{Daemon Targaryen x Reader}
You haven't seen your husband since your passionate wedding night, leaving you to doubt his love. Now, three months later, you're round with child and missing him more than ever—until he suddenly returns.
♡♡ This is purely just to get all my daddy Daemon feelings out, I 100% believe he has a breeding kink. ♡♡
3.2k words - Warnings: smut, major breeding kink, slow sex, so so so much fluff, a little bit of angst and Daemon apologizing in bed...
It was another quiet night, in a bed far too large for one. The wind was gently blowing through the curtains, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the sea. It was late, and everyone was asleep, yet you laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.
You rolled over onto your side, the silk of the sheets sliding against your bare skin. These days, sleep evaded you, no matter how much you tried. If it wasn't your thoughts keeping you up, it was your changing body and the ever growing life inside of you.
Three months ago you had gotten married to the prince Daemon, a dream of many girls across the kingdom. But your marriage was hardly that. The day after the ceremony you woke up in an empty bed, and hadn't seen your husband since, leaving you to wonder if you had done something wrong.
He had left you no letter, no message. Nothing. Only the memory of your wedding night, the way he touched and kissed you, his sweet whispers of adoration as he made you his. On the loneliest days you would close your eyes and remember it all, his lips on yours, the way his fingers caressed you, the feel of him inside you.
You place your hand on the small bump of your stomach, a smile spreading across your lips. Although it had only been one night, he did his duty and you were pregnant. A piece of him was always with you.
But it wasn't enough.
You longed to see him again, to touch him and be held by him, to tell him of the life growing within you. You wanted so desperately to be with him, but instead you were left with the ghost of his love, a memory that wasn't enough to fill the hole in your heart.
You sighed, trying to push away those thoughts, and attempted to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes all you could see was his handsome face. You opened them again and sat up, staring into the darkness.
You could see the light of a torch through the cracks of the door, and the sound of footsteps. You knew exactly who it was, the guard outside your door. His shift was almost over, and soon a new one would be out there, watching over you. There was a muffled conversation, and the sound of someone walking away.
A few moments later the door cracked open, and the torch light poured into the room. Your eyes squinted at the sudden brightness, and as the person entered the room they shut the door.
You were about to give your guard a kindly lecture on waking you up when you noticed that it wasn't the guard who had walked in, but a hooded man. You opened your mouth to call for help, but before you could get a sound out he was at your bedside, his hand covering your mouth.
"Don't scream, my love, it's me." He whispered.
You blinked at the voice, your mind taking a second to process what was happening. Your eyes widened, and you reached for his hand. He took it away from your mouth and intertwined your fingers together, his other hand pulling down his hood.
"Daemon." You breathed, looking up at his face.
The torchlight casted a warm glow on his handsome features, highlighting his strong cheekbones and sharp jawline. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, hanging past his shoulders, his eyes were dark and clever, looking you over with admiration.
You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing into his. He let out a sigh, a sound that sounded almost pained, and returned your kiss. Then you harshly pushed him away, hitting his chest.
"Where have you been?" You demanded.
"I had matters to attend to." He told you.
"Three months!" You cried. "Three months I waited for you, and you were doing what?"
He smiled and pulled off his cloak, his eyes raking over your form. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.
You wanted to be angry with him, you really did, but the look he was giving you, like he was starved, melted away your resolve. You leaned into his touch and looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Asshole," You whispered.
"My love." He whispered back, leaning down and placing a kiss to your forehead.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for another heated kiss. You were angry, yes, but seeing him now made all of that fade away. Your ire could wait until the morning.
His lips were gentle and loving, and you were so happy that you had almost forgotten that he had been gone. He kneeled on the bed and pulled you close, his hands cupping your cheeks.
When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, smiling and breathing hard.
"I thought you left me," You admitted, your hands gripping his wrists, as though you could keep him there forever by holding on to him.
He hummed, his nose nuzzling against yours and you pressed yourself closer to him, trying to get as much contact as possible.
His large, warm hands moved down to the swell of your stomach. He placed his palms flat against the bump and leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Did the maesters tell you?" You asked, placing your hands over his.
He nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet yours. "How are you feeling?" He asked, with such gentle kindness that it made your heart melt.
"Big." You answered, laughing slightly. "I can't wear any of my old clothes, and I have to have new ones made all the time. And the way the ladies look at me when I go out..."
He shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him, his thumbs caressing your skin. It was true that you had changed since the wedding, your body swelling with his child. You were nervous about how he would react, but the softness in his eyes and the way he touched you told you otherwise.
"I wish I could have told you the news myself, it's a shame you had to hear it from some crusty old maester," you said.
"It is a wonderful thing to return home too," he smiled, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.
He kissed you deeply, his arms wrapping around your waist. You smiled into the kiss, your fingers weaving through his long, silver hair. You could feel his lips turn up against yours, and you both pulled away.
He looked at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your features, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands trailed down your sides, sending a wave of heat through you.
"My prince," you said softly, your fingers brushing along his cheekbone. "We've already made a baby. You don't have to do this."
He laughed, and shook his head, a look in his eyes you couldn't decipher. "I forget just how innocent you are," he said, his hands trailing down to your thighs.
“Well, whose fault is that?” You teased, smiling up at your handsome husband.
You sucked in a breath as he leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.
"It's true, I've been away for too long, my lady wife has forgotten what it is I crave," he breathed against your skin, his lips finding yours once more.
Your hands slid down his shoulders and arms, feeling his muscles. He pulled back slightly and tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
"You have gotten bigger as well," you said, running your hands across his chest, feeling the hard muscles.
He smirked, a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Oh?"
"It suits you," you said, a playful smile on your lips.
His hand came to rest on the side of your neck, his fingers caressing your jaw. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip and he leaned in, capturing your mouth with his.
"And you are more beautiful than the day we wed," he said, his voice husky.
"My prince flatters me." You breathed, a blush rising on your cheeks.
His eyes went to the ties on your nightdress, a row of pretty little bows that went down to the valley of your breasts. He tugged at one of the ribbons, the fabric becoming loose.
He pushed it aside and his hand moved up to caress your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple, causing you to gasp.
"Still as sensitive." He said, a smirk on his lips.
He leaned down and took your other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before gently biting down. You tugged hard on his hair, your legs kicking and squirming as he continued to play with you.
"Daemon," you moaned.
He hummed, the vibration causing a wave of pleasure to wash over you. He let go of your nipple, and his mouth moved lower, placing hot kisses along your skin, his hand pushing up your night dress.
"Perhaps a bit more sensitive." He commented, his hand brushing along your thigh.
He hooked a finger into the waistband of your small clothes and pulled them off. You were now naked, your body on full display for him, and he leaned back and admired his work. His hand on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing over a stretch mark.
"Beautiful." He said, a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.
You looked away, suddenly shy. You had only spent one night with him, and now he was here again. His touch, his words, they all still had an affect on you, making your stomach flutter and heart race.
He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your bump, his hand resting on the side of it, his lips trailing lower. You smiled softly, and ran your fingers through his hair, the silver strands smooth between your fingers.
His hand came to rest on your thighs, gently coaxing your legs open. You watched as he positioned himself between them, his head almost disappearing behind your bump.
His eyes flickered up to yours, and his smirk was all too knowing, causing you to blush and turn away. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking up your slit.
You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening. He did it again, this time focusing his attention on that sensitive little spot he introduced to you on your wedding night. He placed a soft kiss on it, his tongue circling it.
"Dae-ah," you moaned, trying to muffle the sound by pressing a hand over your mouth.
You didn't know if it was the fact that you were pregnant, or maybe that you missed him more than anything, but everything felt different, his touch more intense.
His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you down as his tongue licked and circled you. His mouth moved down and his tongue slid into you, making you arch and cry out. He lapped at your arousal, his tongue going in and out, the sounds he made, the hums and sighs, driving you wild.
He groaned, a sound that vibrated through your entire body, and his tongue went up, swirling around that little spot again, his mouth closing over it.
You moaned his name, your thighs squeezing him, your whole body trembling as your release washed over you.
He placed a few more kisses to the inside of your thighs before rising up, his hair messy and face glistening with you. He wiped his face with his arm and leaned down, his lips capturing yours.
You could taste yourself on him, and you kissed him hard, your hand tangling into his hair, the other reaching down to the ties of his trousers. He helped you undo them, and kicked off his pants.
His hard length sprung free, and you wrapped a hand around it, causing him to let out a shaky moan. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and his eyes locking onto yours.
You slowly started to stroke him, and he let out another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath hot against your skin.
"My love," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand.
You loved the effect you had on him, the control you had. To have the prince of dragonstone, the most dangerous man in the realm, at the palm of your hand, made your heart flutter.
His hand found yours, and he guided it away from his length, a whine leaving your throat. He chuckled and gave you a quick kiss before positioning himself between your legs.
He slowly pushed himself in, causing you both to moan. It hurt a little, just like the first time, but his hands were on your thighs, his thumb caressing your skin, and he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, letting you adjust.
"My love, I'm not going to break," you said.
He smirked and gave a shallow thrust, a gasp leaving you.
"I can't be too careful with what is mine." He said, leaning down and giving you a heated kiss.
He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hand sliding up the length of your leg, coming to rest on your bump, his other hand planted next to your head, holding himself up.
He started to move, his length slowly sliding in and out, the pace slow and gentle. You could feel every inch of him, rubbing against that perfect spot. A soft moan left you, and you reached out, your hands on his chest, feeling the hand planes of muscle underneath his skin.
His thumb caressed your belly, his eyes never leaving your face, studying every detail, memorizing each feature. You felt so exposed under his gaze and turned away, your cheeks flushed.
He smiled, a soft, loving smile, and kissed you.
"How I've missed you, my beautiful wife," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love in his eyes. It was the way he had looked at you at your wedding, the two of you standing there in the sept, whispering promises to each other. The world had disappeared around you, and in that moment you were the only people that existed.
He kissed you again, and began moving a little faster, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room. He groaned, his hand still gently stroking your bump.
"I can't believe such a perfect creature could bear my child," he said, his eyes trailing down to where his hand rested.
"Our child," you corrected, giving him a teasing smile.
He hummed, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your waist and helping you into a sitting position. He pulled you onto his lap, and you moaned at the way he was buried deeper inside you.
His lips left open mouth kisses on your shoulders, and his hands rested on your hips, guiding you. You braced yourself on his shoulders, his hands back on your bump as you moved. You knew he liked the feel of it, and he couldn't get enough.
Your name left his lips as you bounced in his lap, his hands cupping your ass, squeezing you. You moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging at the silver locks. You were growing louder, your body humming, that feeling building within you.
"Not too loud, my love," he whispered. "I do not wish for the guards to hear,"
A moan, that was halfway to a laugh escaped you, and he cut it off with a deep kiss. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, as you kept moving, the feeling of your release building.
