KISS OF LIFE
Daemon Targaryen x Doerne!Reader
SUMMARY:
When Daemon Targaryen is exiled, he finds himself traveling through the desert, in search of finding something, what he didn’t expect to find was you.
WARNINGS: sorta sad ending, time skips, EXPLICIT CONTENT. Face Riding, Oral (male receiving and female receiving), smut. Not proofread. Kinda long!!
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
The brothel isn’t a house — it’s a living, breathing thing. Carved into the blood-red cliffside, it clings to the stone like something born from it. Older than the village it looms above, older than most of the men who crawl into its belly to forget themselves. The walls burn gold when the sun hits them just right, glowing like the inside of an ember. At night, it hums. Smoke curls through every archway. Lanterns hang like dripping honey from carved wood, casting everything in rust and flicker. Inside, the air tastes of cardamom and orange blossom, sweat and oil. And secrets. Always secrets.
You grew up above it, in a chamber with no father and too many locked doors. The wind carried voices through the shutters — groans, laughter, bargaining. You memorized it before you knew what it meant. Your mother never spoke of the place she came from, but you remember the scar between her ribs, how she flinched when men spoke too loud. She’d been a lady once, noble and soft, married young and punished for it. Four daughters. He only wanted sons. He buried the first beneath a citrus tree. The second he drowned. The third disappeared. But the fourth — you — she took and ran, and never looked back.
You became part of the brothel the way a blade belongs to its sheath. The girls were your sisters. The guards, your shadows. The older men feared you, and the younger ones stared too long. At ten, you were bartering spice jars for coral rings. At twelve, you could read the walk of a man before he spoke — whether he was here to forget, to punish, or to pretend. By fifteen, you held court at the top of the staircase, dressed in white and gold, watching from your perch like a crowned thing. You didn’t smile. You didn’t need to. They called you the heartbeat of the land. Because when you stilled… everything else stopped with you.
You never wore rouge. Your face was yours — sharp, sun-warmed, and unbowed. You smelled of lemon water, desert air, and the bitter tang of salt from the coast. You were not for sale. You were a promise no one could afford. They whispered that a thousand stags wouldn’t be enough to buy your first kiss. Some men believed you were cursed — others believed you were blessed. You let them wonder. You knew better than all of them. You weren’t a girl. You were your mother’s vengeance with a pulse.
And you knew everything.
You knew when the Myrish galleys docked a day too early. You knew which knight sent gold to a bastard son in secret. You knew that war was coming, and which side would bleed first. The desert belonged to no one — but its heart beat in your chest. Even the tax collectors asked your mother before they dared raise their voices.
And still, no man had touched you.
They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not out of fear — but something deeper. Reverence. As if reaching for you meant meeting their gods.
You told yourself that was enough. That you needed nothing else. Not love. Not comfort. Not dreams.
You feel his presence before you see him.
Not like the others — not in the way men usually enter. Most arrive with their hunger on their sleeves, with coin heavy in their fists and wine already on their breath. But him? He doesn’t slink or swagger. He steps into the brothel as if he owns the stone beneath it. As if the place itself should rise to meet him. The shadows stretch longer behind him when he walks in. The heat sharpens. The girls pause mid-laugh. Even the music stumbles.
You don’t rise. You don’t lean forward. But you watch — half-lidded, from your golden stair — one leg folded beneath you, white silk sliding like water over your skin. You are the sun-drenched idol of this den, and he has wandered into your shrine without knowing how close he stands to the flame.
His hair is silver, but not like driftwood or snow. It’s molten, wild, swept back like something born to wind and dragonfire. His armor is gone, traded for leather and dust-stained cloak, but he still wears power like a second skin. The room bends to him. And yet he’s searching — not for sex, not for drink, but something more dangerous. Something that coils in the gut like a promise.
You can tell the moment he finds you.
His eyes catch — and stay. Like a hound scenting blood. He stops mid-step, and for the first time in years, the brothel falls into a hush so deep it could be mistaken for reverence. No man has ever stared at you like that — not with lust, not with awe, but something unnamable. Something darker. You know hunger. You know obsession. But this? This is ruin.
He drinks you in — from the tilt of your chin to the gold thread laced through your bodice, the way the light hits your bare shoulders, the motionless control with which you hold court above it all. There is no invitation in your gaze. You never offer.
But gods, he looks like he’ll take it anyway.
You don’t move. Don’t blink. You’re the daughter of a noblewoman who crawled through blood for her freedom. You’re the snake who grew fangs in a garden full of broken men. You’ve watched princes lose their names in the rooms below.
But something in your chest flickers. Small. Stubborn.
Dangerous.
Lanterns sway above you in iron frames, golden and low, throwing long shadows against the crumbling walls. The stone beneath your feet is worn smooth and warm, scattered with cushions in jewel tones and linen. There are pillows arranged near a low-framed bed draped in ivory gauze, half-lost in flowering vines. It’s too lovely to be accidental. A shrine of comfort in the harsh bones of the desert. A place where you come not to entertain, but to breathe.
You move through it like it’s yours — because it is. Every cushion, every vine, every plume of incense curling into the night has bent itself to your rhythm. You are barefoot and glowing, gold thread glinting through your wrap, your skin soft and sun-warmed and kissed by moonlight. The way you lower yourself into the pillows isn’t practiced — it’s instinct. A creature at home in her den.
He stands at the edge, stunned by the quiet of it. The stillness. The way the chaos of the world seems to pause around you, as though even time itself is holding its breath.
You look at him then, eyes unreadable. Your gaze travels from his boots to the silver of his hair, catching on the hollow of his throat, the edge of his jaw, and still you give nothing away.
“I’ve never seen a man with such silver hair,” you murmur, like you’re speaking to yourself. Not coy. Not kind. Curious, almost.
He swallows the lump in his throat before it can rise. His mouth feels too dry. His skin too hot.
“It’s not rare where I come from,” he answers. The words feel smaller than they should. Unworthy of this place. Of you.
You tip your head to the side. There is something ancient in the way you move. Not aged — but knowing. As though you were born with memories that did not belong to you. You pluck a fig from a shallow dish and split it lazily between your fingers, the juice dark and sticky on your skin. It clings to your lips when you taste it.
“And where is that?” you ask.
“Far from here,” he says, but the words feel hollow in his mouth. A truth he no longer wants. He doesn’t want to talk about where he’s from. He doesn’t want to remember why he left.
You seem to sense that — your eyes narrowing just slightly as you lean back into the cushions, leg draped over the other, the motion revealing the inside of your thigh like it’s nothing. But it is. Everything about you is deliberate. And completely untouched by fear.
“So why come here?” you ask.
He hesitates. The wind lifts the edge of your hair, brushing it across your cheek. The desert sighs.
“Looking for a good fuck,” he says finally, voice low, shaped by truth. “Before I disappear again.”
