A directioner que habita em mim, está feliz pela realização do sonho de adolescente! 14.12.2022 simplesmente o dia mais feliz da minha vida inteira! E eu nunca vou esquecer isso. Obrigada Harry, por me proporcionar tanta felicidade, em meio ao caos que tem sido minha vida, eu amo tanto você 😭🥹🧡
The Directioner who lives in me is happy for the realization of the teenager's dream! 2022.12.14 simply the happiest day of my entire life! And I'll never forget that. Thank you Harry, for giving me so much happiness, in the midst of the chaos that has been my life. I love you so much 😭🥹🧡
cw: arranged marraige, enemies to lovers, drugging, medieval contraception, unreliable narrator, tags to be added as the story continues
Masterlist
Ao3
Word Count: 6k
The next morning, he brought you tea again. It felt like a reflection of that first day. This time, though, there was no need for the peace offering.
It felt even more odd the more you thought about it. It had seemed a sort of apology before, but now you knew Daeron better and were fully aware that he’d had no intention of making peace with you the morning after your wedding. It had been kind in a way you had not known him to be since, even now that you had grown far closer and moved past the animosity that had plagued you for so long.
You took a sip out of the cup anyway, wondering what had caused it that first time. Perhaps a maid or a cook that had taken pity on you and given it to Daeron with strict instructions. He was not incredibly prone to following orders but you supposed it could make sense if it hadn’t inconvenienced him too much or if it would have been more effort to refuse the idea.
“This tea is terrible, by the way,” you said after you’d swallowed a second gulp of it. “I appreciate the effort but it’s very bitter.”
He shrugged, seeming disinterested in the complaint. At least he wasn’t cross with you. “Is it? I've never tried it.”
That too seemed odd. You couldn’t understand why he would bother to bring you tea he didn’t even drink. More than that, you were unsure why he was bringing you tea in the first place. The first time had been after that horrible first night but there was no need for that now, whether it was from him or one of the palace staff. And yet here it was, brought to you all the same.
You opened your mouth to ask about it but no words came out. Something inside you insisted it was not a good idea to push, not when he was being so kind, when you slotted together so well after so long. The last thing you wanted him to think was that you did not trust him. It had been hard won, but he did have your trust.
You finished half the drink before you set it down, unable to stomach any more of the stuff, even sweetened as it was by the growing fondness towards the one who had brought it to you.
He headed out for the day before long, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leaving. You had no real idea what he spent most of his days doing. You doubted it was princely duties, though you supposed perhaps sometimes his father cornered him or Egg begged hard enough for company. Most of the time, he simply disappeared, seemingly always busy but with nothing to do. It had struck you as some urge for distraction, an inability to sit, unoccupied and sober, for too long. Averse to any activity too conducive to thinking.
You had not pushed the issue either way. He had warmed to you in the ways that mattered, he was more than welcome to keep the secrets of his days.
Unlike Daeron, you had no duties to avoid. Your days were filled with little, ignored by almost everyone within the palace walls who was not obligated to tend to you. Boredom still wracked you, from time to time, but the days passed easier with newfound company, and a bit of newfound freedom as well. You were certain Maekar didn’t know about it, but the stablehands seemed more than happy to allow you to ride Daeron’s horse from time to time. Never for too long and never straying too far, but it was a breath of fresh air all the same. The stablehands honestly just seemed happy that someone was actually coming to ride the beast. You imagined regardless of your presence, someone had to exercise it regularly to keep it in shape. It was certainly a more pleasant experience for you, coming and going as you did, as opposed to servants who would have had to fit it into a long list of duties.
So, despite how displeased you suspected some parties might be if they learned of your rides, you had no intention of running off and everyone actually involved seemed more than happy to allow you them.
That was where you found yourself headed today, doing your best to take small steps down the stairs as you’d been taught to instead of skipping steps to move faster. You never would have so much as considered it before coming here but something about this place was degrading your manners and good sense. It was no wonder the Targaryen sons had turned out the way they had.
You had come to love the scent of the stable. It was, objectively speaking, a largely unpleasant scent. It was certainly made up of the smells of unpleasant things. But that mattered little when it was your escape hatch to freedom, if only for a few hours.
You entered the room to see one of the stable boys brushing Daeron’s nameless horse, muttering something to her in low tones. It took noticing the boy’s hairless head to realize it was not, in fact, a stable boy but instead Prince Aegon, gently brushing over the hide of the horse while standing atop a small wooden box so he could properly reach her back, eyes shining as he cleaned her.
It was too sweet a sight for you to get cross with him, despite the fact that he most certainly was not supposed to be here. Besides, you were not meant to be out here either.
You watched him for a while, the boy incredibly oblivious to you as he focused intently on the task in front of him. You had half a mind to leave him to it, loath to disturb him.
But here, in this lonely castle, you could not afford to pass up the opportunity for a pleasant conversation.
“How does your hair not grow back?” you asked as you watched him, well aware you sounded rude but almost certain the boy wouldn't mind.
He started a bit at the sound of your voice, whipping around with his shoulders tensed. As soon as he saw you he relaxed once more, the fear leaving him as quickly as it had come. He smiled a little at you before returning to his task. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Or, at least you shouldn’t sneak up on me. Daeron helps me shave it every few weeks. It makes father very cross but I think that just makes him enjoy doing it more.”
You laughed. It certainly seemed plausible. “I suppose that is kind of him, though I don’t really understand the point of it.”
“It makes me feel less like them,” he said, putting force behind his words. “And this way when I sneak out, no one can tell it’s me! The white hair was a problem, people notice it too quickly. Especially here. They notice my lack of hair too, but at least they don’t drag me back here after.”
You quietly thought it was a clever little notion but decided against voicing it. He didn’t need any further encouragement of his mischief. “I suppose. It is good to know all the tales I had heard of you and your brothers’ misdeeds were not exaggerated. You’re all exactly the little troublemakers everyone swore you were.”
“You’re getting along better,” he said with a toothy grin. “You and Daeron, I mean.”
“We are,” you conceded happily. “I must thank you for those kind words you said about me to Daeron. I think they have helped. He holds your opinion in high esteem.” The boy beamed at the praise and you were glad of it; even more glad he would not be faced with the truth of the matter. Besides, everything had worked out in the end.
He glowed with pride at the compliment, puffing his chest out a little where he stood. “Of course. He would have come around eventually, he’s not wholly unreasonable. Just a bit dim sometimes. But I gave him a push in the right direction.”
“Either way,” you added graciously. “I am glad you did.”
He nodded resolutely. “If you ever need me to knock some sense into him again, I can. He is easy to persuade. At least, for me he is.”
You laughed, unable to hold it back and hoping it was clear to the boy that you were not laughing at him. “Of course. Thank you.”
“So that’s you two sorted then?” he asked, seemingly trying to make the words sound casual and to hide his curiosity. You were not quite sure why the state of you and your husband seemed to have been weighing on him so heavily but it was clear that it had.
You were not, strictly, sure how to answer his question. You supposed you could lie to him, though that seemed inconsiderate considering how much he had done to help you these past weeks. But, if you were being honest, you were unsure if you were sorted. It seemed, factually, as if you should be. You had spoken, resolved the worst of your issues. It was not a perfect marriage, that was clear to anyone who had observed the pair of you for any amount of time, but it was turning into something pleasant. But still, something was ill at ease inside of you, the nagging feeling only growing as time passed.
The mistrust felt like a betrayal, a holdover from when you’d endlessly, hatefully circled each other. But it hurt no one to ask a question. Frankly, you would be remiss to not at least ask and let your mind rest on the issue. Then everything would be settled and you could truly start anew, no leftover suspicion haunting your new relationship.
“Does your brother like tea?”
Aegon looked at you like you might have lost your mind. “The last time my brother drank anything that wasn’t alcohol he was probably around my age.”
It made sense, certainly. Daeron did not exactly seem the type, he had probably just gotten it for you to be kind. But then, you had known that already. So why were you asking?
Something about it still bothered you, lingering in the corner of your mind.
You bid Aegon farewell and pretended not to notice the way his eyes narrowed a little as you left, clearly having caught on to your ill ease. He was gracious enough not to mention it.
You had gone down for a ride, you thought to yourself as you ascended the stairs once more, heading towards your chambers. You had gone down with a purpose. Nothing awaited you in your room except for more boredom, nothing but waiting and hidden away alcohol from Daeron.
And yet, you could not convince your legs to stop their stride, your path diverted.
The room was still empty when you returned to it, the curtains drawn in exactly the same way, though the light cast across the floor had shifted with the journey of the sun.
You knew you’d come back to look around, to try and quell your rising suspicions. It felt awful and devious, though you weren’t sure it should. Why shouldn’t you poke around? It was your room as well, there was no reason why you shouldn’t go looking around to ease your mind.
The rationalization did nothing to abate the rising nausea inside of you. But then, the nausea did nothing to stop you from rummaging around once more, just as you had weeks before when looking for Daeron’s hidden stash of booze.
That had been easy to find. Barely hidden at all, you had ended your search almost as soon as you’d begun. At the time it had been advantageous but now, looking for something, anything, that might substantiate your suspicions, it left a daunting amount of the room open.
Despite your concerns, you did not have to look for long. In your mind, it had seemed impossible that this would amount to anything other than you searching for hours, hunting through every hidden spot in the room, guilt building inside you all the while. In your mind, Daeron would return to find the room half destroyed and see you with a regretful look on your face, knowing what you’d done instantly.
In reality, it took less than an hour before you were pulling a board out of the back of his closet, visibly loose as it had not been placed back into its slot properly whenever it was last removed. A decent hiding space, you supposed, if he actually reassembled it correctly. Not that that mattered. He had not done so and as such, you’d found it shortly.
And then, as you peered inside, there it was; a small tin of tea, nothing ostentatious or beautiful about it, nothing to suggest it may have been an ill-considered gift. Instead it was a plain, inconspicuous tin, hidden away by a man who did not drink the stuff. There was even a small tea strainer next to it as if he’d been making the stuff himself.
You could think of no rational explanation for this that did not involve something nefarious. Princes did not brew their own tea, especially Princes who did not drink the stuff for a wife they had hated at the time. It had been an odd enough occurrence to see it happen when you thought all he had done was called for some and given it to you.
Perhaps it was ungenerous but any logic you had left in you was steadily overridden by a growing feeling of betrayal. How dare he lull you into this false comfortability knowing he was hiding whatever this was from you? You would have expected this from him before, been frightened and cautious but not betrayed, but then he had gone and made you think you were building something. You would have preferred if he had just let you rot in your loneliness. At least then you would not be so shocked by this.
The creak of the door sounded and you whipped around, locking eyes with Daeron instantly. The hurt and anger was evidently written across your face because he reeled back, stumbling into the now shut door behind him. You watched his eyes dart down to the small tin in your hand and realization bloom across his face. “I can explain,” he blurted out, at least making no attempt to pretend it was nothing, that you were mad for being suspicious upon its discovery.
“Can you? Explain what, an attempt to poison me? I understand it just after our wedding but I thought we were getting closer. Was all this newfound kindness just an attempt to get me to trust you? I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, eyes frantic and voice clearly an attempt at something calming. It was not having its intended effect. “I would not poison you, not then and certainly not now. Surely you must know that.”
“I thought I did, but I cannot imagine what else this could be? What else could be so terrible that you could not allow the servants to brew it, that you tucked it away where it would not be found and did not so much as mention this to me? I am not a fool, Ser, as much as you might think me one.”
“I do not think you a fool,” he protested. “I-- It’s moon tea. Intended to prevent unwanted pregnancies. I did not tell you because I thought if I had, you might have refused to take it.”
You reeled back, confusion striking through you. “What? My entire purpose now is to bear you heirs.”
“And it is a purpose I am entirely opposed to, I think you’ll find. It was not so much a problem when I intended to never speak to you again but now that we are more often intimate, it is the only way to ensure such things.”
“I do not understand. Why would you not want heirs?”
He seemed confused by the very question. “Why would I not want heirs? I have lived my entire life burdened by this curse, these visions. The last thing I want is to pass them onto someone else, to keep these nightmares alive for generations to come. No, let me do my part. I will do everything I can to ensure this curse dies with me. I will not be party to it continuing on any longer.”
“And what does that mean for me?” you demanded.
“What, in that people will not consider you a proper wife? It is a small price to pay, I think.”
You scoffed. “I am so glad my reputation is not a concern to you, Ser. So much so, it seems, that you have decided I did not need to be consulted. I think you will find that I was not asking after my reputation, despite your foregone conclusions. Is it safe for me to drink? What does it mean for my health? Surely a drink meant to end a life before it began is not entirely without consequence.”
He paused, eyes darting anxiously away from you. “The women at the brothel take it all the time.”
“So you did not even think to ask,” you concluded, saying the part he so clearly did not want said. “You did not want a child and found a solution so you did not look too hard.”
“You do not understand,” he echoed once more.
“I think I do. I think I understand perfectly. Thank you, Ser, for providing clarity on exactly where we stand. It is much appreciated.”
You stormed towards the door, pushing him out of the way to make your getaway. He did not follow.
Your legs guided you onwards with no input from you, knowing exactly where you needed to go as your mind reeled in shock and anger.
You got your morning ride after all, trying to appear as calm as you could as you watched the stablehand saddle up Daeron’s horse. You supposed it might be considered stealing but it seemed a victimless crime considering he wanted the horse gone and likely wouldn’t notice it’s absence for years, when he finally got around to asking if it had died of old age yet.
You didn’t know where you were going, only that you could not stand to be here any longer. It was suffocating. You just took off into the woods, following the paths and keeping track of your turns so you could find your way back but thinking of little else.
It was faster than you’d ever ridden the beast but it seemed more than happy to listen. Another creature kept bored and cooped up by your languid prince. You supposed you had more in common with her than almost anyone else. Your stomach turned once more at the thought.
Eventually, she did need to rest, even if you were content to ride on forever. It was certainly better than anything else that awaited you. It was for the best, you supposed. You weren’t sure you would have had the presence of mind to stop without her. There was calmness in the motion, a separation from everything that had occurred. As you dismounted the horse, allowing her to drink from a nearby stream, it all settled back into place, the frustration and anger and betrayal.
You gave Daeron’s horse more space than you probably should have, settling onto the shore as you watched her. You didn’t know the beast particularly well, and as such could not gauge how much of a flight risk she might be. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. If she wanted to escape this place, who were you to stop her?
“Are you running away?” a voice asked from behind you.
You started, reeling back to look for the owner of the voice. You found Aegon, barely tall enough to be half the horse's height, looking up at you with those big eyes of his. He was tucked inside of a dark cloak, clearly trying to obfuscate his identity. It was not working but you understood the intended effect.
“I am not,” you replied, trying to hide how much he had startled you. “I have nowhere to run to.”
“Never stopped me before,” he posited, kicking at a rock that lay on the forest floor. It rolled into the river, ripples echoing out from where it had fallen.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the same penchant for escaping that you do.”
“You have to start sometime. We can go on an adventure together, if you’d like.”
It was a remarkably sweet offer. You hoped he’d be able to hold onto his kindness into adulthood, though you very much doubted it.
Despite the sweetness, it was impossible. You wanted to say yes, if only to reward his kindness, but you knew you could not escape the way he did. He was a boy, one who belonged here. You could not hide amongst his people in the same way he could. “I wish that I could,” you said, hoping he understood how genuine you were.
He seemed to understand what you were saying, at least somewhat. “That’s alright. I can stay and wait with you for a while. I have a while before they notice I’m gone.”
You nodded, knowing it was probably going to mess up his plans but grateful for the company all the same.
An easy silence fell over the pair of you as he settled in beside you, the mud below you staining his pants as he sat. You hadn’t even noticed the mud until now. You imagined your dress was ruined. You didn’t bother to look, unable to make yourself care.
Aegon traced lines in the mud as the pair of you watched Daeron’s nameless horse drink from the stream and wander nearby. She was remarkably well behaved and every time you took her out, you became more and more confused about Daeron’s declaration that she had been some sort of revenge from Maekar. It seemed more likely that Daeron had known nothing and had simply been assuming the worst of his intentions.
After a while, you heard stomping off in the distance accompanied by the sounds of branches snapping and distant cursing. You turned to Aegon, expecting him to flee before whoever was stamping through the forest stumbled upon them. Instead, he just sighed. “Daeron,” he said by way of explanation. “He’s the worst on hunts. I don’t think he could scare off more animals if he tried.”
The sound of a branch whipping back into place followed shortly by more cursing echoed off the trees. “Is he on foot?” you asked incredulously.
“It certainly sounds like it.”
You both watched in quiet curiosity as Daeron emerged from the foliage, relief shining in his eyes as he took in the two of you. He stood, half bent over himself, breaths sounding heavy and ragged. “Could you not do this closer to the palace? It was a nightmare following you here.”
“I didn’t really consider how easy it would be for you to stumble your way here when I chose to stop. Why did you not bring a horse?”
“You stole my horse,” he whined.
“There are other horses,” you parried.
He seemed, at most, vaguely perturbed by your statement. “I suppose.”
“And why are you here?” he asked Aegon, sounding vaguely accusational. “I don’t know where you should be but it is certainly not in the middle of the woods.”
“You’re not supposed to be here either,” Aegon declared indignantly.
“I was out looking for my wife,” Daeron whined at him.”
“Maybe I was out looking for your wife too. I certainly found her faster.”
The brothers both scrunched their noses up at one another, Daeron clearly fighting back a smile as he did. “Right, I’m sure.”
“And it seems you might have had a head start. I didn’t even know she was out here, I just found her like this. She seems rather cross with you.”
You did not give Daeron the chance to respond. “Did you know he’s been poisoning me?”
Aegon’s head whipped around, his eyes wide. “What?”
You nodded firmly as Daeron quickly insisted, “I did not poison you.”
“He did,” you said, more than happy to ignore him. “Like a prostitute, he said.”
“I did not poison you nor do I poison prostitutes.”
“No, you just drugged me with something that could be poisonous. You simply did not think to ask.”
Aegon looked up at Daeron, his nose wrinkled with distaste. “Did you really?”
“I… It is not poison. The prostitutes who take it all seem to be getting on just fine.”
Aegon looked up at him like he was a moron. You appreciate the sentiment. “I told you to be nicer to her.”
“I am!” he said, voice pitching up as it turned a bit frantic. “I am. She wasn’t meant to find out about this. We were getting on fine.”
You scoffed. “Oh, of course. It is fine because he intended to lie to me forever.”
“Listen,” Daeron said, clearly trying and failing to put any sort of authority in his tone. “This is not a matter for children. You should run off and do whatever nonsense you were planning to do.”
“Even children know you should not drug your wife,” Aegon posited. “It is bad form.”
“Yes, that much is becoming clear to me.”
“Becoming?” you cried, incredulously. “You are a hopeless man.”
Aegon glanced between the pair of you. “Daeron, be nicer. If you don’t I will be very cross when I get back.”
Despite how upset you might be, he was endlessly endearing. You did your best not to coo at him, lest you harm his attempt at being authoritative. “You heard the boy. You’d best watch out, Ser.”
Likewise, Daeron seemed to be holding back laughter as best he could; some of the manic, defensive energy fleeing him. “Yes, I will keep that in mind.”
Aegon nodded as if things were settled and turned on his heels. “Now, I must be going. The guards will be looking for me soon.”
“Best of luck, Egg,” Daeron called off as they watched Aegon’s cape swish behind him as he ran off.
“Should you not follow him?” you asked as you watched him disappear into the foliage.
Daeron, still not quite breathing normally after his journey through the woods, laughed. “I appreciate the faith that I could catch him. Besides, he won’t rat us out. The guards will never know we saw him.”
You did not appreciate that he thought your foremost concern was getting into trouble with the guards. “Aren’t you worried about him?”
“No, he can handle himself. The boy deserves a bit of freedom every now and then. He’s a clever kid, he’ll find his way.”
You hummed, hoping he was right. His judgement had not been proven particularly sound to you recently so you weren’t inclined to believe him but the boy did seem to have a good head on his shoulders.
Daeron seemed inclined to take your silence as an invitation to speak once more. “It really is not dangerous. I have not discussed it, as such, but they told me the things I needed to know. How much to give you, how often. They would not let me hurt someone simply because I did not want a child. You’ve seen it, they’re more than willing to tell me when I’ve stepped out of line.”
You hummed again, uneager to engage in this conversation once more.
He held out a hand for you, clearly attempting to help you stand from the riverbank. You ignored it, rising to your feet on your own, skirts heavy with mud. He seemed disinclined to get near his horse so you grabbed her too, leading her back towards the trail. You had half a mind to pull yourself back into the saddle and ride towards the palace without him but that seemed closer to vindictiveness than anything productive, though that did nothing to make the prospect less tempting.
