Smut Warning: There's smut. You're warned.
He sat in the candlelit room until the water grew warm and his temperature leveled. All the time, wondering if she was cold or tired or uncomfortable. He thought of apologies that all fell short, that he could never convince himself in earnest that he meant it.
Lost in self serving thought he didn’t here her knock, only turning as the door was opened, and she was there, unchanged from when he last saw her other than a robe hanging open on her.
She asked quietly, closing the door behind her. As she made her way to him, he felt exposed, with nowhere else to go, but where they were, he thought of her in this position and how she reacted to him. He reached behind him for a washcloth to preserve whatever decency he left between them.
She sat on the same tiled step that he used with her, glowing in the light, with her hair undone. Her hand threaded the edge of the tub, gracefully.
She looked at him before sinking her hand in the water, close enough for him to feel the motion of the water before she pulled away.
She stood up and walked away, finding a bucket of hot water to add to the bath, avoiding the prompt and prolonging any answer he’d receive.
She streamed it in, bending in front of him to do it, to the benefit of his desire and nothing else. Decency couldn’t prevail as his eyes lingered on her blossom until she pulled away. He didn’t grow accustomed to the heat until she spoke again, maintaining the quiet with a whisper beside him.
“I went on a walk. Are you better?”
She sat down beside him again, awaiting his earned response to her.
He motioned instead, maintaining the unease in the air. He couldn’t look at her truly. Nothing in the moment compelled him to change that. Every justification felt unearned in their current state.
She posed the question in dead silence. He almost felt himself succumb to the urge of agreeing absent-mindedly.
He finally caught her eyes, looking just below his neck to his chest before they found his.
He couldn’t think back to a time where she’d ever seen him without some covering over the scars he kept from war. There was no discomfort or fear in her eyes. They barely changed at the sight.
“We need to cut your hair and it’s no longer wet.”
He forgot of their past conversations, presuming she had to in the daze of their last interaction.
“You’ve also been in here for an hour.” She looked away from him for a moment.
He was not strong enough to reject her after her insistence on it, nodding again, signaling her behind him to aid him.
She made her way behind it, dropping the robe before sitting at the edge of the bath. The same heat was a novel vice now. He could feel it between them. The water didn’t help his quest to deter himself entirely from the feeling.
He sank deeper into the water before she poured the water on his head, in absolute and agreed on quiet. The water trickled from his head to his back, coating him in warmth, relaxing him in her scent and presence. Another dangerous place he’d confined himself to.
Eventually she stopped, leaving him with an idle want for the past.
“When did the arrow shoot you?”
He opened his eyes and turned to her, almost impressed by the decisiveness in her words. Her hand hovered just above his scar from what seemed a lifetime ago. There was a recklessness in her motion towards him, a contemplation to simply place her hand on him. Nothing about where they seemed right. Every interaction seemed unfair and restrained from just a few moments ago.
“How do you know it’s an arrow?”
He gazed at her for a moment , trying to assure her without words that she could touch him. When she dropped her hand on it, he felt the immediate heat from her, trying his best to leave it alone.
“Many men on Driftmark have the same one.”
Every allusion she made towards her past angered him in some small way. She had no one to protect her. She wouldn’t have been a baby by the end of that war, and yet she knew its marks, well enough to correctly recognize it.
She asked as he thought of the new information he had to piece together her past, idly shaking his head in agreement.
She had faded scars and scrapes on her body from things he’d never guessed with luck on his side. Her nose scar spoke louder than the rest. She wore it well enough that it seemed a part of her, something he couldn’t imagine her without. She let her hands wander on him, something he wouldn’t dare stop. She was tracing old wounds that seemed to reopen to heal under her touch. He never thought he’d become so dependent on it. Her hands made their way from his chest to his neck, jaw, and cheek, leaving a trail of fire to consume him.
“Daemon?” She called out to him passively, turning his face to hers.
“Netty?” He looked at her, staring idly at her enraptured sight, the shoulder of her dress sliding saying off her.
“This isn’t normal is it?”
He raised himself out of the water to be face to face with her. She knew it, he knew it and that’s where they were now. It was truly that simple. He wouldn’t be here with his children or Addam Velayron. It was her and the reaction she cause with him. He never wanted to deter a realization more.
