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a kindness you can’t afford

Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader

Summary: You show kindness to the wrong person - or perhaps the right one. (aka you’re nice to Daeron Targaryen one time and he is immediately unhealthily obsessed)

Warnings: 18+, darkish romance, obsessive behaviour, stalking behaviour, unhealthy codependence, alcoholism, super brief groping by a stranger, mentions of female masturbation, cunnilingus, slight dub-con, mostly unedited

Word Count: 7.2k+

targaryen masterlist

If you lived anywhere else, the monotony of your everyday life may have been too boring to bear. As it was, you lived in Flea Bottom.

It meant you knew where you were sleeping every night, and could grow used to the small shabby roof overhead. It meant you ate the same two meals every day and never went hungry. It meant you had a job that funded these things. You did not have to worry about the weather, nor the thieves, or the filth of the street.

Monotony in Flea Bottom was a blessing.

Westeros was not always a kind place, but it seemed Flea Bottom bought out the worst in people. You had found yourself there after a series of small tragedies in your life. The death of a parent, a bout of sickness and the theft of what little coin you had carried had ushered you to King’s Landing the way an undertaker would direct a funeral parade.

Your serving job in the tavern was the best thing that could have happened to you. The owners allowed you to rent a tiny room upstairs for a small amount of your already small wage. They watered and fed you and did not work you overly hard. A blessing, indeed.

You hummed to yourself as you swiped your cloth over the tables. No matter how frequently you cleaned them, they never quite seemed to lose that greasy, sticky feeling they had acquired over the years.

You liked to keep yourself busy, though, so you worked your way around the room clockwise until all the tables were as clean as they would get.

You tucked the cloth into the pocket on the front of your apron, frowning. The Mole’s Head was tucked away in the outskirts of Kings Landing, and so it could be rather quite on weekdays. There were always a few locals who turned up every night and you served them happily, glad for the company. Apart from them, Tuesdays were brutally dull.

Grabbing a jug of ale, you made your way back around the room, offering top ups and slipping coins into your pocket as you went. At the table furthest from the door, you paused.

You did not recognise the man there. You tilted your head a little before glancing around. It appeared as though he was alone.

Tapping your fingers on the edge of the jug, you debated whether to wake him up. It was not as though he needed more ale – or any alcohol, for that matter! – for he was slumped over, cheek pressed into the table, drool pooling around his face.

The tavern was due to close in half an hour. Not for long, of course. Just long enough for things to be tidied and money to be counted. It would open back up at seven in the morning, and you would begin your work again at midday.

You walked back to the bar, refilling a jug of wine and dropping it at a regular’s table. He pressed coins into your palm and you thanked him, distracted.

“Do you know that man?” you asked, jerking your chin in the sleeping stranger’s direction.

Joel followed your gaze. “Never seen him before. Want me to get him out of here?”

“No, thank you,” you shook your head. “We’ll leave him be for now.”

There were many reasons why people drank. To socialise, to celebrate, to forget. You had seen it all within the year you had worked at The Mole. You felt as though you’d become rather adept in guessing exactly what each person’s reasoning was.

You stared at the stranger with the boldness of someone who knew they were unnoticed. His hair was tangled and unwashed but it was an interesting shade of yellow. His clothes looked expensive, all neat stitches, rich dye and careful embroidery. You recognised the colours of House Targaryen. Could it be that he worked at the Keep?

If so, he had come a long way just for a drink. There were a dozen taverns between the Keep and The Mole.

This man was running from something, you decided. A lover, or children, or duty, perhaps. You had run once too, from the sorrow that was drowning you and taking over your life. Funny how you had both ended up at the same place.

The stranger had chosen the shadiest, loneliest corner of the bar to drink in. You were the only one working and so it must have been you who had filled his cup; and yet you could not remember the colour of his eyes or the sound of his voice or even what he had ordered. Maybe wine, you thought, but you could not be sure.

Something like guilt prickled in your chest. It was easy to go unnoticed in Flea Bottom. Sometimes all that someone needed was for someone to see them. Markis and Ana had seen you, that summer’s day, and had given you a job that you sorely needed. They had stopped the rapid decent you were in and you would be ever thankful to them for it.

At the bar, you rested your face on your hands and propped yourself up on your elbows. It was almost closing time. The tavern was getting even emptier. Only Joel and the stranger were left.