There. The honesty of it crackles in the air between you. Not cruel. Just unvarnished.
You don’t laugh. You don’t blush. You stare at him for a long moment, like you’re peeling the skin from the answer. Then you smile — not wide, not sweet. Just a soft curl at the corner of your mouth, like the flick of a dagger unsheathed beneath a lover’s jaw.
But inside, something shifts.
He came for a night. A taste. A distraction.
But now he’s standing in a place too beautiful to be brothel-born, staring at a woman too wild to be mortal, and he doesn’t feel lust. Not only that.
He feels… halted.
Like he’s seen something he didn’t know he was missing. A stillness he hasn’t known in years. Like the storm that’s lived in his chest since boyhood has, for the first time, gone quiet.
And the worst part?
He knows he’ll never be able to leave without it again.
You don’t rise to his answer. Don’t toss back some clever retort or slide into flirtation like the girls downstairs. You only look at him — eyes dark and unblinking — as if the quiet itself is asking the next question.
And then, slowly, you lift yourself from the cushions.
You move without hesitation, every shift of silk against your skin purposeful, deliberate. His eyes track you like prey. But he doesn’t flinch. Not even when you come to stand before him — close enough that your knee brushes the edge of his thigh, close enough that the incense curling in the air seems to gather around you both. You don’t ask permission. You don’t need it. You simply place your hands on his shoulders, gentle but grounded, and guide him back until he sinks into the pillows behind him with the weight of someone too surprised to resist.
You climb onto him like you’ve done it a thousand times before — a slow straddle, your knees bracketing his hips, the soft shift of your dress sliding up over your thighs as you settle into the cradle of his body. He’s tense beneath you. Not in discomfort — in disbelief. His hands hover useless at your waist, as if he’s forgotten what to do with them.
Your fingers rise to his hair, sliding through the silver strands that cascade over his shoulders. It’s softer than you expected. Warmer. You trace one long piece between your fingers, then find the leather ribbon that ties it back. You pull it loose slowly, reverently. His hair tumbles down, fanning across his back, and something in his breath catches.
Only then do you speak — your voice low, not a demand, but a truth drawn from a deeper place.
“You’re running from something.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hands slide to your thighs now, not possessively, but as if grounding himself. As if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. You feel the tension in his body, the way his gaze flickers across your face — your mouth, your cheekbones, your eyes — searching for something. Not weakness. Not want. Something true.
“I want to belong to something,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve heard it.
You watch him as he says it. Not with pity. With understanding. The kind that comes from recognizing your own ache in someone else’s chest. Your thumb brushes along his jaw, slowly, and he leans into it before he realizes he’s done it. Like a man starved of kindness.
There’s something breaking open between you now — not lust, not yet. Something quieter. A need that speaks in breath and stillness. He came for pleasure, for a night he wouldn’t remember. But already, he’s memorizing the weight of your body, the scent of your skin, the way your eyes haven’t looked away once.
And you?
You see the wildness in him. The restlessness. The danger. But more than that, you see the wound beneath it. And the way he watches you — like a man who hasn’t been touched in years without being owned.
So you stay there, your legs warm against his hips, your fingers still woven in his hair.
And for a long moment, neither of you move.
You just breathe — together — as if this rooftop, under this moon.
You don’t speak again. Words feel unnecessary now — too clumsy, too human. He’s beneath you, warm and quiet, the wind stirring the soft edge of his hair where it spills across the cushions. Your hands linger in it, combing through the pale strands like you’re unraveling silk. He watches you like a man bound — not with rope, but reverence.
Your fingers trail from his scalp to his jaw, down his neck, slow as a falling petal. He tilts his head just slightly, not daring to move more than you allow. It thrills you — not his submission, but his stillness. His willingness to let you look, to let you lead. So many men come here needing power. He came needing peace. And now, he looks at you like you’re the first soft thing he’s touched in years.
You shift your hips slightly, your weight sinking more fully onto his lap, and he exhales hard through his nose — sharp, restrained. He doesn’t buck beneath you, doesn’t thrust. He just breathes, like your body is already enough to ruin him.
Your hands go to his chest, fingers sliding over the rough linen of his tunic. You don’t rip it. You unlace it slowly, methodically, baring warm skin inch by inch — the deep line of his collarbone, the scar near his shoulder, the hard planes of his chest. He’s beautiful in the way old gods are beautiful — feral, unyielding, real. You slide your hands over him and feel the tension ripple like a horse about to bolt.
But he doesn’t. He stays still. For you.
When your fingers begin to untie your own dress, his breath falters. You don’t make a show of it. You don’t perform. You simply slip the straps from your shoulders and let it fall, baring your skin to the breeze, the moon, and him. He doesn’t reach for you — not yet. His hands remain clenched at your thighs, barely gripping, as if afraid touching you might wake him from whatever spell this is.
You shift forward, sliding your bare body along the line of his, letting him feel the heat of you, the weight, the intention.
And only then do you lower yourself onto him.
There’s no sharp gasp. No clumsy, frantic movement. You take him slowly, one breath at a time, your hands braced on his chest, your eyes never leaving his. He’s thick and hot, the stretch deep and real, and still he doesn’t move. His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, reverent and pained.
“Gods,” he murmurs, so low it sounds more like prayer than profanity.
You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, grinding down until he’s fully sheathed inside you. His head tips back against the cushion, a quiet groan caught at the back of his throat. Still, he doesn’t thrust. He lets you ride him. Lets you keep the rhythm. And you do — smooth, sensual, slow as honey pouring from a tilted jar.
The stars shift overhead. The lanterns sway.
You ride him like you were made to. Like you’ve done this a hundred times in a hundred other lives. Your pace is unhurried — a lazy, decadent rhythm that leaves his hands trembling where they rest against your thighs. You reach back, take his wrists, and place them on your hips. Let him hold. Not command.
You lean forward then, your chest brushing his, your hair spilling down around both of you like a curtain of shadow and moonlight. Your lips hover over his, close enough to feel his breath.
“You wanted a fuck,” you whisper against his mouth. “But you’re begging for something else now.”
His eyes burn beneath you, wide and raw, and when he exhales, it sounds like surrender.
Your pace deepens — not faster, not rushed, but harder. More certain. You roll your hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding down with intention, dragging every inch of him deeper into you until you feel the stretch in your belly, the ache behind your ribs. He moans now — real, ragged, and helpless — the sound muffled against your shoulder as you move. Not loud. Not showy. But ruined. Like something breaking quietly beneath the surface.
You shift again, angling yourself until you feel the drag hit where you want it most — that perfect friction that makes your thighs tense and your breath catch. You rock faster now, fingers tangled in his silver hair, forcing his head back so you can watch him.
