Warnings: Smut, p in v, oral, creampie, loss of virginity, reader has no description
This came straight from my ovulated mind
Daeron stood in their shared chambers, the firelight casting a warm glow over his new wife. He was pleasantly tipsy, but far from drunk—he had every intention of savoring this night.
He watched, transfixed, as she shyly slipped out of her gown. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare before him. For a long moment he simply drank in the sight of her, heart pounding. Then he began undressing himself, his fingers clumsier and more hurried than hers had been.
She let out a soft giggle.
“Do you find your husband’s struggles so amusing?” he asked with mock offense, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Before she could answer, he closed the distance and gently guided her back onto the bed. His hands moved over her with reverent fascination, tracing the soft curves of her body as though she were something sacred. “I do not deserve a gift as sweet as you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.
He kissed her deeply, then let his lips trail downward—along the delicate line of her throat, over the swell of her breasts. He lavished attention on each one, sucking and flicking his tongue across her hardened nipples until she was whimpering and arching into his mouth. Lower still he went, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, until he settled between her thighs.
The sight of her—pink, glistening, and entirely his—drew a low, needy whine from his throat.
“Daeron, what are you— you needn’t—” she protested softly, cheeks burning.
He brushed her words aside with a gentle shake of his head. “Trust me,” he murmured, voice husky against her skin. “I am being wholly selfish in this.”
Then his mouth was on her.
He groaned at the first taste, rich and sweet and utterly intoxicating. His tongue moved with slow, hungry strokes, lapping at her folds before circling her swollen clit with firm, deliberate pressure. He sucked the sensitive bud between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue until her hips bucked and her fingers tightened desperately in his hair.
She gasped, thighs trembling around his head.
Daeron only growled in response, pushing his face deeper. His nose pressed firmly against her mound as he devoured her, tongue plunging inside her tight heat before returning to torture her clit. He slid two fingers into her slowly, curling them against that sensitive spot within while his mouth continued its relentless assault. She was soaking his chin, her slick arousal coating his lips and fingers, and he loved every second of it.
He worked her with greedy hunger, alternating between long, languid licks and fast, focused suction until her moans grew louder and her walls fluttered around his fingers. When she finally shattered, crying out his name, he didn’t stop. He kept licking and stroking her through every pulse of her climax, drawing it out until she was shaking and whimpering.
Only then did he rise, crawling up her body with a predatory gleam in his eyes. His cock was achingly hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. He settled between her still-trembling thighs, rubbing the thick head of his length along her slick folds, teasing her oversensitive clit.
He leaned down, brushing his lips against her ear. “Tell me, sweet girl… have you ever touched yourself here?”
She turned her face away, cheeks burning. Daeron smiled, soft and wicked, and gently turned her chin back to him.
“Don’t be shy,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough. “My cock will feel far better than those pretty little fingers of yours ever could.”
He held her hips with tender strength, fingers flexing against her soft skin as if afraid she might slip away. His cock nudged at her entrance, already slick and throbbing with need, and he pressed forward slowlyinch by inch into her welcoming heat. A low, broken groan tore from his throat the moment her walls enveloped him, tight and silken and perfect. His forehead dropped to hers, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded with barely contained desperation.
“Gods… look at you,” he whispered, voice rough and strained. “Taking me so beautifully already. Just breathe, petal. Let me in.”
She gasped sharply, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing her softly, almost reverently, while he stayed buried to the hilt. He was trembling with the effort of holding still, every muscle taut as he fought the overwhelming urge to drive into her like a man starved. “You feel like fucking heaven. So tight… so wet for me already. I’ve been aching for this—for you—all day. Don’t move yet, sweet girl. Just let me feel you.”
After a few moments, her body began to relax around his length. He rocked gently at first, shallow thrusts that had her whimpering sweetly into his mouth. But the desperation was bleeding through—his hips stuttered, a needy little sound escaping him as he fought to stay measured.
“That’s it… good girl,” he praised, voice husky and low. One hand slid down to grip her ass, kneading the flesh as he tilted her hips just right. “You’re doing so well for me. Letting me stretch this pretty little cunt open.” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in with a smooth, deliberate stroke, savoring the wet, obscene sound of their bodies joining and the way her arousal already coated his shaft.
Her head fell back against the pillows, lips parted in ecstasy. Each thrust dragged the thick head of his cock against her inner walls, rubbing that sensitive spot that made her clench and flutter around him. the slick sounds growing louder as her juices dripped down to his balls.
Daeron’s control frayed. “Fuck… I need you,” he groaned, the words slipping out like a confession. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, spreading her wider, opening her up completely for him. His pace quickened, thrusts growing deeper, harder, the bed creaking beneath them as skin slapped rhythmically against skin. Yet even as he took her with mounting urgency, his touch stayed reverent—thumb stroking her hip, lips brushing her temple, forehead still pressed to hers so he could drink in every expression.
He leaned down to capture a breast in his mouth, sucking on her nipple while pounding into her with deep, possessive strokes. “Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he growled softly against her skin, voice edged with raw need. “I can’t get enough of how perfectly you squeeze me…”
He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit that spot inside her with every desperate thrust. His free hand slid between them to circle her clit with firm, practiced strokes.
“Come for me,” he pleaded, the softness of his tone undercut by the hunger vibrating through his body. “I need to feel you fall apart around my cock. Please….”
His words and the relentless pressure on her clit pushed her right to the edge. Her thighs began to shake around him, her walls fluttering and clenching tighter with every deep thrust.
She cried out, back arching sharply as her orgasm crashed over her. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red trails as she came hard around his cock, pulsing and gushing wetly.
Daeron groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw. “Fuck, just like that. So perfect—milking me so sweetly.” His hips stuttered, losing rhythm for a moment as her climax nearly dragged him over with her, but he held on through sheer will, taking her through every wave of pleasure. He kept rubbing her clit in slow, soothing circles until her tremors began to ease, never once stopping the deep, claiming strokes of his cock.
Even as she came down, he didn’t slow. His desperation had only grown. Sweat slicked his skin, his breathing ragged against her neck as he buried his face there, kissing and nipping at her pulse point.
