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aemondsbabe · 4 months

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Ñuha Zaldrīzes

summary: future & facesitting || discussing wishes for your baby with your husband turns into something more

pairing: daemon targaryen x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, pregnant reader, oral sex (f receiving), allusions to piv sex, dirty talk, daemon being soft and loving we love to see it, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 1.8k

a/n: happy day eight of 12 days of smuff!!! surely this counts as future otherwise i'd have them fucking in a spaceship & that just didn't sit right with me

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @pedropcl

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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A soft giggle bursts from your lips as Daemon’s hand skirts over your large belly yet again, his soft touches tickling your skin as his hand ghosts lovingly over your bump, the delicate lacy fabric of your nightgown bunched around his wrist.

“Okay, okay, so,” you say breathily, finally calming down as his touch seems to settle on your hip, “If it’s a little girl, perhaps Vaenera? And for a little boy… Vaenor?” You suggest, your breath warm against the prince’s neck as you rest your cheek against his shoulder, tucked safely into his side atop your silk covered bed.

“I still think we should name her Visenya,” the blond drawls, tracing soothing patterns into your hip as he holds you against him, “With a nice strong name like that, she will grow to greatness.”

You stay silent for a moment, your eyes locked onto the fluid movements of the sheer curtains that lead out onto the balcony, watching as they blow in the breeze carried in by the Narrow Sea. Daemon can’t help but notice you still against him and he smiles softly when he sees that familiar, far off look in your eyes – always his dreamer.

“Where did you go?” He asks gently, all traces of the usual brash, cocky tone with which he speaks gone.

“Nowhere,” you smile, tilting your head up to peer at him through your lashes, “I was merely thinking of what kind of person this little one will grow up to be.” You stroke a hand over your belly as you speak, your smile only growing as you feel a soft, barely there kick against your palm.

“If they’re even half as kind and gentle as their mother, the world will be a much better place with them in it,” your husband whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. A pink blush blooms across the apples of your cheeks, as it always does when he speaks so tenderly.

“And if they’re half as hard headed as their father, well… somehow, I will love them all the more,” you whisper, laughing yet again as Daemon trails his fingers over your side, tickling you purposefully this time.

“Me, hard headed?” He teases, laughing along with you, “I’m not the one that nearly sent the kitchens into a tailspin this evening when they demanded duck, now am I?” His violet eyes sparkled in the low light of the candles that flickered around the room, a teasing smirk etched across his face.

“That’s very unfair!” You giggle, leaning up to properly look at him. “You know how I am when I’m with child,” you huff, your blush only deepening when you see his eyes darken just slightly as his gaze flits over you, “Especially once it’s this far along; all I want is roast duck and–”

“And lemon cakes at every meal,” Daemon finishes for you, softly smiling, “Yes, sweetling, the entire castle is most aware.” He chuckles.

“Then the kitchens should know to have duck, that’s all I’m saying…” You grumble, sinking back down into his embrace. The two of you relax into a comfortable silence for many minutes, your husband’s breathing so steady and calm that you assume he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks again, his soft voice almost startles you.

“The kitchens did particularly well with the lemon cakes this evening…”

Your eyebrows furrow together at the statement and you lift your head again, meaning to give him a confused stare. The cakes were exceptionally good this evening, but you can’t help but notice the teasing lilt in his voice.

You open your mouth to speak, but the darkness in Daemon’s eyes gives you pause, a breathy, barely audible whimper escaping your lips before you have a chance to stop it.

“However, I can’t help but be in the mood for a much different type of dessert, little wife.” He says lowly, gently pulling you up until your faces are level, careful to be ever conscious of your growing stomach.

“Daemon –” You start, only to be cut off with a searing kiss as he presses his lips to yours. You whimper against his lips, your head already spinning in his embrace as his tongue toys with yours.

“It’s been so long,” he starts, trailing kisses down your jaw and neck, nibbling at one spot that always has you seeing stars, “Since you’ve let me have what I want.”

“H-Husband,” you gasp breathlessly, your nails digging helplessly into his chest as you cling to him, “You had me just this, Gods, this morning for breakfast, if you’ll recall.” You managed to say between whimpers and gasps as he practically feasted on the sensitive spot on your neck, his hands softly kneading and caressing your breasts.

He makes a small, displeased hum before he pulls back to look at you, his dark eyes studying you carefully before a small smirk grows on his lips, “You know very well that’s not what I’m after.”

Your eyes widen just slightly as you finally catch his meaning; you shake your head with a small chuckle. “Surely you can’t be serious,” your smile fades as he holds your stare with a small, unchanging smirk, “Daemon, I’ll crush you!”

“And what an honorable death that would be, sweet wife,” he chuckles, his hands firmly grasping your hips as he lifts you up and onto his lap, your head spins as you feel his already hard length pressing against you through the thin linen breeches he has on, “I’ll be fine, it’s not as if this is exactly new territory for us…” He teases, gently skirting his hands over your belly.

“We’ve never done it when I’ve been… like this, though,” you shyly point out, looking down at your bump.

“Do you really not see how insatiable I become every time you’re with child?” Daemon asks, his voice soft and gentle, “I will only ever have you like this a scant few times. Please, sweetling, let me savor it.”

Biting your lip, you gaze down at him, eyes trailing across his bare chest and shoulders and up the strong column of his neck before they finally settle on his face – the look in his eyes nearly making you gasp. His violet eyes are fixed on you, roaming over your body with so much love and adoration that you feel as if you may melt from it.

Before you even register the movement, you’re nodding.

Daemon’s eyes instantly flick up to yours, sparkling with victory. His hands grip your hips again, gently guiding you up his muscular form as he silently thanks the Seven that you wear nothing beneath your Myrish lace nightgowns. A loud groan practically bursts from the prince’s chest once you’re positioned over his face; he loves being surrounded by you — loves the way your soft thighs bracket his head, the way you position your dripping center perfectly over his mouth, and the way the only thing he sees when he looks up is your belly, swollen with his seed, his child.

If it were up to Daemon, he would happily spend the rest of his days here.

Your chest heaves as you grip the headboard of the bed, your heart hammering in your chest from the anticipation of it. You whimper softly as his hands, rough from so many years of sword fighting and dragon riding, grab at your thighs and hips.

