all the devils are here

The screaming is what stopped you.

Normally, Summerhall is a quiet place. The most sound comes from the wind whistling through the windows, and even then it's only a slight breeze. The air lingers with the scent of fresh spring grass most of the time, and the halls are usually empty save for the royals present, and the occasional servant. That is to say, Summerhall is generally peaceful.

So, of course when you heard screaming as you were making your final rounds for the night, you would have stopped and wondered what exactly, the fuck, it was about.

Your first glance around the hall you were in told you that you were the only servant in the vicinity, it being the hour of the eel— which was great for you, being a woman, and unarmed, but it was also generally par for the course. The second glance told you that the screaming was coming from Prince Daeron's chambers.

Prince Daeron. He has always been something of an enigma to you. Daeron the Drunken, they call him, and perhaps it's true. You see him drunk more often than not, but still there's something about him that strikes you as less… princely, than the others. A way of being that is more in tune with the common folk. He thanks the servants. He treats almost everyone with respect and frankness, when he's sober enough to do so. He carries himself like a man who was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and it sets him apart from the rest of his family.

But he's also absolute shit at fighting. You had the opportunity to see him compete in the lists at a tourney at one point, and he spent most of it face down in the mud, and the rest in the infirmary. So, if something was happening to make the Prince scream that badly…

And you were running. Down the hall, up the stairs to the Prince's chambers, without stopping to call for help or to think why, in the name of the suffering Seven, you were willing to jump directly into the fray for a Prince who probably didn't even know you existed.

Because you have a soft spot for him. That is the reason, the one you would never admit to anyone out loud. You like his laugh. You like his witty jokes during feasts where the only thing you usually have to occupy you is how bad your feet hurt. You like the way he grins when he notices that you've laughed at them, and the twinkle of his pale eyes when he does. And you like how, any time he has ever spoken to you, he didn't make you feel like you were beneath him.

That is the unspoken reason for why you threw yourself into his chambers without checking to see if there's an unknown attacker on the loose. Stupidity is what some might call that. Others, loyalty.

When you come into his chambers, it's mostly dark. You struggle to see from the light of the one or two candles left burning in their stands. But as you squint, you can make out the shapes of furniture, the far end of the room, the end of the bed, and eventually, him.

Prince Daeron Targaryen is alone in his bed. He's tangled in the sheets, and even in the low candle and moonlight you can still make out the sheen of sweat across his arms and shoulders, dampening his hair.

There is no intruder. He's having a nightmare.

You stand in the light cast by the open doorway, and you wring your hands as you consider what you should do. It's entirely unbecoming of a woman, servant or no, to be tending to the Prince alone— but then, Prince Daeron lets out an unholy shout in his sleep that could rattle the windows, and you instinctively jump to close the heavy wooden door behind you.

Great. If anyone were to come now, they'd think you're attacking him. The thought crosses your mind as you pad towards his bed, but you dismiss it as soon as it arrives. You can't just leave him like this, battling something unseen in his mind, bad enough to make him scream the way he's doing.

You mean to gently rouse him, of course. Or, as well as you can manage— but that idea is quickly squashed when, as soon as you're within reach of him, his arm shoots out and nearly comes down against your head.

You catch it reflexively. It wasn't a forceful throw, but it's enough to require your full strength as you catch his forearm in your two hands. He jerks his elbow, seeming to fight the hands he feels around his muscle.

"Prince Daeron," you hiss, grunting as he jerks in your grip. Your fingers dig in, halting his movements. "Daeron. Wake up."

A horrified gasp. Somewhere in the darkness is an intake of breath so sharp that it seems to tear directly through his lungs. Then, the struggle against you just… stops.

And suddenly, Prince Daeron is sitting up before you, his arm still in your hands, his eyes shining in the dim ambient light.

"Oh…" he breathes, once he comes back to himself. His awareness returns slowly; you imagine it may be due to whatever wine he drank, which clings to him and gives scent to the sweat on his brow.

Daeron's eyes eventually find yours, wide and fearful, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he struggles to comprehend the situation. His gaze casts wildly from your face, to the sheets he's tangled in, his sweat-soaked shirt, and his arm as you grip it tightly, frozen in midair.

"Oh—" he says again, this time choked off on the end. "I'm sorry, I— did I…?"

"It's all right," you tell him immediately, without thinking. You don't seem to be doing much of it, tonight.

"I'm sorry," Daeron repeats, and his voice cracks. The sound hits painfully somewhere in your chest, somewhere tender and unsuitable for being touched by a prince. But he's still whispering it, over and over like a chant, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," and he pries his arm out of your grip only to hastily gather you into his arms and pull you to him by the waist.

You freeze. Your arms suspended in midair, without a place to go or purchase to be made, hover just above his shoulders as he plants his head against your chest. He squeezes you the way a child might squeeze a stuffed toy, for comfort, for soothing, and you… you don't actually know what to do.

You have a prince hugging you. His ear to your pounding heart, his hand pressed to your spine to keep you there. What are you supposed to do, in this situation?

Deciding that there is no way, in any book written by Maester or common folk, that there are directions for a moment such as this. So, you don't spend the time pondering any. You lower your arms and cradle him around the shoulders, laying a palm flat against the back of Daeron's head as he clings to you.

Daeron takes a deep, stuttering breath that shakes in his shoulders, and you realize after a moment that he's crying. You hold him tighter for it. You bend your head down over his like you can shield him from the weight of his torment with your own body, somehow.

He's still muttering apologies, muffled by your bodice against his mouth. It ignites a part of you that is overly protective, monstrous in its capacity to defend that which it holds dear. It's all teeth and claws and snarling ferocity against any percieved threat.

Your hand smoothes his hair away from his temple, ignoring the stringiness of it as he presses his face to your breast, his hands clinging to your back like he can become a part of you if he just gets close enough. "Shh. You did nothing wrong."

"I almost hit you."

"But you didn't." He shakes in your arms. You pet his head. "You didn't."

