thighs flat to the bed. Slowly, without thinking too hard, you draw the rumpled hem of your shift up over your belly, rasping against your flesh, and you show him the dewy softness that awaits, begging for his favour. You imagine it glistens in the low light of candle flame there, dappling gold on tender flesh starved for touch.

Daemon stares unblinking, surprise transforming liquid, dark. “What’s this?”

“I need—” You drag his fingers to your mound, resisting the urge to shudder. “Please?”

He huffs, not a sound of amusement but one of seeming triumph. Idly, as though indifferent, his thumb coasts a path along your folds, taking care not to part them. The nail catches just so upon the hood of your half-hidden bud, sparking and fizzling straight to all the pleasure centres of your body. “Look at you. I’ve left you wanting, have I?”

“Ye—yeah.” You tip your hips up invitingly, breaths like little pants coming quicker, too loud in the quiet. “It’s been so… so long since…”

You bite off a gasp as he crawls forward, lowers, deliberately splaying you open with the blunted, veiny drive of his shaft. He hisses at the pressure, the sleekness, the heat. You feel it too, the scorch of iron striking molten, and you tip your head up in search of some relief from the ache of it.

He stirs himself there, making no attempt to push in where he catches.

“Since what, sweetling?” His arms lock you in place, hand falling warningly to your throat as his teeth make divots in the lobe of your ear. “Since I touched you? Fucked you? Put my seed in your belly?”

“Yes!”

You nod furiously, clutching his fist around your windpipe tighter, squeezing so that you can feel the threat of it through layers of muscle. Grinding your hips up at him, your entrance tightens painfully as he once again slides above where you want him, knocking where you are most sensitive. Need drips slickly to the bedsheets beneath your core.

The enthusiasm of your agreement lures a noise of satisfaction from his chest. “Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I was being a good husband, keeping my cock away from my poor little wife, scarcely free of the birthing bed.”

He reaches between your bodies with his other hand and grasps the root of himself to slap his cockhead against your petaled opening, the collision of skin producing an audible sucking sound. Your nipples strain to the ceiling, your reason tethered like wire to the churning of your belly.

Daemon grunts, grip shifting to wind against your nape, tugging sharply at the hairs there. “But I forgot, didn’t I? That you’re a whore.”

“I am,” you say, pitchy and breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you, kepus.”

He tugs again, grimacing as finally—finally—his girth aims true. The broad head of him slips inside, filling the empty spaces in you with weight and heat and heft until your cunny is as wide open as your lips are, a silent scream of sensation. Time slows and all the ages of the earth roll into the seconds that he piles himself inside you, forcing through the stubborn clench straight to the root. You wince, the fit tight like you remember, struggling to breathe at the deep-seated throb from somewhere below your ribs where he has engraved a path.

“Fuck.” He moans quietly against your shoulder, more to himself than to you. His cock digs deeper, harder, and you cry out, neatly unable to bear it. “Fuck, how are you still so tight?”

You squeeze around him at the words, revelling in the choked growl even as your body tries to curl in on itself from sheer stimulation, legs hitching up around his waist to drive him to your will. Embracing him, you bury your nose in his hair as he tilts you to his liking and withdraws, returning with a jolt that sparks uncomfortably in your gut. His mouth drags and leaves bruises along your neck as his thrusts start tentative, grow bold.

It is a testament to his own longing that he does not continue rattling off the filthiest declarations imaginable, fists clenched over your thighs and at the base of your skull with a strength that will mar you come morning. You smile at each throbbing plunge, bask in the squelch and judder of your forms moving in tandem, sweat smoothing the way. He pants, overcome, and you echo his sounds in a rhythm like ancient music.

Daemon’s lips venture lower, spine hunching atop you. He crows, jubilant, and you realise that your arousal is not the only fluid your body has released. Rising up, he takes you by both hipbones and settles you atop his thighs, tugging you over his lap and admiring the sight you make below him. He does not stop moving, length sluicing in minuscule revolutions, a constant bevy of sensation.

“Look at you,” he says again, palm smoothing flat over your stomach and gliding up over your breastbone, diverting to tweak one of your leaking nipples.

You squeal, feeling the rush of milk dribble down your breast. His nostrils flare, thumb stoppering the fall and chasing to its source before withdrawing and licking it from his skin with a lewd pop. You think he means to incite the other, only his digits venture lower and twist cruelly at your straining pearl. Tears spring to your eyes as something like the memory of peaking kindles in your stomach.