Daeron fell into step beside you, no idea how close he had been to being abandoned. It was probably for the best you had not as it became increasingly clear that Daeron had no idea how to get back from where they’d come. Frankly, the more you watched him traverse the woods, the more it seemed a miracle that he’d managed to find you in the first place.
He also refused to take the hint and be quiet. “Did you want children?” he asked, clearly trying and failing to keep his words light.
You shrugged, realizing you needed to respond eventually or he would simply keep talking. “I wasn’t really allowed to want anything. It was simply what was going to happen.”
“But now it is not, so what do you want?” he pushed.
“They will be cross with me, if I do not produce you heirs.”
“That is not what I asked,” he insisted. You eyed the horse once more, imagining the easy escape that was so close at hand. “It does not matter if they are cross with you. They are cross with me nigh on constantly.”
“I don’t know why you cannot seem to understand that it is a different matter, them being upset with you and with me.”
“We can blame it on me then,” he said, seeming mildly exasperated by your constant questioning. “Or figure something else out. But we cannot make a plan if we do not know what we are planning for. And to do that we need to know what you want.”
It seemed a ludicrous question, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he would not allow this line of questioning to end without an answer. “I don’t know.”
He considered you for a moment, eyes intense and questioning, before nodding. “Alright. Well, think on it. We are married, we must start to scheme together now.”
“So long as you are not scheming against me, I do not mind,” you said, the words slipping out before you could think on them. It was a mistake you never would have made when you arrived here months ago. He was a poor influence on you.
He simply laughed in response. “You are right, of course. No more secrets. I don’t know why I attempt scheming anyways, I don’t think I have the capacity for maintaining anything so complex, nor have I the interest. It was doomed to fail from the beginning.”
“I don’t mind some secrets,” you reassured him. “You’re entitled to some privacy, and I would not expect any such thing from you. It is only when your secrets revolve around my life that I begin to take issue.”
He shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. “No, I think a lack of secrets would be best. Trying to remember what you should and should not know is too tiresome. Besides, it is no great hardship to me. My father will tell you as much, it is easier to catch me in a lie most of the time than it is to find me.”
“Your fixation on honesty is practical, then. Less to worry about if you disregard manners and discretion.”
He laughed once more. “Perhaps. And things become more interesting as well, what is not to enjoy about it?”
“I think you will find you upset rather a lot of people that way.”
“Another benefit. Do they never cease?”
“You are not taking this seriously,” you informed him, though it was incredibly evident he knew that much already. “I do not need oaths of sincerity and openness from you, but I need to know the truth. Is this all? Is there anything else I need to know? I can be alright with you imposing your will on me, if I must, but I cannot stand the idea that there are more discoveries in kind with this one looming over me incessantly.”
“There is nothing else. And you should not have to be alright with people imposing their will on you.”
“Perhaps not, but needs must. I have adjusted.”
The statement seemed to upset him, though that had no bearing on its truth. “Adjusted or not, it will go on no longer.”
You didn’t believe him, of course, but it was a sweet sentiment, even if it was not how things worked. “I just told you not to make promises you had no intention of keeping.”
“I do intend to keep it!” he protested.
“Of course, perhaps now you do. But what happens later, when I don’t want to drink your tea or when I have set out to do something you disapprove of?”
He sighed, his face expressing displeasure more than any actual thought into the subject. “I am not capable enough to make decisions for myself, it seems impossibly bleak that I should make decisions for someone else.”
“That is what having a wife is, I fear.”
“Well, next time we come across something like this again, I will defer to you. Prove myself, since evidently promises are not working.”
You had not been aware your emotions had been so easily readable off of your face. “Empty promises often do not.”
He let out a little harumph like a child frustrated he had not gotten his way and you took the rest of the walk back to the palace in silence, with only the sounds of his mare’s hooves thudding against the trail to break up the steady noises of the forest.
synopsis: A betrothal was a calculated political instrument. Entirely devoid of feelings, emotions, sensations. And it certainly didn't include revelations about shameful desires. Prequel to pretty when you cry.
a/n: really embarrassing how long it took me to write this godawful thing lol I hope the two people waiting for this are not gonna be too disappointed
warnings: 18+, SMUT, masturbation, voyeurism, mentions of periods, reader is of age here!
wc: 2.4k
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“The realm's stability depends upon strong marital bonds," your uncle Baelor began, speaking formally, entirely as hand of the king, not part of your family. He looks between you and Daeron sitting opposite from each other at the large dining table.
“Therefore, we have decided that you two shall be betrothed, and the wedding ceremony shall be held when the time is right. The announcement shall be made at the dragon feast here at Summerhall in two days.”
When the time is right. You knew when the time would be right. Every head in the room turned towards you, and every head was filled with the exact same thought.
When the time is right – the moment you’ve had your first flowering.
You’ve known it since you first learned about a woman’s moonblood. You’ve thought about it constantly ever since you’ve had your first bleed. Ever since you begged your septa to keep it a secret so you wouldn’t end up with someone like your mad cousin Aerion, or a distant uncle at least three decades your senior.
You were only twelve back then…
“You know, it’s actually difficult to believe you have not have your first blood yet, cousin,” Daeron whispered across the table, bringing you back to reality.
He looked entirely unbothered by these news as he stirred the arbor in his cup with a quick flick of the wrist, leaning over the table to lower his voice.
“Like… Aren’t you unusually old for a maiden – woman, I dare say – whose flower is not blooming red yet?”
You looked up into his drunken eyes, jaw slightly hanging open in disbelief at your cousin’s words.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I just think it’s quite peculiar,” he noted. “Compared to all the women I know…”
“Well, I guess I simply am not like the whores you’re gallivanting with,” you spat back. “Naturally. Since I’m a princess. Not a disappointment.”
Daeron tried not to react to your comment, but you saw the slight twitch in the corners of his mouth as a grin fought to form on his face.
The dragon feast felt like an entirely fabricated event solely for your public humiliation. At the announcement of your betrothal to Daeron, you could see heads turn and hands covering mouths in hushed judgement, not unlike two days ago when your uncle first shared the news.
Daeron the Drunken. And the old maiden who was still waiting for her first flowering.
Two clearly unfit prospects for a successful Targaryen marriage. Two… leftovers.
But you knew you were better than your cousin. So, if anything, he was the unfit prospect, he was the leftovers, and he an embarrassment to you.
In fact, he was already proving it perfectly as he downed cup after cup after cup of the realm’s finest red arbor wine.
“A bit of public decency would do you well, cousin,” you remarked with a sharp tongue and an even sharper side glance.
“They’re already talking anyways,” he shrugged, taking another large sip from his wine. “What’s a little extra talk about Daeron the Drunken gonna do?”
“Embarrass me,” you hissed, straightening in your seat and moving away from your betrothed ever so slightly as you rolled your eyes. “Even more than this betrothal already is.”
Daeron laughed, shaking his head. “You worry about that bleeding issue of yours.”
“Well, maybe I should just spill some of your beloved wine on my sheets and be done with all this bother. But… seems like you cannot spare a single drop, can you, cousin? Or else I’ll find you licking it off my bed, and the realm’s gonna talk about a lot more than your lust after arbor, eh?”
With that, you stole the cup from his hands and excused yourself from the long table, making your way to the much quieter, much cooler corridors of Summerhall.
The cool air of the hallway wrapped around your heated figure, bringing to the surface an acute awareness of your rapid heartbeat, and realisations about just exactly how much distress this entire betrothal was causing you.
Your pulse started racing as you near-stumbled along the wall, a torturing ache between your legs that you didn’t know what to do about. One hand gliding along the stones, the other pressed against your chest, you took deep breaths in and long breaths out.
“Leftovers, eh?” His voice ripped you from your thoughts as it suddenly appeared behind you.
You turned around, quickly regaining your composure. Never showing any weakness. Not in front of the disappointment.
“I never said that.”
“But you thought it.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” you protested, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
“Oh, I know you were,” Daeron insisted. “You’re always having some kind of thought in your pretty little head. Always busy making up a witty remark… some… sharp insult, perhaps, for your beloved cousin.”
You laughed. “My insults are never made-up. Merely true observations.”
He didn’t respond, simply watching you, taking in your entire figure from head to toe. His eyes stopped momentarily when they landed on your corset, clearly observing the way it pushed the soft flesh of your chest up and down with each breath you took.
“You left too early,” he eventually said, casually playing with something in his hands. “The party’s not nearly over.”
You pursed your lips, one eyebrow raised. “I didn’t leave. I merely meant to get some air. It tends to get quite stuffy next to you. Besides, I doubt the party’s ever over for you.”
He took slow, measured steps towards you, closing the distance inch by inch. You flinched, your tough façade slipping slightly, but only for a split second.
“I meant you left too early,” he explained, standing in front of you now, holding open his hand and revealing what he had been fidgeting with. “For this.”
Daeron presented to you a beautiful ring with intricate designs typical to House Targaryen woven around a large ruby. “A gift. To seal the betrothal.”
It was gorgeous, and surely your eyes betrayed you with the way they lit up at the sight of the gemstone’s sparkle.
“Your hand.” He spoke softly, reaching for your ring finger to slip on the ring. He did so with a cheeky smile on his face. “Looks splendid, cousin.”
You quickly pulled away your hand. “I know. I always do,” you said matter-of-factly, grinning at him when you noticed a trace of an eye-roll.
“Well, I ought to go,” he then said with a quick bow and walked past you.
“Where to? Finding some whore who’s desperate enough?” You called after him, grinning, but only so that he couldn’t see.
But he didn’t answer, didn’t turn around; only shook his head, and this time he was unable to fight that stupid smile from creeping on his face.
You didn’t care much for going back to the feast, either. Sitting there on the dais all by yourself with the seat of your betrothed empty was another embarrassment you didn’t want to have to endure.
Deciding it was late enough to greet the night and get ready for bed, you made your way back to your quarters.
But even after a hot, relaxing bath, the turmoil of the day and your new responsibilities made it hard to find sleep. And then there was that recurring ache between your legs…
This new sensation you could not quite make sense of. Maybe didn’t even want to.
Because deep down it seemed like your cousin had something to do with it. And you certainly didn’t want that.
“Maybe a leisurely stroll through the halls could help you find some rest, m’lady?” Your lady-in-waiting politely suggested when you paced up and down the length of your bedchamber.
“Should I come with you?” She asked.
“No, thank you. I should like to go by myself. I won’t go far,” you eventually decided.
Once again, the cold air of the corridors welcomed you with a cooling embrace as you made your way along the sleeping quarters. Images of the day replayed in your head like the flipping of a picture book.
The feast, the announcement of the betrothal, the people’s faces and hushed whispers, your cousin without a care in the world, drinking himself to indifference as per usual.
The humiliation of it all, really. It made your heart race rather than quiet your nerves and lull you to a state of almost-sleepiness.
The hallway was quiet except for your soft steps as you walked past your family’s bedchambers. Everyone was either asleep or still out drinking or fucking whores after the feast. Especially Daeron.
You didn’t even register the faint light coming from his room, or the noise disrupting the rhythm of your steps. Not until you had almost walked past the door.
It stood slightly ajar, just enough to allow a glimpse into his chamber. You stopped with your back to his door, just out of view. You knew you shouldn’t be here, certainly not all by yourself.
But curiosity got the better of you, especially when you noticed the sounds echoing from his room.
You had heard them before. Faintly. During other celebrations and festivals. Always sounding from the tents that men liked to frequent. You knew enough to know what was happening inside.
And you knew what was happening inside your cousin’s room right now.
Soft noises of skin slapping, heavy breathing, the occasional mumbled ‘fuck.’
It was awfully enticing. It accelerated your pulse. It ignited the blood pumping through your veins. It quickened your breath.
You wondered who was there with him, but you didn’t dare sneak a look inside.
Probably that one whore who was eyeing him the whole time during the betrothal ceremony, you thought, then wondered: Was that jealousy?
You squeezed your back against the wall seeking the cold of the stones, your head falling back, eyes closed as you listened.
No way. That wasn’t jealousy. That was entirely impossible. You didn’t even want to be with your cousin, so why should you care if he was with someone else?
And then. Your name.
Eyes shooting open in an instant, you felt your heart racing again, and that unfamiliar tingle returning between your legs.
“Fuck, what are you doing to me?” His voice sounded from the room.
Asking yourself that same question, you squirmed in your own skin, knowing you should not linger and listen, yet at the same time you found yourself entirely unable to sneak back to your chambers and pretend this whole thing had never happened.
So there was no one in there with him after all…
…and so your hand travelled down your chest, over the hills of your breasts, gliding down along the soft, thin fabric of your nightdress until it almost reached that aching part between your legs.
Your fingers seemed to have a mind of its own, entirely divorced from your own consciousness, as they slid past the ache only to bunch up the thin layer of the skirt. Your hand moved back up, pushing the fabric aside just enough to slide down your smallclothes.
You gasped when your fingers connected with your soft and unusually wet folds. Immediately biting your lower lip to stifle any other sounds from escaping your throat you stopped, holding your breath as you listened closely to what happened inside your cousin’s chamber, worried he might have heard you.
“Fuckin– Seven hells,” he whined, almost as if he could sense that you were right outside his door. As if he knew you just discovered yourself, and that he was the reason.
You pressed your eyelids together, feeling that ache turn into a much stronger tingle as you allowed yourself to move your fingers further inside your heat. It felt–
“So good,” Daeron hummed as if finishing your thought for you. You hummed slightly, almost inaudibly, as you moved your hand back up until it grazed over this small bundle of nerves that made you feel like you were going to explode.
“Fuck, what are you doing to me?” Your cousin’s voice rang from inside.
Breathing heavily through your nose with your chest rising and falling at a rapid rate, you began to draw circles on that one spot. You felt something build up inside of you, that ache between your legs intensifying with each repeated ministration.
Your other hand came up to cup your chest. You didn’t have to think anymore about what to do, it was like your body knew what was right.
You could feel your taut nipples through the sheer fabric of your dress. The way they rubbed against the thin cotton. How much the sensation of pinching them between your fingers turned the ache in your core into a soft pulsing rhythm.
You hummed in pleasure, barely audible as you pressed your lips together tightly, your breath coming out in short, intense huffs through your nose as you felt your core get tighter and tighter, the juices squeezing through the gaps in between your fingers and running down your thighs, soiling your smallclothes.
Your cousin’s moans got louder as you heard the sound of slapping skin increase. Then, again, your name. Over and over again, mumbled, hissed through clenched teeth, groaned, then dissolved into a string of whines followed by a string of curses to the Seven Gods themselves.
Your hand moved faster, fingers rubbing tighter, legs pressed together with the sticky mess clinging to your thighs as you felt that ache snap and your core squeeze around nothing, leaving you equally satisfied and yearning for more.
Chest heaving, singular beads of sweat trailing down your temple, you rode that high until the pulsing ebbed away.
Left entirely breathless, with your head falling back against the rough stone wall, you were only granted a short moment of pure and utter bliss until reality came crashing down on you.
Your heart jumped against your ribcage when you heard your cousin walk around in his chamber, his presence on the other side of the wall reminding you of what had just happened. Of what you had done. What he’d made you do.
But most importantly, what this night had revealed.
Daeron wanted you.
He wanted you despite your relentless teasing and taunting. Or maybe… exactly because of it?
Quickly pushing down your skirt just as much as you pushed down those thoughts, you hurried down the hallway back to your bedchamber, swearing to yourself that no one should ever know about tonight…
cw: unbeta'd we die like baelor, slight profanity, reluctantly sober!daeron, baratheon!reader, contains mild spoilers for akotsk, arranged marriage au, angsty af, daeron's daddy issues™, daeron's self worth issues™, father-figure!lyonel, plot thickens significantly, inaccurate descriptions of westerosi wedding
tags: Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader, Arranged Marriage AU miniseries
a/n: Here's the second part!! :D i hope y'all like it lol I'm rly sorry about the delay, life's been busy yk how it is :/ but anyway I decided to include the feast/ball scene in the next chapter cuz this is already about ten pages long TT Idk if I made it emotional enough but that was my intention. Happy reading <3
Taglist is open!
Please leave a comment, like, follow or reblog, it would help me grow my blog :3
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"Stop that, will you?" Lyonel scoffs, glaring with irritation at your foot, which you had been tap-tap-tapping against the marble floor in anticipation. Before you laid great, wooden doors to the sept hall— through which you would have to walk through any second now. Waiting for the cue was nauseating.
"You know, you're supposed to comfort me." You grumble, shooting him a glare right back. Lyonel was like a father to you. Well, he was, technically. Not by blood but by love, at least. He had found you as a mere child in the streets of flea bottom. You had caught his attention by trying to pick-pocket the incredibly dreary nobleman sent by the King who was attempting to guide Lyonel back to more princely areas of king's landing—from where he had steered off—in lieu of the unseemly slums.
The old shrew's shock and sputtering anger when he spotted you had delighted him at first, because they were the only emotions the man was willing to display apart from slight irritation. His joy had quickly extinguished into panic and then the urge to do something, anything, as the old man whipped out his dagger in the means to actually harm you. Lyonel was a spoiled highborn, yes, but he was also a knight. And seven help him if he were ever to stand by and watch a child be harmed, thief or not. Good gods, these King's Landing folk were violent.
He had taken you back to storm's end, and named you as his daughter. You were only about seven or eight, so with enough threatening and persuasion, no one at the castle prodded into the matter of a sudden heir any further. Eventually, Lyonel did marry and sire his own children, but he and his new family never treated you any differently—although perhaps he was more open and brotherly to you than he was with his own kin—due to the fact that he was only twenty years of age when he met you.
No one outside of Storm's End knew of your origin. It would surely cause a scandal if anyone were to find out now, of all times, when you are to be married into the ruling house of Targaryen. In fact, you yourself barely know where you come from, as you had been on the streets of King's Landing since you remember. It was unlikely that you were of noble origin, but that did not matter now.
A beautiful melody of the high-harp rang out from inside the sept, and although the music was not unpleasant in the slightest, it made you feel sort of queasy.
Lyonel turned his head to look at you with a quiet sigh. "That's our cue, I suppose." You blink and spare him a glance, jaw tensing. When you hesitate to start walking, he nudges his shoulder into yours and murmurs, "You're sure you still want to do this? We could always flee, y'know. Turn around, go right back to the Stormlands. I would understand, he's a Targaryen cunt after all, prince or not." His voice carries that infamous lilt of humour that it almost always does, and it manages to pry a smile from your lips. You set your gaze on his, and his eyes soften.
You hum, "I fear it's a little too late now, father." Lyonel's smile only wobbles and he clears his throat, looking at the great wooden doors to hide a sudden glistening in his eyes. "Hush now, it's like you're actively trying to make me shed tears." You grin teasingly, "The Laughing Storm, shedding tears? Impossible." He rolls his eyes, "Unfortunately I do have to make an exception when my darling Doe is married off. For uh... public appearances."
That brings a laugh out of you, nerves temporarily forgotten, and you nod in mock solemnity. "Obviously, whatever else for?"
Lyonel's smile softens and his eyes trace the shape of your hair, done up special today, the Baratheon cloak around your shoulders, finally coming to land on your own eyes once more.
"Gods, you've grown up fast, little brat." He whispers and then smiles tightly, "For the record, I won't miss you. At all. But... If you ever need shelter, seven forbid, you are always welcome back home. Understood?"
You nod and smile sadly. "Yes, I know." He leans down slightly and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. You let yourself close your eyes and savour his familiar scent while you still can. Wine, an unintelligible spice, sea spray, and something uniquely warm. Gods know you'll miss him.
He leans back before you want him to, and clears his throat as he straightens his golden tunic. "Reckon we ought to start walking, eh?"
Your smile fades slightly and you nod, facing the door again. At that, the white-cloaked pair of kingsguard pull the huge doors open, revealing a beautiful, magnificent sight. Flowers hang everywhere, some soft white baby's breath, or deep red roses, even elegantly pink and ruby spider lilies, they cover the tall ceiling and hang from vines strategically placed to give way to an arch. Lit candles line the alter, and the dusky sunlight filters through stained glass, landing in iridescent patches over everything. At the arch stands the high septon, and... Daeron. By the Gods, he looks... good.
You're too far away to catch his eye, so you lower your gaze as warmth rushes to your cheeks and start walking down the velveted aisle. Lyonel proves to be a sturdy support and he tries to hide a wince when you unmeaningly dig your nails into his forearm. You sheepishly murmur, "Sorry," and loosen your grip.