Even so, he doesn't loosen his grip. He holds you to him like you're something precious that he doesn't want to lose, presses close to you at the edge of the bed with a desperation that you've never quite experienced before. You can't figure out what to do with it, so instead you do what you know to— soothe.

"It was only a nightmare," you tell him quietly, raking your fingers through his hair. Daeron's shallow breath whistles through his teeth as you do, and you let your nails scratch lightly over his scalp. He shudders. "You know what my mother used to tell me about nightmares? Once you're awake, they're gone. They can't bother you anymore."

"Not mine," he argues. Fingers dig into your back, holding you like an anchor. "Mine are real. Mine hurt. Blood, and— and ash. Rivers of fire. Monsters."

"There are no monsters here," you assure him quietly. "Just me."

Daeron makes a small noise, his hand moving to hold the curve of your hip. With one arm still around your waist, he lifts his head from your chest to look up at you. "I'm glad it's you."

Your hand still cradles his head as he peers at you through the darkness, the light of the moon reflected in his eyes. You brush his hair away from his face as you gaze down at him, tear streaked cheeks and trembling lips and all, and feel like you want to burst into flames from the look of sheer reverence on his face.

"Me?" Your brows tilt in confusion, while you still idly twist his hair around your fingers.

Daeron nods. You don't know if it's the drink still working on him, or just the emotion of the moment, but he quietly admits, "I like it, when you're near me."

You're at a loss for how to answer him. You hold your prince's face in your hands like a lover, and it scares you how much you want him to be. You're horrified by how badly you want to bend down and kiss him, to soothe away his pain with soft touches and slow hands. It worries you, almost moreso, that he would probably let you.

He makes no move to let you go, but you have to. Before you do something that you'll both regret.

You pull back slightly, and he slowly releases you, although you can feel the tension in his hands like he wants to pull you back in. You have to put distance between you, to ensure that he doesn't, and that you won't go like a moth to a flame. Instead, you step across to the small vanity by the wall and pour him a glass of water. You can feel his eyes on you through the dark, but you refuse to turn and meet them with your own.

He takes the glass readily enough, but pauses when he realizes that it isn't wine. He lets the cup hover below his lips with a rueful look on his face.

"Drink it," you dare to order him, momentarily feeling the rush of adrenaline that comes from ordering a man above your station.

Daeron shoots you a defiant look, but does what you tell him. He drains the cup, one eye on you all the while, and when he hands the empty cup back to you, it's with a low mutter of thanks.

"Good," you say quietly, taking the cup to return it to the vanity.

"Will you stay?" Daeron asks when you turn back towards him. He looks sheepish, fisting his hands in the tangled bedsheets. "Would you… stay with me tonight? I can't— I don't want to be alone."

You hesitate. Why do you hesitate? You're torn between a desire to say yes and curl yourself around him like smoke, and refusing him outright. It would be improper for you to stay with him in any capacity; it could mean your removal from Summerhall, and a world of trouble for you should you need to find a new employer.

Still, you clasp your hands and take a step towards his bed. "Is that wise, my lord?"

Daeron blinks. He breathes out a long, defeated sigh. "Probably not."

You nod, and examine him now that your eyes have truly adjusted. The dark rings under his eyes, the dappling of sweat on his shoulder where his shirt has shifted to the side and slipped off.

"I can't stay with you all night, my lord. It wouldn't be appropriate for either of us," you tell him honestly, and the words feel sour in your mouth. Daeron watches you with a mixture of apprehension and hope as you approach the bed and stop just when your skirts brush the mattress. "But… I could stay, at least until you fall back asleep. If you'd like."

"I can't see how I'll get any sleep, now," he croaks, fiddling with the sheets and disentangling his legs.

"The night is still young," you tell him softly. "Just try."

He glances at you as you straighten his pillow for him. "If I start to— if I have fits again…"

"I'll wake you."

"I was going to tell you to fetch a guard," he objects, his expression earnest. "You can't catch my arm every time. I'd hate to… I don't want to hurt you."

You smile, and even you can feel the warmth of it. "As you like it, my lord."

Daeron stares at you for a moment, looking as though he wants to say something else. Ultimately, he seems to think better of it, and he settles back against the pillow. He seems to stare unblinkingly up at the canopy over his bed for a moment before he blows out a puff of air and says, "I don't particularly want to go back to sleep, you know."

You grunt noncommittally, perching yourself on the edge of his mattress. "You look tired," you say, passing a gentle finger over one of the dark rings beneath his eye. The touch is unnecessary and indulgent— something you could easily lose a hand for, in the wrong company.

Daeron is not the wrong company. Daeron lifts his own hand and captures yours, then presses his lips to your knuckles in lieu of saying anything else. It conveys what he wants. His thanks. His trust. The emotional weight of the evening, at least somewhat eased by your presence.

"Sleep," you chance to order him again, and like before, he listens.

With his eyes closed, and half asleep already, he murmurs, "I hope I dream of you." It causes an ache in your chest that you can't, or won't, explain for.

You don't know if he does. Once his breathing slows, and he doesn't rouse when you drop his hand, you leave his chambers without looking back.

Prince Daeron is standing in the wine cellar.

You watch him for a long time. Mostly because it's the first time you've ever seen one of the royals in the servants' area of the castle, but also because he seems to not realize that you are standing there even with your shadow blocking the doorway, because as soon as you'd seen the mess of honey-gold hair on his head and made the purposeful decision to just… look.

Because you've never really allowed yourself to, before. You regard the nobles the way you are expected to, as a servant— deferrent, but only in cursory glances. You don't stare. You make eye contact when spoken directly to, and otherwise keep your eyes downcast, curtsy when necessary, jump to attention when directed to. You are not supposed to gaze openly, staring like you are now.

You tilt your head, eyes raking up and down his frame like you can consume the entirety of his appearance all at once and keep it forever if you try hard enough. His hair is clean, likely neatly combed earlier in the day but now falling around his face in unruly, thick waves. His doublet is red velvet, and the hint of white of his shirt presses out at the collar like a flash of light. He looks much better than he did the last time you saw him this close— less sickly, more composed. Maybe he's already had a drink or two, but it's hard to tell with him.