“Not done with you yet,” he murmured, voice thick with need. “Need to feel you come again. Can you do that for me, sweet girl? One more time?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out just long enough to flip her onto her stomach. He covered her body with his own, chest pressed to her back, and slid back inside her in one smooth, hungry thrust. The new angle made her moan loudly into the pillow. Daeron’s hand slid under her, fingers finding her clit again as he began to fuck her with deep, powerful rolls of his hips.
“Take it,” he whispered hotly against her ear, the softness of his dominance wrapping around the raw edge of his hunger. “Take every inch like the perfect little thing you are. You feel so good… so fucking good. I can’t stop—need you so badly.”
The wet slap of skin on skin grew louder, the bed slamming against the wall with each thrust. Every stroke dragged against that sensitive spot inside her, his heavy balls slapping against her with every desperate plunge.
He could feel his own release building, a tight coil at the base of his spine, but he fought it, teeth gritted. “Come with me, petal. Please—let me fill you up while you’re squeezing me so tight.”
His pace became frantic but still controlled, each thrust precise and deep, groaning her name like a prayer as her second orgasm began to build.
When it hit her, he followed right behind—burying himself to the hilt with a broken, desperate whine as he came hard, pulsing thick ropes of heat deep inside her. His hips kept rocking through it, slow and lazy now, as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.
He collapsed carefully over her, mindful not to crush her, and turned them both onto their sides so he could stay buried inside her warmth. His arms wrapped around her tightly, one hand stroking her hair while the other caressed her with reverent touches.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses along her neck and jaw, voice still shaky with the aftershocks.
Reader is about th same age as Daeron she is just naive and sheltered
May make a part two…
Daeron had watched the Baratheon girl from the moment her party arrived at Summerhall. Lord Lyonel’s youngest sister She was no great beauty by the cruel standards of court. Her face was round and soft, her eyes wide and guileless, her smile too quick and too trusting. The other lords snickered behind their cups, calling her the empty-headed doe, a simple-minded little Baratheon fawn better suited for the nursery than the marriage game. To Daeron, she was something far more dangerous: untouched. A sliver of true innocence in a realm already scorched by fire and ambition.
He tried to stay away. Seven hells, he tried. He drank deeper. He laughed louder. He told himself a drunken fool with dragon dreams had no right to lay hands on something so sweet. But self-denial had never been among his virtues.
When she slipped away from the feast into the moonlit gardens, the pull became unbearable.
His boots crunched unsteadily on the gravel path. A low-hanging branch snagged his shoulder; he cursed under his breath. She heard the sound and turned, eyes widening like a startled deer’s.
“M-my prince,” she whispered, dropping into an awkward, earnest curtsy. Moonlight silvered her simple gown and caught in the soft brown waves of her hair.
Daeron offered his most disarming, crooked smile—the one that had gotten him out of trouble since he was a boy. “No need for such formality, little doe. I only sought some air… and perhaps a moment’s company. The gardens are lonely after dark, are they not?” He lifted the wineskin from his belt, the scent of strong wine clinging to him like a second skin. “Will you share a drink with your prince? Just one. What harm could come of it?”
Her fingers trembled as they brushed his, but she did not pull away. “My brother says… I mustn’t be alone with a man. Not without a chaperone.”
Daeron hummed, warm and indulgent. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” That boyish grin, slightly lopsided from wine, had always been his sharpest weapon. She hesitated only a heartbeat before slipping her arm through his.
He led her deeper, past glowing stone lanterns and thickets of night-blooming jasmine whose perfume hung heavy in the air. The music and laughter of the feast faded until only crickets and the distant sigh of the wind remained. In a hidden alcove ringed by tall hedges, he stopped.
His gaze traced the modest curve of her neck, the gentle swell of her bodice, the wondering innocence in her eyes. Desire stirred, low and hungry, but something gentler twisted alongside it—an ache he had no name for.
“Here,” he murmured, offering the skin again. “It will warm you on a cool night.”
Too polite to refuse a prince, she took a cautious sip. The strong wine made her cough; a thin crimson line escaped the corner of her mouth.
Daeron’s breath caught. He reclaimed the skin and brushed his thumb across her lower lip, catching the droplet. Their eyes locked. Slowly, almost reverently, he brought his thumb to his own mouth and licked it clean.
“Sweet,” he rasped, voice rough with wine and want.
Her breath hitched. He cupped her chin with careful fingers, tilting her face toward his. “Tell me, little doe… has your brother betrothed you yet?”
She looked down, twisting the fabric of her gown. “N-no, my prince. He says I’m not ready.”
The words struck him like a lance. Not ready. Sheltered. Pure. He should walk away. Instead, he stepped closer, caging her gently against the low garden wall with one arm braced beside her head. “Never courted?” he asked softly. “Never even kissed?”
She shook her head, cheeks burning.
His pulse thundered. “Do you ever wonder about it? About a man’s mouth on yours… about the warmth that comes after?”
“…Sometimes,” she admitted in a tiny voice.
Daeron smiled, sad at the edges. “You needn’t be shy with me. Let me show you… just a little. I swear I won’t hurt you.”
The first kiss was feather-light, a brush of wine-warmed lips. She stiffened. He drew back just enough to meet her eyes. “Relax, sweet girl. Follow me. I have you.”
When she gave the smallest nod, he kissed her again—deeper, slower, coaxing her lips apart with patient tenderness. His tongue met hers like a question. She made a soft, startled sound that melted into something sweeter. One of his hands slid down her side, mapping the curve of her waist, brushing lightly over the swell of her breast through her gown. Her breath trembled.
He trailed kisses along her jaw to the frantic pulse at her throat. “So sweet,” he breathed against her skin. “You have no idea what you do to a man like me…”
Her small hands fisted shyly in his doublet. “Daeron…” she whispered, tasting his name like something forbidden.
“Say it again.” His voice had gone rough. Fingers found the laces of her gown and loosened them with surprising care, baring one pale shoulder. He kissed the revealed skin with something close to worship.
Heat built between them like slow-kindled flame. His hand slipped beneath her skirts, tracing up a soft thigh until he reached the thin linen of her smallclothes, already damp. “Tell me, little doe,” he whispered hotly against her ear, “have you ever ached… right here?”
“I… I feel it now,” she confessed, trembling.
“Poor sweet girl.” He kissed her temple even as his fingers stroked gently over the fabric. “Let me soothe it. Just for you.”