He’s flushed, mouth parted, sweat beading along his brow. His hands are gripping your hips like he’s drowning, and you ride him like you want to break him open — not with cruelty, but with truth. His cock is thick and slick inside you, every thrust meeting the wet sounds of your body clenching greedily around him.
“Fuck—” he groans, voice hoarse, eyes rolling back.
You lean down, hair falling around his face, and bite his lip — not enough to bleed, just enough to sting.
“Look at me,” you whisper, voice low and velvet-dark.
He does. Gods, he does. Eyes wide, glassy, worshipful.
And then you say it — not sweet, not gentle — but like the blade of a vow pressed to a prince’s throat:
“You belong to me.”
Not you’re mine. Not you’re claimed. But belong — like he has no say in the matter. Like it was always true, long before he arrived.
And he nods.
Not with shame. With need. With awe.
His hands slide up your back, helpless now, grounding himself in your skin as your cunt tightens around him, wet and eager, dragging him closer to the edge. You move faster, dirtier — bouncing on him with slow, punishing thrusts, your slick thighs clapping against his hips, his groans turning into broken, desperate curses.
“You feel that?” you hiss, pressing your chest flush to his, lips brushing his jaw. “That’s how a man fucks when he knows he’ll never forget it.”
“Gods—” he chokes. “I—please, don’t stop—”
“Beg for it,” you whisper.
“I am,” he gasps, voice raw. “Fuck, I am—”
You slam down harder now, pace brutal and soaked, your body clenching around him like a fist, milking him with every grind. You’re soaked, loud, unapologetic, using his cock the way men have used women for centuries — not to take pleasure, but to prove something. And he lets you.
His thighs twitch. His grip turns bruising. His chest heaves.
He’s close. You feel it in the way his breath stutters, the way he thrusts up helplessly now, meeting you halfway, matching your rhythm with frantic, aching hunger.
You lean in again, mouth against his ear, and whisper the last thing he expects:
“Come inside me, silver prince.”
And he does.
With a moan so deep and torn it barely sounds human, he spills into you, body jerking, hands trembling, head buried against your chest like he can’t bear the sound of himself breaking. You keep riding him, slower now, grinding through his release, milking every drop, every shudder, until he’s gasping beneath you, ruined and shaking.
And still, you don’t let go.
Because now he belongs.
And you’re not done with him yet.
He’s still gasping when you lift yourself from his lap — his spend leaking from your body, thighs slick, your core aching and satisfied and still not nearly done. His eyes flutter open as you rise, dazed and wet-lashed, like a man dragged back from drowning. His lips are parted. His chest heaves. But he doesn’t speak.
He just watches.
You kneel beside him, slow and feline, hands dragging down his chest as he reclines deeper into the pillows, pliant and wrecked. His tunic is still open, his skin glistening with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your touch. You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth — not sweetly, but with possession — and feel the way his breath stutters, like your lips alone are enough to undo him again.
Your hand drifts lower. Over his stomach. Down to where he’s softening, still flushed and leaking, the last remnants of his orgasm warm against your fingers.
But you don’t stroke him. Not yet.
You kiss your way down — slow, reverent, like a descent into something sacred. Along his chest, the sharp edge of his hipbone, the sensitive skin just above his groin. He groans softly, eyes fluttering shut again as your tongue tastes the sweat at his navel. He’s not ready. Not fully. But you are. And you know what you’re doing.
You take him into your mouth with slow, filthy patience — his taste, his salt, the warmth of him heavy on your tongue. He jerks beneath you, breath catching in his throat, a hand flying to your hair as if he doesn’t know whether to stop you or beg you never to stop. You hum low and steady around him, letting the vibration ripple through him like an aftershock. He’s moaning again already, voice breaking as you suck him back to hardness with long, wet pulls, your mouth messy and hot and relentless.
He’s sensitive, overstimulated — twitching, whimpering, trying to hold still while you ruin him all over again.
But you want more.
You pull off him with a lewd pop, licking his tip one last time before you climb up his body again — slow, eyes locked on his, your thighs glistening in the lantern light. You rise over his face without a word, and he knows. Gods, he knows.
His hands grab your hips without hesitation now, fingers digging in like he’ll die if you don’t let him. His eyes are wild, reverent. Waiting.
And then you lower yourself.
His mouth is open, hot and hungry as your cunt presses down onto his tongue — wet, swollen, slick from his release. He groans deep in his chest, like a man given water after days in the sun, and starts to lick you like a starving thing. No hesitation. No restraint. He devours you.
You rock your hips slowly over his mouth, using him, chasing your own pleasure now. His tongue is firm and practiced, tracing circles over your clit, then plunging into you, tasting the both of you mixed together, hands dragging you closer, deeper, until you’re grinding down, your thighs trembling around his head.
He groans again — and fucks you with his mouth.
Your head tips back. Your body arches. The pleasure is raw, electric, building in your belly like fire climbing the spine. You ride his face like a throne, your rhythm ruthless now, one hand buried in his hair, your hips jerking as your orgasm starts to spiral and crest.
And when you come — gods, when you come — you shudder against him, legs trembling, grinding hard against his face, your cries half-muffled by the wind, by the night, by the wild, greedy sound of him still licking you through it.
You don’t rise right away.
You keep him there, tasting every aftershock, until your thighs finally give and you collapse beside him in the pillows — soaked, breathless, and sated.
He lies there, face flushed and glistening, mouth red, eyes glassy.
And you smile — slow, wicked.
Because now you both know: he didn’t just come for a fuck.
He came to belong.
And you’ve made sure he’ll never want to leave.
He lies there wrecked, lips wet from your release, hair tangled, chest rising in quick, uneven swells. But his hands won’t stop roaming — from your thighs to your waist to the underside of your breasts, trembling with restraint. His eyes flicker over your body like a man trying to memorize scripture after glimpsing god.
You’re still pulsing from your climax, still slick, still warm, and still watching him. The flickering lamplight paints his face in gold and shadow. You see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his hips twitch. He’s hard again. Achingly so. His cock presses up against his belly, flushed and leaking, throbbing with unspent need. The first time was raw. Desperate. Yours.
But this?
This is devotion.
He sits up slowly, mouth parted, arms sliding around your waist as he pulls you into his lap. And when he presses his forehead to your sternum, breathing you in like something sacred, his voice breaks.
“Please,” he whispers, hoarse and shaking. “Let me touch you. Let me feel you.”
You could say no. Could keep riding him until he cries. But something in the way he holds you now — like you’re fragile, like you’re divine — makes your throat tighten. So you ease back, arms draped around his shoulders, and nod once.
“Show me,” you murmur, your voice a low command. “Show me what you’ve been holding back.”
And gods, he does.
He lays you down across the cushions with care he didn’t know he possessed — hands reverent, mouth soft. He kisses down your throat, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. He worships you now, slowly, frantically, like he’s afraid this is all a dream. Every part of you is touched like a gift, your skin slick with sweat, with your arousal, with his devotion.