Joel stopped at the bar, dropping his empty mug with a ‘thud’. “You sure you don’t want me to throw him out?”

“No,” you said quickly, “he, um, paid for a room upstairs. I just remembered.”

Upstairs there were three rarely used rooms. They were dust filled and the sheets were thin and moth-eaten. Once there was four but now one of them, the smallest, belonged to you.

Joel offered to drag the stranger upstairs but you shook your head and ushered him out. When he was gone, you paused, thinking.

You would wake the stranger up, you decided, and if he was too inebriated to make it home, you would help him to a room upstairs. The upstairs was so rarely used that Markis and Ana were unlikely to notice.

You felt like it was your fault for overserving him. Ana did not typically care about that sort of thing; money was money. But you would feel terribly guilty he was to take to the streets and have something happen to him.

Straightening your shoulders, you made your way over to the table. You stood in front of it, wringing your hands, wishing the man would just wake up himself. What if he was violent? It was too late now. You’d made your bed and now you had to lie in it.

Tentatively, you reached out and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. You shook him as gently as you could and, when that did not seem to work, you grabbed a handful of his clothing and pulled.

The man shot up with a curse, waving a dagger that you had been unaware of. You squeaked and took a step back, holding your hands in front of you to show that you meant no harm.

“Please, my lord, I was just waking you up,” you explained.

It took a moment for the man to see you. He was blinking furiously, yellow hair plastered to his cheek, sweat drenching his face. He could be handsome, you realised, were he not so drunk.

“I-I,” the man swiped a trembling hand over his face. “Where am I?”

Sympathy panged in your chest as you told him. “There’s an empty room upstairs if you’ll have it, my lord.”

The man seemed to calm at that. He got unsteadily to his feet. He fumbled with the dagger for a moment before sheathing it and pawing at a drawstring bag at his side. His fingers dipped out of sight for a moment and returned with something shiny.

You blanched at the gold dragon. You could count on one hand the number of times you had seen one. The entire tavern was hardly even worth that much, let alone a creaky old room.

“Never mind that,” you said, “let’s just get you upstairs.”

The man blinked at you, dazed. When he did not move, you took the dragon from him and tucked it back into his coin pouch, ignoring the way his eyes burned into the side of your face.

“Can you walk?” you asked.

The man took one step, hip colliding loudly with the edge of the table. He swore and swayed on his feet. You panicked for a moment before tugging his arm up and sliding beneath it, bearing more of his weight than you thought yourself capable of.

“Together, then,” you said between gritted teeth.

It felt ridiculous. Between several near-falls, pausing to lock the doors, and navigating the twelve uneven steps, you felt as though an hour had passed by the time the pair of you made it upstairs.

You steered him into the room furthest from yours and closest to the stairs so he could make his way out in the morning. Sweating, you let the stranger go. He fell back onto the bed with an ‘oomph’, dust flying up from the disused sheets like foul confetti.

Both of you began coughing. You opened the one tiny window the room boasted and breathed a sigh of relief as the cool night air began seeping in. The stranger had gone quiet, and when you turned around, you half expected to find him asleep.

He was not. He peered at you with bleary eyes, fingers caressing the coin pouch at his side. He looked rather pitiful.

You tried to smile. “Wait here a moment.”

You dipped back downstairs, filling a cup with water before returning. The stranger was still awake and he watched as you placed the cup on the single rickety side table. Suddenly shy, you wiped your hands on your apron and glanced about the room.

“I’d feel better if you slept on your side,” you admitted. “In case you vomit.”

“In case I vomit,” the stranger echoed, nodding. “Would you, ah, help me? With my boots?”

“Oh! Of course.”

You knelt at the end of the bed. With deft fingers, you yanked apart the laces and pulled his boots from his feet, depositing them at the end of the bed. You glanced up and caught the man’s eye. You felt to flustered to decipher the look he was giving you and so you got to your feet and retreated to the door.

“The doors are locked at the minute, but they’ll likely be open by the time you wake,” you blathered, “you’ll be good to go by then. Um, sweet dreams?”

The stranger stiffened for a moment, eyes widening, before they landed on you and seemed to come back into focus. “Sweet dreams.”

Embarrassed, you left the room and fled to your own. With a curse, you shut your door and crouched on the floor next to your straw mattress.

“Have sweet dreams?” you whispered. “As though he were a boy? Oh, how humiliating.”

You wriggled about on the floor for a moment, willing yourself to just melt into the boards and disappear forever.