He sank to his knees on the soft grass with surprising grace for a drunkard. Her skirts pooled around her waist; he hooked one of her legs carefully over his shoulder to steady her against the wall. She gasped. “Daeron— my prince— that’s not—”
“Shh.” He pressed a tender kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Trust me. I only want to make you feel good.”
The first slow, reverent lick through her slick folds drew a sharp, shocked cry from her lips. Daeron groaned at her taste—pure, sweet, untouched. “Gods… so sweet.” He licked broad and devoted from entrance to swollen pearl, circling the sensitive bud before sucking gently.
Her hands tangled desperately in his silver hair. “It feels— too much— I don’t understand—” she whimpered, even as her hips twitched shyly toward his mouth.
“You’re perfect,” he praised between slow, worshipful strokes, sliding one finger carefully inside her tight heat and curling it gently. “My innocent little doe… letting me taste you like this. Let it build, sweet one. I’ve got you.”
He worked her with patient, devoted skill—tongue flicking and sucking, fingers moving in a steady rhythm—until her standing leg shook violently and her breaths became broken whimpers. When her peak finally crashed over her, she cried out sharply, thighs clamping around his head as her walls fluttered and fresh slick coated his tongue. Daeron stayed with her through every shuddering wave, licking softly until she sagged against the wall, dazed and trembling.
He rose quickly, catching her in strong arms and pulling her against his chest. “There you are,” he whispered, voice warm and rough. “My sweet girl… you were so good for me.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
With surprising tenderness, he helped her straighten her gown, re-lacing it with careful fingers and smoothing her skirts. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Only the pretty flush on her cheeks and the dreamy shine in her eyes betrayed what had happened.
Lord Lyonel’s voice cut through the night like a thunderclap. “Sister? Where are you?”
Daeron’s crooked smirk returned, though his eyes held something softer—almost regret. He brushed one last thumb across her flushed cheek.
“Don’t worry, Lord Baratheon,” he called out smoothly as Lyonel appeared at the entrance to the alcove. “I found your sister wandering alone. I simply couldn’t let anything unpleasant happen to her in the dark.”
Adrian’s grip on your hips was iron-tight, fingers digging into your skin as he drove into you. Your face was buried deep in the pillows, muffling the broken cries that tore from your throat with every thrust. He had you ass up, back arched, completely at his mercy—while he fucked you like a man on a mission. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by your desperate, whimpering moans.
He was obsessed with the way you sounded when he hit that perfect spot inside you, and right now he was nailing it on every single thrust, grinding deep and rolling his hips just right to make your legs shake uncontrollably.
“Fuck, that’s it—louder,” he growled, voice low and ragged with effort, a wild grin you couldn’t see stretching across his face. “C’mon, scream for me. I wanna hear—”
The obnoxious opening notes of Barbie Girl suddenly blasted from his phone on the nightstand.
Adrian didn’t even slow down. If anything, he tightened his hold on your hips and kept pounding into you, dragging another sharp cry from your lips as he reached over and snatched the phone. He glanced at the screen, eyes lighting up.
Peacemaker.
Without missing a beat, he swiped to answer, still buried to the hilt inside you. His voice came out bright, cheerful, and utterly casual, like he was lounging on the couch instead of railing you into the mattress.
“Hey, dude! What’s up? You miss me already?”
There was a long pause on the other end.
There was a long, stunned pause on the other end. Then Chris’s voice, equal parts confused and horrified:
“…Dude. Are you watching porn right now?”
Adrian barked out a laugh, the sudden jolt making you whine and clench around him. He gave your ass a quick, soothing pat.
“Oh shit—sorry, baby,” he mumbled, half-apologetic, before immediately picking up the pace again. His voice stayed cheerful and completely unbothered. “Don’t be ridiculous, man. I would never watch porn while on the phone with you. I’m fucking my girlfriend.”
Another thrust nailed that sweet spot dead-on. Your back arched sharply as you pushed back against him with a needy moan. Adrian huffed, gripping your hip tighter to keep you in place.
“Jesus, hold on a second,” he told you, like you were the one interrupting. Then, back to Chris: “Yeah, man, she’s right here. Being very impatient, actually. You’d think she’d have some manners when I’m on the phone with my best friend.”
Chris made a strangled noise. “Adrian, what the fuck—”
Adrian just laughed again, low and breathless, clearly having the time of his life. He leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against your back so he could speak right next to your ear while still holding the phone.
“Say hi, babe,” he grinned, giving you a deep, filthy roll of his hips that ripped a loud, broken moan from your throat.
“Adrian, I’m hanging up—”
“No, wait! Did you need something? Is this about the mission? Or did you just call to cockblock me? Because that’s kinda fucked up, dude.”
You turned your head just enough to shoot him a wrecked, furious glare over your shoulder. Adrian blinked at you, looking genuinely confused by your outrage.
Chris sighed—the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who had suffered too much. “Just… call me back when you’re done being a freak.”
“Roger that!” Adrian said happily. “Might be a while though. She’s really into it tonight.”
He hung up, tossed the phone onto the floor, and immediately buried both hands in your hair, tugging your head back as he started fucking you even harder. You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets.
“A-Adrian—you can’t just answer the phone when we’re—fuck—”
“But it was Peacemaker,” he groaned, voice strained as he picked up the pace. “I had to—ah, shit, I’m so close…”
His hand slid from your hair, smoothing down your sweat-slicked back before gripping your hips tight. He slammed into you with deep, punishing strokes, trying to bury himself as far as physically possible.
“Adrian—” you gasped.
“Don’t wanna come in you till you come first,” he panted, voice wrecked. “C’mon, baby… I can feel you getting so close—”
he shifted angles and drove in even deeper. The new position had the head of his cock dragging perfectly against that spot with every thrust, sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.
Adrian’s grip on your hips was bruising, using the leverage to pull you back onto him in time with his punishing rhythm. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding filled the room again, louder now that he was chasing both your pleasure and his own with single-minded intensity.
“That’s it,” he moaned against the back of your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—gonna milk me dry if you keep that up.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Every deep stroke pushed you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling violently. A particularly hard thrust punched a raw, desperate cry out of you, and Adrian moaned in response, the sound low and filthy.