He doesn’t rush.
When he slides inside you the second time, it’s different.
He gasps as your heat takes him, your soaked cunt fluttering around him as he fills you again, inch by inch. His hips roll into yours in smooth, desperate strokes, deeper now, more controlled, more tender — but no less needy. You wrap your legs around his waist and feel the tremble in his spine, the strain in his arms as he fights to keep from coming too soon.
He buries his face against your throat as he moves, whispering filth and prayer and apology all at once.
“So perfect… fuck, you feel perfect… I’ll never leave, I swear it—gods, you’re mine, you’re—no, I belong to you, just like you said—”
You rake your nails down his back and pull him closer, arching into every thrust, letting him take what he needs only because you know it already belongs to you.
The way he fucks you now is not conquest.
It’s surrender.
His rhythm builds, wet and rhythmic, the sound of your bodies slapping together echoing in the night air. Your moans slip into sobs — not of pain, but of overwhelming pleasure, of release too deep to hold in. His thrusts grow rougher, more frantic, hips slamming against your thighs as his control breaks down, all tension, all reverence bleeding into open, hungry desperation.
“Please—please, I need to come in you again,” he groans into your ear, barely coherent. “I want to stay there—let me stay—don’t let me go—”
You clutch his hair, tugging his mouth to yours, and whisper against his lips, “Then cum, silver prince. Give me everything.”
And he does — again.
This time, he shouts into your mouth, spilling inside you with a violent shudder, his entire body convulsing as he empties himself into your cunt, thick and deep and aching. You feel it — the heat, the fullness — and you keep milking him with slow, grinding rolls of your hips, even as he whimpers from overstimulation.
He stays inside you, panting, twitching, barely able to breathe.
But his hands never leave your body.
And his mouth never stops whispering your name like a vow.
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
The sun slips over the edge of the cliffs like honey, thick and golden, coating the rooftop in soft amber light. It filters through the sheer canopy above the bed, catching on the fine threads of your robe, glinting in Daemon’s hair where it spills like molten silver across the pillows. The air is quiet but not silent — doves coo low in the temple tower below, and the warm hush of morning begins to rise from the city with the scent of salt and baked stone
You wake first, your cheek pressed to the edge of his collarbone, his arm a weight across your ribs. His skin is damp with the remnants of the night, and so is yours — your thigh still slick from where he spilled into you, your body still thrumming with the ghost of pleasure. You feel him breathe beneath you, slow and heavy, each exhale dragging across your breast like a soft pull of silk.
He sleeps the way only men who have nothing left to prove do — arms spread wide, mouth slightly open, completely bare and unafraid.
“Wake up, silver prince,” you murmur against his throat, your lips brushing the soft skin just above his pulse.
He doesn’t stir immediately, but you feel the twitch of his fingers against your side, the faint rumble of something low in his chest — not speech. Something deeper. Familiar.
You sit up, the robe at your bedside catching around your hips as you rise. It slips over your shoulders, gold-threaded and loose, leaving the curve of one breast visible, the tie hanging forgotten at your waist. The breeze stirs your hair as you walk barefoot across the warm stone, the scent of orange blossom rising with the morning heat.
Then — pattering footsteps.
You know them before you turn. The sound of small heels against old stone, eager and unafraid.
A boy rushes up the stairs in a blur of tangled curls and sun-darkened cheeks, barefoot and breathless, his grin already wide.
“Mama!” he calls, arms reaching for your waist, crashing into you with the force of someone who’s never once feared you’d push him away.
You brace him with one arm, smoothing his hair with practiced ease. “Up before the market again, are we?”
But his eyes drift past you — and catch on the man sprawled in the bed behind.
The boy freezes. His mouth parts.
“Is he a god?” he breathes, eyes huge, gaze locked on Daemon’s pale, muscled chest, his long hair tangled across his cheek like spun lightning.
You glance back.
Daemon is half-awake now, eyes slitted, a smirk beginning to form at the corner of his mouth.
You arch a brow and look back at the boy, tone casual as you whisper, “Yes. A lightning god. And his hair gets brighter every time he lies.”
The child gasps, delighted. “Really?!”
Daemon groans softly behind you, amusement painting his face in sleepy gold. You wave your hand toward the stairs.
“Go on,” you say gently, tugging the boy’s wrist. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
“But Granddam said you—”
“I don’t like to repeat myself.”
The pout is immediate, but so is the retreat. He stomps down the stairs, muttering about gods and liars and hair, trailing behind him the leftover breath of laughter.
You exhale once, amused, before turning back.
Daemon is watching you from the bed now — fully awake, elbow bent behind his head, the sheet low over his hips. His silver hair is wild, mouth soft and open, the flush of sleep still on his cheekbones. But his eyes are alert. Watching you like you’ve become some kind of morning myth. Not a whore. Not a queen.
Something else.
“Yours?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
You shake your head. “No. One of the girls here. She didn’t survive childbirth.” You lower yourself back into the cushions, stretching beside him, your hand trailing across his bare chest. “I take care of him. That’s all.”
Daemon hums. Not in judgment — in something quieter. A weight he understands. A grief he doesn’t need explained.
You kiss his shoulder, nipping it lightly. Then, with a smirk curling at your lips, you lean in close and murmur against his skin:
“Come. You smell like royalty and sex.”
He lets out a soft, startled laugh — low and raspy — and flips you gently onto your back, groaning as his mouth meets your shoulder.
“And you smell like sin,” he mutters into your neck. “Wrapped in silk.”
You hum in satisfaction, your fingers sliding through his hair again.
But neither of you moves. Not yet.
Because in that hush — in the salt-warmed sun and breathless morning — something has shifted.
He meant to leave.
But now?
He’s already wondering how long he can stay.
The bath is already drawn when you lead him inside — a small chamber just off the upper corridor, carved into the cliff wall and lit by tall beeswax candles that burn low and golden. The water glows bronze in the sunken stone basin, steam rising from the surface in delicate curls. You’ve lined the rim with bowls of oils and soft cloths, a fine-toothed comb, and a folded robe that still carries the scent of orange flower and salt.
He stands at the edge, stripped bare and watching you — quieter now, eyes half-lidded, his body still bearing the marks of last night: the faint bruises on his hips from your grip, the soft red scrape on his neck where you bit him. You walk past him without a word, sinking to your knees beside the basin as you stir the oils into the water — jasmine, almond, a trace of sandalwood.
Then you reach up, hand extended.
He takes it.
And lowers himself into the bath with a slow hiss of breath.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t need to.
The water embraces him like something old — warmth rising around the strong lines of his back, the silver of his hair darkening as it soaks. You kneel behind him on the smooth stone lip, your knees on either side of his back. The room is quiet, save for the trickle of water and the soft click of your bracelets as you begin your work.