He presses soft, sweet kisses to the inside of your thighs before licking a slow, steady line up your center; you can feel him smirk triumphantly against you as moans and whimpers spill from your lips.

“Oh, Gods, Daemon!” You gasp, voice already ragged as you white-knuckle the headboard. Your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself even a fraction of an inch above your husband’s face, something he notices quite quickly. A displeased growl rumbles from his chest, making you pant as it vibrates against your core.

“Fucking sit,” Daemon rasps, tugging you against his mouth, his tongue roughly spearing into you as he grinds your pearl against his nose, hands moving your hips against his face.

Your mind all but whites out as he rocks you against him, nose and tongue working in perfect tandem to send shivers down your spine. Your eyes squeeze shut, frantic moans pouring from your mouth as a fire steadily builds within you.

“H-Husband,” you pant, walls clenching tightly around his tongue as he groans into your heat, “I— Fuck, I’m—!” You can hardly get the words out as Daemon seals his lips around your sensitive bud, suckling it at a maddening pace as his hands move down to cup your ass, kneading it roughly.

Your face flushes at the slick sounds pouring from between your thighs as the prince growls against you, sounding as if he’s gaining as much satisfaction as you are. Your core clenches at the thought, pleasure threatening to consume you.

“Daemon!” You cry urgently, shaking above him, a thin sheen of sweat covering your body. You want so badly to thread your fingers through his hair as you normally would, but you can’t even see his face around your protruding belly.

He groans loudly beneath you once more and fucks his tongue back into you, causing the knot in your belly to pull tightly before finally unraveling. Sparks burst behind your eyelids, your back arching as your whole body tenses and relaxes in time with his movements.

The prince moans appreciatively, messily drinking down your pleasure as you peak on top of him. You jump when one of his hands smacks against your ass, the tingling sting extending your release, the intensity of it nearly making you go mad.

Finally, once your signs of relief have turned into whimpers of overstimulation, Daemon releases you with a pleased hum, helping you shuffle back down his body until you’re straddling his hips once again.

You laugh softly at the sight of him — his cheeks flushed a light pink, hair sticking up at odd angles, and a pleased, self-satisfied grin on his face.

“You look as if you were the one who was ravished, my dragon,” you tease, your heart rate slowly returning to normal as you trace over the muscular dips in his chest and stomach.

The prince chuckles lowly, his violet eyes still dark with lust as he takes in your curves. “Ravishing you is a pleasure in and of itself, sweet wife,” he drawls, smirking as you gasp at the feel of his cock against your sensitive core as he rolls his hips against you, “I trust you’ll allow me to feel it again?” He asks, that all too familiar cocky tone back, as if asking is merely a formality.

Sighing happily, you bite your lip as you stare down at him, the knot in your belly beginning to tighten again as you feel his length pressing hotly to you.

“I believe that can be arranged.”

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queers-gambit · 6 months

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And Let Me Love You Anyway

[ part two of two ]

prompt: you embark on a secret but passionate affair with the Rogue Prince, and when his wife, Rhea Royce, passes away, he chooses you to wed next - a decision that angers his niece and changes history.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader only description given: red hair and Daemon's able to lift you

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.3k+

note: what the fuck is this, Cherry? also two parts 'cause author gets carried away!

warnings: show spoilers, cursing, author has small bouts of feministic ideas, author also really likes the "little birds" storyline (let her live!), wonky brain is wonky, i think hurt and comfort, angst, very mild NSFW (female receiving oral), technically alternative timeline 'cause this goofy-ass author has an overactive imagination, #icanmakehimworse, another reader-episode-insert (this warning is for the fucking losers in my inbox).

part one: "Tell Me Every Terrible Thing you ever did, And let me love you anyway," - Edgar Allan Poe

"Alicent, we're late," you sighed with a frown, wiping your sweaty palms nervously as your necklace was latched in place and perfume spritzed on your pulse points. YES - that included your ankles.

"That's the point, sister, we're supposed to be late. It sends a message."

Your eyes rolled, snipping, "The King will not be pleased. I am not his wife, he can get angry at me, you know!"

"He'll manage," she snapped, glancing at Talya. She continued, "He dismissed Father for telling him a truth he would rather ignore. So much so, after years of service, he'd - "

"Yes, yes, the King removed Father as Hand, sent him back home," you nodded with understanding. "But we both know how he feels about his daughter, The Princess! The rumors circulating would cost him his life in the end, we are lucky he was only sent home!"

"Rumors! Rumors, sister, truly!? Tell me, do you think Father lied?"

"I know he didn't."

"Exactly why we're late to tonight's affair," she huffed, fixing her hair in the mirror again. "It's a statement, it's deliberate. We will stand out, prove we are not happy with the turn of events. Why offer Rhaenyra blind respect when she continues to do as she pleases - regardless of consequences."

You paused, sensing her anger brewing and trying to distract, "You know, Ser Lyonel Strong is not a bad replacement for Father."

"This is not about Ser Strong."

"Isn't it? Father's served long and faithfully, but perhaps it is time for a new guidance. Lyonel Strong is a smart man - qualified, even!"

"Yes," she agreed, turning to face you in a shimmering emerald gown. "But this is still an injustice to our family that I fear I cannot overlook any longer. It's been weeks..."

"Yes," you allotted, nodding with a sigh. "All right, yes, you are right, sweet sister. This is all just - it's a lot to take in, to try and digest. And we talk of playing a game with the Throne - I do not think we've the strength to endure alone."

"This is not about Lyonel Strong, sister! It's about Father and the disrespect the Crown continues to offer. Remember that," she advised softly.

You nodded, "I know, sister."

She frowned, "And remember... They aren't our kin. Despite previous displays of kindness, the Targaryens have made it clear that we are not family to them. They are not blood to us, sister; they will protect their own, not us. If we wish to survive, we will need to ally ourselves."

"I understand," you told your younger sister. "I am not arguing, I know what our reality is now - I merely implore to explore the routes that won't label us as traitors."

"I know, we have much to discuss going forward. But none of that for now," she took a long breath, smiling as she looked you up and down, complimenting, "you look stunning. Truly, you might outshine the bride tonight."