“Yeah? Right there?” He did it again, grinding against you in tight circles. “Let me hear it, baby. Come on my coc, please.”
The coil snapped.
Your orgasm crashed over you, ripping a loud, shattered moan from your throat as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. Pleasure flooded your body in pulsing waves, making your vision blur and your legs give out. Adrian cursed loudly, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, drawing out every last tremor.
“Fuck—yes—, just like that—” His voice was hoarse, strained
Before you could even catch your breath, he pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back. Then he was sliding back inside you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he braced his forearms on either side of your head. His face hovered above yours—flushed, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, that wild, adoring grin still plastered across his lips.
“Hi, beautiful,” he breathed, like he hadn’t just railed you senseless while on the phone with his best friend. He rolled his hips slowly, savoring the way you fluttered around him in the aftershocks.
You could only whimper, oversensitive and dazed, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. Adrian’s pace quickly built again, chasing his own release now that you’d fallen apart for him. His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, more desperate.
“Shit, I’m—fuck—” He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes locked on your face like he needed to watch every second of your pleasure. “Gonna fill you up, baby. You ready?”
You nodded frantically, nails digging into his back.
With a guttural groan, Adrian slammed in one final time and came hard, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside you. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering broken curses and praise against your lips between messy kisses.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he finally collapsed half on top of you, still buried inside.
Thenl he reached blindly for the discarded phone on the floor, checked the screen, and let out a soft laugh.
“Chris texted,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice sleepy and satisfied…
Tagging everyone who commented on my wip post: @backstabbvrs @spinalcord @adoresami @scarlett-rivers @selina00kyle @loserdollyz
The journey to and from Ashford had been torturous for Daeron —long days in the saddle, endless lectures from his father, the humiliation of the trial, and worst of all, the aching absence of his sweet wife. By the time he stumbled through the doors of their chambers at Summerhall, the torches burned low and the air was thick with the scent of summer blooms drifting through the open windows. He was half-drunk, as usual, but the wine had been measured tonight. Only two cups, just enough to take the edge off his nerves without dulling the hunger that had gnawed at him for days.
She lay in their great bed, propped against the pillows in a thin silk nightdress, her hair loose and gleaming in the candlelight. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Daeron crossed the room in unsteady strides, shedding his cloak and outer tunic as he went.
“My sweet petal,” he rasped, climbing onto the bed and crawling over her like a man starved. “It has been hellish without you.” His mouth found her neck at once, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate column of her throat, tasting the warmth of her skin.
She stirred, tilting her head to welcome him—then froze. Her eyes widened as she took in the fresh scar cutting across his cheek, raw and angry, ending where half his ear had been neatly sliced away.
“Gods, Daeron—what happened to you?” Her fingers lifted instinctively toward the wound.
He caught her wrist gently but firmly, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I wish not to discuss it right now, my love. I’ve had enough of blood and shame for one lifetime. All I want is to reunite with my sweet lady wife after days of pure torture without her.”
“You were hardly gone that long,” she murmured, though her voice had already softened. Her fingertips still traced the edge of the scar with careful tenderness. He winced at the contact but did not pull away.
“Going even a single day without your smile and your cunt is like a month without wine,” he muttered against her skin, voice rough with need. His hands tugged impatiently at the laces and silk of her nightdress, clumsy in his haste. “I crave your cunt greatly, my love, and I intend on having my fill of it now.”
With a low growl of frustration, he gave up on delicacy and simply shoved the silk up and off her body in one rushed motion. She gasped as the cool night air kissed her bare skin, a pretty flush blooming across her chest and cheeks at his blunt words.
Daeron’s mouth followed the path of his hands, hot and eager. He kissed down her throat, across her collarbone, then latched onto one breast with a needy groan. He filled his palms with the soft, heavy mounds, squeezing gently as his tongue swirled around the stiffening peak. She let out a sweet, breathy moan that went straight to his cock. He switched to the other breast, sucking harder, scraping his teeth lightly until her back arched off the bed.
Lower still he traveled, lips brushing over the gentle roundness of her stomach, hands caressing the plush flesh with open reverence. When he finally settled between her thighs, he hooked his arms beneath her legs and spread her wide, earning a startled little squirm.
“Ah… look at her,” he murmured, breath ghosting over her slick folds. “Weeping so prettily for me already. Poor thing missed me just as badly as I missed her.” He pressed a reverent kiss to her mound, then another just above her entrance, before his patience snapped.
He dove in with a hungry groan, tongue dragging through her folds and tasting her sweetness. “Fuck… sweeter than the finest liliac wine,” he rasped against her, the vibration making her hips jerk. He held her down with strong hands on her thighs and feasted—lapping, sucking, circling her swollen pearl with relentless devotion. Her fingers tangled in his silver hair, tugging hard as broken whimpers and gasps spilled from her lips.
“Daeron—oh gods—”
Her thighs began to tremble around his head. He redoubled his efforts, sucking her clit between his lips and flicking it mercilessly with his tongue until her whole body seized. She came with a sharp cry, flooding his mouth with her release. He moaned like a man tasting ambrosia and drank every drop, licking her through the aftershocks until she was twitching and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny and breathing ragged. In one frantic motion he tore at his own remaining clothes, kicking breeches and smallclothes aside until he was as bare as she was. His cock stood hard and flushed, already leaking with need.
He crawled back up her body, settling between her still-trembling thighs. His scarred cheek brushed hers as he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
“Fuck… I’ve been dying to bury myself deep inside this sweet little cunny, petal,” he groaned, voice wrecked with need.
“Please, Dae…” she whimpered, hips rolling up desperately, trying to pull him in.
He kissed her again—slow, almost reverent—then notched the thick head of his cock against her dripping entrance. With one smooth, powerful thrust he sank into her tight heat, burying himself to the hilt. They both moaned, raw and relieved, as her walls fluttered and clenched around his throbbing length.
He stayed there for a long moment, savoring the perfect, wet grip of her cunt, letting her stretch around him. Then he began to move—slow, deep strokes that dragged along every sensitive spot inside her.
“Gods… feel how badly she needed me,” he growled, voice cocky and rough as his pace quickened. “Poor thing’s been neglected, hasn’t she? This greedy little cunt needs to be fucked at least once a day, doesn’t it, my love?”