You dip the cloth into the bath and start at his shoulders — slow, deliberate strokes down his spine, his sides, his arms. His skin is taut beneath your hands, hard muscle covered in old scars, some jagged, others fine and pale with time. You trace them all gently. With respect. Like reading a language he’s never had to speak aloud.
Your breasts brush against his back as you lean in to rinse him, the soft weight of them pressed to his shoulder blades, your breath stirring the wet strands of hair that cling to his neck. He doesn’t move — not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he does. Fully. Reverently.
You hum as you move, a soft sound in your throat — nothing recognizable, no words. Just a melody your mother used to hum when the nights were long and the desert wind howled. A song older than either of you, threaded into the stone of this place, into the blood of women who never bowed. He closes his eyes as you sing, his hands resting on the edge of the bath, breathing deep like each note is something sacred.
You reach for the comb.
His hair is long and heavy when wet, tangled near the ends, the strands like white silk wound in shadows. You smooth oil through them with your fingers first, gently working through the knots. He groans once — low and deep — when you hit a snarl near the nape, but he doesn’t stop you. He tilts his head forward instead, offering you the back of his neck like something instinctive.
You comb slowly. Lovingly. Like you’ve done this before — not to men, but to ghosts, to memories. To the broken.
When you finish, you set the comb aside and wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, lowering your cheek to the side of his face. His skin is warm. Damp. He smells like steam and skin and something faintly metallic — the edge of fire still clinging to him.
“You let me do this,” you whisper softly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Even though it’s the last thing men like you ever let someone do.”
He doesn’t answer.
He just reaches up and covers your hand with his — fingers weaving through yours — and leans back into you like he’s finally found something that doesn’t ask him to fight.
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
The light in your chambers was soft, diffused through gauze-draped windows that fluttered with the breeze. The room was awash in pale blue and cream, colors worn smooth by sun and salt — not opulent, but clean, cool, and quiet. A sanctuary tucked high above the brothel’s pulse, where the chaos of men could not reach.
Daemon sat at the edge of your bed, bent forward slightly, the linen of his robe brushing his thighs as he pulled the long silver strands of his hair forward, twisting them loosely in preparation. His fingers moved by instinct — a soldier’s routine. Tie it back. Hide the wildness. Make the chaos manageable.
You moved behind him, still barefoot, your robe gaping slightly at the chest, loose where you’d let it fall open. He didn’t hear you approach.
“No,” you murmured, voice barely more than breath, as you sank down into his lap, straddling him with unhurried grace.
He stilled.
You took the ribbon from his hands and let it fall to the floor. Your fingers combed gently through his hair instead, dragging the silver strands back over his shoulders, letting them spill free down his back like riverlight. The weight of him pressed hot beneath you, already thick, already stirring — not from urgency, but from the simple pressure of your body on his.
“Leave it loose,” you whispered, your mouth brushing his ear. “You look like someone the gods sent to ruin us.”
Your robe shifted slightly, your bare breasts brushing against his chest as you leaned in closer, and you felt the twitch of him beneath the linen — slow, aching, the beginnings of need curling back into him like fire waking from embers.
His hands ghosted up your thighs, as if unsure if he should hold you. His breath had quickened, just slightly. Not from lust alone — from the weight of this quiet, this room, you.
You kissed his neck once, slow and thoughtful, then stood — lifting yourself from his lap with the same ease you carried in everything. As you stepped toward the window, the robe fell more open around you, a brief flash of skin, the line of your hip in soft light.
You reached for the ivory wrap on the hook beside the door and tied it lazily around your waist. Then turned.
He was still watching you.
Still hard.
Still undone.
You smiled, one brow arched.
“Come,” you said lightly, with just the edge of command curling your voice. “There’s much to do, silver prince.”
He stood slowly, tying the belt of his robe instead, hair unbound, eyes still hungry but quieter now. He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to claim more of the moment than you gave.
And when he followed you out of the room, he looked not like a prince…
…but like a man who had already started to belong.
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
The courtyard was alive — humming with footsteps and the voices of too many people in too small a space. Children screamed in play, wooden swords clacking against each other with the violent glee only the young could manage. Laundry hung like banners across the upper railings. Perfume smoke trailed from windows, and somewhere in the distance, someone was singing off-key.
You stood beside Daemon just beneath the shade of the archway, arms crossed, robe tied tight at your waist now, hair swept back with a pin Laziel had made for you — a bent, clumsy piece of carved bone you wore like it was gold.
Daemon’s presence had settled into the house like heat — constant, coiling, noticed in every room he passed through. He walked softer now. Watched more than he spoke. But he never strayed far from you.
Today, the brothel felt more village than den.
Children chased dogs through the corridor, some barefoot, some smeared with berry juice, some half-naked and wild-eyed. A few were the children of the women here. A few had been left behind — the quiet, aching reality of war or sickness or shame. You kept them all fed. Let them sleep on warm stone floors when the wind was cruel.
But everyone — everyone — knew that Laziel was yours.
He wasn’t clinging to your robe today. He stood on a bench, issuing orders to two younger boys, pointing toward a pile of sticks with the pride of a war commander. “No, idiot, stack them. If you don’t stack them, the fire falls apart. You want to burn the kitchen down?!
Daemon watched him with open amusement. “He’s louder than I was at seven.”
You hummed. “He’s a force. But he doesn’t start fights. He ends them.”
A crash interrupted you — the sharp clatter of a crate hitting the ground, followed immediately by your mother’s unmistakable roar.
“I don’t give a shit how far you hauled those lemons, you don’t raise your voice at my grandson, and you sure as hell don’t talk to me like I’m one of your whores, you goat-kissed bastard!”
You sighed.
Daemon’s lips twitched.
The merchant in question — a man thick in the waist and red in the face — stood by the cracked crate of fruit, visibly flustered, sweat streaking down his neck. Your mother had one hand on her hip, the other pointing a blade made of words. Laziel stood nearby, arms crossed, chewing a slice of mango with narrowed eyes, clearly insulted.
“I offered good silver,” your mother snapped. “You gave me rot and called the boy a mongrel.”
“I didn’t mean—” the man stammered. “I—he’s not even hers, I thought—”
Daemon moved then. Slowly. Deliberately.
He stepped down from the archway and crossed the courtyard with the calm of a man who’d buried kings and bastards alike without ever raising his voice. The merchant faltered when he saw him coming — not because he recognized him, but because something in the way Daemon moved made lesser men forget how to stand upright.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten.
He walked up to the merchant, crouched slowly beside the broken crate of fruit, picked up a pomegranate, and turned it in his hand.
Then he looked up — eyes cold, mouth curved into something that should have been a smile, but wasn’t.
