cw: dubcon, allusions to throat fucking, power imbalance, no actual smut
based on this imagine: daeron being high out of his mind and throat fucking one of his maids because he genuinely can't tell that he isn't in the brothel anymore
During a final sweep of the castle to see that the household was all in order, you were interrupted as a certain sandy-haired man barged his way into the otherwise empty guest bedchamber.
“Finally, a proper bed in this establishment,” he groaned.
Even with his disheveled hair concealing most of his features, there was no denying his identity.
“My Prince!” You dropped into a deep curtsy, trying your best to conceal your surprise. In your two moons working at Summerhall, you had never crossed paths with the heir of the castle. Never mind been in the same chamber as him. Alone.
It seemed he was equally confused seeing you. Or maybe he was just confused in general.
His reactions and mannerisms were sluggish and dopey as he shuffled his feet to stand directly in front of you.
Tilting your head upwards to get a good look at him, you noticed how dilated his pupils were. The whites of his eyes had turned red like a Lannister banner. You had heard the tales of his proclivity for wine from other maids in the servants’ quarters, but you had been around enough drunkards to know that this was no alcohol.
The prince had ventured beyond his usual vice this evening.
“You are a queer whore.” He raked his eyes back and forth over your figure, taking in the black linen that covered all parts of your arms and legs. “And this…” he gestured vaguely at your modest costume and laughed haughtily, “is meant to entice your patrons?”
He froze when he spotted the three-headed dragon sewn into the collar of your robe. A cruel irony. He could never escape his family, even in his most desperate attempts to dissociate.
He huffed cynically at what he mistook as a replica of his house uniform, “Well, points for effort.”
He tossed his leather coin purse up and down in the palm of his hand. The jingle of metal chimed sweetly against your ears, equal parts tantalizing and alien to you.
“Your Grace-”
He threw his coin purse on the floor beside you like it meant nothing to him. The impact caused several golden coins to spill out of the fastening-more wealth than you’d ever held at one time.
“Here. Take what you’d like.”
You slowly lowered yourself onto your knees as he let his cloak slip from his shoulders onto the ground. You ran your thumb over the engravings and marveled at the brilliant metallic gleam- of course they was genuine. With as much dignity as you could maintain in your position, you stuffed a handful into your pocket.
When you lifted your chin again, you were taken aback by the bulge directly ahead of your face. With his cloak now removed, there was no hiding the tent in his trousers.
He stared down at you expectantly, with half-lidded eyes.
Your mind raced through the choices and consequences presented before you.
If you said no? You risked upsetting the blood of the dragon. A prince of the realm. The future Lord of Summerhall.
If you said yes? Well… every Fleabottom-born wretch sold parts of themselves- be it body, sword, or honour. What was your mouth for only one evening? Whatever he bought from that merchant from the Free Cities was powerful enough that he wouldn’t remember this in the morning. Your position in the household would remain secure. And you’d have more gold in your hand than you ever believed possible.
“It won’t suck itself.” he grumbled, growing weary of your trepidation.
In silent acceptance, you parted your lips for him.
Maybe this was just another royal duty they forgot to inform you of in the job description.