"For your lovely sounds are only for me," he continued, his voice in your ear.
You let out another shaky moan, his hands squeezing you. He was moving his hips to meet yours, and you could feel him shaking beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, and pulled you harder, his voice soft yet commanding as he talked you closer to your peak.
Your hands gripped his arms and back, and when he said your name, a deep, low groan that sounded almost pained, you toppled over the edge, falling in a pool of ecstasy. All the pent up emotions and frustration that you had been holding in were released, and you let go of a final moan that you muffle in the crook of his neck.
He followed soon after, capturing your lips in a heated kiss and letting out a deep, satisfied moan. You clung to him, afraid that he might disappear if you didn't. His arms were wrapped around your middle, cradling you close to him, his lips pressed to your temple.
The two of you breathed in each other's air, a simple shared breath, your foreheads pressed together, your eyes closed. You could feel his lips on your sweat slicked skin, his fingertips still caressing your bump.
When you both had returned to your senses, he gently laid you back on the bed. He leaned down, the tip of his nose nuzzling against yours, and peppered your face with little kisses. You smiled and let your eyes flutter open, finding him staring at you, a sweet, lovestruck look in his eye.
He grabbed the blanket, and covered your naked form with it, tucking it around you, almost protectively. He crawled under with you,his head resting against your chest, his hand still protectively cradling the swell of your stomach.
You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. He looked up at you, his eyes sleepy, and he pressed a kiss to your bump.
"I hope it's a boy," you said, continuing to stroke his hair. "With the most handsome features, and a true warrior, like his father."
"Mm," he hummed, his eyes closing, and his arms wrapping around your waist. "I hope it is a girl, a daughter that looks just like her mother."
He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if he had fallen asleep, when his eyes suddenly opened.
"Or perhaps both," he said, his voice serious, a glimmer of something in his eyes.
"Twins?" You laughed. "I don't think I could handle two little dragons running about."
He chuckled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin. "I will be here to help you," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I am not going anywhere."
"You better not," you warned, poking his chest. "You've kept me waiting long enough."
He laughed again and caught your wrist, bringing your finger to his lips and placing a gentle kiss there. He slid his arms back around you, and pulled you close, your foreheads touching, your noses brushing.
You were content, your heart filled with so much love for him, and as his breathing evened out and his eyelids drooped, you knew he felt the same. You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of what was to come. Of a big family, a happy life, and many more nights just like this one.
hi sweet baby angels!!! look who finally wrote a new piece and isnt relying on queueueueueuing chapters she wrote seven million years ago!!!!! based on this ask. enjoy.
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WC: 7.6k
Summary: They can look all they like, but only you carry the proof of what he is to you and what you are to him.
Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), fingering, targcest, multiple orgasms, creampies, breeding, multiple positions, dirty talk, bratty reader (lmk if i missed anything!)
Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader
The hall glows with firelight and heat, the smell of roasted meats clinging to silk and skin as laughter swells beneath the Red Keep’s high rafters. You sit lower at the feasting table, far enough from the center that no one expects you to speak, close enough that you can see him. Daemon. Draped in dark velvet, silver hair loose over his shoulders, a wine cup cradled in one hand like it was made for him. He looks bored, or maybe pleased, or maybe both. You can never quite tell with him when he smiles like that.
He is not alone. The court never lets him be. Ladies linger around him like wasps drawn to ripe fruit, sharp-eyed and silk-wrapped, fluttering fans and lashes with feigned restraint. One of them, a girl from House Velaryon with pale skin and storm-colored eyes, reaches out and lays her hand on his forearm as she speaks. It is not a casual touch. Her fingers slide, her thumb grazes the inside of his wrist. She leans in as she laughs, just a little too close.
He lets her.
He does not touch her back, not quite, but he also does not stop her. His expression does not shift, his body does not tense. He just tilts his head slightly, wine catching the light as he takes another sip, and listens. You see the way the girl watches his mouth as he drinks. You see the way her gaze slips down to his neck and lingers there. It makes something ugly twist low in your belly.
You have not touched your wine. You have not said a word in several minutes. The man beside you, some knight’s son with a lion-stitched doublet and soft, forgettable features, has been trying to speak with you since the second course. You barely hear him. He asks if you liked the music. You do not answer. He tries again, offering a gentle smile and a question about dancing. You turn your head slightly and say no, quiet but cold. He does not ask a third time.
All your attention is fixed on Daemon.
He knows. Of course he knows. He has not looked at you, not even once, but he can feel your gaze like a tether pulled tight. You know he can. That smile of his has curved sharper. He lifts his cup just slightly, as if in silent toast, and laughs at something the Velaryon girl says, even though you doubt he was listening. His whole body is a performance, and tonight you are not in the front row. You are not even part of the act.
You hate it.
You hate the way she looks at him. You hate that she is allowed to. You hate that she touches him in front of everyone and no one says a word. You hate that she might think she could keep him, even for a moment, even for a night. You are not his wife. You have no claim. You are not even promised. You cannot stop her. You cannot reach across the table and slap her hand away. You cannot stand and declare what he is to you, what you are to him, because no such thing has ever been said aloud.
Still, your body remembers the shape of his hands. Your skin still bears the bruises he left. You remember the way his breath felt against your throat when he called you sweet girl, when he told you to stay still, when he said yours like it meant something. But none of that matters here. Not in front of the court. Not in front of her.
She leans in closer again. Her hair brushes his shoulder. Her laugh rises like bells. Daemon lifts his goblet once more, sips slow, then finally moves his gaze.
He looks at you. Only for a moment. No more than a breath. But it is enough.
His eyes meet yours across the chaos and gold of the feasting hall. He does not blink. He does not look away. And then he smiles. Not for her. Not for the room. For you.
You do not smile back.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you should, until it burns. Then you rise. Quietly. Deliberately. The scrape of your chair is barely heard beneath the swell of music and wine-soaked laughter, but it cuts through you clean.
You leave before the final toast is raised. Before the singers begin their third round. Before she can lean in again and whisper something sweet and simpering into his ear.
You do not storm out. You do not make a scene. You walk with your chin high and your silence sharp, knowing it will follow you more loudly than any words would have.
Your chambers are too warm when you enter. The fire crackles too loudly. The wine on the table sits untouched.
You do not pace, but you feel like you might. Your skin itches with something too close to rage, too close to want. It sits behind your ribs and twists, slow and tight, until you can’t bear to sit still.
You feel him before you hear him. The door does not creak, but it opens. He does not knock. Of course he doesn’t.
Daemon steps inside like the room belongs to him. Like you do.
“You left early,” he says.
“You noticed,” you reply.
“I notice when someone stares at me for half the feast,” he says, voice smooth. “And then vanishes before the sweets.”
You turn to face him. “I suppose I lost my appetite.”
He smiles. “A shame. The roasted pears were delightful. But not quite as sweet as the Velaryon girl’s lips.”
Your face does not change. “You kissed her?”
“No,” he says. “But she wanted me to.”
“And you were tempted.”
“I am always tempted,” he says, stepping further into the room. “That is what makes it fun.”
You lift your chin. “Fun.”
He shrugs. “You must know by now how I enjoy being watched.”
“I saw you,” you say. “I saw the way she looked at you.”
“I let her.”
“You let her put her hand on you.”
“She has hands. What was I meant to do, hack them off at the wrist?”
“You could have said no.”
“I never say no to harmless attention,” he says, smiling. “It keeps the court guessing.”
“It keeps the court thinking you are theirs to take.”
He takes a step closer. “Let them think what they will. They are wrong.”
“Are they?” you ask, sharp. “You did not look particularly unavailable tonight.”
“And yet here I am,” he says, spreading his hands slightly, “in your chambers, not hers.”
You cross your arms. “That proves little.”
He cocks his head. “Does it?”
“You belong to no one,” you say.
He doesn’t argue. “True enough.”
“You are not mine.”
“No,” he says again. “But gods, how you want me to be.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. “You are full of yourself.”
“I have good reason to be.”
You stare at him. He stares back.
“You think I should have made a show of rejecting her?” he asks. “That I ought to have stood in the middle of the hall and shouted that my cock is already spoken for?”
“Is it?” you say, soft yet cold.
He steps close enough for his voice to drop. “You would know.”
You tilt your head. “Would I?”
He smiles. “Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”
You step around him, slow, measured, the air between you too warm now, too thick. “You act as though you enjoy the idea of women fighting over you.”
“I enjoy being wanted.”
“And you enjoyed being wanted by her.”
He looks at you for a moment. “I enjoyed knowing you were watching.”
You stop.
He watches the way you still.
“I could have let another man walk me back tonight,” you say.
“You did not.”
“No. But I could have.”
He smiles, faint and dangerous. “And I could have taken her to bed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because she’s not you.”
There it is. Said simply, said plainly, with that flash of teeth just beneath the charm. He doesn’t soften when he says it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He offers it like a challenge.
You stare at him, chest rising.
“You let them think they have a chance,” you say, quieter now.
“I let them look,” he replies. “That’s all they get. A glimpse. A taste of something they’ll never touch. That is the game, little cousin. Let them ache for it.”
“And what of me?” you ask.
His expression changes just slightly. “What of you?”
“If I want more than a game,” you say, voice like ice beneath flame. “If I am not content with glimpses and riddles. What then?”
He takes a step toward you, close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek when he speaks. “Then you are not like them.”
You do not flinch. “But you want me to feel like I am.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to feel the difference.”
You look up at him. “Then make it.”
He studies you.
“I have no claim,” you say. “No ring. No promise. Nothing but your word and the marks you leave behind.”
He lifts his hand to your jaw, gentle, dangerous, not quite touching. “That should be enough.”
“It isn’t.”
There is no space left between you. You feel his restraint like the crackle before lightning. You want him to snap. You want him to beg. You want him to yield—but you don’t want him weak.
“You test me,” he says.
“And you let me.”
He smiles, slow and wolfish. “Because I want to see how far you’ll go.”
“And what happens when I go too far?”
His lips hover near your throat. “Then I will drag you down with me.”
The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Nothing breaks it. Not the wind, not the fire, not the pounding of your heart. You don’t flinch. You don’t breathe. You wait.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous.
“If I am yours,” he says, “say it.”
You meet his gaze, steady. “If you are mine, act like it.”
He watches you for a beat longer. A breath. Two.
Then he moves.
His mouth finds yours before the words are cold in the air. No warning, no restraint. Just heat, hard and immediate. His hand knots in your hair and drags, angling your mouth to his, and he kisses you like you’ve both already lost. Like this was always going to happen. His teeth graze your lip, catch, pull. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.
You press into him, chest to chest, hips already shifting like your body wants something before your mind can catch up. You kiss him like you mean to punish him for every smirk, every flirtation, every woman who looked too long. He kisses you like he’s daring you to try.
