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She was laughing, grinning as she was spun around. Taking joy in getting to follow the steps she had seen taken so many time before. As a child she had watched the movements between the couples with wide eyes, how they were practiced and smooth as their arms flowed and bodies circled each other.
She had little patience for dancing herself, finding it tedious and slow. Her tutors ensured she knew enough but she never strived for more than that. Not when there were other things to be done — meetings to attend, dragons to ride, it seemed like such a frivolous activity that she freed herself from it the moment she could.
But this was different, special. This was her wedding day, and it didn’t feel like tedious or slow, in fact it didn’t feel like dancing much at all. It felt like preparation for what was to come.
She was breathless when she finally found herself back in his arms, flushed from the warmth of the room and the quantity of the people. She felt alive from all the activity, despite the late hour. She felt hungry, too, but whenever she attempted to step from the floor, her hand was caught and she was pulled back in.
“It seems I am not allowed to eat,” she complained, in Daemon’s arms, as they spun and followed the steps of those around them. “Do they truly plan on leaving me hungry?” She asked. It was her wedding, it wasn’t fair. But Daemon just laughed — “Perhaps they are leaving you to be filled by your husband.”
She caught his gaze and blushed, “That is crude, Uncle.”
…
She wasn’t prone to blushing, and most certainly not in Daemon’s presence. He had always been a comfort to her — a stable presence that did not try to sway her opinions, merely asked her to explain them. If she had a question, he would praise her thirst for knowledge and simply respond with an answer. He was accepting of all her faults, instead of trying to change them, and he had become her favorite person because of it. And so, there was never much cause to feel embarrassment in his presence.
But then — the previous weeks events had occurred. And when she closed her eyes, she still felt his lips on her neck, his hands at her waist — the tips of his fingers on her breast. She dreamed of the moans, her moans, in the moments they shared together, as she approached something but never met it. She felt haunted by it.
In the moment, when it had ended all she felt was confusion and then devastation. Why had he started such a game if he did not intend to finish it? Why had he given her a bite, and left her to go hungry? He apologized, as they walked back to the castle under the cover of night. But he did not explain his actions, he merely begged for her patience. But when she begged for him he denied her.
The next morning, and without her consultation, the King announced her engagement.
There were rumors, Queen Alicent said. That she had been seen at a brothel, with Daemon. That they had been seen fucking. That the entire palace, entirety of the kingdom would soon be questioning her maidenhood. That she was ruined, and wedding Daemon would be her only possible salvation. The house of Targaryen’s reputation was on the line, Alicent emphasized. Rhaenyra merely nodded and promised she would do her duty, do what was best for their House.
Her smile only broke free after Alicent left.
Viserys had been her next visitor. His disappointment was heavy on his mood, and on his drooping shoulders. His failing health was no secret, but Rhaenyra had never seen him in such a state. What they had done — what he thought they had done, was not something any father wanted to hear spoken of, she knew. Especially in such a public manner, outside of wedlock.
Viserys spoke of the wedding, which was to be held in a matter of days. He spoke of the dress that had been commissioned before she went on her tour. There would be a feast, a tourney. He spoke of all else he could, before the words seemed to tumble from him, “This isn’t what I wanted for you, Rhaenyra.”
She may have had little part in its planning, but she would not regret the actions that lead her here. For there was no where else she would rather be standing.
But hearing him speak, a small part of her broke. A small part of her wished things were different. Wished that he could be happy for her. Wished that he could be happy, at all.
She knew he didn’t trust his brother, not with her. He never had. Even as a child, they had been kept parted — she was left at Kings Landed while they celebrated, or hunted, or reunited in some manner. Gifts and letters Daemon promised to send were not received, and she knew it had to do with outside interference. They were too close, people had whispered.
Her mother had protested his involvement, she had heard them argue of it once — perhaps not even the day before she passed, hours after Daemon’s gift of a necklace was noticed.
“They gravitate to each other, like a moth to a flame,” Aemma had said.
“It’s inappropriate, it’s disgusting.” Viserys had said, indignant.
“I think, husband, that you may view Daemon as what he was when you were boys, not what he is now. Do you not notice how he speaks more to her, than any other? Do you not notice how he saves all his smiles for her? That she is the first person he looks for at the castle, and perhaps the only one he thinks of while he is away. When his eyes do find her, they do not stray to another.”
She hadn’t heard her fathers response. But Daemon was banished a few days later, so it truly did not matter.
Now, she clasped her fathers hands in hers — they were bandaged, and mangled, and spoke of the gods cruelty. She did not want to be cruel, also.
