# . “. as lovely as a persian carpet and as unreal. ”
— the picture of dorian gray, by oscar wilde.
hi ! this is a side blog for purely writing fanfiction because I do Not want to embarrass myself on main. yes I like nirvana. in case that wasnt. glaringly obvious
† fandoms + masterlist
!! you can call me iverie I go by he/they pronouns. please remember that english is not my first language and hence there may or may not be a handful of grammatical mistakes in my fics.
since i haven't posted in like. exactly a month — what else should i write?
^
all i did was dream
a finer, safer choice *
out of his league, apparently.
Voting ended onApr 26
(I). all i did was dream
daeron x soulmate! reader where he's too afraid to open up to her, and so yearns in silence. until she tells him her feelings.
(II). a finer, safer choice
daeron x childhood best friend! reader, where she's betrothed to aerion but asks him to run away with her. (i've mentioned this on a previous poll, i think?)
(III). out of his league, apparently
modern! daeron x bookish! reader (?) . college au where they're the top of their class, and he's convinced that they'd never like him back.
"I asked chatgpt" well I asked Daeron the Dreamer and he said he saw a fire. and a dead dragon. a great beast with wings so large they could cover this meadow. it had fallen on top of you. but you were alive, and the dragon was dead.
since i haven't posted in like. exactly a month — what else should i write?
^
all i did was dream
a finer, safer choice *
out of his league, apparently.
Voting ended onApr 26
(I). all i did was dream
daeron x soulmate! reader where he's too afraid to open up to her, and so yearns in silence. until she tells him her feelings.
(II). a finer, safer choice
daeron x childhood best friend! reader, where she's betrothed to aerion but asks him to run away with her. (i've mentioned this on a previous poll, i think?)
(III). out of his league, apparently
modern! daeron x bookish! reader (?) . college au where they're the top of their class, and he's convinced that they'd never like him back.
since i haven't posted in like. exactly a month — what else should i write?
^
all i did was dream
a finer, safer choice *
out of his league, apparently.
Voting ended onApr 26
(I). all i did was dream
daeron x soulmate! reader where he's too afraid to open up to her, and so yearns in silence. until she tells him her feelings.
(II). a finer, safer choice
daeron x childhood best friend! reader, where she's betrothed to aerion but asks him to run away with her. (i've mentioned this on a previous poll, i think?)
(III). out of his league, apparently
modern! daeron x bookish! reader (?) . college au where they're the top of their class, and he's convinced that they'd never like him back.
Fixer Upper -> (Modern Au) You were hired to fix the horrid image of Daeron Taragryen, but you never expected to fall for his drunken charm.
No Cameras Now -> (Modern Au) You were hired to fix the image of Daeron, and swore it was professional, but there was no cameras around and you had let him kiss you. OR Daeron was fine with giving you space allowing you to collect your thoughts from your heated momemnt, but then he saw you flirting with his younger brother.
@pennyroyaltar
Overheard Yearning -> (AO3 Link) your betrothal is not a happy one. he's convinced you hate his guts. you've convinced yourself that this is true. well, that is — until he overhears a very..revealing conversation between you and a friend, where you wax poetic about how much you want him.
@idreamedofyouuuu
Making Him Jealous -> You're King Aerys I Targaryen's only daughter and he decided you should marry Daeron, your cousin. Let's say you both are jealous during the feast that Maekar threw for you and Daeron's bethoral
Messy Wedding Night -> a messy wedding night with your brother you married.
Good Morning -> (Modern Au) you wake up horny next to Daeron, your boyfriend
@asoiafraven
A Sleeping Dragon -> Since finding love Daeron thought the Gods had spared him the worst of his dragon dreams but he was mistaken.
@sansaorgana
Unworthy -> Daeron avoids his wife because he thinks he is not worthy of her and he wants to protect her from himself. Meanwhile, she thinks she is lacking and a disappointment to him. Finally, after teasing comments from his friends, he decides to fulfill his marital duty but his insecurities make him struggle.
Wishful Thinking -> Your husband doesn't believe he is worthy of you, so it doesn't help when other women pity you for being married to him. You defend Daeron in public, not realising he can hear you standing up for him.
Silent Treatment -> Daeron embarrassed you at the feast thrown to celebrate your mother's name day, which led to an argument between you two. You give him silent treatment and he realises he should finally change his behavior because he's about to lose what is the dearest to him.
The Mystery Knight -> Maekar sends Daeron to take a part in a tournament organised by an unimportant Lord, hoping that his son can at least win this one. However, The Mystery Knight from Daeron's dream complicates the tourney for the Prince. Especially when he finds out who (s)he is...
@cosmicoatlatte
To Believe In Tomorrow -> Daeron and his darling wife enjoy an evening in the gardens of Summerhall...
@maekarsmistress
A Change -> maekar starts to notice changes in his eldest son, and who to thank for them.
Restless -> your husband awakens you with a horrible nightmare - you help him settle... in your own way.
@thespottedcreature
Too Good For Me -> You love your husband very much, even if he and sometimes others don't always understand why you love him so.
Drunken Dragon -> Being the wife of Daeron the Drunken, you've figured out how to stretch the truth whenever the situation calls for it, especially with your pregnancy.
your betrothal is not a happy one. he's convinced you hate his guts. you've convinced yourself that this is true.
well, that is — until he overhears a very..revealing conversation between you and a friend, where you wax poetic about how much you want him.
or IN WHICH , ( he learns every tiny detail about how you'd like to fuck him and is insufferable about it)
CW: miscommunication, alcohol abuse, an established relationship, mutual pining, eventual sex (obviously), loss of virginity, p in v, bottom / switch daeron (?), riding, oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, hair pulling (his), mentions of masturbation (m), degradation, orgasm denial, shit writing, shittier pacing, reader is mean, reader has a best friend (oc) teetering on the edge of crack, full of rampant em dashes but fuck ai I don't care, not beta read or edited heavily, english is NOT my first language , slightly ooc daeron, no use of y/n.
WC: 16k (WHAT THE FUCK???)
AUTHORS NOTE' i don't know what possessed me to write this in a matter of two weeks but. the writing bug strikes when it wants to strike I guess???? not happy with the prose in this one but it was good practice.
The hairpin fell from your hands. Clink.
You knew it was him before the door had opened. Before you’d even caught a glimpse of his cloak.
It had to be Daeron who stood at your doorstep — because nobody else in Summerhall, knocked with such hesitance, (like the wood itself might break, if he rapped too hard) . And at such a late hour, too, when one could hear every footstep, every owl or even the spring wind itself, if they listened close enough.
Moonlight spilled into your chambers through your gauzy curtain, lighting your vanity in silver. The mirror had been positioned by the window, not just for this, but for the breeze, too; which brought in smells of sweet camellia one night, and the freshness of lilacs by the pond the next.
Tonight, you smelled nothing but the sweat on your skin. Tonight, * you heard no noises, save for the creak of the door and the many questions running through your head: Why was he here? What did he want, now?
You heard him before you saw him.
The shut of the door. A hitch of the breath. And, the footsteps — slow, tentative — but louder by the second.
He fumbled, at last, to the your vanity in that particular silence of his — the one used, whenever the words slipped away from his grasp. Which was often, these days.
But he was here now. In your chambers. Close — just enough for you to get a good look at him, under the candles.
Daeron looked wrecked.
Cloak sopping wet, and reeking of that sour Arbor Gold you knew he tended to drink more of . His sandy hair rumpled over his face: and the dampness of it made you think of how clammy his skin must be to touch.
He brushed the hair from his forehead. He looked at you. Your breath caught.
Always his eyes. The prettiest violet eyes, you'd ever seen. (and you had met almost all of the Targaryens) . They never failed to startle you. You'd believed yourself long past the stage of gawking at them or shrivelling under his gaze, but they still struck you like the stars, now and the weight in them glistened so pretty tonight.
He said your name, in the soft way he did, with the dryness of a man starved.
You did not hear it, at first..but, when you did — when you recognised those syllables, and realised that it was your name he'd whispered like that — a warmth tingled across your neck, all the way to your shoulders. This, you noted, had nothing to do with the candle beside you.
You did not answer at once.
His brows knitted, — at this silence. Daeron broke it — before it lingered long enough to turn uneasy — with a shaky cough.
He began: "It's a strange hour, I know — " A pause. You watched him shift onto the edge of your bed. "— but do not kick me out just yet. I have reasons. Slightly tolerable ones, but reasons nonethless.." Daeron swallowed his words with a pained look. Gods, did he not know what he wanted to say?
"I think you're a smart woman." A pause. "—No, I know this, for a fact. You are a smart woman. So, I think you'll understand what i mean when i say this."
"Will you get to the point?" You sighed.
Daeron blinked. Then, as if struck by some enlightening clarity, from the Seven themselves , he took a good, sweeping look at your face — and as though disturbed by whatever he found in your expression — and immediately spoke:
"I had a particularly bad dream tonight ""
Of course he did.
" I'll spare you the details, really — and by that, I don't mean the usual serving of dragons burning or drowning in blood..but a little worse than that."
"That has nothing to do with me, Daeron."
"Yes.... Well, no it does, in a way — if you'd listen properly."
""...Go on."
"So, after this exceptionally terrible dream, I realised that I couldn't possibly sleep."
"You do not usually. Sleep, that is."
His chuckle came out a bit too late.
"— Right. Yes. I dont. But i also realised that, if i continued pacing around my chambers,.. I'd be driven completely mad. But, I had an idea, you see; a good one, I think. Though I am not sure of that yet. I know it's rather..fast of me to turn up at your chambers so late, but i dont intent on ...anything that you're thinking of, i'd wager."
"How would you know that?"
"I dont. But i'm fond of guessing. Your chambers are at the end of the hallway. Secluded. Lonely, perhaps."
"They suit me perfectly well, thank you." You said, pulling out a handkerchief from your drawer.
. " I'm aware. But this seclusion meant that there would be, essentially, nobody else in the hallway to eavesdrop on us....and thiss may sound a bit mad, but the idea was that, maybe, just maybe, if you'd let me —" Daeron paused. "— I could, well, sleep in your chambers, instead, and not on your bed, no, if that's what you're going to protest about."
He cleared his throat, and smoothened his collar. As if that could save any grace.
"—Of course I'll settle happily for the couch. Or the floor, even. I won't say anything. I wont do anything. Please dont kick me out. I swear — and i know i'm not one to nake promises — that i'll be good. I'll be as good as I can be. Just let me stay...I really won't be able to sleep tonight , without knowing that someone else is in the room with me. Please?"
The silence, after that disaster, did stretch as far as eternity.
Instead of scoffing or delivering a tight-lipped response, you froze.
You tried to make sense of what he had just said or what it may mean. Tried, in all aspects, but those damned words — please and i swear i'll be good — just kept racing through your head, in that reverent voice. Heat, of that exact softness, bloomed all the way down to your chest: to that little space where your heart was throbbing..
This was exactly what drove you mad. This was mortifying.
The idea of losing your cool under the eyes of Daeron Targaryen, and letting him reap the fruits of his words was unforgivable. You were not having it.
So, you looked at him.
. And, he stared right back for a moment, eyes heavy with that same knowing, — before reddening a little an dragging his gaze away from you, at once.
Curious. Very curious.
You wondered if he really was just here to sleep at the foot of your bed. You wondered, with a smidge of arrogance, if the dreams were his only troubles...or if there were other, deeper reasons to show up at your chambers like this. While he had said otherwise — Daeron was, also, the kind of man who said one thing and did another, even if the latter was out of his grasp most of the time.
A noise — somewhere in between a chuckle and snort — left your lips. You had not meant to: but it slipped out, the way things did whenever he was in the room.
His eyes shot wide open. You saw a tinge of hope flicker in their depths — and knew that he was looking at you again, that he was holding back something. The face of a man, — who had stumbled upon more sweetness than he'd dared to expect. Who did know what to do with it, because he was still unsure whether it was real or not — was a strange one.
Daeron had always been poor at masking his delight. You tend to be, when you get so little of it.
Did he want you to rise, grab him by the arm, kiss him and, then whisper in his ear, , — that of course he could stay with you and there would be no question of it?
(And while all of that was not happening, you still found yourself thinking about how his lips might taste)
He did not speak, but you were more than compelled to give in because of the way he stared at you. All wet eyes and sullen mouth. A look, so boyish and hopeful — unlike his usual brooding — that you felt your throat dry.
Was it possible to say no to such a face?
"Well," you began, rising from your stool. "I'm sorry to say this, but I don't want you here, Daeron."
It was — With effort, it was.
"—I've always preferred sleeping by myself. Cannot fall asleep knowing that there's someone else too. Besides, Elyssa shall be over tommrow, and I'd like to be up early."
Daeron's face hardened. He opened his mouth once or twice, but no words came out.
"I am sure," You said and swung open the glass case with a deafening creak. "— that you can manage to sleep by yourself, with a little effort."
You reached up to grab a book from one of the higher shelves — and realised that it was not within your grasp, no matter how much you stretched your toes. .But you were too pleased with that cutting response, and would not spoil the fun of it by asking him for help.
Daeron sneaked up right beside you. Not close enough to cause alarm — but just enough for you to hear his words with blistering clarity:
"I can't sleep. You know this."
"...Perhaps i do, but it's not my concern."
"We are betrothed," He paused, weighing his next words. "— and I dont mean that as an excuse..but i believed...i thought it would atleast make you capable of a little compassion towards me."
Your fingers tightened around the shelf, and a bit of the wood pricked into your thumb.
Daeron took a step closer. "—But don't listen to me. I am stupid. Exceptionally stupid, by the looks of it, for being convinced of that."
There was truth in his words. You had avoided and insulted him, every step of the betrothal. He had done his share of trying, and recieved only withering glances from you, in exchange of flowers and sappy little letters you still kept in your drawer. Just to look back upon, and laugh, of course.
.
"Are you..are you trying to make me feel bad?" You asked, at last.
It was his turn to be stunned into silence.
"You know...I was actually going to ask you to stay."
Not that you wanted to..but tonight was different. The tears in his eyes were different. You did not know what he had seen, but it must have been just as horrible as he said it was.
You imagined him walking out into the dark hallway, bitter with the sting of rejection. You wondered what he would do, then, all alone. Drink, of course . Which was too miserable of a picture for you to imagine.
"— but i suppose i've changed my mind. So, go away, Daeron," You bit down on your teeth. "—Get out."
He glared at you, from under his lashes, for an entire moment. "You were not going to ask me to stay." Daeron muttered under his breath.
It was not true. You did not like being counter-acted by lies. Especially if the liar refused to believe it was a lie.
"I was!"
"Why?"
You closed your eyes — and took a deep breath.
"Because I did not want you to spend the rest of the night drinking yourself to death, Daeron. I am not that cruel."
This was a fact you were not so sure of. There was a silence — not so unlike the silences that had come before — permeating between the two of you. He was close enough to reek of that foul wine — the one always lingering under his breath. Daeron's face did not twitch. He remained impassive in the way the was not supposed to.
"But you are cruel now, suddenly? Because i made one silly remark?"
He'd said those words with such softness, and with his head tilted so low — that you did not notice the edge in them until you looked into his eyes and found them to be colder: like shards of violet ice you couldn't look deep into.
Daeron shuffled his feet, drawing a distance between the two of you — but that hardly mattered.
Your mind could not wrap itself around his words.
You swallowed — pulse hammering at the base of your throat. Not out of fear. Never that. But A dawning sense that you had gone too far. Pushed past Daeron's extensive limits, which said alot more about you than him.
The world seemed to zero in on itself, and your eyes were locked on his face, cataloging every curl with bated breath, a sign, a hint of what—
You noted his eyes drifting lower, to the space where your fingers were gripping the shelf. Were your hands shaking, right now? Had you really fucked up?
But it would be more sensible to repair what you could —before the answer slammed itself infront of your face.
"The couch. It's yours. Do not puke on it. Do not drool on it. Do not even try to rearrange the pillows because i've spent half a hour perfecting their positions."
All of this was fumbled over with hitched breath, and you would've froze halfway through — if he had not blinked, then, which gave you a little hope. "— and please, do shut up about it." You added, to make sure that he knew you were being honest.
A second ticked. Then another. You gaped at him, with a pounding heart , gauging any signs of disgust, and—
Daeron smiled
The panic floated away as quick as it had come and because it was such a sweet, glad smile that you could'nt even bring yourself to doubt it.
The nerve of this man.
Had he been, pretending this whole time?
His lips almost shook their way to a shit-eating grin — and almost was the keyword here, because you would've slaughtered him if he had grinned.
"I wont. I wont puke or drool on it, and i wont even deign ti touch the pillows, " Daeron blabbered on. "—but — gods, thank y—"
"I said shut up." You cut in. "Shut up, and go sleep, for fuck's sake!"
Unfortunately, those words did not produce the effect you'd intended. How could they, when your voice cracked so thin? And, especially not when your face was burning this much.
Daeron watched the warmth bloom across your cheekbones with keen eyes. You wondered whether he was on the verge of either laughing or making some zany remark and you were — as often is the case — wrong.
He reached out, in an instant — and it took you a second to process what he meant to do. Daeron grabbed the book from it's shelf, with great care. Well, he's somewhat tall. The book was something you'd fashioned to escape the heat of the moment. You had almost forgotten about it: but he, somehow, had not.
You were about to protest , when he placed the leatherbound copy in your hands. His fingers — clammy, but warm all the same — brushed against yours for a fleeting second, before he pulled them away.
Speechless, Daeron strode over to the couch, as though he had done nothing just now. There was a lightness to his step that hadn't been there before. Storming off to bed was the only way to save your dignity, and you so did, eyeing him with disgust one last time. Daeron said nothing, but you saw him raise a brow in your peripheral vision.
Sleep did not come to you, either, that night. You spent it rolling around in sheets and burying your face in pillows — anything, at all, to forget that he was in the same room as you.
She had been about to finish her tea when you told her. Or well, tried to allude to it.
You knew it was futile to ask Elyssa , of all people. But it was out in the open, now. Though you had meant it as a whisper, it echoed across your chamber, where the silence was broken by the rustle of silk and the owls hooting outside.
She'd walked in but an hour ago — and you two had laughed and commented on how soft the Myrish carpet felt beneath your feet and how gorgeous the sunset looked, from your windows; because, of course Summerhall was a splendid place.
