☆

It wasn’t quite summer yet but the days were long and the air was temperate and heavy with the scent of flowers. The gardens of Summerhall were not a place Daeron sought out of his own accord. The wine had led him to many places though, including the rosebushes and parts of the hedge that separated different areas of the grounds. Your lap made by far the most comfortable resting place in the entire garden though. It was an odd sensation. Love. A weird mix of affection and heat, security and malaise that ravaged his insides. Leaving his heart soft and his cock on the perpetual brink of hardness. Daeron knew that he was close to sleep. The sun absconding, leaving the sky in twilight, and the soft symphony of bird song and leaves rustling in the wind alone would have lulled him to sleep even without the everpresent aid of Arbor Red in his blood but he did not succumb to it. Though the fear of dreams was substantially dulled by your mere presence and the warmth of your thighs against his cheek, comforting even through layers of fabric.

No, what kept him from slipping away into slumber were the nimble fingers that passed through his hair.

The family had decided to host a feast that they were to attend at sundown and that in addition to his overwhelming adoration and care of his love had led him to the baths that afternoon. He had returned with his golden hair shining and the expanse of his milky skin feeling raw but soft. Not as soft as yours did but he suspected that its softness was beyond comparison.

Daeron hid his smile against your skirts, contemplated biting the fabric in jest as your fingers got tangled in his hair and you had to tug them free. It was the sweetest torture of your own making as he had combed through his hair after the bath, trying to give you a handsome prince to look at instead of the usual dirtied drunkard.

The back of your fingers caressed down his cheek in apology but he couldn’t help but nip at them when they touched his lips. Daeron’s incisor just barely brushed your skin but you indulged him by holding your fingers close enough that he could taste your skin, run his tongue between your fingers and feel the warm metal of your rings scratch against his lips.

When you withdrew your fingers it was gentle, cupping his face mindful of his spit on your skin, before he could whine about the loss. You had to bend a great deal to press your lips against his hair but the small action left him smiling. The soft pressure of the kiss left him torn between hiding in your skirt and leaning into your touch.

“Daeron, darling dearest, will you sit up for me?” He couldn’t help but feel the words as well as he heard them, said against the crown of his head. He waited for you to withdraw so he could follow your request and sit up without ramming his cursed thick skull against your loveliness.

He had to use both hands to push himself, clinging to the blanket beneath you until his head stopped spinning. Not from the wine for once as he had barely drunk since noon, only enough to keep the shaking at bay, but from the sudden movement. Rising from rest too fast tended to bring him to his knees on any day but before long he was sitting upright in front of you. “Is this satisfactory, my love?”

“Almost.” The fabrics of your dress rustled behind him before your fingers found his hair again and you gently pulled his head back until he was looking at the dimming evening sky instead of at the rose bushes. The blood in his veins started rushing, warm and pleasant all through his body, as he leaned back into your touch. The subconscious reaction almost distracted him from realizing the subtle familiarity of the position you found yourselves in.

Your fingers started tugging more, brushing away the hairs that framed his face, dividing it in a way he couldn't explain only feel, and Daeron realized that you were braiding his hair back. You did quick work since his hair barely brushed his shoulders and you only weaved together small strands of hair yet Daeron found himself wanting to ask you to slow down, to take your time so that he may enjoy the feeling of your fingertips dancing along his scalp for longer. But you had already finished braiding half his hair back.

It was only when you took the first hair from the other side of his face and started working it back that he recognized your plans for his hair. Not from memory but from a dream, and the shock of that alone made him crumble, falling as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut.

It was as if he had been set alight. Everything burned. His heart, his head, his skin. Those cursed tears welled in his eyes but he dared not open them out of fear of what he would see.

His dreams only brought death and destruction for longer than he could remember. That damned dream hadn’t been one of his dragon dreams though. It couldn't have been. It was only an odd fantasy, one he’d never allowed himself to consider in his waking hours, yet that fact alone had to be the determining factor that brought on the conclusion of his utter cursedness. For it only left two explanations. Either a wicked part of Daeron existed, buried so far inside him that he had never dared to dig and reveal, deeply desired what he saw in his dream or it truly was an inevitability waiting to come true.

“Daeron?” You gently shook his curled up heap and he had no strength to protest. Your voice was soft but he could hear the underlying fright, concealed as not to spook him further. It was a voice one would use on a child and he just flinched further into his misery. “My love, tell me what’s wrong!”

He just let himself be gathered in your arms, selfishly soaking up your comfort as if he himself wasn’t the source of all the distress. Your own and his.