A stupid question to pose for her to answer, something unfair to postpone it, to remain as they were without the burden of understanding.
She leaned down to him, keeping her steady hand on his face. If she kissed him, he knew he wouldn’t stop her, he thought of it enough times himself.
She pressed her forehead against his, never breaking their gaze, continuing with her whisper.
“I don’t think either of us have the care or understanding for it.”
They should, he wished to say, before she pulled away.
He thought of what he would give to return to the possibility that she’d give in to what seemed to be her worse impulse. Just to give his desire an entrance point, stopping its distracting festering in her presence.
“How short do we cut your hair?”
She turned to conversation away from the point. He selfishly wished she wouldn’t, that she’d see him, desperately confiding in him.
He looked at her. It was midnight. Nothing could save them from the early morning tire they’d face now. Her hands stayed at the edge of the tub, forgetting their earned place on him entirely now.
She looked apprehensive towards the idea. The time for one, their early flight was surely the other reason. She looked towards him. Her eyes shrouded in mystery now.
“We’ll talk about it during. Gaining trust and so on.”
Nothing she did made him know what she was thinking, maybe he was better off for it. She wore for a moment before continuing, the dress only half dry on her. He wondered if he offered her a place in his bath if she would take it.
The state of the material wouldn’t leave his mind.
She simply smiled and pulled her robe to hide the dress. Such a small word brought him relief , from grueling tension. She wasn’t cold he realized, dropping the thought from his mind all together. She stayed for a moment, silently drawing them back to the bath, taking a discarded cloth and washing his back, continuing her small ministrations around his scars before dismissing her self to change and get the things to cut his hair.
He didn’t know if she could do it, he knew he didn’t care.
His cock had grown strained in her company, from her touch and conversation. He simply couldn’t bring himself to handle it, feeling as though it had been a misguided conclusion to what had occurred. She brought him as much guilt as she did arousal and the pleasure of her company denied any cure.
He stayed until the water was warm around him, his heat leveling before he went his room , anxious for the outcome before he met her, staring idly at his vanity, waiting for him.
The room was wrapped in candlelight and a cool breeze covered the air. Her hair was open and drying, she wore another nightgown that fell of her shoulders like a Stormlands dress, never looking more Velayron than she had before, his mind drew to Lady Jocelyn before pulling away entirely. She truly looked like no one he’d ever met.
“Did you call for someone? Or do I learn you can do it without aid?”
He sounded sure, something he was knowingly not. She made no attempt to look his was as he dressed, keeping the drying cloth wrapped around him to prevent any immodesty between them. He put his trousers and undershirt on back facing her waiting for any reaction. When he got none he turned and continued, making his way to her.
“I wonder how short you’d like it?”
He stood in front of her, her eyes conflicted between a decision, her expression dim.
He was more concerned about her changing emotion than he was about her company, scared of what it could mean. How it could change their newly won interactions.
“Are you sure you want to cut your hair? I know you Targaryens take pride in it.”
Her voice was mellow and concerned, bringing a smile to his face. The strange girl was more concerned about his hair than anything between them. She established and kept her hold over him well.
He pulled on her hand, raising her off the stool before taking her place, causing her to uselessly stifle a laugh.
“I assure you it will return. Just do not leave me bald and all will be well.” She rolled her eyes before turning him to face the silvered looking glass. Ornate limestone murals of wheat and fish decorated the frame as he looked on.
He saw the shears, a older looking hairbrush and comb, curious about her intentions.
“Who taught you to do it?”
She reached over, brushing against him to get the hairbrush to untangle his hair. Light as a feather, she made her way through, careful not to pull,
a gentle affection he eased into.
“A man who didn’t like young girls in brothels or as barmaids.”
He thought to ask for a name, or age of said young girls. Her voice was kind if not overly polite to overcompensate her discomfort at opening up to him.
“What’s the shortest your hair has been?”
He smiled at the memory she invoked, after the Stepstones. Where he took Rhaenyra to Flea Bottom when Laena had first introduced herself to him. It seemed a lifetime now.
“As short as it makes me pleasing to your eyes.”
She flushed at the insinuation, collecting her thoughts before grabbing the shears and comb. His hair had grown to his waist in such a short time, he barely managed it as it was.