Once you were calmer, you considered your door. It had only a flimsy lock, one that you did not often use. The man had seemed harmless enough, but he was still a man. You slid the lock across and retreated to your mattress.

It was strange trying to relax, knowing someone else was sleeping only a few doors down. You tossed and turned for a short while before sleep came to take you. If you had dreams, you did not remember them.

The stranger was gone by the time you awoke. The bed was turned over neatly, certainly tidier than he had found it, and the window had been closed. It was like he had never been there at all.

You went about your routine with a bounce in your step, pleased by your good deed. You could hear the sound of the tavern downstairs as you washed your face and dressed yourself. You neatened your own room before descending the stairs.

Ana was waiting for you at the bar. She handed you a plate of buttered bread and helped you into your apron before disappearing to her own home out back. Ana and Markis lived in their own small home on the back of the property. Between the three of you, there was never a need to hire anyone else.

You ate your lunch between serving customers, fetching them bowls of hearty soup whenever they asked and topping up their cups. The tavern had a brief burst of business around midday before settling once again, leaving you with only a handful of regulars and a tattered paperback book you were attempting to get through.

Your father had taught you to read as best he could but you lacked the confidence and tried to practise whenever you could. Book hidden beneath the bar, you flipped through pages between top-ups and idle conversation.

Absorbed by your menial tasks, you almost didn’t notice him coming in.

He looked different this time. Nervous and twitchy. Tidier, maybe. His hair had been combed through and his clothes looked freshly washed. His face, too.

You were right. He was handsome.

He made his way to the same table as the night before and seemed to settle down. You flinched when he made eye contact, suddenly remembering your duties. You filled a pitcher of wine halfway, grabbed a cup and made your way over.

You placed both things in front of him. The man placed a coin on the table and your eyes widened, recognising the same gold and emblem from before.

“My lord,” you began, “this is too much –“

“No, no,” he interrupted, “please. This is for last night.”

You pushed the gold back across the table, toward him. “Truly, there is no need. I will only accept money for the wine.”

The man swallowed. He picked the coin back up and rubbed it between his fingers as though looking for imperfections.

“Then why?” he said finally. “Why did you – why were you so kind to me?”

You stood still for a moment, thinking. Then, “I find kindness is sorely lacking in Kings Landing. And you looked as though you needed it.”

You hurried through the last part; nervous you were overstepping. After an awkwardly long pause, the man slipped the coin away and instead presented you with several copper stars. You thanked him gladly and took the money, returning to the bar and squirreling it away.

Unlike the day prior, the man required no refills as the day progressed. You kept busy with all your usual tasks and tried to ignore the man who seemed determined to stare a hole into the side of your skull.

Every time you glanced over at him, he was already looking at you. He sipped slowly at his wine, observing you over the rim as you bustled about.

You made another lap around the room, topping up Joel’s cup as he chatted with a friend. He jerked his head in the man’s direction.

“Same man from yesterday. He bothering you?”

“No, no,” you brushed him off.

At least you didn’t think he was bothering you. The man’s gaze certainly made you feel something, but you did not feel confident enough to put a name to that feeling.

Deep in thought, you didn’t notice the drunken man swaying toward you. You yelped when the unfamiliar man jostled against you, hands squeezing at your thighs as he cackled into your ear.

Joel got to his feet and snatched the man up by his collar, dragging him toward the door before you could catch shriek. Hand on your breast, you sucked in a shaky breath and watched as Joel hit the man with an open-handed palm.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed that the man had also gotten to his feet. He was stood, hands braced against the table, eyes glued to you. You had no doubt that he would have dragged out the drunkard himself had Joel not gotten there first.

Still slightly shaky, you went over to him. “Can – can I get you anything?”

“Does that happen often?”

“Well,” you murmured, “sometimes. But Joel usually takes care of –“

“Who is Joel?” the man asked, eyes shooting up to your face.

You gestured over your shoulder. “The man who dragged him out. He watches over me.”

The man was still on his feet. You saw his jaw clench and his eyes dart behind you before he sat back down.

“Forgive me. I never asked your name?”

Surprise briefly took your words before you remembered yourself. You told him your name quietly and with more than a little uncertainty. “And yours, my lord?”

“You may call me Daeron. No need for formalities.”

There was something in the way he said it. Something pleading, something slightly desperate, that made you choke on air. You struggled to decipher his tone for several moments before even registering exactly what he had said.