His hands drop to your waist. He lifts you without asking.
You feel the edge of the table dig into the backs of your thighs as he sets you down atop it, dragging you forward until your hips meet the wood. The same table where you sometimes take meals. Where letters wait unopened. Where you sit like a lady when others are watching.
Not now.
His body crowds yours, knees parting your legs as he leans in, mouth brushing your throat, breath hot.
"Mine," he says against your skin, the word like fire.
Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the velvet of his doublet, feeling the solid muscle beneath. You want to rip it away, to see him bare and wanting, to mark him as he's marked you.
"Prove it," you challenge, voice barely steady.
His laugh is dark, dangerous. "So demanding." His teeth graze your pulse point. "So greedy."
One hand slides up your thigh, bunching the silk of your gown, finding the heat between your legs. You're already wet for him—have been since you watched him across the hall, since you imagined tearing him away from her. His fingers press against you through the thin fabric of your smallclothes, and you can't help the sound that escapes you.
"There," he murmurs against your throat, fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles. "That's what I wanted to hear."
You bite back another moan, head falling back as he works you with practiced ease. The silk of your gown pools around your hips, and his free hand traces the line of your collarbone, down to the laces of your bodice.
"She could never make sounds like that," he says, voice rough with want. "Could never arch like you do. Could never—"
"Stop talking about her," you gasp, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
His fingers still. "Jealous?"
You meet his gaze, breathless but defiant. "Possessive."
The shift in his gaze is subtle, but you see it: a spark of something molten behind the glinting violet, some chemical recognition of your challenge that makes his breath hitch and his jaw tense. His lips curve, not in mockery this time but in anticipation, as if your defiance is the final ingredient he’s been waiting for.
“Good,” he says, and the word is roughened by want—almost hoarse as it breaks against your mouth.
He crushes you back into the table with his body and kisses you fiercely, teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongue sliding in with a claim so absolute it erases the memory of anything softer. The taste of him is as intoxicating as the wine left untouched on your table; smoke and salt and something sweeter beneath, a promise of indulgence laced with threat. He kisses you like he means to possess you from the inside out.
His hands move without mercy. One closes tight around the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you as he devours your mouth. The other slips beneath the generous folds of your gown—an impatient sweep up bare thigh, knuckles grazing sensitive skin until he finds your smallclothes and drags them aside. You feel cool air against fevered flesh just before his fingers make contact: two at once, slick with intent, pushing inside you so abruptly that you gasp against his lips.
He swallows the sound whole, then pulls back just enough to let you see how much it pleases him.
“So wet already,” Daemon murmurs, voice gone almost guttural with hunger. His thumb circles lazily over that aching bundle of nerves—just brush after cruel brush—while his fingers press deeper within, stretching and curling until your body trembles around him. “Were you thinking about this while you watched me across the room? While she touched my arm? While she batted her lashes and hoped I’d take her to my bed instead?”
You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a whimper—the humiliation sharp as pleasure when he smirks down at you.
“Mm,” he says. “Just as I thought.”
He works your body with an expert’s patience: slow thrusts punctuated by sudden twists of his hand that jolt pleasure up your spine. Each time he brings you close to release, he slows again—deliberately stalling, denying what’s already within reach. You realize too late that this is a different kind of game: not the one played for courtly advantage or public display, but one meant solely for this room and this hour and both your undoings.
Your hips buck against him—helpless now—and heat floods your cheeks as you realize how shamelessly you’re moving for him. Every time he retreats just enough to make you ache for more, every teasing circle of his thumb or shallow dip of his fingers makes you crave it more desperately.
He bends low until his lips are at your ear.
“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers—a demand hidden behind velvet softness. “Say what you wanted while you watched me.”
You can barely form words; your pride wars with need and loses every round. Still, when he crooks two fingers just right within you—pulling a shudder from somewhere deep and secret—you stifle a cry behind bitten lips.
He does not tolerate silence for long.
"Answer me," he commands, stilling his movements.
"Yes," you gasp, desperate. "Yes, I was thinking of this," you admit, voice catching as his fingers resume their torment. "I was thinking of how only I know what you sound like when you're inside me."
His smile is all teeth, all triumph. "And what sound is that?"
You reach between your bodies, finding the hard length of him straining against his breeches. He hisses when you palm him, squeezing just firmly enough to make his rhythm falter.
"Show me again," you challenge. "I seem to have forgotten."
In one fluid motion, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, tasting you with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks them clean, and the sight makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs tremble.
“Stand up,” he says, and his voice is not a request—it’s the leash or the whip, it’s the ring of steel on stone. You obey before you’ve even processed that you’re moving, legs trembling beneath you, skin burning with shame or anticipation. He shifts your body, handling you like he owns every inch: guiding your hips so they nudge the edge of the table, palms flat to its surface, head bent. For a heartbeat, he just stands behind you—close enough that you feel his heat but not touching. You become aware in that pause just how badly you want him, how hollowed out and untethered he’s made you with nothing but words and steady pressure.
Then the air changes; he moves in. His chest presses to your back with an intimacy that feels almost tender—almost. The illusion of gentleness lasts only long enough for him to seize hold of your wrist and pin it beside your head against the wood. He leans in until his breath ghosts over your ear, hot and deliberate, and lets his other hand slide up beneath your hair to encircle your throat—not choking, just holding. Just reminding.
You hear rather than see him undo the laces at his waist. There’s a moment when nothing happens except the double thunder of both your pulses.
“I want you to remember this,” Daemon says, voice pitched for your ear alone. “When you sit with your ladies tomorrow, gossiping over sweetmeats. When you stroll through the godswood with them and pretend not to look at me from beneath your lashes.” His hand abandons your throat and travels down the length of your back, slow as syrup, until it slides under your skirts and traces along your inner thigh. “I want you to feel this between your legs all day. I want every step to remind you who did this to you.”
He gathers up your gown in one practiced motion—no pretense left—and bunches it above your waist. The air on skin should be cooling but instead it stings, as if every nerve has risen up in revolt. You can hear him breathe in when he looks at you: a soft inhale through clenched teeth. He presses into you then—hot flesh against wetness—and positions himself at your entrance but does not push forward yet.
“Say it,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear.
You bite down hard on defiance, it tastes metallic on your tongue. “Say what?” Your answer is another challenge—a glint of rebellion even now.
His fingers tangle tight in your hair and haul back gently—just enough for pain to mingle with pleasure and send a jolt down your spine. “Say who owns you.”
The question hangs in the air like ash after fire. You can hear voices from deeper in the keep—a man laughing drunkenly two floors below, bells tolling midnight—but here there is only the question and his body pressed against yours.
You let yourself breathe once before answering. “Yours,” you say, barely more than a whisper.
“Louder,” Daemon commands.
You swallow pride and gasp, “I’m yours.”
He rewards honesty with violence—a single thrust that buries him inside you so deep that stars explode behind your eyes and all sense of poetry deserts you in favor of white-hot sensation. The sound torn from you is less than human.
The world shrinks down to hips slamming into yours, his cock splitting you open again and again until nothing exists except those points of connection—his hand cinched around yours on the table’s edge, his teeth scraping behind your ear when he bites down hard enough to mark skin for days. One arm comes around to flatten across your sternum, he holds both hands prisoner now so all you can do is brace yourself against each punishing stroke.
You lose count of how many times he pulls out nearly all the way before sheathing himself again with a violence that seems meant as punishment or reward—or maybe just necessity. The table protests under each impact, somewhere in another life you'd be worried about splinters or bruises or whether anyone will hear but here all that matters is keeping pace with him as he drives into you harder each time.
He does not stop talking throughout—not once—but now his words are reduced to grunts and groans mixed with filthy encouragements.
“Good girl…that’s it…take all of me…” Each command lodges itself deeper until finally every ounce of dignity crumbles into need.
You come apart once, convulsing around him so intensely even Daemon grunts in surprise, but he does not let go or slow down, if anything he fucks through it harder while holding tight so none of those shudders escape without being felt by both parties. When wave after wave hits until tears dampen the wood beneath where your cheek is pressed flat, he softens fractionally—his hand stroking soothing circles over where his other pins yours down—but then resumes pace as if determined to wring out every last drop from what remains.
There is something breaking loose inside him, too. By now each thrust comes paired with a half-choked curse or plea, voice more ragged than before, less certain even as body moves relentlessly forward.
He growls low in his throat when climax approaches—you can feel him swelling inside just before release—and for one last instant everything sharpens into unbearable clarity.
The taste of sweat running salty from his jaw onto yours. The burn where nails gouge crescent moons into wood. The way neither one will ever be forgiven for what comes next.
His release comes in violent pulses, hot and pulsing deep inside you. He makes no attempt to withdraw, pinning you harder against the table as he empties himself with a growl that vibrates through your joined bodies. His hips stutter, then press flush against you, holding there as if to seal what he's done. To mark you from within.
You feel him throb inside you, feel the wetness of his seed as it fills you. His breathing is ragged against your neck, his weight nearly crushing as he drapes over you, spent but unwilling to separate.
For several heartbeats, neither of you speaks. The only sound is shared breathing and the distant echoes of the feast continuing without you.
When he finally pulls away, you feel the loss of him like a physical ache. His seed runs warm down your thighs, and you remain bent over the table, trembling, unable to trust your legs to hold you upright. The silk of your gown falls back into place, but it feels foreign now—like a costume you've forgotten how to wear.
Behind you, you hear him adjusting his clothing, the soft rustle of fabric and leather. When you finally turn, he's watching you with an expression you can't read. His hair is disheveled, his doublet wrinkled, but he looks entirely too composed for what just transpired.
"Look at you," he says, voice softer now but no less intense. "Thoroughly ruined."
You straighten slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between your legs, at the wetness still cooling on your thighs. You should feel shame. You should feel used. Instead, you feel claimed in a way that satisfies something primal inside you.
"Is that what you wanted?" you ask, smoothing your gown with hands that still tremble slightly. "To ruin me?"
His smile is slow, almost tender. "I wanted to remind you."
"Of what?" You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away.
"That she may touch my arm, but you..." He steps closer, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You have parts of me no one else will ever know."
The gentleness is almost more unsettling than his roughness. You lean into his touch despite yourself, your body still singing with the aftershocks of what he's done to you.
"And tomorrow?" you ask. "When the court gathers again? When other ladies bat their lashes and reach for you?"
His thumb traces along your cheekbone. "Tomorrow you'll sit at that table knowing my seed is still inside you. Knowing these bruises came from my mouth." His voice drops to a whisper. "Knowing that while they dream of having me, you already do."
The arrogance should infuriate you. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat through your core. You can feel him there still—the stretch, the fullness, the evidence of his claim slowly seeping from your body.
"You're insufferable," you tell him, but there's no venom in it.