A grand vision of marble, in the middle of the Dornish country. With such pretty gardens, too. They seemed to be in eternal bloom, with flowers of so much vibrance that you kept one in your vase every day, as you told Elyssa — pointing at the roses by your beside.
It was not often that you were asked to stay here. One must learn to make the best out of whatever they receive.
"A lesson," Elyssa had sighed in exaggeration, sinking into her seat with a plop " — which can be applied in more than areas than one.”
You'd only rolled your eyes.
.
Seeing your best friend was now a rare treat you looked forward to: and you could count, on your fingers, the amount of times you had visited one another, since she'd been wed.
Marriage was a thief of joy and friends, too, apparently, and it was also a fate that would be yours, too. Soon. This Elyssa did not fail to remind you of, as she sipped her tea. Her cup was angled, just so, to cover her mouth. But you did not need to see her shit-eating grin to picture it.
You'd talked over the many shortcomings of her husband — and your 'husband-to-be', aswell — alongside the usual array of, fine-toothed critiques from her end.
By the time the sun had set into oblivion and given away to the violet of Dorne's starry nights, both of your throats had gone raw with talking and laughter.
Your grip on the hem of your skirts only tightened by the minute — and it was getting unbearable. So you had blurted it out.
"Have you ever wondered," you began, chin resting in your hand. "— why the gods are so unfair?"
She blinked.
"...I've no clue what exactly you mean by that." Elyssa murmured. Not cold, no, but her eyes had not moved from the window, either.
"We see pretty girls very often, you know. They are everywhere. But when was the last time you saw a handsome man?"
. "Cannot remember," She shifted towards you. "But it's nothing new." A pause. "Men don't — generally don't — care half as much about their looks, not as we do. They are very, very content looking like haggard raccoons, I have found."
The snort slipped out from you.
"It''s true," Her mouth kept twitching, despite herself. "—I've seen it myself."
"...What — your husband?" You asked. It was too early to say whether Elyssa was fond of that man, yet; so you made sure to kept your voice polite, lest she take offense.
But the gods were good. She just nodded. "He's more a pompous weasel, than a haggard racoon, i fear."
"Yes..comely men are rarer than ever." The remark felt hollow on your tongue.
You knew otherwise, and were aware of the source of this discomfort too well. It had been itching at you for too long: this urge to spill your heart out, to someone that was not a handmaiden or serving girl you did not trust. A fresh opinion. Yes, that was it. A good one, on this slippery subject.
"Why are we speaking of handsome men, suddenly?"
Elyssa's brisk words cut through your reverie. You found her looking at you, brows pinched.
. "Just curious." You tried a smile.
.....Whatever else you could have told her would also not be satisfactory. She would — eventually, eventually — find out what lurked beyond your words. You were sure she'd mock you for it.
.
There was a crease in her temple — and you saw her looking at you, then, as if you were some puzzle she could not solve.
And, then, it clicked. You saw her eyes widen.
Perhaps it the flush of your cheeks, or the tremors in your hands. Or the way your dress was more extravagant — more specific — than usual. Whatever it was, Elyssa had gotten her finger on it.
She lurched upright, and placed her cup down. "Who is it?"
"Who is what?" You actually had no clue what she meant, this time.
To your horror, She smiled It was a wide, sort of disbelieving smile, went all the way to her ears , and so genuine — you could tell — that you felt your heart melt
Well, almost.
That is, before she leaned in, and whispered:
"Your...erm.." She flicked her temple, struggling for the right words. "—..lover? Crush? Admirer? Whatever it is. Just tell me."
You could not believe your ears. Here she was, assuming these things, under a roof you'd chosen to share with her. Out of fondness and love.
"I do not have anything of that sort! How could you even...." You yelled. Tried to. It came out more a whine than the declaration you had hoped, really.
Elyssa halted — and then shook her head with mock sympathy.
"You're all red in the face." She declared. That was it. She did not need to point out anything else.
"Come on—" Elyssa dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I wont tell anyone. You know i never do."
"I am a betrothed woman. I do not gawk at other men."
"Do you, now?"
"I do not!"
She raised a brow. "Why indeed...... i feel as though you aren't entirely lying."
"Exactly. Because i am not! Why would i feel the need to lie?"
Too much. You'd said it with too much triumph.
You realized that, only after — as you saw the gears of Elyssa's head work out and turn, as to why you'd put so pressure into that last word.
This woman knew the way you rolled around, several times, before falling asleep, and had seen you cry over kittens at six. It was no wonder that Elyssa pinned down the truth — right to it's rotten core.
Elyssa remained still, for a good moment,. Her eyes travelled from your hair to your shoes — not with the usual scrutiny — and, then she jolted upright, as though struck by something divine.
"Oh," she began, nodding with a dawning fervor. "Oh. No, no. That's right. I see it. I see it now. You're talking about Prince Daeron, are you not?"
Of course. She would say that.
Were you breathing right now?
You did not know.
But what you did know was that Elyssa was looking at you, with wide eyes — as though on the verge of uncovering something sacred — and you could not meet her earnest eyes, at all.
There was no mockery in those gray eyes, now. And, perhaps that gentleness terrified you more than any insult ever had. Fingers gripping the hem of your skirt, again, you could but say out, in a tiny voice:
"Him?" You tried forcing a grimace. "Him? You know i cannot stand his a—"
"That does not mean anything." Elyssa cut in, cool as the night breeze. Your mouth hung open.
"I never said that you were fond of his company, anyway—" She added. "I speak of his looks. Daeron is a handsome man. That you cannot deny."
Blabbering nonsense. She was blabbering nonsense!
Why did you have to remind yourself of that?
"Please. Handsome? Him?" You scoffed. Even that felt strained on your lips. "You have not seen Daeron stumble into your chambers at the dead of night. It's me who faces that damned music."
Her shoulders shook a little, but she did not laugh out loud. It took more than a minute of silence for her to calm herself. "Again, that does not mean anything," Elyssa deadpanned. "I said nothing of his character. I only spoke about his looks."
.Why must she hit the nail, every time?
"His character directly affects his appearance." You said. It rang hollow.
"Oh, no," Elyssa began, and you watched as her lips warped into that smirk. Over the years, you'd gotten to know it too well. "—No, you're avoiding the conversation altogether, my dear."
"Am i?" You shot, rising up from your seat. The pillows on the couch seemed a little crooked, so you though to shuffle them around.
"You are." Elyssa called out. Her voice was measured enough...but you recognised that silver of amusement.
The pillow — the one on the left — crumpled under the weight of your fingers. You froze. "Then, let me say this,"
A beat. The night breeze whooshed around your window. Elyssa set down her cup.
You inhaled.
"Daeron Targaryen , in my opinion, looks very much like a cat drenched in mud, thrown in water and then drenched in mud all over again and again—" Your voice gained a shaky tandem. Finally, you had said it out loud. “ — and he stinks so badly, too, that even his violet eyes cannot compensate for this. He does not sleep. He does not eat properly. In what world, would he be handsome?"
A faint smirk crept up on your lips.
You were slumped against the couch, with your breath hitching — and throat raw from all that talk — and looked up at the ceiling. Relief flooded into your veins. You had spoken it out loud, now, and so it was a fact that you did not think that man was handsome.
You'd not skimmed over any details, either.
He did look like much like a wet cat. Everything you said was factual and true. — and this knowledge gave you such pleasure, that you lifted your sparkling eyes to Elyssa, after a minute of staring at nothing.
She only raised, one elegant brow — before shaking her head.
"What?" You set down the pillow, at this. "I said it, now. So what?" .
Elyssa stared at you. Then, she poured herself some of that tea, from the kettle, and you watched the amber liquid trickle into the cup.
It should not have startled you — that specific, mindless way of pouring something into a cup.
Besides, there was no reason for her to doubt you anymore, yes. But Elyssa would not let go so quickly.
She liked clinging to things. You knew this, from the many summers you had sweated your way through, — trying to hide your best dresses, lest Elyssa whisk them away or, worse or being chased across the fields, whenever she found a sparkly insect.
.
"You do realise," Elyssa began, with the cup to her lips. "— that whatever you just said has nothing to do with his features. Again."
In a way, she was not wrong.
That was a different conversation to be had, Preferably in your own head.
"Fuck— I — " You lost the grasp on words.
This fact was clearer in the silence, so you wondered why. Why could you not make up any issues with his face? Why was it impossible to find an oddity, a flaw, or a crooked thing, in his damned face?
"— Have you seen his hair, Elyssa?" Your voice came out softer than it should've. "It looks like a bird's nest."
Lifting to your eyes to Elyssa was, also, far more embarrassing than it should have been .
She was smiling behind the cup, again. "I have," Elyssa admitted. "- and i think it looks oddly beautiful."
That had to be a hest.
"Beautiful," you tasted the word on your tongue. "Beautiful?" It was rather sour. Not necessarily , but perhaps it just turned sour, when in relation to that man.
"Gods. If you really do think Daeron is so and so,". You paused. Gods know you needed it, for what you were about to say. "Then why not marry him, yourself, huh?...Go ahead. I wouldn't car—"
"—Oh, but you do. " Elyssa cut in. "You have all the qualms in the world. That is why you are frowning like that. And, yes! Conventionally speaking, and, putting into equation all the merits and standards of the Real-"
"Fuck your merits! Fuck your standards—"
"— Prince Daeron is comely. Either you are blind. Or you are aware, more aware than you would like to be, and so you lie to both me and yourself. Which one is it?"
You stared at Elyssa. She only narrowed her eyes, again, in that way she always did.
Daeron Targaryen was a drunkard. He was a fool, too, and by no means the kind of man you should admire. That would be vain, to judge someone by their face alone.
Neither, you had wanted — intended, even, — to say. Neither of them.
Instead, all that came out of your mouth, was a pathetic little whisper. You would come to regret it, for the rest of your life.
"He is pretty, I suppose..."
—
You took a sharp intake of breath. Relief tingled under your skin — because you had gotten it out, finally.
Pretty. Not handsome, not comely — Pretty. That sweet word used to embellish maidens, to muse of spring flowers and birds. A word, that suggested something was delicate and pleasing to the eye, yes, but not quite the sort of beautiful worthy of song. There was no sense in using it in conjunction with Daeron. But it was the first that popped up in your head, and so you had blurted it out.
Elyssa's mouth opened. Then closed. She looked at you with her wide, gray eyes
"I knew it," she whispered, with a breathy dollop of awe. "I said i knew it."
In a rustle of skirts and floorboards, Elyssa came over to the couch — right beside you — with just two strides. Her hand found it's gentle way to your shoulder. You felt like you had seen something humans were not meant to see: and it was obvious, in your face because Elyssa let out a little snort.
This assured you that it was indeed her — and not some clone that had taken her place.
"You know, " Elyssa started. "— if I'd been betrothed to Daeron," Thank the gods, that she is not. "- I would have been able to deny him for so long. His courtship is a little charming, is it not?"
This was when her eyes lit up with a gleam — as if she was a child playing at dolls , and had just discovered the brilliant idea of making them kiss.
You wanted to scream. There were many arguments and accusations that bubbled in your throat. But you kept all of them down, with one shaky chuckle:
"Sleeping on the foot of my bed is hardly courtship. While drunk, too."
"Well," Elyssa retorted. "— It still means something, you know. They say drunk words are sober thoughts."
"They say alot of things," You fumbled with the hem of your sleeves. "— and half of them are no more than shit."
I swear I'll be good, I swear i'll—
Fuck. You had to stop thinking about that. It was not good for your mental peace.
Elyssa crossed her arms. "Why are you blushing, then?"
"I am not blushing!" You yelled. Too loud.
This she seemed to understand, at once — and so Elyssa tsked away at your face. "People do not usually see themselves blushing, my dear girl."
Better not to dignify that with a response.
Your eyes shifted. The moonlight streamed in waves, through the lilac of your curtains. You found yourself glancing at the grand clock, by your bedside. Though you had no intention of letting her leave just yet — that would be a crime — you scoffed a little and spoke:
"When will you leave? It''s getting rather late."
The pleasures of white lies were always sweeter than the truth. But Elyssa knew. She knew exactly how much fun you had while pretending.
"You know I won't. " Her voice had flattened, you noticed. "—Anyways, that is besides my point. If you think Daeron is so pretty — stop scowling at me! — and if you know, too, that he is fond of you, then why not give the poor man a chance? Just one?"
The silence thickened.
There was something in that speech, that almost, by a fraction, coaxed you into thinking about rethinking your views on him. It had stolen the words off your tongue and you now bit your lip, looking at the Myrish carpet beneath your feet, as though it had offended you.
Was she right? The fact that you even had to consider this, said quite alot about the matter at hand.
It was not guilt that had paralysed you so. This was fear. Fear clung the way guilt did not — and your fear , of having been wrong in some sort of judgement, was a terrible one.
He'd knelt by your bed. He'd looked up at you with his big, sad, violet eyes and then he had pleaded. He was always pleading, you realised. Everytime you found flowers at your doorstep or whenever he sobered up enough to be decent company: It was all a plea.
Daeron needed to plead, more often than not, as some sort of compensation for what he was not... perhaps even more so for what he was. And, what was he? A drunken fool, cursed with prophecy? A lonely man, who sought your love? Or a profusely tired person who had gotten nothing but cruelty from the world, for almost his entire life, and sought out that sweet oblivion at every turn of it?
You did not want to dwell on philosophy, right now.
You were here with your dear friend, whom you loved so well, after so long, too: You were supposed to laugh and tell eachother silly little tales, by the hearth. Instead, Daeron had even wormed his way into *this.
"I will call for a maid," you announced. "— to light the hearth. It is rather cold."
"Is it?" came Elyssa's questioning voice. She was right, of course. This was the south. Dornish nights were cool, yes, but nothing to kindle hearths for.
"Not that i care, do as you wish." She waved a hand, to quell your incoming protests. "You'll be the lady of Summerhall, one day, won't you?" She glanced at the door. Then, Elyssa's eyes flashed — with a sudden, feverish glint. It was not mocking, like usual: but something you could not put your finger on, in the dim light.
A scoff left your lips, regardless. "Please. That is decades away." If he does not drink himself dead in a ditch.
"Tell me, " Elyssa started. "— why you find Daeron 'pretty'. Tell me all about it. "
You hesitated, for a solid moment, to decide what you'd say, and what you even could ...before relenting, with a sigh that might have made any onlooker — if there were any — think that you were carrying some great burden.
"His stupid hair," A beat. "-is the colour of sun-warmed sand. I often wonder if it is as soft as it looks. Though half the time it's about as tangled as a dog's fur and I'm too disgusted to touch it. And, his lips? Gods. They look even softer. It's unfair...But I am not as curious about them, of course. That would be improper, right?"
"Very. It would be very improper. Borderline scandalous, dare I say!..." Elyssa nodded, too fast. "But, do continue, though."
You blinked. "..Yes. Sorry. Well, that damned stubble on his jaw, you know?. It's supposed to look unclean. I am supposed to find it disgusting. But I do not. I think it adds character to his face,"
Your words had — somewhere along the way — started sounding as though you were praising art, and not a grown man.
Strange enough, you did not find it humiliating to spill out your feelings like this. There was some relief to be had. That in turn implied that Daeron mattered enough to be something — someone — you needed relief from.
"And his eyes," Your breath hitched, into something sharp. This made you wonder, in retrospect, why those words had cost you so much — and why, in the name of the Gods, your hands were also shaking, right now.
"His fucking eyes. They are the worst offender," You whispered. "—big and sad and stupid. "
"And violet," Elyssa added, thoughtfully.
"And violet." You agreed, with a solemn nod. "I hate it when he looks at me. Unbearable. Reminds me of a kicked puppy. I'm almost tempted to give in sometimes—" You froze: and something fluttered in your throat. "-because his eyes just look so earnest, you know? When he's crying?"
"..So, you like it, when he cries?" Elyssa asked, covering her mouth.
There was an urge, then. An itching in your hands, to shake her by the shoulders — and tell her that there was nothing to be amused about.
So, you tackled the question, instead, with a cough-too-loud . "No, no— " you retorted. "..Well, it's not like I want him to cry. He cries often, anyway and I'm merely observing from afar."
She made a face — the face of someone who is holding back a fit of laughter, and knows that it is improper, just not improper enough, to wholly cover their mirth. A tsk. "Observing," Elyssa said, then. "— from afar?"
"Yes. Many a time," You had to remind yourself that it was nothing to be proud of.
"I think it's probably because of the way the light catches on his eyes, when they're wet. I mean..there's a sort of delicacy, about Daeron," You fumbled over that word, with hoarse precision — as if you were biting back your lips to pronounce it exactly right. "Frankly, I do not know if i can quite name it.... "
"No. Go on.. Tell me. More," Elyssa cast another glance at the door — which was closed — then turned to you with an wry sort of grimace. "- and do not stop, for Gods' sake." This was when Elyssa's voice frayed at the edges.
Her smily demeanor, now, stuck out like a sore under the firelight. You did not remark on it.
"Right, right... His features—" The door creaked, in the distance. You froze. But, again, did not remark on it, before finding yourself. "You know, that straight nose. The soft curve of his jaw. .Looks more...pretty than handsome to me. And, i think i prefer it that way. He must take after his lady mother, I reckon. But it's still infuriating..." You trailed off.
"What?" She cried. "What is?"
"His damned face, of course!" You rubbed your temple. "— and the overall gentleness of him. In both appearance and nature. Though i would more accurately call it cowardice. But, well — sometimes — i can't help it. I cant help but feel a bit compelled, " Your voice cracked a little. "— to give in. Oh, it's so tragically poetic, is it not? That he is doomed to such suffering, while looking like that. I cant help, either, but to think about how'd react. If i, for instance, kissed him or touched his face...or.." A shiver flaked down your spine. 'Would he blush, then? Would he avert his eyes? Or refuse me?.."
"I suppose he'd let you," Elyssa chirped. Then she saw your face, and added, with much briskness: "— no, on retrospect, I am rather sure he would let you do all of that. Gladly. And some more, too."
And some more, too
You closed your eyes. You inhaled the incense. It stil smelt of that fresh clove and woodsmoke, from the morning after — and that made your thoughts settle.
Elyssa had spewed out the truth. That had been a fact. Not a speculation or theory but a simple calculation, deducted from life itself — that Daeron would let you do more than just kissing.