Since the other night, you haven't known what to think. You haven't necessarily avoided the prince, but neither have you sought him out. You figured he probably doesn't remember anything that transpired between you in the dark of his chambers. You didn't want to sift through the memory and try to figure out why, exactly, you kept coming back to the feeling of his arms around your waist, his head on your chest, his lips on your knuckles.

Daeron does not strike you as being a prince. He reminds you, oddly, of the few men you've been intimate with— pretty smiles and fumbling hands, tipsy in dimly lit taverns and inns. Once, regrettably, over a barrel in the back alley behind a pot shop. Watching Daeron swaying a little in the wine cellar of Summerhall, you feel your eyes shift to the wine cask beyond his shoulder.

That's dangerous, you tell yourself sharply before turning your attention back to the present, back to him. One of the noble lords of the house you serve, still unaware that you're leering at him like a pervert.

"Your grace?" you finally chance to say, softly.

"Mm?" Daeron is distracted. He doesn't turn around. You don't think he even realizes that you are a person standing in the room, and not just a voice inside his head.

"Prince Daeron." You say it a little louder this time, trying to rouse his attention.

Daeron starts, turning to look at you. His feet are still rooted in place, but he pivots at the waist to peer at you over his shoulder. He looks at you for a long— very long— moment. His eyes travel up and down your body a few times, before he finds his voice. He raises his eyebrows, shooting you a sardonic look. "…Ye-es?"

In response you offer him a small, polite smile. "Can I help you with anything, my lord?"

Daeron blinks, seeming to think over your words carefully. Then, he squints, his focus shifting as though he's only just remembered why he came down here. "I can't seem to find the Arbor Gold."

Your smile turns into something more fond. "The Arbors are kept at the far end."

"Right." He looks down that way, but doesn't move further into the cellar. After a pause, he confesses, "I haven't been down here, myself, in ages. I never had to. Always had someone else to do it for me."

You consider his words for a moment. "Was there no one to serve you tonight?"

"I didn't want to be a burden." He waves his hand as though it's nothing worth giving more thought, but it doesn't stop you from frowning. "Gods. It seemed so much bigger down here when I was a lad. Always does, though, doesn't it?"

When he smiles at you like you're sharing an inside joke, you find yourself smiling at him, too. After a moment, you offer, "Would you like me to bring some Arbor Gold to your chambers, my lord?"

Daeron opens and closes his mouth once, his eyes roving across the casks before he nods, chuckling. "Probably would be for the best."

You wipe your hands on the front of your kirtle and move to fetch a pitcher from the hooks on the wall, when you hear him cough.

"Would you…?"

You turn to gaze at him again, finding him apprehensive. It's an odd thing to have a Prince all but shrinking before you, as though he is afraid of overstepping, somehow. But the look leaves him almost as soon as it arrives, and he straightens his spine somewhat. He raises his chin a tick, clasps his hands behind his back in an almost funny impression of his father.

"Would you care to join me?"

"My lord?" You raise an eyebrow, half-sure you misheard him, and half-surprised that you didn't.

"For wine," he adds, as though that wasn't clear. He gestures vaguely at the casks. "As long as I'm pulling you away from your duties, and you're indulging me. Perhaps you could join me for a cup."

You blink. Look for some kind of jest or trick in his features, and find none. Daeron is an open book, his eyes wide and pale as a field of lavender in spring. His cheeks are flushed, and for the first time you wonder if it's entirely due to the drink.

After a long pause, you tilt your head. Kindly, you ask, "Is that wise, my lord?"

"Probably not."

You stare at each other— you, with your hand on the pitcher, half turned towards him. He, with his hands clasped behind his back, his weight shifting from foot to foot. And then, his eyes rake once over your body, a slow and deliberate up and down that sends a shiver through you. It is not a trick of the light. It is something very much like what you had been doing, secretly, to him.

Or, perhaps not so secretly. When his eyes find yours again Daeron's are open and inviting, sharing a look of knowing. He knows, somehow, the way you'd been staring at him— have been, for a while, when you thought he was entirely unaware. You're not in the exact frame of mind to question why or how that is. If the stories you've been told if the Targaryens are anything to go by, the prince might very well have eyes in the back of his head.

Of course, you've never been known for your grand ideas. You like his smile a bit too much when you say, "Give me ten minutes."

Fuck, he's pretty.

That's the first thing you think when you step into Prince Daeron's chambers with a light rap on the door, before foregoing propriety and just letting yourself in. You figure, if any of this were proper, he would have asked his own cupbearer, wherever the boy went, to bring him the wine. He would not have invited you to share it with him. And you would certainly not have accepted, and Daeron wouldn't have positively bounded out of the wine cellar like a knight before a joust, and you would not have secretly stolen to your own quarters for a quick once over at your mirror.

And, of course, he wouldn't be sitting there in his shirtsleeves, his doublet undone, his blouse open at the collar like something from a painting. He's so fucking pretty. Does he know? It's hard to tell, with him— Daeron's pattern of behavior makes him hard to pin down. It could be that he knows how handsome he is, but he carries himself through the shadows like he'd rather sink into them. You don't know him to be one of the princes who has ladies throwing themselves at him, so perhaps he assumes that means he isn't attractive, and that he must take his pleasure where he can get it.

If that's true, it's a shame. You were told once, by another maid who had been employed at Summerhall for longer than you've been alive, that Prince Daeron takes after his mother— that's why he doesn't have the same pale Targaryen coloring as his siblings. And you imagine that must be true, because although you never saw Lady Dyanna in life, it's obvious that he doesn't bear the same severity in his features as that of his father, Prince Maekar.

Daeron's features are softer, gentler. His honey-gold hair shines like sunlight by the fire, his lilac eyes catching the light and turning almost silver. Rosy lips and cheeks, a dimple in one of them when he smiles. His legs look strong and his arms muscular, as much as one might expect from a Prince, but less so than one who might spend all his time training. You remember, with a sharp surge of warmth at the base of your spine, the feeling of his arms as they squeezed you around the waist.