She sectioned his hair, taking from just below the bottom of his hair go down and began to braid the top.
Sure questions, to know her better, he justified before bracing himself for her silence.
“ Seven and ten in a fortnight.”
She began to section that part, from the lowest part going up, braiding it as well.
"You never said anything?" He quirked an eyebrow towards her growing smile.
“We should celebrate then.”
She was a young girl. He fought with boys her age before, but she carried herself with a forced maturity, a warned understanding of a world that held no place for her. He lusted after a young lady whose childhood had been revoked.
She simply muttered a small acknowledgement before opening the shears. Letting his hair go and combing the lowest part to the nape of his neck, she discarded most of his hair, shaping it as she went, continuing until she had cut the entire section in that style.
He felt a weight leave him with each snip. Lingering and weakening as though he’d finally felt a rest after months.
“Are you interested in marriage?”
It was a promise made when she claimed a dragon, surely the best way to go for her. Alyn, though young would be suitable but the idea caused bile to raise.
“I care about my dragon and keeping him at my side. Bearing heirs for some fat lord to add a dragon bride to his collection is a small price. I’ll find my joy on dragon back and do my duty.”
It sounded cruel coming from her, he felt insulted by the statement. Freedom was the price she felt she payed to claim her dragon, one lord to him seemed better than random men who’d harm her whichever way they thought their coin earned.
“There are harsher cost.”
His defense was met by silence. She took the top of his hair and began cutting , lock after lock dropping into silence in the dead of night, every snip echoing a strained sentiment.
“As someone who’s paid the price in full your grace I wasn’t complaining. Simply saying I’d prefer not to be sold atop a dragon as well.”
She didn’t hesitate in her response, nor did she stop toying with his hair. She pulled to frame his face as his words sunk in, deterring his reaction to what she had said. He sat in the quiet as she pulled and combed what remained of his hair. He knew the front at least fell just past his chin as she’d pulled all his hair in front of his eyes.
His attempt to know her had shriveled into hope that she’d still promise to trust him, especially when he couldn’t earn it readily.
She turned him to her and began to run her cold hands through his hair to style it the way it was cut. Her expression was a mixture of concern and anticipation. It made him nervous to be a recipient of the expression.
She looked at him, a smug look covering her face, she’d never looked at him like this before, it made his heart race with the expectation.
It felt weightless now, he missed the warmth and feeling yet her demeanor kept some mystery.
He broke her gaze to stare at himself. He was a vain man, no matter how calm he seemed to her or tried to convince himself, if it didn’t suit him he’d change it. The longest locs swooped just below his ear, with all the length from the back grazing the nape of his neck. He looked well kept, in a sense refined as a prince should be.
Her voice seemed eager to know, to discover what he thought of it.
She smiled at the insinuation, causing her brown eyes to crease, letting it touch her eyes. Her cheeks were full and bright, and she looked at him as though he was the sun itself. He wished to remain in that light she painted him with.
“I should cut my hair as well, it’s gotten so long and I can’t go through the summer heat with it.”
He liked her hair to much to agree with her, he’d do it himself if it took too much work for her to maintain.
“You will not do anything close to that. I prefer your hair long.”
She seems shocked by his admission, holding her smile with wide eyes before walking away. He stood up, dusting what remained of silver strands off himself.
She returned with a dustpan and broom, handing it to him passively, walking to his bed and sitting before he could contest. She was still the person with a very unclean room, he reminded himself as he gathered the hair, at least she thought of him.
In that time she pulled herself up on his bed, lying horizontally on her stomach she watched and waited for his company idly. She kicked her feet in the air, causing her dress to fall back on her thighs, something that stained his mind like ink on paper.
His mind engaged with the idea that she did it on purpose. She looked half dressed, with loose hair at the center of his bed like a dessert at the middle of the table of a feast. He tried to distract himself from the portrait it painted, staring at the floor until he was done and making his way to her.
When he sat at the edge, he put his back to the window and faced the door. She then turned to face him on her side, causing the dress to go just pass her knees.
“Do you know me well enough now?”
Her voice was like cinnamon when she whispered, warm and inviting. When she did, he realized she couldn’t hide the dockside inflection that held every other word with her. He felt himself restrain every natural urge he had, keeping his eyes forward and hands on his lap.
