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matthewrsmith

Jul 28

directedbygubler

daemon blurb where you suck his dick on the iron throne 🤪🤪🤪

The Rouge King 🗡️

Daemon Targaryen x Fem Martell! Reader

MDNI, NSFW 18+ Smut

wc: 3.8k

cw: Oral, Arranged marriage, Age gap (not specified), Daemon being daemon, Dirty talk, Semi-public, Dom! Daemon, little to no aftercare ngl, daemon is king because…it works story wise, No y/n, vulgar words, PWP ? , may be OOC it’s my first time writing for anything else than CM, lowkey not proofread.

a/n: Min i know you said blurb but i got carried away. 🤗 Take this as a birthday gift since your so farrrr Happy birthday pookie!!!!!!

House of the dragon masterlist Reqs open

You look up at the Red Keep, that looming fortress of stone and power where your new husband waits. Husband. The word felt strange on your tongue, heavier than the gold chains draped across your wrists and throat. Your father had bartered you like any man might barter his finest horse or the best cut of Dornish wine. A princess of Dorne, offered up to the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The title alone feels bitter in your mouth. Dorne had never bent the knee. Not truly. But now your father had bent you.

The sun-baked roads of your home feel far away as the gates yawn open, spilling you into the shadowed halls of the Red Keep. The air is cooler here, heavy with incense and steel and old whispers of treachery. You trail behind your father, jewels clinking softly as you walk, your gown a deep crimson trimmed in gold—Martell colors worn like armor.

The guards lining the halls watch you both pass in stony silence. Their armor gleams in torchlight, but it is the silence that unsettles you most. They all look so… obedient. In Dorne, men spoke their minds. Here, men looked only to the sword upon the throne.

Two knights push open the towering doors to the throne room. The sound echoes like a hammer falling.

And there he is.

Daemon Targaryen.

The Rogue King.

He sits sprawled upon the Iron Throne as though it were made for no other man, long legs spread lazily, one hand resting on the arm carved from a thousand melted swords. The other dangles Dark Sister by his side, the infamous blade catching the dim light as though eager for blood.

He is watching you.

No—he is devouring you with his eyes.

A smirk curves his mouth, wolfish and knowing, as though he can already smell the heat of your skin beneath the heavy Dornish silks. His pale hair gleams silver in the torchlight, falling loose to his shoulders, his crown glinting above sharp, dangerous eyes that give away nothing but a hunger you feel rather than see.

You stop halfway to the throne. You will not approach him too closely yet. He is a man one must learn before stepping within his reach.

You sink into a low curtsy, eyes downcast though you feel his stare like a hand on your throat.

“Your Grace,” you murmur, voice steady despite the faint tremor running through your blood.

Your father bows beside you, stiff and silent. Odd, you think, that he seems more afraid than you.

Daemon leans forward on the throne, the leather of his doublet creaking faintly.

“Lord Martell,” he drawls, voice smooth as Dornish red, yet carrying the edge of a man used to command. “This is your daughter?” His eyes flick back to you, slowly, the corners of his mouth curling. “A princess… come all this way to be made a queen.”

Your father clears his throat. “As promised, Your Grace. The blood of Nymeria herself runs through her veins.”

Daemon’s smirk deepens. “Yes. I can see it.” His gaze drifts over you—your throat, your waist, your lips lingering a heartbeat longer than they should. He leans back again, lounging as though this were all great sport.

“Come closer, princess,” he says softly, though the command slices through the air like steel drawn from its sheath.

Your father gives the faintest nod of permission, but it would not have mattered. You move because Daemon told you to.

The sound of your slippers across the stone echoes through the hall as you approach the foot of the throne. His knights shift faintly behind him, tense as hounds, though you suspect their king needs no protection. The man radiates danger, coiled in every slow movement like a blade sheathed but ready.

Up close, he is worse. Or better.

His beauty is not soft, not princely. It is sharp and bright and cruel, the kind of beauty that draws blood if touched carelessly.

He tilts his head. “Tell me, princess… were you willing to be bartered off for crown and country? Or did you weep for some Dornish lover left behind?”

You lift your chin, meeting his eyes. “I wept for nothing, Your Grace.”

That makes him grin, wide and pleased, like a man shown a new weapon he is eager to test.

He stands. Slowly. Like a cat uncurling, coming down the steps of the throne until he stands before you, Dark Sister’s point dragging lazily along the stone as he descends.

When he reaches you, he is close enough for you to smell the faint trace of leather and steel and dragon smoke clinging to him. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him seeping through your silks.

“You wear too many jewels,” he murmurs, gloved fingers brushing your wrist before lifting it, turning it to see the gold gleaming there. “You look like you’ve come to be conquered.”

“Perhaps I have,” you answer before you can think better of it.

Daemon laughs, low and delighted, the sound curling through your gut like fire.