He is not a warrior. Something tells you he is not a poet, either— so that begs the question, what is he?

"Are you going to stare at me all night?"

Daeron turns his eyes to you, and there's a flash of that dimple in his cheek, his lips turned up at the corners humorously.

You avert your eyes almost instinctively, but cannot suppress your own small smile. "Apologies, your grace."

"Bah." He throws out an arm, making a grabbing gesture towards you as if to will the wine pitcher directly into his outstretched hand. As you approach and hand him a goblet, he mutters good-naturedly, "If I were really so concerned about it, I wouldn't have invited you into my chambers. Who knows what might happen?"

You bite back a smirk as you fill his cup. "Do you think I would take advantage of you?"

"Why, of course," he says with mock-surprise. "Me, a poor drunken Prince all alone, and you, a devastatingly handsome girl with a keen eye. My honor is likely forfeit."

A loud blast of laughter leaves you, such that it makes Daeron give you a startled look. Then delight sweeps across his features, and he laughs to himself as he takes the pitcher from you and fills your own cup.

"Do you mean to tell me that you're chaste, my lord?" You bite your lip slightly at the jab, lowering yourself into the chair across from him when he gestures to it. "Taken up the black, have you?"

"Me? Never." Daeron lifts his wine and takes a sip, though looks entirely bemused as he does so. "I'm not disciplined enough, and I fear Summerhall would miss the soul of my wit. Although, I imagine the thought has crossed my father's mind once or twice." His eyes flick over your form, focusing in on the cup that you grasp in your hands. "Drink, my lady. Before it goes warm."

The finery of the moment gives you pause— you don't believe you've ever sat in a chair this opulent, much less drank Arbor wine out of a silver goblet while making banter with a prince. It seems that the night is full of wonders.

"I'm not a lady, your grace," you remind him softly, lowering your eyes as you lift your cup.

Daeron in quiet for a moment, watching you thoughtfully. His lilac eyes linger on your lips as they touch the rim of your cup, and then he says, "All women are ladies. All men are knights."

"All men are fools," you add, feeling the sharpness of the wine at the back of your throat.

"True enough," Daeron agrees. "But it makes the other statements no less true."

"Well," you say, chewing on your lip as you look up at him through your lashes. He watches you with a calm, comfortable expression, as though you are just another person he might have met at an inn, or a tavern. Amicable. Gentle. "That's kind of you, my lord."

Daeron smirks into his cup. "That's a first."

"What is?"

"Kind is not something anyone would usually call me," Daeron remarks. "Certainly not to my face, at least."

"No one's ever… called you kind?" You tilt your head. "What of your friends?"

"Friends?" Daeron laughs. He throws his head back slightly, as though the mere notion is hilarious to him, but there's a sadness to it that grips at your heart and squeezes painfully. When he looks at you again, he shakes his head and gives you a rueful smile. "I don't have any friends."

You pause, wracking your brain. "But… You have five siblings."

"Siblings are not the same as friends." He tilts his head towards you, looking at you with a sort of deadpan humor that you're sure is intended to make you feel more at ease. "If they were, I imagine most families would be better off."

You consider the idea, and then make a face. "I suppose that's a fair assessment. You're quite right."

"Thank you. I've been saying so for the longest time, and no one ever believes me." He toasts you with a grin. It splits his face wide and makes him seem so boyish and sweet that you have to look quickly away.

"You know…" You hum, sipping at your wine demurely. You try to train your expression into something neutral— perfunctory, even— as you say, "I could be your friend, my lord."

Daeron is quiet for a moment too long, and you glance up to find him staring into the fire distantly. Then, he echoes, "Friend."

"Mhm." You take another sip of wine and wonder, absently, if perhaps there's something in it to make it double strength. There's no other reason you can think of for why you'd be so forward with a prince, but that you like him, and that he's been kind to you thus far.

Then, quite to your relief and also to your dismay, Prince Daeron shifts and takes a long breath through his nose. He says, so soft that it's almost as though you weren't meant to hear it, "It would be nice… to have a friend."

You hide your nervous smile with the rim of your cup.

Daeron clears his throat, and then looks up at you. He crosses one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee as though he's talking business late at night in front of a tavern fire. "And you would be my friend? Take up the mantle and… what, exactly?"

"It's not like being a sworn sword, your grace," you snort derisively. The wine has made you bold. Daeron seems to like it.

He gives you a lopsided grin. "No? What do friends do, then?" He rests his chin on his hand, his elbow on the arm of his chair as he slouches toward you like a sunflower turning towards the light. "Do tell me, since I have no earthly idea."

"Well," you begin, casting your gaze towards the fire. You feel suddenly shy with his eyes upon you, as though you can feel the intensity of his gaze directly through your bodice. Your heart leaps up into your throat. "Friends… they look out for each other."

"Mm?"

"Take care of each other, I mean."

"Mm." The tone changes to something suggestive. "Take care of each other how?"

Your face is burning— is it from the wine? The fire? You can't tell anymore. "Well, I— I suppose, with whatever the other needs. A helping hand. Companionship. Someone to talk to, or to be still with, or—"

"Or to hold?"

Oh, gods. That's your first thought when you look at him, and he's still staring at you, unwavering in his focus. Slowly blinking as though he's enraptured by you and has no intentention of looking away, even if he spends the rest of the night with his eyes still set upon you.

His arms around your waist. His ear pressed over your beating heart. His eyes peering up at you in the darkness, begging you to stay. His lips pressed to your knuckles. 'I hope I dream of you.' You let him, and you let him, and you let him.

"Yes, I suppose. In some cases." You nod, mostly to yourself, and then take a swig of the wine so large that you feel it stretch your esophagus on the way down.

Still watching you with a serene smile on his face, he says, "Then, I'd like to be your friend."

You swallow past the thickness in your throat, and return with a wobbly smile of your own. "Thank you, my lord."