“Nyke āōhon,” he says.
I am yours.
Not teasing. Not smug. Just truth, laid bare between your breaths.
The words settle like ash on your skin, weightless and hot. Your pulse stirs again, though you are already wrecked. You study his face—how the usual sharpness has faded from his eyes, how the heat still coils beneath it, steady and sure.
"You say that now," you murmur. "But what happens when another lady reaches for you tomorrow night?"
He doesn’t look away. "She won’t."
"And if she does?"
"Then she'll lose her hand."
You blink once.
He says it like a fact. Like a weather report. Like something he's already decided.
There is no jest in his voice. No grin. Just quiet certainty, as if the notion of any other woman touching him is not only offensive but punishable. Permanently.
You should find it absurd. You don’t.
Not when your body still aches from how he claimed you. Not when his seed is still inside you, warm and thick and unmistakably his. Not when the bruises blooming along your hips match the span of his hands. Evidence, all of it. Proof you don’t need to ask for.
His hand rests on your hip, fingers slow, possessive.
“Let them look,” he says. “Let them wonder. You’ll already know.”
You don’t answer him.
Not with words.
Instead, your fingers trail down to where his hand rests on your hip. You curl yours around his wrist and pull it away—not roughly, just firmly. A silent correction.
His eyes flick up. Curious. Intrigued. He doesn’t resist.
You rise from the table, slowly, your skirts settling uneven around your legs, the fabric rumpled and half-undone from what he already did to you. Your body aches in places only he knows, but you stand tall anyway.
You take two steps back, crossing the chamber without looking at him. You don’t need to. You can feel his eyes on you like a second skin.
You stop at the edge of the couch. Pause. Let the quiet thicken.
Then you look back over your shoulder.
“Well?” you say. “Will you sit, or must I make you?”
His mouth twitches. That flicker of a smile. He crosses the room without a word and lets you push him back into the cushions, one palm on his chest.
You climb onto his lap before he can settle. Hike your skirts up. Settle your weight on him slow, deliberate, like you’re daring him to move.
He exhales through his nose, sharp and amused.
“Is this a game to you?” he murmurs.
You lean in until your mouth brushes his ear.
“No,” you whisper. “This is a reminder.”
Then you rock your hips against his, and whatever clever thing he was about to say dies on his tongue.
He hardens beneath you almost instantly, his body responding even as his breath catches. You feel him through the fabric of his breeches—thick and wanting already, as if what happened moments ago was merely an appetizer.
"Again?" His voice is rougher now, strained. "So soon?"
You don't answer with words. Instead you grind down against him, slow and deliberate, letting him feel the heat of you through the layers between. His hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging into silk and flesh.
"Greedy little thing," he breathes, but there's admiration in it. Hunger.
You can feel his seed still slick between your thighs as you move against him, the evidence of his earlier claim making each roll of your hips smoother, more provocative. The knowledge that you're marked by him, filled by him, sends fresh heat spiraling through your belly.
"You like knowing you've marked me," you say, hands sliding up his chest to rest against his throat. "That I'll carry part of you inside me for days."
His pupils dilate at your words, at the press of your fingers against his pulse. "Yes," he admits without shame.
You lean closer, lips brushing his jaw. "Then you'll understand why I need to mark you too."
Before he can respond, you bite down on the tender skin just below his ear—not gently, not teasingly, but with enough force to leave an impression. He jerks beneath you, a sharp intake of breath, and you feel him grow harder still.
"The court will see that," he says, but there's no protest in his voice. If anything, he sounds pleased.
"Good." You pull back to meet his gaze. "Let them wonder who gave it to you."
His hands flex against your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above bone. "You think I'll let you brand me so easily?" There's challenge in his tone, but his body betrays him—the rigid length beneath you pulses with each heartbeat.
"I think you already have," you murmur, tracing the mark blooming red against his throat. "I think you want everyone to see it."
He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the violet of his irises nearly swallowed by black. "Perhaps I do."
You work at the laces of his breeches, fingers nimble despite the tremor of desire running through them. He lifts his hips slightly to help you, a silent acquiescence that makes your power over him feel both fragile and absolute.
When you free him, he's already fully hard again, the head glistening with evidence of his arousal.
His breath stutters when you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once from base to tip with deliberate slowness. The sound he makes is half growl, half plea—a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes satisfaction bloom warm in your chest.
"Look at me," you command softly.
His eyes snap to yours, violet fire and desperate hunger. You hold his gaze as you position yourself above him, feeling him hot and hard against your entrance. The wetness between your thighs—his seed mixed with your own arousal—makes the first brush of contact electric.
You sink down onto him slowly, taking him inch by torturous inch until you're fully seated in his lap. The stretch burns sweetly, your body still tender from before, but the feeling of being filled by him again makes you moan despite yourself.
"Seven hells," he breathes, head falling back against the cushions. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't try to control your pace. Not yet.
You begin to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles that make him twitch inside you. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, but you keep your rhythm measured, controlled.
You begin to move, rising up until only the tip of him remains inside before sinking back down with agonizing slowness. Each motion draws fresh sounds from him—quiet gasps and bitten-off curses that make your own arousal spike higher. The power is intoxicating, watching the Rogue Prince reduced to trembling need beneath you.
His breathing grows ragged as you continue your torturous pace, lifting yourself almost completely off him before sinking back down with maddening slowness. You can see the effort it takes him not to thrust up into you, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.
His jaw clenches as you take your time, hands fisting in the silk of your skirts where they pool around his waist. You can see the effort it costs him to remain still, to let you dictate the rhythm when every line of his body screams for more.
"Patient, aren't you?" you murmur, trailing your fingertips down his chest. "I never thought I'd see the day."
His laugh is strained, breathless. "Don't mistake restraint for patience, sweet girl."
You lean forward, letting your lips hover just above his. "And what should I mistake it for?"
"Strategy," he says, voice rough. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your gown. "I'm letting you have your moment."
You raise an eyebrow, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath catch. "My moment?"
His smile is sharp-edged even as pleasure makes his voice thick. "You think you're in control because you're on top. Because I'm letting you set the pace." His thumbs trace higher, finding your nipples through the silk and circling them with maddening lightness. "But we both know who taught you to move like this."
The touch sends heat spiraling through you, but you don't let it break your rhythm. If anything, you slow further, until each rise and fall of your hips becomes an exercise in torture for you both.
"Perhaps," you breathe, "but you're still the one begging."
"Am I begging?" His hands slide to cup your breasts fully now, kneading the soft flesh as his hips finally jerk upward—just once, just enough to bury himself deeper and make you gasp. "Or am I simply enjoying the view?"
His thumb brushes across your nipple again, more firmly this time, and the sensation shoots straight to your core. You can't help the small sound that escapes you, the way your inner muscles clench around him in response. His smile widens, knowing.
"There," he murmurs, "that's what I wanted."
You lean down until your lips brush his ear. "And what about what I want?"
"Tell me," he breathes, his hands sliding to your hips again, fingers digging into flesh.
Instead of dignifying his question with a response, you anchor both palms flat against the solid muscle of his chest and bear down. You ride him in earnest now—none of the earlier coyness or measured pace, nothing calculated in your thrusts save raw hunger. Each downward stroke impales you on his cock, driving him impossibly deeper, until every inch of you is stretched and claimed and rendered wholly, ruthlessly his. The sensation is ferocious. It wrings sharp little cries from your lips that you cannot stifle, a symphony of surrender and defiance all at once.
The sound as your hips meet is obscene. Wet, rhythmic, an endless collision punctuated by the slap of flesh and the rasp of your breath. Somewhere below you the velvet cushions squawk and creak in protest beneath the violence of your movements, somewhere above you is only the hot blur of your own need and the violet fire of his gaze. He stares up at you as if he wants to memorize every twitch and tremor, as if your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters—even as his own self-control unravels by degrees beneath your hands.
Then that control snaps altogether.
With a guttural sound, Daemon surges upward without warning. He wraps one arm around your waist, hard and unyielding as a steel band, crushing your body flush against his. The other hand slides into your hair at the nape and fists it tight, yanking your head back to bare the column of your neck. Before you can so much as gasp, his mouth is on your throat, hot and seeking.
“Mine,” he rasps against skin gone feverish beneath his tongue. Then he bites—not playfully but with primal intent—at the place where neck meets shoulder. It’s a sharp burst of pain that vaults straight into pleasure, he worries at it with teeth and tongue until you feel blood surely just beneath the surface, until tears spring to your eyes and you have to clutch at his shoulders to hold yourself together.
You dig your fingernails through his doublet with such force that you’re surprised not to draw blood yourself. The pressure only goads him onward. Beneath you, Daemon takes command of both rhythm and tempo. He thrusts up into you with brutal precision, using every ounce of strength in those infamous rider’s hips to drive himself deeper still. The new angle makes something inside you catch fire—each movement slamming into that sweet spot inside, making lights flare at the edges of your vision.
You try to keep up with him but it’s hopeless. There’s no pacing this, only helpless submission to sensation so intense it borders on agony. You want to slow down but he won’t let you—he holds you right where he wants you and fucks into you relentlessly until pleasure becomes something desperate and frightening.
He marks you everywhere he can reach—the curve of jaw, hollow of throat, even along collarbone where bruises will flower purple-black by morning—but always returns to that first spot behind your ear. He tongues it between words when he pauses for breath, occasionally he licks at the sweat pooling there as though tasting proof of conquest.
There is no space for pretense or courtly games here now—not when ecstasy burns through both of you like wildfire.
He slows briefly just long enough to slide a hand between your legs again, thumb slicking over where you're joined. Sensation detonates outward from each rough circle until you're gasping nonsense words into his hair—beseeching or cursing him or simply wailing because it’s too much—but still he doesn’t relent.
You never thought yourself capable of begging until now.
"You think you can take control from me?" His voice is a rasp against your ear, his breath hot and damp. "You think I don't see what you're doing?"
Your answer is a moan as he hits that perfect spot again, your body clenching around him involuntarily. His laugh is dark, triumphant.
"There it is," he murmurs.
He shifts beneath you, adjusting your position without breaking his rhythm. The new angle sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes your thighs tremble with the effort to maintain even the illusion of control.
One hand leaves your hip to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with the precise pressure he knows will undo you. The dual assault—his cock driving deep inside while his fingers work their magic—makes your control slip further.
"Daemon," you gasp, the name torn from your throat.
"Say it again," he commands, voice tight with his own building pleasure. "Let me hear you."
"Daemon," you repeat, louder this time, not caring who might hear beyond these walls. His name becomes a chant, a prayer, falling from your lips with each thrust.
The tension coils tighter in your core, your movements growing erratic as you chase your release. He feels it coming—the way your inner walls flutter around him, the catch in your breathing—and doubles his efforts, fingers working faster against your swollen flesh.