“Ah, there—all of you cries for me now, little girl. Isn’t that nice?” Callous satisfaction harshens the curve of his grin. “Eyes, tits, cunt… weeping for Uncle. And I’ll drink everything down.”

He presses the backs of your knees to the bed and descends, latching onto your nipple as his onslaught renews, pleasure in duality crystallizing at your chest and below and melding into one. You lose track of where you end and he begins, where the relief is greatest. He drags you to that elusive end in a swirl of writhing limbs and salt-musk sticking to the roof of your mouth as you call for him.

His thrusts come faster, shallower, making direct contact with the locus of feeling with each forward movement. The entirety of you gears toward the crest of the mountain, that moment of great and glorious bliss. When you finally reach it, you keen, bones and muscle coiling inward as a great wave surges outward.

You twist uncontrollably, fingernails scoring through his flesh as you come.

“Kepus,” you hear yourself babbling, clinging to his head at your other breast as you lurch discordantly across the mattress. “Harder, harder, more—”

You turn into a glutton desirous of this particular form of punishment, ravenous for the ache and the sting and the burn of it, and he responds in kind.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Each plea for more meets with a plunge of girth that sets you to shrieking, pushing yourself into them though your body urges you to flee. More, more, more. You are drunk on it, greedy for the assault. He is ever obliging to fuck harder, harder, faster.

And then—

Daemon withdraws, climbing over you with frantic disregard, hand a blur between his legs. He pushes you down, wrenches your jaw up, apart, digging into the hinge.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snarls, mean and monstrous with his cock aimed straight for your face, panting and slavering as he works himself over.

You stick your tongue out for good measure, straining against his hold for just one taste, but he does not let you. His fingers curl into the meat between your skull and spine, pain making you cross-eyed, and he shifts urgently on his knees.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

Seed spurts hot on the corner of your mouth, along your cheek, across your closed eyelids before he brings his length to your lips. You pull eagerly at him, rising to bring him further into your mouth even as his fist knocks unkindly against your teeth. His caustic flavour, familiar and missed, spreads across your palate, and you drink of him like a penitent come to worship at the altar of the gods.

Mindlessly, he grinds down at you, softening girth making you gag ever so slightly. Spend clings to your lashes and stings in your eyes as you look up at him, but you cannot care.

He stills, winded, chest expanding and collapsing with a thirst for air. Then, with a gentleness lacking in these last moments, he works himself free of you, flopping to your side with a sigh and a weak noise of contentment. He looks relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks. Moons, even.

You brush stray strands from his forehead, smoothing starlight from his weathered temples. He turns into the touch, mouth meeting the inside of your wrist.

“You really are too good to me, sweetling,” he murmurs.

His lips press to the tip of your nose, palm warm and comforting on your back. Fingers trace patterns into your flesh, at first seeming meaningless until you recognise the strokes, deliberate and sure, for what they are.

‘Avy jorrāelan.’ I love you.

“I know,” you say, answering both spoken and unspoken sentiment, your heart utterly full. In turn, you trace the same glyphs on the skin of his chest. From the smile that fills his eyes with light incandescent, he knows, too.

You lay in the quiet, basking in the surety of each other.

But it cannot last. You are loath to break the serenity, though you speak nonetheless, making a weak gesture to the pearly gleam that clumps your lashes, streaks your face.

“Do you mind… perhaps getting me a washcloth? I… cannot see.”

It is only now that he appears to notice the state he has left you in. With another kiss and an amused bark of laughter, he moves to do your bidding.

You settle back, content, watching your uncle stride fully nude to the wash basin to wet the cloth he has scrounged from its resting place. While you wait, you count all your many blessings: your babes, happy and settled and thriving. Your sister, skilful and kind in her confidence. Athfiezar, fierce and devoted and liberating when the walls feel as though they are caving in. Your tutor, your healer, your maester, your attendants, your life here on this isle, in this time and place and season. Your husband, your lover, the very benefactor of all you have come to hold dear.

Daemon kneels beside you, sponging away the worst of his deeds with a sure hand and steady smirk. “I’ll be sure to mind my aim next time, hm?”

Next time. An implicit vow.

You feel it again—a glow like the pinprick of daylight at a tunnel’s end, warming the chill from your bones and the frost from your heart, slow and sure and stubborn in the face of the complications that are yet to come. Something thawing, soothing, deadening the weight of grief and hardships past.

“Yes,” you murmur, eyes closed at the sensation of his frame moulded against yours, real and true and necessary. “Next time.”

Something like hope.

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valaenatargaryensdragon · 7 months

Text

Love Flames

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Female OC

summary: Daemon Targaryen simply loves his wife.

