Your lungs drank in the honeyed, cloying scent of the candles, smoke coiled around the walls, clinging with its smoky grey talons. A blessed summer had settled. This was precisely the reason why the rare ladies and even rarer lords remained in the shelter of the castle walls. The sky was cloudless, which, of course, in such a season was no rarity. The air was somewhat dusty, but warm. The garden's greenery blazed with color, but what warmed your heart most was the bright-yellow patch strewn with golden petals and sharp needles. It was ulex. It had bloomed even brighter several months ago, and now it had acquired that majestic calm, as if it had not tried to compete with the colorful, boisterous company of phlox. A single lonely prickly branch of this plant stood in a small clay vase in a deep stone niche by the window. A gift from Prince Daeron. Such a sweet, utterly boyish gesture.

Everything seemed to reach toward the sky, as clear as his eyes, and when evening would come, it would acquire that same violet hue.

You had not walked in the gardens, although your friend had tried everything to drag you from the clutches of the Red Keep. Then, having realized that everything was much more complicated than it might seem, she flitted away with the most conspiratorial smile. Her eyes said, "You'll tell me everything later." This was perhaps imprudent, to keep a secret for more than two. Court life had taught you to be wary and cautious when it was worth it, but with this young curious lady, your heart was at ease. You had grown up together. You had grown up together with Daeron as well, but it was difficult to call friendship what was between you.

Do friends seek each other's gaze in a crowd with that desperate hunger of which only lovers are capable. When the prince had found the courage to kiss you, to stop some completely absurd argument, the unspoken disappeared. Everything became clear, simple and simultaneously complicated. You were a married lady. Not his before the Seven, but when your breath would falter, and not an inch could slip between your bodies, who could doubt that you did not belong to each other? Is this not what girls are taught, reading tales of great love? You did not want to think about the injustice at all, because with these thoughts came something darker, hopelessness

You closed your eyes, you wanted with carefree lightness to release everything that lay as an unbearable weight on your soul. Your parents had not taught you this. It seemed that for these people, everything was decided by a single prayer. Will the Seven be able to understand what your own father and mother will never accept? You had a husband, but you shared your bed with another man, whom you loved, it seemed, your whole life.

The candles, scattered in a chaotic order on the writing desk, were burning down unhurriedly. They had been burning like that since the night, you had not extinguished them. There was something enchanting in the soft coppery-golden light that the flames cast on your room. As if leaving a kiss on everything they could reach. A certain coziness, a certain semblance of safety and inviolability. Yes, probably, it was calmer that way. Foolish, of course, but you had always done this, even in your youth, to calm your nerves you would carefully light one thin wax candle after another.

You touched the azure fabric of your dress with your fingertips. Daeron always said that the color suited you, in fact, he said so about any other. A smile touched your lips, this always happened, you only had to think of him.

The door creaked drawn-out, so as not to let the guest go unnoticed. Truly a devilish, treacherous thing. It was the eldest son of Maekar. Breathless, as if someone had been chasing him, but smiling with all his teeth. Your meetings always held danger, you were, of course, careful, but the risk never disappeared.

"Daeron! I told you that we should not meet during the day! We are too conspicuous. And my husband..."

"Is entertaining himself, like everyone else," the blond finished for you, he did not look frightened, it seemed he did not care at all even if you were once caught in each other's arms.

"He may tire of the entertainment and set off to look for me."

Daeron only shook his head, coming closer, but so carefully, as if afraid to startle you, like a forest fawn.

"He will not. Some lady is entertaining him. He looked enchanted. I suspect it will be for a long time."

Your husband, by the way, was also not a model of faithfulness. This did not concern you. Better he finds solace in someone else's bed than in yours.

The prince wrapped your waist with warm palms, looked straight into your eyes. He said nothing, truly, for a minute or two. You yielded, surrendered, to be more precise. Your cheek pressed against his chest. His heart beat a measured, distinct tempo. This seemed right. This way you felt alive.

Daeron lifted your chin gently, as if afraid to harm you with just one touch, so reverent it was. You looked at him from under your lashes, this was not coquetry, rather the opposite, an extraordinary shyness. The shyness did not pass no matter how close you were, no matter how well you knew each other's bodies and lips.