"Come for me," he growls, the words vibrating against your skin. "Let me feel you break around me."
It's not the command that sends you over the edge but the raw need in his voice—the way he sounds as desperate for your pleasure as you are. Your release crashes through you with such force that your vision blurs at the edges, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. You cry out his name one final time, loud enough that it echoes off the stone walls, a sound that would scandalize the entire court if they heard.
Daemon holds you through it, his rhythm faltering only slightly as your inner walls clench and pulse around him. When you slump against him, trembling and spent, he cradles the back of your head with unexpected tenderness, his lips brushing your temple.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for once there's no calculation in the word—just awe, rough and honest against your skin.
But he's not finished. Even as aftershocks still ripple through you, you feel him growing impossibly harder inside your oversensitive flesh. His hands grip your hips again, lifting and positioning you despite your boneless state.
"Not yet," he breathes, and begins to move again—slower now but no less intense, each thrust deliberate and deep. "I'm not done with you."
You whimper at the overstimulation, your body still singing from your release, but you don't pull away. Instead you let him use you, let him chase his own pleasure while you tremble in his arms. The sensation borders on too much, pleasure and pain blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
His breathing grows ragged against your neck, his movements more urgent. You can feel him swelling inside you as his own release approaches. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks that will mirror the ones already blooming across your skin.
"Look at me," he demands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. When you lift your head, your eyes are glazed with pleasure and exhaustion, but you meet his gaze.
The raw possession in his words sends an unexpected pulse of heat through your oversensitive body. You're still trembling from your own climax, but something deep inside you responds to the hunger in his eyes, the way he watches you like you're the only thing that exists.
His thrusts become erratic, desperate. You feel him pulse inside you once, twice, then his release tears through him with a violence that makes his whole body go rigid beneath you. He pulls you down hard against him as he empties himself, his seed flooding you with liquid heat. A guttural sound escapes his throat—half growl, half prayer—as he holds you motionless, letting every pulse of his release fill you completely once more.
You feel the warmth of him spreading inside you, mixing with what remains from before, marking you in the most primal way possible. His grip on your hips is bruising, desperate, as if he's afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.
When the last tremors fade, you both remain still, breathing hard against each other's skin. The fire has burned lower while you were lost in each other, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Your body feels liquid, boneless, thoroughly claimed in ways that go far deeper than flesh.
"The feast," you murmur eventually, though neither of you makes any move to separate. "They'll notice we're gone."
His laugh rumbles through his chest where you're pressed against him. "Let them notice." His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, possessive even in gentleness. "Let them wonder what kept the Rogue Prince from their tedious company."
You shift slightly in his lap, feeling him still buried deep inside you, and he hisses at the sensation. The movement sends a fresh trickle of his seed down your thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly he's claimed you tonight.
"They'll talk," you say, though you make no effort to move away from him.
"They always talk." His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the tender skin he marked earlier. "The question is whether you care what they say."
You consider this, studying his face in the flickering firelight. His hair is disheveled, silver strands clinging to his damp forehead, and there's a smugness in his expression that should irritate you. Instead, it makes something warm curl in your chest—satisfaction at being the one to unravel his usual composure.
"I stopped caring what they say the moment you first touched me," you admit quietly.
Something shifts in his gaze at your confession—a flicker of surprise, perhaps, or recognition. His thumb continues its gentle stroking along your nape, and for a moment the silence between you feels different. Less charged with conflict, more weighted with understanding.
"Good," he says finally. "Because after tonight, there will be no hiding what you are to me."
You raise an eyebrow. "And what am I to you?"
He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re still asking. Like he’s already told you—flesh to flesh, word to word, again and again until the whole room reeks of it.
His hand curls at your neck, thumb brushing just behind your ear. Slower now. Steadier.
"You’re mine," he says.
The words are simple. Unearned, if they came from anyone else. But they don't. They come from him.
And gods, after tonight, you feel it. In your throat. In your bones. Between your thighs. In the mess you’ll carry with you to the bath tomorrow, and in the way you already dread having to share a room with anyone who dares look at him like they don’t already know.
You breathe in deep and let it out against his shoulder.
His hand stays at your nape. Your body aches in the best way a body can ache. His legs are half spread beneath yours, and he hasn’t moved to pull away. You think he won’t for a while.
You close your eyes.
Let them look.
Let them talk.
You are his, and he is yours.
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The only person who could ever sate your insatiable hunger was your older brother, Daemon.
You had been expected to marry your oldest brother, Viserys, as was tradition in your house, when you became of age. As you grew older and you became more reckless, more rebellious, your grandfather, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, ended the betrothal as he felt you were too much like Daemon. It was a relief that you wouldn’t have to marry Viserys⎯for Daemon was the one who you desired to spend the rest of your life alongside.
It had already been rumored in the court that you and Daemon were too close, always disappearing from parties around the same time, sharing lingering glances and touches, riding your dragons side by side as often as possible, and speaking hours talking to each other rather than those around you. Neither of you cared about the gossip. You did not exactly try to hide your closeness with each other nor care if anyone discovered that it was all in fact true. The Red Keep staff certainly knew it was true for they often heard the pleasurable sounds that came from your rooms.
Tonight was no different.
You pursed your lips, tilting your head as you peered down at Daemon. “Are you sure about this? We have never done this before and I do not want to accidentally hurt you.”
“Do not be ridiculous. How could you possibly hurt me in this position?” he asked in amusement.
“I don’t know⎯you could suffocate?” you suggested.
“Then I would die a happy man.”
“Daemon!”
He laughed, lightly smacking your ass. “Come on, sister,” he said, grasping your thighs to try and guide you to kneel over his face. “I’m starving and the only thing I want is you.”
You smiled. “Alright. If you need me to move at any moment⎯”
“Sit on my face already.”
His vulgar words were enough to make you move, the heat in your lower belly making its presence known. You scooted forward, your legs on either side of his head. Daemon slid his arms under your thighs, pulling you even closer. He tugged on your legs and you lowered yourself, catching the dark look in his eyes as his gaze roamed over your bare figure.
“How is this⎯?”
Before you could even finish your question, Daemon tugged on you so your cunt was right above his awaiting lips. He held your gaze even as he stuck his tongue out, licking a teasing stripe through your folds. Your lips slowly parted and you leaned forward to brace your hands against the wall. Daemon started out at a languid rate, set on savoring the taste of you. He moved his tongue up and down, side to side, and in figure eights.
You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes gazing down at Daemon. He closed his eyes, groaning against your cunt. The vibrations had a gasp escaping your parted lips. He smirked to himself, pressing his tongue more firmly against your core.
“Ohhh,” you breathed, brows furrowing together.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” Daemon murmured, repeating the motion. This time you moaned louder. He hummed in approval. “I love the sounds you make for me.”
When he wrapped his lips around your clit, your head fell back. “Ohh, Daemon!”
He closed his eyes, grunting as the taste of you coated his taste buds. He slid his tongue through your folds again, alternating between licking and sucking. Your hands dropped from the wall and you leaned back, the new angle giving Daemon more access to your cunt.
“You taste divine, so fucking sweet.”
You moved a hand, placing it on top of one of Daemon’s. He turned his hand, sliding his fingers through yours. “You and your fucking tongue,” you whispered, tilting your head to look down at your brother, “I will never get enough.”
Daemon smirked.
You were soon a moaning mess, shamelessly rocking your hips against Daemons tongue. His face was buried between your legs as much as he could, his nose brushing against your clit.
“Fuck, ohh, right there! Right there!” you loudly moaned.
Daemon worked faster, groaning into you. His fingers dug into your thighs as you moved, keeping you in place. “I knew you’d like this position,” he said, glancing up at you.
You merely hummed in response, too lost in the pleasure to form a coherent response.
Daemon alternated between licking and sucking. You were grinding on his tongue, your moans like music to his ears. He stuck his tongue out, watching as you moved back and forth. Your head was thrown back, eyes shut.
“What a sight,” Daemon murmured. You moved your head to look down at him, biting your lip. “Fucking gorgeous.”
You mewled, feeling your body start to tense. The heat in your belly was now stronger, wanting to be released. Daemon could tell.
He pulled you down further and moved his tongue with ease, your cries of pleasure urging him on. “Ohh! Daemon! Daemon!”
“Say my name again.”
“Daemon!”
He grunted against your core, feasting on your cunt with expertise. Your back arched and your hands went behind you, pressing down on his thighs for leverage. “Come, love,” Daemon grunted. “Come on my tongue.”
You rocked your hips a few more times and then came. Your entire body tensed and Daemon steadied you with his arms, still fucking you with his tongue.
“Fuck! D-Daemon!”
He made sure to keep going, wanting to taste every last drop you had to offer him. He didn’t stop until you started to pull away, starting to become overstimulated. He loosened his grip on you and you collapsed on the bed beside him, panting.
He turned to face you, smugly smiling at your blissed out expression. “That was one of the hottest things you have ever done,” he said.
You breathed out a laugh, moving to rest your head on his chest. He automatically wrapped an arm around you, tugging you even closer. “You have done that before,” you said, lifting your head to look at him.
“Not like that,” he said, his eyes scanning over your face. “I want to do it again.”
“You mean right now?” you asked, partially smiling.
“Yes, I do.”
You met his gaze and saw the hunger in them, the lust. He meant it.
A/N: A tiny lil something for Daemon and his twin. Just a taste. I’ve got a huuuuuge folder prepped for Matt and his bimbo reader, like it’s actually concerning at this point. 😇 Gawd. Also… would y’all be into a Daemon Smut Bingo? Cause I’ve been thinking. 👀 (But first I have to finish all my Tom Taylor one shots and smuts. Ya filthy animals.)
————
The stone walls whispered. The tunnel breathed, ancient and alive beneath the Red Keep, and you followed your twin brother through it, heart thrumming like a caged bird. Maegor’s tunnels were a myth to most, but to the blood of the dragon, they were memory. Daemon had discovered them first, or claimed to. Now you wandered together, a flickering torch in his hand casting long shadows on carved stone, dancing firelight across his pale silver hair and the line of his jaw.
You shouldn’t have come. That truth flickered as faintly as the flame. It should have stopped you when he turned to you, violet eyes burning with something deeper than mischief. Something darker than play. You’d seen it before in the way he looked at your maids, in the way he lingered too long after your sparring matches, in the curl of his smirk when he watched you speak with noble boys at court. But he’d never touched you. Not until tonight.
He stopped at a dead end, but his hand reached for a hidden seam. The stone groaned as he pushed it open. Inside, a narrow chamber waited. Dusty, private, old. A forgotten room in the veins of the castle, lit only by the fire he brought. He stepped inside, and without a word, he turned to you. His torch clicked into a bracket on the wall. Silence hung thick.
You stepped through the threshold, and the door slid shut behind you.