“I dreamt, my darling.” He finally confessed, whispered as he did not dare speak louder. “I dreamt that we were sitting here, in the garden of Summerhall, and you braided my hair from my face.” He paused and swallowed, almost choking on the sour words stuck in his throat, while you cradled him against your chest. Daeron could hear your heart racing and it hurt.

“I dreamt that once you were done weaving me a golden crown you tied it up with one of your ribbons and then a little girl came toddling to us and put flowers in our hair.”

The words tumbled from his lips without pause. Without a breath. It was a wretched confession which made it all the more shocking to him when you pulled him closer to your chest instead of pushing him away in disgust.

“A girl?” You breathed and Daeron could hear your blood rushing from where his head was pressed to your chest. “Ours?”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

You pet his hair, the carefully braided strands coming loose under your touch. “Soon? Oh what are you sorry for, my love? This is joyous news! We’ll have a child!”

Both your hands cradled his face, shaking as you pulled him into a kiss, tasting his tears, before you used your sleeves to wipe them away.

“She had my family's hair but for a moment, a single breath, I thought there’d been a way to trick fate but then I saw her eyes and knew. This innocent babe cursed with our wicked blood.”

Fresh tears fell but you just wiped them away again, kissing his cheeks after.

“Not all is doomed, my dearest. Your uncle and his sons were quite sane. And one might say your father has all his wits about him as well. There are no stories of a dreamer making another dreamer so our child shall not gain your affliction.” You pulled away and took his face into your hands again, making him look at you and your beautiful smile, eyes brimming with unshed tears of happiness. “If anything she’ll be the sanest of us all for I am so madly in love with you.”

Daeron's heart ached as you kissed him again and again. Your sweet hands were pulling at his hair and clothes until you were laid out on the blanket with his weight on top of you. So enveloped in your touch, your smell, your taste, it was easy to forget himself. You felt so wonderful beneath him, your shape meant to fit with his. Your legs parted to receive his heft, skirts fanned out around you. So many layers separating you from each other yet he felt himself harden as if you were bare against each other. His hands trailed your body, attempting to pull on the fabric as he moved himself against you, lost in your mouth and trapped in your arms.

“Like this.” You gasped, bucking up your hips until his trapped length met your core in a way that made your whole body shudder. Daeron heeded your wish and continued to thrust against you, not frantic as his heart felt but in the rhythm you commanded of him. You’ve released his lips but he dared not pull away, letting you push his head until he could taste the skin on your neck, feel your words rush through him.

“I’ll talk to the maester about stopping my tea.” Daeron nipped at your throat, stealing your breath, kissing down to the swell of your breasts.

He could feel his yet unspent seed aiding the glide where it dampened his trousers. He’d dreaded talk like this for as long as the two of you had been betrothed yet in the throws of passion it almost sounded like a pleasant idea from your sweet lips.

“You’ll ease up on the wine, dearest, won’t  you?”

He stopped for a moment before his own neediness spurred his ruts on again, your breathy whines adding urgentness to his continued fucking of your clothed cunt.

“She’ll be healthy. A good babe. A blessing. She’ll be a sound mind if you’ll make her without drink.” You rambled on, gasping as he thrusted, his large hands pawing at your breasts on the wrong side of painful. They would swell if you were with child, grow even more sensitive under his touch, his mouth. Daeron renewed his efforts, determined to bring you release before he reached his own peak, desperate to be a good husband.

You held him close, not allowing for him to retreat, as he made you fall apart under him. He continued to thrust through his release, changing the angle to spare you the unpleasant feeling of overstimulation but going on until you stalled him, your hand fisted in his hair, tugging your mouth to yours, devouring each other until you were forced to separate to breathe. Daeron buried his head in your breasts, letting his body weigh yours down until you protested, then rolled to your side. For the first time since his confession he realized that the two of you were under the open sky, exposed to the world. The sky that only just clung to the last sliders of light of the day and he could see the moon looking down at them. It was pale like the hair of the little one.

“We’ll be late to the feast.” He finally forced himself to say, voice rough.

“Yeah. And we’ll smell like one of your whore houses,” You replied, coercing him into sitting up. “Look like it too.”

Your fingers began combing his hair again, making quick work of it before fixing it with a thin ribbon. Not in a braid but tied back enough that it didn't fall into his face anymore. He heard you work on your own head as he stood up, holding out a hand to help you up once he managed to stand somewhat steady on his feet. Your dress had gained a significant amount of creases and wrinkles but no stains as far as he could see.

“We’ll show our faces, eat, and then retire. Your father should be happy you don’t smell like wine.” You began to walk towards the castle, leading him by the hand as he obediently followed.