Daeron and newlywed reader wife skip the ashford tournament , he doesnât want to go, she doesnât want to see him hurt and they have alone time in that inn. Feel free to make it smutty if you want.
Thanks <3
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Be My Fool
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Summary: Fearing seeing your new husband is pain, you've convinced him to skip the tourney and hide out in an inn until the tourney comes to its end. As his dreams start to haunt him a little too much within the night, you decide the best course of action to distract him from them
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x F.Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI! porn with semi plot, multiple orgasms, fingering, cunnilingus, pussy drunk Daeron, Daeron has issues, improper use of a mattress, body worship, religious imagery if you squint, reader has stretchmarks
Notes: I've never written for Daeron before so I hope this isn't too out of character for him
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The candle flickered with its light causing long shadows over the walls of the inn's bedchamber. Outside of the window, rain poured hard and loudly against the roof, a lonely sound that seemed to amplify the quiet tension that was within the room's four walls.
Daeron sat perched on the edge of the sagging mattress, his slumped shoulders wrapped in a mud stained tunic that smelled faintly of damp wool and wine. He looked nothing like the firstborn Prince he was. His pale blonde hair was a tangled mess, sticking out at odd angles, and his wet, haunted eyes were fixed staring at the floorboards as if expecting them to open up and swallow him whole.
His fingers twitched, plucking at the loosening threads on his breeches. "He's still out there," Daeron murmured, "father will have my head on a spike if he finds out I let the boy sleep in the straw like a common stable hand while I...While we..."
He trailed off, his gaze drifting towards the heavy wooden door as if he could see through it, down the creaking stairs, and across the muddy yard to where his younger brother was likely curled up next to a haybale.
"Aegon has always preferred horses to people anyways, Daeron," you said softly, stepping away from the washbasin. The floorboards groaned gently under your bare feet as you came over to him, "you know as well as I do that he'd rather talk to a mare than a lord. He's exactly where he wants to be. He's safe."
You reached him, sliding your arms around his narrow chest from behind. As you wrapped yourself around him, you could feel the frantic beating of his heart against his ribs. You pressed your cheek against the rough fabric of his shoulder, pulling him back towards the warmth of your body.
For a moment, he remained solid, but then with a long, shuddering sigh, Daeron leaned back. He let his head fall back against your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck. He felt fragile in your arms, a man haunted by the dreams he couldn't escape, and the reality he couldn't escape through every drink.
"Is this truly a good idea?" He whispered, eyes closed tightly, "fleeing the tourney. Father expects us at Ashford, he expects me to perform, to fight, to...to be something I'm not. When they find we aren't there, the shame will brand his name. He'll never forgive me for this. He'll say I've dragged you into my own ruin."
He turned his head slightly, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, seeking the scent of your skin to drown out the smell of his own fear. His hands came up to clutch at your forearms, his grip desperate, as if you were the only thing that he didn't want to drink away.
"The tourney will handle itself without you," you whispered into the shell of his ear, "let the knights break their lances and the lord shout themselves hoarse. The world doesn't need another Targaryen prince falling off a horse for the sake of a silk favor."
You leaned down, pressing a lingering and loving kiss to the side of his head, just above his temple, "I couldn't watch you be hurt. Not for a 'game'. Not for 'honor'. You are my husband, not some princess' hero. If being a coward means keeping you here with me, in the quiet, then let them call us whatever they like."
He didn't move as you held him. He seemed to actually shrink further into himself, his spine curving like a bow about to snap. His hands gripped your forearms tighter, like he was stuck in terror. But he wasn't shaking as he usually did, instead he was cold but feverish.
"It wasn't just the stables, and it wasn't just Aegon," Daeron rasped, he turned his head, pressing his brow hard against your shoulder, seeking the feel of your body to ground him to reality, "I saw it again. The dreams...they don't care about the inn or the distance we put between us and Ashford. It's going to happen."
He let out a breath that sounded like a sob caught in his throat, "I saw the dragons. Not banners or sigils. Real, living fire. But they weren't burning enemies, they were tearing into each other. Two of them, clashing in a storm of steel and blood. I saw a crown fall into the mud, a man who looked like my father grieving. There was so much blood, my love. It isn't going to be a tourney. It's going to be a funeral."