"Let's hope it doesn't come down to that, and that The Princess has a mature bone in her body - though I do not hold out hope." You smiled at her, "But enough about me, you look - you look like a Queen, sister-dearest. Gods, you're gorgeous, you look just like Mummy." The two of you shared an emotional, watery smile; embracing tightly as reality settled in your guts: it was you two Hightower Ladies against the whole of the Targaryen clan. "Come," you decided, taking a deep breath, "are we ready to go? Any later and I fear we might not get any cake."

"Oh, you and cake," she smirked, looking you over in a matching emerald, lighter-weight gown that had layers of thin fabrics clinging and dripping from your form. Golden jewelry was clasped around both your necks, wrists, tight around your fingers, and plugged into your ear piercings.

The Queen took your arm and left the dressing chambers you took refuge in, coming to a gasping halt when you were greeted by a well-groomed man in green velvet. "Father," Alicent exclaimed in shock.

"My daughters," he smiled, offering both arms, "I do believe we are now fashionably late. Hmm?"

"Exactly as we intended," you mused, taking his arm. "How is this possible? How are you here?"

"I was invited, if you believe that," Otto answered, the three of you walking slowly. "Though, I suspect your sister had something to do with that?"

"I only told Viserys I'd be deeply offended if you were ignored for this event," Alicent quipped.

"None the less, I am happy to escort my daughters to such a historic event," he spoke diplomatically, aware of the guards and servants milling around. Otto lead the way to the Throne Room - where you could hear King Viserys' echoing speech from the foyer.

None of you spoke, approaching the open doors and pausing to let everyone see the united Hightowers. Alicent wore her dark auburn locks pulled back from her face to cascade in thick ringlets down her back, your own Hightower-red hair left down around your face with the longer locks pinned off your neck. The entire room - the entire court - all wedding attendees and royal procession stared at you three in shock for entering during the King's speech. Your statement was clearly made.

Even from this distance, you could see how startled Rhaenyra was by your arrival, needing to fight off a smirk of amusement in order to keep your neutral façade.

You and Alicent walked arm-in-arm with your father, the once-Hand, down the stairs and up the aisle of banquet tables full of people, staring forward and giving no emotion away. The people buzzed in quiet gossip. The attending Hightowers of Oldtown, sitting closest to the royal banquet table because of their relation to the current Queen, stood first; everyone else following in a show of respect.

You and Alicent paused to let Otto sit with his relatives at the lower banquet table before joining arm-and-arm together. Over the muttering of the entire room, you whispered almost mutely, "Be kind, remain composed, we'll kill 'em with kindness."

Alicent gave a subtle flex to give indication she understood.

When you looked up at the table you approached under the King's heavy glare, you noticed there was an empty chair between Ser Strong and... Prince Daemon? Was that really him? When did he get here? Why was he back? It's only been a few weeks!

Your shock did not slow you, and as you approached the table reserved for the Royal Family, you saw Daemon smirking at your theatrics. Alicent did not let you part from her side as she greeted Princess Rhaenyra with a sickly-sweet voice, "Congratulations, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you."

She ignored any other reaction to let go of your arm, kiss her husband's cheek in greeting, stand beside him, in front of her chair, and stare forward with zero other emotion.

"Congratulations, Princess," you whispered, bowing your head. "Your Grace," you acknowledged, doing the same and taking the empty chair between Lord Hand and Rogue Prince only to stoically stare forward in silence. You did as Alicent did, not looking at any other, and just waiting for a pregnant moment that seemingly never ended.

"Please be seated," Viserys finally permitted, everyone sitting at his behest. He cleared his throat, whispering to Lyonel Strong, "Where was I?"

"The joining of the two Houses, Your Grace."

You swallowed when a warm hand laid on your right thigh, Viserys continuing his speech. You glanced at Daemon, seeing his smirk, and instead of throwing his hand off you, you laid your own over his to give a long squeeze. You had wrestled with the idea of his favorite whore, Mysaria, and the idea of whatever he did with Princess Rhaenyra for weeks. Then when you heard word that his wife, Lady Rhea Royce, had met her untimely end, you knew he was involved, yet said nothing. You could only think deeply about what it all meant - and how you fit into the equation that was Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Tell me every terrible thing you ever did...

All you could understand was the overwhelming affection you held for him. His shocked-wide-eyes found yours for a long moment, seeming communicating telepathically - you telling him you wanted him. His hand tightened to keep hold of yours, hidden from the public for the time being.

And let me love you anyway...

You tuned back into the King's speech in time to clap with the others, showing your support of the union you technically helped influence between Targaryen and Velaryon.

However, you caught the way Alicent glared at Rhaenyra, sighing to yourself; having heard through long private dinners what Alicent came to know and why this upset her so much. How strange to learn Ser Criston Cole admitted to Ali that he was coerced into soiling the Princess' purity - not her Uncle Daemon, like rumored. Yet none the less, the girl had sworn on her beloved, dearly departed mother to Alicent that she was still a maiden... A huge, glaring lie - that both you and Ali took personally.

You found all of this terribly interesting, yet did not let the distain show so boldly. After Daemon came to you in confession, you had yet to speak a word outside of public politeness to the Princess; feeling betrayed by what your lover had told you. He had been right: you were Rhaenyra's friend, she wasn't yours. So, you demoted yourself to create distance.

When the drums rumbled and the Princess took to the dance floor with her intended, you spared Daemon a look and muttered, "You do not have to look so annoyed."

"I'm not, sweet one."

"Nor so amused," you tacked on.

Daemon smirked at you, leaning in and pondering, "I am only wondering if you would care for a dance later, my Lady?"

You lied, speaking in a teasing tone, "I'm not one for dancing, my Prince."

"A single dance with me, then. Just one, pretty lady."

"You're pushy," you whispered, nudging him to keep quiet; but the grin on your lips assured him you were completely enraptured by his antics.

He sat back with a smirk, watching his niece and her fiancé dance. The entire courtroom clapped at the end, others flooding to the spaces around them. You glanced over as your sister stood from her seat, meeting your eyes and offering only a soft smile before descending from the table to approach your aunt and uncle from Oldtown - standing with your father on the side of the room. You sighed under your breath, your lover tightening his grip on your thigh.

