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It perhaps, should not have been a surprise to her that a man who had nearly taken her against the wall of a brothel had the unique preference of being seen. She wondered if his status as younger brother, if his life lived as second left him wanting for attention. If this was his way of finding it, a habit leftover from youth.
She thought at first that it was merely coincidence. They were passionate lovers, they were frequent lovers. Sometimes the mood struck in a garden, or a stable, and it was all too easy to get lost in an embrace with little thought for who would see. But it went further than that, he had little desire for secrecy. A hand on the inside of her lap, while they were at a feast. Seated across from each other in a carriage, him clutching her ankle in his lap.
Practically daring someone to say something, daring them to acknowledge the small impropriety. But few would, not to their Prince and Princess.
No one mentioned the open windows in their rooms, the doors left ajar. If cries of pleasure were heard in a courtyard, or maids were scandalized by what they happened upon, then no one mentioned it to them. But she knew it happened. He knew it happened. And he loved it. She had asked once, if he’d have her in the throne room. And he had been wistful when he answered, “Perhaps someday.”
But then they had discussed it further — he said he liked people knowing he could please her. That they could please each other. The evidence of their coupling was evidence of their companionship, and if word of his kindness to her in life would be ignored, he could make his kindness to her in other ways known as an indisputable fact.
He didn’t want to be caught exactly, he just felt little embarrassment about the possibility…and some amount of delight, in what rumors it might spread.
He was the Rogu e Prince, after all. A well earned title.
…
Alicent:
She had not intended to come upon them. She did not want to come across them. She was disgusted by them. Both by what they had done, and what they continued to do. She had thought Rhaenyra innocent at first, but second hand word of Daemon’s statements from that morning in the throne room made it clear.
She had lost her innocence in a brothel, where any common man could see them, like she was a simple whore. The mere thought made bile pool in her throat. A Princess, ignoring her station, disregarding her reputation, all to fuck?
She didn’t understand. Alicent had been bedded before. She knew the feeling of a man thrusting — a man spending his seed. It was what a wife tolerated. It was what provided her with children. It was one of life’s gifts — but not one of pleasure. She had heard rumors of otherwise, of course, likely from whores or men that didn’t know what it was to be a woman. What it was to experience such things.
Despite not wanting to see the pair, she found it hard to look away. They were situated on a pavilion, near the sandy beach that formed the shoreline. Daemon’s shirt was off, revealing scarred flesh so different from her husbands, whose wounds weeped and refused to heal. It was hard to imagine, seeing his form, that he was Viserys relative at all, much less brother.
His pants were loosened — as was Rhaenyra’s dress, pushed up above her hips so he could thrust into her. Alicent was not close enough to hear the meeting of flesh, but she knew it was there. They were not gentle, they seemed desperate for each other. So desperate they didn’t find a bedchamber. So desperate they didn’t even remove all their clothing.
What would that desperation feel like?
What was it to feel desperation for sex, other than for it to end?
Rhaenyra’s head was thrown back, her legs wrapped around her lovers hips. Daemon’s face was buried in her neck, and his fingers in her exposed flesh. She wondered if his grasp would bruise. If Rhaenyra would feel disgust, at the visual evidence of their sin that she allowed to brand her skin. Or would she take pleasure in that, too?
Alicent stepped closer, still hidden behind the tall beach grasses. She could hear their moans now. Loud, even when stifled by the sounds of the rough sea. She could see their expressions, eyes squeezed shut, but not in pain — in something else.
Their fingers were in each others hair now, pulling their faces closer together and holding on as if they feared something would force them apart. They separated only briefly, to cry out in pleasure, and their pace increased, nearly matching that of the crashing of the waves.
Eventually, they too crested. And at last, they separated, Daemon’s muscled form rolling off of Rhaenyra’s smaller frame. But they did not part fully, her hands trailed across his chest — his stomach, past the waistband of his askew breeches. Their lips continued to collide, lazily, as if even their coupling had not fulfilled their need for each other.
Rhaenyra may have screamed, but she did not have the look of a woman in pain.
She looked regal, even in this dishevelment, the contrast of her loosened red gown against her pale skin making her glow even on the cloudy day. And Daemon looked ever the Rogue Prince he had been nicknamed, smug and rumpled, without a care in the world of, or of the kingdom.