She slapped his chest playfully, cheeks burning. “H-hush—”
Daeron smirked, wicked and bright. He caught her legs and folded them gently over his shoulders, changing the angle until he was driving even deeper. His hips snapped forward harder, faster, pounding into her with hungry, filthy need. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the chamber, mingling with her loud cries and his low groans.
Her nails dug into his arms, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach. Daeron’s head fell back, silver hair sticking to his sweat-dampened neck as he whined and cursed, chasing the pleasure only she could give him.
Daeron’s rhythm grew relentless, each powerful thrust driving deep enough to punch the breath from her lungs. Folded nearly in half beneath him, her knees pressed to her shoulders, she could do nothing but take every thick inch.
“I had intended to savor you,” he groaned, voice rough and strained, “but I so wish to fuck you right now, sweet girl…”
The confession seemed to snap what little restraint he had left. His hips snapped forward harder, faster, pounding into her with raw, hungry need. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the chamber, mingling with her loud cries and his low, broken groans.
“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he panted, sandy hair sticking to his sweat-damp neck. “So tight… so fucking wet. greedy thing.”
He drove into her with deep, punishing strokes, the new angle letting him grind against that perfect spot inside her with every thrust. One of his hands slipped between their bodies, thumb finding her swollen clit and rubbing tight, slick circles.
Her back arched hard, nails digging into his arms and shoulders. “Dae— oh gods—”
“Come for me again,” he growled, voice wrecked with lust. “Milk my cock, petal. I want to feel this greedy little cunt squeezing me when I fill you up.”
The filthy words and relentless pace shattered her. Her walls clamped down around him as her orgasm crashed through her, thighs shaking violently while she cried out his name. Her cunt fluttered and pulsed wildly, pulling him even deeper.
With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of spend flooding her clenching heat. He kept moving through it in shallow, greedy thrusts, riding out every pulse until he was spent and trembling above her.
He carefully lowered her legs, then collapsed half on top of her, face buried in the crook of her neck. His cock was still nestled inside her as they both caught their breath.
"My sweet petal," he whispered hoarsely, voice full of sated warmth. "I swear I'll never leave your side again... not for that long. A day without this is torture enough for a lifetime." She let out a soft, breathless laugh and threaded her fingers through his damp sandy hair, pulling him closer.
Warnings: 18+(MDNI) targcest, reader has no description, P in V, unsafe sex, public sex, creampie, a slightest tiny bit of degradation?
Notes: I'm still learning how to write…..
Daeron had yet again dragged her to a dive bar, hyping up some 'couples' discount on cheap drinks. The place reeked of stale beer and sweat, packed wall-to-wall with rowdy drunks hollering over the cover band's shitty version of some dad rock song. She was already committed, though, slamming back shot after shot, the burn loosening her inhibitions fast. Daeron matched her drink for drink—maybe more—but his iron tolerance left him a bit more sober compared to her buzzing haze. Alcohol always ignited her libido like a fuse, and tonight, biting her lip while stealing glances at his smirking face, she felt that familiar ache building between her thighs.
Daeron had dragged her into the stall, the door rattling shut behind them. The dive bar's bass thumped through the thin walls, muffling their heavy breaths. Alcohol buzzed hot in their veins, turning caution to ash. He spun her around. She bent over the toilet, hands clamped white-knuckled on the porcelain rim, dress hiked up to her waist, panties tangled at her ankles. Daeron stood behind her, pants shoved down just enough, his thick cock freed and rigid. He gripped the base, rubbing the swollen head along her slick pussy before nudging in slowly.
"Need you," he murmured against her neck, voice rough but soft, lips brushing her skin. One hand cupped her hip, thumb stroking in slow circles, guiding her back onto him.
Her walls gripped him like a vice, fluttering around his girth. He started steadily, hands firm on her hips—not bruising yet, just guiding—as his hips rolled forward in measured pumps. Her breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, matching his low groans. He yanked her back harder, deepening the angle, and a sharp moan escaped her lips despite the thumping music muffling the stall.
Dearon licked his lips, eyes dark with hunger, and ramped it up—faster, firmer thrusts that dragged his veined shaft along every sensitive ridge inside her. The booze sharpened everything: the filthy bathroom stench mixing with their musk, the cool porcelain under her palms, and the way his cock stretched her pussy to the brink. She gasped louder, fingers digging into the toilet as pleasure coiled tight in her core. She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to draw attention to herself with her noises.
But then he secured her hips in a bruising hold, pulling out until only his tip kissed her entrance before slamming back in with a brutal thrust. She cried out, the sound echoing off the tiles. Her pussy spasmed wildly around him. "Fuck... petal, I know," he whined, voice strained. "Feels so goddamn good, but stay quiet. Gotta stay quiet for me, princess…”
He leaned in, chest pressing hot against her back, hips snapping relentlessly now—pounding deep, the head of his cock battering her cervix with every plunge. She bit her lip bloody, but a loud moan tore free anyway. Daeron whimpered, his breath hot on her neck. "Princess—shh... fuck, we can't have anyone busting in. Seeing the sweet little princess bent over a toilet, letting her cousin wreck her pussy? Tabloids would eat that shit up."
He nipped her shoulder, soothing the bite with a wet kiss. She whimpered, body trembling as he kept railing at her. His hand shot up, clamping firm over her mouth, muffling her cries while his other arm banded around her waist, holding her steady as he fucked her in.
earnest. His cock pistoned in and out, slick with her juices, balls slapping her clit with wet smacks. "Gods, petal... You take it so fucking good," he panted, voice wrecked.
His rhythm broke. "Gonna cum... Fuck, petal, can I? Inside please? Fill this perfect cunt?" Desperation laced his bag, so raw it pushed her over. She nodded frantically against his palm, moaning 'yes' into his fingers.
He whined again high in his throat, thrusting wildly now—short, punishing drives that ground his cock against her deepest spots. Her walls convulsed, orgasm ripping through her in waves, pussy gushing around him. Daeron buried deep with a guttural groan, hips jerking as hot spurts of seed erupted from his cock, painting her insides thick and sticky. Rope after rope filled her, leaking down her thighs as he ground through it, milking every drop.