Daemon made for a great distraction. "Did you hear the news?" He asked softly, reaching for his goblet of wine with his free hand.

"Which news would that be, my Prince?" You asked casually, pretending your heart wasn't hammering in your chest.

"Of my dear wife's passing."

"I did, actually," you fought off your smirk. "I am truly sorry to hear of it, I understand Lady Rhea was truly one of a kind. You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, love," you reminded in a whisper.

"Hmm. Don't be sorry, I'm not," he eased.

"You're not? Your wife died, Daemon..."

"I know," he met your gaze, "I'm not sorry because now it gives me vocation to follow my own desires."

You smirked, "Which desire will you follow first?"

His hand tightened to a bruising grip. He was not able to answer yet because your gaze was caught by movement, Rhea Royce's cousin approaching slowly, evidently a cup or two deep in the wine; making you remove Daemon's hand so you both could sit casually - without touching.

The man gruffly leered at Daemon, "In the Vale, men are made to answer for their crimes." Your lover spared you an exasperated look as he tacked on, "Even Targaryens."

"Who are you?" Daemon asked dully.

"This is Ser Gerold Royce, my Prince," you told him softly, "of Runestone."

Daemon perked his brow, asking sarcastically, "An excellent show of your knowledge, my sweet lady, but what does that matter to me?"

You didn't answer, Ser Lyoel Strong (who was listening in) didn't answer, because Ser Gerold was approaching the table by climbing the stairs. He growled at Daemon, "I am cousin to your late Lady wife."

"Ah, yes... Terrible thing," Daemon offered. "I'm positively bereft. Such a tragic accident."

"You know better than anyone, it was no accident."

Through a smirk, Daemon quipped, "Are you confessing some guilt, Ger Gerold?"

"I am making an accusation."

You shared a look with Lyonel to your left, catching sight of the King's turned head - showing he was listening, too. Daemon easily deflected, "Here, in King's Landing, men are made to answer for their slanders. Even old bronze cunts like you." This angered Ser Gerold visibly, the man stepping closer, but obviously restrained himself. Your lover continued, "The truth is I'm glad you've come. I wish to speak to you about my inheritance."

"What inheritance?" Ser Gerold demanded.

"Lady Rhea and I had no heirs. As her husband, whatever she was due now passes to me. She stood to inherit all of Runestone. Did she not?" Daemon had Ser Gerold pinned by legality, the man looking disturbed by his own realization. So, naturally, Daemon taunted, "After my niece's wedding, I plan to fly to the Eyrie and petition Lady Jeyne myself. Perhaps I'll see you there, Ser Gerold."

The man sheepishly walked away, his inebriated mind whirling with possibilities. You glared, pinching Daemon's arm so you could scold him when he turned to face you, "That wasn't very kind."

"And?"

"You don't truly care for Runestone," you snapped. "Now that man will fear for his home, fret over the laws, and that's not very nice."

He sighed, "What would you have me do, sweet one?"

"Leave House Royce to grieve and rearrange their succession without your pettiness."

Daemon smirked, "Whatever my Lady wants."

"You're dreadfully annoying tonight, do you know that?" You whined. "I'm going for a dance, and no, this is not an invitation to follow," you warned him - albeit playfully - before standing to excuse yourself.

"Sister," Alicent paused you before you could pass her by. "Are you well?"

"Yes, yes, just felt like dancing, too much energy to just sit. Come join - "

"No, no, I should sit. Eat," she smiled. "Perhaps tonight will be when you meet your match and we can plan another wedding."

"Perhaps," you mused, squeezing her hand. "You all right? What did Father and Uncle say?"

"Later," she whispered. "Go on, go."

You joined the stream of people dancing, instantly grinning when you were welcomed joyfully by different suitors. The band played a lively beat, the crowd cheering in rhythm; you being twirled around men and women with matching grins.

You heard your name being cheered through a small giggle.

"Hi, Princess," you greeted Rhaenyra as you both marched along to the beat. You reminded yourself this was all a game and if you wanted to survive, you'd have to play your part strategically. So, you quipped as you danced with Ser Arryn Blackwell, "Nice party you've got, huh?"

"Oh, you know how we Targaryens do," she teased. "Where've you been lately? I feel as if I've hardly seen you."

"Just busy with chores since Father was replaced as Hand," you answered, spinning under someone's arm.

Nyra didn't comment on that, instead, waiting a few moments before complimenting, "That's a beautiful dress, really goes with your hair!"

"That's what I hoped for," you gasped girlishly, deciding to play nice when she reached for your hands. You felt weak for a moment, but the truth was, you missed your friend... So, you might've giggled a bit when you joined hands, dancing together instead of with anyone else. With kindness, you offered, "You look gorgeous, as well, Princess, I love this dress - "

"Yes, yes, we all look fantastic," Daemon interrupted abruptly, crowding over you, asking quickly, "can I speak to you a moment, my Lady? The Princess won't mind, right, Rhaenyra?"

"Uh, no, I guess..." She eyed the two of you with suspicion as she stayed in-beat with the music.

"Daemon, not now - "

"We need to talk," he pulled you from where you danced, glancing back at the head banquet table as he took your hand, and lead you deeper into the crowd. He turned you to face him, pacing a small circle around you, demanding, "Do you still want to marry me?"

"What? Why are you asking now?"

"Because I just asked your father for permission," he seethed, pausing in front of you, "and he outright refused, saying he's negotiating with the fucking Lannisters. I need to know what you want."

"I was not aware what I wanted mattered to you, the man who views marriage as a political arrangement," you eyed him with a curled lip of annoyance.

"What arrangement could I want? Your sister is Queen, my family is bound to the Hightowers already. My political marriage is recently dissolved, I am free to do as I please, regardless of what others want or say - "

"Then tell me what you want. Tell me plainly what you want from me, Daemon, no more pretty words and veiled truths. Be plain."

"You said I had a year, and look - it's been weeks. Weeks, my love, how much more plain can I be? I'm here, now, free to marry, and I need to know if you still want to marry me. I'll marry you tomorrow - "

"Oh, please! Would you steal me away?" You mocked with a chuckle. "Take me to Dragonstone? Make me your little wife that you'll come to resent, too? Just as you did Rhea?"