But Rhaenyra — how could one resemble a Princess, and take pleasure like a whore?
It seemed, she was a Rogue Princess.
Her and her Prince. Both disappointments to the King, both destined for each other.
Alicent sometimes wondered if she was destined for anything at all.
…
Ser Harwin Strong:
Harwin knew he held a strange fondness for the Princess. When he had first come to court, just a boy and not yet a knight, he would catch glimpses of her. Even as a child she held her own against tutors. Seemed determined in every task. She frustrated easily, frustrated others. Constantly outwitting tutors, acting mischievously. And though he understood this was not behavior fit for a Princess, he admired her for her spirit.
As he grew older and took a greater role in the palace, his fondness grew. It was not something he felt compelled to act on, not something he had attempted to explore further. The young Princess was just that, young. Until she wasn’t, until she was being paraded across the Kingdom in search for a consort.
It was then he wondered, perhaps, if his fondness was more than just that. For he smile that formed on his face when he saw her. For the jealousy that pooled in his stomach when he saw her with others. He had been almost relieved, when he heard she was returning early, not having found a man to claim as her King Consort.
He had been delighted, when he saw her in the streets that night. Flushed, exuberant, every bit the adventurous princess he cared for, but now also a woman. And then Daemon had followed her, caught her, as if he was the cat and she was the mouse. But she had grinned, she had laughed, she had not fought his embrace.
She did not fight his advances now.
He had been searching for his father. His rooms and office were empty, and after an hour of waiting it became clear he had not simply stepped away. And so, he began his search — the council room seemed logical. Though meetings had ended hours earlier; his father was devoted to his position. Often working by candlelight late into the night. Forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat, forgetting to move. It seemed likely, that he would have been distracted, and tended to his work in the same place it was discussed.
He found the room, but he did not find his father. It was empty, save for the couple. And they did not look so indecent, at a glance. Daemon sat proudly in the chair he now claimed each meeting. Both he and his bride typically bracketed his brother, one on each hand help handle the Kingdom.
But Rhaenyra was not in her seat, she was perched on her husbands lap. Her scaled coat, thick grey wool used to cut the chill when riding at great heights, was tossed aside. Her tunic beneath was disheveled, open across her breasts and slipping down her narrow shoulders. Revealing swathes of skin, and delicate pink tips that scraped against Daemon’s chest as she rotated her hips and impaled herself onto him.
Harwin wasn’t sure where to look. And Daemon seemed unsure of where to place his hands. Holding her hips, grinding her against him — trying to get deeper, then finding purchase in her hair — pulling his wife from him, so he could lave her pert breasts with attention. She liked that, clinging onto his hair in exchange and pushing herself closer to his lips.
He had heard a variety of rumors in regard to the pairing. That Daemon had defiled the Princess, raped her in the public house of sin so no one else would have her. Bragged about his acquisition of both the crown and her cunt. That the princess had been forced to wed him, dragged down the aisle and forced to deal with the consequences of his actions. He had pitied her, when he first heard. But he had also been skeptical — for he had watched the princess often, more than he should have. And he wasn’t sure he had ever seen her forced to do anything, much less forced by the hand of her Uncle.
This only reassured him of his skepticism, for this was not cruel. This was not rape. It was harsh, it was forceful, it was fucking, but it was between two active participants, it was mutual.
Daemon was always fond of the girl, you would have to be blind not to notice. And Harwin thought, watching them from the doorway, that as she matured so had Daemon’s feelings for her. Could be blame him, when his own feelings had done the same? But clearly, his would go unspoken. Unreturned. The closest he would get to her was in this moment, seeing a glimpse of what he craved but would go hungry for.
…
Laena:
Laena had lived a pleasant existence. She had looks. She had a dragon. She rarely wanted for much, much less a different life. But here — sitting in front of the Crown Princess she couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy. For her title. For her future inheritance. For her husband.
Laena was also a newlywed. Betrothed since the age of 12, to the noble son of the Sealord of Braavos. She had not been displeased in her match, though she had little interest in him when she was young. As she grew older, so did his temper and his gambling debts. So did her hesitance towards their union. But after a decade of attempts her father was unable to find an out, and the wedding had been celebrated — by all but Laena and her closest family.