Your blood ran cold. “My prince.”

The man – Daeron Targaryen – looked up at you with eyes like fresh rainwater puddles. How had you not seen it before?

“Please,” he insisted, reaching out to touch your hand, “Daeron.”

“My prince,” you dipped your head, “please, tell me if you need something. Anything.”

You turned your back on him and rushed back to the safety of the bar. Joel watched you, glancing suspiciously between you and the prince, before going back to his conversation.

Your heart was thudding in your breast as though it might tear right through the skin. You had liked him better when he was just a sad stranger, not a Targaryen fucking prince.

You busied yourself cleaning glasses, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your hands and the repetitive process. How stupid had you been, really? The golden dragon, the clothing, the hair. Dirty yellow but – perhaps silver in certain lights?

You scrubbed a palm over your face and tried to regain your composure. There was no use in panicking. The prince had been kind and had done nothing untoward. You would serve him as you would anyone else in the tavern and never tell a soul he was there.

Daeron did not call for you the rest of the evening. He drank slowly from the same pitcher you had originally given him and watched you openly as you performed your duties. Ever the coward, you did not go over to check on him, instead reasoning that he would call you if he required anything.

As the sky darkened and a new wave of customers came in, you began to forget about the lost Targaryen in the corner. Eventually you turned only to discover that, at some point, he must have slipped out.

Relief swept through you like a tidal wave. Lighter, you wiped your hands over your apron and turned your attention onto the customers. This, you were familiar with. This, you could do.

The hours marched on and soon Ana appeared to relieve you for the rest of the evening. It was past eleven and you were due back downstairs by seven. You grabbed your book and tucked it into your skirt pockets before tugging off your apron and hanging it on the hook, wishing Ana a good evening as you disappeared upstairs.

It was like an entirely different world. Dust hung in the air and stirred as you walked through it. Sound was muted and you felt utterly alone, but all the better for it. It was easy to pretend that Flea Bottom wasn’t crushing in around you in the peace of the upper rooms.

You paused outside the bedroom Daeron had stayed in the night before. How simple he must have thought it. You huffed a laugh and continued toward your own room.

Once inside, you toed off your shoes and stretched your arms above your head. You pulled your book from your pocket and tossed it onto your straw mattress before finding a candle and lighting it, settling in for an hour or so of slow reading.

When you hit the mattress, something tumbled to the floor. You frowned and chased it until it rolled to a stop. You recognised the glint of gold and shock rose as it dawned on you exactly what it was.

You raised it to the candlelight. Some part of you could not held but admire the golden dragon, even as horror dawned in your chest. It had been on your pillow, placed gently in the spot you rested your head every night.

Daeron Targaryen had been in your room.

You had never held a golden dragon before. It could’ve been your imagination but you felt as though it carried its own heat, warming your palm as you turned it this way and that. In the candlelight it shone, obnoxious and lively.

It felt as though it was burning your skin.

You got to your knees and shoved it into your mattress, hiding it amongst the compressed straw until you were sure you would struggle to find it yourself. You felt numb as you sat on that same straw, crossing your legs and pulling your book onto your lap as though you actually intended to read it.

Your eyes scanned over the words but they did not register. The only thing on your mind was a question, repeating over and over again in its refusal to be ignored.

What was Daeron paying for?

The room, you told yourself. He was paying for the room. Overpaying, but why not? He was a Targaryen prince.

You told yourself that repeatedly, right up until the point you were tucked beneath scratchy blankets and falling asleep. At no point did you actually believe it.

Thursday slipped by without an appearance by Daeron. You were still nervous, casting glances over at the entrance every few minutes right up until you went upstairs.

The entire time, all you could think of was the golden dragon tucked into your mattress. When you got to your room, you had stuffed your hand into the straw until you felt it. You had ripped your arm away as though it had burned you and slept uneasily knowing it was just beneath you.

Friday was busier and you were thankful for it. You carried jugs and bowl of soups until your arms developed a pleasant ache and your feet were sore in your worn shoes. Since it was busy, Ana was assisting you in serving and you got good work done between the two of you.

You were not sure how you knew he had arrived. A flash of yellow hair, the hint of black and red. The tavern seemed suddenly smaller and you knew that a dragon had entered and made himself comfortable at his table.