“Careful, princess,” he says softly, leaning in until his breath stirs the loose tendrils of your hair. “I might take you at your word.”

His hand drops yours. He turns his back on you, walking a few paces toward the throne before glancing over his shoulder.

“Leave us,” he says to the guards, to your father, to anyone with ears. The words are soft but final.

You hear your father hesitate. Then the scrape of boots, the closing of doors.

Now it is only you and the king.

Daemon sits again upon the Iron Throne, sprawling back into it, legs spread like some dark god holding court. He watches you, eyes glinting as though weighing precisely how much he will take tonight.

“Come here,” he says again, voice low. “Kneel for your king.”

And you go.

Daemon watches like a cat watching prey—lazy posture, sharp eyes, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth as though the whole realm were a game he alone knew the rules to.

“Closer… dear wife-to-be,” he murmurs, voice smooth as Valyrian steel, the words wrapping around you like smoke.

You move closer, the skirts of your gown whispering against the stone as you ascend the steps of the Iron Throne.

He points with a slow flick of his fingers to the space between his long, spread legs where the throne narrows at the center.

The command is clear.

You take a steadying breath before obeying, stepping until you stand at the foot of his throne. Then, because he told you to, you drop to your knees.

Stone bites through the thin layers of your skirts, but he does not care for your comfort. He cares only for the view.

Daemon leans back with a quiet huff of satisfaction, pride gleaming sharp in his violet eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dripping with smugness. “You look even prettier like this… like something that belongs to me.”

You begin to rise, thinking this was some formality done, but his voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“Do not stand,” he says firmly, softly, the kind of softness that brooks no disobedience. “Did I tell you to do that?”

You shake your head, lowering again until both knees rest on the cold floor before him.

“That’s better.”

His hand lifts, fingers gloved in black leather, thumb tracing the sharp edge of your cheekbone. He studies you as though memorizing each curve and line.

“It is about time,” he says, voice thick with mockery, “that Dorne bent the knee.”

The words hang heavy. Not just for politics. Not just for marriage. The double edge is clear as dragonfire.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers until your eyes meet his.

“Do you truly bend the knee to me, princess?” His tone drips with sin now, low and intimate, meant for your ears alone. “You may be on your knees… but so have many others.”

The smirk deepens, filthy and unashamed. “Some for a crown. Most for my cock.”

Heat licks up your neck at his bluntness, but you do not look away. Neither does he.

“Well?” he presses, his thumb dragging idly along your lower lip now, the pad rough against softness. “Do you see me as your king?”

You swallow. “I do… Your Grace.”

The words taste like ash.

Because you do not. Not yet. Not the way he wants. You have heard the tales—the brothels, the duels, the trail of bastards and blood left in his wake.

And he can see it in your eyes. The defiance, the distrust. It makes him grin.

“You lie so prettily,” Daemon says with a quiet laugh, the sound curling in his chest. “But I shall forgive you.”

His hand cups your jaw fully now, holding you there as though you might try to flee, his thumb smearing along your cheek as he leans forward in his throne.

“Keep looking at me,” he orders softly, cruelly. “I like when you do as you’re told.”

His gaze rakes down you slowly, lingering at your mouth, your throat, the swell of your breasts above the tight laces of Dornish silk.

“You’ll make a fine little queen,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, hunger bleeding through the amusement. “All fire and pride. Until I fuck it out of you.”

The words make your breath hitch before you can stop it. Daemon hears it. Of course he does. His smirk spreads, sharp as a blade sliding home.

“Yes,” he says softly, thumb dragging down until it rests against your lower lip again. “Open.”

The single word lands like a command to kneel had.

Your lips part slowly.

Daemon pushes his thumb inside, presses down on your tongue until your jaw aches, until spit gathers where you cannot close your mouth around him.

“Good girl,” he praises low, obscene words said like endearments. “You’ll take more than that soon enough.”

He pulls his thumb free with a slow drag that glistens. His other hand goes to the buckle of his belt, the scrape of leather loud in the empty throne room.

“All the realm will wonder,” he says, voice gone almost idle as though discussing war councils, “if the Dornish princess earned her crown on her knees.”

The belt falls open. The heavy fabric of his trousers parts.

“Look at me,” Daemon says again, softer this time, like a secret between the two of you. “And keep those pretty eyes right here while you put that sweet mouth to work for your king.”

He hadn’t freed himself yet, though nothing in his manner slowed. That restless, predatory energy coiled tighter the longer he drew it out.

“Tell me,” Daemon murmurs, voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “Do you want to do this? And do not lie.” His grin tilts sharp. “We have established you are quite… shit at it.”

The words slice, but the heat in your belly betrays you before pride can intervene.

You nod.