The fervor her hand could conjure was proven again as she placed her hand on his, luring his eyes to her under its command.
“Do I simply stab you or is there more to it?”
He had to make a pact with her, he had promised.
He ran his hand through his fresh, cut hair standing to ready himself for the night ahead.
The room was cool with the fireplace lit. He added more wood to watch it catch ablaze.
She got off his bed, making no moves to remake it walking neat the table he stayed near. Ever the contrarian, she sat on the table as he made his way to her.
The fireplace illuminated her with its light. Highlighting the browns and blacks of her silhouette, making her eyes glow.
She seemed confused at what he was doing, curious to know if she should stare at him the same way, he thought, he fantasized.
“I’ll talk you through it. You’ve no need to worry. Fill a goblet with wine.”
He tried to be gentle and considerate to her. Willing to make a pledge to try and trust him, allowing herself to believe he had her best interest at heart only for him to misconstrue it to protect her. He hoped to give her the understanding.
He walked away from her light, paving the wooden floors to reach his saddle bag for a dagger. He heard the wine pour into the dead of night as he retrieved the dragon glass dagger from the sack. She held the cup in her hand, awaiting any instruction from him.
He made his way to her smiling in a sense to reassure her and her nervousness. He took the crystal from her, resting it back in the table trying to understand what she’d anticipate.
“It need not be in Valyrian, though it’s preferred.” He hadn’t spoken it in a long while, he’d never asked if she could. Her eyes didn’t meet his, dropping to look at her hands.
“Is there anything else you wish to know?”
He simply wished to ease the budding nervousness that possessed her, he took her chin in between his fingers and raised it to his eyes. It meant something different to them both, she was young enough to bind herself fully to her word.
Her voice dropped below what he could hair, her head dipping below his gaze with it. He looked to the moon, and back to her, it was just past midnight by any indication.
“This is no time for secrets.”
He felt himself chill to whatever response she’d give. Perhaps she’d confess to murder he thought in his occupied state, half worry, half earnest.
She looked at him, her brown eyes glazed with anxiousness.
“I sometimes think I’m not Valyrian at all.”
He did not know what to say to that statement. His eyes met her brown ones with anticipation, some way to dissuade the thought altogether. He didn’t know whether to discredit the idea or ease the fear in her confession.
She and her dragon were as Valyrian as he and his. By any name she’d be Valyrian. He didn’t understand the question at all.
She slouched down, spreading her legs between them, looking into the fireplace. He raised her face to look at his with his finger, not wanting to miss what she could truly be expressing to him.
“Sometimes it just seems untrue. I’ve read all the books on all the riders and I’ve never come close to anyone like me. We’re bonded differently.”
He talked though what had to happened while trying to understand what exactly she had meant.
“What ever promise you make is sealed in blood, it lasts as long as your blood flows, a promised the gods won’t ignore whatever we both say, we are both held to.”
Her miserable dragon had gotten used to the sheep agreement she formed all those moons ago, which didn’t make her non Valyrian. Her face wasn’t Valyrian, he thought. Even with his knowledge, the closest he’d come to anything like her was the first dragon riders, who were shepherds. It still wasn’t enough to discredit centuries of precedent. He’d given her fear too much thought to begin with.
He looked at her again, gaining a look of half expectation from her. He took the silver handled dagger in one hand, with her left hand in the other, pulling himself between her legs. He slit along her palm , taking the goblet, letting her blood fall into the crimson drink, to nothing but her silent hesitation.
“You’re as Valyrian as I am, I’d put that on my blood. Anyone who says differently wishes to take your accomplishments away. I know what you are.”
Her eyes had welled with unshed tears, he half hoped from the pain of the cut.
“Take it and do the same.” He urged the dagger out of his hand into hers, leaving little room from questions. She held on to his fingers as she pressed the blade into his palm, deeper that he had, causing him to flinch.
A small apology left her lips, not for the first time wanting him to put a stop to it. He turned her hand from the cup and rested it palm up on the table, letting his hand drain into the cup.
She took it from him as he did so, setting the dagger near her.