There was always something in his soft gaze that had suggested it: not that certain flavor of plea, but maybe a reminder that, if — just if * — by some golden chance, you wanted Daeron— that he would be far more than just glad. This was present, in the way he brushed against your arm, in the middle of banquets, for longer than proper — or whenever he looked too pleased, for instance: after coaxing out a rare laugh from you.
But, to have it slammed infront of your face? With words? Like this? It stung, and not even in the way it should have.
"Sometimes," You began; and tried to make it soft. "—sometimes, I wonder about our impending marriage. I — it's a very cruel term to use — dream of it, you could say. I've envisioned it, alot see; what kind of dress i might like to wear, the guests in attendance, and even the exact meals to be served.." You found your tongue twisted.
Rising up to light the hearth — yourself, because calling a maid now would be rather obscene — you started your torrent, in the smallest of whispers.
"I have wondered," The rug scratched at your feet, as you knelt. "— what Daeron might do, a great many times over. On the night of our wedding. It's a bit..bizarre, frankly, to imagine that man in any sort of position with power, Elyssa.."
You gathered the firewood. It had been coarse enough to leave faint sores on your hands. "—But i should like to see him choose something, for once. I should like to see him take what he wants, for the first time. Yet, there is another image that troubles me."
"...Another image," Elyssa parroted back.
The logs hadn't quite fit into the mantlepiece. You had to stifle back a groan. Was everything just meant to always go wrong, for you? At the worst of times?
No, you just needed to get a grip on yourself.
Closing your eyes, you continued your flowery speech:
"I don't think he truly wants to be in control, in that aspect. I think, and trust me, i have pondered this a million times, before — that he is the sort of person who would much rather lie back and take it instead. I've..imagined it. Shutting the doors behind myself. Staring at him for a good minute...and then lunging at him."
"Do elaborate. On the lunging." Elyssa croaked, with too much fervor.
But you did elaborate and exactly how she had wanted it:
"I want to fuck him."
It was blunt, but true. The crudeness of it was not as worse either of those things.
And, it crumbled, between you both, into a thick silence.
Elyssa's eyes shot so wide that you were sure that they might aswell have popped out of her skull.
You went on. People could not dishonor themselves twice, after all.
"—Ride him, more precisely. Watch him squirm beneath me. Gods. Just..just thinking about the way he'd blush, the sounds he would make.." You blurted out, before freezing up.
Though still reeling from the impact, Elyssa bit back a smirk.
On a stranger note: why was she even surprised? Surely, it was not that vile?
But a shaky chuckle broke free from your lips, anyway. You could ponder on the implications later.
"Do not look at me like that. It's hardly my fault! Daeron is just...tempting. . Always so docile, so laidback. He would get all teary, i just know it. And I would not, by any means, let him have his pleasure, though. I'd make him beg. Beg until he loses his mind and—"
For the next few, excruciating moments, the world seemed to still itself.
You talked your heart out. It was rather easy to, now.
The words just kept pouring from your mouth, in a breathless gush, — and all of them involved Daeron in one way or the other. Elyssa seemed to dissipate into smoke, for the duration of this speech, for you were knee-depth in it and could not be quieted until you'd said everything.
You spoke of Daeron, yes, and whether his was hair was as soft as it looked, and if he would let you pull it. The way his pretty eyes would look when glazed over with tears. His poor little whimpers. His desperation. . All of this, was among even worse things, in the haze of your lust-induced ramble .
By the time you had finished this enlightening talk, sweat trickled down your cheeks. Your throat felt more sore than it ever had, and a moment's respite was all you got.
You peered at Elyssa with all the innocence — that you had just crushed beneath your feet moments before.
Was she going to puke, or laugh? It was hard to tell, by the way her brows knitted so deeply. Terror bloomed across her cheeks, in a faint redness.
"So, what do you think?" You chirped.
Only after a few minutes did she return back to reality: "Brilliant," she managed, slightly choking on the words. "Just..brilliant, my dear girl. You might want to keep this to yourself, though. It would be a shame, right, if anyone else heard it?"
What an odd thing to say.
You followed her eyes —as Elyssa cast an quick glance at the door — and you swore that you saw something flicker in those gray irises.
What it had been, you did not know; only that it was a fleeting, and murky glint that unsettled you for no reason.
.
Glancing at something once is alright. Twice, though? Not a coincidence.
You'd bolted the door hours ago. Nobody could've heard a word or peaked in. Likely overthinking again.
"Yes," you sighed, collapsing into a fluffy pillow, beside her. "Gods — yes. That..that would be terrible."
Terrible was the only word that he could think of, to describe what he'd gotten himself into.
It was there, as he lay collapsed against the wall — right beside your chambers, because he didn't have the heart to move just yet — shuddering, sweating and biting back his breath, that Daeron came to terms with a realization he'd always suspected of lingering underneath him.
That he had been very, very daft for the past few years.
Sweat clung to his every pore. Might aswell have stopped breathing then, because his heart thumped like a scared cat.
How long had he been standing here? How long had it been since you'd uttered that final word — terrible — and left him in the darkness?
You were disgusted by him. He knew. From he way you pulled your hands from his during banquets or looked like you'd seen a dead fish whenever he tried to strike up a conversation — the disgust did pool out. Being too well-bred yourself, you had never said it to to his face: but Daeron had caught on.
Those little slips of rejection had always stung deeper than Maekar's scoldings or Aerion's mockery — because while he'd learned to brush off blatant insults like dirt — via his years as a failure — Daeron did not know how to deal with you. You, who didn't even want to waste your time ridiculing him and had never once said that you'd hoped for a better match.
He had been convinced that it was indifference.
Being as comely and intelligent and charming as you were — of course, it was no wonder that you didn't want to bother with your drunkard of a betrothed, after all.
Like all things, you'd deal with the inevitable marriage with dignity. Dignity was something he had lost at ten and three.
You were dignified, though. A saint to his degeneracy. So pristine, unmarred: always in favor with lords and ladies, and kinder than ever to your maids.
He had not even dreamt of a world, where you sought him out first. That defied the logical order of things..and made him all warm and jittery in the stomach, too. Or maybe it was just wine. It was always the wine.
Tonight, he was not drunk enough to forget things, though. Tonight, Daeron had to bear the exhilarating terror of listening and having certain words forever engraved in the back of his pounding head.
It made no sense.
You'd called him pretty. He had understood that, first, when the other voice — Lady Elyssa's, he assumed — made that remark on marriage and whatnot. That had flustered him a little — and he had smiled while listening to it. Daeron was half-aware that he could look more than just decent, if he put in the effort, but to hear it from your lips..that struck him hard.
But — oh gods — he shouldn't have been struck by just that. That sweet bit of praise had nothing on your next words.
The winds flew in past the windows — and the doors to your chambers had creaked open, just a little.
Enough for him to make out a nook of the illuminated room. He had not been breathing in that moment, perhaps, and his muscles felt as stiff as the wood beneath him. But then a faint bubble of laughter filled the air — and he let out a shaky breath of relief.
A woman, who Daeron recognised as Lady Elyssa, from the keen eyes and auburn hair, sunk into the couch. Your dearest friend. You'd told him so, during those rare conversations"I miss her more than i can say." . That gleam in your eyes when you spoke of your misadventures with her — it was nothing like how you looked at him.
Elyssa seemed to have been laughing at whatever you'd just said — with crinkled eyes and a knowing fondness in the way she nodded at you. You may find him pretty, but you'd never want to be this close to him.
Daeron did not dwell on his bitter misery for too long. In a flash of the eye, Elyssa's grin disappeared — and he swore that she, at once, jerked away. Towards the gap in the door, towards him.
It was only a second, but maybe just enough. Enough to glimpse his eyes peeking behind, or to catch the golden of his hair.
Her eyes flew open, like gray chips of ice.
Then and there, Daeron felt alot like he was going to both puke and faint — because perhaps that could excuse the eavesdropping a little — and might just have bolted in that moment, as he always did. But even if Elyssa had seen him, she made no remark on it and — thank the Seven above — instead returned to the conversation. As if nothing had just happened.
This should have been a glaring sign— that he wasn't meant to be here, and should just get the fuck out, that he would regret it forever— ...but when was the last time Daeron heeded any warnings? When did he ever do the right thing?
He pressed his ear to the door..and while, most of the things you said were drowned out by the obnoxious throbbing of Daeron's heart, some of them would, indeed, stick forever.
His hair.. The colour of sun-warmed sand..
Rather poetic wording, for his bird's nest. But Daeron was a little more than pleased, at the imagery.
That stupid stubble....supposed to find it unclean
...That was just because he cared for his looks as much as a horse tends to care for reading. But if you liked it — well ..who was he to question you?
His fucking eyes..... the worst offender.......just look so earnest, you know? When he's crying?...
.....I mean there's a sort of delicacy about Daeron.....I wonder if he'd let me—
I'd like to lunge at him and—
For the next twenty minutes or so — he kept glancing at the grandfather clock — Daeron had the misfortune of hearing every single obscene detail you spewed out to Elyssa. And each one of them about him. His 'stupid' hair. His 'sad' eyes. His face and his 'gentleness', as you put it, in such lovely words.
..Were the gods blessing him or cursing him, again?
That he did not know. What Daeron did know, however, was that you wanted to kiss him, apparently (and wondered if he'd let you touch his face, in the first place? Did you not see it?).
You had, too, fantasized about the wedding — which made him feel a little better about his own imagination. Then, you had said that you wanted to lunge at him, whatever that meant.
And then, like kindling to a fire, in the softest of voices, you'd broken his brain. : I want to fuck him. He'd stepped on his own foot after that one. The pain told him that it was not a dream, after all — and you had actually said that, in relation to him.
You wanted him.
There was no way to dance around the subject or run away from it, or deny it, you wanted him and perhaps his knees would give out before he could register it.
Daeron buried his reddening face between his hands, collapsing against the wall. He tried to breathe — he really did but all that came out were pathetic little chokes of air. A heat had blistered it's way through every nerve in his body, and he felt it tingle at the base of his throat. To anyone passing by — not that there would be any, but his mind was desperate to escape — he might have looked like a madman.
This was why you'd let him stay, last night. Of course. Gods. He wanted to tear his hair off. Or kiss you. Or both.
But, despite this feverish panic of his, you just were not done yet.
This time, every word stuck in his head, and lodged itself there for the rest of his life.
"—Ride him, more precisely. Watch him squirm beneath me. Gods. Just..just thinking about the way he'd blush, the sounds he would make."
Daeron took a rightful step back.
"—*Do not look at me like that. It's hardly my fault! Daeron is just...tempting. . Always so docile, so—"
He fluttered his eyes shut.
The image of you atop him, came with such ease that it was concerning.
Fuzzy, yes, but painted with the warm colours of his imagination. A summer's night. The marital bed. Silken sheets. Your hips rocking against his. Your cunt clenching around him with that exquisite sweetness. The way you would smell , the way you'd toy with him until he was a whiny mess, pleading for his release and crying out your name... — because you would be his wife. You would have every right to fuck the wits out of him.
And, all of this flooded Daeron's mind in one vivid frenzy and left him choking on his thin air .
When he opened his eyes, tears pricking at his vision; the sight of the hallway was almost devastating.
Did you think of this, too, last night? Was that why you'd been so red in the face — because you couldn't help your own desires? Had you perhaps wanted him to...
He let out a snort.
Time would tell all of that itself. All Daeron could do was hope that you'd be true to your word. And wonder, too, how he'd even manage to feign surprise on your wedding night. 'Well, my love, you see: I happened to come across your chambers a year ago and—'
You'd never talk to him again, probably, if you knew that he knew.
Being a high-strung paragon of virtue such as yourself, it would shatter your notion, that you were not at all being obvious in your desires. Daeron liked it this way, unfortunately: where he knew every gritty detail and you remained as oblivious as spring. He'd love to be able to smile behind his cups, and remain silent the next time you told him how repulsive he was.
..All of that was in the sweet, distant future, however.
Right now? He could but shake his head, and make his way through those same old, winded hallways.
When it happened — you were eating breakfast.
But gods help you: when Daeron had walked into the hall— and you had not looked at him, but only guessed from that lingering scent of wine — there was nothing for you to say or do. You were eating. He couldn't worm his way into your head right now. Not when you were stabbing at the roasted lamb and bread like they'd offended you.
Daeron sank into the seat beside you. Of course: and maybe, you did fasten your grip around the spoon, but you had not wished him a good morrow or even acknowledged him. This showed that you did not care for him. This was your last hope.
You both ate in silence.
By the time the plates had been cleared — you were more than just uneasy about his sudden...quietness. He hadn't nodded at you, asked if you slept well, or even spared a glance in your direction, which was perhaps the most abominable out of all three.
Not that you sought to bask in his attention. One could even say you found it annoying — ...but because there were certain things that always went in a certain way, and the breaking of their routine would, of course, be a worrying thing.
"Daeron—" you started, turning to him. "Are you quite alr—"
His eyes fell on you, and there was a flash of something inscrutable in them. You froze short of your words and breath, to stare back at him, for one fleeting moment, that is. Then he did the unthinkable.
Daeron rose from his chair, smoothened his cloak and simply walked out — with a brevity that you'd never seen in his steps before — without even saying one word to you.
A coldness settled in your gut.
You gaped at his retreating figure. You rubbed your eyes.
He had ignored you.
Daeron Targaryen had brushed past you with a indifference you had not even thought him capable of.
It took more than a bit of sulking-at-the-table to digest this fact. And, even after you had grasped the truth — his footsteps still echoed in your mind.
This was not how things were supposed to go. You were supposed to toy with him, not the other way around.
You had sat there for a while, drooped on the table, and looking outside at the sprawling sun over the gardens.
—
.
—
After the whole fiasco yesterday, there had been nothing left to do except return to your chambers for a good cry.
But you'd somehow stumbled across Egg — Daeron's little brother — on the stair wall, instead. He'd been running from Aerion, apparently. You did not ask why. You only offered him a lemon tart.
With an offer of letting him hide in your chambers , whenever his brother sought to torment him — you managed to ask the boy about Daeron's whereabouts. Preferably, a place he always visited, and could be caught off guard at.
Egg had looked at you like you'd grown a second head. But he'd told you, nonetheless, in that prissy voice of his:. "Sometimes.. Daeron likes to go out to the balcony — the one beside the great hall — early in the mornings. If he's not too hungover, that is. To sulk or whatever. And, I'm only guessing, so, don't blame me if he doesn't show up."
//
Under the cold, soft gaze of the sun, you found yourself stumbling on the balcony before anyone else.
The warmth was not quite there — no, summer had not washed spring away, yet — but it settled somewhere in your chest, with the first sip of hot tea, and the first chirp of the doves by the fountains below.
You loosened the shawl around your shoulders. Yes, the sky was still gloomy and Summerhall still quiet as a sept during these sweet hours, but it was warmer than yesterday, and warmer meant that you could stroll out before sunrise: to ponder on whatever needed pondering.
Two hours. Then you'd give up, and go back to bed.
Since Egg hadn't specified what 'in the early mornings' meant — It could, in theory, take Daeron far longer than that to stumble in here. But you weren't inclined to wait much. Not after failing twice.
Mockingbirds flocked high on the oaks and elms, wings painting the sky in vivid colours. They sweetened the very air with their song. You found yourself eased of your troubles, for a little while. Your lashes fluttered on your tearline and sleep seemed such a solace—
Footsteps stirred you awake.
Tentative, as always, but undeniable in the silence of sunrise. A rustle of cloth. That lingering smell of chery and wine. A slow — almost pained — intake of breath..and suddenly, there was no doubt as to who this mysterious person was, because he said your name.
He said your name, and it floated away somewhere, with spring's cool wind. But you had heard it anyway; the devotion with which he had rolled out those syllables and it wormed it's way among the other, stickier memories; at the back of your mind.
Daeron looked...better.
His hair had been combed back — not much, but just enough for you to see his eyes — and tied up loosely, which was not something Daeron would've chosen to do himself.
Even his black doublet had been washed of wine stains, and though he stood up a little straighter than his usual slouch — none of this struck you as particularly normal. Daeron was not the kind of man who'd cared much — if at all — for his looks. The gods had been kind enough to give him a pretty face; so he'd never bothered with anything beyond that.
This was, again, not normal. Did you forget some important occasion? Had a tragedy st—
He met your eyes.
You did not rise. Or rush to him, or grab him by the collar — for that matter — no matter how much your fingers itched to. — because that would be stupid and that would deem you as reckless as him. So, you took a deep breath instead. The fresh air felt like a balm over your lungs.
""Why— why have you been avoiding me, Daeron?"
It took more than just that breath to say it loud. Last night, the words had come clear to you, somewhere between the curations of your great plan. That's what you would ask him. You'd have to be blunt. And, couldn't choke on your words while doing it. What did you have to be ashamed of?
Nothing.
And yet, your coice still cracked at the edges — a little, but still enough for him to notice.
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. "I didn't— I haven't been avoiding you—"
"You have," The chair groaned from your jerky rise. "— you have been avoiding me. Is there any other word for yesterday?"
"The circumstances—"
"No. No, it's not about t the circumstances. Don't play coy with me. I know who you are, Daeron Targaryen." You went up to him in three, brisk strides.
"— I ask you again. Why have you been avoiding me?"
He reeked of cloying cherry and wine. You weren't that close, anyway — but you could still feel his breath nipping at your neck, see the way the muscles of his jaw pulled taut at this.
"Does it matter?" Daeron frowned slightly. He knew it did — ...but if he'd admitted hat out loud, then there would be no way to dance around the subject.
"It does," You reached up — and fisted your hands around his collar. "Very much. "
He froze.
Daeron glanced down — at the way your fingers tugged at his doublet.
His eyes were glued to the spot, for a good moment. Then you saw the pulse flutter at his throat. A shaky chuckle left his lips. It sounded alot like a man being strangled — *and enjoying it. *
"— Since when did you start caring about me?" Daeron asked.
Of course. Futile questions. That's how he saved time, didn't he? But you had already memorised their cadence. The push-and-pull of them and how flimsy they could be if you just paid more attention.
"Human decency is nothing special." You breathed this out on his shoulders.
He closed his eyes. "Does human decency—" His breath warmed the nape of your neck, in short, painful hitches. "—include talking behind someone's back? At night, perhaps?"