You cannot make yourself look around. There are probably hundreds of people on either side of the aisle, one house bathed in gold and the other in crimson, and each and every guest has their gaze trained on you. Daeron himself is dressed impeccably. His hair is smoothed back and gathered into a pony at the base of his skull, and he dons a black leather doublet, the intricate red embroidery on it becoming clearer and clearer as you walk towards him. You almost trip over your wedding gown when you walk up the brief stairs, and while you are steadied by Lyonel's arm, Daeron's hand flexes as if he means to help- but he stays still, waiting patiently until you are standing across from him at the altar.
Lyonel retreats and you're left there, for the first time in a long time, alone. Well, as alone as possible, anyway, with half of Westeros in the same room. Daeron's gaze bores into yours for a moment and you try for a smile, hope bleeding through your nerves.
He only responds with a tight, formal imitation of your own expression. His gaze shifts to the septon expectantly, and he shifts his weight as if he can't wait to get this over with.
That was... strange, to say the least. He seemed alright this morning, maybe something's bothering him? Was it too many candle flames? Or maybe the floral scent is too much. He couldn't possibly be bored of you so quick-
"You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection." The septon's voice booms across the chapel, breaking you out of your thoughts. He is staring expectantly at you. You turn and clasp your hands in front of you, the seed of doubt in your mind being fed by your imagination.
Daeron steps up and removes the golden velvet from your shoulders, setting it aside before taking his own cloak off. He moves closer to you and drapes the heavy fabric across your shoulders. The red three-headed dragon is a distinct blood red against the black, now sitting in between your shoulders blades. His fingers brush your bare neck, and you unwillingly shiver, closing your eyes. Just as quickly, he steps away and you turn back around. The cloak on your shoulders is fucking massive. Too heavy, and unfamiliar, but at least it smells like him; like strong wine, leather, and gravel. You suspect his lips will taste of wine too, you've heard the rumours about his inebriety, and find yourself oddly curious as to if your theory will be correct or not.
The septon clears his throat and begins.
"Your Grace, Your Grace," he nods to the king and queen, before looking to the pews. "My lords, my ladies. We stand here, in sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. On flesh, on heart, on soul— now and forever."
His gaze shifts to Daeron, who nods slightly and speaks, his voice quieter and his words rehearsed, yet bland.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love... and take you for my lady and wife."
You blink, meeting his gaze and repeat the words that have been drilled into your head for ages. "With this kiss, I.. I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."
The Septon raised his crystal high, so the light from the stained glass windows refracted in such a way that a rainbow fell down upon you. "Here in sight of gods and men," he said, "I solemnly proclaim Daeron of House Targaryen and the Lady of House Baratheon to be man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."
He then nods to Daeron, "You may kiss the bride."
Your heart skips a beat as daeron steps closer, leaning down so that his breath ghosts over your face. His dull purple gaze flits from your eyes to your mouth, before he finally connects his lips to yours. The kiss is chaste and he does not taste much like wine. He tastes of... nothing, really. Just slightly chapped lips against your painted ones. It is over before you can blink.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur. Pies, cake, watered wine (which Maekar had begrudgingly allowed Daeron to have now that the important part was over), loud cheering, dancing and lewd whistling as the night came to an end. Daeron was still sober— a record for him, really— yet he avoided your gaze and shifted away from you every now and then. His father had prohibited a bedding ceremony from taking place, finding it crude and unseemly, much to your relief. Heavens know you would rather shit in your hands and clap than be groped, stripped, and carried away by drunken men you've never even seen before.
The heavy wooden doors of your nuptual chambers thud close, and you take in your surroundings. The room, although of a familiar baratheon air, is decorated in Targaryen fashion, likely to impress the royal guests. The dragon sigil hangs on the walls, and around your shoulders.
Daeron slumps down on the edge of the bed and sighs, making haste to remove his boots. You reach around yourself and take the heavy cloak off, leaving it across a chair. You eye him and decide to try and make conversation. Perhaps he was just nervous in front of all those people and the Daeron from the morning has emerged again now that you are alone.
You smile awkwardly and walk over to plop down beside him. "So, my Prince, that was... quite a beautiful ceremony, wouldn't you agree?"
Daeron does not respond and silently kicks his shoes off— as if he did not hear you at all. Your smile flickers a little.
"Daeron?"
"Please do not pretend like you are delighted to be in this predicament. I am doing this out of duty, and so are you, so I would very much appreciate it if you do not try to make idle conversation with me. I find useless small-talk quite unbecoming, irritatingly so."
Your jaw falls open and you are unable to respond for a good few moments.
He does not even look at you, getting up to shrug his jacket off, which leaves him in just his black tunic and trousers. If you were not so bewildered by his behaviour you would have let your eyes wander his the sliver of his exposed chest and thick forearms, but the incredulousness of it all got to you first.
"Pardon? What are you talking about?"
Daeron groans to himself, but his words are loud enough for you to understand—"I am not drunk enough for this."
He walks to the vanity and starts taking his rings off, the metal clinking against a glass bowl one by one. You can see his expression in the mirror. His jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes are fixed on anything but your stunned reflection in the silvered glass before him.
You scoff, "Excuse my language, but what exactly was it that crawled up your arse and died? You seemed quite happy this morning."
He chuckles bitterly, "You'll find that I'm often unbearably insufferable. Although I thought you'd already heard of that."
Standing up, you cross your arms and huff in indignation. "Forgive me, husband, if I do not listen to any and every rumour about my betrothed. Do you truly mean that you are not happy about this marriage?"
He smiles tightly and finally turns to face you. Throwing his hands up, he shrugs, "I'm never quite happy about anything, really."
You laugh, the sound bitter and unbelievably disappointed. Great. The rumours are true; he's a drunkard and a cheeky little fuck. But he seemed fine in the morning, does this mean... He couldn't possibly know about... Right?
You clear your throat, "So you mean to tell me that this morning was merely what—a jest? Or an act? I don't believe that for a second. Has something happened that I should know about? Something that is making you unsatisfied about our union, perhaps? Have you—.. Have you heard something?"
"No, I just don't find this worth the pretense. Both of us know that I'm a useless drunkard, prince of fucking around, and eventually," he sighs, grabbing a goblet from the tea table, kept next to water bottles, and bits of food; incase the newly-wed couple need replenishment from their... activities. "—I would have fucked this up either way, so might as well get it over with now, when I'm coherent enough."
You can't do anything but stare like an idiot, trying not to cry as he starts rummaging through the cabinets, looking for wine.
"Ah! There she is." He laughed, loud and desperate, as he finally spotted a bottle of dornish red at the back of some cupboard. He holds the bottle up like a trophy and snatches his robes, draping them across himself hastily with one hand as he makes his way to the doors.
Your brows furrow in confusion, and you take a few hurried steps towards him. "Where are you going? You can't just—"
He waves you off, not sparing you a glance as he unlatches the lock, "You are right, I cannot, but I will anyway. Cheers." He slips out faster than you can process his words.
You rush to the doorway, peaking your head out just to find his retreating back jogging down the corridor. Tears spring to your eyes as you clench your jaw, walking back inside and slamming the door locked and shut.
You felt so, so stupid.
Of course he's an arsehole. You were a fool to believe otherwise. You had thought, when you heard of the betrothal at first, that maybe he would be sweet underneath the drunken stupor. Maybe he would even try to change his ways for you, for your future family— a childish daydream, really. It felt embarrassing to even imagine that now. Hot tears run down your face, and you roughly wipe them off as you sink down on the king sized bed. Gods, your life was going to be downright horrible. The thought of writing to Lyonel about annulment flashed across your mind, but you knew it would cause much more of a scandal than you had the energy to tolerate. And Lyonel being Lyonel, most likely would have overreacted and started a war. A war between two of the greatest houses of the realm was not a good idea. Lives would be lost, thousands dead because you couldn't handle an alcoholic husband. So you sighed shakily and let your head fall back into the pillows, trying to calm yourself. It would be fine. You'll be fine. Lots of women have terrible husbands. At least yours doesn't harm you physically, or at least he hasn't yet. You've heard horrible stories of poor women having to tolerate so much violence. You would rather jump from the roof of the red keep than live like that. You hope it doesn't come to that.
Eventually, your eyes close and exhaustion overcomes you. The stress from the ceremony and from your husband himself aids to slowly tire you into a deep slumber. Your tears settle into your skin, glistening in the candle light as your breathing evens out. You have no dreams that night; you do not have the energy to imagine anything wilder than what you just experienced.
Summary: You could pull away now, speak of a desire to return to the keep and he’d take you. He would you back through the loud, boisterous streets to the safety and security of Maegor’s Holdfast. You'd pretend like nothing happened and go on about your lives. Or…youcould listen to him, take his words to heart. Say fuck propriety and take what you want. Fuck being a princess, fuck being a proper lady.
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x Targaryen!reader
Word Count: 3,840 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, loss of virginity, p in v sex, fingering, oral sex, brothels, drinking, period-typical attitudes, Targcest, cousin incest, language
A/N: Or...Daeron takes his cousin's virginity. Just a little idea I had floating around. Could possibly have a second part if people are interested. OC version on my Ao3
MASTERLIST
“Your father might actually kill me.”
“Not if we get back to the Keep before morning.”
Daeron holds the wine goblet to your lips again, letting you take a drink. Wine dribbles over the sides, sliding down your throat and staining the top of your tunic. Daeron sets the goblet on the table, his thumb catching a droplet before it can stain the fabric. He drags his thumb along the trail, up your chest, over your neck to the corner of your mouth before he removes his thumb, sticking it into his mouth to lick the wine from his skin.
You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, the other hand tossed around Daeron’s neck where your fingers pick at the fabric of his doublet nervously. You’re nestled in his lap in the back of a brothel on the Street of Silk. One of his hands rests on your waist, his thumb scandalously close to brushing the underside of your breast. The other is draped across your lap, fingers tapping a rhythm on your thigh.
Around you bodies move fluidly. Sounds of pleasure fill the air, from both men and women alike. Your eyes scan the room, darting from body to body. They linger in one corner where a woman sits upon a table, head thrown back as the man between her legs pleasures her with his mouth. It has your thighs twitching, squeezing together just slightly. Something warm pools in your stomach, and you find yourself reaching for the wine.
Daeron chuckles, pressing his forehead to yourss. “See something you like?” His breath is hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the room.
A woman clad in what could be considered scraps of clothing approaches with a pitcher in hand, giving them a sultry smile as she refills the goblet. Whether that smile was directed at you or Daeron, you’re not sure. Perhaps both. Your eyes dart to a lounge where two women kiss, bodies pressed together, rubbing against each other.
“There’s no shame in wanting.” His lips brush your ear, barely audible amid the cacophony of sounds.
Warmth blossoms across your face, trailing down your neck and chest. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not expected to remain pure until marriage.”
Daeron snorts, grabbing the goblet to take another sip. “Fuck purity.”
You give him a look, taking another drink of wine as he holds the cup to your lips. It’s warming your body, easing the tension in your mind. You can see it in him too, the shine in his eyes, the lazy grin tilting his lips. He’s handsome, even in the low light. Golden hair frames his face, strands falling into his lilac eyes. The stubble on his face and his rumpled clothes give him an unkempt look, but he looks almost better this way than he does when he’s forced to be put together. At least you think so.
Daeron has always been your favorite cousin, even given his proclivities in recent years. Drinking, whoring, a freedom you’ll never know. He cares little for the disappointment he causes, the expectation of perfection and responsibility sliding off his shoulders because of who he’s made himself out to be.
You yearn for that kind of freedom, which is perhaps why you begged him to bring you with him when you caught him in the hall.
You had thought perhaps he was making for a tavern, that you might get a taste of what life outside the Keep is like. Coming here though, that was unexpected. Guilt rushes through you for a moment. Clearly he had planned on spending the night with a whore, and you had infringed upon that.
“A man who cares about purity is a sick fuck who doesn’t deserve a princess.” He says, his palm burning hot through the thin fabric of your tunic.
His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. He smells like sweat and wine up close, the incense burning in the brothel clinging to both of them. It makes your head spin, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You take another deep drink of the wine before setting the cup on the table.
“Fuck what everyone says.” He breathes in your ear, his lips brushing the shell. “If you want to fuck, then you should.”
You raise a brow, pulling away just slightly to look at him. “And who would I fuck?”
“You’re a fucking princess.” He says, his hand lifting from your thigh to cup your face, his thumb brushing your lips. “You can have anyone you want.”
Your cheeks burn hot, heat flushing through you. His eyes are lidded as he stares at you, sweat beading his forehead. His fingers tremble just slightly against your cheek, faint but you can feel it. His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip as his eyes scan your face, darting from one eye to the other, down to your lips then back.
A fluttering feeling twists in your stomach as you stare at him, at his handsome face. His gaze is intense as he stares back, waiting. You could pull away now, speak of a desire to return to the keep and he’d take you. He’d take you back through the loud, boisterous streets to the safety and security of Maegor’s Holdfast. You’d pretend like nothing happened and go on about your lives.
Or…
You could listen to him, take his words to heart. Say fuck propriety and take what you want. Fuck being a princess, fuck being a proper lady. Tonight you’re just you, a woman in a brothel in the lap of your cousin who is looking at you like he wants to devour you.
What is it you want?
You want to kiss him.
Your breaths mingle as you lean in closer, his hand tightening on your waist. His eyes bore into yours, watching, waiting for the moment you hesitate, the moment you pull back, the moment you decide differently. The moment you let propriety take over once more and you turn back into the dutiful princess.
Perhaps it’s the aura of the brothel, or the incense making your head spin, but you push past that last bit of resistance, the screaming in the back of your mind that you shouldn’t be here at all, much less in the lap of your cousin about to kiss him.
You’re not quite sure who closes the distance first, but it doesn’t matter as your lips touch. His lips are soft, gentle as they press against yours. It’s not your first kiss, but it’s the first that has a shiver running down your spine. He pulls away after a second, looking at you before closing the distance again. He kisses you harder this time, molding his lips to yours. The hand on your waist slips higher, his fingers just brushing the side of your breast. The hand on your cheek tilts your head, his tongue prodding against your lips.
He tastes like wine as you allow him in, his tongue pressing against yours. She forgets the world around them, the brothel fading to the background as they kiss, your focus turning to his hands on you. The press of his fingers into your side, the drag of his fingers across your face.
Warmth pools deep in your stomach, your thighs clenching together. You can feel him pressing against your leg, his own desire prevalent against you. His fingers slip down your cheek to your throat, his palm pressing there for a moment before sliding lower, pressing against your chest. He can feel the pounding of your heart, the sweat starting to soak through your borrowed tunic.
“Tell me to stop.” He breathes against your lips, his thumb stroking your collarbone. “Tell me to take you back to the Keep.”
“No.” You say without hesitation, panting slightly from the kiss.
He lets out a whimper before capturing your lips again, sliding his hand down the front of your body. His fingers are clumsy as they tug at the laces of your trousers, wine and desire making him desperate.
You part your thighs for him as he finally gets the laces undone, slipping his hand into your pants. A gasp leaves your lips as he drags his finger through your folds, feeling the wetness already pooling there.
“Fuck,” he breathes against you, his kisses slipping from your lips to your jaw as he circles your bud with his finger.
“Daeron,” you breathe, tilting your head back.
He parts your thighs further as his fingers slips lower, pressing against your entrance. It’s a strange feeling as he slips into you, his finger pressing in deep. Your body clenches around him unconsciously, a deep groan leaving his lips.
“Fuck, you’re tight.” He breathes against your throat, his stubble tickling your skin.
You sink your fingers into his hair as he curls his finger inside of you, your hips jerking in his lap. The thought that you’re in public, that anyone could look over and see Daeron’s hand between your thighs flickers through your mind, but it’s gone a second later as Daeron bites at your throat.
You tug at his hair as he sinks his teeth in, hard enough to leave a mark. Tomorrow you’ll have to think up an excuse, but in this moment you’re too far gone to care, with Daeron’s finger thrusting into you.
“Daeron, oh gods…” You moan, your thighs squeezing around his hand as pleasure starts to build within you. You’re hurtling towards an edge, unable to stop as you threaten to fall right over the side.
“Let go,” Daeron pants into your ear, his hair damp with sweat between your fingers as you clutch onto him. “Come on.”
Your head falls back in a moan as your entire body seems to spasm all at once. You clench tight around his finger, your hips pressing into his hand as you lose control of yourself. Pleasure washes through you, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
You’re trembling in his arms as he pulls his finger from inside of you. His grip on your waist is tight, the bulge in his pants pressing hard against your thigh. Despite your orgasm you still feel pleasure and desire thrumming beneath your skin, your body wanting for more. More of him, more of what he’s wrung from you.
“Daeron…” you whisper, pressing your lips to his ear. “I want you to fuck me.”
He presses his face against the side of your head, letting out a whimper.
“You said I could have anyone I want.” You tug at his hair, pulling his face back so you can see him. “I want you.”
His lips part as he lets out a breath, his hand tightening around your waist. His eyes are glassy, the purple of his irises almost swallowed completely by his pupils. “Fuck.” He curses, his hands dropping to your trousers where he hastily reties them before lifting you from his lap.
You barely have time to grab the waistband of your trousers to keep them from falling as he grabs your other hand, dragging you deeper into the brothel. Muffled moans sound from behind closed doors as he leads you down a hallway, finding an empty room before dragging you inside.
He locks the door behind them before stepping up to you, pressing another kiss to your lips. Your hands sink back into his hair, tugging at the honey-blonde strands. His hands slide under your tunic, calloused fingers dragging along your bare skin. A shiver runs through you, your body arching against his.
“If you don’t tell me to stop right now…” he breathes against your lips, hands clutching at your waist. His hips press against yours, his cock digging into your stomach.
“Why would I want you to stop?” You whisper, tugging his lips back down to yours.
He groans, pulling away from your lips to tug his shirt over his head. You can’t stop your hands as they lift to his chest, trailing across his warm skin. His own hands fist into the fabric of your oversized tunic, one of Valarr’s that you’d stolen months ago and never returned.
You lift your arms as he tugs it over your head, dropping it to the floor. His gaze is dark as he stares at you, his eyes roving every inch of your skin. You’ve never been so exposed in front of a man before, your skin prickling under the intensity of his stare.
His hands lift, cupping your breasts in his palms. “Fuck, you’ve got nice tits.” He breathes, licking his lips.
“Thank you?” You blink up at him, tilting your head to the side.
“That’s a compliment.” He says, leaning down to kiss your throat. “I’ve seen lots of tits.”
Your face flushes at his words, your hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders. How easy it is to forget your cousin’s proclivities in a moment like this. He’s famous for drinking and whoring his way through King’s Landing. He was coming here tonight to do the same thing, only with a woman with a face he’d forget by morning.
Instead he’s here, with a woman he won’t be able to forget the face of.
His fingers trail down your sides, making you shiver as he reaches for your laces. His lips trail across your skin as he tugs on them once, your pants quickly dropping to the floor.
He grips your waist again, his lips finding yours for a quick kiss. “Get on the bed.”
You swallow nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed as you take a step backwards, sliding out of his hold. He watches you as you turn, crawling onto the straw mattress before settling yourself against the pillows.
He tugs at the laces of his own pants as his eyes trail your body, taking in every inch of your skin. You can’t read his face, which is almost worse as he stares at you. The urge to cover herself is strong, but you’re distracted as he shoves his pants down his legs. Your heart thuds in your chest, your mouth suddenly going dry.
“Never seen a cock before, have you?” He asks, crawling onto the end of the bed.
You shake your head, heat burning beneath your skin. “N-Not in person.”
His brows raise as he comes to kneel between your legs. “Oh?”
“I found a book…once…” You feel as if you might burst into flames. “In the library. It, uh…showed things.”
“You naughty little thing.” He smirks, his hands coming to rest on your knees. His palms are warm, despite your flushed skin. “Not so innocent as you like to pretend.”
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart. Your face warms further as he stares down at you, bare before him. You’re wet still, folds slick and shiny from his touch. Daeron’s lips part, his tongue dragging along his bottom lip as he stares at you like he wants to devour you.
“Fuck you’ve got a pretty cunt too.” He breathes, lowering himself down on the bed.
“Daeron-” You gasp as he tugs you closer, his breath fanning your folds. “What-”
He shushes you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before lowering his head, dragging his tongue through your folds.
“Oh,” you gasp at the strange feeling, your head falling back against the pillows.
Daeron’s hands wrap around your thighs, holding you open as he tastes you. His tongue prods into you before sliding up, circling your bud. Your body jolts at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, your fingers gripping the sheets. Daeron moans into you, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucking hard.