He reached out to aggressively hold your cheek and jaw. "I had no choice in my first marriage, I could never come to resent you - you're all I've ever wanted. I'd do anything for you," Daemon snarled over your lips, "including risking your father's wrath. I'd do anything to make sure we end up together, you are my heart - do not forget that."

"Then pull out your sword, cut them all down," you purred, feeling his hand tighten, "and claim me as your own - do not let anyone stop us."

His lips hovered over yours, breathing the same air, and before he could respond or kiss you, a woman screamed shrilly from behind you. Daemon instantly latched onto your body as a crowd formed to your left and right, and when you both looked, you were shocked to see the commotion happening at your feet.

"Love - "

"Daemon," you paused him, shocked as Ser Criston Cole was engaged in a fist fight with some Velaryon knight before Ser Laenor Velaryon, the groom, was tackling him to the side. What an interesting display of protectiveness from Ser Laenor over his knight.

Daemon rushed in your ear, "Do not look - come away with me."

"Wait," you held his hands to your waist, letting him crowd into your back as Cole had punched Laenor to the side and straddled the blonde on the floor once more.

He landed one blow before the knight was brandishing a dagger; but the White Cloak caught his arm and easily snapped it broken, startling the crowd. Beyond your ring of spectators, other men were trading blows and engaged in their own fights; total chaos taking over the whole of the Throne Room. You flinched back into Daemon's embrace when Cole screamed like a wild man in the mountains, repeatedly pounding his fist into the knight's face; literally caving it in, creating a human minced meat pie.

Someone better contact Mrs. Lovett!

"No more," Daemon decided, Cole rearing himself back as Daemon stooped to heave you over his shoulder. He was able to find safe (enough) passage through the people, approaching the royal banquet table. "Hey, hey," he whispered, setting you down and taking your face in his hands, the wailing of Laenor Velaryon seeing his murdered knight echoing in the Throne Room. "You all right? You hurt? Look at me, love, are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm okay," you whispered, swallowing unsurely; reaching up to hold his wrists. "I'm okay."

"Sure? You shouldn't have seen that - "

"It's all right," you assured, stroking his wrists. "I'm okay, Daemon, truly. Just... A little startled, maybe?"

"What's this then?" Harwin Strong smirked, panting lightly from his rescue mission as the Princess was attending her father, the King. "You two hit it off then, yeah? Is it me or are sparks flying?"

"Something like that," you whispered, trying to regulate your breathing after the adrenaline-inducing scrimmage.

"Easy does it, love," Daemon whispered, keeping you close as you didn't let go of his hands; wanting to stay connected. He told Harwin, giving a half-shrug, "They aren't sparks. She's everything to me."

"Perhaps your second wedding will go better than this one," Harwin sighed, hands on his hips.

"In some cultures, deaths at a wedding are considered good luck," you muttered, Daemon snorting lightly in amusement before running his thumbs over your cheekbones in soothing gestures.

"Didn't your wife just pass, Prince Daemon?" Your father demanded publicly with a heavy glare. "You'd offer insult to her memory by remarrying so quickly?"

"I've grieved Lady Rhea plenty, Ser Hightower, it's time to look to the future," Daemon declared, eyes daring your father to challenge him. "The Lady Hightower and I will wed. The sooner, the better, in truth."

And history would never be the same.

"What?" Rhaenyra demanded, whirling around at the news, making all others pause in confusion. "What did you say?"

"That I intend to marry the Lady Hightower."

"Her? Her? Fucking her - who is more prude than woman?!"

Well, that was mildly offensive...

"Rhaenyra - "

"What makes you think you're worthy?" She demanded of you, turning from her father to stalk across the platform. "Worthy of a man like Daemon, of a husband like Daemon? You've done nothing to - to deserve such a title! The title of Princess, of wife!"

You were honestly confused to your core.

"I deserve a man like he - not someone like you!" She continued, shocking the group as the Kingsguard cleared the Room of any lingering stragglers to keep this as private as possible. "You think I didn't see you on my tour? You were fawned over, all wanted to talk with you, but were forced to line up for me! You rejected them all on your own, and now I see why! You wanted to wait until the Lady Rhea passed, which makes me wonder - what part did you play in that?"

"Rhaenyra!" You gasped.

"What? Honestly, it would make sense - the day Daemon's banished, you weren't seen! I wouldn't be shocked if you were seen somewhere lurking in the Vale! You cannot have it all - you've always wanted my life, and now look! You have to have what I have, and now you've taken a liking to my uncle after our scandal! What? He wasn't interesting before? You heard rumors about us and decided you wanted him for yourself? Just because he was mine first? You just want to be me, you always have - you've always reeked of jealousy! This is all you wanted, to steal my family, and - "

"That's enough," Daemon tried. "You are out of turn here, Rhaenyra, do not make this worse."

"Why? Because little Lady Hightower's façade of being a respectable, pure woman is now tarnished?"

"We share one dance, albeit intimate, sit next to each other at a single dinner, shared some conversation, and you now think it's appropriate to call my virtue into question? What of your own, Princess? You just admitted to scandal with Daemon - but I wonder why the service of Moon Tea if your virtue was unimpeachable?" You demanded, feeling defensive on a new level. Even Alicent straightened up at your words.

However, Daemon rushed to add, "With all due respect, Princess, I don't want you, and you can't claim me as your own when you never had me. You might be angry, but it is no use to take it out on my intended, she is of rare stock and breed - she will not be questioned. Nor will my intentions with her."

Rhaenyra snarled, "Yeah? You don't want me? Well, you wanted me enough to try and fuck me at that whorehouse!"

There were gasps and murmurs all around, but Rhaenyra was glaring at you and Daemon, still standing together. His arms actually dropped to hold your waist, keeping you close as he snarled at his niece, "But I didn't. If memory serves right, I walked away!"

"You wanted me!" Rhaenyra raged. "You always were and always will be mine - regardless of the whores you bed in the meantime! And I want you, I am not yet married - "

"Yet I will not be who marries you, I am betrothed to another," Daemon reminded with a venomous tone. "There's nothing you offer that I want, Rhaenyra."