Word count: 2,8K

Warnings: Smut, Cunnilingus, movement restrain, slight body worship

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

The morning sun bathed the chambers of the Red Keep in a warm, golden light. Marleina Harroway moved gracefully through the opulent halls, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble floors. The Red Keep, home to the Targaryen dynasty for generations, was a place steeped in history and power.

As she made her way toward the private chambers where her sons were receiving their lessons, Marleina couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence for the ancient fortress. The Red Keep had seen the rise and fall of kings and queens, and now it was her family's home.

Entering the room where Maester Elyas was instructing her three sons, Marleina's presence commanded attention. Aenys, Maegon, and Baelon, the Targaryen princes, looked up from their studies, their eyes brightening at the sight of their mother.

"Good morning, my lords," Marleina greeted them with a warm smile. Aenys, the eldest and the spitting image of his father Daemon, nodded respectfully. Maegon, with his dark hair and keen intellect, acknowledged her with a nod as well. Baelon, the youngest and most spirited of the three, practically bounced in his seat.

Maester Elyas bowed respectfully. "Lady Marleina, a pleasure, as always."

Marleina returned the gesture before focusing on her sons. "How are your studies progressing, my loves?"

Aenys spoke first, his voice steady and assured. "We are delving into the history of the Red Keep, Mother, and learning about the responsibilities that come with our lineage."

Marleina's violet eyes gleamed with pride. "A worthy subject, Aenys. The Red Keep is a symbol of our house's enduring strength and legacy."

Maegon chimed in, his analytical mind at work. "I find the intricacies of court politics intriguing, Mother. It's like a never-ending game of strategy."

She nodded approvingly. "Indeed, Maegon. Understanding the game is essential in the world we live in."

Finally, her gaze turned to Baelon, who was practically bursting with enthusiasm. "And you, Baelon?"

Baelon's eyes shone with excitement. "I want to ride dragons like Father one day!"

Marleina's heart warmed at her youngest son's dream. "One day, my sweet Baelon. But for now, remember that knowledge and wisdom are the true sources of power."

As Marleina watched her sons absorb the lessons imparted by Maester Elyas, she knew that their upbringing within the Red Keep would shape them into formidable leaders of House Targaryen. In the heart of the Red Keep, surrounded by history and tradition, her family's destiny was being forged.

Daemon Targaryen, her husband and their father, was a man of ambition and charisma, but it was the love and guidance they received from their mother that would prepare them for the challenges that lay ahead.

Marleina was determined to ensure that the Targaryen legacy endured, even within the formidable walls of the Red Keep.

After ensuring that her sons were settled into their lessons, Marleina decided to check on her husband, Daemon Targaryen. It was unusual for him to be absent from his morning training sessions with the sword. Daemon was known for his unwavering dedication to honing his combat skills, even in times of peace. His absence from their shared chamber was a rare occurrence.

As she approached the door to their private quarters within the Red Keep, Marleina's steps grew cautious. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. With a gentle push, she entered their chamber, her eyes immediately falling upon Daemon.

He sat by the window, bathed in the soft morning light, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city of King's Landing below. His usual armor and weapons were nowhere in sight. Instead, he wore a simple robe, and his long silver hair cascaded down his back in disarray.

"Daemon?" Marleina's voice was filled with concern as she approached him.

Daemon turned his head slowly, as if pulled from deep contemplation. His violet eyes, so like those of their sons, met hers, and there was a weariness in them that Marleina had rarely seen.

"Marleina," he said softly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he rose to his feet. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek. "Is something troubling you, my love? You've missed your training this morning."

Daemon's shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed. "I needed some time alone, to think."

Marleina studied her husband's face, her concern deepening. "About what?"

He hesitated, then took her hand in his. "About the future, Marleina. About the burden of our name and what it means for our sons."

Marleina knew that the weight of the Targaryen legacy was a heavy one. The realm was always watching, and the expectations placed upon their family were immense. But she had never seen Daemon so affected by it.

"Daemon," she said softly, "we will face whatever challenges come our way together. Our sons are strong and capable, and they have a mother and father who love them dearly."

Daemon nodded, his grip on her hand tightening. "You're right, Marleina. I mustn't let my worries consume me. We have a duty to our house and our people."

Marleina leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "And we will fulfill that duty, my love, as we always have."

As they held each other close, Marleina couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of determination. The challenges of ruling the Seven Kingdoms as House Targaryen were formidable, but they had faced adversity before and emerged stronger.