You were not sure when it had become his table but it felt right to refer to it as such. People drifted away when he approached and made themselves comfy elsewhere until he had the entire table to himself.

You breathed a sigh of relief when Ana made her way over to him. Interaction with him seemed impossible at this point. Should you bring up the coin? Maybe you had time to go fetch it from upstairs and return it?

You jumped when Ana’s hand cupped your elbow. She looked you up and down, surprised by your suddenly jumpiness. “The gentleman has requested you.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly.

Ana smiled encouragingly and gently pushed you in Daeron’s direction. You stumbled a little before regaining your balance, wine nearly sloshing over the sides of the jug you were holding. You felt a line of it dribble over your fingers, sticky and bitter.

The difference between Daeron on that first evening and Daeron now was like night and day. He looked sober and looked worse for it. He was well groomed, eyes heavy and attentive on you as you made your way toward him. You, on the other hand, felt dishevelled and in need of a good soak in the tub. You wanted to drop the jug on the table and flee behind the bar.

Instead, you filled up Daeron’s cup without looking at him, heart hammering in your breast. Droplets of wine spattered on the table as result of your trembling hands.

You straightened up and met his eyes. “If that is all, my lord –“

Before you could turn, Daeron had reached out and grabbed your wrist. His slightly slick palms betrayed his otherwise calm appearance. He used his grip on you to tug you toward him until you were practically astride him, his thighs caging you in.

Mortified, you looked over your shoulder to see who was bearing witness to your shame. Ana looked surprised but made no move to free you. Money was money and Daeron looked like someone who had a lot of it.

Again, you thought of the gold dragon beneath your bed.

“Please,” he said, “drink with me?”

You heard the pleading note in his voice. It reminded you of the first time you had ever seen him, how the misery had seemed to seep from his pores and congeal around him. What, you wondered, did a prince of the realm have to be so miserable about?

It was hard to be under his full focus. The candles around the tavern made his eyes glint and shift. He looked every bit the blood of the dragon. He was devastatingly handsome, all soft waves and begging eyes, and his hand was smooth and warm where it held your wrist. It was the sort of hand that had never seen a hard day’s work.

“I cannot,” you murmured, “it would be inappropriate. And I have other customers.”

Daeron blinked as though he was only just remembering there were others in the bar. Still, he did not let go of you. He looked around and his lip curled in disgust. It was so different from his previous expression that you flinched and took a step back, pulling your arm from his hand in a jerky motion.

Daeron got to his feet as though he would follow, arms outstretched toward you. “Please! Please, just, sit with me for a moment. I need – I need –“

Daeron placed a hand to his chest as though he was struggling for breath. You paused in your retreat, concerned. His eyes were fluttering and he was swaying on his feet. Worry quickly stomped out your trepidation as you stepped forward and tucked yourself beneath his arm for support.

“It is alright, my lord,” you soothed, “it is terribly warm in here. Let’s get you outside for some fresh air.”

You lead Daeron to the door leading to the alley next to the tavern. The lights and noise faded away as the door swung shut behind you, leaving you with Daeron in the darkness. You blinked rapidly, trying to get used to the change in lighting as you helped Daeron lean his back against the crumbly brick wall.

His breathing was still fast. You looked around, half expecting the kings guard to appear and slay you where you stood.

Daeron’s hands fell heavily on your shoulders, dragging your attention back to him. He was shakier than you were comfortable with so you allowed it and tried to ignore the way you relaxed into his hold.

He allowed for no complaints as he dragged you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your back tightly and tucking your head beneath his chin. For a moment, you did not breathe. All you could smell was leather and some kind of scented oil. The aroma melted your brain and turned you to mush in his arms.

You could hear his heart thundering in his chest, though now yours surely matched it, and you could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

You were not naive. You had been with men before. You had fumbled about with several boys in your younger years, clumsy and unpractised and unsatisfying, and you had had one lover since coming to Kings Landing.

You felt those same feelings rising at Daeron’s touch. The stirring in your stomach and the way your nipples seemed suddenly sensitive against the fabric of your top. Every inch of you seemed to come alive, eager for more touch, but your brain knew what your body did not.

This -Daeron Targaryen- was not for you.

You shivered as you felt the stirring of his manhood beneath his belt, lazily nudging into your stomach. His breathing was still fast but for an entirely different reason now. There was interest there, no doubt, but you would not have him.