You slap a hand over your mouth as a moan escapes, trying to muffle the sound. Daeron reaches up, tugging your hand from your face and pinning it to the bed. “This is a whorehouse, not the Keep, the point is to be loud.” He places a kiss against your clit. “Let me hear you.”
You let out a shaky breath as his lips return to your clit, suckling at the sensitive bud. Your head falls back, your fingers wrapping around the hand pinning yours to the bed. A moan slips out of your lips, a sound you never knew you were capable of making.
Daeron continues to pleasure you, practically slurping at your cunt. The noises are obscene, his moans echoing yours as you writhe on the bed in pleasure.
“Daeron! Oh fuck-” you gasp, your hand sinking into his hair, holding him close against you.
He whimpers as you tug on the strands, your eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure roll through you. Your hips jerk against his face, back arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through your orgasm until you’re nearly shaking with overstimulation.
“Fuck…” he breathes once he pulls away, pressing his face against your inner thigh. His mouth is slick and shiny with your juices, his tongue darting out to lick as much of you off of his face as he can.
You tremble with aftershocks of your orgasm as they lay there, both of you panting. The sounds of the brothel come back to them as they fall silent, muffled moans and the bang of beds against the walls.
Daeron moves first, lifting himself onto his knees. He moves closer to you, slotting himself between your thighs. His hand smooths over your stomach, stroking your sweat-slick skin. “There’s no going back,” he says, staring down into your eyes.
“I know,” you say, wrapping your hand around his wrist to tug him closer. “You said there’s no shame in wanting.”
He huffs out a laugh, lowering himself onto his elbow over you. “I did.” His other hand grips his cock, pressing it against you. “Breathe,” he says, dragging his tip through your folds. “The more you tense, the more this will hurt.”
You let out a shaky breath, your hand wrapping around the back of his neck. He presses his tip into you, your teeth sinking into your lip at the stretch. His eyes lock with yours, golden tresses falling into his face as he slowly rocks his hips forward, spreading you open even further. You’re wet, aiding in the glide of his cock, but the stretch still has you aching.
He pauses for a moment, his hand leaving his cock to press into the mattress by your head. He drives his cock forward into you, a sudden sharp pain making you gasp. Your nails bite into the back of his neck, your thighs clamping around his hips.
“That’s it,” he breathes, pressing his face into the side of your head, his lips brushing your ear. “The worst is over.”
You breathe heavily, pulling Daeron’s body down against hers. He engulfs you, hot and slick with sweat against your own sweaty skin. His breaths pant against your ear, his hips shifting just slightly against you. You let out a quiet sound, your body clenching down around him.
Daeron whimpers, his fingers gripping the pillow beneath your head. “Fuck, you’re tight. I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that.”
You clench around him again, drawing another sound from his lips. He presses himself up onto his hands, hovering over you as he starts to move, grinding against your hips. There’s still pain, a deep, unfamiliar ache in your pelvis.
Your hands slide up his arms as he starts to thrust into you, drawing his hips back before pressing them up against you again. You grip onto him, the ache beginning to subside into something deeper, something that has your toes curling and your thighs gripping his hips. Quiet moans leave your lips, nothing compared to the noises leaving Daeron. He moans and curses, fists clenching the sheets.
“Fuck you feel so good,” he pants, driving his hips into hers. “Fuck...”
Your nails bite into his skin as you feel that pressure building again, pleasure rushing through you as you hurtle closer and closer to that edge once more. “Daeron...oh gods…”
Your back arches as you squeeze around him, a cry of pleasure leaving your lips. Daeron’s hips snap into yours, his body trembling. He has just enough sense to pull himself from you, stroking his cock twice before spilling onto your stomach. He lets out a long, low moan as his cock twitches in his hand, his balls clenched tight.
“Fuck…” he groans, rolling off of you.
They lay side by side in the bed, both of them breathing heavy. The weight of what just transpired settles over you, along with the lingering deep ache in your pelvis. You’re no longer an innocent maiden, no longer whole. You’re not sure exactly how you should feel. Hollow? Fulfilled? Instead you’re floating more in limbo. A quick jab of Daeron’s hips and the thing that made you so valuable, a pure princess for your future husband, is now gone. That easily, that quickly.
And it felt good too.
You’ve never felt that good before. You’re still shaking a bit with the aftershocks of pleasure, the proof of Daeron’s release sticky on your stomach.
Daeron uses the sheet to clean it off before slipping an arm under you, tugging you against his side. You lay your head on his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart under your ear. His hand splays across your back, skin rough with callouses from his years of training, which were never very successful.
“We should get back to the Keep.” You murmur, Daeron’s breaths already starting to even out.
“In a few minutes.” He breathes, his hand going lax against your back.
You can’t stop the pull of sleep, pressed tight against his warm body, tired from the exertion and the wine they had consumed. Before you even know it, your eyes have closed.
****
The slam of a door jolts you from a peaceful sleep. Daeron jerks under you, both of you jerking awake in disoriented surprise. You pull the blankets up to hide your naked body as you blink away the bleariness, finding a familiar figure decked in white armor standing in the doorway.
“Get up.” Ser Roland says, his eyes passing between the two of you.
It’s morning, the sun shining in the small window above them. Fuck, you fell asleep and slept until daylight. Long enough for your absence to go noticed.
Daeron groans, rolling to the side as you reach for the tunic on the floor, keeping the blankets pressed against your chest to give herself at least a modicum of modesty. You tug the tunic on, thankfully long enough to cover you as you rise from the bed, wincing at the pain between your legs as you grab your trousers.
Guilt and shame at being caught burns through you as you look up at Ser Roland, but his eyes are on the bed, on the sheets where a small stain of red can be seen.
Summary: You could pull away now, speak of a desire to return to the keep and he’d take you. He would you back through the loud, boisterous streets to the safety and security of Maegor’s Holdfast. You'd pretend like nothing happened and go on about your lives. Or…youcould listen to him, take his words to heart. Say fuck propriety and take what you want. Fuck being a princess, fuck being a proper lady.
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x Targaryen!reader
Word Count: 3,840 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, loss of virginity, p in v sex, fingering, oral sex, brothels, drinking, period-typical attitudes, Targcest, cousin incest, language
A/N: Or...Daeron takes his cousin's virginity. Just a little idea I had floating around. Could possibly have a second part if people are interested. OC version on my Ao3
MASTERLIST
“Your father might actually kill me.”
“Not if we get back to the Keep before morning.”
Daeron holds the wine goblet to your lips again, letting you take a drink. Wine dribbles over the sides, sliding down your throat and staining the top of your tunic. Daeron sets the goblet on the table, his thumb catching a droplet before it can stain the fabric. He drags his thumb along the trail, up your chest, over your neck to the corner of your mouth before he removes his thumb, sticking it into his mouth to lick the wine from his skin.
You wipe your mouth with your sleeve, the other hand tossed around Daeron’s neck where your fingers pick at the fabric of his doublet nervously. You’re nestled in his lap in the back of a brothel on the Street of Silk. One of his hands rests on your waist, his thumb scandalously close to brushing the underside of your breast. The other is draped across your lap, fingers tapping a rhythm on your thigh.
Around you bodies move fluidly. Sounds of pleasure fill the air, from both men and women alike. Your eyes scan the room, darting from body to body. They linger in one corner where a woman sits upon a table, head thrown back as the man between her legs pleasures her with his mouth. It has your thighs twitching, squeezing together just slightly. Something warm pools in your stomach, and you find yourself reaching for the wine.
Daeron chuckles, pressing his forehead to yourss. “See something you like?” His breath is hot against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the room.
A woman clad in what could be considered scraps of clothing approaches with a pitcher in hand, giving them a sultry smile as she refills the goblet. Whether that smile was directed at you or Daeron, you’re not sure. Perhaps both. Your eyes dart to a lounge where two women kiss, bodies pressed together, rubbing against each other.
“There’s no shame in wanting.” His lips brush your ear, barely audible amid the cacophony of sounds.
Warmth blossoms across your face, trailing down your neck and chest. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not expected to remain pure until marriage.”
Daeron snorts, grabbing the goblet to take another sip. “Fuck purity.”
You give him a look, taking another drink of wine as he holds the cup to your lips. It’s warming your body, easing the tension in your mind. You can see it in him too, the shine in his eyes, the lazy grin tilting his lips. He’s handsome, even in the low light. Golden hair frames his face, strands falling into his lilac eyes. The stubble on his face and his rumpled clothes give him an unkempt look, but he looks almost better this way than he does when he’s forced to be put together. At least you think so.
Daeron has always been your favorite cousin, even given his proclivities in recent years. Drinking, whoring, a freedom you’ll never know. He cares little for the disappointment he causes, the expectation of perfection and responsibility sliding off his shoulders because of who he’s made himself out to be.
You yearn for that kind of freedom, which is perhaps why you begged him to bring you with him when you caught him in the hall.
You had thought perhaps he was making for a tavern, that you might get a taste of what life outside the Keep is like. Coming here though, that was unexpected. Guilt rushes through you for a moment. Clearly he had planned on spending the night with a whore, and you had infringed upon that.
“A man who cares about purity is a sick fuck who doesn’t deserve a princess.” He says, his palm burning hot through the thin fabric of your tunic.
His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. He smells like sweat and wine up close, the incense burning in the brothel clinging to both of them. It makes your head spin, warmth pooling low in your stomach. You take another deep drink of the wine before setting the cup on the table.
“Fuck what everyone says.” He breathes in your ear, his lips brushing the shell. “If you want to fuck, then you should.”
You raise a brow, pulling away just slightly to look at him. “And who would I fuck?”
“You’re a fucking princess.” He says, his hand lifting from your thigh to cup your face, his thumb brushing your lips. “You can have anyone you want.”
Your cheeks burn hot, heat flushing through you. His eyes are lidded as he stares at you, sweat beading his forehead. His fingers tremble just slightly against your cheek, faint but you can feel it. His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip as his eyes scan your face, darting from one eye to the other, down to your lips then back.
A fluttering feeling twists in your stomach as you stare at him, at his handsome face. His gaze is intense as he stares back, waiting. You could pull away now, speak of a desire to return to the keep and he’d take you. He’d take you back through the loud, boisterous streets to the safety and security of Maegor’s Holdfast. You’d pretend like nothing happened and go on about your lives.
Or…
You could listen to him, take his words to heart. Say fuck propriety and take what you want. Fuck being a princess, fuck being a proper lady. Tonight you’re just you, a woman in a brothel in the lap of your cousin who is looking at you like he wants to devour you.
What is it you want?
You want to kiss him.
Your breaths mingle as you lean in closer, his hand tightening on your waist. His eyes bore into yours, watching, waiting for the moment you hesitate, the moment you pull back, the moment you decide differently. The moment you let propriety take over once more and you turn back into the dutiful princess.
Perhaps it’s the aura of the brothel, or the incense making your head spin, but you push past that last bit of resistance, the screaming in the back of your mind that you shouldn’t be here at all, much less in the lap of your cousin about to kiss him.
You’re not quite sure who closes the distance first, but it doesn’t matter as your lips touch. His lips are soft, gentle as they press against yours. It’s not your first kiss, but it’s the first that has a shiver running down your spine. He pulls away after a second, looking at you before closing the distance again. He kisses you harder this time, molding his lips to yours. The hand on your waist slips higher, his fingers just brushing the side of your breast. The hand on your cheek tilts your head, his tongue prodding against your lips.
He tastes like wine as you allow him in, his tongue pressing against yours. She forgets the world around them, the brothel fading to the background as they kiss, your focus turning to his hands on you. The press of his fingers into your side, the drag of his fingers across your face.
Warmth pools deep in your stomach, your thighs clenching together. You can feel him pressing against your leg, his own desire prevalent against you. His fingers slip down your cheek to your throat, his palm pressing there for a moment before sliding lower, pressing against your chest. He can feel the pounding of your heart, the sweat starting to soak through your borrowed tunic.
“Tell me to stop.” He breathes against your lips, his thumb stroking your collarbone. “Tell me to take you back to the Keep.”
“No.” You say without hesitation, panting slightly from the kiss.
He lets out a whimper before capturing your lips again, sliding his hand down the front of your body. His fingers are clumsy as they tug at the laces of your trousers, wine and desire making him desperate.
You part your thighs for him as he finally gets the laces undone, slipping his hand into your pants. A gasp leaves your lips as he drags his finger through your folds, feeling the wetness already pooling there.
“Fuck,” he breathes against you, his kisses slipping from your lips to your jaw as he circles your bud with his finger.
“Daeron,” you breathe, tilting your head back.
He parts your thighs further as his fingers slips lower, pressing against your entrance. It’s a strange feeling as he slips into you, his finger pressing in deep. Your body clenches around him unconsciously, a deep groan leaving his lips.
“Fuck, you’re tight.” He breathes against your throat, his stubble tickling your skin.
You sink your fingers into his hair as he curls his finger inside of you, your hips jerking in his lap. The thought that you’re in public, that anyone could look over and see Daeron’s hand between your thighs flickers through your mind, but it’s gone a second later as Daeron bites at your throat.
You tug at his hair as he sinks his teeth in, hard enough to leave a mark. Tomorrow you’ll have to think up an excuse, but in this moment you’re too far gone to care, with Daeron’s finger thrusting into you.
“Daeron, oh gods…” You moan, your thighs squeezing around his hand as pleasure starts to build within you. You’re hurtling towards an edge, unable to stop as you threaten to fall right over the side.
“Let go,” Daeron pants into your ear, his hair damp with sweat between your fingers as you clutch onto him. “Come on.”
Your head falls back in a moan as your entire body seems to spasm all at once. You clench tight around his finger, your hips pressing into his hand as you lose control of yourself. Pleasure washes through you, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
You’re trembling in his arms as he pulls his finger from inside of you. His grip on your waist is tight, the bulge in his pants pressing hard against your thigh. Despite your orgasm you still feel pleasure and desire thrumming beneath your skin, your body wanting for more. More of him, more of what he’s wrung from you.
“Daeron…” you whisper, pressing your lips to his ear. “I want you to fuck me.”
He presses his face against the side of your head, letting out a whimper.
“You said I could have anyone I want.” You tug at his hair, pulling his face back so you can see him. “I want you.”
His lips part as he lets out a breath, his hand tightening around your waist. His eyes are glassy, the purple of his irises almost swallowed completely by his pupils. “Fuck.” He curses, his hands dropping to your trousers where he hastily reties them before lifting you from his lap.
You barely have time to grab the waistband of your trousers to keep them from falling as he grabs your other hand, dragging you deeper into the brothel. Muffled moans sound from behind closed doors as he leads you down a hallway, finding an empty room before dragging you inside.
He locks the door behind them before stepping up to you, pressing another kiss to your lips. Your hands sink back into his hair, tugging at the honey-blonde strands. His hands slide under your tunic, calloused fingers dragging along your bare skin. A shiver runs through you, your body arching against his.
“If you don’t tell me to stop right now…” he breathes against your lips, hands clutching at your waist. His hips press against yours, his cock digging into your stomach.
“Why would I want you to stop?” You whisper, tugging his lips back down to yours.
He groans, pulling away from your lips to tug his shirt over his head. You can’t stop your hands as they lift to his chest, trailing across his warm skin. His own hands fist into the fabric of your oversized tunic, one of Valarr’s that you’d stolen months ago and never returned.
You lift your arms as he tugs it over your head, dropping it to the floor. His gaze is dark as he stares at you, his eyes roving every inch of your skin. You’ve never been so exposed in front of a man before, your skin prickling under the intensity of his stare.
His hands lift, cupping your breasts in his palms. “Fuck, you’ve got nice tits.” He breathes, licking his lips.
“Thank you?” You blink up at him, tilting your head to the side.
“That’s a compliment.” He says, leaning down to kiss your throat. “I’ve seen lots of tits.”
Your face flushes at his words, your hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders. How easy it is to forget your cousin’s proclivities in a moment like this. He’s famous for drinking and whoring his way through King’s Landing. He was coming here tonight to do the same thing, only with a woman with a face he’d forget by morning.
Instead he’s here, with a woman he won’t be able to forget the face of.
His fingers trail down your sides, making you shiver as he reaches for your laces. His lips trail across your skin as he tugs on them once, your pants quickly dropping to the floor.
He grips your waist again, his lips finding yours for a quick kiss. “Get on the bed.”
You swallow nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed as you take a step backwards, sliding out of his hold. He watches you as you turn, crawling onto the straw mattress before settling yourself against the pillows.
He tugs at the laces of his own pants as his eyes trail your body, taking in every inch of your skin. You can’t read his face, which is almost worse as he stares at you. The urge to cover herself is strong, but you’re distracted as he shoves his pants down his legs. Your heart thuds in your chest, your mouth suddenly going dry.
“Never seen a cock before, have you?” He asks, crawling onto the end of the bed.
You shake your head, heat burning beneath your skin. “N-Not in person.”
His brows raise as he comes to kneel between your legs. “Oh?”
“I found a book…once…” You feel as if you might burst into flames. “In the library. It, uh…showed things.”
“You naughty little thing.” He smirks, his hands coming to rest on your knees. His palms are warm, despite your flushed skin. “Not so innocent as you like to pretend.”
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart. Your face warms further as he stares down at you, bare before him. You’re wet still, folds slick and shiny from his touch. Daeron’s lips part, his tongue dragging along his bottom lip as he stares at you like he wants to devour you.
“Fuck you’ve got a pretty cunt too.” He breathes, lowering himself down on the bed.
“Daeron-” You gasp as he tugs you closer, his breath fanning your folds. “What-”
He shushes you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before lowering his head, dragging his tongue through your folds.
“Oh,” you gasp at the strange feeling, your head falling back against the pillows.
Daeron’s hands wrap around your thighs, holding you open as he tastes you. His tongue prods into you before sliding up, circling your bud. Your body jolts at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, your fingers gripping the sheets. Daeron moans into you, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucking hard.
You slap a hand over your mouth as a moan escapes, trying to muffle the sound. Daeron reaches up, tugging your hand from your face and pinning it to the bed. “This is a whorehouse, not the Keep, the point is to be loud.” He places a kiss against your clit. “Let me hear you.”
You let out a shaky breath as his lips return to your clit, suckling at the sensitive bud. Your head falls back, your fingers wrapping around the hand pinning yours to the bed. A moan slips out of your lips, a sound you never knew you were capable of making.
Daeron continues to pleasure you, practically slurping at your cunt. The noises are obscene, his moans echoing yours as you writhe on the bed in pleasure.
“Daeron! Oh fuck-” you gasp, your hand sinking into his hair, holding him close against you.
He whimpers as you tug on the strands, your eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure roll through you. Your hips jerk against his face, back arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through your orgasm until you’re nearly shaking with overstimulation.
“Fuck…” he breathes once he pulls away, pressing his face against your inner thigh. His mouth is slick and shiny with your juices, his tongue darting out to lick as much of you off of his face as he can.
You tremble with aftershocks of your orgasm as they lay there, both of you panting. The sounds of the brothel come back to them as they fall silent, muffled moans and the bang of beds against the walls.
Daeron moves first, lifting himself onto his knees. He moves closer to you, slotting himself between your thighs. His hand smooths over your stomach, stroking your sweat-slick skin. “There’s no going back,” he says, staring down into your eyes.
“I know,” you say, wrapping your hand around his wrist to tug him closer. “You said there’s no shame in wanting.”
He huffs out a laugh, lowering himself onto his elbow over you. “I did.” His other hand grips his cock, pressing it against you. “Breathe,” he says, dragging his tip through your folds. “The more you tense, the more this will hurt.”
You let out a shaky breath, your hand wrapping around the back of his neck. He presses his tip into you, your teeth sinking into your lip at the stretch. His eyes lock with yours, golden tresses falling into his face as he slowly rocks his hips forward, spreading you open even further. You’re wet, aiding in the glide of his cock, but the stretch still has you aching.
He pauses for a moment, his hand leaving his cock to press into the mattress by your head. He drives his cock forward into you, a sudden sharp pain making you gasp. Your nails bite into the back of his neck, your thighs clamping around his hips.
“That’s it,” he breathes, pressing his face into the side of your head, his lips brushing your ear. “The worst is over.”
You breathe heavily, pulling Daeron’s body down against hers. He engulfs you, hot and slick with sweat against your own sweaty skin. His breaths pant against your ear, his hips shifting just slightly against you. You let out a quiet sound, your body clenching down around him.
Daeron whimpers, his fingers gripping the pillow beneath your head. “Fuck, you’re tight. I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that.”
You clench around him again, drawing another sound from his lips. He presses himself up onto his hands, hovering over you as he starts to move, grinding against your hips. There’s still pain, a deep, unfamiliar ache in your pelvis.