They stay still, catching their breath, their minds fuzzy from pleasure and alcohol; they barely register someone waking in the restroom…
Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, breeding kink(unprotected sex obviously), size difference (dunk is huge),
Authors note: this is my first smut I'm sorry if it's bad….im nervous…
The scene in the princess's chambers is scandalous—
Her face is buried in the pillow, backside lifted into the air, body trembling and jolting forward with each brutal thrust. Ser Duncan pounds into her without restraint, hips snapping against her flesh with a rhythm that borders on savage.
A shocking sight—a noble knight defiling a princess so thoroughly. But the poor man couldn't help himself.
She'd mentioned it so casually, as if discussing the weather: wouldn't he give her such charming babes? The words had spun Duncan's mind. The image of his princess swollen with his seed, unable to hide that he'd claimed her, bred her—it ignited something in him—something he couldn't control.
He'd bent her over as fast as he could, nudged his thick cock against her entrance. Wrong. So wrong. He knew that. To be defiling the Heir's daughter like this, to have his big hands wrapped in her beautiful silver locks, pressing her face down into the bed as he fucked her—forcing his girth into her poor sweet tightness.
*Treason.* The word whispered through his mind. *Death.*
But he couldn't stop.
His other hand grips her backside, watching the pale skin jiggle each time his hips snap forward. She's so tight around him, so warm and wet. The obscene sounds of their coupling fill the chamber—skin against skin, her muffled cries, the creak of the bed frame.
His poor princess can't even speak properly, crying out in babbles of his name. Or almost his name. She can't quite get it all out.
"Dun—Duncan—*ah*—"
He groans, low and guttural. All he wants is to seed her. Fill the princess with his bastards, make her round and heavy with them. The thought alone nearly undoes him.
"Your cunt is begging for it… begging for a good seeding…"
She whines at his words. He feels her flutter around him, her body responding even as her mind struggles to form coherent thought.
"Yes—yes, my princess needs it. Gods—" His rhythm falters for just a moment. "Wants it. Wants my seed, don't you, sweet girl?"
He releases her hair, sliding his hand to her neck instead, lifting her head. Her cries grow louder, echoing off the stone walls.
"Tell me," he urges, breathless. "Please—tell me you want it—"
"Yes—yes, Ser, I want it!" The words tumble out, her voice breaking. "I want your seed—"
*They'll kill me for this.* The thought drifts through him distantly. *The Heir will have my head. They'll see what I've done to her—how I've taken her like a common whore instead of a princess of the realm—*
But it only makes him harder.
He releases her neck, letting her head fall back against the pillow. His hands slide down her back—feeling the dampness of her sweat-slicked skin, the delicate curve of her spine—before gripping her hips. Then he slams into her, straight and deep, He thrusts hard and quickly, holding her hips still.
"So close—so close—" His voice strains. "Gonna make you so full…"
His hips move faster, chasing his release. The heat builds at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter until—
He stutters. Stops. His thick, hot seed spills deep inside her, pulse after pulse filling her.
Duncan thrusts it in gently, making sure none escapes, until finally he stills. He doesn't pull away yet. Can't. His large hands rub her back soothingly as he pants heavily, trying to catch his breath.
He leans his wide chest over her smaller frame, pressing gentle kisses against her skin—her shoulder blades, the nape of her neck, anywhere he can reach.
The tenderness feels like an apology for what he's just done.
Pairing: Daeron “The Drunken” Targaryen x Targ! OC
Description: Two young dragons pledged to each other gradually learn to fly together in harmony.
Warnings: Mentions of death by childbirth, alcoholism, underage drinking?, grief, and bad writing.
Authors note: they are meant to 15 in this chapter.
Chapter one
– 205 AC -
Five years passed in the way such years do for children of noble houses—measured not in days, but in visits, in absences, and in how much taller one had become since the last time they met.
Princess Elaena and Prince Daeron Targaryen had been betrothed since they were small enough to think of it as little more than another word adults used in their endless talks. They had seen one another often enough in that time—at court, at Summerhall, in passing between families who shared blood and burdens.
But something had changed.
Now, as Elaena stood watching the wheelhouse prepare for the road to Summerhall, the air felt heavier than it ever had before.
There would be no laughter this time. No eager waiting at the gates.
Daeron’s mother, Dyanna Dayne, had passed after the birth of her sixth child—a girl named Rhae. The child lived.
His mother did not.
Elaena understood that kind of loss now.
Or at least… she thought she did.
Her own mother died shortly after her betrothal was announced, giving birth to her brother Matarys, who was born as she was dying.
Then the Stranger took her.
Since then, the world felt quieter, colder.
The wheelhouse creaked as it was prepared, and Elaena watched with a stillness that would have surprised the girl she was five years ago.
She was no longer that girl.
And she suspected Daeron was not either.
The journey from the keep to Summerhall took four days— four days that felt much longer confined to a wheelhouse.
Elaena might have borne it better if riding had been allowed, but her father, Prince Baelor, refused. Instead, she sat trapped like a child too young to understand. Her five-year-old brother and a septa kept her company, the septa watching as though she might flee at any moment.
All she could do was think.
And so, she thought of Daeron.
She wondered what form his grief had taken. What silence now dwelled within him. Whether he would meet her at Summerhall the same boy as before, or if something within him had already begun to change.
At least she understood grief now—not fully, perhaps, but enough to recognize its weight. Maybe that understanding would help him carry his.
She mulled over this thought the entire journey, like a prayer she didn't know how to voice.
What would she say to him?
How would she act?
How does one comfort someone when words seem to always fail at the worst moment?
She was never good at such things. Her words in emotional moments became blunt, clipped, and lacking softness. She remembered, with a faint wince, a girl her age crying over some boy—rambling through tears as though the world had ended. Elaena, impatient and unmoved, told her it didn't matter; she wouldn't marry him anyway. The girl only cried harder.
She thought Daeron deserved better than that.
But she wasn't sure she knew how to give it.
Finally—or dreadfully, Elaena thought—the journey ended as they reached the grand brink of the Targaryen summerhouse, now home to Prince Maekar and his children.
A tightness settled in her chest as she peered through the carriage window at the looming gates. The short distance from the entrance to their stop felt unreasonably long.
At last, the wheelhouse halted.