“I know it is not what you wanted for me, Father, but perhaps…It is what I wanted for myself. I pray you shall learn to accept it.” His eyes were soft as his hands squeezed hers, “How can I accept a fate that I fear has doomed you?”
Rhaenyra just shook her head, not knowing what she could say to free him of his fears. She knew he loved Daemon, but her father saw his faults and was blind to his strengths. He saw a foolish boy, not the powerful man. And his council had not helped — she had heard what they said of her, what they whispered in his ears.
They were so certain Daemon wanted the crown — and perhaps her cunt, but she was merely a piece to him in a game he would do anything to win.
Alicent had shared similar fears, years back, when their friendship was strong, and so were Rhaenyra’s feelings.
“How would you know he wanted your hand, not your crown?” Alicent had asked.
Rhaenyra couldn’t explain it, she just knew, she had always known. Perhaps because she also craved for the crown, and his company. Hoped more than anything that there would be a future where she could have both. There was nothing she could say, then, to Alicent, and nothing she could say to her father now.
“I love him, and fear cannot dissuade me from that.” She hoped her words brought him some comfort, even if her potential future did not.
Daemon had been barred from her rooms, much to her displeasure. They couldn’t be trusted. They would spread rumors. It was indecent. It would not be tolerated.
Daemon had to play his part in front of the council now that he was marrying the crown heir. Had to prove himself to them, they way he had proved himself on the battlefield…and to her.
The days had simultaneously dragged with the wedding looming, and passed quickly as the calm before a storm always seems too. That morning when she woke, and the maids began to ready her, she lost all sense of time. Buzzing with a sort of anticipation of what they day would bring. Marriage had always been a fact of future, but not something she wanted or craved. Not when she thought her hand would be given to someone other than Daemon.
Not when she thought her nights would be spent with someone other than Daemon.
It was, she thought, a bit like how a knight felt preparing for battle. The action of calming your nerves, and readying yourself for what was ahead. But her armor wasn’t of iron, it was silk, and her helmet was made of braids.
“You know what is to be expected of you?” The eldest of her attendants asked. Rhaenyra nodded, hoping to save herself the lecture she had received years ago, when her courses first came. Aemma had been kind in her explanations, but knew better than to promise she would experience kindness when the event came to be.
This attendant seemed to share similar concerns. Patting Rhaenyra’s face, and saying she hoped he would be good to her.
Another attendant tittered — “Surely he must be, he has had enough experience!”
It seemed unfair, that is was a Princesses duty to maintain virginal, while a Prince’s reputation in the bedroom seemed only to benefit them.
Rhaenyra was not concerned — she was perhaps, a bit worried that she would be lacking experience. But she was not lacking confidence in herself, and Daemon had always been generous with compliments in regards to her looks. So if she came up short in one regard, she could only hope to be tall in another.
“It’s time, princess.” One of the attendants had said.
And now, hours later, she was in his arms once more. Dancing. Blushing. Because he was so handsome, with his cropped hair and leather doublet. And he looked smug and happy and every bit the Rogue Prince he was nicknamed to be. And every time she glanced at him, her mind recalled the last time she was in his arms, and how intimate it had been, and how good it had felt.
“What are you thinking about, Niece?” And gods that made her blush more.
“Maidenly thoughts, I assure you.”
“I do not believe you.” A smirk, “But do enjoy it, for you will not be one for much longer.”
She would have called him crude once more, but she was pulled to another man as the dance continued.
Eventually the feast ended. The dancing slowed. The court had taken their seats and it was time for their vows. She wondered if her father had arranged the order of such things hopes disaster would strike, or fatigue would set in before they could be truly wed.
But she thought, truly, if everyone in attendance dropped dead to the ground, they would still carry on. For she could not find a care, or spare a thought, for anything other than him. She swore he was a dragon, for his gaze burned. Leaving her flesh warm, sensitive, desperate to be licked by flames.
…
“I am yours and you are mine, whatever may come”
“One flesh”
“One path”
“One soul, now and forever”
...
They had shared kisses before, but this was different, it was harsher. She felt heavy under their audiences gaze, but completely distracted by Daemon and the way his lips met hers, they nipped, begged for entry, and refused to be denied. He held her jaw, firmly enough she wondered if marks would form — as if he feared she would pull away. As if he needed her to know she was his. As if the kingdom needed to know. Let it bruise, she thought, let her wear marks that proved his desire for her. For perhaps it would get her one step closer to having them believe in his love.