Your hands slide up his arms as he starts to thrust into you, drawing his hips back before pressing them up against you again. You grip onto him, the ache beginning to subside into something deeper, something that has your toes curling and your thighs gripping his hips. Quiet moans leave your lips, nothing compared to the noises leaving Daeron. He moans and curses, fists clenching the sheets.
“Fuck you feel so good,” he pants, driving his hips into hers. “Fuck...”
Your nails bite into his skin as you feel that pressure building again, pleasure rushing through you as you hurtle closer and closer to that edge once more. “Daeron...oh gods…”
Your back arches as you squeeze around him, a cry of pleasure leaving your lips. Daeron’s hips snap into yours, his body trembling. He has just enough sense to pull himself from you, stroking his cock twice before spilling onto your stomach. He lets out a long, low moan as his cock twitches in his hand, his balls clenched tight.
“Fuck…” he groans, rolling off of you.
They lay side by side in the bed, both of them breathing heavy. The weight of what just transpired settles over you, along with the lingering deep ache in your pelvis. You’re no longer an innocent maiden, no longer whole. You’re not sure exactly how you should feel. Hollow? Fulfilled? Instead you’re floating more in limbo. A quick jab of Daeron’s hips and the thing that made you so valuable, a pure princess for your future husband, is now gone. That easily, that quickly.
And it felt good too.
You’ve never felt that good before. You’re still shaking a bit with the aftershocks of pleasure, the proof of Daeron’s release sticky on your stomach.
Daeron uses the sheet to clean it off before slipping an arm under you, tugging you against his side. You lay your head on his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart under your ear. His hand splays across your back, skin rough with callouses from his years of training, which were never very successful.
“We should get back to the Keep.” You murmur, Daeron’s breaths already starting to even out.
“In a few minutes.” He breathes, his hand going lax against your back.
You can’t stop the pull of sleep, pressed tight against his warm body, tired from the exertion and the wine they had consumed. Before you even know it, your eyes have closed.
****
The slam of a door jolts you from a peaceful sleep. Daeron jerks under you, both of you jerking awake in disoriented surprise. You pull the blankets up to hide your naked body as you blink away the bleariness, finding a familiar figure decked in white armor standing in the doorway.
“Get up.” Ser Roland says, his eyes passing between the two of you.
It’s morning, the sun shining in the small window above them. Fuck, you fell asleep and slept until daylight. Long enough for your absence to go noticed.
Daeron groans, rolling to the side as you reach for the tunic on the floor, keeping the blankets pressed against your chest to give herself at least a modicum of modesty. You tug the tunic on, thankfully long enough to cover you as you rise from the bed, wincing at the pain between your legs as you grab your trousers.
Guilt and shame at being caught burns through you as you look up at Ser Roland, but his eyes are on the bed, on the sheets where a small stain of red can be seen.
Summary: It's late at night and your husband, Daeron does not want to sleep because that will make him dream..
Tags: f!reader, no mention of y/n, cousin marriage, targcest, smut, p in v sex, teasing, finger sucking, Daeron is so careful my baby, creampie, crying during sex, he's obsessed with your breasts, happy end
-> masterlist
It was another night just like the others, you in a peaceful slumber next to Daeron, your husband and cousin you married. The bed was soft, Daeron was always fond of your bed.
You were lying next to your husband who was not asleep tonight, but you did not know that. Daeron was whining, tossing and turning in the bed, his white shirt was sweaty so he took it off revealing his chest you always loved to touch.
Daeron sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and teared up, tonight he refused to let his dreams haunt him. He slowly stood up from the bed and walked to the table, he poured some red dornish wine into his cup and drank a few gulps.
Your eyes also popped open to the rushing and moving around the room. - Daeron? - you mumbled and saw his shadow in the dark. - What is it, my dear?
- I don't want to sleep.. - he said in a miserable tone, his voice cracked a little. A tear escaping his liliac left eye.
- Why? - you sat up slowly and decided to stand up from the bed, you put on your soft red nightgown and lit up a few candles so you could see his face.
- I don't want to dream, wife.. - he said softly, gaze was teary.
- Oh, Daeron...you could've told me earlier, my love. - you replied
- I wanna stay up all night, if you...don't mind..- he said softly and touched your nightgown.
- And what do you want to do instead of sleeping? - you asked.
Daeron looked down at the floor, then your feet, that were so delicate, then back at your face. He reached out to touch your cheeks and kiss you. His lips were wet, you tasted the wine on his tongue, his hands reached to hold your arms on both sides. As your lips parted apart, he took a deep breath. - We should get our clothes off, wife. - he said breathless and his cheeks became red a little bit, just a tiny bit, he never blushes, only if he drinks.
You agreed with him and slowly took off your nightgown off your body. It fell on the floor, you covered your pale breasts that Daeron loved dearly and to bury his face between them. He watched you with his mouth agape, but he quickly realized that so he closed his lips, he walked to the bed to lay down. His shirt was already on the floor when he took it off. His pants weren't so tight so you could not see how hard he was right now. You crawled on top of him and softly took off his pants fully.
- Do whatever just keep me awake, wife. - Daeron said, his gaze on your breasts, he reached out to touch them but you slapped his hand.
- Patience, love. - you teased him. - You said no matter just keep you awake, so i will tease you. That will keep you awake, my dear.
You touched your cunt, it was perfectly wet to sink down on Daeron's cock. So you did that. Daeron moaned softly, his voice cracked a little. You helped him to sit up against the headboard of the bed. His hands went to grab your hips as a reflex, his eyes were on your breasts, but you made him stare up at your face. You tilted up his head with your pointer finger, his gaze was so vulnerable and miserable, gosh.
- You're so beautiful, do you know that? - he muttered in a tired voice he always had when he was on the verge of being asleep.
- Stay awake, don't sleep.. - you said softly as your hips were grinding on his lap, moaning so Daeron's attention went immedietly to your noises and sleep was slowly leaving his eyes. He whined as answer to your moans.
You decided to suck on his middle and pointer finger on his left arm, Daeron moaned loud at the feeling of your saliva and tongue touched his fingers. - Keep doing that, please.. - he whispered like a man who is begging for money. - Please... - the sleep now officially left his gaze, but his dark circles were still there.
You listened to his command, you were still riding him, you could feel his cock harden inside you and he could feel your wet walls around his cock. His angry tip was red inside you, neither of you could see that, only think what might be going on between you two down there. - If you want to stay up you need to be in charge, Daeron.
He nodded slowly. - What....what way? From behind? Is that fine? My beautiful wife...is that fine? - he was too overwhelmed and on the verge of crying now.
You nodded and hopped off from him, you laid on your stomach. Daeron was very slow and lazy when he finally entered you from behind, his weight was slowly leaning down on your back as he was thrusting and kissing your head softly. - Is this okay? - he asked softly and caressed your long hair.
- Mhm.. - you replied lazily. You were moaning at every push that Daeron was making inside of you. He was getting closer, his moans were louder, his whines were breathless. Then with the last thrust he eventually came, pumping his pearly white cum inside of your cunt. You also felt your orgasm approaching you, luckily it hit you before Daeron pulled out.
He basically fell on your back very slowly and gave a kiss to your head.
- Are you still sleepy..? - you whispered gently.
- No....no i am not, darling. - he replied gently. - Thank you...
- For what?
- For keeping me awake.. - he teared up even more, his cock still inside of you. His tears started to drop very slowly to your back. - I did not want to dream tonight.. - he sniffed. - I like being with you, love. - he said. - You're so beautiful, let me see your face. - Daeron whined softly when he pulled out, he saw his cum dripping out of your cunt, but instead his gaze wandered to your face. - Gorgeous. Aren't you?
Your only reply to his words was your smile, his hand reached down to your breasts, brushed his thumb across your soft and sensitive nipple that made you gasp a little.
- I will sleep if you...don't mind.. - you said in a soft sad tone.
- I don't mind, you need to rest. - he said and wiped off his tears. You laid on the bed, your body was incredibly sensitive, Daeron's gaze was still on your breasts.
- Oh for gods' sake, Daeron! - you said softly in an irritated tone. - Come, come. - you patted your breasts. Daeron's smile widened, his lips, eyes, nose buried between your boobs.
- So bouncy and pale. - he kissed one of them and then gently his mouth licked your nipple.
You let out a soft moan and looked at his tired gaze. - I can't sleep when i see you like this...
- Like what?
- So tired, my love... - you replied.
- I will keep myself awake, dearest. - Daeron said and stared at your face, his hand caressing your breast.
You eventually closed your eyes. Daeron did not. His mind wandered through the previous moments and of course your boobs, because he loves them. He was watching you over like a dog as you were so quiet while sleeping, you did not make any noise.
But then Daeron fell asleep...what happened?
When he woke up he didn't remember any of his dreams he saw. He didn't see anything, all he remembered was the way you and him were making love and that wasn't a dream. Thanks to you and your comfort Daeron wasn't haunted by nightmares last night.
Can you guys tell how much i absolutely adore Daeron? Anyways check out the masterlist for more! <3
summary: for three moons, you have kept your pregnancy a secret. you know with certainty that the child is daeron's, not your husband's. but the weight of silence has grown too heavy to bear, and you have no choice left but to tell your beloved the truth.
warnings: 18+ audiences only ⋆ smut ⋆ fingering (fem!receiving) ⋆ cunnilingus ⋆ oral sex (fem!receiving) ⋆ clothed sex ⋆ pregnancy sex ⋆ overstimulation
a/n: this could probably be called a continuation of ❝furtively❞ , but I think you can read it on its own as well (though I do recommend reading the first part). the events take place before the trip to ashford, and this truly is, in a way, a feast during the plague. daeron is already drinking heavily. first, because his dreams have worsened. second, because your separation has also had a negative effect on him. and, well, the secrecy of your meetings no longer concerns him as much as it plunges him into a state of deep dejection.
Above you rose the ceiling, like a wooden giant of rectangular shape. Your eyes clung to the smallest crack appearing on the oak, which, of course, had darkened with time. You got the feeling that even your own bed binds your wings with hard fetters, does not let you fly. Four carved columns were attached to the wooden canopy, slender strips of damask hung in waves to the floor. On the fabric, carefully embroidered, were depicted feathers and birds. You did not know if this was a mockery, because you could not fly.
Your eyes caught a tiny little spot, whose existence surely only you knew. Your husband came drunk that evening, waving his arms with that clumsy rage that makes him look like a turkey. The cup flew to the floor with a metallic clang, and the canopy absorbed the dark-red tart wine. The servants, of course, later scrubbed the whole misunderstanding thoroughly, but they did not notice one "bloody" kiss.
But you remembered everything, every tormenting moment spent in these chambers. There was no joy here, certainly not from your cold, rude spouse.
The brightest memories were only connected with the one with whom you had no right to be in such closeness. You begged forgiveness from the Gods countless times, it was bittersweet for you how good it was with Daeron, and how bad and shameful it was after every such moment.
You truly became a little bird, and this room became your prison. You beat your breast against the wooden carvings of this indestructible roof, but all that remained for you was to tangle your little feathers in the dark-blue damask.
You could hardly count how many times, like today, you gazed at the shackles, erected from strong limestone. Your hand reached for your belly, covered it in some subconscious protective gesture.
You were not alone, you had been carrying this thought for the third moon. Too long a term to remain silent. Your husband had already begun to tease you, making unnecessary and far from pleasant comments about your changed figure. Your hips had become softer, and your breasts had filled with new heaviness; not to mention how your belly had transformed, becoming like a small hill. And all these signs clearly carried only one truth — you were expecting a child.
A troubled shadow flickered across your face. You remained silent about your condition rather out of fear than unwillingness to share the news... joyful though it might be?
It was worth hoping and praying to the Gods that your husband was as rude as he was naive. You and he had spent a whole twelve moons away from the Red Keep. The reason was the most ordinary — you were trying to make an heir, but no matter how much effort you put in, everything was in vain.
Returning to court life felt like standing on your feet again, feeling the thrill of the wind in your hair. Everything was as before, as if time had stopped in place, waiting for you impatiently. Only the inhabitants of the castle had become different. The King had become even older, you would have sworn that a new wise wrinkle had appeared between his brows. The young princesses had grown an inch or even two, Rhae was overtaking her sister in height as if it were a competition. The eldest son of Maekar had certainly become unrecognizable. Your Daeron... or did you dare call him that now, when he was more under the power of wine than your feelings?
With your departure, Daeron had lost the most important thing — a person who could listen — always in the dark hour of night and in the bright moment when the sun was just waking. You did not curl your lips when he vividly described every tiny detail of his dream. You, on the contrary, tried to decipher that hidden meaning that the Gods sent him in nightmares. Nightmares. Of course, what else to call these dreams? In ordinary dreams, dragons do not appear. Not those dragons from frescoes, which have already turned into an outdated legend. Real dragons, that breathe fire, burning cities with the same ease with which a butterfly flutters from flower to flower.
Now the prince held a dialogue with his wine cup more often than his head touched the pillow. He had become completely undemanding. Was it a talent to fall asleep, pressing his cheek to the dusty stone floor with that serenity that only appears on infant faces?
The Red Keep greeted you with the same sweetish smell of candles that had eaten into your skin since you were sent to serve in King's Landing as a lady-in-waiting. Now the scent of fragrant wax brought no peace.
Four moons had passed since you fluttered down from the saddle of your mare, since your shoes touched the familiar paved capital road, since you… fell into his arms with stupid helplessness.
You knew that one of you needed to muster patience to break the links of the chains with which you had been entwined since your very first meeting in your teenage years.
Daeron. Daeron is certainly not the one who can fight his harmful habits. You found no excuses for yourself. You promised yourself and the Gods a thousand times that next time you would be able to resist his influence, but as soon as a guilty smile slipped across his pale face, you gave in. As if thoughts turned to ash, they crumbled, rising upward, to the same place where common sense went.
To be fair, you were not so careless, or so it seemed to you. Your aunt had no children; until this moment you were sure that this curse had touched you too. She assured that sometimes her bleeding might stop, after which comes a disappointing month when it returns. For this reason, you waited, you did not call the maester. All three moons you lived in this lingering unpleasant feeling that something was coming that could bring more sorrow than sweetness.
A child will be a blessing, that is always the way it is thought. But when the child is the fruit of a passion on the side, the fruit of infidelity to your despotic husband...
Your "faithful" husband was not capable of conceiving a child, because that would have happened much earlier, and Prince Daeron, it seems, did not need to make much effort.
You rose from the bedding impetuously, but immediately leaned on the wooden post of the bed. Your head spun. You could not get used to the fact that now one small demanding life lives inside your body.
Pressing the back of your hand to your forehead, you took an awkward step forward. In any case, you should be grateful to this little one under your heart for not tormenting you with the more unpleasant sicknesses of pregnant women. You were not sick at all, although that is so often described by all lady-mothers.
Lazily moving your legs, you left your chambers, your body moved as if someone unseen was pulling it by strings. The corridors stretched like a long labyrinth, although you could move through them with your eyes closed with the same agility as a cat, as always.
You, like a little bird, hurried to the door where your beloved was hiding. You hoped that he had had the conscience to stay in the castle when you needed him so much.
Keeping the secret alone had become a burden. You were not coping, you felt it with all your trembling innards, as if every step you took beat out an alarm bell "you cannot".
Pushing the door too sharply, you almost flew into Daeron's room and found him in a state you clearly did not expect. The prince was sitting on a clothes chest, propping his head on his hand, which he had buried in his knee. His expression was almost carefree, but attentive, because in front of him, actively and expressively waving his arms, stood Egg. The boy was poking his finger at a sheet of paper that had already become slightly crumpled, apparently because of how emotionally he had squeezed the parchment during his story.
"It was truly real, brother! Just like the one you dreamed of!"
Little Aegon thrust a milk-colored sheet into his older brother's hands. His eyes burned with overexcitement, his cheeks flushed, he continued to chatter, and Daeron winced almost imperceptibly at it.
"I drew it from memory. Fine, isn't it?"
The princes were so distracted by the youngest son of Maekar's artwork that they did not notice how you had been standing on the threshold of the room for, perhaps, several moments.
"And I also felt the dragon breathing down my neck."
Egg walked around his brother and began to imitate heavy dragon breath. Daeron looked puzzled, even embarrassed. One might suppose he had woken up not long ago, probably with a heavy head. The reason was known.
Daeron ran his broad palm through his tangled golden hair, frowning, still trying to digest everything that his brother had energetically and furiously dumped on him.
"Oh, hello!" Aegon exclaimed loudly when he finally noticed you.
He ran up to you, snatched his drawing from his older comrade's hands, as if sensing that you were a more responsive audience than Daeron.
"Look. A dragon. I dreamed about it today, and it breathed down my neck! Like this."
The boy repeated exactly what he had tried to demonstrate to Daeron. You smiled, shaking your head.
"Were you scared? In the dream?"
"Nope."
Aegon smiled widely, flattered by your attentiveness.
"A beautiful dragon, as if from the pages of books," you whispered, carefully touching the monster's tail with your fingertips, as if it were truly real and ready to scorch with hot fire from just one awkward movement.
"Not from books," Egg declared stubbornly. "The dragon was truly real, you understand?"
You nodded, though how could you understand; you had not lived to see dragons, those real ones about which Aegon insisted so stubbornly.
"Go on, now."
Daeron spoke up, snapping out of his trance. His fingers unconsciously reached for the rings, which he wore rarely, rather because he often lost them. The reason was the famous drink. Sometimes a precious ring could be stolen from him in a cheap tavern, and it was not about the cunning dexterity of the thief, but the prince's careless indifference. Let him steal, he would pretend to be drunk enough not to notice.
"But Daeron also saw a dragon in his dream."
You became alert, because Egg's dreams could still be explained by the impressionability of a young age and vivid imagination, but his older brother's dreams were another, complicated thing.
"Egg, you are dismissed." Daeron pursed his lips, his eyebrows crept toward the bridge of his nose in a defensive, protective position.
The little prince pouted in a very childish way; probably he wanted to stamp his foot too, but stopped in time, calculating it in a very un-adult manner.
"Only… leave the drawing. You drew well, beautifully," the firstborn of Maekar added more softly.
Egg obeyed, surprisingly. Who knows, perhaps he simply understood that you needed to be together, or he saw your frightened little face and decided that the best thing to do was to leave as quickly as possible. He scampered off with a ringing stomp, which he usually used to announce his presence.
"Has something happened?" Daeron asked quietly, timidly, his violet eyes clinging to the precious stones on his rings.
He twirled the rings, moving them from one knuckle to another, as if that could somehow help him with what you were about to tell him.
You took in more air into your chest, steeling yourself, but remained silent for some more time. You only found the strength to drag yourself to the chest and sit down next to your beloved.
It was hard not to catch the smell of wine, which now often came from his hair, his hands, and especially his lips. You did not scold him, did not try to change him. Useless.
Daeron had certainly learned stubbornness from the Dornishmen, absorbed it with his mother's milk at birth.
If he does not desire salvation for himself, then he will not receive it.
And you needed no less, if not more, salvation than he did.
You sighed quietly, still not ready to raise the question that had already tormented you unbearably. Placing your palm on the prince's palm, you barely whispered.
"What dragon did you dream of?"
"A falling one," he answered evasively, squeezing your hand gently. "Let's… not talk about dreams, alright?"
"Alright," you nodded, understanding.
"What happened?" Daeron looked at you puzzled, for a long time, as he used to, trying to understand what you were hiding from him.
You were impenetrable, you wanted to look that way, but your eyes darted restlessly, giving you away completely. You closed your eyes, because it was impossible to look at him, you were ready to cry at any moment.
"Gods, what happened, little bird?"
The prince pressed you to his chest carefully, afraid that you might push him away, but you, on the contrary, buried your face in his neck. He was trembling too, you could feel it by how his whole body tensed, like a little animal ready to leap decisively.
His long fingers fearfully touched your hair, but after a couple of moments became bolder, digging into desperation.
"Talk to me, please."
"I am scared, Daeron," you whispered weakly.
"What are you afraid of, my little lady?" he asked, though his voice gave him away.
You were going through this together. As it should be, wasn't it?
You pressed yourself closer to him. His skin exuded the former scent of myrtle mixed with something completely foreign. Something sour, reminiscent of fermented apples. You winced, and Daeron noticed it, as if he felt it, because your face was hidden.
"Sorry… I…" but he could not come up with an excuse for such a state, so he fell silent, ashamed.
"Stop apologizing every time. I won't say everything is fine… but I am used to it."
You pulled away, but only to look him in the eyes, to see him better. You ran your fingertips over his cheeks and chin, where a slight stubble had appeared.
Daeron, with a puppyish look, caught your hand and pressed it closer to himself.
"Prickly."