"Embarrassed? Still."

You shook your head, but already heard the notes of teasing in his voice.

"No. I am memorizing. Every moment."

The prince nodded, agreeing. To support your words with a weighty proof, you rose on the tips of your toes, grabbed his reliable shoulders. You were the first to provoke this kiss. Gentle, unhurried, as if you had the time of a whole world. Daeron deepened the kiss not insistently, as if asking you, may I, you in turn compliantly opened your lips, letting him in, it seemed, into your very soul.

Having gathered your courage, you led him to the soft bedding yourself. In such moments you forgot your parents' faces, that eternal dissatisfaction that would appear, whenever you did anything at all. You saw his eyes. Clear, violet, like spring warmed after frosts. Your man did not insist, did not push onto the bed, as a husband would have done. The prince waited, although his desire could be guessed. His palm slid to your side, he squeezed it without proper restraint. Daeron wanted you and there was no hint of innocence in it.

It is unlikely that Maekar's eldest son would ever admit that he likes these moments, when you cast aside all proprieties, forgot that they even exist, the way you took the initiative, the way you grew bold, and afterwards again became the most proper lady, who lights a candle in the sept without blinking.

You took a small step back. Curiosity and nothing more. Will he obediently follow, will he reach with his whole body, like a drawn bowstring. Of course, Daeron did this. His whole insides did the same in that same second as soon as you "left" him for a small second.

Continuing this sweet game, you pressed your palms to his chest, squeezed the fabric of his doublet, feeling the softness of the thick linen. The fastenings glittered, reflected in the sun's rays. Of course, he was not dressed impeccably, short golden locks fell on his forehead in his usual careless style. In this, it seemed, was the whole of Daeron. He could be wearing the most expensive clothing in all of Westeros, but he did not wear burgundy and black velvet with the same dignity that his father wore it.

"Admiring?" Daeron stated with shamelessness, this was not a question in any single place, he read you, like an open book.

"A little."

The corner of your lips twitched upward, not too much, so as to definitely not allow him to puff up with pleasure like a peacock. This brief smile was enough for him completely, because Daeron pulled you to him with greater demand.

"And? Handsome?"

"In sunlight, yes."

"And not in sunlight?"

Small wrinkles gathered in the corners of the prince's eyes, sly, mocking, his eyes were also smiling. The blond now resembled rather a sparrow warmed in the sun, that imagined that it sang better than a nightingale.

You shook your head, but laughed quietly, so that his heart clenched. Daeron loved your laugh, it was certainly sweeter than any song of strings and drums.

"Not in sunlight?" you echoed playfully, your little finger moved to his collarbone, but had not yet touched the bare skin. "A little worse."

"What a cruel lady you are."

The man deftly intercepted your palms, clasped your wrists, as if binding you in fetters, but these were the most pleasant fetters. His hands were always warm, even in winter evenings. Your gaze dropped to his long, elegant fingers involuntarily, you swallowed, hoping that this would remain unnoticed. You knew too well what Daeron was capable of with these very fingers. He mercifully pretended, as if he had not caught your loud thoughts.

Your lips met again. The shade of the kiss thickened, it became even deeper, more impatient. You gasped raggedly, weakly, as if surrendering to this captivity without any fight. This became for Daeron a certain starting point, the pressure of his mouth intensified, turning into almost a desperate attempt to hold you. Closer. He embraced you as if you were a single whole.

"I want you," escaped from the prince in a quiet moan, as soon as he only pulled away from your lips.

"But..."

You smiled slightly, even in such situations you thought soberly. What worried you was that you could be caught together, anyone. Daeron, this seemed to only push him to actions.

"Then we should hurry," the blond whispered as if he had just read your anxious thoughts.

"Daeron, have you lost your mind?" you protested, trying to appeal to the common reason of the two of you. You also had to convince yourself, because one large part of you reached for sweet vice.

"Yes, I lost my mind long ago."

"Madman."

The laugh escaped completely inappropriately, rather nervously. You again pressed your palms into his body, trying to stand straight on your feet.

"Madman," the prince confirmed, smiling shamelessly, as only he could, completely radiantly. "But yours, aren't I?"

"Mine."