…
People cheered when they parted. The custom forbid anything else. Even if the kiss had gone on too long, been inappropriate for the situation — anything else would be regarded as unsupportive to the union, something no courtier wanted to exhibit in front of their King.
Rhaenyra pointedly avoided the Kings gaze, not wanting to see his fears. Not wanting to see Alicent by his side, and the reminder of her judgement. She wanted to be happy in this moment, her first moment as a wed woman. Her first moment as Daemon’s wife.
The cheers followed them through the court, and through the main hall. Dulled behind heavy wood doors, but present all the same as they began their descent to her chambers. The Princess' quarters were more grand than that of a Prince, and so, they were to serve as their wedding chambers. A pair of her Kingsguard served as escort ahead of them, with Daemon’s guards following behind.
They were silent as they walked, silent when they reached her door.
Silent still, as she passed them, though her guards gaze was heavy, glaring from his post at her door.
“He still favors you” Daemon insisted, when the doors were shut. Then asking, “Does it please you?”
She shook her head, “Does being jealous please you, Uncle?”
“It pleases me that he will stand guard, and listen while it is my name you cry for.”
“You continue to be crude, Uncle.”
It was not intended as a compliment, but he seemed to take everything in stride — including her insults. She thought he took a secret amount of joy in being crude around her. Even as a child he had teased her, constantly catching her off guard, and taking delight in her response. She said as much out loud, and he did not deny it.
“You have always been so responsive,” he said, and it was punctuated by fingers sliding to her waist, and his breath against her neck. She shivered, the sensations reminding her of what she knew was to come.
His fingers traveled to the curve of her back, she felt the lacing of her dress being tugged — pulled taught, and then loosened as his fingers found a way beneath the ties. His fingers were warm against her back, as he worked deftly to expose her, and then, when he had succeeded she shivered for her skin had been bared to the cool night air.
The dress was too low cut for a traditional chemise, and since it wasn’t intended to be worn repeatedly, laundering was not a concern. She had simply gone without one, meaning that as the dress fell from her arms, so did all her remaining modesty. Her back was to him, but now that her dress pooled at her feet he seemed impatient for that to change, spinning her, and crowding her against the chambers doors. She held onto his collar to prevent herself from tripping over the dress as she stumbled backwards against the wood.
She thought he was going to kiss her, but no, he just looked at her. Studied her as if she was an object he had acquired. With another man she may have been nervous, attempted to look away or cover herself. But she felt confident in his gaze, assured that he liked what he saw. That somehow, he wanted to see more. His gaze was greedy, but so was she.
It was her turn, to pull at his laces. Freeing the sides of his jerkin, and tugging at the collar of his chemise. She could feel the firmness of his chest against hers as they danced, but now she wanted to see it.
She was rewarded, eventually, him tugging the offensive garments over his head and into the heap with her gown. She basked in what was revealed to her — his skin, the same color as hers but so different. It was scarred, calloused, with scatterings of fine hair, and most distinctively muscled.
She had seen shirtless men before, in the practice yards on hot days. She had admired the forms of the training warriors, wondering if the way she appreciated them was how men appreciated her. But she had never been so close to a mans naked flesh before. Never gotten to run her hands across it, letting her fingertips trail against wounds that had long since healed. She wanted to know each one, their shape, their feel, she wanted to run her fingers across every part of him — run her tongue across him.
She felt addicted already, with only a mere portion of him exposed to her.
Her hands wandered to his remaining clothing, the fine wool of his breeches soft against her hands. But he stopped her pursuit, raising her hands to his lips and kissing her palms. “You must be patient a little longer, let us free you from your confines?” He gestured to her hair, at the braided updo that she supposed would be impractical for bed.
She nodded, and allowed him to lead her to the vanity. She sat at the stool where she had been for hours only that morning, but now…it wasn’t just the time of day that had changed. She was married now. Not surrounded by attendants, but by her husband. Her nude form was visible in the mirror before her, as was his broad chest behind her. The sun was down now, and they were lit by only candles, which caused their reflection to warp and flicker.
Daemon’s fingers had been deft undoing her dress, and they approached her hair in the same manner. Freeing the ruby pins and dropping them to the table in front of them — he had to lean forward in the process, pressing her back against his chest and allowing his head to brush across her shoulder.
She wanted to grab his hair and hold him there, force his lips to her neck, force more contact than she had so far been provided with.
Patience, he had said. She shut her eyes and let out a deep breath. The pins were all free now, so she no longer had to deal with the temptation of him bending over her. But with the style partially deconstructed she could feel his fingers on her scalp, undoing the braids, undoing her.