Because fuck—you shouldn’t. Seven hells, you know you shouldn’t. He is your king-to-be, your father’s ally, the most dangerous man in the realm—and yet here you are, trembling, thighs pressed together like that might stop the ache building there. Maybe it is his power over you, the weight of the crown glinting above his silver head. Maybe it is the sharp jaw, the wolfish grin, the unapologetic arrogance of him.

But gods help you, you want it.

“Yes,” you say, breathless. “I do… Your Grace.”

The smirk spreads across his face like a cut opening wider.

“Mh…yes,” he says, amused and pleased all at once. “Of course you do.”

His eyes burn down the length of you, then narrow faintly, cruelly curious.

“Have you done this before?” His head tilts, tone mocking but soft, meant to needle. “Or did your dear father keep you locked in his pretty little tower… untouched and unsullied… like some relic?”

You do not answer.

Daemon chuckles darkly, the sound curling in his chest.

“Well,” he murmurs, “we shall see, won’t we?”

And then he frees himself.

The thick length of him springs into his hand, already hard, already flushed, as though the waiting had cost him too. He wraps his fist around the base, slow and deliberate, a king displaying his sword before battle.

Gods… he is big.

Long, heavy, the skin pale save for the flushed tip glistening faintly in the torchlight. He is right—it is almost pretty, if cocks could be such a thing. Beautiful in the same way the rest of him is: sharp, dangerous, made to conquer.

Daemon’s hand slides up the length lazily, a bead of precum gathering at the tip as he strokes himself with a soft hiss through his teeth.

Then his other hand is in your hair, fingers curling tight at the base of your skull as he guides you closer.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You do.

He drags the swollen tip across your lower lip, smearing that first taste of salt and musk there like a claiming.

“Open,” he says then, quiet, almost sweet if not for the filth in his eyes.

Your mouth parts obediently, heat flooding your face as you feel the head of him press past your lips.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice gone low, rough. “Good little princess. Meek as a maiden now, aren’t you?”

He feeds you more slowly, not all at once, his fist tightening near the base as though to keep himself in check. His free hand strokes along your cheek briefly before fisting in your hair again, holding you right where he wants you.

“Wrap those lips around it,” Daemon orders softly, the words thickening. “Yes… just like that. Fuck, look at you.”

The weight of him fills your mouth, heavy on your tongue, the taste of salt and skin thick as he presses deeper, until you fight the urge to choke.

Daemon laughs under his breath, low and pleased, watching your every movement like a man at war watching an enemy falter.

“Not so shy now, are you?” he drawls, accent thickening as he begins to rock his hips forward, shallow at first. “Bet they told you I was a monster. And here you are… mouth open for the Rogue King like a common whore.”

The words scorch through you, obscene and taunting. His hand strokes your cheek where it bulges faintly around his cock, thumb smearing spit along your skin.

“Seven hells,” Daemon hisses as your tongue flattens along the underside, the sound caught between a laugh and a groan. “You have done this before, haven’t you? Filthy little liar.”

His pace grows bolder, the thick length sliding deeper now, his hand tightening in your hair until your scalp stings.

“Breathe through your nose,” he orders, rougher now, hips rocking with slow, ruthless control. “Take it. Gods, you look so fucking pretty like this… drooling on my cock before you’ve even got your crown.”

Your hands grip his thighs for balance, the cold bite of armor beneath your fingers as he begins to push deeper, watching your eyes water, watching your spit trail down your chin where it escapes the corners of your mouth.

“That’s it,” Daemon grits out, voice gone ragged. “All the realm will wonder if their queen learned to kneel before her king on the very throne itself.”

He laughs again, filthy and sharp.

“And I’ll tell them,” he says through clenched teeth, “yes...She did.”

“Seven hells…” Daemon groans when your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, licking into the ridge before you take him deep again, your lips stretched tight around him. The sound rips from his chest like he hadn’t meant to let it go, low and sharp and real.

He drags in a breath, chest rising beneath dark leather, his silver hair falling forward as his head lolls back against the jagged steel behind the throne. Even splayed on the Iron Throne like some conquering god, he watches you through half-lidded eyes, mouth curling into a grin that turns rough when your tongue circles him again.

“Fuck,” he growls, hips shifting against your mouth as you suck harder. “Of course you’ve done this before. Too fucking good not to have.”

The words are sharp, mocking, and yet his hand is trembling faintly in your hair as though your tongue is undoing him piece by piece.

“Going to make a perfect wife,” Daemon says through his teeth, the smugness cutting ragged under the next groan that claws its way out when you swallow him deep.

His hand fists tighter in your hair until your scalp stings, holding you there as his hips rock shallowly forward, feeding you more of him until you choke faintly around the thick weight filling your mouth.

“Might have to keep you at my throne side all day… for this,” he mutters, voice dropping filthily low, as though imagining it, as though the thought alone might finish him. “Let the lords of Westeros watch their queen on her knees for her king.”