He makes a short noise. "You should probably call me 'Daeron' when we're alone." Then amends with a wink, "Since we're friends."

"Right." Then, when he raises an eyebrow, you add, "…Daeron."

His responding smile is softer around the edges than the others, and holds something tenderly in it that, you think, he doesn't exactly want you to see. It's held to his chest like a secret.

Now is your turn to watch him the way he's been watching you— fully, unabashed, no attempt to hide the open hunger on your face. He's distracted by the fire, by his cups, and by the ring that he twists on his forefinger with his thumb. You watch the movement and feel, like a hot coal sinking down the line of your spine and between your legs, the arousal that you'd been trying so desperately to push away in the wine cellar.

"You know—" you say sharply, so suddenly that you see Daeron blink in suprise. He shoots you a curious look when you continue, hoarsely, "Friends do… other things, too."

"Is that so?" He gives you a once-over with an expression like he knows exactly what you mean, but feels like indulging you, anyway. "Like what?"

"Like…" You try to think of the best way to say what you're thinking.

Friends can fuck. Friends can do unspeakable things to each other an then carry on like nothing in the world ever happened.

Instead you say, "Favors."

"Favors?" Daeron parrots, refilling his goblet. "What kind of favors?"

You don't say anything. You don't have it in you to voice it— you've never seduced anyone before. You're not used to the talking, more the doing. You're very good at the doing, or so you've been told. But you don't have the words, and so you just… look.

The same way you've been doing all night, but this time without waiting for him to look away. His eyes are fixed on you as you take a long, lecherous, languid assessment of his body. Starting from his pale eyes, and traveling down to his lips, along the line of his throat to where his chest is laid bare from his open collar— the collar he loosened, on purpose, before you came in. Down further, to his hands holding the goblet aloft. Beautiful hands, hands that tremble a bit from the drink, but whose fingers are long and laced with veins that run down the back of his palm. Down, to the space between his legs where he's already made a tent in his breeches.

"Ah," he murmurs, more a breath than anything, but it's enough for you to snap your eyes back up towards his own. "Those kind of favors." He smirks, then quirks a brow and cocks his head. "Do you go to bed with all your friends?"

"Only the pretty ones."

That makes him laugh. Loudly, fully. It splits through the air like a bell, settling around your shoulders like hands squeezing you. Then, he sets his goblet down on the low table between you, and points at your cup. "Do you want more wine?"

You look down at your near empty goblet. "Sure. Why not."

Of course, you expect him to simply pick the pitcher up and refill your goblet, like a normal person. And you certainly imagine that you will both continue hedging about your desire to fuck each other, until one of you inevitably topples onto the bed in your wine-drunk stupor and the other follows with soft giggles and wandering hands. That's the basic script you've learned, by now, to follow when it comes to drunken dalliances. Except, Prince Daeron isn't a normal man, and your first mistake was expecting that he would act accordingly.

You don't expect him to crawl towards you on all fours. He lowers himself from his chair and approaches you like a dog looking for an affectionate hand, and you think your heart stops and starts nearly five times between his chair and yours. He gazes up at you with wide, almost innocent eyes— almost— and settles on his knees to take the goblet gently from your hand.

If you weren't frozen in shock, you might have realized that he would have liked it if, in that moment, you reached forward and stroked his head. But you would not be so presumptuous.

Daeron, for that matter, is. You hate him for it as much as you like him for it, or at least that's what you tell yourself. Daeron fills your goblet, but instead of simply handing it back to you, he holds it as he raises himself up on his knees until he's nearly towering over you. He's still so tall, even on his knees before you, and you have to suppress a sigh when one hand comes up and gently cups your chin, his fingers warm where they touch your skin. One thumb tracing the plush of your lower lip, but without deigning to press in.

"Open," Daeron says, his voice soft enough that you don't question it.

You part your lips and let him feel a flash of wetness on your inner lip with his thumb, the rough edge of your teeth. He waits there for a second, feeling. And then he raises your goblet to his own mouth and takes a small sip.

You gasp, more out of surprise than anything else, when he leans forward and his lips replace his thumb. Your chin tilted up, his face hovers just a fraction of an inch from yours before closing that gap, and he lets the wine flow from his mouth into yours. It spills sweet and warm from his tongue onto your own, and you find yourself instinctively grasping onto his arms for something stable to keep yourself upright.

You swallow. Daeron makes a pleased noise when he feels it, his thumb gliding along the curve of your chin.

"Gods," you mutter after a moment, your face still so close to his that you can see every detail in his lilac irises— where the blue turns into pale purple, where midnight blue flecks the inner ring.

Daeron cracks an almost victorious grin, but only for a second. Then, he squints. "Are we still friends?"

"Only if you intend to greet me that way every time you see me," you tell him. You thought yourself so stunned that you couldn't speak, but it seems the words come just as easily when you have no brain in your head to form them.

"Good," he answers brightly. Then, he gives you one of his looks of faux-severity, which never quite seems to land right on his features. "Then, perhaps we can be honest, and stop acting like we don't want to eat each other alive."

You snicker, turning your hands to fists against the sleeves of his shirt. "Your fault for half undressing yourself before I came here."

"You've been undressing me in your head the whole time, anyways," Daeron argues petulently, and when you open your mouth to object, he presses his finger to your lips. "Don't lie, your face betrays you every time."

You grumble a half-hearted assent, just before nipping lightly at his fingertip with your teeth. Daeron makes a little noise and jerks his hand away, just before echoing your giggle with one of his own and smoothing your hair away from your face.

"You're so lovely," Daeron admits to you after a moment. His hand still gently cradles your chin, but he looks down the slope of his nose at you with something wistful in his eyes. "I didn't thank you properly, the other night." He sits back heavily on his heels, hands folded against his thighs, eyes shining up at you. His neck— fuck, his neck— long and lean and exposed from where he tilts his chin up to look at you. "Let me atone for my transgressions."