Daemon being himself couldn't keep up the intimate image. His arms tightened around her waist pulling her closer to his body. Their marriage may have not been one of love in the beginning but now it surely was.

"Daemon" Marleina warned. Her words went straight over his head and captured her lips silencing her. His kisses were always rough and passionate.

"Shhh, dārilaros" Princess. Daemon shushed her. His calloused fingers slowly began undoing the bodice of her dress. Marleina ceased complaining, she never truly hated the idea of bedding him, even from their first night he showed her nothing but pleasure.

"I'll take good care of you, dārilaros" Daemon whispered against her ear. Marleina basically melted in between his arms at that point.

In minutes Daemon had her fully naked on their bed. His eyes wide and pupil blown with lust. Marleina guided his head closer to her, kissing him straight on the lips. Daemon moved his head down needing more than the taste of her lips.

Marleina's head fell back with pleasure when he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Daemon was anything but gentle, he was a monster in bed. His teeth sank into the flesh earning a cry of both pain and pleasure from Marleina. She enjoyed the pain he inflicted on her way too much.

Daemon pulled away from Marleina to watch her reaction. She had her eyes closed merely enjoying his touches. Daemon smirked and moved off the bed completely. Marleina whined disappointed with the lack of his touch.

Her eyes flew open when she felt him grab her wrist and tie something around it. She looked down to find a silk like rope in his hand. He raised his eyebrow when their eyes met. He held open his palm for her other hand.

"What are you doing?" She asked confused. Daemon wiggled his fingers asking silently for her other hand. She hesitantly gave him her other hand. He tied her wrist with the other one before raising them above her head.

She squealed in surprise. He tied the rope to the head board of the bed chuckling darkly at her reaction.

"Shhh sweet dārilaros" Daemon placed a finger on her lips. He pushed it into her mouth. Marleina sucked on his sole finger in her mouth. Daemon groaned at the feeling.

"Dirty girl, probably imagining my cock" Daemon smirked when she nodded her head. His cock twitched in his trouser. This woman was everything to him, she was his wife, she was the mother of his children, children he intend to have more of from her.

He moved to climb on top of her, slowly pressing kisses to her neck, teasing her. His lips trailed down, completely ignoring her breast much to her annoyance, she was just too sensitive there ever since she had their first child.

His lips continued their way down her navel, pushing her legs open Daemon wanted to dive right into her soaking cunt but held himself back. His lips littered the inside of her thighs with kisses, sucking and marking them, He wanted to devour her if possible.

"Daemon" Marleina cried, growing even more annoyed with his neglect.

"Patience sweet dārilaros, let me love you, let me love your body" Daemon placed a hand on her belly and pushed down when she attempted to push her hips in his face.

Daemon trailed kisses up from her knee to the corner of her lower lips. Marleina's breath got caught in her throat, heart beating faster with anticipation.

Daemon finally placed his lips on the area that was crying for his touch. A loud moan escaped Marleina's lips when his lips placed a small kiss to her pearl. He took it between his lips sucking gently, her whole body shook at the feeling.

"Taste so good" Daemon prasied. His tongue ran through her foold, maoning at the taste of her on his tongue. Marleina's back arched when his tongue pushed.

The feeling of his wet muscle teasing her inner walls sent shock waves through her body. She wanted to claw at her own flesh, she wanted to claw his flesh but she couldn't her hands were tied.

She tried to fight against the restrains, she wanted to escape. Her wrists began to hurt with each tug but to no use they wouldn't come out. He was a soldier, he knew how to make a good knot, one that would never unravel, he know how to restrain movement.

"Bad girl" Daemon delivered a quick slap to her pearl when she tried pushing her cunt closer to his face. Daemon's demeanour changed and he dived in with all he god.

"Fuck, your body is perfect" he whispered. Hand running up her side, feeling every curve, every extra layer of skin from each pregnancy. She was an angel, she was just perfect for him.

"Daemon, please" She pleaded, hips trying to rock into him. He climbed back up to lay on top of her.

"Shhh" Daemon nuzzled his nose against hers. She didn't notice him reaching down to grab himself. She didn't see him place his tip against her entrance, too deeply concentrated on the kisses he was placing on her neck.

Her shocked gasp tickled Daemon's lips from their closeness, the way her eyes widened was comical to Daemon who chuckled. The second he pushed his cock in, he pushed the entire thing, he just shoved it inside of her.

It was painful, painful as hell even with preparation, but Marleina loved pain, loved his pain. The mere move of him shoving himself inside of her sent her spireling down a hole of shakiness, her orgasm moving through her body along with her blood.