“You sell rotted fruit to the woman who keeps this house fed. You insult a boy whose shoes you aren’t fit to shine. And you do all this in the only place keeping your spoiled wares off the sand.” He paused. “Tell me, do you piss on every table you want to eat from?”
The man blinked, swallowed hard, and looked around like someone might save him.
Daemon stood, bit into the pomegranate, letting the juice run down his thumb.
“I’ll take five crates,” he said easily. “But you’ll carry them yourself. And we’ll be paying you in silence.”
The merchant didn’t move.
Daemon leaned in, voice lowering.
“Unless you’d rather I drag you into the kitchen and let my wife gut you where the dogs piss.”
You stepped beside him, arms still crossed, not smiling — but close.
The man swallowed hard, then nodded quickly, backing away like he’d seen a dragon in a silk robe.
A moment later, he was unloading crates with trembling hands.
You raised a brow at Daemon, who was still chewing thoughtfully. “Wife?”
He shrugged. “They listen faster that way.”
You laughed once through your nose, then turned to Laziel, who was watching with narrowed admiration.
“Well, jackal?” you said. “What do we say to the silver prince?”
Laziel licked juice from his fingers. “We say thank you. And next time, I get to threaten him.”
Daemon grinned.
Your mother, arms still crossed, leaned toward you with a snort. “He’s not bad,” she muttered, jerking her chin toward Daemon. “But don’t let him braid your hair. That’s how it starts.”
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
In the months that followed Daemon’s arrival, something strange and sacred took root in the dust and salt of your home.
It wasn’t sudden. No grand declaration. No feast or fanfare. Just small, steady things: Laziel’s laughter returning in full, the girls speaking to him with more warmth, the way your mother’s voice softened slightly when Daemon walked into the room — though she’d never admit it. His presence, sharp and wild at first, had slowly threaded into the bones of the brothel like the sun baking itself into stone.
He began fixing things without being asked. Mending shutters. Sharpening knives. Carrying crates and pulling wild little boys by the scruffs of their necks when they stole too many figs. He never raised his voice with them. He didn’t have to. They followed him with wide eyes and sheepish grins, sensing the dragon beneath his skin but somehow not afraid of it
Laziel started sleeping with his head on Daemon’s chest.
You found them like that more than once — in the garden, in the main room, even once on the roof after a night of stargazing, the boy curled into him like he’d been carved to fit there. You had stopped asking if Daemon was comfortable with it. He never so much as flinched when Laziel clung to him. If anything, he held him tighter.
He didn’t push you, either.
For all his jealousy — and it was volcanic, seething just beneath the surface whenever a man looked at you too long — he never once demanded more than what you gave. He called you wife, yes, whispered it against your skin and muttered it in sleep, but there was a reverence in the way he touched you, in how he watched you move through a room like you were something fragile carved from divinity.
And you?
You called him husband. Even if the gods hadn’t sanctified it.
He belonged to you now — not by blood, not by ceremony, but by the simple, inarguable truth that when he looked at anyone else, he saw through them. And when he looked at you, he saw home.
It was hair-cutting day in the brothel. One of your favorite days, honestly. The courtyard smelled of crushed mint and orange peel, the stone warm underfoot, sun spilling in broad golden beams across the cushions and pottery. Girls lounged with damp hair while you and your mother trimmed, shaped, and soothed. Children scurried beneath benches, half-naked, sticky from fruit. The rhythm of it all was familiar — a ritual more intimate than prayer.
You sat cross-legged on a faded blue cushion, shears flashing as you worked through a tangled braid. Sweat curled at the back of your neck, and your thighs were sticky from the heat, but the sound of your mother cackling at a dirty joke from one of the older girls made it all tolerable. You smiled, lips pressed together, focused on the work.
Daemon was watching you.
He always did.
He lounged just within the shade, shirt undone, silver hair spilling like molten light down his back. One knee propped, a goblet resting lazily in his fingers, and a sharp glint in his eye whenever someone else got too close. You didn’t flinch when the girls flirted — they always did. Whispering about his hands, the lines of his body, the burn of his stare. You let them. You had nothing to prove.
He never looked at them the way he looked at you.
But when a merchant — fat from coin and bold from wine — strolled too close and called you “lovely little wife,” you didn’t even have a chance to respond.
Daemon stood.
Not fast. Not loud.
Just… stood.
The air went still. Even the flies froze mid-air, as if instinct alone warned them of what prowled beneath his bones.
The man laughed, uneasy. “Didn’t mean to offend. Just a compliment—”
“You speak again,” Daemon said, “and I’ll split your tongue on the bricks.”
The silence was brutal. The man backed away. No one laughed. No one said a word. Even your mother paused, mid-snip, eyes narrowed as Daemon returned to your side and dropped to a cushion.
“Daemon” your mother warned, a slow smile crawling on her face.
He didn’t look at you.
But his thigh pressed against yours, tense. Burning.
You didn’t speak.
You only reached for the shears again.
“I want mine cut,” he said gruffly.
You snorted. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ll do it myself tonight.”
You looked over your shoulder. His hair gleamed in the light, soft and long, falling to the middle of his back in shining silver waves. “You’ll look like a ragged dog.”
“I’ll look like Viserys,” he muttered. “Which is worse.”
You sighed, tugged at his hair like a scolding lover. “Sit. But I swear on my mother’s last bottle of wine, if you complain—”
He smiled as he obeyed, settling down cross-legged. “I won’t.”
The moment the shears touched his hair, the children began to creep closer. One by one, as if drawn by some unspoken magic, they gathered in a soft circle around him. Little knees pressing into pillows, wide eyes locked on Daemon like he was a storybook brought to life.
“What’s it like where you’re from?” a boy asked.
Daemon tilted his head. “Hot. Loud. Corrupt. Full of men who thought crowns made them gods.”
“Did you wear a crown?” another girl asked.
“No,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I had a dragon.”
The children gasped. You snorted quietly behind him.
“What was his name?” someone whispered.
“Caraxes.”
“Was he big?”
“He was hunger and flame and fury stitched into a beast,” Daemon murmured. “He flew higher than the clouds. When he screamed, the sky tore open.”
The courtyard fell under his spell. Even your mother, pretending to fuss with a bowl of lemons, paused to listen. The girls abandoned their brushes. A few of them leaned forward, hands under their chins.
“Did you fight in a war?” a girl asked.
“Many.”
“Did you win?”
“I lived.”
He was calm now — not boastful, but coiled. Like the memory of fire still lived just under his skin. You worked slowly through his hair, trimming the ends just to the shoulder, brushing the loose strands from his neck with your fingertips.
A small voice piped up.
“Is Laziel your son?”
Everyone turned.
The boy in question sat frozen, his palms pressed to the stone beside him, blinking at Daemon with a look of deep, childlike panic. As if he wanted nothing more in the world than to believe the answer — but feared hearing it too much.
Daemon didn’t blink.
“Yes,” he said.