The words burn through you like wine.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue dragging along the length before swirling the swollen tip again, relentless now, hands planted firm on his thighs for leverage. Your spit slicks him, your jaw aches, your eyes water—and Daemon only laughs softly through his teeth, the sound filthy and pleased.

“Sīr sȳz…” he murmurs suddenly, the words sliding rough and unfamiliar from his tongue.

You do not know the language, though you guess it is High Valyrian by the way it falls heavy with heat from his mouth.

He says it again, lower this time, breath shuddering as your tongue curls just under the head where you sense he’s most sensitive.

“Fuck… just like that,” Daemon growls, his voice breaking faintly at the edges as his grip on your hair turns punishing. “Gods, you’re going to make me come down your pretty throat, aren’t you? That what you want, princess?”

You hum faintly around him in answer, the vibration dragging a sharp curse out of him as his hips jerk against your mouth.

“Oh, you do,” he hisses, half laugh, half groan. “Filthy little thing. Should have wed you years ago.”

His thighs tense beneath your palms, the muscle coiled hard now as his rhythm stutters, ragged, his cock pushing deep enough to make your throat burn before he drags you off slightly, spit and precum smearing your lips as he fists himself quickly over your tongue.

“Look at me,” Daemon orders, voice rough, almost frantic. “Eyes on your king while he finishes.”

You obey, looking up through tear-stung lashes as he grins down like the devil himself, silver hair falling wild around his sharp, beautiful face.

“Gods,” he bites out, hand tight in your hair as the other jerks fast over his cock, his tip rubbing against your tongue with each stroke. “Going to make a mess of you… open wider—”

He groans low, viciously pleased, as he spills hot across your tongue, the taste sharp and salt-thick, his breath ragged as he keeps you there, kneeling before him until you swallow.

“Fucking perfect,” Daemon mutters when you obey, his voice all ruin and smoke now, his chest heaving faintly. “My perfect little queen.”

He drags his thumb across your slick mouth when it’s done, smearing the last of him over your lower lip before shoving his thumb between your teeth for you to suck clean.

You swallow what he gives you, licking his thumb clean until there is nothing left on your tongue but the taste of him.

Daemon watches you with that unreadable half-smile of his—pride? Satisfaction? Gods know which. He looks like a man who has claimed something, taken it as his own and dared the world to deny him.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks finally, voice low and amused, like he already knows the answer.

“Yes… y—”

His fingers close around your chin before you can finish, holding your mouth lightly but firmly, his thumb pressing into the soft curve beneath your jaw.

“You are so fucking formal,” he says with a grin that flashes sharp teeth. “I just put my cock down your throat, and you still speak to me like a Septa confessing her sins. Stop.”

Your breath catches faintly, his green eyes burning into yours as he leans closer. “I am your husband-to-be… am I not?”

You nod slowly, steady this time, letting him see you are not afraid.

“You are,” you say, voice lower now, words braver than before.

His smirk spreads, wolfish and triumphant.

“There we go,” he says softly, tilting your chin up further so you cannot look anywhere but at him. “There you are. I was starting to wonder if I had wed myself a statue. All those pretty jewels, all that fire… and yet you knelt there polite as a Maiden praying for rain.”

He laughs under his breath, sharp and quick. “Or was that the real you? The one who sucks cock better than half the whores in King’s Landing?”

You huff faintly at that, half insulted, half flustered, but his grin only deepens as he tucks himself back into his breeches, lacing them leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

“Do they teach that in Dorne, princess?” Daemon drawls, smugness dripping from every word. “Or are you simply a natural at getting on your knees for kings?”

That earns him your first real smirk of the night, sharp as any Martell blade.

“Perhaps I am simply better than your whores,” you murmur back, bold now, braver with the taste of him still on your tongue. “Perhaps they should come to me for lessons.”

Daemon goes still for half a heartbeat, and then he laughs, low and delighted, the sound curling through the hall like smoke.

“There she is,” he says softly, almost fond now, though the wicked glint never leaves his eyes. “Seven hells, I do like you. Fire and teeth behind all that silk.”

He leans forward suddenly, bracing one hand on the arm of the throne beside your head, the other catching your jaw again as he forces your eyes up to meet his.

“Careful though,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, rougher. “A tongue like that will get you fucked right here, crown or no crown. And I will not be gentle about it.”

You lift your chin, meeting his stare unflinching. “Perhaps I do not want you to be gentle.”

That makes him grin again—slow, sharp, dangerous.

“Gods,” Daemon says with mock despair, dragging his thumb across your lower lip again like he might pull you back to your knees then and there. “I should have had you sooner. A Dornish princess with a mouth like that… half the realm will envy me.”

He leans closer still, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Best keep it sharp,” he says softly, “so I have reason to use it again.”

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