Your fingers moved lower, feeling how the muscles of his torso tense. Daeron's breath faltered, you saw how often his chest rose and fell. The sun cast bright rays on him, gilded his pale face. Now you were definitely admiring him. To tear your gaze away seemed now a true betrayal. His thin lips parted, and you interpreted this as an invitation. You merged in a kiss again and again, unable to part your lips. The kisses were brief, soft, wet. The prince's tongue outlined your even row of pearly teeth. The hot tip of the tongue outlined your palate, intertwined with yours in haste, impetuously.

Your legs tangled in the hem of your azure dress, the fabric crumpled, turning into something bothersome, unnecessary. The eldest son of Maekar lowered himself down without proper elegance, he was trying to unlace the knots of your dress. The ribbons went along the side of the bliaut, small secretive snakes, which Daeron pulled out. On his face appeared such amusing desperation. He was never known for patience, in this matter for sure. Between his brows lay a small fold, giving him some innocence. The prince always did this, he knelt without thinking, as if he did not remember that you should address him quite differently. You rather felt yourself a princess, you, who, like a gift, were unwrapped with tremulous touches.

When you remained in only your chemise, you did not cover yourself. The cream-colored linen clung to your body loosely, soft to the touch, but you were exactly sure that your beloved's hands would warm and comfort better than any, even the most exquisite, fabrics.

You averted your gaze only for a moment, when you lifted the bliaut, trying to lay the azure whirlwind on the bench, at least to pretend that you yourself were not bursting with the same feelings. As a proper lady, you hid your true emotions better. Better than Daeron for sure, for him most often all his emotions were eloquently displayed on his handsome pale face.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"You are too pedantic, little bird."

The affectionate nickname sounded habitually soft, he often called you tenderly, when there were no extra eyes and ears nearby. You smiled, although you asked not to call you that anymore. Would Daeron listen? Rather he would become more sophisticated in endearing names.

"It will wrinkle."

You explained simply, looking as if you were not about to do anything reprehensible, certainly not that for which you would beg forgiveness from the gods in the sept.

"To hell with it."

Daeron grabbed your wrist firmly, but gently. The prince lowered you onto the soft bedding carefully, but you were ready to swear that his lilac eyes were laughing. With his knuckles he traced an uneven teasing path from the neckline of the chemise to the navel, whose shadow was visible through the linen. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, understanding where such "games" usually lead, that is precisely why your palms lowered to his golden hair.

You did not even dare to think that someday you and Daeron from childhood friends would turn into people who seek a free meeting with a frightening and absolutely impious intensity.

Your fingers stretched the strands of hair at the base of the roots, not strongly enough for it to become painful. Male lips left wet traces on your chemise and stretched unhurriedly lower. He savored every moment, inhaling the aroma of your body, hidden in one layer of fabric and nothing more. Daeron's palm crawled under the bottom of the underdress without ceremony, possessively. His thin fingers described tiny semicircles on your bare skin, burning with fire. The linen rolled up, gathering in folds at your hips and a little higher to the very mons, but for now only partially revealing it. The hem of the chemise rose higher and higher without fail.

"Your turn."

You whispered, barely moving your lips. Daeron's cheek pressed against the lower part of your stomach, your thighs bare, defenseless and only a small strip of chemise separated you.

"Otherwise it is somehow unfair, my prince."

Now you pulled his locks at the back of his head, forcing him to look you straight in the eyes. You were more than demanding. He laughed muffledly, you felt this with your own skin, how it shuddered under his hot lips. The lower stomach ached demandingly, your eyes were clouded with a sweet haze, your thoughts became light, rather they were not there at all. You watched with flushed cheeks as the prince took off almost everything from himself, remaining only in thin braies.

Your gaze treacherously lowered to the belt of his underwear, it could not hide the contours of his body. His cock was aroused, the hard outline of the erection strained the linen fabric. You were embarrassed, because you were staring at him without the proper elegance for a lady. Although a lady should not stare at a cock at all, should she?

The blush spread not only to your cheeks, but also to your neck, to your chest. Daeron graciously pretended not to have caught your eloquent glances, but his lips smiled so slyly, that it would have been better if he had said something now.