The door opened.
Valarr stepped forward to help her down, careful as ever. Behind them, the septa followed with their youngest brother in her arms.
Waiting in the courtyard stood her uncle, Prince Maekar.
He looked as he always had—tall, imposing—but something in him had shifted. The lines of his face were deeper now, his expression set in a way that did not quite mask what lay beneath it.
Grief, Elaena thought. The same shape of it she had come to recognize in herself.
Beside him stood Daeron.
Elaena’s gaze found him at once.
Something was wrong.
Daeron could find no rest the night before Elaena’s arrival.
Each time sleep finally claimed him, it did so only to betray him—pulling him back into those same fractured visions that had begun three years before his mother’s death.
At first, it had been only her.
A dragon born of her, tearing free in blood and fire, leaving her broken and breathless in its wake.
He had told himself it meant nothing. A trick of the mind. Grief arriving early, dressed as prophecy.
But the dreams had never stopped.
And now they had changed.
Now he saw a silver dragon, flecked like starlight, standing proud upon a high mountain. For a moment, he could almost admire it—beautiful in a way that felt too precise, too deliberate to be harmless.
Then it fell.
Not with grace. Not with flight.
It simply… fell.
Its wings did not open.
They never opened.
Down it went, tumbling helplessly over stone and sky alike, until the mountain swallowed it whole.
And Daeron would wake before it struck the ground—heart pounding, breath torn from him like something stolen.
This one frightened him more than the others.
Because the first dream had come before his mother’s death.
And now this one lingered, newly formed, unwanted—
fresh enough to feel like a warning rather than a memory.
He did not know what to do with warnings that might be true.
So he did the only thing he had learned that still worked, even imperfectly.
He drank.
Until morning came, and with it the obligation of being presentable, composed, and intact enough to greet his betrothed.
His posture was off—too still in some places, too loose in others. His skin carried a faint sheen of sweat. His eyes did not lift to meet anyone’s.
Aerion stood nearby, silent, older now, watchful. The younger children were absent.
Elaena followed her father as he moved forward to exchange formal greetings, but she did not truly listen. Her attention kept drifting back to Daeron.
The smell reached her before the understanding did.
Ale.
Strong. Sharp enough that she almost recoiled.
And then—
Oh.
Her nose wrinkled before she could stop it.
“Gods,” Elaena muttered, stepping closer despite herself, “cousin… did you—did you drink before we even arrived?”
The words came out wrong. Not what she meant. Not how she meant it.
She winced almost immediately.
Daeron’s head snapped up.
For a moment, he just stared at her—like he’d been caught doing something shameful and hadn’t yet decided whether to deny it or laugh.
“What? No,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
A laugh followed, uneven and sharp at the edges. “It’s just wine.”
He straightened, though the movement looked uncertain halfway through, like he’d forgotten why he bothered.
“One cup,” he added. “I was just—waiting.”
His gaze slid past her, fixing somewhere over her shoulder.
“It’s nothing.”
A pause.
His fingers flexed at his side.
She had no chance to respond, as Maekar seemed to notice the state of his son. He promptly instructed the maids to lead her to her temporary room.
Daeron let out a breath he had not realised he was holding when Elaena was led away.
For a moment, the pressure in his chest eased.
But it did not last.
His father’s voice cut through the courtyard like a blade.
Before Daeron could even gather himself, Prince Maekar had crossed the space between them and seized him by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward.
“Your kin are here to grieve your mother with us,” he snapped, “and you stand here stinking of nothing but ale, sweating like a pig in front of your kin. Your betrothed. And her father. Have you no shame? No sense at all, boy?”
Daeron only groaned in response, attempting to shrug it off as though it meant nothing.
That only made the grip tighten.
Maekar’s anger flared hotter.
Within moments, Daeron was ordered inside to clean himself up—sharply, decisively, with no room for argument.
He went.
Elaena was guided by maids, not that she needed guiding. She stayed in the same chamber every time they visited Summerhall.
For a brief moment, she wondered if it would eventually become her room in truth—when she and Daeron were wed.
The thought was gone as quickly as it came.
It was not that she disliked her cousin. It was quite the opposite; they had always been close, easy with one another in a way few others were. She simply… did not know what it meant to belong to someone like that. To be married at all.
She did not linger on it.
Restlessness came quickly after hours confined to her chamber.
Elaena changed from her travel clothes into a simple black gown—fitting, she supposed, for the grief that seemed to linger over Summerhall like a shadow. Her hair she braided into two silver plaits, pale strands threaded with darker ones, a contrast she had never quite liked.
It was the exact opposite of her brother Valarr, by comparison, he had taken after their father entirely—dark of hair, save for the single silver streak that set him apart.
Elaena did not linger long enough to grow idle.
She slipped from her chamber and into the halls, her steps quiet, familiar. Summerhall had never felt strange to her; every corridor and archway lived somewhere in her memory, softened by years of visits. She did not think of where she was going only walked.
It was no surprise, then, when her steps carried her to the library.
She paused at the door, just for a moment.
Then pushed it open.
She expected it to be empty.
It was not.
Daeron stood within.
Instead of washing the ale from his skin or facing the suffocating silence of expectation, Daeron found or rather stole a fresh pitcher of wine and slipped away.
He went where no one bothered him.
Or at least, where they rarely did.
The library.
Summerhall’s library was not as grand as the Red Keep’s, but it was no small chamber either—tall enough, quiet enough, forgotten enough. A place where dust gathered faster than people.
A place where he could disappear without anyone noticing he had gone.
He drank quickly at first.
Then steadily.
Then without thinking.
The red liquid dulled the edges of his thoughts, softened the sharpness of memory. Not enough to erase anything. Never enough for that. But enough to make it bearable.
And yet—Elaena lingered.
He should have met her eyes.
He knew that now, in the slow, creeping clarity that came between sips.
But in the moment, he had not.
He had not wanted to see what might be there.
Pity, perhaps.
Or worse—understanding.
He had already been unraveling. The dreams, the sleeplessness, the weight of something he could not name pressing behind his ribs. And then she had arrived, steady and real, like a reminder that he was expected to be the same.
Elaena had always been honest in a way that unsettled people. Words faster than thought, blunt where others softened. He used to find it amusing—would have laughed, even, at the wrong thing said at the wrong time.