Daeron's words vibrated against your forehead — a breathless, faint thing — and your blood clogged up at the sound.
Something alot like ice cracked in your gut, with a wet crunch.
You pushed yourself off him.
He stared at you — genuine surprise flickering in his eyes — and you stared right back at him, with slow, unfolding terror.
You were more ashamed, of yourself, than you were furious with him.
This you could not digest, with half as much ease as you'd swallowed the ignoring and the avoidance.
He knew you wanted to wreck him. Infact, he knew every lewd fucking detail of that wreckage. He'd likely registered all of them in his mind. The ache to pull his lovely, blond hair. Your debate about his 'big, stupid eyes' and how pretty they'd look welled with tears. Elyssa's remarks. The entire not-letting-him-finish thing.
Was that why he'd cleaned himself up? To mock you? To show that he was more than aware of your nightly 'discussions?' To, perhaps, temp—
The heat flooded, then. — in hot, dizzy flushes. It spread fast and buzzed under your skin, deep to your veins. First from the tip of your ears, all way to the hollow of your collarbones. Your chest postively heaved against the damp fabric of your bodice.
"How much," the words scraped your throat. "— how much did you hear? "
As if that could be of any compensation, soothe the turmoil burbling under your skin, or clear your head.
He'd paled quite a bit himself.
As if he had any right to.
"..Well, not alot," His eyes darted around — anywhere but your face. "-only from the part where you said I was 'pretty' and compared my hair to sand and..." A flush slowly crept up his collar. Not as terrible as yours — of course __ but it gave you a pang of relief to see him sputter and squirm, anyway. "— I'm sure you remember the rest."
His words sent a pang of mild fury through your veins. The nerve of this man. You were always caught off-guard by it. For someone so deep in his brooding, Daeron could be quite the asshole, sometimes — if he didn't have to suffer the consequences of it, of course.
"...Are you making fun of me?"
He shook his head. "..No..I'm not — well, It wasn't too bad, " Daeron paused. An amused look flickered over his face, for a moment. "— just not what I expected from you. A bit bizzare, frankly."
Your brows pinched. "Bizarre?" You said.
That word could mean anything. It pricked at your throat .
You'd done nothing that strange, if one looked at it from a logical lens. Talking to one's friend about who you fancy is nothing new. It wasn't your fault that he'd stumbled upon that mess and eavesdropped on both of you. It was his. Everything you'd rambled out last night had been — mostly — just for amusement. These were not things you were planning on doing. That would be bad.
"You have some nerve to call me bizarre, Daeron Targaryen. Look at yourself—" It sounded hollow; even to your own ears. "—You're no saint. Do you not clutch your cock at night? Do you not spill into the pillow like some green boy, all while crying your eyes out?"
Fuck.
The blood drained from his face. It rushed through your own veins, though: searing and white-hot.
What the fuck did I just say?
You felt the throb of your heart grow louder and louder in your ears. It might aswell have sprung out. Silence thickened like smoke between the two of you — wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and you saw that his face was that of a man's who has been slapped out of nowhere. This almost knocked the breath of you; because you'd coaxed that reaction out from Daeron with your own words.
The floor beneath you shone a faint golden, under the sun. Birdsong grew increasingly shrill. Too loud. Too fucking loud, for this moment. You clamped down on your lips — to stifle whatever pathetic noise you might've made otherwise.
Then there was nothing else to say.
Yes, you'd imagined it. Under your sheets, in the bath; It had been a momentary observation — a guess, more accurately — derived from what you knew about Daeron. Your mind had filled in the gaps. There was that obscene image of him weeping, as his hips stuttered over a damn pillow; all because he was too tangled up in you, too desperate to think straight.
Rather narcissistic — but it had gotten a good chuckle out of you. Now you'd blurted it out with such venom; the thing that struck you the most was that it was too particular in it's details. You could not play it off as a just general assumption. What would you tell him? Oh, no, it's nothing too bad. Sometimes i used to think of you crying while jer—
He chuckled.
In your face.
It sounded alot like he was being strangled — but the warm noise rushed to your heart, anyway.
"The pillow is a very.." He let out an incredulous sigh, and paused. Because, of course, he would. Daeron peered at you from his lashes. He did not blink once. Those violet eyes had gone all heavy-lidded and dark; not quite proper for daylight. And the pause had achieved it's purpose, too. You were watching with bated breath. "—poor substitute, isn't it? When compared to the real thing?"
The weight of these words was so dizzying that you almost fell.
It was as though the air had been punctured out from your lungs and only came out in short, breathy little gasps,.
"Fuck off."* You grunted. The words had slipped out on their own.
Daeron blinked. For a moment, you were sure that he too had lost the ability to speak. But he hadn't of course.
"Now... don't be mean to me," His mouth curled into a thin line. "—What if i start crying? What then?"
Gods help me.
You bit down on your jaw. "I don't care!"
"Really? I think I remember someone mentioning 'my teary eyes' quite alot, but—"
Your gaze lowered.
His lips looked prettier in the sun. Much prettier than they had any right to be.
Then — your mind went all blank.
Then, you were on your feet and suddenly infront of him and your hands tugged and pulled their way to the fine strands of his hair, and you felt him gasp against you, in that shrill way you'd always dreamed of and, Gods, he did not pull back or tell you no but instead froze up in the deliciously pliable way he did and then — your mouth found his.
The feel of his lips were so much softer than you'd hoped.
Daeron tasted like some bittersweet fruit you couldn't name. Or maybe just wine.
He went utterly limp in your arms, like a doll wrung too dry and you let him. You let him because all of this had scalded both of you enough, and because he was — Gods damn the Targaryens — suprisingly warm, even through the damp wool of his cloak. Daeron inhaled the sweet scent of your hair. The sigh that left his lips then..it tingled against your sweaty brow. And, so you both stood there, like that, for quite a while. The world had mulled to a still, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the birds in the distance. . Your hands in his hair, his trembling ones clasped around your waist — like you might just vanish if he didn't smother himself on him. Neither could tell how much time had slipped, when enveloped in eachother's arms.
How much of your yearning had bled out, in that single kiss?
.
Daeron pried his lips from yours, slow as a man pulled from salvation. Saliva strung from both of your mouths with a wet plop. You were about to let out a groan of frustration — when he lowered his head and looked at you with his wet, puppy eyes. He said your name, first. That held you down in place.
" We might find a better place than this." Daeron mumbled, as his nose brushed yours.
Sensibility was not something you'd expected for him — but your hands were itching — to grab, pull, and caress . The last thing you wanted to do right now was think.
You gave him a nod — and it was enough, for that moment.
He melted like the sweetest kind of honey in your hands.
You didn't need to say a word.
Daeron understood what you meant by that slight nod. The two of you had snuck off to the winding hallway that led to your chambers.
There had been a slight hitch — your fingers curled around the door knob and you suddenly weren't very sure if you could bring yourself to open it. This was happening. Not in your dreams, not in the middle of some bath-soaked fantasy, but in the flesh.
When that door opened, neither of you would be able to help themselves, and it would be a thing. A permanent thing marked by skin and sweat.
Someone wiser might've considered the factors; that you both were to be wed anyway, and waiting a little longer had never hurt anyone, right?... Except it would, in this case — because your skin felt like it was being scalded to the hells and back and a thousand words bubbled up in your throat. None of them ever left your lips.
He'd put a hand on your shoulder, then. It was a question. Only asked with the tentative touch of his fingertips and not any words, because words were faulty, and words would only poke and plod at you.
"We'll be damned if we're caught," You had scoffed, against the crook of his neck. "— but I really think i might break something, if I don't do this."
He had laughed at that quick enough, but there was a lilt of pleasure to the sound: as though he still couldn't believe that you'd been driven mad by him, too, and not just the other way around.
You'd opened the door.
And then you were on him; before it had even creaked shut properly.
Under the dim light, and over the fragrance of jasmine, He still tasted as bittersweet as wine — you'd checked that, virtue of biting at his lovely mouth a hundred times over —as he did outside, still sighed with that same desperation and still fumbled over his every touch to catch up with yours.
But Daeron didn't dig his nails onto your waist as he had in the balcony — like it was his only lifeline — once you both had kissed your way to the bed. He closed his eyes when you rolled on top of him. He let you bite and paw at him as you liked, and seemed almost too content beneath you. All lazy smiles and glazed eyes.
At ease. That was it. With the door bolted (this time you'd checked thrice over), he could just bask in all of you without being questioned for it.
He shifted. He dipped his head, to bury it in the soft flesh of your breasts. You felt him inhale deeply. The sound of his whimpers tingled on your skin, even through the soaked fabric of your bodice. His gaze lifted to you — and you saw that the tears pooling in them "Do what you said you would. Please..."
Arousal creeped up between your thighs — slick and insistent, at his words; the plea in them. It was obvious what he meant. You ran a hand through his sandy hair, with all the slowness of someone who has been caught biting more than they can chew. In all honesty: you didn't know much about sex, except for what the septas had told you...and the sappy erotica you 'sometimes' borrowed from Elyssa.
For a moment, silence enveloped your chambers — save for the sound of your breathing, and the rustle of fabric. He sunk his fingers to the curve of your hips. The gentleness itself was a question. You stiffened, for a minute, before giving him a nod. Daeron let his hands fall from you. "I could show you how," He rasped, at last. "— if you'd like?"
A snort burbled in your throat. "..You'd start crying If i said no—" You clamped it down. "— and I'm feeling particularly generous today, so I suppose I'll say yes instead."
"Of course. You're very kind." He scoffed, and peeled himself from you, with all the excruciating slowness of a man who knows he's needed. Which was accurate, because you had almost whined at the sudden loss of his touch. That whisper of breath over your clavicle, now gone.
That wasn't fair, at all. This was supposed to be yours. This whole thing was yours, in a way; but he would reign in the sweet satisfaction of having the upper hand instead.
Or so you had thought.
He moved, patting the space beside him. You hesitated, because this still struck you as faintly surreal: you were the maiden here — and most maidens did not mount their husbands (your husband-to-be, in this case) the first time around. It wasn't as though you minded, either.
You tried to unbuckle his breeches. But his hands draped over yours, and he drew them to his glossy lips. ''There's something else" He mumbled. "— that i need to do first."
You squinted at him. "What?" There was a limit to be had, with everything — and you'd fretted enough over this man to stand any further. "—What is it now?"
His cheeks burned. He glanced at your lower half.
Oh.
"Please," He gaspeds and tirred his lips aw from your palm. "— I swear I'll be good.." He fiddled with the laces of your skirts, and you let him because he just looked too pretty with those teary eyes, for you to question him. "'Need to taste you.." His mouth found the dip of your shoulders, in a hot, stringy kiss.
Daeron slid down from your clavicle to the jut of your elbow, and left the tender flesh all sticky with saliva. Your hands snaked around his bent neck — and you breathed in that sour, yeasty odour that always permeated around him. He bit back a moan — before snapping back to the open-mouthed onslaught over your arms. A man so starved, that resorts to the first thing he can put his mouth on.
The slow stroking of his fingers around your thighs suddenly tensed. A heat had seeped somewhere between them, and his sudden grasp — as though he needed to keep you in place — made you more than aware of the wetness pooling there, as his nails dug into your flesh. Not with arrogance or even need; but a reverence that scruffed at it's edges.
Your back hit the matress with a slight thump. The openess of the position — hands splayed back, him above you, the ceiling glaring down — fluttered low in your belly. His grip relaxed, for one moment...then in a flash of blonde hair, Daeron moved.
His hands worked at your skirts. The fabric lifted off with a light whoosh., baring your clad legs to him. Daeron began to peel off your stockings, with that same excruciating slowness. Every slip of silk tingled over your skin, lower and lower and lower..until you were bare from your lower half. You bit down a sigh as the cool air brushed over your legs — and he splayed them apart.
Then, he dipped.
He smelled you, first — and the hot, torn gasp of air nipped against your folds. The act touched some taut space in you. H ekissed you even there. Pleasure pricked over your cunt like a fine feather. Slow, insistent, and already coiling somewhere deep. You had to clamp down on your teeth very hard.
There was a rhythm to it. . His hair was soft under your fingers, but he was losing his softness now.A slow lap, a circling nip here and there. His tongue lapped itself up to an angle that just struck so perfectly deep inside you. It was like a caress to the soul. You jerked at his strands, making him groan a little.
His mouth wound faster, tighter and oh so much sweeter, and you just could not fucking help it: you bucked your hips against him, with tears pricking at your eyes The sight of his head buried between your thighs, while you rode his face, had your mind stuttering and all mushed up.
"Daeron," It was more a gasp against the top of his head, as you arched into him. " — Daeron, please. "
Hw suddenly froze.
The loss of that friction left you all shaky, like your nerves had just been brushed with a cold dagger.
Hips arching against nothing, you tried to squirm from his grasp — to make him continue, to chase back that lovely flick of ecstasy. But his fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, keeping you in place from reaching your pleasure. You let out a cry. What did he even mean to do by this? It might have aswell have been the most torturous moment in your life — that slip of time where your breath came in shallow gasps and you glanced down ata him gain and again, wondering if he'd—
He tore his mouth away with an obscene noise..and looked up at you.
Fucking bastard.
A warm, fuzzy heat scraped over every nerve ending in your body.
His tilted head had cast shadows over his violet eyes but you saw them, beneath his lashes — the glazed lust pooling rich and dark in their depths. Your breath caught. The sheen of tears shone under the dim light. He closed them, the way he always did (always made you wonder if he was in some sort of pain.)
A smile flickered over his swollen lips. It would've been almost shy, if he hadn't opened his mouth. "So you did like it, after all?"
The earnestness of the question seeped into your head. You gritted down a groan. Annoying. Daeron tended to be annoying when one gave him what he wanted — as though he were making sure that it was real and not just some terrible dream . In any other case, you might've sympathised. But right now? Your insides fluttered around thin air, with a numb sort of need — and you were not having it, any way or the other.
"Shut up." That's all you could croak out. You snatched his jaw between your fingers. His mouth opened and he might just have blurted something out then — if you hadn't yanked his head down back to where it belonged.
The sensation of his lips, lodged between your wetness again, was almost a comfort. Relief sunk low and warm in your stomach. You brushed a strand of his hair — a gentle, tiny touch that meant to be a question without words. Had you been too cruel?
"Eager, aren't we?" He mumbled.
The sound prickled over your poor, tender skin.
. Then he was back at it . Faster, more sucking than littering with kisses. It felt like your cunt was being ravaged ..and with love. Your walls oozed and pulsed, around the whizzing of his tongue. His little hums of satisfaction made you cry. out yourself, and your eyes lolled back in your head.
He knew how to do this — to curl his tongue just right, or to use his mouth just enough to have you wailing out loud.
But it wasn't enough — gods know it wasn't — and you wanted more — needed it for fuck's sake. Daeron had you bucking your hips against his face, and riding it out. Ecstasy skimmed past you with every arch, every little flick, and every muffled gasp of his name — and you couldn't quite reach it.
Until you felt it flood over your entire body.
By the noises that left your mouth and the way your grip turned white-knuckled over his hair, Daeron had likely sensed it — and worked faster, sucking your folds like a man starved — bringing you over the sweet edge of release in a matter of seconds. You felt yourself waver. The warm pressure had coiled up into a taut ache — curled into something unbearable...and then you were seeing the fucking stars themselves.
You came right on his face.
For what felt like an eternity, you two lied there — skin-to-skin, all cold with sweat and a faint afterglow.
His breath shuddered over your thighs, and you finally loosened your grip on his hair. Wetness trickled down your legs. A few moments of silence — to let it sink in, perhaps. Neither of you could sputter out a single word, anyway: the only sounds were that of the birds outside and the thump of your own heart, over and over in your ears.
He id pluck himself off you — after a while. Under the candlelight, his swollen lips glistened faintly with...well, you. Even his hair clung to his temple in unrulier waves. Had you truly tugged so hard? The thought should have made you ashamed..and yet it did the opposite. Your heart clenched sweetly at the knowledge that he'd made such a ruin of himself just to please you.
This was your first time — and the gods knew that it wouldn't be your last with him. But you were not done just yet. There was that pressing matter of doing what you said you would.
"Lay down." You whispered. "If you want, of course."
Daeron snapped out of his reverie, to look at you. His eyes had gone wide. Perhaps he understood the tinge in your voice behind that simple request — seeing as he bit down on a grin, then. "Oh, I will, darling—" His hands came up to wipe his mouth. "— do as you like. I suppose I am at your beck and call anyway."
Darling. He'd called you darling.
Was it not too early to use endearments? The word had a sticky quality to it, and yet it fluttered somewhere in your gut. You chose not to notice it.
He chose to notice it, however. Daeron narrowed his eyes, in mock-confusion. "What? Can I not call you darling?"
"I'd like it much more if you just shut up and did what I asked you to, my prince."
In a rare display of shame — because he had a knack for hiding that particular sentiment — Daeron reddened. That title always did sting him a little. But, he did not poke any more, held his tongue, and, infact, complied with your request. (Which was really an order, and perhaps one of the few ones that he'd be more than obliged to fulfill)
Daeron fell beneath you, honey-coloured hair splaying over the silk pillow, as his back hit the matress with a oof.
It was a sight that coaxed many wonders to your mind — and made your throat slightly, if not deeply, parched.
Him, so subservient and warm. All for you. Your hands kept trembling, as they curled at the hem of his doublet, then lower and lower to his breeches. The fabric was coarse beneath your keen fingertips, but you'd loosened it without much effort.
His brows tensed. He hadn't said anything about your own fully-clothed state — gods, he hadn't even glanced at them — but you felt it scab at you, anyway.
"I'm not undressing," You finally set your hips above his. " — if that's what you're curious about. Lifting my skirts up is enough."
"But I am?" He asked.
"Obviously."
A silence fumed up between the two of you, after that blunt little word — and in it's momentary grasp, you found yourself hesitant to, well, get on with it (there was no other phrase in your head then). The truth was: you had no clue about anything. You glanced at his bright eyes. Then flitted to his curled lips. The paper lamp smoldering at your bedside table. The damn ceiling.
Anything but your tangled lower halves, apparently.
"Again..I could show you how," His voice stirred you from your panic. "— if you're worried about that."