"A little," he agreed, tiredly.
His lips attached to your wrist, where the skin was most tender, where a steady pulse could be felt. The prince was in no hurry, touching your hand with his lips, paying attention to every little finger, worshipping.
"I love you," Daeron murmured through his kisses, as if that were enough to atone for his every hangover state.
You stopped your lover, pressing your index finger firmly to his lips.
"I still need to tell you something."
After this phrase, you fell silent, your tongue as if numb. You pulled his free hand to your belly eloquently.
"Daeron…" tears stood in your eyes as you chirped his name, unable to say anything else.
"You?..."
The blond needed nothing more, he understood without unnecessary words. His fingers tensely, but gently, squeezed your barely protruding belly, as if covering it with his warmth.
"Yes… I… ours, Daeron."
The prince did not ask for clarification, he did not need it at all, he believed, because he saw that your eyes, already full of silver salty moisture, were not lying.
"Thank you," the prince stammered convulsively on an exhale, his eyes were also covered with a veil of tears that had gathered in the corners. "Thank you, my love, this is... a blessing... thank you..."
He repeated it again and again, as if under a spell, and Daeron's lips showered your face with kisses, everything he could reach in this strange, incomprehensible state for you.
"Thank you…? Daeron…? Have you lost your mind thanking me for such a thing?" you grabbed the collar of his doublet tenaciously, though you trembled like an aspen leaf in the wind.
Instead of an answer, the eldest son of Maekar pressed his lips to yours, leaving you no chance not to respond, but you did not want to. The kiss turned out bitter, salty from your tears, which mixed, rolling down from your cheeks to the corners of your mouths. The prince's hands moved under your ribs, holding you with the fear of losing you, that you would melt like snow at the beginning of spring, that he would wake up and you would turn out to be a drunken delirium.
"I love you, and I am glad, I am glad of this news," Daeron spoke incoherently, as if convincing himself of it, reinforcing each word, or rather, each syllable, with a new and even longer kiss.
You only had time to sigh under this onslaught, but, yielding to your greatest weakness, you answered him in the same language, consisting of tenderness and awe.
His lips slid to the jugular notch, Daeron whispered some kind of tenderness, pressing against your skin again and again, leaving careful, wet traces. You threw your head back, obediently granting full access to your neck. Your fingers still gripped his collar until it creaked, afraid that this was all your pathetic fantasy and nothing more.
The tip of his long nose touched the line of your collarbones, as if following his lips with scrupulous passion. Stopping at the neckline of your dress, Daeron froze as if paralyzed. His heavy breath warmed, or rather the opposite, because noticeable goosebumps had already appeared on your skin, making it goosy.
"May I…?"
The eldest son of Maekar raised his violet eyes to you with the timidity of a boy, he truly was asking your permission. His brows furrowed in a pitiful expression, his eyes shone with unshed tears, his cheeks covered with a crimson blush from agitation, his hair had turned into some kind of chaotic tangled whirlwind the color of wheat.
You were shaking with a fine, fine tremor, but still you found the strength for a small, weak nod of your head, giving consent to your beloved man.
"Yes, please, Daeron…" you whispered in a hoarse voice of arousal right into his ear.
His lips touched your earlobe, and it felt like the touch of scarlet tongues of flame to bare skin. You could not utter another word, they rose across your throat, getting stuck there as the most useless burden.
You lowered yourself onto the bed with the caution of a mouse, your palms embraced the little hill of your belly, hidden under layers of fabric. Daeron caught that path your hand had unconsciously taken. He held his breath, still standing by the bed, as if every extra movement of his was forbidden on a state basis.
The prince mentally painted your portrait in his head, wanting to remember you for life just like this, with your dress bunched up, risen to your ankles and baring your woolen stockings, with your chest heaving wildly, with your fingers clutching the sheet with desperate restraint.
Daeron followed you with gentle wariness, he feared that he might hurt you and your body, which was now full of your shared life.
He propped himself up on his elbow with such ragged, inhuman breathing, belonging to a wild animal hunted down by the king's hounds. The dreamer's locks fell onto your forehead, slightly tickling.
You closed your eyes, timid, when his hot palms covered your breasts through the fabric. Daeron listened to your heartbeat, which echoed his.
"I am sorry that I am not your husband. I am very sorry that I simply… did not make it in time… that I doubted for too long whether I was worthy of you."
He blurted it out breathlessly, having nurtured this guilt, consisting of unremovable shackles, for too long.
The prince's lips made a small circle, starting from the corners of your lips, ending at the neckline of your dress. He left an open, helpless kiss on the hollow of your breasts. Daeron barely touched, still fearing that he had invented you, that you were not in his bed.
You were his faith now, and he worshipped with the most fervent and blind fanaticism, imprinting on every piece of skin, even hidden under the bliaut, a new and ever newer gesture of reverence.
The blond's hands lifted the hem of your dress unhurriedly, as if revealing a great secret. He rolled up all the layers of fabric, turning them into shapeless folds on the line of your ribs, closer to your chest.
His tongue slightly stuck out, touching the skin of your epigastric pit, he traced a small, broken line, turning it into a slippery kiss, and returned, drinking you in greedily.
You sighed stifledly when the prince's lips began to follow lower, caressing your navel. He embraced your little belly tenderly, as if he truly were capable of protecting it.
"Thank you… thank you… this is a gift."
He spoke incoherently, as if his tongue and teeth were tangled together. A series of hot kisses stretched across your entire belly, reinforcing the words of gratitude.
Daeron's breath warmed your mound, crowned with neatly trimmed hairs. He spread your thighs with an awkward look, rather ashamed of his open desire.
"May I?" he repeated the question with the same helpless look.
"Yes…"
You whispered, stretching out on the thickness of the soft blanket, like a cat basking in the sun's rays. Your hands themselves reached for the top of his head and slid lower to the back of his neck. You grabbed the shortest hairs, pulling them hard enough to hurt. Daeron gasped audibly.
He ran his thumb over your pussy lips, gathering the moisture that had collected, and then you shuddered. Your hips instinctively lifted, inviting. Without waiting another moment, the man pressed his lips to your pussy. He kissed fiercely, no longer hiding his desperation, his tongue touched your wet folds, teasing them.
"Ah!"
You squeaked unrestrainedly, forgetting about everything in the world, especially when Daeron found your throbbing clitoris with his lips. You pressed his head between your thighs tighter, wrapping your legs around his ears, but he clearly showed no resistance to such a prison.
You whispered something like an approving "yes" and "just like that", which spurred him on even more; the prince stubbornly kissed, caressed you, licking off your natural lubrication, with the same zeal as if it were his favorite wine.
Daeron did not let you come too quickly; he kept returning to your aching clitoris, sucking it with insatiability. You whimpered in your moans, crying out his name, as if that would truly help you finally reach that sweet release.
The tender skin of your inner thighs caught the light friction of his cheek with its slight stubble, but gradually got used to it, responding to every such touch.
You jerked, turning into an arch, when the prince traced a particularly precise, divine movement with his hot tongue.
"Daeron!" you pleaded, feeling tears streaming down your cheeks in a generous cascade.
He nevertheless showed the desire to bring you to orgasm sooner, continuing to pleasure you unhurriedly, sweetly, drinking you in slowly, slowly.
Your eyes rolled back with pleasure every time he traced your clitoris with a confident, flexible movement of his tongue. Your voice became hoarse from the moans you could no longer suppress.
"I… I am close, Daeron," you cried out, pushing the words out of your mouth with great effort.
"I can feel it," he whispered, pulling away from you for a moment.
The prince placed his palm under your buttock, he squeezed the flesh with some kind of mischief that flickered in his eyes the color of the sunset sky.
"Are you… teasing me?" you wanted to say it indignantly, but it came out rather like a pitiful chirp of a little bird.
"A little. You are… very sensitive…"
Your thighs were indeed trembling in anticipation and impatience.
"It's because of the baby," you blurted out, defensive.
"You are always like this, my love."
Daeron smirked one last time before finally disappearing between your spread legs. This time he added an extra caress, inserting two fingers into you. You clung to him demandingly, clenching as if you never intended to let go.
The pace increased rapidly, you could no longer hold back. The limit was too close, and you surrendered to the mercy of this bright wave. White sparks floated before your eyes, you cried out as if born anew. Daeron, as if mocking or, on the contrary, showing mercy, softly continued to kiss you, prolonging your orgasm as long as possible.
When you finally came to your senses, you lay on the bedding, looking at each other. Your pupils were dilated and resembled huge black saucers. His lips were wet from you. It seemed the prince could think of nothing better than to draw you into a deep kiss.
Your dress was still hiked up to your belly. On your protruding belly, his palm lay gently.
"We will think of something."
You nodded, unable to argue. All you could think about was that your own tart taste had spread across your palate. You felt the prince's aroused cock against your thigh. You pretended not to notice.
"First Ashford… then… then we will think of something, Daeron."
You tried to smile, already recalling how the maid had been packing your things for the upcoming journey.
Perhaps it really was better not to think about tomorrow, for it would be bleak.
a/n: honestly, i don't know who i feel more sorry for the reader or daeron. i mean, we all know what happens later in ashford...
Summary: Daeron's wife wakes to find out that the dream she was having was much more real than she thought.
Tags/CW: SMUT 18+, somnophilia, unprotected sex, wet dream, creampie, fluff, no use of y/n, reader is not described, clit play, rutting, whiny Daeron, not proofread (let me know if i forgot anything)
Word Count: 1.8k
Author's Note: This is lowkey my first time writing smut, but I thought it was high time I put my horny Daeron thoughts to use. I hope everyone enjoys my culmination of ideas I've been posting about and let me know if you want more. Also, on my AO3 as always.
Daeron kept an odd schedule, and you were much the same. Tonight was one of those nights you were sadly used to as you fell asleep by yourself in an empty bed. You knew all about his reputation when you married him. Daeron the Drunken, who would rather bed whores than his wife. Daeron the Drunken, who woke up in ditches reeking of cheap wine, all because he couldn't sleep at night.
At least that was what people said about him. You knew him differently. Of course, he drank; that was never a lie, but he was not bedding whores. You would have cut his cock off before he tried that. You knew him as the dreamer instead, the man who couldn't sleep through the night because of a curse bestowed on him by his bloodline. Above all else, he was your husband that you did indeed love.
Regardless, though, your bed was empty. But you had managed to fall asleep late into the night after determining that he was not coming home. A normal routine, but not a welcome one. Dreams took you, kind ones, not haunting ones like the kind your lover got. Tonight, the Seven brought you a few especially enjoyable ones. Ones where Daeron was lying with you under a tree, kissing you softly and sweetly while his hand held the back of your neck. Even in your dream,s he tasted like wine and something else that was very distinctly him. You could never define it or place it as anything else, but it was him through and through. Every detail of your husband invaded your mind. A near-perfect replica.
The way he gently kissed down the column of your neck in a sloppy, but loving gesture. The wetness that accompanied it as his lips descended further towards your collarbone. He left little nips against the skin on occasion, always soothing them with his tongue. Even in sleep, you knew that soon you would wake with that familiar wetness pooling between your legs, the ache that only your husband had been able to give you.
Still, the dream version of your husband continued his ministrations. He gently cupped one of your breasts from behind, slowly kneading the flesh. A soft sigh escaped from your lips; whether it was in the dream or not, you were unsure. It all felt heavenly, just lazy soft touches, but his hands departed too soon for your liking. He didn't seem to be in any mood for teasing in your dream. Maybe you had gone long enough without sleeping with one another that, in your sleep, he was just as needy as you were.
Genlty, the dream version of your husband grabbed one of your soft thighs and positioned it over his leg to have you open for him. Then suddenly, the dream started to feel even more realistic as one of his fingers parted your wet folds. Another whining noise escaped your sleeping lips. Then, you started to realize something as sleep left your mind. You were not dreaming a second of this.
Slowly, Daeron moved his fingers up and down your slit, collecting moisture before gently bringing them back to draw slow circles around your clit. He'd come home needy just a few minutes before. The second he laid his eyes on your sleeping form, he knew he needed to have you. That was what landed him behind you now. You could feel the outline of his cock through his breeches as he rutted up against the curve of your ass. Needy whines were coming from his mouth, sharp breaths that you felt against your neck. Daeron was desperate.
"Dreaming about me?" The whisper was breathy, and his hips did not still. The noise only made your cunt throb. He had no idea you were waking as a result of his ministrations.
"I need you so badly, my love." He pulled his hand away now, causing a soft whine to escape you. Every second, you were waking more and more, but the weariness of being woken in this way still clung to you. "Need to be inside your cunt so bad."
Behind you, his hips stilled for just a minute, and you heard the rustling of what you knew to be his breeches coming undone. Daeron pulled his flushed cock out, giving it a few soft strokes. He moaned loudly at the much-needed attention. It seemed he didn't care if he woke you or not; he needed you even in your sleep."
His body was against yours again, he'd pulled you flush against his chest before returning your leg to it's pervious position. Now there was the delicious feeling of his hard cock pressed between your folds. Then he moved again. Daeron started to thrust his cock against you, nudging your clit with the tip. Your moans joined his as the lewd act continued. The squelching noise of your almost embarrassing amount of wetness was joined by his heavy pants.
"I need you," Daeron whined this time, still rubbing himself through your folds.
Sleepily, you finally came to enough to speak. "Please…" Your voice came out as a weary whisper.
Upon hearing your voice, Daeron went still. A wave of embarrassment washed over him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." By his voice, you could tell he was at least sober, though the smell of wine did meet you as he spoke.
Unable to ignore your own need now, you shook your head. "No. Just please."
Dearon hesitated for a moment, cock still throbbing between your folds. Part of him felt guilty for pulling you out of your beauty sleep, but above all else, the feeling of your hot cunt and his need won over. "Okay.."
Still not wanting to fully take you from your comfort, Daeron only gently moved your leg up higher. Then he moved his hips slightly, teasing you for a moment more.
"Daeron…" The tip of his cock hit your clit so perfectly, but now filled with sleep and need, there was no room for teasing.
You felt a puff of air against your neck that you assumed to be a huff. Daeron loved to tease you. Cynical and jaded as he was, the drunk was not above having just a bit of fun. However, no matter what, he couldn't say no to your demands, especially when you were so sleepy and pliant. Needy for him at any moment. It stroked his practically non-existent ego.
"As you wish, my love." With one more agonizing drag of his cock between your folds, he finally angled his cock to where you needed him most. Without further hesitation, his cock slipped into your hole. You both groaned in unison at the feeling of finally getting what you both had been burning for.
Inch by inch, his cock started to fill your velvety walls, slotting itself perfectly. You'd been so wet that there was no need for lube, no need to worry about the stretch. Daeron's chest heaved against your back as he took a second to bottom out. He felt like just the feeling of your walls around him was going to take him over the edge. Then he moved, slow, lazy thrusts. There was no hurry now that he was buried inside of you, just the pleasure of one another. The angle he'd positioned you at caused his cock to hit just where you needed him. Sleepy moans and whimpers tumbled from your lips as he rutted into you from behind.
Just like in your dream, he brought his lips up to your neck, leaving lazy, wet kisses across the expanse. You craned your head further into the pillows to allow him more access, which he gladly took. The room filled with the noises of pleasure as you enjoyed one another without shame.
"Thank you," Daeron whispered, planting a kiss on your neck.
"Mhmm," You managed in return.
The laziness of his actions had done little to rouse you from your sleep, but did nothing to dull your pleasure. The drag of his cock inside you was delicious, still as he started to speed up his pace just a little bit.
"You feel..fuck..so good." Daeron nipped at your jaw. His hand moved from around your waist to your front. "Letting me use you like this."
He seemed to be lost in a haze of his own, slowly trailing his hand down your stomach and through the thatch of hair between your thighs. With practiced ease, his fingers found your clit again. The digits moved in circles around it, only heightening your pleasure. A louder moan ripped from your throat at the feeling, back arching into him as you fully succumbed to his touch.
"Ah, there's my beautiful wife." Your cunt clenched around him at his words. A deeper groan came from him.
The way you responded only seemed to egg him on more. His thrusts went from slow and lazy to something still lazy, but now he was chasing his high. Each time he drove his cock more firmly inside, another moan escaped. The familiar tight feeling started to coil in your stomach as the joint feeling of his cock and fingers brought you closer and closer to the edge. Wetness dripped down both of your thighs as his cock moved in and out. Daeron showed no signs of slowing as you moved closer and closer to your peak.
The feeling grew more and more as you whined out, "Gonna…" An orgasm came crashing down on you before you could even warm him. Your eyes screwed shut as your legs shook around him. Neither his cock or fingers let up, fucking you through most of your orgasm before a strangled whine sounded behind you. It was followed quickly by one last thrust of Daeron's hips and the feeling of his hot seed fill you cunt.
Chests heaved as you both came down from the orgasms. No words were exchanged for a moment while sweat dripped down your neck. The previously cold bed was now warmed with your husband's presence and, of course cock.
"What time is it?" You mumbled, making no effort to move as Daeron's cock softened inside of you.
"Morning. It does not matter." He placed a few more wet kisses across your neck, then your chin.
A smile came across your lips before you tilted your head just a bit so that you could finally capture his lips. Just like in your dream, he tasted of wine and something that could only be described as Daeron. Your lips moved together for a moment, movements still lazy, much like the rest of the morning before you parted.
"You will never guess what I was dreaming of.." You gave him one more peck on the lips before letting your head fall against the pillow.
Daeron laughed, pulling you closer to him by your waist. "I do not wish to think of any dreams now. Only you."
Nothing more was said as you both fell back into a peaceful sleep.
content: nsfw, husband and spouse, gender neutral reader, consensual alcohol use, it’s daeron so ofc there’s going to be alcohol, lowkey body worship???, daeron loves you so bad it’s not even funny, reader teases a little.
author’s note: this was supposed to be headcanons, but turned into a scenario instead. my bad y’all LMAO. my inbox is open!
word count: 1.1k
daeron, who slept well into the early evening because of the alcohol buzzing through his system. rarely does it soothe him enough to get him to rest, but it worked its magic for once and thus he fell asleep.
daeron, who seeks you out a few short minutes after coming to consciousness and realizing that you are not beside him in bed. he turns his head to the side and peers blearily out the open window, recognizing that the sun has been down for a little while now. dinner has surely passed so where have you gone?
you, who is curled up on the chaise lounge in your husband's bedchambers with a weathered book in your lap and a silver goblet of wine beside you that is leisurely sipped from.
you, having changed out of your daily attire and into something more comfortable to reflect the late evening. not yet had you climbed into bed to join your snoring husband, but you notice the lack of snoring that had been filling the air.
daeron, who sits up and drags one ringed hand over his face, lavender eyes searching his surroundings. he is unsure on whether they are looking for a new wineskin that has been magically filled or you, but they land on your curled up figure first.
daeron, with sluggish movements and a vague pounding in his head that only makes him want to drink more. his purple gaze most certainly drinks you in and entices him to rise to his feet toward you.
daeron, who presses his fingertips into you whenever he gets a chance. callouses bite into your soft skin, or the fabric of your clothing, or even the book you've yet to look up from. it's heavily dragged from your fingers and atop your thighs, not unkind in the motion.
daeron, who smells of warm wine, perhaps a Dornish one that was imported recently and he took a liking to. his presence easily surrounds you even though he is directly in front of you only.
you, raising a brow in faux annoyance, but are smiling despite yourself. the bound leather book is shut quietly, worn pages making little noise as they're pressed together.
daeron, who is draping himself atop your body with a bit more force than intended, but does not hurt you either. he's pressing your fronts together, face shoving itself into the crook of your neck with an exhaustion that spoke of bone-deep weariness.
"Spouse," daeron drawls, the word coming out a little slurred and yet gentle, muffled against your flesh. he tilts his head a little further and looks up at you, "It would appear I am out of wine."
you, who snorts a laugh and wraps your arms around the dirty blonde, nails gently raking down his back that was still clothed in his princely attire. a head tilt is offered, then murmured words, "You seem to have drank it all."
you, who grabs the half empty goblet on the small table next to the chaise. playfully, you raise it towards him in a mock cheers that he would be unable to mimic and then take a small sip.
daeron, who groans in response to your little mimicking and reaches up, taking the goblet from your hand. it is not a forceful prying, for you surrender it with ease.