Her palm bled on to the floor creating a new mess for them to clean after. He grabbed on to it with his bleeding hand, holding it over the cup. He held the goblet with her hand over it, raising the cup to her lips, letting it rest.
The crystal threatened to spill with every passing moment, he could only hope she wouldn’t faint.
“I promised to protect you, to stay at your side and be your company. To fight and return you to King’s Landing. I trust you completely.”
He took it and drank, feeling the orange and blood rush past his tongue, down his throat, quenching something unknown. She looked at him, questioning his every word before pressing it to his lips, delicately, tightening her grip on his pulsing hand.
“I promise to stay at your side, be your constant companion and return with you at my side. To fight and die of it means peace for the realm. I trust you.”
He wanted to stop her before she drank from the goblet. His hand almost stopped her before she pressed it to her mouth and drank half of what remained before she couldn’t stomach the taste. Drinking enough to seal every word she’d hope to seal. He should’ve said what she did. They both knew it , her eyes said as much as she stared at him with the smallest idea of contempt for not saying it.
Instead of resting the cup down she threw it into the fire, causing it to crackle and burn louder and brighter than it had.
Their hands were still there bleeding into each other when she pulled away to get something to contain the mess of it. He just stood there with the sinking feeling he had betrayed her before she would make herself trust him, or perhaps the gods would for his stupidity. The scent filled the air, intoxicating him with the welcomed smell from all those nights ago. He sat down, trying his best to stop the blood with a closed fist, trying to get out of his thoughts.
He poured and drank the same strong wine thrice before she returned, a bucket of water, bandages, and cloth to aid him and the state of his room.
Each cup pushing further into a delirium of his own design.
She made her way to him, taking a seat on the table before pulling his hand, hers already bandaged in her time away. He felt a warm almost burning liquid go on first then a powder that made his hand lose feeling before she wrapped in all in a white cloth like hers.
He looked at her for the first time since she’d returned, still holding her hand, he’d already grown too attached to the comfort of it, not letting her tug away.
That made him laugh, the thought that she’d curse and not pull away when he stopped fighting her.
They stayed that way awhile, just as they had been. She traced circles on his palm, in silence just to be there. His hands rested on her thigh, laying his chin on her knee. Her hair formed a crown lit by the fire behind her. In his desire for her and his weakened state, she appeared more God the man. A true Targaryen if he ever thought to picture one.
She snorted at the insinuation or maybe the time. He was tired and drained, watching her fluttering eyes he knew she was as well.
“The man who marries you will be lucky beyond fairness.”
He should stop. He felt the regret and jealousy behind every word. Envious at a nameless, faceless nobleman he’d never meet.
She seemed annoyed by the phrase.
He stood up, feeling the full effect of the wine on his feet falling in her to steady himself.
She could feel the concern in her gaze. Her care meant more at his current state. He wouldn’t fall down and be left there. He smiled and shook his head insulted by her accusation after only three glasses of wine.
He brought himself to her eye level again, realizing he was in the same place he was just a few moments ago.
She’d make a pretty bride. She’d be someone’s wide and have his children, and he’d be gone without ever knowing the hate he’d feel. Her pretty, plump lips would seal it.
He gazed at them, brown and big, they deserved to be kissed, he had convinced himself completely before he leaned in.
They were soft and warm, almost welcoming to his intrusion. He caught her top lip and then her cheek, pressing into the kiss, so he’d know what the faceless suitor gained in his absence.
Her hand caught his shoulder and the other his jaw before pulling away. They stayed there as she conjured a nameless expression, one he’d never seen before, one that would stay with him .
She closed her eyes to him before reacting again, pushing herself off the table and guiding him to his bed, taking off his boots before laying him down, never once losing contact with him, never letting her warmth leave him.
When she said goodnight, he pulled her back to him. Eventually, she sat, and his head settled on her lap in the cooling night.
Even in his last torments of awareness, he could feel her fire slip away and with it his consciousness.
The air was cold and damp with the stink of salt in the cold air. His breeches and undershirt clung to his body, and he could feel the sand between his toes. The moon hanging to illuminate the night sky bigger than he had ever seen it.
He could hear a song, the closest he had come to it on his path. It was High Tide's coastal line he wandered on, with the same sandy hills and mountains carved out by water. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there or the last time he’d seen Driftmark at night.