His fingers were large, but nimble, effective in their work. Each braid was let down, then carefully held in his left hand as his right thumb parted the plait. He worked dutifully, until every twist was freed — until he could run his fingers through it, and he did. And then at her look of interest, he tugged, fisting the hair close to her scalp and forcing her head back. She let out a huff of air at the action, the breath catching in her throat.
His grip loosened, and fingers combed through her hair so it hung long and loose — covering most of her torso and pooling at her lap. A startling contrast, to his, which remained cropped and shorter than she had ever seen it. She liked it though, how it exaggerated his jaw line. Made him look more distinctive.
She didn’t want to see him through the film of a mirror though, she wanted to look at him. She turned on her stool, so she could admire him in all his glory. From this view — her head level with his abdomen, her eyes peering up at his, she felt almost like her young self. Gazing up at him, her dear Uncle, with nothing but adoration in her eyes. How many times had she done that as a child? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands?
For as long as she could remember, he was her Prince. It seemed fitting that at last, he was also her husband.
“Will you force me to be patient much longer?” She asked from her perch on the stool. Lifting her hands to drape across his hips, just above the waistband that hid the rest of him from her.
“Who would I be, to deny the Princess?” He said, but hadn’t he always denied her of this?
But, she thought, she could be forgiving.
She did not feel nervous, but her fingers still shook as they worked through the buckles at the front of his trousers. If she had little familiarity with a mans chest, she even less so with a mans cock. Crude illustrations and paintings existed in the palace, in books. She had seen them, giggled over them, how foreign and odd a protrusion there had seemed to her!
But then she had been told of its purpose. How it would enter her, penetrate her, spill inside of her a seed that could grow a child. And then, it had not seemed so funny. It had seemed intimidating, and scary, that a man could wield such weapon. She learned of the horrors that could be afflicted with it, of rape. Any childhood interest had dissipated, then, for it was no longer something she wanted to joke of. To think of.
It wasn’t until recently, when her search of a consort became more intentional. With each man she found herself wondering — what would it look like? Would he wield it well? Depending on the mans looks, these thoughts were paired with either curiosity or disgust. And then at the brothel…It had been dark, and her eyes had followed Daemon despite the distractions, not quite allowing her to discover her true thoughts on the appearance of a mans member.
She did not feel disgusted now, as the parted the last buckle, and pushed the breeches to the floor.
It did not look like the illustrations, she thought. It seemed foreign to her, as it had been kept hidden away thorugh all the years they had known each other. And she understood why, but a part of her seethed that this had been kept from her. A part of Daemon had been kept from her. And now she had to familiarize herself with it, and her inexperience had never been more apparent.
Her hands continued to clutch at his hips. Her goal of exposing him had been met, but now she did not know what to do. And she hated that, being caught unprepared. But she could — Daemon had never judged her, when she went to him for advice, no matter how unimportant the question. People spoke of his cruelty, but he had only ever showed her kindness. He would be kind now, she thought.
“Will you show me what to do?” She asked, gazing up at him.
She watched his eyes slip closed, “All you have to do is exist Rhaenyra, for gods sake.”
His hand gripped the base of his member and it lifted, filling and growing thicker longer.
“But you can…touch it, kiss it, fuck you can do whatever you like.” He said, sounding almost pained.
Her touch was tentative at first, not brave enough to grip him the way his own hand did. Instead she stroked, running her fingers across the tip of it, down the length, nails scraping across the thatch of hair it protruded from. It was…strange, the skin felt thin and tight, as if she could feel the blood pounding beneath it. But his cock itself was rigid, and the contrast was so unique she wanted to feel it more.
Her strokes became less hesitant, more insistent as she explored how it felt in her hands. There was little response from Daemon, but she was not bothered, she was quite distracted in her exploration. Fondling what lay beneath too, the balls — heavy with seed, books had said.
He had said she could kiss it, no? She had seen that done at the brothel — yes, even in the dim light, women’s mouths full of their lover cock. Cradling it, between their lips. It was too large she thought, for her to manage that, but she could kiss it. She could give it her attentions, and hopefully give Daemon pleasure at the same time.
He hissed when her lips met the warm flesh, when they wrapped delicately around his tip in an attempt to take him in her mouth. She suckled so gently, her experiments feeling like the exquisite torture. For it felt so good, but it was not enough.