You almost laughed. Never had you imagined that there would be a day you would have the interest of a Targaryen prince. But what was interest? It was not monotony, nor food in your belly, or a roof over your head and privacy.

It was chaos. And you would not allow yourself to fall into the same hole you had been in before you had come to Kings Landing. You would not go back to that place.

Placing your hands on Daeron’s chest, you firmly pushed back. There was a moment where you were afraid that he would not let you go but then his arms were falling away, allowing you to step back and look up into the hurt on his face.

“I will get you some water,” you said, clearing your throat. It felt bone dry.

Daeron stilled, eyes flickering over your face as he tried to decipher your emotions. You kept your eyes downcast as you made to move back inside.

Daeron’s hand found your wrist once again, tugging you back to him with firmness. You gasped as your shoulder hit his chest and his other hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

He pressed his lips to yours, saving you from any weak protest you may have been able to conjure up. His hand remained on your face, as though scared you would pull away before he was ready. You melted in his arms and shoved the shame away for a later version of you to deal with.

Daeron kissed like a man starved. You could taste the wine on his lips, on his tongue, as he lapped at your mouth with tender strokes. You let your own lips part with a sigh and felt Daeron groan at your acceptance, chasing the taste of you right into your mouth.

You let him have you like that, all pliant and wanting. Let him kiss the need from your lips and hoped he might take it all so that you could forget he even existed. He seemed to push his own need back into you; you could feel the hard line of his cock press into your belly and had a brief moment of madness where you considered what it would be like to be taken like that, shameless and hungry.

You practically had to tear his hands away from your face. Something like a whine rumbled in his chest as he chased your lips, stealing several more kisses before you pushed him firmly away.

Both of you stood there, chests heaving and knees weak. Dazed, you brought your fingers to your lips and felt the way they had swollen from his attention. Daeron’s eyes darkened at the movement and it wasn’t until he stepped forward, hands reaching again, that you shook yourself from your reverie.

“I have to go,” you said quickly, diving for the door and rushing inside as though dogs were at your heels.

You waited for a moment to see if he would follow. When he didn’t, you found Ana and made some excuse of an upset stomach and a headache that threatened to split you apart. She looked concerned but did not push, instead suggesting that you take the rest of the evening to yourself.

You took her up on her offer and took the stairs two at a time. Once you got to your room, you pushed open your tiny window and sucked in greedy lungfuls of the evening air. Your skin felt as though it was burning. You pressed your hand to your forehead and found it cool to the touch.

With a sigh, you threw yourself onto your mattress and closed your eyes. The darkness made the warmth between your thighs feel even more intense. You squeezed your legs together, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through your system. Slowly, you reached for the skirt of your dress and began to tug it up your legs.

Air caressed your exposed thighs as you let them fall apart. You could feel the slick gathered in your undergarments and felt oddly embarrassed. It was not like you to be so careless, so reckless. You tightened your hands into fists. All you wanted was to relieve the pressure a little bit, to touch your –

A floorboard creaked from right outside your room. You shoved your skirts back down and sat up, feeling caught. A quick glance told you that you had remembered to lock the door and you breathed a little easier.

It was not unusual for a customer to wander drunkenly upstairs. But this was not that. You could not be sure how you knew, only that you were certain Daeron Targaryen was outside your room.

You quietened your breathing and listened hard. There was a slight groan from the wood as whoever it was placed a hand against the wall of your room, as though they could feel you on the other side.

Cautiously you lowered yourself back to the mattress, hands bundled at your chest and skirts in disarray about your knees. You remained like that, half scared, half aroused, until eventually the footsteps faded and you heard the sound of someone descending the stairs.

Only then, when you were sure you were alone, did your fingers delve into your undergarments to bring you relief.

Daeron returned to The Mole’s Head every evening for the next three days, or so you heard. Ana told you over quiet breakfasts and meaningful glances. She was obviously curious about whatever had happened but, sensing your reluctance to talk, did not press the matter.

She and Markis had also allowed you time away from serving, sensing your warring emotions and confusion. You had been content in the kitchen, away from the eyes of regulars and Targaryen princes, but today would see you serving again. You could not hide forever.

But that was not until the evening. For now, you busied yourself with the market. You took your time wandering between stalls, attempting to keep your mind blank and body busy. Children raced about the place, knocking over baskets of fruit and pinching things whenever backs were turned.