When he walked past the third cave, the singing stopped completely, and he was trapped with the sounds of the waves crashing, disrupting the peace of the night. He plopped down near the cave and waited for something to happen.
He sat with scattered thoughts until his eyes grew red, his throat dry and belly empty, the sun had yet to break, and yet it felt like the sun was near.
He smelled her before he heard her. He felt her before she made herself known.
He turned to meet her, wrapped in sheer white cloth and decorated in pearls, Nettles stood there in the cave.
He walked towards her, not sure why they were here.
“If you take me here, no one will know, your grace.”
That took the breath from him. She leaned forward, closing in what little room remained between them, pressing herself against him.
He blurted out, refusing to move an inch away from her. Her clothes were wet but warm, caressing every curve he’d observed. To his rejection, she pulled him in, grazing his tightened jaw with her bottom lip before starting.
“If you stay, you can have me. No one will know.”
She repeated the phrase with a fervor in her tone that made him want to give in.
She started a ceremonious stream of affection down his jaw to the base of his neck, her hands undoing his breeches.
Against himself, he protested, feeling the culmination of her efforts draw him.
“I can not stay. I have to keep you safe.”
He barely knew what he was saying. The same expression she seemed to carry every day seemed like lust as it met him again in this light. She carried a heat he would not refuse for long.
“I’m safe with you here, Daemon. Stay with me.”
She pulled herself away from him and dropped the cloth that decorated her, revealing herself fully to him. Her firm breast peaked at him before he drunk her in, a women stood in front of him, demanding he make due with her presence, with each curve of her body.
She pulled him into her again, this time looking at him as she took his face in her hand, kissing him slowly.
Her warm tongue parted his lips in one motion, pushing her way through him. She dropped his trousers to the ground, leaving him bare against her.
He was hard and ready to give in for whatever she’d be willing to do with him. She took his hand and pressed it flat against her breast, her body tender at his wanting touch, nipple hard against his palm. He took to it and watched her head fall back, demanding the pleasure with a loud moan that echoed. She placed the other on her back to wander freely.
“Netty.” Her body was demanding all of him. She need only say it, and he’d fulfill every plea made.
“I want you to have me, ruin me.”
Nothing could stop him from pulling her atop him in that moment, every grasp more desperate than the last. She made contact with his hardening cock with her wanting heat. Every motion dragging him closer to the precipice he knew he’d enjoy better in her.
Her hands clawed along his back, eager for any form of friction between them.
He couldn’t bear her weight alongside his emotions, breaking their kiss he laid her on her back upon a covering on the sand. She laid sprawled and needy, the first beam of the sun searching her uncovered skin, shadowing her silhouette.
“I don’t want you hurt you.”
He pressed a finger against her slick opening, already wet from what little they had done. He slipped his middle finger into a resounding groan, her hips immediately matching his eager rhythm with a relentless tightness he wished to put to better use.
When she grabbed on to his cock with an idle hand he knew neither of them stood much of a chance for much longer.
He crawled on her, a desperate, pleading journey.
He aligned himself with her pushing in every inch slowly before pulling out, teasing her till he yearned, adjusting her to his size.
When he was fully engulfed by her, her hips, and waist threaded on an assiduous journey to set a quick pace and bring her to her peak completely, he wished for nothing more than to join her. Each thrust matched her speed, bringing a quick end to hope of ease.
Each stroke earned him a back arching moan only matched with her grip that made him join her chorus. He needed to see her lose herself, he lusted after the complete dissolving of any composure she could still maintain.
On his knees, he brought her up and started a restless pounding of her, his hand dancing along the arousing bead that pulled pleas like scripture from her mouth. He was barely in control. He barely knew where her pleasure stopped and his started.
The sun had fully returned when she mounted him. Her wordless ministrations consumed him. He’d taken her left breast in his mouth a simple grounding that built the fever they caused.
He could feel her tensing, keeping the same motion, ensuring the same movement to grow her climax. When she tightened around him, announcing his vindication, the tide of his own pleasure pulled him into her, gripping her hips as she shuddered atop him, trembling in the peak he followed. He could feel the salt of her coat his tongue, smell the citrus of her skin, held his breath before it became dark again, and he felt cold.