"I am not some inexperienced little girl anymore, I'm a woman grown, and I could do more for you than she ever could!"

"Rhaenyra!" Viserys roared.

Everyone knew she had gone too far and there was no coming back from any this. After a beat, Alicent stepped in as if questioning for the first time, "And yet, sister, you said the Princess was served Moon Tea? If Prince Daemon did not touch the Princess, does this mean she still," she scoffed as if the idea were absurd, "sullied her maidenhood? Before marriage?"

It should be noted that Ser Criston Cole was already gone from the hall at this time. In fact, he lingered just outside a side door, listening, in case his name came up. When Alicent spoke, he straightened up and started the slow trek to the Godswood.

"Ser Lyonel? Do I misunderstand?" Alicent pulled the Hand into the fray.

"Well, that's what that would sound like, Your Grace," he agreed begrudgingly. "Moon Tea is beneficial to prevent unwanted consequences outside of marriage."

"From what I understand, she was served by Grand Maester Mellos himself," you told Ali, minds strung together by a common thread. "The castle likes to gossip, you can learn a lot if you just listen."

"This is..." Viserys seethed, "Unacceptable."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," you instantly apologized.

"No, no," he deflected, hand held up, "you have a duty to the Realm to flesh out any deception. And this," he directed his glare at his daughter, "is a grand deception that cannot be undone, unknown, covered-up, anymore, Rhaenyra!"

There was a meltdown. Everyone began yelling.

Viserys was enraged. Rhaenyra was desperately trying to plead with her father. Lord Corlys was demanding to know what the hell was about to happen with the impending marriage to "the future Queen". Ser Strong was trying to keep the people from each other's throats.

His sons stood to the side and just let them all fight.

Daemon kept you out of the line of fire, away from the action; sighing as you deflated into his chest. Over it all, Viserys' voice was angriest, and you heard, "You are no daughter of mine! The position you have put me in tonight - I cannot undo this, Rhaenyra! I should have never disinherited Daemon for you, breaking centuries of tradition because I wanted to see your mother in you! You have spat in my face around every bend, but this? This is unforgivable, we will not recover from this and I will no longer endure your insolence!"

"Father, please, let me - "

"No," he snarled, "I have had it with your disresepct the past several years, this is beyond any scale." You blinked up at Daemon, his lips curving down as his hands tightened around your form. And then, Viserys said the words, "I made a mistake naming you my heir. You may marry Ser Laenor, if you so choose to, but after that, you will reside on Driftmark with your husband - you will no longer inherit the Iron Throne after me."

"Father!"

"No," he snapped, "you've exhausted my patience, Rhaenyra!" Viserys roared. "And while Daemon might be unpredictable, the woman he wants to marry is not - and from where I am standing, she will make a far better Queen than you!"

It was quiet as everyone forgot their own selfish woes as father disinherited daughter.

"Your Grace," your father tried to step in, "with respect, why not place your son, Aegon, in line after you?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods, Otto," Rhaenyra raged, rounding on your father, "give up this campaign, you get all you want and more! Your daughter is Queen now and your other daughter will be Queen after that, aren't you listening? Your grandchildren will still inherit the Throne!"

"That's it," Viserys breathed, needing to hold onto the banquet table for balance as all eyes turned to him again. "It's time to do what I should've done all along. Rhaenyra," he shook his head, "I can no longer have you as my heir, this type of behavior cannot stand. I will give you permission to marry Ser Laenor, and if he chooses not to, I will allow you to reside on Dragonstone until a match is made. Until then," his eyes shifted to where you and Daemon stood, "I name my brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, as my Heir to the Iron Throne."

"You would not name your son?" Alicent asked in mild disbelief.

"No," Viserys told her, "no, I would see my brother as my heir. Should Aegon prove to live up to his namesake, we can talk about succession again, but I know my brother is capable... And though he might be overly wanting, he will learn patience, because I know the love of a good woman can change a man for the better."

You smiled, feeling emotional for a moment, but Daemon asked for you both, "Brother, do you mean to give your blessing?"

"Of course," he nodded once, "why waste a good wedding tourney? We shall announce on the morrow our new intentions - to crown Daemon as heir and marry him to the Lady Hightower. This matter," he panted, glaring at everyone, "is resolved, I will not hear more. Make the preparations!"

It happened in slow motion. Rhaenyra's rage flared to a temperamental height previously unknown; lunging to seize her father's Valyrian Steel, prophesy-engraved dagger, turn, and charge straight for you as the remaining audience shouted in panic. You felt Daemon try to push you behind him, but instead, your own temper flared and you stepped up to meet Rhaenyra; catching both her arms to hold her at bay.

Daemon was at your flank if you needed him, otherwise, he kept the Kingsguard away from you two - knowing this needed to happen now. Or else something worse would happen later...

"For fuck's sake, Princess! What is this? Jealousy? Huh?" You asked through your tears, struggling to hold your old friend's weight away from you. "What is this jealousy, Nyrie, hmm?"

"Don't call me that," she grit. You just sighed, pushing her back a little but not enough to overpower her; the girl's anger making her stronger than you would've previously guessed. "You've gone too far," she seethed through tears.

“I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the Kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please! Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!"

"You think you finally get my life, huh?" She snarled. "You won't ever be accepted - not as Queen - not as part of this family! You've wanted this all along! Haven't you!?" She struggled against you, hands sweating. "You've always wanted my life, that's why you stuck around! Your mother died - so you tried to take a place in my family, make them yours - and now, look! You're nearly there! Pouncing on my uncle the moment he's widowed!" She snarled, bearing her teeth.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now they see you as you are, Nyrie," you whispered with a broad smirk.

"You aren't fit to play this part! To have my life! You'll never be accepted as their Princess!"

"I wager I'll do a better job than you ever could," you hissed. "There's not much to live up to, you don't leave a lot of room to fill."

She screamed when Ser Harwin's arms seized around her waist, but the momentum of him pulling her back and Rhaenyra's thrashing cause the Valyrian Steel dagger to slice your forearm. You yelped and reared back amongst the startled gasps and panicked murmurs from the crowd, Daemon catching you. The dagger clattered to the floor as Harwin backed up several paces to keep the belligerent girl at bay. You whimpered quietly at the sting, a pool of blood forming to the side you held your arm at.