As you walked at a leisurely pace, the buzz of anxiety was still very much present. You carried a holey bag with you and practically strangled the thin straps between your fingers. Your hands were relentless on the fabric, twisting and pinching and pulling as an outlet for your otherwise concealed emotions.

So absorbed were you in your actions that you almost did not notice the carriage approaching from behind. The smear of black and red in your peripheral vision had you jumping back, clearing out of the way of the approaching horses.

You kept your gaze down as the coach got closer. People began craning their necks, curious about who was inside such a fine vehicle, and with the Targaryen emblem no less. You beat your own curiosity down with a stick, urging the carriage to move faster and out of sight.

It did no such thing. Your mouth parted as the coachman directed the horses to a stop several feet in front of you. You made to move but then the door opened and familiar hands were reaching for you, pulling you into the shaded privacy of the coach before you could even shout.

Daeron pulled the door shut and sat back opposite you, something resembling sheepishness rounding his shoulders and softening his features. Thoroughly shocked, you could only stare. Daeron knocked on the roof of the coach and you rocked forward in the seat as the coachman directed the horses back into a lazy trot.

“You have been avoiding me,” Daeron said simply.

You were stunned.

“I do not understand why,” he continued, eyes searching your face, “when I know that you enjoyed our kiss as much as I. If you feel even a fraction of what I do, then I know the distance must be painful for you.”

The words may as well have been spoken in a different language. You held your hand up and squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself awake. When that did not work, you sank back into the seat.

“It was just a kiss,” you said softly, “and you are a prince.”

Daeron’s face twisted with scorn. “Just a kiss?”

The words sat heavy on the air for a moment. You felt warm and flustered and wished the coach had windows to crack. The soft sway of it had you feeling vaguely nauseous and was ramping up your anxiety to levels unheard of.

Daeron seemed to think for a moment, his face smoothing into something soft and cunning. He sank to his knees in one swift movement. The coach had little room and it left his chest brushing your knees with every rotation of the wheels.

You flinched at the contact but Daeron was having none of it. He laid his hands on your thighs with a boldness you had not expected. His fingers squeezed the fabric, making indents in the soft flesh as his breath stuttered out of him. Despite your words, you did not brush him away.

“I can give you more than a kiss, sweetling,” he murmured, “I can give you everything you could ever want. And I will have the same from you in return.”

“My prince –“

“Daeron,” he lazily corrected, hands bunching in the fabric of your dress.

“Daeron,” you whispered, “please, you can’t.”

“But I can,” he insisted. He spoke as if he were trying to convince you of the fact. “And I so fucking want to.”

You could feel your lids getting heavy as Daeron began to push the bulky fabric of your dress further up your legs until it was bundled around your waist. You could not tell if he was shaking or if it was just the movement of the coach.

Daeron pressed his nose into the crook of your knee and inhaled. It tickled and had you shifting in your seat. Afraid you were going to push him away, Daeron opened his mouth and set his teeth to the soft skin there, sinking them in just enough to have you go still.

He pulled away, blinking up at you with watery eyes that screamed desperation. He laid his cheek on your thigh, eyes falling to the junction between your thighs that he had consumed his every waking moment since he had woken up in the tavern over a week ago.

He reached for the fabric that concealed you from him, tugging at it as though it had personally offended him. He cooed softly when you lifted your hips and let him tug it down thighs until you were completely bare.

“My sweet, kind girl,” he mumbled, eyes fixated on your cunt. “It is easier like this, no? When you cannot hide from me?”

His words were making your head spin. Daeron wriggled his palms beneath your ass and spread you wide, notching your knees over his shoulders. You squeaked as his breath hit your swollen folds, so sensitive that even the air felt like a physical caress.

After that, he wasted no time. It was like he knew that the longer he dragged things out, the more likely you were to come to your senses and go tearing from the coach. And he would not have that.

Daeron laved his tongue over your clit like he had done so a dozen times. He found your most sensitive spot with ease, flicking his tongue over it until you were clamping a hand over your mouth to keep in your noises.

The sight of him there, on his knees, face buried in your cunt was almost enough to have you shooting over the edge. Daeron must have sensed it in the way you pressed your cunt to his face, near grinding your clit on his nose as you approached your peak.

Daeron pulled him face from you with a groan. Your arousal coated the lower half of his face. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled in the light that snuck in past the closed curtains. He pulled one hand from your ass and reached down and palmed his cock through his trousers, hissing through his teeth as he worked the sensitive head.