It did not feel like that anymore.
Not when it was directed at him.
Daeron drank again.
And again.
Time blurred in uneven pieces—pages of books, flickers of candlelight, the distant hush of Summerhall settling into itself.
He lost track of how long he sat there, until even the act of drinking became less about escape and more about waiting.
Waiting for morning to mean something other than obligation.
He was halfway through another swallow when—
The door creaked open.
A goblet rested loose in his hand. A pitcher sat nearby too near at hand.
Elaena stopped just inside the doorway.
For a moment, she only watched him.
Something in her chest tightened—though whether from annoyance, concern, or something else, she could not have said.
Then she stepped forward.
“I thought this was a place for books,” she said, attempting something light—something like the easy teasing they had once shared. “Not drinking.”
The words fell a little flatter than she intended.
She felt it the moment they left her mouth.
He only let out a slight scoff at her words.
Elaena stopped a few paces away. Close enough now that she could see the slight tremor in his hand where it had left the goblet.
Close enough to smell it again.
“You’re shaking,” she said, softer.
“I’m not,” he said immediately.
Too immediate.
Silence dropped between them again, thick and awkward.
Daeron looked away first.
His gaze drifted over the shelves, not really seeing them.
His hand lifted slightly toward the goblet again—then stopped halfway, as he had forgotten why.
Elaena noticed.
She didn’t call it out this time.
Instead, she stepped closer.
One shelf between them now.
“You didn’t greet me,” she said, gentler than before.
That made him still.
“I did,” he said—but it came out uncertain, like he wasn’t even sure who had said it.
Elaena tilted her head.
“You didn’t look at me.”
That landed.
Something in his face tightened—not anger. Not defense.
Something worse.
He looked ashamed of it.
“I didn’t want to,” he said.
It slipped out before he could stop it.
The air changed immediately.
Elaena didn’t move.
Neither did he.
For a moment, it was only dust and silence and books and everything neither of them knew how to say.
Elaena’s expression shifted—small, conflicted.
Then she stepped closer again.
“Daeron,” she said.
“I’m not here to judge you,” she said.
A faint, bitter twist touched his mouth.
“You already did,” he muttered.
Elaena frowned. “When?”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“In the courtyard.”
For a moment, she looked like she might argue.
But didn’t.
Instead, she exhaled.
“I thought you were unwell,” she said. “I didn’t know it was—”
She stopped.
She didn’t say it.
Neither did he.
“Now you know,” Daeron said.
Not angry.
Just tired.
Elaena didn’t step back.
“I know grief,” she said.
That made him look at her.
Really look.
Elaena hesitated under it.
“I lost my mother too,” she said, too quickly. “So I—”
“No.”
Fast.
Sharp.
Elaena blinked.
Daeron shook his head, once, like he could force the thought away.
“No, Elaena. It’s not—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s not the same.”
Something in her flared.
“How is it not?” she snapped. “She died. So did mine.”
“It’s different,” he said—but it didn’t sound like certainty. It sounded like panic trying to become logic.
“You don’t—” He stopped, jaw tight. “You don’t know what it was like.”
“How can you say that?” she shot back, louder than she meant.
The words hung between them.
Too sharp.
Too real.
Daeron looked away.
How could he explain it was not only grief for his mother, but guilt—guilt that he had seen her death before it happened, over and over again in his dreams, and done nothing to stop it?
He could not.
He would sound mad.
So he did not speak it.
Not truly.
His hand found the goblet again—but he didn’t drink. Just held it like something solid.
“There’s more,” he muttered after a moment.
Elaena frowned. “More?”
A humorless breath.
“Yeah,” he said. “More.”
Silence.
His fingers tightened.
“And if I told you…” He added, quieter, eyes fixed somewhere far past her, “You’d think I’ve gone mad.”
Pairing: Daeron “The Drunken” Targaryen x Targ! OC
Description: Two young dragons pledged to each other gradually learn to fly together in harmony.
Brief words from me: this is a snippet of what I am writing about my OC Elaena Targaryen<3
– 200 AC –
Elaena Targaryen crouched low in the grass, turning over stones with dirt-stained fingers in search of something that might bite, sting, or scurry. The gardens of the keep were neat to the point of dullness, and she had already found nothing but ants.
“Useless creatures,” she muttered, flicking one aside.
Prince Daeron lingered nearby, watching more than helping. He had no fondness for insects, nor for the way Elaena seemed to delight in them.
“You’ll not find dragons beneath the rocks,” he said.
Elaena glanced up at him, a grin quick as flame. “You don’t know that.”
Daeron huffed softly but said nothing more. He was older—by two months, which he felt ought to matter more than it did—and carried himself with the faint, quiet pride of it.
After a moment, Elaena sat back on her heels, brushing her hands against her skirts.
“How long are you to stay?” she asked.
Daeron shrugged. “My father says there is business with yours.” He wrinkled his nose faintly. “I hope it is not long. This place smells of horse poo and nothing else.”
Elaena laughed, bright and unbothered. “Then you should take me with you when you go. I’ll hide in your wheelhouse.”
That earned the ghost of a smile. “You should. You are a better playmate than my brothers.”
Before she could answer, the septas descended upon them like crows, all soft voices and firm hands.
“Come along, Your Graces.”
They were led through cool stone halls to their grandfather’s solar, where the air felt heavier somehow. Inside waited their parents—and the king and queen themselves.
Elaena went at once to her mother, slipping her small hand into hers. Her mother’s belly was round with child, her smile warm but strained.
Daeron moved more slowly, though he too took his place beside his mother.
Their grandfather regarded them both, his expression gentle in a way that made Elaena uneasy.
“You are both young,” he said, “and I do not expect you to understand all that I am about to tell you.”
Elaena’s grip tightened slightly.
“It has been decided,” the king continued, “that in time, you shall wed one another. A betrothal, to strengthen the blood of our house.”
The words hung in the air.
“Not for many years yet,” he added. “You need not trouble yourselves with it now.”
Elaena frowned faintly, not frightened… uncertain. Marriage was a thing for grown folk, distant as crowns and councils.
I wanted my story to start with them as children then teens with short blurbs, but I think I made the teen one too long…it might be a very long story I'm sorry?
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