She still had her looks, and her dragon — one of the largest and greatest to have ever lived. She still had her family, one that would be expanding soon if her her swollen midsection was to be believed. But suddenly, she did not find her life so pleasant. Not with a rude, useless man by her side. A man who didn’t care about pleasing her in public or in private. She had never been romantic, never longed for great love, but now she found herself lost with out it.
Her parents clashed. Her brother was absent from his marriage bed, and marriage itself. She did not have good examples to strive for, which meant she was not assaulted with examples to be envious of, either.
The King and Queen did not inspire such emotions in her. The Queen, though beautiful, seemed to have little love for her children or husband. As they announced the betrothal between her child and Laenor's, she merely clapped and looked at her lap. As if she was bored by the prospect of her children’s future.
Viserys was sickly, and not likely to be a better husband than he was king.
But the Prince and Princess — they we a beautiful pair. She had heard stories of the Rogue Prince in her youth. She had hoped, when she heard of his first wives death, that perhaps she would be considered for betrothal. They were both part of great families, they were both dragon riders. That was more than enough for some matches.
But the rumors had even made it to their secluded castle, Daemon had defiled his niece and the King forced them to wed. She had thought herself lucky, that she didn’t get saddled with such a man who could be so indecent and cruel. She had though it sad, that the Princess had lost her reputation and her right to choose a consort.
But seeing them together now, she had her doubts that she had lost anything at all. Rhaenyra and her weren’t close, but the girl did not seem overly changed — aside from her stomach, which much like Laena’s carried a babe. Rhaenyra wasn’t loud, but she seemed spirited, sarcastic, as she always had. And her Uncle was almost…doting, a hand on her back, on her stomach, on her face. He refilled her cups, let her pick from his own plate.
He pulled out her chair, lay a napkin on her lap. But it wasn’t like he doubted her capabilities to do those things, it was just him caring enough to do them for her.
Had Laena’s husband ever showed he cared for her? He certainly didn’t now. For he sat half slummed in his chair beside her, already drunk despite the early hour.
As the dinner progressed, her eyes kept falling on the pair. They barely took part in conversation, more concerned with each other. When they left the table and retired to a sitting room, Rhaenyra sat on the arm of her husbands chair, both their hands wrapped around her middle. It wasn’t indecent, but it was the surely closest they could be without ignoring all propriety.
As they descended the steps to their rooms — the night was young, but they were tired from travel, they said, Daemon’s hand never strayed from her lower back.
When Laena finally retired, hours later, she found herself wandering past their rooms on the way to hers. Their door was cracked, left unlatched and something — she wasn’t sure what, made her want another look at the couple. Perhaps they weren’t as well suited behind closed, or mostly closed doors. Appearances could be deceiving.
But as the door opened, another inch, just enough for her to peak in — what she saw was not that of an unhappy couple. They were tangled together in their bed, half covered, but chests freed to the cold night air. Their hands both clasped Rhaenyra’s stomach, still, as if cradling the infant even if its womb. It mimicked their posture from earlier in the evening, but now, they were nude. Now they were in supposed privacy. Now they were moaning, and writhing, and thrusting, and Laena forced herself to look away. Forced herself to shut the door.
They would be gone soon. They would take their cries of pleasure and their happiness with them.
They would not leave any behind to be found in Laena’s marriage, or marriage bed.
But at least she would not have to suffer in their presence.
…
Ser Criston Cole:
He knew he was not alone in his feelings for the Princess. She was a beauty. She was smart. She was sharp as a tack, and unafraid to wield this as a weapon. Her place in a room spoke of her lineage and her good breeding, It called eyes to her — and made their owners feel lucky to be in her mere presence.
He had thought, however, she returned his feelings. For when he asked for her favor, she happily returned it. When he inquired of her day, she responded in kind. Her fondness of him had motivated her father to give him the honored position of her personal sworn shield. Rhaenyra had few friends, and though a Knight would never be her most trusted companion, he knew his constance presence was a comfort to her. He took solace in having that role in her life, being her protector.
Even if a part of him wished for more than that, wished to be her lover, too.