His eyes snapped open, wide and bloodshot as they stared at nothing, "if I go back...I'm the one who starts the fire. My cowardice, my flight...it starts the first stone in the landslide. I can feel it. Something is coming to Ashford, something that will break us all."
"Hush," you murmured, the word soft against his ringing eardrums.
You shifted your weight, sitting back against the headboard and pulling him into you. You didn't let go of his hands, instead guiding him until he was tucked between your legs, his chest pressed against yours. You began to unfasten the laces of your shift, the linen falling away to reveal the soft, warm swell of your breasts.
With a gentle pressure on his shoulders, you coaxed him down. Daeron let out a shaky, broken moan as he felt the intimate heat of your skin. He didn't resist; he collapsed forward, burying his face into the valley between your breasts.
"No more talk of dreams," you whispered, your fingers weaving through his tangled hair, massaging the tension at the base of his skull, "you aren't a prophet tonight, Daeron. You're just a man, my man."
You pressed his head closer, holding him against the beating of your heart, letting the softness of your breasts cushion him from the world he so desperately feared. He let out a long, ragged exhale, his breath hot against your skin, sending a shiver of a different kind down your spine. His hands left your forearms had slid down to wrap tentatively around your waist, his fingers splaying over the small of your back.
"Can you hear that?" You asked softly, knowing any loudness would ruin this moment, "that's my heart. It doesn't beat for the realm. It beats for this moment, for you."
Daeron shivered with a desperate breath. He turned his face slightly, nuzzling into the soft flesh of your breast, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. A small, needy sound escaped him, a plea for more than just getting to lay on your chest.
"Don't think anymore," you breathed, leaning down so your lips could kiss his forehead, your hand sliding down to cup his jaw, forcing him to look up at you from his position against your chest, "forget the dreams. Forget about Aegon. There is only us in this bed, and the way you're going to feel inside of me."
His eyes darkened, the fear of being swallowed by the ground turning into a desperate hunger for you. His hand moved up, his thumb catching your nipple under it, watching it harden under his touch with a fascination that made his breath hitch.
"I don't deserve this," he whispered, his voice thick with gravel, "I'm a drunkard and a fool, and I've led you into a gutter."
"Then be a fool," you replied, your voice holding that mischief he loved so much as you helped lead his hand lower, "but be my fool. Take what you need, Daeron. Wash the dreams away."
As your hand fell away from his jaw, his mouth softened around the pale, aching curve of your breast. He let out a low, muffled groan against your skin, lips gazing the sensitive peak of your nipple before he pulled it into his mouth. The sensation being a small pleasurable ache that sent pleasure straight to your cunt.
You threw your head back against the wooden headboard, your fingers tangling frantically in his hair, pulling him closer to your breast. You could feel the stubble of his jaw scratching against your soft skin, a friction that made your toes curl into the wool of the blankets.
"Daeron," you breathed, his name like a broken prayer.
He didn't answer you with words, he couldn't. He was too busy worshipping the only altar that gave him peace. His tongue traced the underside of your breast, swirling over the stretch marks that mapped your skin like rivers, before he moved to the other, his movements desperate and filled with a need to devour your body. He was trying to drown out the sight of his horrible dreams with the taste of salt on your skin and the rain that littered your skin from earlier.
As his mouth continued to praise your breasts, his right hand moved with a sudden urgency. He reached down, fingers bunching the heavy fabric of your skirts. You felt the cool air hit your thighs only for a second before his palm found the bare skin of your inner thigh.
He didn't hesitate. His hand slid upwards, his touch firm and possessive, tracing the skin of your thighs until he reached the damp, aching wetness of your cunt. When his fingers finally made contact, you gasped, your hips bucking instinctively into his hand.
"You're so warm," he muttered against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes hooded with a raw, predatory intensity that only ever came about behind closed doors, "the dreams...they're so cold. Everything in my head is cold. But you're the only thing that keeps me from freezing."
He slipped his hand inside the fabric of your underclothes, finding the slick, sensitive bundle of nerves with an accuracy that proved how many long, secret nights you both had spent tucked away from the prying eyes of the court even before your marriage. He knew exactly how to touch you, the way his thumb circled just in that way that made your eyes roll back.
You let out a long, high pitched whimper, your hands moving from his hair to his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his tunic so hard that your knuckles turned white. He watched your face, his own mouth falling slightly open watching how you whimpered and moaned his name, finding a twisted sort of salivation int he way you came apart under his touch every time like this.