"Fuck's sake," Daemon growled, "lemme see, lemme see, my love, c'mere," he winced, looking around before using his own belt to yank free and tourniquet around your lower elbow. "You're bleeding a good bit," he whispered, "you'll need stitches, sweet one."

You pouted at him, wincing again in pain when he tightened the belt.

Around you, the Kingsguard was ordered to escort Rhaenyra to her chambers, and the moment she was marched out of sight, Daemon was warning his brother that she knew about her secret passage door and parts of the tunnels.

Go stand watch," a personal guard was ordered by the King. "Someone go - go find Ser Cole - I want him posted in the Princess' passage, he's trusted to us."

Alicent slunk off to do exactly that, and she'd tell you later that Cole was found only moments from taking his own life. He was overjoyed to hear the King had requested him personally to stand guard for such a sensitive situation.

In the meantime, Lord Corlys Velaryon and his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, thought it best their son not marry Rhaenyra; now that she had been disowned, she was less appealing. Viserys was free to offer her again later if Laenor was not married in that time and if she showed true change, but after tonight, nobody thought that possible.

Daemon tried helping your wound, your father approaching as he laid a clean cloth over the cut. Your lover tisked, "It's deeper than I thought. We should get this looked at."

"A moment," Otto prevented.

"If it would please you, this is not an injury I'd like to wait to attend to," Daemon sighed, nodding at your bloodied forearm that he held.

"I only meant to say, you have my blessing to marry, my Prince," Otto nodded at him. "Seeing the kindness you show my daughter, I feel... Content knowing she will be loved and cared for."

"Thank you," Daemon nodded.

"Yes, thank you, Father, but we really must be going, this doesn't feel very nice," you rushed to explain, watching him nod and eye your injury with worry.

"This way," He even instructed, a few handmaids rushing forward to help herd you away.

"Doing all right, love?" Daemon muttered as you walked.

"Bit shocked," you admitted.

"I'd say," he mused.

"It burns," you pouted at him.

"We'll get everything tended to, you'll feel better soon," he soothed.

You peaked up at his worried brow, pouted lips, darting eyes; whispering, "You're heir, again, Daemon."

"So it would seem," he deadpanned. "Can we not talk about it now?" He requested quietly, "I only wish to see to this wound of yours."

You nodded, and once in Mellos' chamber, you were left alone with your father - since Daemon was not yet your husband. Otto was silent as your forearm was stitched carefully; the bleeding staunched, herbs stuffed in the wound to prevent pain and promote healing. As you let Mellos wrap you in gauze, you glanced at your father.

"So... Your blessing, is it?"

"He's different with you already," he nodded stiffly. "And after his nieces' display tonight, I can think of no better future Queen."

"I do not wish to talk about future station, Father, but instead, that... That Daemon makes me happy and I am relieved you have given us your blessing. It would've felt very wrong to marry without my father in attendance."

Otto wasn't affectionate in the least bit, but he showed his love by doing his best to understand situations before passing judgement. It created a sense of trust and security between father and daughter. So, he asked earnestly, "And you will overlook what he did with Princess Rhaenyra?"

"He told me of it all the morning after it happened, I've had time to think, and I've had time away from him. I know what I want, Father, and while Viserys has changed history - again - tonight by naming Daemon heir, I know he is the man I want for the rest of my life."

"I see," he nodded. "Then... By all means, I will see this union happen."

"Thank you," you whispered, the Maester tying the gauze. "Thank you, Grand Maester," you spoke calmly.

"Of course, uh, um, Princess."

"I don't think I'll get used to hearing that," you whined, standing off his table. "Will you talk to Daemon for me, Father? I think you need to clear the air... I will not say the King will instill you as Hand again, but if I am to marry the Prince, I will need there to be peace between our families."

He nodded, opening the door for you, "It will be arranged, my daughter..."

As Otto took his leave, Daemon, pacing the hall, approached you. He took hold of your waist, asking, "Are you all right?" You let him hold your injured wrist in a soft grip, viewing the wrappings.

"Yes, Your Grace," you teased, watching his pale face flush.

"Don't start with that."

"Mellos just called me Princess."

"You are," he grinned. "And we will be married in less than a week's time."

"I can hardly wait," you whispered, letting his lips find yours in a searing show of rare public affection.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

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daemyrarule · 2 years

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When Rhaenyra heard of her son’s death she collapsed, until a raven arrived from her husband Daemon, “Our son would be avenged”

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jamespotterismydaddy · 7 months

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Little Bride

daemon x niece!reader smut

A/N: based on a request here! also i don't understand high valyrian conjugation so kepa just means father in every time it's used

TW: smut!!, incest, DUBCON, daddy kink, size kink, breeding kink, spanking, exhibitionism because of under the table shenanigans

word count: 1,563 words

You haven’t seen Daemon since you were seven years old and you’ve missed him deeply. Everyone says that he hates Alicent Hightower’s children but he always said you had the true blood of the dragon running in your veins. You were always his favourite but it’s been over a decade since his latest exile and you most definitely aren’t a little girl anymore.

“Zaldrīzes riña.” (dragon girl) You hear from behind you as you make your way to your chambers. Only one person calls you that.

“Kepus?” You say as you turn around and squeal when you lay eyes on him. You run down the hallway and throw your arms around his shoulders before blushing when you realize how unladylike your actions are. You slowly remove yourself from him. “Sorry.” You say timidly. He laughs.

“Don’t be. I don’t remember the last time someone was so thrilled to see me.” His eyes take in the sight of you but you don’t notice the predatory nature of his gaze. “You’ve grown, little girl.”

“That’s what happens when you are away for so long.” You say petulantly. He chuckles and looks over you. His eyes fixate on the swell of your breasts. He seems like he may say something when he’s interrupted.

“Should you not be preparing for supper, daughter?” The voice of the Queen rings out as she shoots the filthiest glare at your uncle. Your mother hates Daemon.

“Of course, your Grace.” You say and curtsey before running off, shooting your uncle a passing smile.