"I dont quite...." Your voice melted into a gasp as his fingers dug into your hips.
"It's perfectly alright."
A pang of something — that almost resembled frustration — hit you.
"..You're not supposed to be the one consoling me." You frowned.
"We're not supposed to be doing this in the first place." His whisper combed over your ears, and you found your hands shifting to his neck.
"I know - " Daeron averted his eyes. "— that I'm not exactly the most reliable man—" Your breath stilled. You felt the tip of his cock brush up against your entrance. . . "- but I need you to trust me, right now, alright? Please?"
The usage of the world please was so bizarre, — against the heavy simmer of your breath — that you almost laughed in his face; and had to keep it down with great effort. His humor could be useful, sometimes. But it didn't quite soothe your jumpy nerves either.
You sunk onto him. With every comforting circle he drew over your hipbones— you sunk lower and gods help you if it wasn't both the most searing and lovely thing you'd gone through at the same time. The first thing you felt was pain. White-hot pain, that scalded down to your bones. Your cunt grasped him like a vice, muscles contracting to drive the head of his cock out — unfamiliar territory — and you'd never been so stuffed, so full of something in your life.
"Daeron — fuck — I-"" Your words were ripped off by a sob— as you finally took him to him to the hilt.
His fingers dug deeper into your hips; if that was even possible. "Just like that, sweet girl," His whimper grazed the hollow of your collarbones. "— take all of me, hm? So fucking tight—"
You shut him up with one snap of your hips.
The hot, twitchy pain had melted into a buzz of a pleasure — rather mild; but it made your head go all fogged up and feverish; with the way your cunt squeezed him in deeper now, instead of pushing him out.
The words died in his throat. He let out a lewd, unmanly whimper — almost a mewl. His eyes rolled back in his head. You froze, for a second — to gawk at the sight of him — before driving right back onto him. Another stab of dazed euphoria fell over you, as his cock struck that sweet spot of yours, and he made that pathetic noise again.
Your left hand clamped over his mouth, as a crutch. (A test of the waters. Fucking him was particularly exquisite because he reacted to your every touch, every pull and push.)
He smiled against your palm, and closed his eyes; a silent, lazy offer for you to ruin him. You froze, for a moment. He liked this. He liked it alot more than you'd expected: being under you and having the living hell ridden out of him, all while not lifting a finger himself. It should've come off as pathetic or cheap — but instead you felt like you really could live out your fantasties now.
The thought struck you then — in the sulphurs of sweat and sweet, warm sex.
Daeron was yours to use. Yours to fuck, and yours to kiss.
You could do anything.
You picked up a pace. Slow, almost nervous at first — guided by what kind of thrusts made him cry out loud or bury his head in your chest — but you rocked your hips over his. Chasing your own high. Wet, squelchy sounds filled the room, alongside the musky aroma of flesh. You slipped your hand from his mouth; your curiosity was roused; it would be a treat to hear those foul noises from his lips.
"Fuck—" He rasped. "—seven hells — please dont stop—" His hands wandered up, and he tried to grasp at your breasts. You flicked his fingers away, making him pout a little. How desperate was this man, truly? One deep thrust — a mere flutter of your cunt around him — and you already had him cross-eyed. His face scrunched into an expression of both delight and some brand of pain; his nails scraped over your skin." I think — gods — that 'm close—"
"No." You went utterly still.
" I — what?"
"Not yet, Daeron."
He gaped at you like you'd just slapped him across the face.
"I am— " Your hands travelled to his face. His skin was slick with sweat under your fingertips. Daeron's eyes were swollen with tears, too, and his lips trembled just so. The sight made your both heart flutter and clench. Poor thing. How desperate and ruined he was: and all at your touch. " — doing what I said i would.." You trailed off, tilting his jaw upwards.
Misery flashed in his gaze. "Please—"
"Beg." You placed a finger over his mouth. "Beg properly."
"Please—" A whine. "- let me — I've got to—"
"I said beg properly." You whispered, with more malice than you'd meant to.
He was on the verge of tears. "You're a very cruel woman.." A beat. You didn't say anything. Clearly that was not what he'd intended. He tried squirming up to you...and was only met with a harsh tug of his hair. "— Fuck — Sorry. Please. I need to-" A deep breath. It did not soothe his nerves, at all. " - I swear i'll be good - I promise - i'll do anything — just fuck me for gods' sake-"
"How sick. And desperate." You scoffed.
You thrust onto him, anyway.
Hs gasped, at first. Then, as the heat washed over him, his eyes went all big and a lazy little smile spread over his lips. You had never seen him look so relieved before, if you were being honest. That was the look of a man who'd reached paradise again. "Yes — gods, yes — thank y—" He started, and was, again, cut off by a sudden slam of your hand.
You moved up and down his cock — each shove a graze to your own clit — until it twitched and his breath grew more ragged with each movement. (Which didn't take as long as you'd expected) . With a moan he couldn't quite clamp down, Daeron finally finished inside you. His entire body convulsed. Your cunt filled up with his hot sticky seed. It trickled down your thighs — and even onto him — with slow warmth.
He cried out your name. The way he always did.
Only this time, it set your skin alight.
Daeron went limp under you. There was no other word for that soft, weary surrender. When you tried to pull yourself off him, he only grasped on tighter. "Don't," he coughed. "Don't go."
"You've made a mess."
But you did not go, after all. You lied over him, entangled by sweat. He smiled. Like he'd won the whole world.
...How long it exactly took you to pull yourself off Daeron remained a mystery. You managed to — much to his displeasure — and left him ravaged on the bed, to sulk by himself.
The vanity.
On such a fine afternoon, sunlight streamed through your gossamer windows, and washed it a late spring's golden. As you sat down, you realised that the breeze had brought the smell of roses today. You smoothened your skirts, dabbed your wet thighs with a cloth, and were about to comb your hair, too — when you heard him say it.
"You know," He called out. "- I don't regret eavesdropping on you anymore — not at all,"
Your hairpin dropped with that little clink. You didn't need to look at him to know he was smiling.
" — and I think — just think, of course — we should do this again some other time."
A smile threatened to grow on your lips.
The window creaked open underneath your touch. "Yes," You sighed in a cleansing breath. "- I think so too. And rather soon, hopefully."
Could i prompt you with Daeron targaryen x blind!reader? I just really love the concept of a guy who sees far too much and can't do anything about it versus a girl who can't see anything at all. I also like the idea that he would kind of be forced to be a little bit more responsible because she would need help with things And getting around. I could picture him standing with her at a feast making silly little quips about everybody bc she cant see and using the excuse of having to stay w her to get out of socializing
★. ,, daeron targaryen x blind!fem! reader
// headcanons + bonus (badly written) drabble.
TW: blindness, alcoholism, daeron stinks, bit ooc???, (i'm bad at writing scenes with multiple characters), bigotry (not from daeron) a little angsty. this is mostly just fluff, however! lmk if i forgot to add something. also apologies if i didnt properly portray blind!reader. criticism is welcomed! this is not proofread or edited i fear. also it's not specified whether reader is a noble or not , second person POV
PS: thank you for requesting!! i loved writing this dynamic and i hope i did it justice :) the drabble is not very well written though, haha.
HEADCANONS.
# there's a sort of bewilderment that follows your relationship — people are confused. whispers and questions fill the air: how can a drunkard like him take care of you? and, besides, why would daeron fall for a blind lady? — among other ignorant things. the general consensus is that: surely, if he cannot handle himself, he cannot handle you, either.
# some pity you, expecting that he must treat you with very little care. however, this could not be more far from the truth. daeron is always, always sweet and gentle with you, if not anything else. he treats as you though you were made of glass, always hesitant and seeking permission, first and foremost.
# now he may be a drunken slob, by all means, but that does not mean that he's not a targaryen. daeron will absolutely defend you from any weird comment about how 'misfortunate' your life or how 'strange it is that a prince took a liking to you' and whatever else they spew at court. he would probably retort with an quip of his own!
# daeron helps you with little things. tiny gestures that truly show how much he cares for you. i.e reading books to you, walking with you and so much more. daeron also might hold you the entire night while you're sleeping <3 (he's the little spoon shh) .
# he tells you that you're the prettiest woman in the entire seven kingdoms. you may laugh or brush it off, but it's the truth to him, even if you can't see it. if you ask him about he looks, daeron might chuckle and say that he's 'not half as beautiful as you are'. i dont believe he thinks very highly of himself (?)
# daeron might get you a pet, i.e a cat or dog for extra help!! could be anything tbh, depends on your preference. go wild.
# it's hard for him to be the responsible one in a relationship, but he tries his very best. daeron adjusts your jewellery, washes your hair with such gentleness that you have to tell him to do it a bit faster sometimes and most of all, always rants to you about his days and nights. he tells you everything: what he saw in his dreams, what he did, etc, etc. you're one of the few people he can open up to.
# daeron tells you, jokingly, that he sometimes wishes he did not have to see his dreams, that it would be better to be blind in that case. you shake your head and tell him that it is far better to see too much than nothing at all. neither of you can truly understand the other's condition and experiences, no, but you both do your best and love in spite of it: which is what matters.
DRABBLE
dies of cringe
Daeron would have liked to be anywhere else in the world that night.
Aside from the Red Keep’s great hall, of course; where he was currently slumped on his corner of the table.
He had no clue how many cups he could get away with, before anyone noticed the sway in his posture or the flush on his face.
Sure, gazing up at the ceiling as though it held the secrets of the world, instead of talking and eating like an ordinary man, might look rude, in retrospect, — but feasts and dealing with his entire family were one of the many things that made him want to run away and bury his head in a pillow.
He might have, if not for you.
Candlelight danced across the stone walls. The air was fragrant with noisy chatter and roasted lamb — and both were the kind you only get on an occasion like this. An occasion, essentially, where one summons one’s entire bloodline, to one castle and one great table..for a nameday, no less. (Daeron wondered why his grandsire still felt the need to celebrate his age, and, worse, to call everyone to King’s Landing on it)
Of course it was a shitshow. The idea of it not being anything but a shitshow was ludicrous.
But, you, sweet you, were his only comfort in this searing hell. He could hold your hand, and you would only grasp it tighter, with a smile. You were — he was sure — the only person who did not crinkle their nose at the sight of him or recoil from his touch. The only person he could ramble on and on to without getting told to ‘Shut the fuck up, Daeron’ .
He did not understand what he had done to deserve someone like you. You, yourself, deserved better, that much was clear. A man who was trustworthy. A lord or knight who was more able in taking care of you and your blindness, and most certainly not a dream-addled drunkard who clung to you like pollen.
Daeron had thought it over a thousand times before: What if he passed out, shit-faced and was not there to help you? What if you hated him, for it? What if you were hurt, because he had been too reckless, too absorbed in his own miseries, to tend to yours?
There were two choices — either he sobers up and knocks some sense into himself, or, just lets you go. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Daeron was too selfish (and too head over heels) to leave you alone with such ease, if any at all.
Even thinking about trying to forget you…that sent shivers down his spine. No quantity of wine could drown away that, or cleanse the sweetness of your smile, the memory of your touch and the many japes you both had crafted together during public events.
Hence, he had tried. Daeron had tried putting away his cups earlier in the evening or bathing, more often, than his usual twice a week. He’d tried spending more time with you: describing the sunset, best as he could, reading to you in the library. Being what he should’ve been this whole time, essentially.
This was not to say he had not failed. Drinking just a few more cups than proper, dwindling off to gods-know-where and waking up drenched in mud…yes, he did have his fair share of all that. It was inevitable, at times. Sometimes, it was debilitating, too.
But, he reminded himself, each time, that he had something else — someone else — to worry about now. He could not just drown headfirst in wine like he used to. As painful a task changing was, it was far, far easier than the prospect of letting you go. Watching you wed some other man, and feeling his heart break into miserable pieces. Fitting, perhaps, for such a miserable man.
Tonight was a test of his restraint. Either he sank deep enough in his cups, to save himself the trouble of talking — as he tended to — or, on a better note: only talked to you, for the rest of the feast, while hoping that people might get the message and fuck off.
Something in him did not want to risk his familiar haven. That something told him that he’d just end up boring you, that he would drink anyway . Everyone else, from his grandsire to his cousins, already thought him a sot. Good for nothing but wasting coin on wine and whores . Even if some of them were too well-bred to say it loud.
Yet, he found himself looking at you. He found himself wondering and weighing the consequences of his choices, for once — and he found himself clearing his throat, trying to find the right words for you.
"Aerion looks like he’s going to puke from those peppers.”
"Does he?” You asked, raising a brow.
That was true — across the table, his brother was turning greener by the minute.. Aerion looked as though he might start crying (though he would never, not in public), from all the snot that he kept trying to wipe away. He kept that imperious smirk plastered on his face, even now..only that it was flimsier than ever.
"Yes. So much for claiming that ' a dragon is not affected by spices'. He’s all green in the face. Might barf, frankly” Daeron’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
“....And you’re certainly immune to barfing, yourself, right?” Your mouth had twitched, as you said this — and Daeron knew by now that meant you were biting back a smile.
"I don’t choose to do things that inevitably lead to barfing.” A lie.
"Do you? Well, then, neither did he.”
“He knew he could not handle such spice. He’s that special flavor of bastard who know they’ll lose, but go on anyway, to prove some point.”
“Of course. He’s your brother, after all.” You stated, in a matter-of-fact tone. Even then, as you were insulting him, Daeron found himself smiling along. It was one of the thousand things he adored about you: your wit.
“Have you heard me gloat about the precious blood of the dragon like him?” Not that he even considered himself to be a part of it.
You let out a snicker — against your own will, maybe — before shaking your head. “Who else is here?”
“Oh, everyone—” He started, casting his eyes across the whole table. “ The King, my uncles, my cousins. The entire bloodline, I'm afraid.”
“Tell me something.” You demanded; or was it just a request? More often than not, it was the latter. But Daeron took it as the former anyway, and was prone to doing almost everything you asked of him. "Something interesting. Not Aerion on the verge of puking.”
Daeron could not help but snort. “The king looks as though he’s thoroughly disappointed by his family.” It was also true. His grandsire currently sat at the head of the table, rubbing his temples.
“And?” You asked, ever the insatiable listener.
What else could he say? His eyes skimmed over the table, once more — one of the rare times when he was actually concentrating on a given task — for your amusement. . “Queen Myriah is managing to hide her frustrations far better. She’s smiling but…it does not quite reach her eyes.”
“Perhaps it was she who suggested this feast.”
“More than likely. Anyways—”
There, he drove into his quips and observations entirely. Daeron did not realise that the night had passed, with such ease and in a time that had felt only like the blink of an eye, for he was too busy whispering the most absurd jests in your ears, making you almost laugh yourself (which you barely managed to suppress, with shaking shoulders.) and relishing the many retorts you gave him.
Daeron had not touched his cup, not since the conversation. He noticed it himself, saw the bottom of it now that it was empty. What could he do but fall silent? Daeron took a moment to think about what that had meant. It was no eternal cure, of course. But it was something. And, sometimes, something tends to be everything.
You asked why he had gone quiet, unaware,— and he, smiling a little, only told you three words, in the softest of voices . Three, familiar words that he had said with such love before and would — if gods willed it — for the rest of his life.
★. 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 (. # PART I )
headcanons & drabbles !!
# various! akotsk x fem! shy! reader /
includes : (. individually. ) daeron 'the drunken' targaryen (of course <3) and aerion 'brightflame' targaryen
# tw sex. like obviously. oral (both f and m receiving), canon typical misogny, alcohol abuse, p in v, overstimulation, dacryphilia (?) porn WITH plot. bad writing and worse pacing. reader is from a noble house, reader's family has been slightly described. reader is smart. also aerion might be ooc since this is my first time writing for him. slight dub-con, very toxic relationship dynamics, verbal abuse, sexual coercion, loss of virginity. breeding kink, hair pulling, degradation.
# word count idfk but around 4k??
PS: feel free to suggest who I should write for in the second part!! also PLEASE , please heed the warnings in this one!!! aerion is the biggest red flag ever. if you feel uncomfortable with any of these topics, just dont read it, for your own sake. i also should clarify that i dont endorse this shit irl, incase that wasn't obvious and that this is for entertainment purposes only.
daeron targaryen. <3
# It depends on what kind of relationship you have before getting married. but assuming that it was a political match, and you two dont know eachother that well, he wouldn't presume to touch you. (unless you asked, that is)
# i feel like he fully expects you to be disgusted by him. a failure, a drunkard, a fool; that's all he's known for being, despite being so much more.
# in his mind, you deserve a far better man for a husband, not someone like him.
# he's always been dealt with either disgust or begrudging pity, so it's no wonder that he mistakes your shyness as rejection.
# daeron takes it well. he gives you space, sleeps on the couch instead; doesn't even question why you refuse to look at him or why your cheeks are so red or why you're fidgeting with the hem of your gown. he's convinced that you find him so repulsing that you cannot stand to look at him.
# also despite your betrothal being purely for politics..daeron still holds some fondness for you; a sort of awe perhaps, mingled with fear and self-loathing, that a lady as beautiful as you are, could be his wife. so i imagine he might try to stay sober, for the wedding, at least, in respect to you.
# but it's still a shock to him — not unpleasant, at all, though — when you ask him to stay, in that soft, shy voice of yours.
// —
It took more than half an hour of dwelling in complete, candlelit silence for you to say it.
Half an hour of hiding your reddening face away — thank the gods the bedchamber was dim enough for that — and trying to ignore the way your heart throbbed and ached underneath your bodice.
The constant, buzzing fact remained: that your husband was slumped against the velvet chaise, instead. He had been looking at nothing in particular, with puffy eyes — especially not at you, who sat silent on the bed. On the night of your fucking wedding.
The disappointment was almost devastating.
You had not known Daeron for very long, nor were you acquainted with him very well — well, at least, not half as much as you'd liked.
In the eyes of your lord father, who had never been content with the many suitors that had come your way, with the only worthy matches being either the son of a great house, or better yet, a prince. It was on a fateful summer evening, that the latter had come true.
The prospect had lifted your father’s spirits so high that you swore he had been skipping and prancing around the entire castle. Or maybe those *were* just ‘the stray dogs again’, as he had said, with a cough too loud, before announcing your betrothal with glee.
"A prince’s hand-in-marriage is gold,” he whispered, as though telling the secrets of the whole universe. “-so there is no doubt that you shall accept it, yes?”