He increased the pace, his fingers working with an impressive and desperate skill. He was chasing something, the moment that the world would disappear, where the weight of the Targaryen name and his dreams couldn't reach him. He wanted to feel your pulse racing against his hand, to hear your voice break as you called his name, to know that for this one hour, in this one muddy corner of the Reach, he wasn't a failure or a coward. He was just a man loved by his wife.
"Don't stop," you begged, your voice desperate and breathy, "Daeron, please."
He leaned up, his mouth hovering just an inch from yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, "I'm right here. Look at me. Just enjoy it. Look at me."
As he felt the tension in your thighs reach a breaking point, he surged forward, his mouth capturing yours as the first broken cry started to climb up your throat. He swallowed the sounds of your release into the kiss, drinking in your moans as if they were the finest wine. His tongue swept over yours in a messy, desperate tangle, mirror the frantic friction of his thumb as it ground against your clit with a punishing, perfect pressure.
You felt the world shatter around you, not caring who overheard what your husband was doing to you. Your hips bucked violently into his hand, your fingers digging into his shoulders, thankful for the tunic so you didn't risk harming him. Underneath his palm, your cunt pulsed and quivered underneath him, desperate for more.
Daeron didn't pull away. He stayed with his thumb moving through the height of your climax, riding the waves of pleasure with a fascination as he watched you through half lidded eyes, his gaze fixed on the way your head thrashed against the headboard, the way your chest heaved, and the way your eyes rolled back in that sheer, beautiful delirium. To him, you were never more magnificent than when you were broken like this; vulnerable, loud and entirely his. He could watch you come undone a hundred times, a thousand, and it would never be enough to sate the hunger in his soul.
As the shaking finally began to subside into heavy breathing, Daeron let out a long, shuddering breath of his own. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his nose brushing against yours. He was flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, looking more alive than he had in weeks. The haunted look was gone, replaced by a raw lust.
His hand stayed between your legs, lingering in the slick warmth of your release. He looked down at the sight of his own fingers, feeling how coated they were in the evidence of your pleasure, a slow smile touching his lips.
He looked back up at you, his voice dropping to a rough rasp, "you look so beautiful when you forget who we are," he whispered.
He hesitated for a moment, his thumb tracing the sensitive nub he had spent so long worshipping. Memories of a single, moonlit night shortly after your wedding flickered in his eyes, a night where he had been bold enough to do more than just use his hands.
"The dreams...they leave a bitter taste in my mouth," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the damp skin of your inner thighs, and than back to your eyes, "I want to taste something sweet. Something that belongs to me."
He leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your hip as his hand worked to drag your under clothes down your legs, his breath hot and causing a fresh wave of gooseflesh to rise across your body. He looked up at you through the messy fringe of his hair, his expression vulnerable despite the intimacy of his request.
"Can I...Can I taste you again?" He asked, his voice cracking slightly with the weight of his desire, "like that night under the stars?"
"You don't have to, Daeron," you whispered, your voice slightly weak from how you cried for him. You reached down, your fingers catching in his tangled hair, gently tilting his face back up towards yours, "but if you want to...if it helps you forget...I certainly won't be the one to complain."
A small, shaky breath escaped him, "I want to forget everything but the taste of you," he whispered.
He shifted then, his movements lacking the practiced ease he held when his hand was the only thing bringing you pleasure. He moved with a clumsy urgency. You felt the rough wool of his tunic brush the sensitive skin between your thighs, a friction that made your breath hitch as he settled himself between your legs.
He ducked his head, his hair falling over your hips as he hesitated. For all his royal blood, Daeron was built like he was on a thin glass confidence. He hovered there for a heartbeat, his breath hot and ragged against your aching cunt. He remembered that one night when they were visiting Red Keep, the wine was so heavy in his stomach, giving him a bravado he usually lacked. Tonight, he was sobered by his fear, making his breathing shaky.
Then, he forced his tongue against you.
A low groan vibrated through his chest as he tasted the salty sweetness of your release and arousal. He wasn't a master of this, not like he was with his fingers, but his lack of polished skill was replaced by a hunger for you. He licked upwards, slow and searching, his tongue tracing the swollen folds with a shaky, uncoordinated devotion that made your hips buck involuntarily.
"Gods," he murmured against your cunt, the word muffled just barely, "you...you're so sweet. If I could get drunk off of this I would."