Just that.
Yes.
Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a glance at you. No explanation. No softening.
Laziel’s mouth parted, breath trembling.
“I knew it!” another child exclaimed. “He’s a prince!”
“Is that true?” someone cried. “Is he a real prince?”
Daemon shifted now, rising to his feet with the ease of a man used to commanding entire rooms. His silver hair brushed his shoulders in perfect, blunt lines. His eyes found Laziel.
“He’s mine,” he said, voice sharp and sure. “He’s a Targaryen. A prince. And he will always be my son.”
No one spoke.
Even the wind seemed to bow its head.
The boy stared up at him, trembling with something too big for a child’s heart — and yet he smiled. Just a little.
And the children believed it.
Because Daemon Targaryen said it.
Because his voice sounded like gods and war and fire long cooled into stone.
And you?
You put down the shears. Sat beside him. Your hand found his thigh.
And without ever needing to be told, you understood:
He had claimed you both.
And the world could burn before he ever let you go.
The kitchen was quiet in the late afternoon, humming with the distant sound of oil crackling and the warm scent of flatbread resting on the stones. You were elbow-deep in a bowl of seasoned grain, humming low to yourself, fingers moving with muscle memory as you kneaded and folded and shaped. The day had been long. The girls were fed, the children bathed, and the sun now rested low across the tiled windowsill, bathing everything in soft amber
You didn’t hear them come in at first. Laziel’s steps were always quiet — a habit from a childhood of staying out of the way — and Daemon rarely announced himself unless he wanted something.
But the silence drew your attention.
You glanced up just in time to see Laziel standing rigid near the doorway, arms tight at his sides, his chin trembling like he was holding back something awful. Daemon stood across from him, brows furrowed, jaw tight, like he’d been caught off guard by something he didn’t know how to fight.
“I know you’re not my real father,” Laziel said, the words quick, too loud for the small room.
You stilled.
Not the grain. Not the hum. Nothing else mattered now.
Daemon didn’t move.
“Says who?” His voice was low. Controlled. But something sharp threaded through it — not anger, but something older. Raw.
Laziel swallowed. His lower lip wobbled.
“Mama…he’ll—”
The moment broke.
He burst forward, face scrunching up as the tears came fast, ugly and loud. “He’ll leave! Like the others! He’s lying to me—he’s not—he’s not my real papa, he’s not—”
You moved instantly, but Daemon beat you to him.
He dropped to his knees on the tile, gathering Laziel against his chest in one fierce pull. His hand cupped the back of the boy’s head, pressing him close, like anchoring him was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open.
“Look at me,” Daemon said.
Laziel refused. His little fists curled into Daemon’s tunic.
“Laziel. Look.”
The boy tilted his head back, blinking up through red-rimmed eyes, and Daemon — the Rogue Prince, the kinslayer, rider of dragons, slayer of men — cupped his cheek and whispered, not to the boy but to whatever ghost had told him he was unworthy.
“You are mine.”
His voice didn’t shake. But it burned low, as if spoken straight from the forge of his chest.
“I don’t give a fuck who your blood belongs to. I don’t care who made you. I saw you. I chose you. And I will never—never—stop choosing you.”
Laziel’s breath hitched, fingers tightening in Daemon’s collar.
“I would burn every city in the world before I let someone tell me you’re not my son,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to the boy’s. “Do you understand me?”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying.
Laziel nodded — a broken, choked little sound catching in his throat as he collapsed fully into Daemon’s arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck like he had when he was small.
Daemon stayed on his knees, holding him tight.
Long after the tears faded.
Long after the bread cooled.
You turned back to your bowl, not to hide, but to give them the space to stay exactly like that — a dragon, and his boy, in a kitchen full of quiet light.
His son.
Always his son.
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
The room was quiet, cloaked in the hush of desert night. The heat had finally begun to die, a soft breeze threading through the cracked window shutters, carrying the faint scent of myrrh and salt. You sat astride Daemon’s lap, the curve of your thighs pressed around his hips, your breath feathering softly against his neck. His shorter hair, freshly trimmed by your own hands, fell loose and damp against his skin, curling faintly where your fingers ran through it.
He was shirtless, his hands resting gently at your waist, the muscle of his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Laziel had fallen asleep an hour ago in the next room, the little boy murmuring something about dragons as you tucked the blanket under his chin. Now, there was only this. Just you. Just him. Just the sound of your hearts beating, slow and stubborn in the dark.
Your forehead pressed to his, fingers cradling the back of his head.
“I will kill you,” you murmured, “if you ever hurt my boy.”
Daemon didn’t flinch. He only blinked up at you, his hands tightening subtly against your hips.
“I know,” he said.
The silence stretched, delicate and heavy. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingers.
You exhaled slowly, brushing your nose along the line of his jaw. “I know you’re a prince, and I’m just a brothel wench—”
“Wife.”
The word was quiet. Immediate.
But you shook your head. “Don’t.”
His eyes flickered. His fingers twitched at your waist.
“Things change, Daemon. You’ll be needed. Wanted. Viserys may call for you. Rhaenyra. The godsdamned realm. Something will pull you away, and when it does…”
You swallowed hard, voice barely holding.
“When it does, don’t you dare forget about me. Or him.”
He went still beneath you. So still, you almost thought he stopped breathing.
You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to his once more. “I love you,” you whispered. “I love you, you stubborn silver bastard.”
And then—
He froze.
Completely.
As if the sound of your voice saying those words cracked something open inside him. Something old. Something ancient. You could feel it in the way his hands stilled, in the tension that rippled through his frame. He didn’t speak. He only stared — not at your lips, not at your body, but at your eyes. Like he was trying to memorize them. Like he’d never been looked at like this before.
You started to pull back, breath shaky. “Daemon—”
But he sat up instead, suddenly, a hand sliding to the small of your back, the other curling around your jaw with aching gentleness. He didn’t kiss you.
He just looked.
Your face lit by moonlight, lashes low, lips parted, bare and soft and real in his hands.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
You blinked.
“Say it,” he begged, voice rough. “Please.”
Your hand slid up to his chest, splayed over his heartbeat.
“I love you.”
His eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled like the world had finally given him the answer he never knew he was waiting for. And then he pulled you in — not with lust, not with want, but with reverence. With the aching need to be known. To be chosen. To be loved.
You let him.
Because you did.
Because you would.
Even when the realm came calling.
Even when he had to go.
You would still be here — his wife, his heartbeat, his home. And he would never forget.
Your thighs trembled around him, slick with sweat and desire, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Daemon sat back against the headboard, legs spread, letting you straddle him — bare and flushed and so fucking wet it made his head spin. His hands gripped your ass, kneading, spreading you wider as you rocked down onto him again, slow and deliberate, the tight pull of your walls making him groan.
“Fuck,” he growled against your throat. “You were made for this.”