She gained confidence, pushing more of his length into her mouth. Closing her eyes, breathing threw her nose. Unsure of how to do this, but being determined to do it all the same. Daemon didn’t want to scare her, but he could not resist burying his hands in her hair. Not forcing her onto him, or pushing her a way. Just basking in the feeling of his hands on her, and her mouth on him.
Suddenly, it was enough, if not too much. Daemon was surprised, how close to release he found himself. His exploits as a young rogue had built his stamina, and his disinterest in women and whores for the past years had only extended it. It was rare for him to come, now. Usually he reveled in his own touch until he no longer could, not releasing but not feeling dissatisfied either.
But now — gods it had only been a few minutes, his length was barely in her mouth. But he felt sensitive, warm, like a flush was creeping up his spine. Like something was going to burst, and that would not do. For as badly as he wished to watch her swallow him that was not where he was planting his seed tonight.
And so, regretfully he pulled her head away, her eyes narrowing as he did, annoyed at his interruption. He would have laughed, if the circumstances were not so serious. For she look like a child that had just been asked to share a toy!
He cupped her face in his hands, leaning to meet her lips, when had they last kissed? Had It only been less than an hour ago? How had he resisted temptation for so long? For so many years.
Gods she made these little gaps, parting her lips and allowing him entry. He felt like a pirate plundering, and his bounty were her moans. And he never wanted to hear anything else, he wanted these noises to loop in his head forever. He wanted to hear more of them, he wanted to hear her cry his name — scream it, beg for it.
He had never felt this hard in his life. He swore he could come with a single touch. This is why he had to stop her. This is why he had to guide her to the bed, had to lay her down, had to regain control. Because the alternative was embarrassing, and unsatisfying for them both. And gods, control had never felt so good. Looked so good. He wasn’t sure there was a better sight than her nude form, her pale skin. Her wide hips and narrow waist. The soft curve of her breast, and how her rosy nipples seemed to match her flushed cheeks.
She was enchanting.
A pale thatch of hair between her thighs hid her folds, and suddenly he had to touch her. It was a need, not a want. He longed so badly to feel her between his fingers that it hurt.
And so, he reached for her — for her folds, and dragged his fingers across them. Up and down, gentle strokes, before parting them. She was damp already, despite how little they had done. Had this maiden gotten wet suckling his cock? How was he so lucky?
He breached her with one finger, and they both moaned. Her at the sensation of being filled, him at the sensation of filling her and how tight she was, how she gripped his finger.
He took a deep breath, “When I was young, my father sent me a whore. And I remember little of her — neither her name or face. But I can clearly recall what she told me. She said ‘Men know how to touch themselves, they do not know how to touch a woman’”
“But later, after, she said most women do not know how to touch a woman. And she showed me. Do you know, Rhaenyra?” She merely shook her head. The little she knew of intimacy had not extended to pleasure, especially not her pleasure.
This fingers were draped across her — one was in her! “This” — he thrusted his finger, “Is your channel. This is where you take a cock, where you’ll birth our heirs.” Another fingers slipped in next to the first, emphasizing his words. “If we work slowly, if I make you feel good, you shall stretch — you shall take me. And this,” his thumb pressed above her folds, firm against the little nub she had always acknowledge but ignored. “Is how I shall give you pleasure. How you can give yourself pleasure, rubbing against this little part of yourself.” She cried out, as his thumb pressed firmly on the nub, retaining its pressure and started to rub it in slow circles.
She was thrashing, she could not stay still, she was tingling all over. It felt unlike anything she had experienced before, but she found she did not want it to stop. And it didn’t, his fingers thrusted more insistently, feeling thicker than they had before? Were there three now? But it was soothed by the moisture her body had created. They thrust in an even rhythm, in and out, which lulled her body into this state of pleasure. And then — his thumb, the calloused digit was so firm against her, against that spot. He kept his pace, even as she cried out, even as she moved — unable to stay still.
He didn’t stop, and neither did her bodies reaction. It felt like it went on for hours, but it must have only been minutes. “That, is your peak, Rhaenyra.” His voice was firm, clear, like it had been during their Valyrian lessons so long ago. But she felt jumbled, confused, ungrounded despite laying down. “Some men, claim women can’t feel such things, but they are mistaken. Your body comes so easily. Desires it so much.” She was panting, still full of his fingers though his thumb had ceased its torment. “Is that bad?” She asked, wondering if she should be ashamed.
“No,” he laughed, “Your desires please me, and so I shall please you in return. Always. And—“ his fingers moved again, curling towards her stomach, as if searching for something and then it happened again, and now she was sure hours must have passed, for who could feel so much in such a short amount of time?