"You don't have to— my prince," you gasp when his fingers wrap around your ankle and he draws your skirts upwards. The fabric whispers against your skin without much more urging.

"I'm not a prince," he says quietly, his eyes focused on your face. "Not with you."

You give him an incredulous look. His hand smoothes up your calf, and you practically swallow the squeal that threatens to break from your throat. "Because we're friends?"

"Yes." He's not teasing, or joking. His expression is as genuine and earnest as you've ever seen it, his hand tightening on your calf. "Will you let me thank you properly? Or am I to sit there simpering like a fucking imbecile all night?"

You bite back a snort, your hand momentarily flying to your lips before you give him a sidelong glance. He's still waiting for your approval, you realize.

"If I told you to go and sit there like an imbecile, you would?" you ask him, more out of curiosity than anything.

"Yes." It is, again, without question. He doesn't have it in him to be anything but forthcoming, apparently.

You believe him. You reach forward and stroke his head, once, just to remind yourself that he's real, and not a figment of your imagination. "It would be very indecent, you know."

"Yes, very." He blinks at you. He isn't deterred in the slightest. Amused, even, as his lips curl into a wan smile.

You can't help but mirror it. "Do as you like, my lord."

The grin he gives you is pure, selfish indulgence. He raises your calf and presses a kiss just below your knee— a chaste thing, nothing out of the ordinary, except that it's him and it's your knee. Your heart beats in your chest loud as thunder as he drags his lips upwards, over the curve of your knee, past the shelter of your skirts.

"Daeron," you hiss suddenly, gripping the arms of your chair for dear life as he pulls you forward in your seat.

"What?" The petulance in his voice is the only thing you have ever seen or heard from him to suggest his lineage. He sounds so much like his father when he says it, glancing up at you through long, fluttering lashes.

"Do you—" Your eyes bounce around the room, while you search for the proper words to voice your concern. "Are you sure you want to… do that?"

Daeron is frustratingly straight faced. He's so gravely serious about it that you almost want to laugh. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because…" You bite your lip, suddenly bashful. "I've been working all day, and… and I haven't bathed."

Daeron gazes at you for a moment, his brows lifted incredulously before he laughs. His breath ghosts across your bare thigh, making you shift in his hold.

"You could have been riding bareback through the mud, and I would still want to taste you." His words send a horrid wave of heat rushing through your body. "Now let me."

You answer with a squeak, because he takes to the plush of your inner thigh with a nip of his teeth, the soft drag of his lips following. He is hard and soft— teeth and lips, wet tongue and rough beard stubble. Your mouth opens and closes, searching in vain for something to say or a sound to make, but nothing comes out.

Not until Daeron rucks your skirts up to your hips and yanks the laces of your smallclothes, his eyes suddenly sharper than they have been all night. The sight of your bared sex appears to have sobered him, somewhat. He leans forward, shouldering your thighs upwards while his hands spread you wide. Your slippers jump ship, falling to the carpet with dull thuds that act as punctuation. A small whimper leaves you, a mild sound of alarm at being so utterly exposed to him.

"You… gorgeous—" Daeron sighs, nuzzling his nose into the matted curls surrounding the cleft of your pussy, wet with your arousal. You gasp, your face burning as he takes a deep lungful of air, breathing in the scent of you.

He gives you a warm brush of his tongue, so soft that nought but a sigh escapes your lips. Daeron coaxes your thighs further apart, hoisting you towards his face with a strength you didn't know he had. Maybe he only uses it on occasions such as this, with his head between your legs and his mouth on your cunt.

"Gods," he mumbles against you, accented with a flattening of his tongue. "You're so sweet."

Your hands find his hair, and he groans. The sudden vibration makes you jolt, your hips bucking up into him, your back bent awkwardly towards the backrest of the chair while you struggle to find your stability. Daeron is unbothered. Daeron is tasting you with a voracity that, quite frankly, appalls you— his mouth makes a lewd slurp and his tongue worms its way into your entrance, a flexing of the muscle in an imprudently intimate place.

You never would have thought he'd be like this; certainly, most of the servants in the castle have suggested that he drinks too many to be of any use in the bedroom. But he still, somehow, managed to get his women— whores, usually, but you never heard any of them complaining. You thought it had something to do with the coin, but now… now, you aren't so sure.

"Daeron, I— I won't— fuck." The words tumble out, cut off on a little moan when he sucks, latching onto your clit and not letting go. He drags his tongue over it and you go boneless, your spine bowing into the hollow created between the seat and the backrest. Your chin hits your chest awkwardly and you find his eyes, staring up at you from between your legs, dark and vehement.

Daeron whines when you tug on his hair, a noise so gorgeous that it makes everything within you tighten up hard and sharp. Your hips buck against him, but Daeron's hands grasp you and hold you down against the edge of your seat, keeping you from moving an inch.

It's cruel, the wanting— how deeply it has you in its thrall; because you have him between your legs, and it's not enough. There's still that hollow in your chest that wants him inside it, but which is too small to house a dragon.

"Fuck, you're pretty," you gasp, hands on his head and in his hair, eyes on his. He makes a small noise, his eyes fluttering shut in earnest, but you continue, "So fucking pretty, Daeron, gods—"

His slick tongue, more dextrous than it has any right to be, strokes over your clit again, and again, and again, and you think you might choke. You aren't paying attention to how hard your fingers are gripping at him, scrabbling at his head until your nails find purchase and dig in, and Daeron moans unbelievably loud. The sound is filthy, depraved— he buckles, his hips lurching against nothing, his head both dipping low and pushing against the feeling like he wants more of it.

You hold him with both hands, your palms cradling his head to you like some precious thing. He follows your urging until there is nothing but the sounds of your moans mingling with his, and the rocking back and forth of his mouth and your hips.

You cum against his tongue, and it leaves you with a shattered cry and long, cloying spasms that seem to go on for ages, made stronger for the fact that he won't stop. He keeps sucking on your clit, ignoring your pleas for mercy, and his hand just strokes along your thigh as he feels it twitch against his ear.