He was not daft, he knew she would wed. He thought the feelings may fade by then. But they did not. He found himself conflicted, hoping for her happiness — but hoping she would somehow find her happiness with him. He had attempted to propose once, asked her if she ever wished to sail away — to go somewhere unknown, somewhere she could be free. But she had not taken it as a confession of feelings, she had merely laughed and sighted her duty to the crown.
It was bigger than her, she said. Bigger than all of them. And she was right. So he resumed his guard, he stayed quiet, he followed her on her tour. Watched her consider hundreds of men. Watched her deny all of them , and held, some hope, that it was because of him.
But when they had returned to Kings Landing, he realized the truth. And the realization did not come kindly.
He had stood stoic, stayed silent while the rumors swarmed. He could not believe they were true — he would not. Rhaenyra was a Princess, she was respected, she deserved his respect. He would not so much as consider the possibility she had committed such acts with her Uncle, publicly!
When news of the wedding came, his beliefs did not waver. The rumors had spread too far, she had to wed to save her reputation. It did not make the rumors true, it did not mean she was soiled, and even if she was that did not mean she had been willing.
At the wedding, he watched her. Her easy smiles as she played her part. Pretending to be happy, as a Princess must on their wedding day.
He watched with disgust as Daemon repeatedly reached for her, dragging her to him for kisses while Rhaenyra closed her eyes in discomfort. He was a beast, he had ruined her reputation and now he was going to ruin her too. The fury bubbled in his stomach, for the lot they had both been given, for the displeasure this marriage would bring to her. For the fact he could not protect her from this, from him.
He didn’t mean to glare, as she stepped into her chambers with her new husband, but anger was the only thing that could veil his rage.
The longer he stood there, the more furious he became. For it was not sounds of disgust that emanated from the rooms — whimpers, or cries, or pleas for mercy as he had expected as she was taken by her brute of an uncle. No, this was much worse. It was moans, and sighs — It was her sobbing Daemon’s name, begging for “More”. It was the sounds of their flesh becoming one, the headboard banging, the fact it would stop and start and went on for hours.
At the time, he did not realize, that his torture had just begun. For this wasn’t just his present fate, it was his future. Every evening the newly weds seemed to exhaust themselves in each other. It was unbearable to listen to, to live through. As a spectator to the future he desperately wanted — a spectator to the woman he desperately wanted.
But this moment, this was worse than any other, for he had to see it, have this imprinted on his eyelids.
She had asked for a bath to be brought to her room, and shooed her attendants away after the tub was filled and heated. He had been her guard for long enough to know her preference for bathing alone. It was perhaps an hour later, when he heard a stumble and a cry. Had she slipped exiting the tub?
He called out for her — no response, gods what if she was unconscious? What if she had hit her head? What if she was dead? It was inappropriate to enter her rooms when not given instruction, but her safety mattered more than that. Her safety had always been his highest priority.
It was not an injured Princess that greeted him. All he could see was the Princesses nude form, her hair and skin still damp from her bath. It would have been a beautiful site, were the circumstances different. But between her parted thighs was another body, another man. Rhaenyra’s hands clutched his blonde locks, pulling him closer to her folds, arching against him. Her lips were parted, begging for more, moaning. He was listening to the symphony that he suffered through every night, but now he was watching it before him too.
He would have to live the the inescapable torment of this visage. When he closed his eyes, he would see her. He would hear her. But it would not be a dream, it would be a nightmare — for it wasn’t him between her legs, it was her Uncle.
Daemon had ruined her. And Rhaenyra? She had ruined him.
...
Viserys:
He found, despite his best efforts, that his eyes constantly strayed to the pair. They did not hide their affections for each other, if anything they pushed it in the face of others. Hands rarely leaving each others in public, fingers twined together as if their bodies could not bare to part. A hint of what they did in more secluded settings, and a euphemism for how they spent their nights.
It was like the strings that had drawn them together now drew others to them — pulling eyes to them, and leaving them unable to look away.
It was painful for him to see. A reminder of what he once shared with Aemma. He remembered the early days of their marriage, when the passion was high. When the heat between them seemed too boil over, past the lip of the pot, and past the boundaries of their bedchambers. It spilled out in inconvenient places, splashed in embarrassing places, but there was no stopping it.