It had not been a question, and furthermore, you knew it perfectly well. Yet, the urge got to you before the senses could. “Even if he is a drunken fool, as they say?”
Your father hooted, being dazed, still, on the prospects — which were *yours* and not his, mind you — of marriage. He would not let your silly quip dampen his mood. “Even if he is a drunken fool. Especially if he is a drunken fool.”
"Especially," you’d thought it over, too many times to have been proper, that night, as you sat in the solar with your mother braiding your hair and your sisters at your side if he is a drunken fool?
But, the idea was not wrong, after all. Soon you had heard that the ‘true’ reason for your betrothal, according to your sisters, who definitely had the most accurate knowledge in all of Westeros, which was as follows:
Prince Maekar must have gotten weary of his eldest son and wanted him off his plate. But no highborn lady would have Daeron The Drunken for a husband or deal with his antics; so he was instead bound to you, the daughter of a lesser house, with a father whose eyes shone at coin and only foreseeable coin.
"Perhaps,” your mother reconciled, smoothening over the gossipy words of your sisters. “Prince Maekar hopes that you might..soften Daeron. Ground him to the earth, perhaps, with your sweet nature: and be the voice of reason *and* confort.”
“So, essentially — keep him on a leash?”
The change was so jarring, deadpanned by your little sister, that you all had to take a moment and blink in silence; before bursting into peals of laughter, of course.
*Keep him on a leash*, was unfortunately the only turn of the phrase you could think of, on the carriage to King’s Landing. Out of every single thing said and discussed on that night, why did it have to be that mischievous, vile jape that rang in your head?
There had been an endless number of subjects to ponder on, as you gazed endlessly at the endless, rolling green hills, curving and stretching outside the window for gods-know-how-long. The obvious ones, you had already mused over: Would Daeron hate you? Would you hate him? Would he *ever* learn to love you? — among other soapy, anxious trains of thought .
They called him ‘The Drunken’, so he must truly be an awful sot, right? And, they said that he went to brothels, too, so he must be a womaniser as well, right? They said that he would not love you, that you would have a marriage ‘as cold as snow’ and be that cold yourself for the rest of your ‘sad’ life. Worse of them all, they had also said he would not think that you were pretty!
The they in question, being your little sisters, did enormously soften the blow and shatter the whole notion of credibility, a little, too.
The worries were not entirely false, though — well half of them, perhaps — in a way. You *had* in fact agonised over your gown and hair on the morrow and you *had*, in fact, felt the doubt creep into your otherwise hopeful head by evenfall of the ride, when you felt like you could rip your eyes out at the sight of those endless green hills. You had wondered if he was cruel like his brother, Aerion. Or if he would give you the cold shoulder for the rest of your union.
And, as that was not even a fraction of the many thoughts burbling in you — there was another, just-as-pressing matter. You were not inclined to think yourself that vain…but when you thought of Prince Daeron, all sorts of faces came to mind.
You had no clue what he looked like, so you’d let your imagination run wicked and wild, conjuring up the most peculiar things. Gods, you hoped he looked at least normal. (Or you might have to take your things and flee back home. Or to Essos, if your father disagreed. It would be unbearable to have an indifferent and ugly husband)
You had wondered — still, on the way to King’s Landing — about the kind of man Prince Daeron was, whether the rumors of him drowning in his cups were true. Mo letters had been exchanged, save for an apologetic one from Prince Maekar, stating that his son had run off upon hearing of his betrothal .
You were wrong.
Oh, so wrong.
Your meeting with Daeron was different from what you had expected. When you met him, in the halls of the Red Keep, he looked disheveled, yes and profusely tired, yes, but not half as drunk as you had pictured. He had come to apologise (Maekar’s doing, by the look of it) for his ‘impulsive escapade’.
Stunned was not even enough to describe it.
While Daeron had been apologising to you for his running away in the middle of the night , you had been far too lost in his face to hear a single word of it.
You swore you had felt your cheeks flush visibly. Daeron was beautiful, with sandy hair, starry violet eyes, and a faint stubble on his jaw that you were supposed to find unclean. He had soft lips, you noticed as he spoke. Such soft, tender lips…but his eyes were the worst offender, anyway — big, violet and glistening with a haunted sort of knowing you could not understand. You found them alien, for it was one of the few things that reminded you that he was, Infact, a Targaryen.
Maybe he had noticed your staring, then, but regardless of that; he didn't comment on it. By the time he had finished speaking — and looked at you, expectant of an answer, — your mouth had curled, despite itself, into a sweet smile.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, your highness.” You had said; noting the fact you'd used pleasure instead of honor.
Daeron stared at you in silence — as if you'd spoken in some bizarre tongue. Then something dawned on him, perhaps from the lilt of your voice or the way you'd been staring for longer than it was proper…and he chuckled. It was a soft sound that warmed your skin, unlike every single terrible thing you had heard. He shook his head in earnest, then. “Please don't. I'm about as low as a man can get,” He had grimaced. “I'd like it if you just called me Daeron.”
It was a perfectly good request. There was nothing strange about it. Nothing forward or indecent. But it had, alongside Daeron himself, also wormed its way into your heart, over the passing of the next few moons — which were as lovely as you could ever want.
You found him to be so much more than the foolish drunkard the whispers painted him to be. It wasn't at all often that you both spoke — for there was always that air of awkwardness in between you two, unfortunately , as is the case with most betrotheds — but on the rare occasions that you did , it was clear, that beneath the brooding and the wine, Daeron was kinder and sweeter than the eye could observe.
He was gentle, in the small ways that one tends to overlook: listening to you without interrupting, walking alongside you in the Godswood on the mornings when he was sober and, the most surprising of them all — making you laugh. More than once, in public.( which did earn you a few glares from the court, but you could care less).
But, sometimes, it did the opposite.
His wit, as charming as it was, tended to be at the expense of his own self. He had quipped, once that ‘he was doomed to some kind of hell and one likely wine'....You discovered that you really did not like that; the bitter brand of jape that bordered on self-loathing.
There was still another distance, that had nothing to do with shyness or betrothal, between you two; Daeron seemed to hesitate, sometimes, when in your presence, as if you were made of some kind of fragile, fragile glass. He also made excuses — which grew, alarmingly, as the moons passed and the day of your wedding came closer — to not see you. You had noticed how he never quite met your eyes while saying them, too.
But you told yourself he was just as nervous as you. You told yourself that it meant nothing. You convinced yourself that it meant nothing. You had done your best: had been courteous enough, kind enough, *pretty* enough. You had beamed at Daeron everytime you passed him by, not out of politeness, but a genuine intrigue. You had even done your best to not judge him for his drinking, though that was harder than it had seemed.
What reason, truly, did he have to drift away? What right did he have to do that?
None at all, you had told yourself. *None at all*.
—
So, safe to say: it was more than almost devastating.
In your heart of hearts and soul of souls, somewhere so deep within you that you would rather bury yourself in a pillow tha admit it — you had *envisioned* it. Painted tonight with the warm colours of your imagination, in your head, and thought very deeply and very seriously about how his lips may or may not feel against yours, if his hair was as soft as it looked..among, other worse things.
So, you had expected it.
You did not expect this, however. You did not expect to see Daeron curled on the chaise instead, looking tired and wrung out far too dry to even bother looking at you. You, who had been sitting there, pretty and quiet and desperately good, for what had felt like an eternity.
It was nothing brash, nothing disrespectful (Only that it was) You could just close your eyes and sink into those soft sheets and sleep sound. If you wanted to. Alone. In your marital bed. On your wedding night.
What struck you the most was that he had not even said a single word to you, once the doors to your chambers had been closed. Nothing. Nothing, at all, no reassurances or explanations. Only the insufferable serene silence, broken by the hooting of owls and the burn of the hearth.
You would not have thought about it twice: if he had said something along the lines of "I am sorry, but i feel ill tonight" or perhaps, even "I would, i truly would but cannot because..." . Not that you were hoping for the latter, of course. That would be so, very absurd.
It took alot of thinking, sulking and almost tearing the hem of your wedding gown with your furious tugs for you to put aside a bit of your anxieties and say something:
“Your hig-” You began; but paused, having almost slipped your tongue, and though he would not have remarked on it once, you still felt it in your rights to be considerate of his wishes..even if it wasn't reciprocated. “Daeron. Are you quite alright?”
It was supposed to be an attempt at wifely solicitude: but sounded more like a desperate plea. You would've winced out loud, if you could.
At first, you were sure he had heard you. The silence hung thick, broken only by the owls peering outside and the burn of the hearth.
But, then, he turned to face you. He blinked; perhaps to dust the weariness off his eyes..or, more likely, to understand where exactly you were going with this innocuous little question. The tightness of your lips did gave away more of your anger than you thought it did.
“I am as alright as I can be,” Daeron quipped, voice slightly slurred. . “—which is, not quite alright on second thought.” It was meant to be a light jest...but it did not quite land the same way, when he was frowning like that. When he looked at you with such puzzlement. Daeron could not figure you out, it seemed — in all your quietness and polite smiles.
You only shook your head. You didn't laugh at the poor jape. “No, I meant...” As you trailed off, you felt your face burn, a little more than it should've. You had never been blunt or good with words, especially in such..intimate matters. “It’s…”
“—our wedding night?” He finished, raising a curious brow. There was a gleam, now, in his eyes; a dawning realization as to what your intentions were. “I won't presume to touch you, my lady, if that's your concern.”
Daeron had said those words as if they were the ordinary thing in the world. You did not know how exactly you could argue against it. He was being awfully polite. Too polite, if you were being honest.
You opened your mouth to say something, but instead found that the words did not come to you as easily as they had, for there was a strange heat pooling in your gut and you felt somewhat scalded by it. It showed itself in the sudden tremors of your fingers , the flush of your cheeks. Daeron had surely noticed all those signs, but, as always, remained silent.
Until he didn't.
“Do you truly find me that repulsive?”
It was only one phrase — and he said in that lackadaisable tone of his that made even the grimest things sound witty — but you snapped your head up at once anyway.
He was staring at you, with a most curious expression; the kind one has when he or she is about to receive a verdict. Daeron's red-rimmed eyes were blown wide, his mouth slightly parted, and you noticed that he had stood up from the chaise, after all, later than you would've liked (and definitely not because you were too busy studying his reaction)
You clenched your fists at your sides, and did not look at him, very pointedly, as you said the next words:
"What if I said I didn't?” You croaked out. “What if I said that I wanted you to…*to*...” Your throat worked and faltered — and so you did not speak any more. You did not need to. You only did the impossible: and lifted your eyes to his, in the shyest of glances.
You saw him turn scarlet this time.
Not as much as you did, no, but his cheeks did quite redden. His violet eyes had dilated, you saw, and locked onto yours, with drooped lashes. You did not know how to name the syrupy emotion in them as they pinned you down. Only that it made your own breath hitch; the weight of them, the question in them.
Then, Daeron's lips twitched upward, into some, shaky, impossible smile, despite his efforts to keep a straight face. It made you think he was withholding a far more shit-eating-grin than he let on.
He let out a noise that was something in between a snort and a breath neither of you knew he had been holding.
“Then,” Daeron finally whispered, voice thick with something murky, something alot like honey, that you recognised within yourself but absolutely did not want to think about. “I would do whatever you would have me do, my lady.”
—
BOO! (I cannot write smut in prose, sorry!!)
# we all know that daeron likes to be ridden, at this point. he just wants to lie back and be fucked to sleep, I swear to god. but since it's your first time, he might (slightly) top, for once.
# he would be oh-so-gentle. daeron would guide you through the whole thing. brush through strands of your hair, pepper kisses over your face, etc.
# your shy nature is precious to him but he can't help but have a little fun. In a rare display of smugness, he would tease you, only slightly, of course but just enough to watch your cheeks flush that beautiful scarlet again.
# he might remark on he didn't expect you to be so eager — once he's got your skirts off you and his head lodged between your thighs
# daeron wouldn't — couldn't — deny you for very long. It's impossible to, when you've finally given in to him. he wants you to feel good, most of all, wants to do something right in his life for once.
# might go haywire eating you out. he presses sloppy, wet kisses all the way from your stomach down to your core, leaving trails of saliva behind on your thighs. he does it such with reverence, too. neither of you had expected that.
# when he's finally inside you and your heads are pressed together, his fingers cup your cheeks and neither of you can breathe properly — daeron might just start crying. out of overstimulation and euphoria, perhaps. because, even while he's on top of you, he's still as pathetic as ever.
# he can't help it :( not when he's rutting into you with his breathy little whimpers. your cunt does things to him. you do things to him.
# if you cry out his name. he will infact come undone. to hear his name, cried out in your sweet voice, usually reserved for courtesies and whatnot, and so obscenely too, makes his mind implode. he comes inside you, with a shudder, tears running down his pretty face, all while his head is buried in the crook of your neck.
# he's absolutely clinging onto you even after both you have climaxed, with his hands snaked tight around your waist, as he inhales the fragrant scent of your shampoo, feels the sweat on your own soft skin and how unbearably gorgeous you look like this. daeron will literally fall asleep like this if you let him.
# he fears that you may vanish. may just fade away into the morning mist, if he lets go. like some bewitching, torturous dream.
★. aerion targaryen... (sigh..)
# god(s), you are done for. absolutely cooked. aerion wants what he wants — and he'll get it anyway he can.
# unlike daeron, hes fully expecting you to offer yourself to him on the night of your wedding; why would you not? in his eyes, you should be grateful to be his wife. (which essentially means that he wants you to worship the ground he walks on)
# yes, your shyness is flattering and fun to toy around with and whatever but he wouldn't like it if you just froze up without words. he wants you to beg, to be desperate for him!! i reckon he's imagined this particular moment before. except that in his fantasies, you're practically drooling over him. which is far from the truth and that, of course, pisses him off.
# he says its within his rights. that you have no choice but to give in.. aerion would definitely force you to look at him, even if you cannot bear to, even if you're turning red and at a loss for words. infact, this guy actually likes your reactions. he finds it cute (ps: it strokes his massive ego) that you're so delicate and soft-natured, that you're all bothered up and trembling because of him. it gives him a sense of power: the thing he covets the most.
# and uhh. if you do ask him beforehand, as politely as you can or tell him that you do fact want him, despite your embarrassment...he is going to be SO insufferable about it.
Monstrous. Cruel. Mad.
Those were just one of the few venomous words used to describe Aerion, the man you were, supposedly, going to wed.
Now, of course, no father could ever want for his daughter to endure a husband like that for rest of her life — that would be unforgivable — but what is he to do, when that someone also happens to be a prince? What is he to do, when he sees things only for their worth in coin? A match between the prettiest of his daughters and Prince Aerion is like striking gold. Scalding, sharp gold, but gold nonetheless; which, naturally, makes it physically impossible to deny the offer.
You had met Aerion, before the betrothal, yes — perhaps at a ball or event — and found him to be utterly entitled and even more insufferable than the rumors had whispered.
He had snapped at a serving girl, for no good reason, and though neither of you had spoken to eachother that day, you remembered, very clearly, that he had stared at you. It was not like the usual admiring glances you received. Not at all — for his violet eyes held a sly, almost curious gleam, the kind one gets when raking over a shiny jewel or pretty picture, only for it's loveliness and not it's substance.
You had, infact, noticed Aerion's smirking face, in your peripheral vision . Back then, you hadn't thought much of it and only continued to talking to the ladies of the court, with your classic smile: as though it had not even happened.
Unfortunately for you, Aerion despised being overlooked and brushed off like that . It was among the tedious list of things that got on his nerves, after all, and he would not — could not — stand that you had not even spared a single glance at him. You, a lady from a lesser house. Beneath him in every sense of the word. And, yet...
You were not nearly as surprised as you thought you would be, when he asked for your hand-in-marriage. It felt like a death sentence shoved right in your face, and by the time you were to wed him, you had given up and accepted it with a sort of grimness .
The gods had given you tools and abilities of your own, alongside both beauty and brains. They had also bestowed a vile bastard, who was convinced that he was actually a dragon, upon you.
You had to make the most out of this terrible curse. You had to spin something bearable out of a future that seemed too dark to think about, for you lacked the courage to defy or call him the same names as you did in your head. Asshole. Monster. Spoiled cunt.
Prince Aerion was strange. That, you had known before you'd even met him. But, being his betrothed truly made you see it:
He did not like it if you spoke to any man — whether it be a lord or a servant, no matter if it was only out of courtesy — and he did not like it, either, if you refused to given the tremendous attention he 'was more than worthy of'. More often than not, Aerion would have a hand wrapped around your waist, in public, fingers tighter than you'd like.
You sometimes felt like crumbling under his scrutiny, his constant hovering over you. Were you some sort of amusing toy to him? A thing that was already his and would only be more so, the future, by the right of marriage?
Aerion treated you like some sort of pet. Any time you denied him, or did something against his wishes — gods forbid — he would bid his time, wait until the two of you were alone. He might corner you, against a wall, (and not even in the way you might've liked) before grabbing your wrists.
His words during those outbursts often made you flinch, from their cruelty alone. Aerion might whisper of how ungrateful of you were, how it was the highest honor to be betrothed to a 'dragon', like him, among other jabs — each worse than the last — until you were reduced to crying. And, oh, how he loved seeing you cry, watching your pretty eyes dampen, the way the tears trickled down your face.
Aerion always wiped them for you, with his own fingers. You wanted to puke from cloying and sweet the gesture felt. How utterly inhumane you were made to feel.
You wanted to, against all odds, punch him. But, you could not lift a finger. No matter how much Aerion irked or annoyed you; you could not. You had never possessed the courage, the spirit that one needs to stand up for oneself — and had never hated yourself so much for it, as you did then.
# aerion is into alot of fucked up shit and he doesnt care, honestly, if it's your first time or that you're flustered— he'll nag you into anyway.
# for comedic purposes, i imagine he tries to rip your gown off (and fails so miserably that you just chuckle awkwardly and take it off yourself, much to his annoyance)
# as mean and rude as he is with words, i dont think he would physically harm you..well not much, aside from the occasional painful grip, that is. he doesnt want to hurt you. not out of benevolence or compassion, but because he sees you as some sort of doll that entirely belongs to his. and aerion does not want to mar something he owns already.