He grew slightly bolder, his movements becoming a little more frantic. He began to use his mouth with a desperate, messy intensity that had his nose buried in the soft curls of your hair, his hands reaching up to grip your thighs and pull you closer to his face. He wasn't just wanting to taste you, he was wanting to consume you, to make himself drunk off of the taste of your arousal.
The friction wasn't enough for him. As his tongue worked with a clumsy, beautiful fervor, his own body betrayed the depth of his arousal. He began to grind his hips down onto the sagging mattress, the wood of the bedframe groaning. He needed the pressure, anything to make his breath quiver against your swollen clit as he thrusted into the bed, his hips matching the frantic pace of his tongue.
He was losing himself. He let out a broken, whined sound against your thigh, his teeth grazing the tender skin of your inner thigh as he surrended to the sensation.
You looked down, your vision blurred by the darkness and the pleasure, seeing only his tangled hair between your legs. He looked like a man a man in the middle of a prayer, or in the middle of a feast, his hands trembling where they held you still. Every time you let out a sharp breath or moan of his name, telling him how good he was, he would press his tongue deeper inside of you or swirling it with a renewed energy against your clit, feeding off the way you trembled for him.
"Stay like this," he choked out, lifting his head for a fleeting second, his lips glistening and his face flushed, "don't let the morning come. Don't let them find us."
Daeron's devotion to you was frantic, his tongue sweeping over you with a clumsy, beautiful fervor that spoke of a man who had finally found the only thing in this world to keep him tied to it. As the second high of your pleasure began to build, Daeron didn't pull away. It only seemed to turn him on more, his jaw working with a starving intensity that drove you over the edge.
You cried out, your fingers curling into the rough wool of the mattress as your hips bucked under his tongue as your thighs captured either side of his head. Daeron didn't stop until the last shake of your thighs around his head faded into a soft, lingering ache.
Slowly, he began to work himself back up. He pressed a lingering, open mouthed kiss to the skin of your inner thigh, his stubble grazing the flesh that made you shiver all over again. He moved higher, his lips tracing the curve of your stomach, his breath hot and ragged against your navel. He looked like a man drunk, which he usually was.
When he reached your breasts again, he paused, leaning down to press a firm, slow kiss to the nipple of one breast, then the other, his tongue swirling briefly over the hardened peak before he surged upwards to find your mouth.
The kiss was messy and deep, tasting of the wine he used to dull his nerves and the sharp tang of your own arousal that still clung to his lips. You swallowed the taste of yourself on his tongue, your heart hammering with a frantic beat against your ribs.
"Daeron," you whispered against his mouth, hands sliding down his back, feeling the tension finally drained from his frame, "it's only fair that I return the favor, my prince. You've spent the time worshipping me while you're still trapped in your breeches."
He let out a small, huffed breath that sounded suspiciously like a nervous chuckle, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I...I'm not sure that's necessary," he murmured, his voice cracking with a strange, sheepish exhaustion.
You ignored him, your hand sliding down his stomach, past the belt of his trousers to the heavy, dark fabric of his breeches. You expected to find him straining against the cloth, hard and desperate for the same release he'd just given you twice. Instead, as your palm cupped up, you felt something entirely different.
The fabric was damp, soaked through. Underneath the wet wool, his cock was entirely soft, the frantic grinding of his hips into the mattress earlier suddenly making sense in a very specific, very funny way.
You pulled back, blinking in the darkness as you looked down at your hand, then back up at his face. His cheeks were flushed a deep, bruised crimson, and he wouldn't meet your gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on the shadow of the washbasin in the corner of the room.
"Really, Daeron?" You asked, a soft, teasing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, "you finished in your pants while you were...while I was..."
He let out a long, suffering sigh, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. "I told you I was a poor excuse for a knight," he muttered, his voice muffled by your sweat slicked skin, "I was watching you. The way you looked, the way you sounded, and the bed made it feel so...I couldn't help it. It was too much, everything is always too much."
He sounded so genuinely mortified, so utterly like the man who would rather hide in a wine cask than face a tourney, that you couldn't help but pull him closer. There was something undeniably attractive about his lack of composure; the way your pleasure had been enough to completely undo a man.
"Well," you whispered, nipping playfully at his earlobe, "at least I know I don't have to worry about you being distracted by any maidens we come across. You're clearly a one-woman disaster."