Still, they hadn’t been so very blatant. Not like this. Not unable to remove fingers from flesh for even a barest moment.
It was odd, how they drew eyes to them, but never seemed to gaze away from each other. He thought of Aemma’s words, from years ago, about how Daemon always had something to say and a smile in Rhaenyra’s presence. His brother of few words always found them for her. Would do almost anything for her.
And now, as he watched them, he longed for those early days of marriage. Felt a jealousy. Not for Daemon’s wife — not for his daughter, for his feelings had never been more than paternal. He felt a jealousy for the comfort they sought in each other, the easy smiles, the casual kisses, the love. Had it always been there, in their interactions? How had he never seen it. Had he refused to see it?
Daemon grabbed Rhaenyra’s chin, but the gesture was not unkind. It was that of a man stopping a child from saying something naughty. A playful interaction, that spoke to their familiarity with each other. His hand dropped, but Rhaenyra’s lifted to his cheek, pulled him towards her.
A cold hand on his pulled his thoughts and eyes from the pairing — Alicent, his wife. Her hand was small, dainty, cold. She was small, and dainty, and cold. She lacked any warmth. Viserys could not remember the last time he felt warm.
He looked back at them, he hadn’t had to witness their kiss, but now he had to see their smiles. He had always wished for his daughter to find happiness. He just did not know how to be happy for her, when she found such a thing in his brothers arms.
…
+1
The kitchen staff had questioned her motives. She had smiled sweetly, simply saying she wanted a picnic lunch packed for her family. “We are going riding,” she had said. And it was the truth — she just did not say what they were riding. It was thought unsafe and odd to take such a young child on a dragon. For a pregnant women to ride one as well. But Daemon had shared fond memories of his young childhood, being able to ride with his mother before his own dragon had been able to fly. It brought them closer together, he said. It brought him closer to his lineage, closer to his future.
Their boy — Aegon, was to be a dragon rider as well. The egg that had sat aside him as a babe had hatched. His dragon was young but grew stronger everyday, as did Aegon himself. He would be a King one day, but for now he was merely her child. The offspring of her union with Daemon. Her hand brushed her stomach — soon there would be two.
The skies were blue and the sea was calm, if there was ever a better day for a ride and a picnic, she had not seen one.
Truly, riding used to be her greatest love. Before Daemon. Before Aegon. Before her family. And though riding remained exhilarating and freeing in a way nothing else could emulate, she found herself craving that form of escapism less and less often. She would always be a dragonrider, but now she was a wife and mother too.
But today — with Syrax saddled, and Daemon atop Caraxes with a bundled Aegon in his arms, she could not imagine a greater joy. A greater day.
The ride was short, but the hours they spent on a grassy hill that looked over the sea were long. Neither wanting to leave the solitude away from the castle, away from court. It was just them, and their dragons, all they truly needed. The gods were kind to give her such gifts, to give her such a life.
Aegon was walking, with assistance from his father, around the perimeter of their blanket. Crying when he fell, crying out in joy when he stood. Gurgling as toddlers do, but with a smile so bright it completely distracted her from her disgust. Rhaenyra found she still did not like children, but she liked her child. More than that, she loved her child, this creation of theirs. She had called him perfect the first moment she held him, and had not yet had a reason to rescind that statement.
Her husband and her child grew tired of their games eventually, collapsing back against the blanket, Aegon tucked against Daemon and curling into his chest in a way Rhaenyra was also partial too.
“I could paint this scene and the court would not believe its existence,” she said, her hand brushing across her sons hair, and then her husbands.
“They would not believe it even if they were direct witnesses, for they do not want to see it.” He said.
“They are fools.” She said — “But perhaps, only a Targaryen can see something so bright. It is like looking at the sun sometimes, blinding in its beauty. They way you treat me, the way you treat Aegon.”
“It would take nothing to convince me, that you are the only person in that palace who isn’t a fool.”
“At least I am in good company, with my dearest husband.”
She wished others would see it, sometimes. How good he could be. How good he always was to her and their child.
But she would treasure their love for each other in the privacy of her own heart.
Because after all, something had to be kept private.