# he bullies his cock into you — immediately — without preparation, of course. he loves the way your walls clench around him, all gummy and tight. you take him so sweetly that it's almost unbearable. he cant help it if he goes a bit too fast, can he? if he pulls your hair a little, if he calls you a few names?
# there is no way that aerion doesnt have a fully-fledged, ingrained breeding kink. he needs to pump your cunt full of his seed, at once and he needs you to beg for it too. he wants to watch you swell with child, his child — because, in his eyes, he's doing you a great honor, apparently. he expects you to thank him, too, in that shy tone of yours. he'll watch his cum spill and seep out of your ruined hole, down your thighs, even — and then condemn you for 'making such a mess'. would definitely force you to lie down for a long time. hes paranoid about wasting a single drop..
# as much as he loves coming inside you, aerion also cant help but fuck your face too. oh, its absolute heaven to spill inside your soft mouth, aswell and watch his cum trickle down your flushed cheeks, before he forces your chin upwards and forces you to swallow it entirely <3 the sounds you make as he thrusts into your mouth, how hesitantly you swirl your tongue around him, how your eyes water up and go all dumb...
# he might also use his dagger for improper purposes. if you catch my drift LOL
# on the morrow, you might sleep in late, out of exhaustion. and while you're fast asleep — ruined, used to bits and his literal wife — aerion might wake up before you and smirk, with actual pride, at what a mess he's made out of you and your perfect, 'demure' facade. he decides that he wants to wake up like this every other sunrise, for the rest of your marriage and as i said: aerion wants what he wants, after all.
...dies of cringe
(please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed it!! ofc you dont have to, but it's very appreciated :D)
pairing — daeron 'the drunken' targaryen x aerion's twin! reader
summary— IN WHICH, you two have always clung to eachother since you could remember. you're his only solace left. or so you had thought...that is, until he suddenly shunned you away, without a word. not quite ready to give up, you sneak off to the sinks and gutters of flea bottom, just to confront him and get the answers you deserve.....
OR . in which, he dreams that you'll die.
TW: canon typical incest, death, murder, aerion is a little shit, alcoholism, light (horrible) humor, reader is afab, oral (implied very heavily, m receiving) , bad writing, suggestive but mild smut because I'm lazy, possible mischaracterisation, clunky plot, no beta, not proofread, a little angsty, misunderstandings. reader hates aerion, hurt/comfort,
word count: 7k smh (HOLY FUCKING SHIT??)
ps: bla bla bla english is not my first language. no that doesn't mean this is a master piece. no I didn't research anything for this fic. yes this is likely ooc and yes I'm bad at writing characters accurately. no this doesn't mean you're free to trash on me, just block me instead.
Loving Daeron wasn't easy; it never had been.
Not when he constantly passed out drunk at the foot of your door, not when he woke up, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. Not when he kept rambling about those dragon dreams, that seemed to have plagued his entire being, and driven him to this.
Not when you saw him so scarcely these days, not when he frequented those damned brothels instead — to seek oblivion from whores, cups and whatnot.
As if your soothing words and warm embrace... weren't enough anymore to keep his nightmares at bay.
They had been good enough, at some point in both of your lives.
You'd been his anchor, his safest, sweetest haven; his dear sister, stroking his sandy hair after a nightmare had left him shaking, in tears. You, cupping his cheeks and whispering that 'it'll be alright, brother. I'm here, with you. I always will be, as long you want me to.'
One could say that you tenfold more fond of Daeron than your own, monstrous twin — and they'd be right.
It had always been that way. Daeron was good to you. Well, as good as he could be, when his mind was haunted from so much wine and misery and he was on the verge of passing out on the floor. But, good, nonetheless.
He never leered at you the way Aerion did, nor did he feel the need to constantly mention that you belonged to him, unlike a certain someone.
When it was all too much to handle, he'd simply throw on his cloak*, sneak past the guards , and knock on the familiar door of your bedchambers.
You'd let him in, of course, because how could you refuse? How could you refuse, when he looked so helpless, so utterly *spent, as he stood there in your doorway? When he stared at you with those glistening, beautiful eyes of his?
Those violet eyes, red with too much wine and underlined by dark circles, from his many sleepless nights — they never failed to crumble all of your resolve. Especially when he showed up at the most unexpected of times. At the crack of dawn, or the wolf's hour..
You'd always frown, at first — shake your head, or even scold him for drinking him too much ...only to give into his mumbled apologies and let him lay his head on your lap anyway and find solace in your sweet whispers, the way you held him close.
The way you never called him a drunken slob or a failure like Maekar, or made fun of his prophecies like Aerion.
The way you were one of the few lovely things this broken man had left in his world. His only achor that kept him from slipping into madness or drowning himself in wine.
Had you not been there to talk to him, to ask about and even try to understand his dreams,..he might've done both of those.
. But he couldn't bring himself to disappoint you, even when he was teetering on the brink of his sanity.
You, who, fretted over him like no one else. You , who asked of his wellbeing — never questioned why he wasn't doing this and that, who kissed him, on the top of his head and you, who, he'd figured, somehow loved him.
Why you'd waste your time with a stupid drunkard like him; it was baffling. You were going out of your way to make time for his antics, putting in effort and tremendous patience.
Nobody had asked you to do this, to love your fool of a brother without condition or cause.
You did it anyway.
That was the kind of person you were, he supposed, a person who one couldn't help but fall in love with, even if they tried and fought tooth and nail against their own heart not to — because they'd never be good enough, see, only drag you down to a hell where you didn't belong, not one bit.
. They were a bit too obvious, sometimes — his true, unabashed feelings for you.
..He never presumed to touch you, not like that, anyway. ...but you did notice. You weren't blind after all.
Brotherly gratitude and sheer, unbridled yearning were two separate things — but the line between them was often more blurred than not.
Sometimes, during the blue moons when he was sobered up and brushed a strand of your hair or smiled that wry, faint — almost shy — smile of his, you swore there was something in his expression you couldn't name, not under the dingy light of your bedchambers.
You remembered a strange, painful sort of heat in his violet eyes. From the way he sometimes fluttered them shut, whenever you touched his cheek or embraced him. It reminded you of a cat purring .
But it was almost though he was relishing the feel of your skin on his, burning it into his memory for later, as something almost sacred. Taking whatever you gave him with salvation or perhaps...
No. That couldn't be it.
You were only overthinking.
You, infact, tended to; while needling at a piece of patchwork for the past hour. The crackle of the hearth made for no good company and the quiet does make people feel the impossible and believe the absurd. Does it not?
Daeron held nothing of that sort towards you. It was almost laughable to think he — teary, broken, sweet Daeron — could think of you in any way but as his sister.
Sure, sometimes his eyes lingered on you too long while passing you by in the hallway. Sure, his gaze often did flicker to your lips — before he shook his head, as though coaxing himself out from a dream he could never reach.
And, yes, he did look stumped whenever you spoke too kindly to Aerion. But that was nothing. You were spinning nonsense from the norm, right?
Perhaps he was only admiring you, in a fond way, as siblings do.
A flimsy excuse, for a flimsy idea.
Denial can only go on for so long.
Every visit to your chambers, every pleading look, only shattered it more. Day by day, night by night, you began to understand the weight of your veiled emotions, how much you'd turned a blind eye to, just to fit your own, fragile perception of your relationship with Daeron.
How many looks had you brushed past, how many times had you excused the vanishing of a glove or hairpin after his visit? How many times had you not realised that he had been trying to tell you — without words, because, words were shit — that he loved you?
But, as fate is a cruel mistress — before you could even consider it, he just...stopped.
Stopped coming to your chambers, stopped confiding in you, laughing with you in the moments he wasn't entirely tormented by prophecy.
Your room felt empty, your bed unfinished no matter how many you made it or installed softer sheets.
Daeron was never at Summerhall much after that night. That night, where he showed up at the foot bed of your, as always — and you, climbing off your sheets, ready to talk to him, were shocked to hear what he had to.
His lips quivered, as he took your hand in his. All Daeron said was one, single whisper, against your knuckles; "I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I really am, sister."
*I'm sorry?*. You'd been confused then, by what he meant and remained silent for a while. The explanation never came. He only stared up at you, with those puppy-like eyes and a most wounded look. Was he expecting you to forgive him, when you didn't even what, in the gods' names, he was apologising for?
"For what, Daeron?" Your brows furrowed in concern, at this sudden apologising. *Has he done something?*
"You'll see. You'll know," Daeron murmured, with a bitter, knowing smile. "And then you'll need to forgive me once you do."
What the fuck was he rambling about?
"Speak plainly." You had no time for his riddles. But his tone filled you with a jolt of panic, anyway. More often than not, his drunken mumblings did come to fruition. "What do you mean?"
He did not answer — only gathered himself and left with one, single, pointed glance at you.
Daeron shut the door behind him, with a thud — in a matter of seconds and a glimpse of his black cloak disappearing into the hallways. Before you could even. protest. Before he could see the sheer hurt and confusion in your eyes and be infinitely compelled to change his mind.
There was no other word to describe it. You were bamboozled.
And, gods, you did pray that he just drunk and blurting nonsense, that it was nothing. Whatever it was, this thing you were supposed to find out, you hoped that it was trivial or just some jape.
In some deep part of your heart, it was plain to you that something was indeed wrong, even if you chose to gloss over it and dawdle in optimism instead.
Sulking by the hearth, almost tearing apart your patchwork — you told yourself that the night, the exhaustion was catching up to. That's why you were thinking these things, right?
Surely, your brother would come again, tommrow. And everything would fall into measured softness, as it always had and should. .
*
But, as you had the foreboding instinct of, he didn't.
Daeron was nowhere to found — not even in the castle, itself, much less your chambers.
You considered the choices, the possibilities over a solemn breakfast. Aerion 's words, beside you, of course; that's where he always sat, mooshed into a distant, grating echo in your head, as you stared at your serving of lamb — and could only bring yourself to stab at it, but not bring it to your lips.
Thunder rolled out rain and wetness outside and you swore you were convinced that the skies themselves were mocking you, laughing at the whole mess.
Had you been a fool, this whole time? Had you been insensitive or failed to understand something he said or..
"—And...are you even listening?"
Your haze of thoughts and worries was quickly cleared past — by Aerion's classic scowl, directed at you.
Of course, he chose the worst of times to speak to you.
Of course, he likely knew you were concerned about Daeron and just had to rub it in your face.
You blinked.. "I... I was...just worried."
"Worried?" Aerion bemused, in that sweet voice of his that made you gag — leaning in, close enough to warm your shoulders with his breath, but not enough to warrant the attention of anyone else at the table.
"That seems rather a plain word to describe your turmoil, sister. You look positively.. *devastated." *He lingered on the last word, in a mocking lilt. "Tell me — who died?"
Now, that was rude. You whipped your head up to glare at him. "No one died, Aerion," you hissed.."You know that perfectly well."
"Yes, nobody died, but—" Aerion smiled with his teeth. He leaned in closer, just enough to whisper in your ear; a low, venomous sound that almost made you flinch. "You're worried about him, aren't you?"
It wasn't an question. You didn't dignify him with an answer, only stared straight down at your untouched plate.
He took it as further fuel and, being the asshole he was, continued — "He's probably lying unconscious in the mud, sister. Or on the floor of some brothel." It was a jagged insult meant for you, not Daeron himself.
"It's not my business." Now that was a clear, white lie and even Aerion could see it.
It was clearly your business. You minded more than you let on — or wanted to, atleast. Your own words rung hollow in your ear and the way Aerion squinted his eyes, and looked at you ; as if he'd finally finished some troubling puzzle and put the pieces together, in dawning realization, before shrugging. "It's obvious, you know." He remarked, after a pause.
"What's obvious?"
"Well," he drawled, relishing the alarm in your eyes. "Daeron wants you. It's as clear as the summer sky."
You burned up at that.
Aerion tended to spew vitriolic nonsense most of the time, but you couldn't help but feel — underneath the veil of your pride — that he had gotten it..vaguely, vaguely, right this time, hooked the nail somewhere near the latch. And, by, the gods, did it itch to have your doubts and sentiment be trampled on so carelessly.
You snickered, furrowing your brows, as though he had spoken in some language you couldn't speak. "..What makes you think that?" The words felt empty, somehow, on your tongue.
Not a yell of anger or accusation..but an question instead. Were you trying to gauge how damn obvious his feelings were — and fuck — how many other people knew about them? That wasn't an answer you could give yourself.
Aerion grimaced. "Many things. Such as him buzzing around you like a fly, for once."
You wonder if he's amused, envious or disgusted. Perhaps all three?.."And, gods, the way he looks at you sometimes...it makes me want to puke my guts out. Sentimental sot, that man. Don't tell me you didn't realise it until now?"
★ —
The hallway was quiet enough to hear the rustles of a single cloak, empty, save for the dimly-lit lanterns on the walls. You could hear your every footstep, every intake of breath, as you crouched past one winding corridor after the other.
It wasn't as though this was some safe haven, though. Not even this late.
The Red Keep had eyes and ears everytime of the day, no matter where you were. It was best to tread slowly inside the castle — even if you'd been sure that you weren't being watched over or heard by passing maid or perhaps someone more malicious, like a turncloak.
Especially, because of where you were going.
It was a stupid, reckless decision you had taken in the heat of the moment, still reeling from Aerion's mocking words, which only echoed again and again, everytime you tried to focus on your lessons or some other topic, in your mind, until you were driven mad enough to look for Daeron yourself. *Clear as the summer sky, *he'd said.
If there was some merit for being a liar, Aerion would've been it's champion. And yet — the thrill of curiosity had stolen your sleep and solace — you took those statements to heart and sought out to confirm them on your own. Was it prove to him that he was wrong or maybe to console some part of you that wanted it to be true?
Well, whatever would happen would happen, anyway. There was no thought in sweating over the matter when you'd already made way for Flea Bottom.
Never in your life, of being cooped up in castles and molded into something 'ladylike', did you imagine that you'd be sneaking off into the night, much less standing infront of this creaky, dingy establishment in the sinks and gutters of King's Landing.
By the sour scent of wine — you recognised it despite yourself , Daeron tended to smell like that — and the raucous chatter that filled your senses from the wooden doors and what might've lied beyond them..it was, of course, a tavern.
The mud felt too clammy beneath your feet. You snapped and skittered aside from any passerby who got too close.
It was laughable.
Someone like you, someone who's life had been draped in silk and silver, trying to smush through these stinking, wet alleyways without scaring the piss out of yourself, or worse; screaming in terror at a cat because you were sure that it had been a shadow only moments before.
Better to tiptoe in, find your brother and haul him off for the answers you wanted, as quick as you could.
So you did, then.
You should've, at least, prepared yourself.
The second you creaked the old door open — you were stunned — no, *abashed * — by the assault on your senses.
You found yourself inside a dimly-lit place, filled to the brink with people here and there, cramped in the corners or going up the woody stairs.
There were so many strangers that your eyes could not adjust to, and, in the noisy chatter and clinking plates, you didn't know how to navigate, where to go and what to do.
The pungent, sour smell of wine and fresh bread wafted through the counter. You tugged on the soft wool of your — well, his — cloak, tightening it around yourself.
*Where is he? *
Squinting your eyes, — you felt like a fish out of water, truly —you skimmed your gaze over many figures, itching to even glimpse a sight of that sandy hair you knew so well.
To see the inevitable picture that had haunted you since breakfast; Him, lost in his cups, slumped against some table, and wrecked with horrors of fire and deaths that you could never understand, no matter how many times he'd spilled them out to you, no matter how much you wished to empathize. Not really, anyway.
...You wouldn't ever get it, of course.
Your life was a smooth sail when compared to his turbulent storms — but you could, at least, try, even if you couldn't take away all the pain yourself. You were trying, right now, excusing yourself past burly men and stout women, trying to find, to see, to...
There he was. Your heart lurched.
Daeron, your Daeron, slumped against the counter. His tousled hair stuck to his temple and his bloodshot, wet eyes peered out from beneath the locks as though they'd seen the end of the world (They had. Literally) — utterly wrecked and, of course, drunk to the hells and back, judging by the way he sagged against his stool.
..And yet. He still looked like something out of a painting, even then. Beautiful.
It made you frown, made you want to rush up to him and kiss the salt off his tears. To hold his face and demand the answers you rightly deserved, even if it meant scaring him.
The uproar of the tavern dwindled into a distant hum, then — you were engrossed in Daeron.
Transfixed by that broken man and how he only stared aimlessly up at the ceiling, perhaps hoping it might've held all the secrets of the world, among the ones that told him why he'd been struck with a curse so terrible.
He deserved so much more. More than he knew. More than you did, even.
You did lose your patience with him, sometimes; too often, if you were to be honest. Scolded him with a severe "You are killing yourself! I reckon you'll be dead long before those cursed prophecies of yours can even happen, Daeron!" *or a *"I hate to care so much for you, Daeron.."
His face tended to crumple then...but he always remained silent..
This. This was the state in which he strolled into your chambers. Shaking, smelling of Dornish Red and terrified in a way you couldn't put into words.
It was the inevitability of knowing that something horrible would happen, you reckoned, and not being able to do shit about it, while watching everything go downhill infront of your very own eyes — the eyes that had known, all along, and lifted not a single finger to stop it .
A meagre guess, likely. It was worse in his head than yours.
Was this why he'd stopped? Was this why he scrambled off whenever he passed you by, as though scalded?
You tiptoed, with the little courage you had, and creeped up right behind his slouching form.
At first, when you slipped into the seat beside him, he didn't even seem to notice your presence. Daeron continued to stare off into nothingness*, through that pained expression...until he *didn't.
He — in spite the bleariness of wine — whipped his head around and looked right at you and blinked, in disbelief that you were literally there, in the flesh and blood, sitting next to him in this....
His eyes impossibly widened, mouth parting as though to say something. You saw him pinch his own wrists. *Did he think he was dreaming, again?*
"*You," *he whispered, holding onto the word. Daeron's eyes trailed over you for a moment, obviously taking in the damned cloak, head to toe.
He shook his head, with a bitter chuckle.."What exactly are you doing here, sister?" His words tumbled out a bit slurred — but you heard the accusation, the shock in his rasp anyway. "How did you even...?." He gestured at your clothes.
"Snuck out," you quipped back. There was a faint glint in your eyes, as you continued. "As for this," you tugged at your sleeves. "You left your cloak behind, from last time. It wasn't likely you'd ask for it again.""