Daemon said your name low, like a prayer and a curse in one. His gaze drank you in, starting from your eyes, dropping slowly to your mouth, then to your throat where your pulse pounded. It drifted lower, to the curves your nightdress barely covered. Your breathing caught. You should have looked away. You didn’t.
He stepped closer. His fingers reached for a strand of your hair, tugging it gently, playing with the ends.
“You don’t belong to them,” he said softly. “Not to father’s court. Not to any Lord who dreams of bedding a dragon. You are mine. Always have been.”
His words made your stomach twist, but not in revulsion. There was something thrilling in it, something forbidden that soaked through your blood like wildfire. You’d known he was watching. You’d let him. You’d dressed more boldly when he was near, spoke more sweetly. And now you felt the air split between you, thick with heat.
“I want to see you,” he said. “No lies between us. Not tonight.”
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You lifted your hands and untied the thin laces at your collar. The silk slid from your shoulders, brushing over your nipples, revealing the pale skin beneath. His eyes followed it hungrily. When it pooled at your feet, he stepped closer and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured. “But I’ll teach you.”
His lips crashed into yours before you could breathe. Not a kiss. A claiming. His hands moved down your body, urgent, possessive. He gripped your hips, pulled you against the hard line of him through his breeches. You gasped into his mouth and felt him smile. It wasn’t soft.
He backed you against the wall, cold stone on your spine, heat everywhere else. His hands roamed your body like he’d starved for it. They curled over your breasts, thumbs brushing the peaks until they stiffened, and you whimpered under his mouth. That sound made him groan.
“You’re going to take me,” he said. “Here. Like the dragon you are. My dragon.”
Your fingers worked his belt loose, desperate, trembling. You shouldn’t want this. But you did. Every part of you burned for it. When his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, you stared. You felt small in comparison. But the hunger in your belly swelled, need tightening in your core.
He turned you gently, pressed your front to the stone. The cold helped you focus, just enough. His hand slipped between your legs, stroking through the slick that already coated your folds.
“So ready for me,” he said. “You’re perfect.”
He didn’t tease long. His fingers spread you open, and you bit your lip as he lined himself up behind you. The tip nudged your entrance, and your whole body tensed. He leaned over your back, breath hot against your ear.
“It will hurt a little,” he whispered. “But I’ll make you love it.”
Then he pushed in.
You gasped, breath stolen as your body stretched to fit him. The burn was sharp at first. He stilled, hands on your hips, whispering soft nothings to calm you. His fingers brushed over your belly, up to your breast, grounding you. Then he moved, slow and shallow, letting you adjust. You clenched around him, tight and slick, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Sweet girl,” he said. “So tight. Gods, you were made for me.”
Your body sang with the sensation, pain blurring into pleasure as he rocked into you with more force. His rhythm grew steadier, hips snapping against your backside, filling you again and again. You arched for him, moaned for him, fingers clawing at the stone. Each thrust lit fireworks behind your eyes. You didn’t want to think. You only wanted to feel.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Daemon, I’m yours.”
He drove into you harder at your words, voice filthy in your ear as he praised your tightness, your moans, the way you clenched around him.
Your peak built fast. He reached down and rubbed tight circles against your clit, knowing exactly how to tip you over. You broke around him, body trembling, gasping his name as you pulsed on his cock. He followed you seconds later, spilling deep inside, cursing as he did. His grip on your hips bruised, but you didn’t care.
He stayed inside you as he kissed the back of your neck, murmuring dragon-tongued phrases against your skin. You turned your head, seeking his mouth, kissing him soft and slow now.
“We should not have,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “But I’ll do it again. I’ll have you again. No matter who tries to stop me.”
You believed him. The way his body curled protectively around yours, the way your thighs still trembled with the memory of him, the way his hand slipped down between your legs once more, coaxing another wave of pleasure from you while you were still full of him.
This was no childish love. No soft courtship. This was the beginning of something dangerous. Something only fire could understand.
Summary - She battles through excruciating labour, consumed by pain and fear, desperate for her husband's presence. As the chaos around her intensifies, his calm arrival becomes her only solace. In the midst of agony, their shared strength will shape their future.
Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader
Warnings - Childbirth, strong language
Word count - 2397
Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.
"Daemon! Where is Daemon?!" I cried, my voice breaking, as I clutched the collar of the handmaiden standing before me. Her wide, terrified eyes met mine, but I could barely focus on them.
A surge of pain ripped through my body, and I moaned, doubling over as another contraction tore through me like a blade.
The girl recoiled from my grip, her hands trembling, and instinctively took a step back. "I do not know, Princess," she whispered, her voice quivering with fear.
I looked around the room, the faces around me blurring in my vision, but their voices grew louder, muddled, a cacophony that only fed the storm of rage rising inside me.
I was drowning in pain, in fear, and in helplessness. My stomach was like a battleground, each wave of agony tearing through my body, but I was determined.
With a growl of frustration, I staggered to my feet. But before I could take another step, several hands reached out to steady me, pulling at my arms, my shoulders, as if they could contain me.
As if they could control this fury, this pain.
"Back. Away. Now!" I roared, my voice laced with command. I clutched my swollen belly, my body trembling under the weight of another contraction, and my breath came in sharp, desperate gasps.
The room swirled around me, but I couldn't focus on them. I needed him. I needed Daemon.
Each breath felt like a betrayal, my own body fighting against me, my mind warring with the impossible task of bringing life into this world.
I had wanted this—had prayed for it—but no one had told me it would feel like this... like breaking into pieces, shattering and trying to put myself back together.
"Find me my fucking husband!" I howled, my forehead pressing against the bedpost, my body quaking with the intensity of it all.
The frantic movement in the room seemed endless, people darting about as if they could make a difference.
"Princess, perhaps you should lie back down," Nysah, my most trusted handmaiden, murmured gently, her voice calm, almost too calm in the midst of the chaos.
She stepped closer, her face etched with concern, her hands hovering as if unsure of what to do.
But I didn't want comfort. I didn't want softness. All I wanted was him.
I turned my head, my gaze fierce, and shot Nysah a look that could have withered stone.
"Nysah, you have served me for eight years. You know me better than anyone in this room. And for that reason alone, I haven't already thrown you out of this chamber," I snapped, my voice low and cold, dripping with the weight of my frustration.
She frowned, taking a step back, and I felt the ache in my body intensify. The contraction was unrelenting, but so was my need to find him. To feel his arms around me. Daemon...
The door to the chamber creaked open, and the room fell into an almost eerie silence. Everyone froze. The air seemed to hold its breath as a figure stepped into the doorway—Daemon.
His presence was immediate, commanding, but there was a certain ease about him, as if he were strolling through a casual afternoon, not amidst the chaos of a woman in labor.
His eyes flicked over the room, landing on me with an expression that bordered between amusement and concern.
He raised an eyebrow as he took in the scene. "Well, well," he said, his voice dripping with that unmistakable smirk. "Yelling at everyone, are we, my fierce little wife?"
A quiet, collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the room as the tension lifted with his words. His command over the situation, even with the chaos around us, was palpable.
For a moment, I almost hated him for it—he was always so calm, so unruffled—but the sight of him steadied me in a way nothing else had.
I could barely stand, my body racked with another wave of pain, but Daemon was there in an instant, his arms wrapping around me with that familiar strength, his touch grounding me.
His hand pressed gently to my back, guiding me back toward the bed with the ease of someone who had done this countless times before.
As I sank back onto the soft sheets, the sharp, biting pain eased for a moment, and I allowed myself a deep breath.
But then, the words slipped out before I could stop them: "Where the fuck were you?"
Daemon's lips quirked, a light laugh escaping him as he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Relax, love," he said, his tone warm but teasing. "I was just out retrieving an egg for our little one."
I blinked at him, my mind struggling to make sense of the absurdity of it all.
"An egg?" I repeated, incredulous, a bitter laugh almost choking me. "How nice. While I feel like I'm being ripped apart from the inside, you're out egg hunting?"
Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head as he sat beside me on the bed, brushing more strands of hair from my face, his touch gentle, almost reverent.
"You know I would never leave you if I thought you didn't need me," he murmured, his voice softer now. "But I wanted to ensure that our little dragon has a dragon of their own."
His words, simple yet filled with such affection, made my chest tighten, even as my body screamed with pain. He always had a way of making the impossible seem so... effortless.
I wanted to snap at him, to remind him that I was the one who had to endure this agony, but in that moment, I couldn't bring myself to.
Instead, I simply closed my eyes, letting the sound of his voice soothe the chaos in my mind. If he could make light of it all, then perhaps I could, too. But only just a little.
"You're insane," I whispered, my hand reaching for his, gripping it tightly as another wave of pain rolled through me.
He laughed again, low and rich, and squeezed my hand. "And yet, I still make sure you're never alone in the madness, don't I?"
His eyes sparkled with a mischievous gleam as he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to mine.
"You're right," I muttered, my breath shaky but steadying. "You do have a way of making everything better."
Daemon smiled, brushing a final kiss across my brow, his voice a soft promise in the midst of the storm. "Just wait, my love. Soon, we'll have a dragon of our own to raise."
The hours seemed to stretch on forever, each one a new battle as the pain intensified, waves crashing over me relentlessly.
I couldn't tell where one contraction ended and the next began—only that my body felt like it was being torn apart, stretched and strained beyond its limits.
Yet through it all, Daemon remained at my side, unwavering. His presence was a steady anchor in the sea of chaos, his hands never leaving mine, his voice constantly soothing.
"You're doing wonderfully," he whispered each time I gasped for breath, his fingers gently stroking my palm. "My fierce girl, keep breathing."
His words were a balm, though they did little to quell the fire burning inside me. But I clung to him, to his quiet confidence, because it was the only thing keeping me from losing myself entirely to the pain.
When the pressure built again, and I could feel the moment coming closer, I wanted to scream at him—ask him why this was so difficult, why my body had to go through such torment to bring our child into the world.
But I knew he was feeling it too.
His worry was barely hidden behind his calm demeanour, his eyes darting to the door as though expecting someone to burst in at any moment or perhaps hoping for something that might make it easier for me.
And then, after what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived.
I cried out as the final contraction ripped through me, my body tensing, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I squeezed Daemon's hand so hard I thought I might break it, but he didn't flinch, didn't pull away. His eyes never left mine.
"Almost there, love," he murmured his face inches from mine, his voice a low murmur against the deafening noise of the room.
And then, with one final, soul-shattering push, everything shifted. I felt her—a tiny, warm life slipping into the world.
I breathed in ragged, exhausted breaths as the handmaiden placed her on my chest, her small, wriggling form warm and soft against my skin.
Daemon's hand gently brushed my damp hair from my face, his voice barely a whisper.
"It's a girl," he said, his eyes wide with awe as he looked down at the tiny creature in my arms. "A little dragon."