When Daeron pulls off of your clit with a loud slurp and a ragged gasp, his cheeks are tinged red. His lips flushed and wet with you, his eyes shining in the firelight. "You— you have no idea," he stutters out, his words slightly thick and garbled in the back of his throat, "what you do to me."

Fuck, he looks absolutely wrecked. The strands of his golden waves that you'd captured in your fist hang in tangles around his face, and he pants heavily through parted lips.

"I could do more," you say, struggling to sit forward. "I could— I could fuck you so hard, Daeron, I—"

Daeron laughs breathlessly, dropping his forehead against your thigh in a way that seems bashful. "Ah... That may be difficult, at the moment."

"What…?" You peer at him in confusion as he leans back on his haunches, and then you see it. A blotch of wetness darkens the front of his breeches, which would explain for the roughness of his breath. "Oh."

"Terribly undignified, I know," he muses, grunting as he squeezes his eyes shut and shifts uncomfortably. "Not that I ever had any dignity."

You don't know whether to laugh, or cry, or fucking moan at the sight of him. You can't look away from the stain on his breeches. He came in his pants. You did that. Or, moreso, he did that with his face between your legs. Untouched.

With a wild hair that forces you to act before thinking— as you do more and more often, when it comes to him— you move your leg. Your foot, bare of your slipper, presses just against the crotch of his breeches, and a noisy groan tears from his lips.

He captures your ankle in his hand, his eyes suddenly dark. "That's… tender."

"I should hope so." A devilish smile curves at your lips, such that Daeron makes a pathetic noise at the sight of it. His thumb brushes back and forth against your ankle as you lift it, setting your toe against his chest. "We have plenty of time, my lord. I'm not done with you, yet."

You push, just barely, with your toe against his sternum, and he topples like a house of cards. He falls heavily back onto his hands, knees splayed wide to brace himself against the Myrish carpet, his chest leaping with the effort of his breath. Daeron tilts his head, looking almost like a confused puppy as you lower yourself from your chair, setting your hands on his knees and jerking them apart, much like he did yours.

"Take off your shirt," you order him.

Daeron opens his mouth to say something, seems to think it over, and then closes it. He begins with the open doublet, shrugging it away like so much fodder. His hands, shaking, find the front of his shirt and tug, loosening it from his breeches before throwing it over his head.

Your eyes and hands are greedy things. They want to take and absorb him until every edge and angle has been etched into your memory, to keep for yourself. You crowd yourself between his thighs and push him until he lays flat against the floor, the soft expanse of his stomach trembling beneath your touch.

He's more muscular than you thought he would be. Softer than a soldier, but beautifully toned. Your hands run over muscle padded by soft flesh, flushed red and dotted with freckles that you want to trace and lavish with your lips. Your palms cup and smooth over arms that are stronger than they have any right to be, fingers trace along veins that jump with the drumbeat of his pulse. Blood beating hot beneath his skin— blood of a dragon. Blood born of fire, even if the only fire he gives you is the kind he stokes between your legs.

Daeron whispers your name, and it nearly breaks in his throat where he seems to have lost his voice on his way down. The sound of it slams through your chest and worms its way down into your gut, kindling the fire already struck there by his mouth.

You take his hands. Big, warm things that stop shaking once yours are inside them, maybe only because you can hold them still. Your fingers lace with his, and his breath catches— you lift, bringing them over his head to rest against the carpet, his pectorals pulled taut, his ribs raised and the hollow of his stomach stretched to accomodate.

"Stay there," you tell him, and he does. It's a dangerous thing, to be able to order a prince around, and have him listen. To have him follow your instructions happily, blithely, like a dog responding to the snapping of your fingers. Good boy. Lay down. Roll over.

Your lips find his collarbone first. They linger there while you breathe him in, much like he did you— now that you've had some wine, yourself, you can't smell it much on him. Instead, you smell what lies under it; the spice of whatever Dornish perfume he wears against his throat, the musk of his sweat, the lingering sweetness of the lilac oil from his bath water. Your tongue flutters out to taste it, and Daeron gasps loudly, arching up into your touch with a desperation bordering on needy.

"This— this is what friends do?" Daeron asks quietly, his breath caught in his throat as your lips trace a path down his chest. Your tongue flicks out over one nipple, and he stiffens, his arms twitching like he wants to bring them down against you. He doesn't.

"They can," you say. "If you want."

"I want." A groan, airy and hoarse. "Oh f-fuck— I want."

"Good," you sigh. "Because I want it, too."

You bite at his ribs. He moans, and lets you. It stokes something terrible in you that wants to stake a claim, to be rough with him even while you continue being gentle. You want to sink your teeth in, so you give him the softness of your tongue instead. His responding sigh is worth it, and the slow widening of his thighs as you move downward.

"Did you dream of me, my lord?" you ask him as your hands find the laces of his breeches.

A hollow laugh rattles from his ribs and into your mouth. "More than you know."

That's not what you meant— and yet, it's exactly the answer that you wanted. Your lips part against his stomach, tongue laving before you suck, hard, hard enough to burst capillaries and leave a deep red bruise in your wake.

Daeron moans loud. Almost loud enough to echo around the bedchamber, his hips jolting upwards and finding no purchase. His arms finally come down, landing with dull thumps on either side of him. "Oh, fuck, what're you— what're you doing?"

"A favor," you say simply, and lick him from his navel to his hip.

"Here?" Even as he asks, your hands are pulling the ties of his breeches. "On the floor? There's a bed just over there."

"I would have fucked you on one of the wine casks," you grumble as you tug, the ties finally coming loose. You nuzzle in and lick over soft chestnut curls of hair, earning a shallow gasp in response.

Daeron laughs, a little too breathy. "Was that what you were thinking about? Figured I had something on my face."

When you meet resistence in the form of his hips, laying on the floor and keeping you from tugging his pants off, you pause. A prince's floor is better than a wine cask. Your eyes flick up to his, looking at you with mild amusement. "Do you mind?"