"No," he agreed. "I wouldn't have."
Daeron faced you entirely, then — with furrowed brows, as though trying to comprehend why in gods' names you were here, in this putrid tavern, infront of him...and then it occured to him, judging by the way you were looking at him with such a wistful frown, as clear as a summer sky.
"Why..why did you come?" The answer hung over both of your heads. Neither would look at it.
"You know why." You murmured, watching the surprise in his eyes twist into something brittle. "You know very well why I came here, Daeron. You've been avoiding me, ignoring me, shunning me—" Your voice rose more than it should've. "— like I'm the damned plague or something. I don't understand what I did. What i did to upset you so badly. "
A pause. "But what I do understand is that I won't let you go on like this. You will tell me."
Daeron snorted. "No," he rose from the stool, in a jagged movement. "I won't. Go.. go back home, sister."
Your mouth opened and closed — but no words could quite slip out of it.
He really had the gall to say that, didn't he? After acting all week as though you were invisible to him. That, whatever precious bond you might've had before, had, spontaneously combusted — without preamble and you simply had to just deal with it.
You wouldn't , of course. You were yourself.
Daeron turned on his heel — whipping around towards the door.
Before he could even push part the crowd, you dashed at him, in an instant and gripped by the wrist.
His eyes widened — falling on the way you glared so fiercely at him, with that stubborn set of your jaw and then, finally, at the way your fingers twirled around his in a tight, white-knuckled grip. Daeron swallowed hard.
He felt the way your skin warmed his, in a pleasant rush, more than any wine ever could, even now, even when you were furious at him...
"I'll haunt you until you tell me what I did wrong," you hissed. "So, it's best to stop being so childish, brother."
Having creeped through dirt and grime, there was no way you'd turn back now. You felt it within your rights to question Daeron for what he'd done; somehow, his distance hurt you more than you'd expected it to, enough, perhaps, to put in the effort of sneaking out.
You'd known he wouldn't answer, that he might make flimsy excuses to deflect...and, yet, the urge to go hadn't receded one bit, making you wonder if you really did just want to see him — properly — after so long.
"Tell me." You croaked out, again — softer this time. "What were you apologising for?"
Daeron shook his head, with a scoff. You never did quite relent once you'd stuck to a idea, did you? Then, he paused, as if measuring his next words with care. "...Just a dream," he rasped. "A stupid dream. It doesn't matter.."
A *dream. Of *course.
It struck you like a familiar chord, that very word, for he'd used it many times; mostly as the root of his miseries, though. What else had you expected?
It couldn't have been very 'stupid' from the look of it, not when it drove him away from you and especially not when he had that pained gleam in his eye. There was something there. Worse, he was veiling it from you, dodging around the subject itself.
"Never mind that," You released his hand, at last, realising how tightly you'd been clutching it. "What did you see, brother?" The words tasted stale on your tongue, for you'd said, exactly, them a thousand times before — only for different reasons.
Daeron stiffened, staring at you as if you'd struck him with a bow — before fluttering his eyes shut and, taking in a deep breath.
That reaction told you that it was far graver than you'd initially thought.
You sometimes felt as though he was bound by the curse of prophecy on every side, with it being tight enough to break him apart. It wasn't fathomable what sort of nightmares had pranced through his head and made him incapable of seeking you out again.
He turned on his heel towards the door, and for a brief flicker of a second, you thought he was going to leave after all, — that is, until he gestured for you to follow.
The alley was grimey, black — narrow enough that one had to squeeze their way through, not to mention, sludgy with mud and puddles that squelched and stank beneath your feet.
You leaned against the brick of the wall, the rattle still faintly audible, even outside. The air was cool on your cheeks, so you couldn't help breathing in the fresh, earthy sweetness — from the morning rain, no doubt.
Only now it was mingled with a gross, meaty *stink *that made you crinkle your nose. This was Flea Bottom, nonetheless, so what had you expected?
Daeron hadn't looked at you, not since exiting the tavern — but you could still see the apology in his diverted eyes, anyway, for dragging you into a place where you stuck out like a sore, skittish thumb.
The night wind danced around your parted lips, as you struggled for the right words..which, never did come to you.
It was as though your mind was fishing around for the right phrase, the safest quip, perhaps a little hastily, too, because his knitted brows and cross expression were wearing you thinner than ever.
Say something. You hunted him down, pulled the confession out of him, did it all the way through. So, say something, now. You have to.
But, what would you say?
That you'd sobbed into your pillow last night? That you'd even given into Aerion's insidious theories, out of sheer ache? That you had paced around for three hours, thinking, poking, and plodding at every possible reason that could've turned him away?
That you wanted him to be yours, again, as though comfort somehow gave you a reign of claim over him?. That you, gods forbid—
"Did you ask to come here, just so you could stare at the stars, Daeron?" You asked, suddenly. "I don't recall wanting to gawk endlessly with you."
It was soft enough — measured — to not be mocking. Your heart warmed a bit, for you'd done the grisly part over and spoken out loud. Now you just had to fray your nerves a little bit more, a little bit longer and wait for his slurred retort.
He raised a brow. The response — well, It came quick enough, in a hushed voice — was more brittle than you'd hoped.
"Would you prefer it," Daeron turned to face you, finally, with an queer, empty expression. That somehow disappointed something in you. "—that i stared at you, instead?" The corners of his mouth almost twitched upwards, as he continued. "...It's almost a better sight, you know, than the stars."
..Your skin felt hotter than it had before and, you swore you could feel the flush creep behind your ears, as it often did, when you lost your cool.
It didn't last very long, of course, because it didn't take very long for you to remember that he was drunk as a pig. Blurting nonsense. Lying. Stupid. Comparing you to the stars.
"Shut up," you hissed. "—and just fucking tell me what you saw, you drunken fool!" That wasn't nearly as harsh as you'd meant it to be, though, likely because you were blushing to the hells and back.
Daeron raised a brow, but, finally, protested no more. He looked at you with a strange, bleary glint, making you wonder if you'd said anything bizarre.
"..I saw a sept." He, then blurted, rolling over the words with a frown. "And...it was a full moon." Daeron added, almost hesitant. For a moment, you were sure he was calling your bluff with these mundane details and wasn't going to confess with such ease, after all ..until he cleared his throat.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, almost fervent in it's tremble;"I saw you there, sister, in the flesh, standing as stubbornly as you are now. " His breath audibly hitched.
"Only, then you were dressed in a wedding cloak. It made me want to tear my hair out, the sight. The way the moonlight shone on your hair, the way you.." He trailed off, with a faint, savored pause. "—looked at my own self in the dream. I didn't look half as drunk then, standing infront of you."
You reeled. "A wedding," A soft, breathy whisper. "Between us?" Your voice was full of wonder, confusion and perhaps even the faintest tint of, dare I say, relief, though it was too early to even make such a conclusion.
"I would imagine, yes," Daeron murmured, with a shy sort of smile passing over his lips. Before he smoothened it away, of course, and grew, suddenly, very interested in looking at the floor. "It's a possibility. But I might've not said or done anything, if the dream had just ended then and there."
Oh. Well...at least, he wasn't opposed to the idea of marrying you, now, was he?( There was a different reason for this impulsive distance, then, there had to be — which had nothing to do with weddings or love or septs. Not at all..( This turned out to be an idea that gave you profound relief, though you couldn't say why. )
But you remained silent, wide-eyed and lips slightly parted — still spinning from the impact of that word, *wedding, *and what it meant for you.
You'd marry him. You'd bind yourself to Daeron, for life and death, for better and worse, infront of the gods and the men.
"But, then," You snapped at the sound of his voice, grim now. "— I knew there would be something wrong with it Things are hardly as good as they look. I was, right, because the sept faded away into dust infront of my eyes and I instead found myself staring at you, in a dark room, — only this time you lied on a bed, impossibly serene and still, until you weren't...Gods, i can't.." He shuddered, voice cracking on the last word, eyes wide open as though still registering the shock from what he'd seen
. "...There was a fire," Daeron rasped, chest heaving. "—and it swallowed you whole. I couldn't tell from where or how or who...but I did have to hear your screams."
Your breath grew short yourself; for the sorrow in his violet eyes was palpable and stupidly contagious.
"Can you imagine it," he whispered. "—having to watch your sister be burned alive, while you can't do anything?" Daeron buried his face between his hands. "Seven hells...the sounds..they pierced right through me, I can still hear your cries and shrieks of agony, the sizzle of the fire.." He was utterly wrecked, now, in the clouds of his nightmare — rambling, shuddering, like this. You felt yourself sway through his words too, and tried to envision what he wanted you to see.
"I was so close to paradise," He muttered under his breath, after a lingering pause. "So, so close..." Daeron clung onto that word, clung into the vague sweetness of what could've been "— but the gods wouldn't have it. They either want me madder than I am right now or, better yet, dead. Death would be the perfect oblivion." He laughed, without mirth, at himself, at his fate or perhaps both.
It took you many minutes to even utter a single sound out of your mouth, that wasn't a choked gasp or sigh and even more expectant looks from Daeron — who seemed frantic for an answer.
He wanted to know if you'd finally given up on him, if you'd never resolve to search for him again, if this was the last time.
Again, you were yourself, after all. So, you didn't back away or scrunch your nose in disgust — you took a step closer, to both your own and his surprise.
"So, we were wed,... and then I died? Is that what you're saying?" You shot out ; It wasn't a particularly sharp question, but it made Daeron clamp up regardless.
"..Well," you tried again, softening your voice; "Did someone kill me?"
That was the nail in the coffin. His eyes shot wide open, completely pulled out of the miserable reverie, now.
Daeron blinked — and then with a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "If I knew, I would've warned you, wouldn't i?"
"It makes no sense."
"Dreams don't tend to."
You snickered, drawing yourself close enough to smell the bitter stench of wine and sweat that always permeated him. He swallowed on thin air. "I *know*" You jabbed a finger at him. "—that you have a particular person in mind. Tell me. Now."
He furrowed his brows. "You can guess yourself."
The truth was that you could, of course. But you didn't want to.
There was one, specific suspect that your mind could pin down.
Infact, there could only be one person who'd have such easy access to the Red Keep.
One person who'd be mad enough to use fire, for any assassin might've done with poison or a dagger, instead. One, familiar person who'd also have good reason to hate your union with a passion so deep that it made him commit a crime.
"And gods, the way he looks at you, sometimes. It makes me want to puke my guts out..."
Aerion. Your own twin.
Insufferable, insane and unsated. You could see it in your head, as vividly as Daeron had — the picture of him gritting his teeth while you exchanged vows. How he would pace and seethe in his chambers late at night, devising a perfect little plan.
The measured footsteps, the slight unlatching of the door..and the inevitable and damned smirk on his face, as he peered down at you, between the heat of the flames. The details were blurry — you were no dreamer — but the idea remained firm, visceral.
Your twin was perfectly — almost unnervingly — capable of manslaughter. He always did gloat about how you two shared a womb, and what it might entail. What it meant.
As if that misfortunate coincidence somehow gave him the right to rule over you or, expect you to be his sweet and subservient sister, then, inevitably his wife. Aerion had the notion that being born together meant that you would have to die together.
It had always seemed to you as if he was waiting for something.
Awaiting, with hidden malice, for the crop of his longing to bear fruit. Aerion always let you off too easily, allowed you your share of barbs and ignorance, without his classic retorts, because he thought he knew more than you did.
He was convinced that you were his, only that you'd discover it..just a bit later than he did. That was his level of mind.
Having dragged yourself into Daeron's shoes and realised that you'd been right in always avoiding Aerion, after all, you could not help the ache still. You couldn't help it, really, that careless, stupid toss of words —
"You're punishing me for a crime I didn't commit." You declared, glaring at Daeron's feverish form. The last of your patience had been wrought thin — and now it had snapped, like a band stretched too taut and wide.
He shook his head. He didn't look at you. "I'm saving your life."
"I hardly need a drunkard's protection. Aerion could kill me now, for all it matters." You urged. If you saw your face then, you would've been horrified by how much it resembled Aerion's, in it's scowl and fury.
Your hands found the collar of his doublet, fingers tugging around at the soft fabric — as though you'd never touched anything at all before. It really was obvious; he flushed up at once.
"I wouldn't like to take any risks," he managed, through trembling, slick lips. "My selfishness could be the death of you."
"It...could be, yes." Your eyes stuck to the way his pulse quickened, at the base of his throat, even as you tried being reasonable.
"Go home," Daeron pleaded, as soft as he could. "Please. Leave, then." He didn't trust himself or you, for that matter, especially not when you were so close, looking at him like that, saying things like that.
"Daeron," you whispered, now close enough to feel the hitch in his breath, the warmth blooming on his pretty face. "Do you think Aerion could, possibly find out, if we did, perhaps , choose to be a little selfish here, right now, in this alleyway?
His mouth opened as though to say something — but not words could quite come out.
*No,* His gasp seemed to say, however, as you reached up on your tiptoes and, finally, finally did what you should've , many years ago.
With your trembling hands cupping his face, you pressed your mouth on his, hesitantly, seeking permission — in that lovely release of a lifetime's longing, only ever the sweeter, for all the pain it had to trudge through, for the long, long time it had burned underneath and veiled.
You planned to make tonight feel even longer.
*
If someone had told Daeron that he would be here, now, whimpering and shuddering at the feel of your lips closing in around his cock, as you knelt for him in the muddy gutters of Flea Bottom, perhaps only a moon ago — he would've been utterly, completely, dazed and drunk, not on wine, but on pure thrill and anticipation.
But, here he was, now, doing exactly that. He was reaping the fruits of yearning; and apprehension had it's wicked way of creeping in, even, into the heat of your sweet, soft mouth, even as the pleasant euphoria buzzed and hummed underneath his skin, in the sweat trickling down his temple and the way he closed his eyes — relishing, savoring, as he always had. He shivered.
Your mouth had worked despite yourself. It was easy to, pull Daeron in by his collar after that one chaste kiss, and draw him in without words. There was nothing you both wanted more...but you still had to talk your way through his protests and insistence that he be the one kneeling first, with a deft unlacing of his breeches.
The rest of it went was sticky and smooth as pulp on one's tongue — you'd shut him up before he could drone on about *how unworthy he was* , a testament to how well you knew him. Now that you had him, like this, you weren't going to relent until he was putty beneath your fingers.
In your fantasies, it had always him above you; Daeron, hesitant and adoring in a way he was too abashed to be in reality, leaving soft, wet kisses across your clavicle. You'd believed that you'd simply close your eyes and bask in the caresses of love. That he'd be the one to guide you and tell you what to do every step along the way, as an elder brother should.
That was the way you knew, the way you'd been taught about intercourse. A vague, warm, sort of inevitability they spoke of in hushes and condemned nonethless. You knew of it between a man and his wife and had been told it was 'an act to sire children, which every woman must endure'.
By the time, you were on your knees, in the thick, foul mud — your usual idea of sex had been washed away with the fresh thrum of lust.
A need to devour, most like. To watch those gorgeous eyes glisten of tears and roll back with pleasure. To hear those sweet, faint hitches in his breath he tried so hard to muffle. To watch him lose his cool and come undone; well, almost. You wouldn't let him. You wanted to consume him with mere sensation.
It would've sounded completely mad — cruel, even — to you in another setting. You would've been appalled at such thoughts, such wonders sprouting in your head, one after the other, as you dipped your head along his cock, and yet they seemed rather normal in the moment.
He'd offered to do all the work himself, while you could just lie back and relish.
Being a maiden, you had little knowledge of the matter, surely...but you wouldn't have it, anyway. Daeron was doubting just how quickly you could take to something and learn it — all while staggering against the wall, himself.
"You're too drunk to even walk properly, brother." You had quipped, with a decisive little snort. You could see the faint tremors in his legs . "I'd rather not have you pass out during my first time."
"I'll pass out anyway." Daeron had scoffed back — at himself, yes — before looking at you with a strange clarity. "But, i do agree," he had murmured, looking at the stain of wine on his own doublet. "— and must you really call me brother, right now?" He crinkled his nose, gesturing to the alleyway encompassing you. "Here? While we're.."
"We're Targaryens." You snapped back, busying yourself with getting those damn breeches off him. "Or did you forget?"
Daeron's eyes had locked onto the deft workings of your fingers..but he furrowed his brows and looked up anyway. Forced himself to, perhaps. "You sound like him." Neither of you needed to ask who him referred to — the venom in his voice told the story.
"I suppose I do," You sunk to your knees. His eyes widened — that is, if they could widen any further. "Aerion is my twin, after all."
Daeron let out a ragged breath that you — or he, himself — didn't know he was holding. His pupils dilated as he observed you, never once gazing away. You, his sweet sister, who had always been his anchor in the world, who had given him comfort (albeit, in less vulgar ways than this) in times of sorrow, being in such a position, in such a place, saying such things....should he be thrilled or guilty? Or perhaps: both?
"Lovely, that you're going to mention that bastard" he rasped out, sweat beading his temple. "—while you're tormenting me. I fear I might puke," Daeron's voice broke into a slight, ragged whimper — gods, where did you learn that? — "And not just from the wine.."
"I won't," you chortled, voice muffled against him. "You could never quite finish, if i kept talking about him. Or, could you? We might test it."
Daeron rolled his eyes - though you could tell that he was biting back a particularly pathetic noise, by the way sweat beaded down his temple. "You're absolutely insufferable."
You chuckled - a sound that buzzed against his flesh. "That's why you love me, you fool."
Well. He certainly could not argue against that.
And so, there it was; you'd gotten what you could only dream of in the most shameful of nights.
And he had finally achieved the act of just shutting up and taking what you gave him , without muttering some excuse here and there - in many, more ways than one, that, warm, perfect night, where even the stink had given away - to the feeling of your skin against his, slick and flushed, the exquisite sounds of his ragged breathing, and the stars that watched over you.
Even if the future, inevitably, would burn everything to ashes; at least, you both could exist in your own cocoon, tonight, together.
Even if the first time had to be the last time, too. Even if you had to blink back tears, as you lay against him, utterly content...and in mourning for something that had never even had a chance to blossom.
end note: GET ROBBED OF SMUT! HAH! i know this was cringe but. just don't mention it to me, maybe.
romaincrisis
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