“I'll see you at supper then, zaldrīzes riña.” Daemon calls out after you. He looks to your mother. “Hello, Alicent. You’re looking well.” He says with a wolfish grin and makes himself busy with greeting another noble before the Queen can retort.

~~~

When you arrive to the family dinner that night, Daemon has saved a spot next to him for you, much to your mothers dismay. You take it eagerly.

“Glad to have you home, brother.” The King says as he raises his cup and you all follow in suit, toasting to Daemon’s return.

The room falls into steady conversation, steady enough for people to not notice when

Daemon whispers things in your ear that make you blush.

“This is a very pretty dress, niece.” He says as he plays with the collar of the gown. His hand begins to trail down it. “Very expensive fabric.” The roaming hand decides on its destination being your upper thigh.

“T-Thank you.” You say with a light smile as he turns his attention elsewhere, talking to your father about things that you don’t understand.

After a few moments, the hand on your thigh begins to move. You sigh in relief, hoping he will take it off and relieve you of the warm feeling in your tummy but that isn’t what happens. Your uncle’s hand moves discreetly to the hem of your skirts, and to your dismay, he begins to lift them. You give him a pleading and confused look, not really sure what’s happening but he doesn’t even look at you as he seems to be fully focused on his conversation with your father.

You take a sip of wine, trying to distract yourself, but it only causes you to choke as you feel his fingers ghost over your smallclothes.

“Are you alright?” Daemon says in a faux-concerned tone as you cough. You only manage to nod in response before he goes back to ignoring you.

He slips his fingers to the side of your undergarments and pushes them to the side so he can feel how wet you are. You could swear you see a slight smile twinge at his lips. You try not to look at him, or anybody, as you feel his two fingers slip inside of you. You hope you don’t give anything away with your face as you reach down to clutch his hand, trying to pull it away, to make him stop, but it’s to no avail. Your attempts are almost pathetic with how little they do to faze him.

The whole scene of it is filthy, Daemon talking politics with his brother as his fingers pump in and out of his virgin niece’s soaked cunny right next to him, her father right across the table from the two of them. One look at the princesses face could have them both found out as she tries not to squirm in her seat.

You feel yourself edging closer to your peak but it never comes. You’re humiliated by the whole act of it but you feel needy for him when he pulls his hand away. You hold in a visible reaction even though it seems that Daemon wouldn’t know the difference as he acts like he never even touched you.

For the rest of dinner, you’re unfocused. Aemond tries to make conversation with you but you can’t do much more than nod and give short answers. You’re very much in disbelief that you hardly realize when supper has ended. Your brothers and sister leave quickly. Your mother left early with your father because of his sickness. You’re left alone with your dear uncle and some servants.

“Leave us.” Daemon says and the servants scurry out of the room.

Your uncle stalks over to you and you keep inching away until you hit the table. He towers over you. You still feel like a child next to him.

“Kepus.” You try to speak sternly. “What you did was wrong and you shall not do anything like it again.”

“If it was wrong then why did you like it so much?” He looks you in the eyes as he grabs your chin and tilts it up.

“It was terribly improper.”

“Hmm. I think you liked the attention. Daddy never gives you any, does he? And mommy is too focused on her problem child.” He says condescendingly.

The hand that doesn’t hold your chin goes to your waist. He traces up and down… the curve of your hips… of your breasts.

“I’m a princess. I get more than enough attention.” You say petulantly but your voice wavers.

“Then why haven’t you pushed me off?” He asks and you immediately try to push him away… pathetically. It’s little effort for him to turn you around and bend you over the table with your hands pinned behind you. “Dumb girl. Look at your trying to put up a fight. It’s not nice to deny kepa.” Kepa, he says, not kepus.

“Get off of me!” You try to squirm under his grasp.

“What happened to the girl a few hours ago who was so excited to see me?” He teases as he begins to use one hand to hike up your skirts.

“Kepa-... kepus, stop now!” You cringe when you call him the name he just referred to himself as.

“Aww so you like calling me that. You want daddy to take care of you.” He gets your skirts to your waist and you feel the cold air when he tugs your smallclothes.

“No, kepusss.” You whine at him and squeal when his hand slaps your ass.

“That’s not what you’re meant to call me, baby. And you need to be quiet, don’t want the guards outside to hear when i’m pounding the little princesses cunny, do we?”

“But… kepa i-i’m meant to save myself for my husband.” You say when you feel something long and hard rubbing between your thighs. His hand snakes around and he shoves two fingers in your mouth.

“Good, then i’ll get to bloody my cock with your maidenhead.” He says simply before shoving himself inside, the fingers in your mouth barely muting your scream. “That’s it, just take it and suck on kepa’s fingers like a little baby.” He says as he keeps bullying his cock inside of you. “Gods, you’re so fucking tight.” He lays another smack on your ass. “I’m gonna put a baby in you, make you mine.”

“Mmm.” You moan around his fingers, starting to realize that you enjoy the treatment once the pain has somewhat faded. He fucks into you as hard as he can, making you see stars.

“I’ll make you my wife and i’ll eat this little cunny every night, have you screaming and begging for me as you cry.” His hands grip your hips roughly and you can feel the formation of bruises coming on. He lets go only for a second so he can spank your ass a few more times because he just loves how you whimper.

You feel him finally start to slow and the deep, lasting thrusts are what sends you over the edge. You have never came so hard as you squeeze around him and feel yourself tense up. He fucks you through your high before spilling his seed deep inside you.

“Fuck.” He says as he takes his fingers out of your mouth.

You still feel molded to the shape of his cock even once he’s pulled himself out.

He wipes your drool away in an almost loving way and then helps you turn around so you can sit on the table. He situates himself between your thighs and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You did so well, zaldrīzes riña.” He presses a few more kisses to your face and you blush at the tender action. “You’ll make a perfect bride.”

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy

#daemon smut #daemon #daemon targaryen #daddy daemon #daemon targaryen smut #hotd #hotd smut #daemon x reader #daemon x you

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hotcupofdragons · 1 month

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Team Black and their dragons

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon season 2 #team black #team rhaenyra #rhaenyra #daemon #hotd #hotd s2 #moondancer #caraxes #baela targaryen #syrax

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 2 months

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Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it.

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress.

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery.

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be.

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months

Text

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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