Daeron groaned, but he didn't pull away. He kept himself tucked into your shoulder, his breath hitching occasionally as the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving him vulnerable in a way that no prince of the House of the Dragon was ever supposed to be.
"Come now," you whispered, your voice a soothing tone that seemed to make him shiver, "we can't have you sleeping in those."
Daeron let out a weak, muffled groan of protest, but he didn't resist when you gently nudged him back. He sat up slowly, his hair falling over his face like a curtain. He looked down at the dark, damp patch on his breaches, his face heating up again even in the cool air of the room. He looked so embarrassed, his fingers fumbling uselessly at the laces of his toursers.
"Here," you say, batting his hands away with a playful tenderness, "let me."
You knelt on the mattress before him, the old springs groaning under your shift. With careful, steady fingers, you began to undo the knots he had made of the leather laces. Daeron watched you, his eyes wide and shimmering with both shame and love. He looked like a man who couldn't believe he was allowed to be this human, this messy, and still be loved.
As you eased the heavy, soaked wool down his hips, he let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The cold, clingy fabric being gone now gave away to the warmth of the room, and you tossed the discarded breeches towards the chair by the washbasin.
You didn't stop there. You reached for a small pitcher of water on the bedside table, dipping a corner of it on a clean linen. It was cool, but not freezing, as you began to gently wipe the drying evidence of his release from his thighs. He went still, his hands resting on your shoulder as he watched you care for him.
There was no judgement in your movements, only a quiet, loving grace. For a man who lived in constant fear of his own shadow, the silent, physical devotion of his wife not being upset that he soiled himself too early seemed to knock the breath from his lungs.
"You're too good for me," he rasped, "I'm a drunkard. I'm a coward who's hiding in an inn because he doesn't want to go have fun with his brothers and cousins. I'm not...I'm not the man you should be scrubbing clean with a towel."
You stopped, looking up at him. You reached up, cupping his face with your palm, your thumb tracing the dark circles under his eyes. "You're the man who chose me," you countered firmly, "and you're the man who would rather be a coward with me than a hero without me. That's more than enough for any wife."
You finished your task, setting the cloth aside, and urged him back onto the pillows. As he settled in, you climbed under the heavy blankets beside him, pulling the blankets up to your chins.
Daeron immediately sought you out in the dark. He tucked his head beneath your chin, his long, thin limbs tangling with yours as if he were trying to weave himself into your skin. He was still trembling, not with the terror of his dreams, but with the sheer, overwhelming feeling of love he felt in your arms.
His hand found yours under the covers, his fingers locking tightly with yours. "Will you stay?" He whispered, his voice small, "if the dreams come back...will you pull me back?"
"I'll never let go," you promised, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head, "tonight this room is ours, you are safe here."
He let out one last, deep breath, his body finally going limp against yours. His heart slowed into a steady, peaceful drumbeat, the rain roaring outside helping to bring him into a dreamless sleep, held by the weight of your love and quiet warmth of the night.
thinking about that illustration of solitude vs loneliness in which solitude is a dog peacefully holding its own leash & loneliness is a feral dog fighting against the restraint of the leash & feeling slightly insane
i love every fanficâs introduction of jesper because itâs always
âhe was wearing the fucking ugliness outfit ever. it clashed. it was horrible. it looked like a clown had died in those clothing. he was gorgeous.â
Rereading The Way Of Kings sucks because youâll meet a silly little bridgeman named Pleeb and youll be like âwoah I wonder why I donât remember this guy hes so neat :))â and then two chapters later Pleeb is shot 57 times and then run over by a 2005 Toyota Prius
Chuckling to myself remembering the time I completely broke a scammer's brain by telling them I use Linux.
Scammer: do you have an apple or a windows computer please?
Me: neither, I use Linux.
Scammer: no no no, I asked if you use a apple or a windows
Me: neither
Scammer: what is the sticker? Is it a four boxes or is it an apple with a bite?
Me: ... I don't use EITHER of them. There's a third operating system called Linux. It isn't a PC or a mac. Please tell me you understand
Scammer: do -- do you know what I mean about apple or windows sir?
Me: yes. I'm a software developer. I understand completely. I'm telling you that YOU don't understand. Its called Linux, spelled L-I-N-U-X, type it into google
Scammer:
Scammer: but is it an apple or a windows computer sir
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