"So tight" Daemon's head fell back at the feeling of her walls contracting around him. Her legs rose to wrap around his hips, locking above his bottom pulling him even closer.

"So perfect, Daemon, so full" Marleina whimpered in his ear. Daemon with his face buried in the crook of her neck, hand trailing up to hold the knot he made around her wrists, the other hand holding her thigh in a bruising grip, began moving his hips.

No rocking, no gentle movement, straight to slamming into her. Her screams of his name echoed around the room bouncing against the walls in a race with his own groans and moans of pleasure.

"Daemon! Please please please, more" She cried. Daemon's finger hooked around the knot pulling at it releasing her wrists free. He wanted to feel pain, he wanted her to scratching, hold him and scream in his ear.

Hands free went straight to wrap around him, scratching down his back, definitely drawing blood. Daemon groaned in her ear at the feeling, he loved so much. His hips moving in a pace no one could imagine, she just felt so good around his cock.

"I'm coming" She warned. Daemon pulled away from her neck leaving behind bruises that she will surely be mad about once her head was clear again. He looked down at her face, eyes tightly closed hiding eyes rolled back, mouth open letting through screams of his name and warnings of her coming soon. Tears rolling down her cheeks he leaned down to kiss away loving the salty tang in his mouth from them.

"Come for me, come on my cock, let your perfect cunt come around me" Daemon sat up on his knees, hand on her hips raising them to the same level as his cock letting it reach new depth inside of her.

"Daemon!" She screamed, whole body going into another dimension, shaking and spasming in his arms.

"Fuck" Daemon groaned, her orgasm made her walls the tightest they could ever be. He felt his whole body going numb at the feeling, falling on top of her, balls deep inside letting his cum shoot deep inside of her painting her walls white.

"Fucking hell" She cried too oversensitive. Her hips squirming under him trying to get away from him but all the movement did was make her feel even more pleasure, pulling a quick second orgasm for herself without even meaning too.

Daemon chuckled pulling out of her gently and rolling to lay by her side, cock softening. She immediately rolled into his arms, head on his chest and arms circled around him, one leg draped around his waist. Daemon wrapped his arm around her, finger trailing down to her bottom giving it a quick squeeze before continuing down to her cunt, touching it from behind, feeling his spend leaking out of her and gathering some. She whimpered at the feeling of his fingers on her wiggling a little. Daemon pulled his fingers back up and shoved them in front of her face, she didn't waste a second to take them into her mouth sucking them like the good girl she was.

"Perfect wife" He praised, kissing her forehead gently. She giggled snuggling deeper into his embrace.

Nine months after that fateful night, the Red Keep was filled with the joyous cries of a newborn. Marleina had given birth to a daughter, and the entire Targaryen household celebrated the arrival of little Visenya. The baby girl was a bundle of energy and happiness from the moment she entered the world, her cries echoing through the castle like a song of hope.

In the chamber where Marleina held her daughter for the first time, Daemon stood by her side, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and tenderness. Aenys, Maegon, and Baelon gathered around, their faces filled with awe as they beheld their little sister.

"Her name suits her," Marleina whispered, her voice filled with affection as she gazed at the tiny girl in her arms. "Visenya, the princess of our hearts."

Aenys, being the eldest, was the first to reach out and gently stroke his sister's cheek. "She's beautiful, Mother."

Maegon nodded in agreement, his analytical mind already considering the implications of a sister in their lives. "What does this mean for our family, Mother?"

Marleina smiled at her sons, realizing that this new addition would indeed bring changes. "It means that you now have a sister to protect and cherish, just as you have each other."

Baelon, who had been eagerly waiting his turn, finally got a chance to hold Visenya. His eyes sparkled with delight as he cradled the baby in his arms. "I'll protect her with my sword when I'm older, just like Father."

Daemon knelt beside Baelon and ruffled his hair affectionately. "That's the spirit, my boy. But for now, you must protect her with your love."

Visenya, oblivious to the discussions about her future, continued to gurgle and coo, her tiny fingers reaching out to grasp at the world around her. In her presence, the worries and responsibilities of the realm faded away, leaving only the pure and unbridled love of a family united by a new life.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Visenya became the heart of the Red Keep. Her laughter echoed through the halls, and her siblings doted on her endlessly. Marleina and Daemon, despite the challenges of their position, found solace and joy in the innocence of their youngest child.

With Visenya's arrival, the Targaryen family was more complete than ever before. The boys, once an army of brothers, now had a little sister to protect and guide. The Red Keep, filled with history and tradition, had a new princess to grace its ancient halls.

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