Made for him.
His cock was buried so deep inside you that every inch of him throbbed with the urge to lose control. But he didn’t. Not yet. He wanted to watch. To feel. To let you take him apart, slowly, ruinously.
You moved your hips in a slow, punishing grind, pulling back just enough to tease his tip before sinking down again, your walls fluttering around him.
“You’re so deep,” you gasped, your voice wrecked and breathless, nails dragging down his chest. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good.”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat to his mouth. He bit, not hard, just enough to make you clench around him again.
“You’ll milk me dry like this,” he muttered against your skin, his voice hoarse and reverent. “You want that, don’t you? You want your prince to spend himself inside that pretty cunt and make it his.”
Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded — dumbly, desperately — as you bounced harder on him now, each thrust sloppy with need, wet sounds filling the room.
“You ride like a fucking queen,” he hissed, fingers digging into your hips as he thrust up into you now, finally meeting you stroke for stroke. “Fuck, look at you—look at how you take it.”
You did. You looked.
You watched his face, flushed and wild and shining with sweat. Watched the way his eyes never left your cunt where you slid over him, watched the way his lips parted every time you sank all the way down and tightened like a vice around him.
“I belong to you,” you whispered, breath catching.
His head snapped up, and the sound he made wasn’t human. His grip on your ass bruised now.
“No,” he growled. “I belong to you. Say it.”
You leaned down, licking sweat from his collarbone. “You’re mine.”
He bucked up into you so hard your breath punched out of you. You sobbed, clutching his shoulders as he fucked up into you, no longer holding back. His rhythm was brutal now, but his hands were still gentle, still holding you like something priceless even as he ruined you.
“I’ll fill you,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’ll fill you so deep they’ll smell it on you. I’ll make it stay inside. Let it take.”
You moaned, nails raking through his short hair, mouth falling to his ear.
“Cum in me, silver prince,” you whispered. “Make me yours.”
That was all it took.
He came with a strangled sound, hips jerking up as he emptied himself into you, clutching you so tightly it felt like you might disappear inside him. You followed seconds later, your body shaking as your orgasm crashed over you, messy and overwhelming.
You collapsed into his chest, still shaking, both of you panting, sweat-slicked and ruined.
He didn’t pull out.
He held you there, your cunt still pulsing around him, his cum leaking slow and hot down your thighs. His hands ran up and down your back in lazy, possessive strokes.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your shoulder. “My wife. My home.”
And then, almost reverently—
“I’ll never leave you.”
𖠁───༺✦༻───𖠁
It was late afternoon when it happened — when peace cracked like a shell.
You were seated in the shade of the courtyard, your robe loose around your shoulders, the heat kissing your skin as you combed your fingers through Ellira’s silver curls. She sat in your lap gnawing on a piece of chilled fruit, fat-cheeked and drowsy, her head occasionally tilting back to blink up at you with sleepy adoration.
Visery was at your feet, two years old now and already stubborn, trying to mimic his older brother’s footwork. Laziel — nine, fierce and fast — shouted praise and corrections in equal measure as he sparred barefoot with a driftwood stick against two of the older children.
Daemon leaned in the doorway of your shared room, shirt half-buttoned, smirking like he always did when watching you mother his world. He’d come home from bathing in the river, hair still damp, skin sun-warmed. The way his arms crossed over his chest made his shoulders look broader than ever. You watched him quietly, the life you had built bleeding into every inch of this warm, wild place.
And then the wind shifted.
Bootsteps. Unfamiliar. Sharp. Too many of them.
The gates opened before anyone could stop them — four men in polished Targaryen armor, red cloaks trailing behind them like torn flame. The clink of metal against stone echoed like thunder in a valley too quiet to deserve it.
Your mother stepped out from her parlor, her voice sharp: “Who in the hells—?”
But she stopped.
Everyone stopped.
The guards stood still, swords sheathed but presence heavy. The insignia on their breastplates glinted cruelly in the sun. It was the royal crest. The dragon of House Targaryen.
One of them stepped forward, scroll in hand.
“Prince Daemon Targaryen,” he announced. “By order of Princess Rhaenyra, you are summoned. The Crown calls.”
Silence.
Not a breath in the courtyard.
You turned your head slowly. Daemon hadn’t moved.
His eyes were on the guards, but you saw the shift in him. His hands, once loose at his sides, now curled into fists. His jaw clenched tight. You rose to your feet, handing Ellira off to your mother without a word, crossing the distance between you with Visery stumbling behind you, clutching your fingers.
He wouldn’t look at you. Not yet.
“Don’t,” he muttered, voice low. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you asked.
“Like I’m already gone.”
You reached up and touched his face — not with panic, not with pleading, but with quiet understanding.
“I know you won’t come back. Not right away.”
His throat moved.
“So don’t lie to me,” you whispered. “Don’t say you will. Just go. Go where they need you. Rhaenyra needs you. The realm needs you.”
He exhaled — a broken sound.
“And I need you,” you continued. “But I will be here. We will be here. Laziel. Visery. Ellira. This home. This life. When the time is right, we’ll find our way back. Whether that’s here… or there.”
His hands gripped your waist, hauling you forward. You buried your face in his neck, your mouth brushing over his pulse.
“I only came for one night,” he rasped. “Do you remember?”
You nodded.
“I just wanted to fuck and disappear.”
“You stayed.”
“I stayed,” he echoed, fingers tightening like he could carve the memory of your body into his bones.
Behind you, Laziel was standing now, frozen, stick in hand, sweat still drying on his brow. His mouth opened — then closed — and then opened again.
Daemon turned his head. Their eyes locked.
Laziel’s chin trembled.
“I know I’m not really yours,” he whispered.
Daemon’s voice was quiet. Steady. “Says who?”
“Nobody.”
“Then don’t say it again.”
Laziel stepped forward slowly. “Will you still be my Papa? Even if you go?”
Daemon knelt. He pulled him in hard, pressing his forehead to Laziel’s, cupping the back of his neck.
“I was your Papa the moment I held you,” he said. “And I will be until my body is ash.”
Laziel broke, arms wrapping around his shoulders, his little voice breaking on a sob.
Visery clung to your leg, confused but sensing the shift in the air.
Ellira watched from your mother’s hip, mouth open in a soft “O,” curls tangled with ribbon.
And you — you stood rooted. Watching the man who had given you everything, only to now be taken by the gods of war.
He kissed you like he meant it. Like it would be the last time. His hands slid up your arms, then over your belly, then cupped your face with the reverence of a man worshipping something divine.
When he turned toward the guards, he didn’t look back.
But the moment he passed the courtyard gate, a gust of wind kicked up dust behind him — and in its wake, you saw it:
Dark Sister.
Left leaning on the garden wall beside Laziel’s training sword.
Waiting. Like you would.
Forever, if need be.