"I have a cruel lover." daeron complains lightly, taking a long sip of the wine and mentally noting that it was not the wine from Dorne that had been imported. arbor gold, terribly sweet and light in a manner that contrasted the more full bodied flavors he preferred.
daeron, who surprises you by leaning up so that he was hovering over you more properly and presses your lips together. his free hand slides up to your jaw, forefinger and thumb pressing into your skin lightly. your lips part and he gives the wine to you, messily.
you, now with a drop of red wine trickling down the corner of your mouth, are gently wrapping one arm around your husband's shoulders. the other finds his back, bunching the black and red silk finery between the digits, and holds him close.
both of you, who begin to undress one another before the first kiss has even been separated. he puts the goblet atop the table with a wobbly movement because he was not about to spill perfectly good alcohol on the floor. wine was great after sex.
neither of you opt to move over to the bed once your naked, for daeron finds it too much work and your need for him far surpasses the desire to switch spots.
impatience means little to daeron, who touches you with a reverence that borders on worship. you are the only good thing in this godsforsaken world that is his and he can never bring himself to be that rough with you.
"My heart and soul." daeron breathes against your skin, chapped lips parted as he plants wet kisses against throat. thick fingers run down your sides, feeling the soft flesh yield beneath his hands.
you hum in response, but know better than to expect anything other words from him.
daeron is not speaking with the intention of receiving replies. it's sober thoughts being murmured aloud, said like a kneeler before an altar. your breath hitches in your throat as he skims your chest, down your stomach and further still.
when daeron finally pushes into you there's a soft gasp from you and a groan from him. his lips don't stop their movement, lazily kissing every inch of skin that he could while his hips snap without any specific rhythm.
a breathy plea was pulled from daeron's throat as he found your hips, one hand snaking between your legs. with a few more sloppy thrusts and expert movements of his hand, you both were tumbling over that edge of pleasure.
daeron, who collapses on top of you— although he hadn’t gone very far to begin with— burying his face into the crook of your neck again. arms wrap around your torso, keeping your bodies as close together as possible.
“Do not go anywhere.” is panted against your skin, an edge of desperation to daeron’s voice. it’s unclear whether he’s speaking more in the moment or about another dream where you have some future you’re unsure of.
you do not budge. your hands gently run down his back, through his hair— anywhere that you can reach.
daeron, who winds up lightly snoring atop you within the hour and then complains in the morning about being sore. you only roll your eyes and kiss him to silence him, your own muscles aching.
it will most definitely happen again, the both of you know.
Description: You’ve never been more excited; your new husband Daeron is set to ride in your wedding tourney, but it doesn’t turn out as you hoped.
Note: can be read as after Five Firsts and before Sleep Besides Me or as a standalone!
Your gown was splendid, made of the finest crimson silks you had ever seen and draped with pearls and gold embroidery so ornate it looked as if it were its own set of fabric. A small latticework folding fan hung from your wrist, and you had smiled brightly when they announced you as reigning Queen of Love and Beauty, the crowd cheering for you as if you had been crowned queen of the realm.
The tourney had been absolutely thrilling so far; never would you have believed that so many skilled knights would come to celebrate your marriage to Daeron, but your mother told you it was to be expected. It was a royal wedding after all.
Your champions were much of the expected as well, both your Uncles Humfrey, your goodbrother Tybolt Lannister, Abelar Hightower, the son of your liege lord, and of course your newly wedded husband.
You had been told Daeron was not much of a jouster, even by Daeron himself, but surely he was being humble; he was the son of the Anvil, a great warrior, and the nephew of Baelor Breakspear, a noted tourney champion.
Cheers rang through the crowd as one by one your champions lined up along the sidelines, horses saddled, lances steady, and shields held firm. Daeron was to go first, your favor tied around his wrist. It was a snippet of ribbon from the laces of the corset you wore on your wedding day that you had neatly stitched you and Daeron’s entwined initials onto with crimson thread. You had presented it to him this morn, and he had kissed you so gently afterwards that you thought you might melt into a puddle.
He was against Ser Corwyn Velaryon, who was young and had only competed in one tourney before this; an easy victory for Daeron, you thought.
You leaned over the wall of the dais, catching Daeron’s eye and waving to him. Your heart skipped a beat when he waved back, much to the delight of the crowd.
Your mother hissed at you to return to your seat, and you did as she bid, excitement building in you as the joust was called to begin.
Daeron lowered his helmet and shifted in his saddle; his lance was held straight, but you wondered if his gloves were ill-fitted as he kept adjusting his grip. You cheered loudly for him, confident that he would open the joust with victory and defend your title. His armor was simple but sturdy, and you ignored your sister Janna when she pointed out that the design was very like a barrel of ale. You thought the simple style better suited him. It was also not frightening like Aerion’s armor, which looked as if he had just climbed out of the depths of the Seven Hells.
They took off, lances lowered, shields ready. You watched with bated breath as Daeron and Corwyn approached each other, and then crack, Corwyn’s lance glanced off Daeron’s side, bypassing his shield as if it had never been there at all. You thought it would be nothing, that he would keep upright, but then Daeron fell from his horse and onto his back with a sickening thud.
You bit your lip to keep from crying out in fear as he lay there unmoving in the dirt, your heart in your throat, your mind screaming for someone to go and help him. It must have been a fluke, or Ser Corwyn had cheated somehow; there was no way your prince, your husband who was so kind and courageous, would have fallen so quickly.
“Fuck me,” Maekar groaned from behind you. “I should never have let this tourney progress.”
“Now, now, Brother, it is not right to deny your gooddaughter a celebration like other brides of her status would receive,” Baelor said quietly, mindful of your seat right in front of them.
“Goodfather, that must have been a mistake; surely there was a problem with Daeron’s helm,” you said, turning in your seat to face Maekar, desperate for an answer.
Maekar snorted and took a long drink from his cup.
Baelor in turn gave you a kind smile. “Do not fret, Lady y/n; he may not be a skilled tourney knight, but Daeron has many other redeeming qualities.”
“Do not lie to the poor girl,” Maekar said from behind the rim of his cup.
“Y/N, they have come to retrieve your groom,” Janna said, bringing your attention back to the tourney field.
A few squires and a kingsguard hurried out, helped Daeron up, and carried him to the maesters’ tent.
Worry seized you, your heart pounding in your chest. Was he badly injured? You had only just been married; you did not want to be a widow so young, nor did you wish to marry another. You liked Daeron; he was handsome, kind, well-read, and he would write you the most beautiful notes and poems throughout the day.
Ser Corwyn rode up and took his helmet off to address you. “Princess y/n, I know I am young and untested, but I am honored to now be among your champions, and I will not see any other take your title from you.”
It felt as if all eyes were on you, and you wanted to curl inwards, embarrassment flooding you. Instead, you gave him a smile and thanked him, tears pricking the backs of your eyes, your hands twisting the fabric of your skirts. The silk now felt as if it were sticking to you, confining you, your corset preventing air from entering your lungs.
You sat straight and stiff as an arrow, the shame an ever-burning fire beneath the skin of your face, growing only hotter when Ser Corwyn was immediately defeated by Aerion in the very next round.
Aerion did not even wait for his opponent to push himself out of the dirt before calling up to you, an expression of twisted glee on his harsh but beautiful face. “Dearest goodsister, it seems it is now I who is honored to join your champions. But do not fret; I shall defend you far better than my elder brother.”
You could not even speak, or perhaps you did and you did not remember doing so, for Aerion rode away looking quite smug, and your eldest sister, Bethany, was subtly dabbing at your face with her handkerchief while the crowd was focused on the jousts.
The rest of the jests were a blur, and in the end it was your Hardying uncle who felled the final opponent and defended your title, ensuring the crown of flowers was placed upon your head and no others. You stood and smiled, waving to the crowd as you had been taught to do, letting them cheer for you and your champions. You placed a kiss on the cheeks of your uncles and goodbrother Tybolt, who patted you atop the head—still seeing you as the young child you were when he and Bethany were first betrothed—before sweeping Bethany into his arms. You thanked Ser Abelar for his prowess and moved to do the same to Aerion when he bent down, his cheek turned toward you.
“Do I not get a kiss as well?” he asked, his lips curling up into a smirk that made your stomach turn.
“It would not be proper; I grant it only to my kin,” you said, hoping your goodfather or Prince Baelor would swoop in to save you. But alas, they were both far too occupied with making their way off the tourney grounds and back into the Keep.
“I am your goodbrother now; we are kin,” Aerion said.
You could not refuse him, not with all eyes on you, so you kissed his cheek quickly, your voice sweet to avoid offending him. “Thank you for defending me this day, goodbrother.”
He smiled, sharp and delighted, and grabbed your chin hard, then kissed your cheek, lingering far too long. “You are more than welcome, dearest goodsister. I will always be here to step into the breach. Especially when it is of Daeron’s own making.”
You stepped back into the waiting arms of Janna. “That is very kind of you, but I am sure Daeron will not leave such a gap again.”
“Oh, how adorable you are,” he laughed, the sound following you and Janna back to the Keep, a shiver running down your spine at the pure mockery in it.
You curled up with your back against the headboard of your bed, and began to cry the moment Janna left your chambers, promising to collect you for dinner. You hugged your knees to your chest, staring down at the painstakingly embroidered details of your outer skirt with blurry vision.
What had happened? Why did Daeron’s kin all act as if what had occurred was normal? Why did they look at you as if you were a fool for believing that something awful had happened to Daeron to cause such a loss? You knew he was not as proficient a knight as Aerion, but he had been knighted, and he was strong. He had carried you out of the Great Hall and into his chambers when the court called for a bedding, saving you from being pawed at by lecherous lords.
You wiped your eyes with your sleeve, another wave of tears bursting forth when you saw how your cosmetics smeared across the silk.
The whole court and all those who had traveled to King’s Landing for your wedding had been watching. Watching as Daeron fell, as you had to smile at those who took his place. They were all looking at you and laughing; you were sure they were laughing as Maekar and Aerion had. They were laughing at you because your husband had fallen during the first tilt. But what if he were injured? How could they laugh at him? How could they laugh at your poor, injured husband?
With that thought, you worked up the resolve to stop crying and go to the maester to check on Daeron; it was your duty as his wife, after all. And if it had been an accident or a devious act of foul play, then surely he would be upset and need you to comfort him. You nodded to yourself and wiped your eyes once more. Yes, you would go and comfort him; he needed you. You were good at being needed; you would be the best for him.
Right as you went to sit up and make plans to seek Daeron out, there was a knock at your door, and then he was stumbling in, beelining for you fully unharmed as far as you could tell. You sat up and moved to the end of the bed, relief palpable in your chest.
“Daeron, oh thank the gods, I was so worried for you,” you said, pulling him to sit on the bed the moment he was close enough and searching him for any sign of injury. “Are you hurt? Why did it take so long for you to return?”
Daeron smiled sheepishly and sat across from you, his hands finding your own. “I may have been dragging out my recovery.”
Your brows furrowed. “I…do not understand.”
He let his head loll to one side, not meeting your eyes. “You had nothing to fear; I threw the match.”
You blinked at him. “You threw the match?”
“Yes, I am no knight; I would not have done any good in the jousts, so I threw the match and let others far more skilled than I take my place.”
You slowly withdrew your hands from his. “You threw the match because you are not a skilled knight. The match that was the opening of the joust, in a tourney held to celebrate our wedding.”
“Yes?”
You took a moment to turn his words over in your mind, searching them for any sign of malice or falsehood.
“Y/N?” Daeron asked softly, his voice tinged with apprehension.
You took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You could not lose your temper; you had only just been married, he could petition the king to annul your marriage, and you would be cast out in shame. “Husband, were you not aware of how your actions would reflect upon me?”
“The shame is mine, not yours.”
You shook your head. “We are married; your shame is mine.”
A mirthless, dismissive laugh slipped past his lips. “I have far too much shame to ever be cast upon you; do not fret over my actions; they will soon be forgotten.”
“Everyone was looking and laughing at me!” The words spilled out before you could stop them, all thoughts of remaining calm thrown to the wind. “This tourney was for our wedding. What if I had not had other champions of greater skill than yours? Some other girl could have been named Queen of Love and Beauty at my wedding tourney!”
Tears burned in your eyes, the realization that you had been made a fool of, making you feel sick. “You are awful, awful. How could you do that to me? I had to thank Aerion in front of everyone and kiss his cheek, then he grabbed me and kissed mine! How could you leave me alone to suffer the shame? To be put in such a position?”
He hung his head and mumbled something you could not hear.
“What?”
“I said I am selfish, and I am sorry.”
You waited for him to continue.
“I am not skilled at jousting; I am not a great knight by any means, and I wished to spare us both the embarrassment by taking myself out of the tourney early. I thought you might come to check on me in the tent, and then we could return to the dais together, but then I realized you could not do that since you are the lady of the tourney, and then I found I could not gather the courage to face you there.”
“I…that does not make sense. Why did you not simply send a servant to come fetch me? You are still the prince and my husband; I would have come if you had called.”
Daeron dragged his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. “Because I am an idiot.”
You exhaled through your nose, trying to rein yourself back in. “It does not take the Crone’s wisdom to see that.”
“Yes, well, I never claimed to be the wisest or smartest man in the room.”
You began to fiddle with some of the pearls sewn onto your outer skirt, not sure what to say next.
He sighed heavily and leaned against the towering bedpost, his head bumping into the intricately carved wood. “I did not think of calling for you; I was nervous that you would think me a coward, and so I thought it best you believed I was injured.”
“I would have accepted an excuse,” you said, voice small. “If you had made an excuse, then you could have sat by me the whole time and told me more fantastical stories and made me laugh and held my hand while my uncles were competing.”
“I wanted to; I did,” he said.
You looked up at him; his sandy hair was still disheveled from his helmet, and his violet eyes were searching your form.
“I am a lousy husband; only a few days in, and I have already made you cry, and not in a pleasurable way.” Then he raised a brow. “Unless it is not too late?”
You tossed a pillow at him, heat flaring in your cheeks. “A degenerate, that is what you are.”
He laughed. “I seek only to apologize, sweet wife.”
You bit back a smile; you could never be angry with him for long, not even when you first met as children and he threw up on your most expensive gown.
Daeron crawled over to you—quite ungracefully, you might add—and took your hands in his, pressing them to his lips. “I am a fool, a coward, a degenerate, the worst of husbands, and much more, but I am sorry, y/n.”
You swayed from side to side, mulling over his words. “I want a new gown and earrings to match.”
“Done,” he said instantly.
You smiled and pulled him closer, turning your cheek to face him before tapping it with your finger.
He gave you a strange look. “You want me to slap you?”
You reared back. “No! I want a kiss, to rid my skin of Aerion’s.”
His whole body visibly relaxed. “Good, because I do not think I could hit you, even if you desired it.”
Your sisters would be happy to hear that.
You shook your head, then presented your cheek again, smiling when you felt Daeron’s gentle fingers grasp your chin to hold you steady. His warm lips brushed against your cheek once, then twice, then three times before he turned your head and did the same to the other cheek. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, a giddiness filling your veins.
“Am I worthy of a kiss as well?” he asked softly, his fingers still holding your chin gently.
You removed his hand, taking note of the flicker of rejection in his eyes before kissing his cheek, then the other, then his nose, a small smile spreading across his lips before you finally kissed him properly.
SUMMARY: … for you cannot change the future, only suffer knowing it before it comes. OR, Daeron dreams of your death, and he knows in his heart that there is nothing he can do to stop it, but how is he not supposed to try?
WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader is from Braavos. Daeron-typical alcoholism. reader & Daeron have children who are mentioned in passing. hurt/comfort. angsty I suppose but it's tame for me LOL. no character death but it's implied that it may happen in the future bc of Daeron's dreams but who knows, it might not play out the way he thinks (; LOL. I think that's all I didn't really re-read to check.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have been so disgustingly Daeron-pilled lately, he is just so lonely and lovely, I love men who are miserable. This will def not be the last fic for him, and I think I def want to explore more of this reader because I have a whole background/story for her that I think you guys would like. Very different from Volantene!reader, if any of you are following my Aerion series, and I get to delve into Braavos which is genuinely my favorite of the Free Cities, despite my recent fixation on Volantis LOL. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Ignore any errors because I didn't edit. Comments and reblogs v appreciated!!
Daeron does not know you’re awake yet.
In truth, you woke up the moment the door to your chambers creaked open. You aren't sure what time it is, or where your husband has been, but you're only relieved that he returned. He woke up this morning a frantic mess—startled you awake at the crack of dawn when he scrambled out of bed, pulling the sheets right off of you with spluttering, half-comprehensible apologies, ignoring your confused calls of his name.
It’s not as though you’re not used to Daeron’s… more peculiar behaviors. You’ve been married to him for three years now—you have three children with him—so you’re very accustomed to being woken up at odd hours to him spiraling over whatever had haunted him through the night.
But this morning was—it was different.
The fear in his eyes when he looked back at you before he fled the room has left you inordinately anxious all day. You spent the whole day looking for him with an unsettling feeling creeping through you the longer you couldn’t find him.
You roped the young ones into looking for you, easily swayed with the promise of extra desserts once Maekar retreated to his study after dinner, and you even got Aerion involved with the search after an hour of bargaining with him over old Valyrian texts that are supposedly held by the Reyaan family. It will be a pain negotiating with them for the texts when you go back home to Braavos at the end of the moon, but you needed all hands on deck searching for Daeron, because something was terribly wrong, and the longer you went without knowing what, the more unsettled you became.
But no matter how hard you looked and how many people you had looking with you, Daeron had vanished. You hadn't been sure if he was going to come home at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappeared for days on end—in the early days of your marriage, he did not wish to trouble you with all of this. He would prefer you think him a drunk and whore than for you to know the truth of what plagued him.
It took months of you whittling down his walls for him to finally confide in you, and you could tell he was waiting for you to laugh at him or scoff at him or whatever he is typically met with when he tells people about his dreams.
And if you're being honest, you're not sure how much you believe it, but it doesn't matter, because you know how it affects him. Whether his dreams are true prophecy or just a cruel, overworked imagination, they are still driving him half-mad, and that is enough for you to believe him, if not them.
So, over the last two years, he has become more fond of burying himself in your arms than fleeing to run down pubs and sleeping in ditches after particularly rough nights.
It became easier for him over time, with someone to rely on, someone who believed him instead of brushing him off as drunk or mad or both. He never stopped drinking because alcohol was the only thing that could keep the dreams at bay, even if they did return tenfold when he sobered, but he drinks less than he once did. He comes back to bed more often, and he lets you hold him through the worst of it instead of disappearing into the streets until he forgets his own name.
There are nights now when he sleeps with his face buried against your throat and does not wake once screaming. Nights where he laughs too loud at dinner and steals food from your plate and kisses your knuckles absentmindedly while rambling through some half-drunken thought. Nights where he looks at you like he can finally breathe.
That is why today has terrified you.
You expected him to come to bed when you heard the door creaking open, already planning your approach to get him to tell you what he dreamed of, and why it scared him so much. But Daeron doesn't come to bed; he shuffles across the floor to sit on the chair near the fireplace, pouring himself another glass of wine, on top of the countless he has likely had since he vanished this morning.
He does not say anything for a long while, and you cannot see his face from where you’re curled in bed, only the back of his shoulders.
They shake quietly, tremors subtle enough that you can almost convince yourself that you’re imagining it. When you realize that you’re not, you think he is cold at first, and that’s why he’s sitting in front of the fire—it is a chilly night, after all, and he likely only just got in from wherever he had hidden out for the day.
Then, you hear the choked inhale, and the way he must press his hand against his mouth to muffle a sob, and your throat goes tight.
You push yourself upright slowly, blankets pooling around your waist, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the fire. Daeron is hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, one hand curled tight around his goblet while the other presses against his mouth hard enough that you can see the tension in his arm from across the room. His shoulders shake harder now, desperately trying not to make a sound.
Your chest aches so terribly that it steals your breath for a moment.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and step out quietly, the stone floor cool against your bare feet. You’re careful not to make much noise as you make your way over to him, a lump in your throat when you see how hard he’s trying not to wake you up, shoulders shaking violently, tears spilling over his cheeks, breath ragged around the fist he’s shoved into his mouth.
He flinches hard when he feels your hand slide against his shoulders, violet eyes wide as his gaze cuts up to where you’re standing behind the chair. He blinks twice, as though processing that you’re standing there next to him—you can smell the alcohol on him already.
“I—” he starts to say, voice half-slurred, breaking over the word. “I apologize. I did not mean to wake you.”
Stupid man, you think to yourself, desperately and fondly and furiously. You shift so that you can stand in front of where he’s sitting, and then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him, resting your forearms on his thighs, and propping your chin up on them to look up at him.
Daeron looks entirely devastated as he looks down at you, throat bobbing, jaw tightening as he fights another ragged sob. He lifts one trembling hand to brush his knuckle beneath your eye, as though he’s scared to even touch you.