He lifts his hips. You pull. The fabric goes with a whisper, and you sit back to muscle them down the length of his legs. He's toned here, too. It's mildly unfair, considering his aptitude for athletic pursuits, and you have a mind to tell him— but he's hard again for you, already, and you don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"There," you sigh, admiring him. He's pretty everywhere. Even his cock, rosy like the rest of him, wonderfully thick and smeared with cum left over from when he'd spent in his pants.

You lean down, and without pretense or lead in, take him into your mouth. Daeron shouts. It's different from the last time you heard it— not anguished, but instead carrying a note of delight in it. He's heavy on your tongue and tastes of salt, smells of musk like he had by his throat, but more. You taste him like you have all the time in the world, with a fervency to mirror his own.

Finally, you pull off of him, a string of spit connecting you. You say, almost conversationally, "I'm going to fuck you, now."

Daeron blinks, naked and spread-eagled beneath you. "Really? I had no idea. If this was your plan the whole time, you really must let a man know."

You snort, positioning yourself over him, your skirts rucked up around your thighs. "I'll give you fair warning next time, my lord."

"Next time," Daeron mutters, seemingly dazed, his hands finding your hips. "Yes."

You take him slowly, his cock stretching you so wide that your hips stall, your teeth grinding together as you brace yourself with a hand on his chest. "Fuck," you grit out, seating yourself fully, feeling him brush up against something wonderful and devastating there inside you. "Fuck, Daeron."

"Mhm." He's out of breath already. Panting, his lips parted and gazing up at you with the most pleading, desperate look you've ever seen. You move, and his mouth drops open with a ragged moan, his eyes falling shut as his head rocks back against the carpet.

Your hand finds the column of his throat. His pulse pounds beneath your fingers, his adam's apple bobbing against your palm. "Oh gods, you're so fucking good for me."

Daeron makes a strangled noise, his fingers digging into your hips. His hips lurch, trying to drive further into you— he fills you so completely, the relief of it is such that it draws a sigh from you.

You raise yourself up, sink back down. You begin a rhythm that has you keening, and has his breath stolen from his lungs.

Daeron reclines against the carpet, his hands beginning to guide your hips, his eyes starry and fixed on you in awe. His eyebrows pinch together, a smirk curving on his parted lips.

"What?" you ask him, breathless, a quiet moan leaving you as you grind your hips in slow circles. Your entire body feels like it's on fire. From the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, you feel as though the sparks dancing up your spine have ignited a blaze through you. When Daeron raises a hand and grabs at the front of your bodice, the laces loosening at his clumsy tugs, you fear that he may feel your blood boiling beneath your skin.

"Beautiful," Daeron whispers, his fingers parting the loosened front of your bodice to expose your breasts. "You're so beautiful."

"Daeron." Your cunt clamps hard around him, your breath catching in your throat as he drags his thumb over your hadened nipple, cupping the weight of your breast in his hand.

His mouth drops open in a moan, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Then he lifts himself up on his elbow, pulling you towards him with one arm.

Daeron plants his face between your breasts clumsily, his mouth open and hot against your bare skin. "I'm not— ah, fuck— not worthy of this. You shouldn't— shouldn't give me—"

"I'll give you what I fucking want." Your fingers thread through his golden hair, softer now than you had been before, but no less insistent. "And right now, what I want is to make you cum."

Your words draw a strained sound from him that cracks in his throat, and he nips lightly at the curve of your breast with his teeth. The sharp edge of it sends a shockwave through you, pleasure mounting between your legs. Daeron audibly chokes, his eyes shut tight and mouth open over your breast as he feels you pulse around him.

Your head droops over his in an approximation of the way you held him before, days ago, while he came down from a nightmare. Your body jerks as his tongue laves against your nipple, his hand fumbling to yank your skirts up so that it can fit between your legs. A clumsy thumb finds your clit, unmeasured in his touch but focused in on just the right place to make you cry out, your face screwed tight at the onslaught of sensation.

"Oh fuck," you sob, feeling your orgasm wash over you with fury. Your body seizes, your muscles locking down tight around his cock, his thumb slipping through your wetness and nudging at your clit in small circles. It's too much, all at once, and you cum hard while he moans into your skin, his mouth still slotted over your breast.

Daeron makes a strangled, somewhat wet noise against you. You feel the sound vibrate against your skin like it was torn from some part of him that was still attached to it. His fingers tighten on your back, his hand pulling you flush to his chest while his hips grind up into yours, and you feel the rush of his release within you.

He cums pretty, too. You should have figured that he would.

"Beautiful," he's whispering again, soft against your body even as his thumb continues to work over your clit to the point of oversensitivity. "You're so beautiful— beautiful girl—"

"Hush." You lift his head, looking down at him as he takes shallow, shaking breaths. His eyes look heavy, drooping like they do halfway toward sleep. His face is still flushed, but his eyes are sparkling, pupils blown wide and dark. You tuck his hair back away from his face, and his eyes flutter shut, his head leaning into your hand like you may hold him up while he sleeps.

Instead, you lower him back down to the floor, and he goes, slowly, without complaint. You lay heavily on top of him while he's still inside you, growing soft, his cum beginning to leak from and making a sticky mess between your thighs.

You'll have to make moon tea in the morning. It doesn't matter, now.

"I did. Dream of you," Daeron murmurs, a weak noise breaking in his throat when he grinds his hips up into yours again for a brief second. "Of this."

Your heart practically slams up into your throat at his confession. You stare down at his gorgeous, placid face, and you're overcome with the urge to kiss him. You haven't kissed him yet, you realize— he spit wine into your mouth, but that was less a kiss and more a debased way to cut the fat from your mutual desire.

You almost drum up the courage to do it. Almost. But then, Daeron blinks his eyes open and finds you staring down at him, four inches from his face, and he grins lazily.

"Friends?" He asks, tracing a finger up your spine.

You clench your jaw and swallow the courage that you had been gathering. You nod at him, close enough that you can taste his breath. "Friends."

His cum continues to drip down your thighs.