I gazed down at the baby in my arms, her face red and scrunched in that unmistakable newborn way. She had tufts of silver hair, her tiny fingers already clutching at the fabric of my gown.
Her eyes were still closed, but there was something so perfect about her, so fragile, so ours, that I couldn't help the tear that slipped down my cheek.
"Daeneys," I breathed softly, the name slipping from my lips as if it had always been there, waiting for this moment. It felt right, the name resonating deep within me.
Daeneys. She was our little flame, our legacy.
Daemon smiled, his hand brushing over her tiny head. "Daeneys," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion, as though the weight of the moment was finally settling over him.
He leaned down, kissing my forehead gently, and I could feel the quiet pride radiating off of him. "She's perfect, my love."
I nodded, blinking back tears, my exhaustion making everything feel hazy and distant, but there was a fierce joy in my chest that no pain could ever erase.
"She is," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "She's ours."
Daemon carefully reached over, taking Daeneys gently from my arms. His hands were steady as he cradled her, and I watched in awe as he looked down at the tiny girl in his arms.
There was a look in his eyes—so full of wonder, so full of love—that I had never seen before. It was the look of a father, and in that moment, I knew he would be everything for her.
"She's going to be a great woman, just like her mother," Daemon said softly, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips as he looked up at me.
His voice was warm, full of pride, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes as if he knew the future ahead of us would be as full of challenges as it was of love.
I laughed weakly, the sound soft and unsteady as I watched him with our daughter.
"Let's hope she doesn't inherit my temper," I joked, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace settle in my chest, the weight of the pain slipping away.
Daemon's laugh was low, filled with affection as he brushed his thumb across Daeneys's tiny hand.
"If she has your temper," he said with a wink, "she'll be a force to be reckoned with."
I watched as Daemon cradled our daughter with a tenderness that left me breathless. It was then that I realized: this little girl, our little Daeneys, was not just the beginning of something new for us.
She was the bridge between two worlds, a little dragon who would carry both our legacies, and perhaps even forge her own path.
A new chapter had begun, and I couldn't wait to see what it held for us.
Daemon leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, "I promise you, she'll never be alone. Not while I'm here."
I nodded, my hand slipping into his as I watched him with our daughter. It was over. The pain, the uncertainty—it had all led to this perfect moment.
Daemon moved gently as if the world might shatter if he moved too quickly.
Cradling Daeneys in his arms, he carefully walked toward the small cradle beside the bed, where the freshly acquired dragon egg lay. Its smooth, cool surface gleamed softly in the dim light, an unspoken promise of the future.
He placed Daeneys down, her tiny body nestled comfortably in the soft blankets, and for a moment, he stood there, gazing down at both her and the egg with a look of profound pride.
I shifted in the bed, exhausted but unable to tear my gaze away.
My heart swelled as Daemon reached out to tenderly adjust the blankets around Daeneys, making sure she was settled, her small chest rising and falling with each breath.
His hands were careful, deliberate, as though he feared disturbing the fragile peace of this moment.
Then, slowly, he turned his eyes to me, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. "She's perfect," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion, as he looked from our daughter to the egg in her cradle.
I nodded, my heart full, my body still heavy from the hours of labour. "She is," I whispered, my voice hushed, reverent.
Daemon stepped back a bit, just enough to take in the sight of the two things that would forever tie us together—the tiny, fragile girl who had changed everything, and the egg beside her, a symbol of the future we would build for her.
He glanced down at Daeneys, then at the egg. "One day, our little dragon will have her own dragon," he said, his tone light, yet full of a quiet certainty. "She'll grow into her name."
I smiled, watching the two of them—Daemon, so sure, so steady, and Daeneys, so fragile yet full of promise.
I could already see the strength in her, the legacy we would build for her, and I knew without a doubt that she would carry it forward in ways we couldn't even imagine yet.
Daemon brushed a hand through his hair, still gazing down at the cradle, his fingers brushing over the egg.
"Our little dragon and her dragon," he repeated, his voice soft, almost a vow.
And for a fleeting moment, the world outside that room faded away, leaving just the three of us—Daemon, me, and our daughter—and I knew that whatever came next, we would face it together.
Proud, unbroken, and with a future ahead that no one could take from us.
A/n - Not my fav tbh I didn't really know what direction it was going until I finished so it may be a bit all over the place.
Not sure if this is common knowledge or not but I just realized that the reason Daemon was looking for eggs in the first place was so that he would have one ready when Rhaenyra gave birth.
Summary: Queen Alicent Hightower attempted to humiliate you, the pregnant wife of Daemon Targaryen, by summoning you to the throne room in a calculated power play. However, Daemon fiercely defended you, publicly dismantling Alicent’s scheme and forcing King Viserys to intervene in your favor. Alicent’s plan backfired, exposing her desperation and strengthening your bond with Daemon. Together, you stood as an unshakable force, a reminder that dragons bow to no one.
Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen
The Red Keep had always been a maze of whispers and shadows, but since Queen Alicent Hightower had risen to power beside King Viserys, the castle walls seemed alive with sharp ears and sharper tongues. You had lived within these halls long enough to understand how quickly alliances could shift, how loyalty could be traded like coin. Yet, for all the intrigue that surrounded you, you had never let the weight of court life break you.
You were Targaryen, wife to Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—and mother to his children. For over a decade, your union had weathered storms that would have destroyed others. Now, pregnant with your fourth child, you carried the latest testament to the strength of your bond. But this time, the storm came not from without, but from the very heart of the Red Keep.
The morning had been peaceful, the sun streaming through the windows of your chambers. You reclined on a cushioned chaise, a hand resting on the swell of your belly as you read. The warmth of the fire lulled you into a sense of calm until hurried footsteps interrupted the tranquility. A servant entered, pale and trembling.
“My lady,” the servant began, their voice unsteady, “the Queen requests your presence in the throne room.”
You frowned, sitting up straighter. “In my condition?” you asked, your hand instinctively cradling your belly.
The servant hesitated. “Her Grace insisted, my lady. She wishes to… address you before the court.”
You understood immediately. This was no simple summons; it was a calculated move. A veiled insult. Alicent had always sought ways to assert her power, to remind others that she ruled beside the King. Now, she sought to humiliate you in front of the court as she had done to Rhaenyra years before.
“Fetch my husband,” you said firmly, closing your book. “I will not attend alone.”
Moments later, Daemon entered, his steps deliberate, his expression dark. The servant recounted the Queen’s summons, and as they spoke, you could see the fury building in your husband’s eyes. His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.
“She dares to summon you like this?” Daemon growled. “In your condition?”
“She wishes to make a spectacle,” you replied calmly, though your pulse quickened. “To remind me—and the court—that she is queen.”
A dangerous smile spread across Daemon’s lips, one that never reached his eyes. “Then she will be reminded why I am her greatest threat.”
He helped you to your feet, his hand gentle but unyielding as he guided you. “You will not walk into her trap alone,” he promised. “And if she dares to humiliate you, I will tear her games apart.”
The throne room was filled when you arrived, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on you. But you held your head high, refusing to show any weakness. You were a dragon, and no Hightower would ever make you cower. Your hand rested lightly on Daemon’s arm as he led you into the hall, his presence a shield against the sea of whispers.
Queen Alicent stood near the Iron Throne, draped in green silk that shimmered in the torchlight. Her smile was thin, her eyes sharp as they fixed on you. King Viserys sat upon the throne, his frame frail, his face lined with illness. He looked troubled, his gaze flickering between you and Alicent.
“My lady,” Alicent greeted, her tone sweet but laced with malice. “It is so good of you to join us. I hope the walk was not too taxing in your… delicate state.”
You met her gaze evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I am quite capable, Your Grace. Though I admit I was surprised by your summons.”
“It is important for the realm to see the strength of its women,” Alicent said, her voice carrying through the hall. “Just as Princess Rhaenyra demonstrated after the birth of her sons.”
The implication was clear. Alicent wanted you to endure the same humiliation Rhaenyra had suffered years ago, parading yourself before the court mere days after childbirth. It was a calculated move to demean you and remind the court of her power.
Daemon’s low chuckle broke the tension, drawing every eye in the room. “You must be mistaken, Your Grace,” he said, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. “My wife is no servant to be paraded before the court like a curiosity.”
Alicent’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “It is a gesture of unity,” she replied, though her tone tightened. “One that would surely be appreciated by the people.”
Daemon stepped forward, his presence consuming the room. “Unity?” he echoed, his voice mocking. “Unity is forged through respect, not humiliation. My wife carries a Targaryen heir. If you think I will allow her to be used as a pawn in your games, you are gravely mistaken.”
A murmur rippled through the court, courtiers exchanging wide-eyed glances as Alicent’s composure slipped. Her cheeks flushed with anger, and her voice rose. “You overstep, Prince Daemon. This is not your decision.”
Daemon’s laugh was cold, his violet eyes darkening with fury. “Everything concerning my wife and child is my decision. And you would do well to remember that.”
The tension in the room reached a breaking point until Viserys raised his hand, his voice weak but firm. “Enough,” he said, silencing the court. “This matter is settled. My daughter-in-law will not be subjected to such treatment.”
Alicent opened her mouth to argue, but Viserys’s glare stopped her. She curtsied stiffly, her expression tight with barely concealed anger. “Of course, Your Grace.”
As you left the throne room, Daemon’s hand remained on your back, his fury palpable. Only when you were alone in your chambers did he let his anger spill over.
“She will pay for this,” he said quietly, his voice cold and dangerous. “Alicent forgets that dragons do not bow.”
“She sought to humiliate me,” you said, placing a hand on his arm. “But she failed. Thanks to you.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as he cupped your face in his hands. “I will not let anyone harm you,” he vowed fiercely. “Not her, not anyone. You are my wife, my queen, and the mother of my children. Let her play her games—I will burn her ambitions to ash if she dares threaten you again.”
You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. “We are stronger together,” you said softly. “Let her see that she cannot break us.”
Daemon kissed your forehead, his lips lingering as if to seal his promise. “Together,” he agreed, his voice low and certain. “Always.”
Word of the exchange spread quickly, the whispers echoing through the Red Keep. Alicent’s attempt to assert her dominance had backfired, and even her closest allies began to waver. The queen had sought to humiliate you but instead found herself exposed as desperate and grasping.
Within your chambers, there was peace. Daemon remained vigilant, his protectiveness extending to you and your children. The tension of the court lingered, but in his arms, you felt safe—untouchable. Alicent had underestimated the fire that burned within you and the bond you shared with your husband.
You were a dragon, and dragons did not kneel. Together, you and Daemon would ensure the world remembered that truth.
kinktober day 13, oct. 19 arranged marriage, consummation
SUMMARY: the rogue prince and the princess of humility , what's to come of you?