“You are a fool, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, one hand sneaking up to grab his wrist, unfurling his fist so that you can press his palm against your cheek. You lean your face into the familiar warmth of his hand, letting out a soft sigh as his breath hitches, and his thumb instinctively moves to stroke your skin. “You should have woken me up right away.”
A wet, broken laugh escapes him at that, cracking halfway through.
“It is easy to say now,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You might not have been so amenable if I actually had.”
His thumb keeps moving against your cheek in slow, absent strokes, like he cannot stop himself now that you’re here in front of him. His other hand, still shaking, puts the goblet down on the table next to him so he can cradle your face between both hands. His eyes are bloodshot—heavy-lidded, tired and terrified all at once.
“Do you truly think so poorly of me?” you counter instead with a frown, letting him outline the shape of your lips. “Have I ever spurned you, or made you feel guilty for waking me up when you needed me?”
“No,” he admits quietly, voice little over a breath, “but it does not mean I do not feel that way anyway.”
You exhale softly through your nose, rising to your feet just enough so that you can slip onto his lap instead. Daeron’s arms immediately encircle your waist, pulling your body flush to his, face dropping into the crook of your neck. You lift your hand to stroke his soft, sandy hair, nails raking gently against his scalp.
“There,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple. “That’s much better, isn’t it? Much more preferable to crying alone.”
Daeron makes a noise high in his throat, an agreement, but says nothing more.
You can feel the way he’s holding himself together by threads alone. He presses closer after a moment, one hand flattening against the small of your back while the other curls into the fabric of your nightclothes near your hip, clutching like he’s afraid someone might tear you away from him if he loosens his grip even slightly.
His breathing is still uneven against your throat, and your neck is wet with his tears. You rake your fingers gently through his hair again, untangling soft strands from where he’s likely dragged his hands through it all evening.
“How much did you drink?” you ask quietly after a few moments.
Daeron huffs a faint laugh against your throat, humorless and exhausted. “Enough that I thought it might shut my mind up for a few hours.”
“And did it?”
“No.”
His nose brushes absently against your skin as he shifts closer still, if such a thing is even possible now. You can feel the damp warmth of tears soaking slowly through the collar of your sleep clothes. He kisses you once—the crook of your neck—a second time at your pulse, and then he rests his forehead back against your shoulder.
“You vanished all day,” you murmur after a long silence. “I was worried.”
“I know.” His voice cracks instantly around the words. “I am sorry.”
“You frightened me.”
Another tremor wracks through him.
“I know,” he repeats, sounding miserable.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing another kiss into his hairline, exhaling lightly as you finally ask the dreaded question. “Tell me what happened.”
Daeron tenses instantly, nails pressing crescents into your skin through your thin night gown.
You feel the exact moment he considers lying to you—not maliciously, but you know your husband well enough to recognize that instinctive desire to flee. The way he curls inward around his pain like a wounded animal, convinced that if he can just push it down deep enough, no one will have to suffer alongside him.
You slide your hand to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the warm skin there. You say quietly, “Please.”
“I do not—” he starts to say, swallowing hard. “I do not know how to say it.”
“Try anyway,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his temple once before pulling back to look him in the eye.
They are glassy and red-rimmed as they focus on you—devastated in a way he so rarely looks when he has you to lean on. You slide your hands to cradle his cheeks, tucking his hair behind his ear. He tilts his face into your touch to kiss both of your palms, lashes fluttering as he takes in one ragged breath to prepare himself for whatever it is he’s about to say.
“You cannot go home at the end of the moon,” he finally says. You raise your eyebrows slightly. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at you, jaw tight as though bracing himself for your reaction. “You cannot. I know you have been planning it for months, but—”
“Daeron—”
“And I know you are excited to see your brothers and your nephew again, but you cannot go,” he interrupts, rushing out the words before you can shut him down. “I—you must promise me that you will not go.”
“I cannot—” you start to say, eyes sliding shut as you shake your head, only barely processing what he’s saying.
You are not just going to see your family—you’re going because his father and grandfather asked you to go, because the Blackfyres are gaining support in the Free Cities, and they need to ensure they have the Iron Bank’s backing should the other cities declare for them. You are the bridge between the Targaryens and the keyholders. It is not up to you, Daeron knows this, so why—
“You must!” Daeron interrupts, voice rising suddenly until he sees the way you draw back. An apology flickers across his face as he shrinks backward, shoulders hunching to make himself smaller, lashes fluttering. Quieter, voice breaking, “You must promise me. Please. I cannot bear to lose you—I will not survive it.”
You exhale through your nose as you realize exactly what Daeron is implying, lifting one hand to tilt his face up so that his eyes meet yours. You wipe away a tear that rolls over his cheek.
“Tell me what you dreamed, Daeron,” you say quietly. “Perhaps it is not what you think.”
Daeron scoffs bitterly, trying to look away, but you do not let him, holding his chin firmly.
“Tell me.”
His throat bobs as his gaze lowers, the fight draining from him rapidly.
“A black dragon shadowed Braavos,” he says so quietly that even in his lap, you have to shift closer to make out the words. “Your family’s palace—it was burning, and you—” His voice breaks, eyes glassy again as they meet yours. He shakes his head as though he cannot even bear to speak the words out loud, and your stomach drops. He repeats, “I cannot lose you.”
You smooth your thumb beneath his eye again, catching another tear before it can fall. He lets out a ragged, trembling breath, seeking out your touch, so you hold the side of his face, letting him press his nose and mouth into your palm.
“You do not know if this wasn’t just a dream,” you tell him quietly after a moment. His gaze snaps up toward you, suddenly alight with a fire that makes you tense. You misspoke—you realize it right away. You press on before he can snap. “Daeron, all I mean to say is that you have been anxious about me leaving for Braavos alone since your father and grandfather decided I would months ago. Your mind has never been kind to you; it could only just be fear—”
Daeron recoils as though you’ve struck him, away from your touch, shrinking back into the chair. Something awful—pained and twisted, betrayed, and it makes your heart break—crosses his face.
“You think I cannot tell the difference,” he says quietly.
Regret begins to weigh in your stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. “That is not what I meant.”
“It is.” He laughs—it is brittle and exhausted, but not surprised. You think you hate that most: that your doubt was always expected, no matter how much you assured him that you believed him. “Everyone always says it eventually.”
“Daeron, please—”
“It is always just wine, or grief, or fear, or madness.” His voice roughens around the last word. “Always some simpler explanation.”
He finally pulls his face away from your palm, and you hate how empty the loss of contact feels instantly.
“You believed me before.”
“I do believe you,” you insist, trying to get him to look at you again, but he will not. “Daeron—”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “You believe that I believe it.”
The devastation in his voice hurts worse than if he had shouted. You open your mouth to protest, but he keeps speaking before you can.
“I know what ordinary dreams feel like.” His fingers tighten painfully against your waist. “I know what fear feels like. This was not fear.”
“I believe you, Daeron,” you tell him, because you do. You believe him—it doesn’t matter what you think of the dreams themselves. His grip loosens, eyes searching yours as he tries to figure out if you’re lying or not. You lift your hands to his face to cradle his cheeks, and you repeat, “I believe you.”
“Then promise me,” he says, ragged with desperation, pleading as he holds you closer. “Promise me that you will not go. You will stay with me here. Promise me.”
“It is not up to me, Daeron,” you say, voice thin. “It is your father and your grandfather—I cannot refuse them without explanation. If I suddenly refuse to board a ship because my husband dreamt of a dragon, they will think—”
“They already think that I am mad,” Daeron cuts in bitterly. “I do not care what they say. I—”
“Daeron,” you interrupt, resigned, fingers absently stroking his face. “I cannot refuse your father and grandfather without an explanation.”
“Then I will give them one.”
The words come out immediately—sharp enough that you blink. Daeron is already pulling away from you enough to sit upright properly, frantic energy beginning to creep beneath his skin again now that he has something to cling to besides helpless grief. He almost moves you off of him to rise to his feet, but your hands tighten at his shoulders, signaling for him to say seated. His hands shake where they hold your waist, eyes glassy and bloodshot and terribly awake despite all the wine he has consumed.
“I will speak to them,” he says quickly, like he is piecing together the thought as he says it aloud. “Tomorrow. No—now. I can wake my father now.”
“Daeron—”
“I will tell him what I saw.”
You reach for him instinctively, palms sliding against his cheeks again. “Love, slow down.”
But Daeron is spiraling now in a different direction entirely—panic and grief set aside for a type of frantic determination that unsettles you more than the other two did.
“He will listen if I make him listen,” he insists, though even he sounds unconvinced by his own words. “And if he does not, then my grandfather will. Or—” His breath catches. “Or I will go with you.”
Your brows knit together. “What?”
“I will not let you sail to Braavos alone after this.” His grip tightens again. “If they insist you must go, then I am going too.”
“You know your father will never allow that.”
At that, pain flickers across Daeron’s face—because he does know.
Prince Maekar loves him—you know he does, somewhere beneath all the frustration and grief and disappointment—but Daeron’s dreams have always been a point of misery between them. Too many years of drunken warnings. Too many prophecies no one wanted to hear. Too many occasions where Daeron was right, but not enough for anyone to truly trust him with it.
“He thinks I am sick,” Daeron says quietly, confirming your thoughts. “They all do.” He laughs weakly then, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, maybe I am.”
“Do not say that.”
“But I saw you die.” His voice breaks again immediately. “How am I supposed to sit here and say nothing after that?”
You cannot answer that because you do not know how to.
Daeron presses suddenly into your touch again, all the frantic resolve collapsing back into fear as quickly as it came. He buries his face against your shoulder once more, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“I will beg them if I must,” he whispers hoarsely, breath hot and shaky against your skin. “I do not care anymore. I will kneel to my father. To my grandfather, too. I do not care if the court laughs at me afterward. I do not care if my father locks me in my rooms again like he did when I was younger.” His arms tighten convulsively around you. “I cannot let you go there if there is even a chance this is real.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“Daeron…”
His breathing shudders.
“He will not believe me,” he admits at last, voice small and devastated all over again. “He never believes me until it is too late.”
You close your eyes briefly and pull him closer, cradling the back of his head against you as he trembles in your arms.
For a moment, neither of you speaks; your breath shudders as you press your face into the top of his head, eyes sliding shut as you drown in the familiar scent of him. His arms are trembling around you, fingers pressing hard into your sides, as though he’s scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little. He presses his face into your chest and inhales shakily, and the two of you stay like that for a long while, basking in the familiar warmth of each other’s arms.
You do not know how long you sit there with him.
Long enough that the fire burns lower in the hearth. Long enough that the worst of his shaking subsides into smaller tremors. Long enough that Daeron’s breathing begins to even out against you, though not enough for you to think he is calm, only exhausted by the intensity of his own fear.
You keep one hand buried in his hair and the other curved around the back of his neck, thumb stroking absently over the knob of his spine. He has always gone so terribly soft beneath your hands, even at his worst. As though touch is the only language he can believe without suspicion.
“We will speak to your father in the morning,” you say quietly at last, pulling his face back slightly so that you can press your lips to his forehead. You lean back again so you can meet his eyes. “Okay?”
He stares at you for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes as his gaze searches yours. His voice is small as he asks, “We?”
Your lips curve up into a small smile. “That is what I said, didn’t I?”
Daeron is not so amused, throat bobbing unsurely. “You would—you would stand beside me?”
Your smile fades. The question hurts more than it ought to—it’s not an accusation, and it’s not meant to be cruel, but it’s the disbelief, the wavering hope that drives home the pain. You hate that he has learned not to expect anyone to stand beside him once he starts speaking of dreams and death and doom. You hate that even after three years of marriage, you have not been able to convince him that you’ll always stand by his side.
“You are a fool, husband,” you tell him, smiling lightly. “Of course, I will stand beside you.”
“I am the luckiest fool in all of the kingdoms, then,” Daeron breathes, eyes shining again as he looks up at you, violets pretty and broken and glassy in a way that makes your heart ache. “Gods, I love you.”
“And I, you,” you say quietly, leaning in to brush your lips against his. He tastes of wine and salt, and his breath wavers as he moves his lips against yours, kissing you chastely. You part your lips and rest your forehead against his after a moment. “I would love you significantly more if you would bring me back to bed.”
Daeron laughs at that—a pretty, boyish thing that has your lips curling up into a soft smile. He leans in to steal a second kiss, then a third and a fourth, before his hands slide down to your thighs to hold you as he pushes himself to his feet.
You yelp, arms circling his shoulders tighter, legs wrapping around his waist. He buries his face into your neck, kissing up the skin there obnoxiously as he carries you over to the bed, and you find yourself laughing with him, breathless as he drops the two of you down on the plush mattress, hovering above you with breathless smile.
He leans in again to kiss you, longer this time, deeper. You sigh into his mouth as one hand cradles the side of your face, tongue easing open your lips so that he can trace the inside of your mouth.
There is desperation in it still, seeping through the softness—something aching and terrified beneath the slow drag of his mouth against yours. His hand cups your jaw carefully, thumb brushing along your cheek as though reassuring himself you are still here beneath him, still warm and breathing and real, that you are not on the cusp of death as his dreams taunt.
You melt beneath him with a quiet sigh, fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair. He shudders when you tug gently, mouth parting against yours as he deepens the kiss instinctively, slow and languid now instead of frantic.
Daeron makes another low sound into your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair, the noise half swallowed by the kiss, and your breath hitches as his hand slides down your jaw to your throat.
He pauses when his thumb accidentally brushes over your pulse point, as though the erratic thrumming of it beneath his touch has reminded him of what has been haunting him all day. You feel the warmth and levity drain from him immediately; his shoulders tense, and his lips falter against yours.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, sharing the same sliver of air. His breath catches, and his eyes stay shut, long lashes trembling faintly against his cheeks.
You card your fingers through his hair absently, waiting.
“I am afraid to sleep,” he admits finally, voice small.
You say simply, “Then we will not sleep yet.”
“You need rest.”
“So do you.”
“I will only dream again.”
“Then we will stay awake until the sun comes up, if we must.”
He pulls back enough to look at you, brows drawn together. “You would do that?”
You arch a brow at him. “I have spent three years married to you, Daeron. This would not be the first night of sleep you have stolen from me.”
A faint laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is small and ruined and wet, but it is a laugh, nonetheless, so you take it as a victory.
“I hate it,” he whispers after a few moments, nosing into your cheek. Your eyes slide shut as he kisses you there, too, lips lingering.
Your voice softens. “I know, love.”
“I hate seeing things. I hate knowing just enough to be terrified and never enough to change anything.” He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I hate that when I am wrong, I am mad, and when I am right, I am still mad, only too late.”
Your throat tightens again. “Daeron.”
“No,” he says, almost pleading now. “Tell me how I am supposed to make him believe me. Tell me what words I am meant to use. I will say anything. I will stand straight and sober and calm. I will not shout or weep. I will not sound like—like this. I will tell him exactly what I saw, and he will still look at me with that face—”
He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. Your eyes slide shut as you fight a sigh. You know the face he means.
You have seen it often enough. Maekar’s stern mouth, the deep crease between his brows, the disappointment that settles over him whenever Daeron stumbles too loudly or laughs too bitterly or speaks of things no one wants to hear. Not cruelty in the traditional way—something more complicated and worse for it. Love mixed with frustration until it begins to feel like contempt.
Daeron’s voice thins. “He will think I am trying to keep you here because I am afraid to be without you.”
You do not answer quickly enough. His eyes flick to yours.
“And maybe I am,” he admits, shame twisting his expression. “Maybe that is part of it. I am afraid every time you leave a room for too long. I am afraid every time I wake, and you are not there. I am afraid one day you’re going to realize what everyone else already knows about me. I have loved very few things in my life that did not get taken from me, and I do not know how to act reasonably about you.”
Your breath catches.
“But that does not make the dream false,” he says fiercely, as though begging you to understand the distinction. “It does not. I know the difference between wanting you near me and seeing you die. I know if you go there, you will not return to me. I know it.”
The silence stretches heavily between the two of you. Daeron is worked up again, staring at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way beneath him. His breath is uneven, shoulders taut beneath your hands, violet eyes shining with fear. You cradle his face again, pulling it down slightly so you can press your lips to his forehead, and then you pull him down, letting him bury his face into your chest.
“We will figure it out, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, hands smoothing over his tense shoulders, rubbing them gently until the tension slowly eases from them and his body melts into yours. “I promise.”
“What if we cannot?” he asks, voice small. “My father never listens to me. I cannot bear to lose you. And what of little Vaegon and Vaemon? They are still young—what am I supposed to say when they ask where you've gone? They'll never understand. And Dyanna, she is still only an infant. I am a shit father—I am not cut out for it, not without you. I—”
“Gods, Daeron,” you interrupt with a humorless laugh. “You speak as though I’m already gone.”
“I’m sorry,” he says into your skin, words breaking over a ragged breath. You can feel wetness against your chest—he’s crying again. “I am sorry. I am. I do not mean to—”
“I know,” you tell him quietly, stroking his hair again as he settles against you, “but Daeron, listen to me.” He makes a noise as though to say he is. “No, I mean it. Listen to me.”
He lifts his head up just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy with a type of sorrow you thought you’d become used to seeing in him, but it hits you harder than it ever has right now. You caress the side of his face, watching as he leans the weight of his head into your palm.
“I will come back to you,” you say, and when he starts to shake his head, you squeeze his cheeks hard to stop him. “I will. If your father does not listen, and in the worst-case scenario, I have to go. I will return to you.”
Because you will have to go. You know it. He knows it. There is no world where you do not sail to Braavos at the end of the moon, because the Blackfyres refuse to remain a distant threat across the Narrow Sea. Coin is worth more than swords in this war, and the Iron Bank matters more than any army. Your family name opens doors in Braavos that no raven or envoy, no silver-haired prince or three-headed dragon could ever open as easily. It can only be you.
Duty is a chain. You both know that better than most.
His jaw tightens, spasming as he fights more tears, eyes terribly glossy. “You cannot promise that.”
“I can,” you insist. “I can, and I will. Rest assured, there is nothing in this world that can stop me from coming home to you and our children.”
Daeron lets out a watery laugh. “You should not be the one saying things like that,” he whispers hoarsely. “Gods, I am so—”
“Hm?”
“It should be me. You are promising to come back to me. You are reassuring me. It should be the other way around,” he says, frustrated, eyes red-rimmed and expression twisted into something helpless and guilty all at once. “You are meant to be able to rely on me. You are meant to hear your husband tell you everything will be alright, that he will protect you, that he will come home to you no matter what. Instead, I am lying in your arms crying, and you are the one reassuring me.”
“Daeron,” you start to say.
“You deserve better than this. I am trying so hard not to be the sort of man who ruins everything he touches anymore, but I just—I cannot seem to help myself,” he says miserably. “I am sorry that you were saddled with me, and not one of my cousins. Valarr or Matarys, they would have—”
“Enough,” you tell him before he can finish the sentence. “You know I do not like to hear you speak about yourself that way.”
“But—”
You slide your hands into his hair, holding him there between your palms. “There is no but, Daeron. I adore you. I love you. There is no one I would rather be with.”
“That seems like terribly poor judgment on your part,” he says with a laugh that breaks halfway through, but he has settled down, resting his head back down on your chest. You brush your fingers through his hair absently. He tells you quietly, “I love you. You and the children are the only things that have ever made me want to survive my own mind.”
You exhale softly through your nose, leaning down to kiss the top of his head again. He lets out a long, shaky sigh.
“Gods,” he whispers, pressing his face into your skin so that his voice is muffled. “It is infuriating how difficult you make it to remain miserable.”
“That is because you are not meant to remain miserable, dear husband.”
“Says who? I think the gods have been quite persistent in ensuring it.”
“Says me.”
Daeron laughs at that, smiling into your skin. “Well, who cares what the gods have to think when my wife says otherwise.”
“As all good men ought believe,” you agree solemnly, earning another laugh from him, this one softer and more genuine.
The silence is not quite so tense now. Daeron remains sprawled half atop you, listening to your heartbeat as though reassuring himself it is still there every few moments. Eventually, his breathing begins to slow enough that you think he may finally be drifting toward sleep despite his earlier fear of it.
Then, he says softly, “I am still afraid.”
Your hand stills briefly in his hair before resuming its slow strokes. “I know.”
“I do not want to close my eyes and see it again.”
You glance down at him. Daeron keeps his face tucked against you, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice now beneath the lingering fear. He sounds wrung out completely, and you do not know what to say that will comfort him, so you resign to holding him.
Then, very softly, “Will you wake me if I start to dream?”
Your expression softens immediately. “Of course.”
“I love you,” he says again, kissing your collarbone. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
“You will never have to know,” you assure him quietly. “I promise.”