“Tell me you want me,” he urged, “just me.”

He was cruel. You canted your hips and whined a little, near dizzy from the denial. You would say anything if it meant he would put his mouth back on you.

“I want you, Daeron,” you managed, “only you. Please.”

He dove back in with gusto, tongue spearing your cunt as his nose nudged at your clit. You nearly yelled from the combination of sensations, torn between your clit and your entrance. Daeron’s eyes were glued to your face as he ate you out like a man who had not eaten in weeks.

Whether it was his tongue, his nose, or the fact that he was palming himself eagerly like a virgin boy, it did not matter. Daeron drove you over the edge like he had known he would from the second he set eyes on you. You knew that once you hit the bottom, he would not allow you to get back up. You let him do it anyway.

Daeron pulled away from you with reluctance and only after you’d pushed at his head, too sensitive to handle the soft lapping of his tongue at your spent cunt. He made no move to wipe his face, seeming to enjoy the scent of you on his skin. He did not finish himself, instead reaching to pull down your skirts and arrange you as he liked. It was unlikely he was content to remain that way for long.

He did not return your undergarments. You watched as he stuffed them under the seats and did not bother protesting. There was little use in arguing with a prince, you had come to realise. The gentle pulsing of your cunt eased the sting of realisation a little.

You tried to speak through your dry throat.“I have to go to work.”

“I will go with you,” Daeron said quickly, leaving no room for argument.

You watched as he licked his lips, eyes never leaving yours. You could still see the outline of his cock in his trousers and knew he intended to use it later. He seemed a little less intense now, a little more rounded after being placated.

Daeron squeezed your knee. “I will not be parted from you. Not after this.”

There would be no more monotony in your life. Not after Daeron had had his tongue inside you and his hands grasped at you like you were something he was afraid to lose.

additional mini Daeron PoV

The very moment Daeron had awoken in a dusty room with a golden dragon still weighing heavy in his coin pouch, he had been curious.

Daeron was not the curious sort. Usually he was too lazy, too drunk, too bored to be curious.

But there it was, burning hot in his gut as he left the stuffy room and stood awkwardly in the corridor. He could tell it was well past seven by the sun steaming in and the noise downstairs.

He looked from the stairs to the other doors. He wondered which one was yours. He stood there for a moment longer before turning back to his own room.

Daeron found himself closing the window and making the bed in the way he had seen the maids do. He almost laughed whilst doing it; perhaps he was still drunk.

🍷

Daeron returned that afternoon after a morning of pretending he wouldn’t. There was no harm in curiosity, he told himself, and he wanted to get a better look at the tavern girl who had refused his money.

You did not notice him when he entered, nor when he made himself comfortable at his table.

It gave him time to study you. You were pretty, he discovered. The type of beauty that one might not notice at first glance but was ultimately irrefutable. He admired the way your hair was working its way out of its style and the way you smiled easily at the men who occupied your attention.

Daeron wanted you to smile at him like that. The need rose unbidden and burning hot, clawing its way up his throat until he choked it back with a gulp of bitter wine.

You brought over some wine and Daeron tried not to feel smug that you remembered what he had been drinking the night before. Even he did not always remember. Again, he tried to give you money. If you took it, then that would be the end of it, he told himself. His curiosity would be sated and he could go back to the Keep, eventually return to Summerhall, and never think about you again.

Instead you smiled softly when he asked why, and said something about kindness. You, in a dusty tavern on the edge of Flea Bottom, wearing worn down clothes and surrounded by people who would kill you in a heartbeat for what Daeron was offering.

When was the last time he had experience kindness before you? Daeron could not remember.

When he snuck into your room that night, Daeron told himself he was only being kind in return.

🍷

Daeron did not pretend his visit the next night had anything to do with curiosity. This was about need and about the fierce possession that had raged in his gut when he had seen you be groped by that fool the day before.

Daeron needed kindness in his life. More than the small, stupid men who occupied so much of your time. Daeron needed you, he decided.

He looked at your warm but tired eyes, at the way you subtly tried to thumb through a book beneath the bar. He thought about the poky mattress in your tiny room and the absence of any possessions. He thought about the spark in your eyes whenever you caught him staring and the way your hands shook when you poured him a drink.

Perhaps Daeron could be something you needed, too. He would make it so.

a/n- people have been asking a lot for the mmc povs so i thought i’d include a mini one this time🫣

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