WARNINGS: smut 18+, arranged marriage, dornish/martell!reader, princess!reader, consummation of marriage, darling, language, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, fluff, angst, porn w/ plot
a/n: this one's later than usual, but still on time lmao, cause i stupidly decided to schedule five fics in a row for this week, but i like this one lotss. theres only six more fics left, but ive loved writing for kinktober so much omg
The first time you met Daemon Targaryen was when you married him. Hundreds of people stood at the pews, eyes glued on your frame, watching the curl and thickness of your hair, the richness of your skin, and although they couldn't see your face—covered by its veil—they could feel your aura, never-ending serenity that combated Daemon's sinister energy.
You were a Martell at heart—unbowed, unbent, unbroken, and you surely wouldn't lose your value when it came to the Rogue Prince. When you first heard that King Viserys had requested your father for your hand in marriage to his brother, you didn't know what to think. You'd spent plenty of moons in King's Landing, at the side of Aemma Arryn, but Daemon was another story.
Often, you saw him lingering at the edge of crowds, watching—like a dragon ready to burn anything in its path. You were younger then, and he was barely above the age of eighteen—so you only thought him to be handsome, but dangerously so. He lashed out at his brother, caused trouble that the ladies gossiped about, but that didn't stop your curiosity.
Throughout the years, when you courted many men of different Houses, you heard all about Daemons' escapades, through war and trouble. But you knew—just as your father had taught you—that it would be smart to marry a Targaryen. Daemon could be considered one of the worst, but securing your lineage with a Targaryen was one of the best options you had.
It took you a week to get rid of the dread of a lifestyle with Daemon, then another week just to travel to King's Landing, all your belongings packed away like you were going to war. You still had your life ahead of you, but you'd heard rumors of Daemon's marriage to Lady Rhea Royce, and you didn't want the same fate as hers—and you would make sure you wouldn't. Even if it meant breaking out of your nature.
The wedding dress you wore was the same one your mother wore when she married your father—burnt orange and red tones, so long that the entire thing weighed on your spine. It dragged down the aisle like its own powerful force, tendrils of vines and greenery dripping from it. The veil itself was white, matching your bodice, and dripped down to the floor as well, covering your face in sheets of lace and tulle.
"Don't falter, yes?" Your father muttered, holding you close as he walked you down the aisle, eyes never-ending, but you could feel his hands trembling upon you, chest rising and falling raggedly. You nodded at his words, watching the floor so you wouldn't fall.
Taking a pause, you and your father bowed to King Viserys, then continued walking, stepping up the steps of the altar, then finally, your father left you with Daemon. He wore a deep red long jacket and trousers, a black shirt beneath, lined with jewels and diamonds, and a long cape covered in velvet, black and silver designs.
You could feel his eyes examining you, hands raising to grab yours, and you let him, squeezing tightly, a heavy inhale making your chest rise. As the septon began his speech, two ladies-in-waiting came to your side, grabbed the edges of your veil, and lifted it.
You locked eyes with Daemon then, and you couldn't mistake the deep smirk on his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. His snow-white hair was cut short, skimming his ears, and his violet eyes slid down your face, nodding in acceptance at your appearance.
Rolling your eyes, you pulled your hands from his, glancing at the crowd, trying to find a familiar face. You saw Rhaenerya with her children and husband—looking so alike to Aemma that she hurt to look at—as well as Queen Alicent, eyes on you heavily, lip quirked into a sort of grimace, but you didn't pay any mind to it.
"Do you take my hand in marriage?" Daemon suddenly said, and you dragged your attention back to him, nodding, "yes, I do." The septon cued for you to repeat the same words, and you did. When Daemon didn't answer immediately, it seemed as if everyone shifted to the edge of their seats, but you watched Daemon, nails digging into his palm.
"My Prince, do you take my hand in marriage?" You said again, voice still light, face placid, despite the deep irritation you felt because he was just trying to make a fool of himself—or perhaps you. A ploy to have a sense of rebellion because you knew he had no real choice in marrying you either.
He needed your reputation to boost his own. You were multifaceted, not just because you were a Martell, but because they referred to you as one of the kindest to grace Westeros. You used your family's wealth to better the common folk in Dorne, and like many others in your Kingdom, you didn't fall into the womanly duties that the ladies of the South did. You carried a sword when you needed to and fought for your life if it meant living.
Of course, they thought you were a fool, but you didn't care.
"I do." Daemon dragged out, hand wrapping around your waist to pull you close. You heard the shocked gasp of the people when he kissed you—it wasn't traditional, or at least not so openly. He swallowed your lips off your face, tongue entering first, eyes barely open as he watched you through the kiss, smirking.
When you pulled away, you were thoroughly embarrassed—cheeks so hot to the touch you felt you were melting.
The dinner after was an entirely different story. You and Daemon sat in the grand seats at the front of the room, each of your families on either side. The rest of the common folk danced about the room, some coming up to greet and congratulate. Daemon hadn't eaten a lick of his food, though, but he was drinking, or rather guzzling wine.
He leaned against your chair, speaking to you about the battle he'd finished moons earlier. "You wouldn't believe how disgusting the bastards are." He spat, reaching over to grab your goblet, downing the entire thing with one sip. You sighed heavily, trying to keep your composure. "Is this your way of torturing me? Want to show everyone how much of a fool I was for agreeing to this?" You spat, shoving his hand away from you, and Daemon chuckled.
"Oh, please, we both know I'm the closest you're going to get to marrying a Targaryen. Not to mention the children—violet-eyed, fire-breathing, curly-haired, and rich-skinned, the last few courtesy of you. You want the power, like every other stuck-up bastard in this building."
He kissed your cheek when you huffed, arm wrapping around your shoulders to pull you closer than your chairs allowed. "I remember you, you know. Lingering around Aemma years ago—you were pretty then, still are, but I see something else."
You hummed, "what do you see?" "hate, for something. Tell me." You scoffed, pinching his wrist, and Daemon pulled away, rolling his eyes, "not close enough yet? Well, after tonight, we'll be closer than ever." You blushed despite yourself, shivering when he slipped his hand between your thighs, caressing the delicate skin there.
Clearly, he wasn't as drunk as he wanted to be perceived. You could still see that cunning look in his eyes, the wine a facade, and more importantly, an excuse so he could act up.
As another round of music started up, Daemon pulled you out of your chair, "let's dance—I want to loosen you up a little." He tugged you onto the dance floor in the center of the Great Hall, hands on your hips, forehead hovering against yours, and he raised his eyebrows, "I'm not as mean as they paint me out to be, darling."
You wrapped your arms around his neck for purchase as he spun you, one of his hands slowly slithering over the side of your body, then gripping the back of your neck firmly.
"Then what would you like me to believe, Daemon?" You let out a rough grunt when he grabbed the hair at the base of your neck and tugged your head back, lips whispering against your chin. "That I do care—about you."
"Care about me like you cared for Rhea Royce?" He paused a smidge, but tried to cover it up with a chuckle, "she was nothing, you are everything. You've got the power, the charm, the beauty. You'll give me smart children worth more than I ever was."
"Is that all I am to you—a babe maker?" You jabbed your hand into his stomach, and his grip loosened on your hair.
"I am simply a man."
"All men are stupid. You more so than others." He shrugged at your words, kissing you once more, and you let him. It was rougher than the last one, his hand wrapping around your throat, teeth ramming into yours as he let out a rough moan.
"I'm not someone you can control." You spat when he pulled away and Daemon chuckled, "I can tell. You're overly critical of me. You think I'm going to slit your throat in your sleep."
"No, I don't. My father would bring hell upon Westeros if you did that." Both you and Daemon glanced over at your father, and Daemon's jaw clenched when he saw your father was already watching, fists clenched against the table.
"I've misread you then." You nodded in agreement, taking control of the dance and pushing you and Daemon farther into the mass of the crowd, trying to drown out your father's gaze.
Daemon became bolder at that prospect, and he gripped your hips once again, and spun you around, one arm barred across your chest, "only when you say will we go."
You shook your head, smiling, "you'll learn that I like plainness, Prince."
He nodded, "darling, I want to fuck you." Your heart sped into a steady thump when he said it, and you nodded slowly, "I don't want a spectacle."
"Then you won't have one. If we slip out now, they won't follow." Daemon grabbed your hand and tugged you towards the door, eyes followed, but with one glare from Daemon, they kept their mouths closed.
You couldn't deny the rush of excitement in your veins at being with Daemon.
He guided you to the nearest room, which happened to be the Throne Room. He ordered the guards to leave, then tugged you over to the steps in front of the Iron Throne, "you'll find I'm akin to a bunny." He muttered, lips ghosting over your shoulders as he tugged your dress down—easier to change you out of than your ceremony dress.
Daemon's fingers ran down your spine, pleased with himself when you shivered. "Though I am one to ask, always." You braced your hands on the steps, knees digging into the floor. Your body burst with goosebumps as Daemon pulled off the rest of your dress, hands grabbing the edge of your shift and tugging it over your hips.
He hummed in appreciation at the sight of your dripping cunt, fingers threading through your folds and rubbing at your clit. He used his other hand to rub over your ass, delivering sharp slaps.
"I want out of King's Landing." You muttered, eyes rolling closed as he thrusted a finger inside of you, pushing slowly, and Daemon hummed, "where to then? Dragonstone?"
You shrugged, shuddering when he entered another finger, trousers shuffling behind you as he shoved them past his knees. You glanced back and didn't miss the vulnerability in his eyes, but he covered it with a smirk, meeting your lips with his own.
A few seconds later, Daemon pressed his tip to your entrance, drifting through your folds and dragging against your clit. Moans seeped from your lips as Daemon tugged you to your feet, hand wrapped around your front to support you. He sucked on the tender skin of your neck and slowly thrusted into you, widening you entirely.
"Got a castle from Coryls Velaryon after the War for the Stepstones. I'll take you on Caraxes." He chuckled as you shook your head, "on your dragon?" His pace increased as you approached your climax, little grunts of pleasure escaping from his lips and brushing your ear.
"Yes, get used to—" he paused when you started meeting his thrusts, hands tightening on your skin, muscles tensing, and you reached back and threaded your fingers into his hair, "I'm close!"
Daemon nodded, quickening his pace enough to have the sound of his skin on yours echoing through the Throne Room.
"I want you pregnant—quickly." He muttered, and you scoffed, "not yet." He scoffed, "and why not?"
"Because I don't want to be abandoned with babes when we argue. I want you to love me—adore me, so much that it would hurt for me to be mad at you." Daemon grumbled, gripping your throat, and when you came, he smirked against your cheek, "bold of you to assume I'm going to fall in love with you."
Daemon shoved out of you quickly and came over your back, still rutting the length of his dick against you, and you chuckled, scoffing, "the fact that you listened proves you will."