“Women are special. They can peak more than once.”
…
She was breathless, body already tired from his explorations. Throat hoarse from the uncontrolled noises she had made throughout. But she knew they were not done, that they had not even really started. This was all to lead up to him sheathing himself in her, he said he had to get her ready? She questioned him, the words nonsensical — but he understood.
“Yes, Rhaenyra, I think you are ready.”
Her head was pillowed against a cushion, her body bracketed by his — his hands above her shoulders, his hips surrounding hers. Their lips met again, and became distracted in each other. Slowly, they parted and kisses moved down her neck, across her breast, taking the pink tip in his mouth and sucking on it like she had his cock.
She had not known they could be so sensitive, that there were so many parts of her that made her feel like…this. It seemed not only had Daemon’s body been kept from her, but also part of her own. It was so unfair, she had so much time to make up for. But in this moment, it was hard to think of that, too distracted by his lips.
Eventually he straightened, kneeling between her thighs and carefully wrapping one of her legs over his hip. It brought their pelvises together, and the length she had so recently been introduced to was there. Pressing against her folds. Threatening to go inside her. And then it did that, too — just the tip. The faintest bit of pressure, the feeling of something larger than anything else that had been there before. It did not hurt, but she felt full in an unnatural way.
But this was not unnatural. Was there anything in life more natural?
He thrust his hips, gently, pressing another inch into her. He paused his movements, brushed his fingers down her sides, leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Giving her time to adjust to his intrusion before pushing more of his length inside her and —god, it still didn’t hurt? But perhaps she was too lost in pleasure from her previous bliss. She had felt so good, was her body ever going to feel pain again?
The last thrust was the harshest, bringing them completely together, their hips meeting as her body fully accepted him and gods it was…strange, her abdomen felt heavy, stretched in way that was unfamiliar. Her hands rubbed across it, wondering if she could feel a difference — and then her hands wandered lower, to where their hips met, to where he was inside of her. And all the sudden she moaned, because even if the feeling was not yet one of pleasure, that thought was.
They were finally one.
And it was such a glorious moment be body felt desperate to hold onto it, to hold onto him, she clenched and —oh.
That did not feel so odd.
And when he gently moved, and whispered sweet things into her ear, that did not feel odd either.
Now she felt filled in more way than one, physically and mentally full of him. Of his cock, true, but also his sounds of pleasure, his grunts and moans. How was she so lucky? To bear witness to this. To experience this.
She cursed her inexperience, for she didn’t know what to do so she simply wrapped her arms around his neck and held on. His thrusting became more insistent — pulling farther away, then pressing deeper. His hands were on her hips, hiking them further up — further open. As if he wanted not to just thrust inside her, but to crawl inside her. And she could not blame him, for even with them joined she wasn’t sure it was enough. This would end and then these feelings would be gone and that just didn’t seem right.
How could anything other than this feel right?
She was panting now, arching her back and meeting his hips with hers, grinding against him and twining her legs around his hips trying to get him to stay inside her, for as good as the thrusting felt she just wanted him.
His fingers pressed between them, finding the spot he had so deftly fingered earlier. It was involuntary, the way that body made her change — made her feel warm, fuzzy, like the room was full of smoke and she was the fire. Like she was ready to ignite. And maybe this was why Targaryen’s were called dragons, for they burned for each other. And without each other, there would be no spark, only coals.
Her breath came in little pants as she crested, shouted with the surprising force of her release. She thought Daemon would be pleased, because surely her guards would hear that. Her cries of bliss, cries for him.
He found his release too, throbbing inside her and emptying himself as deeply as he could, pressing his shrinking member further into her until it could no longer stay inside. She let out a sob as he slipped from her body, already mourning the loss of him. Grateful his spend was left behind, for even if he left her she would have this. This gift of his seed, perhaps the gift of a child.
He was panting too, as he collapsed atop her. And this moment, perhaps more than any other, was one she had dreamed of. She had not been told of the pleasures to expect, she could not have imagined them. But this, their bodies being pressed against each other, not an inch or stitch between them, it was what she dreamed of. What she longed for.
They didn’t speak, they didn’t need to. There was nothing to say. For they loved each other, and they each knew that so deeply it did not need to be said.
Instead she clasped his hand in hers, pressed her lips to his. Lazily stroking one another, mouths meeting again and again before they were too tired to continue. Before sleep took them, she wondered what she would dream of now that she had this. For she had dreamed of little else than Daemon in her lifetime.
Perhaps now, she would dream of their future.