The prince, of course, always said that he was not so good in dances and fights, but his body very expressively showed that training had been in his life. He was not a knight in the usual understanding of this word, of course. Daeron already crowned himself the great disappointment of Maekar, but he obeyed, at least he tried to obey his father. No, he did not train diligently, he did not try to show off, like Aerion, who climbed onto a horse and drove it at a gallop with some insane frenzy. He simply did what he had to. Sometimes it was easier to do it than to run away again. From something. From someone.

Apparently, nature took its toll. Perhaps it was the great influence of Dorne? Maybe that is why he had this narrow waist, these protruding, but guessable lines of the abdomen, this velvet skin, stretched over the muscles of his toned chest. And yet this bastard did not do anything special for it!

"Staring again."

Unable to contain himself through a laugh, the prince murmured. You, not knowing how best to get out of this delicate situation, simply pulled your beloved, clinging to his neck. You answered as never better, you pressed into his thin, neat lips with a kiss. You did not want to be shy. After all, truly he is yours, mad, but yours, Prince Daeron Targaryen.

You moved your palms to his shoulders, acutely feeling how every cell of his body tenses at your slightest touch.

"Undress me, Daeron."

You did not even have time to finish this sentence, as the chemise, like a soft linen wave, rolled off your body, as if it had never been on you before. His broad male hands grasped your chest entrepreneurially, this was done instinctively, quickly. His index finger and thumb made a teasing movement, rubbing the hard nipple. You gasped unrestrainedly, still quietly enough, but still only for Daeron.

His other palm ended up between your legs, his fingers found the clitoris, making almost the same movements as with the nipple. You were wet, already then from the kisses or maybe even then, when you had not yet touched the bedding. His lips lowered to the neck, then to the collarbone, to the shoulder, drawing his own, understandable only to the prince, intricate path. His face was pressed to the hollow between your breasts.

With his open mouth he covered your breast with unhurried kisses, still stimulating you so that your thighs yielded, not listening to you. The flexible tip of his tongue passed over the aroused nub. Your head threw back, a moan sweetly escaped from your lips, when he took the nipple into his mouth. On your eyelashes there already glistened tears of pleasure. Daeron returned to the other breast, to your lips, to the neck, to the spot behind the ear, which was also sensitive.

You would never discuss such things, but you were always a little curious where he had such experience. It is naive to assume that the prince had his first sex with you. Servants, whores, what difference does it make?

What difference does it make, when he so gently, tenderly inserted his index and middle fingers into your pussy. Your gazes were glued to each other without rest. Lips to lips, but you did not kiss, you caught each other's breath. You began to move slowly, wanting to stretch this pleasure only as long as possible. Daeron bent his fingers so that your toes curled. Pitiful quiet sounds, like whimpering, saturated the walls of your chambers.

The prince's fingers, shiny from your natural lubrication, penetrated in a measured rhythm, that led to a close orgasm.

"Daeron, faster."

Perhaps this sounded amusing, because your face was distorted from pleasure, your eyebrows rose pitifully in a little arch, your voice hoarse, weak, and your words absolutely commanding.

Daeron did exactly what was demanded of him. His thumb stroked the clitoris, so that your thighs instinctively cramped, wanting to lock his palm there forever. You did not last too long in the new, more intense rhythm. You clenched all over, stretched like a bowstring, your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving small pinkish furrows on his soft, fair skin. You let out a sound like a dying little bird, still just as quiet, but colored with such open pleasure.

The blond kissed you, comforting, calming, he, it seemed, whispered about how beautiful you were, but you were still in that blissful feeling, when there is no strength for any reaction. Daeron embraced you, stroked your back, and you only found the last strength in that you pressed into him, still, it seemed, scratching his skin, which smelled of myrtle.

"I love you."

You breathed out, awkwardly, the first thing that came to mind. Even more foolish now would be to say "thank you", but you wanted to, there was something to thank for.

The man touched your forehead with his lips softly, softly, and his hands still did not let you fall, they held you reliably.

"I love you too, my little lady."

When the heartbeat returned to normal, you exhaled loudly, expelling from your lungs all the excess air.

"Do you want me?"

You rather moaned it, because you hid your face in the curve of his neck, Daeron shuddered, the palm on your waist clenched. He certainly had restraint, because he waited for you to offer yourself.

"I am not such a fool as to not want, my lady. I want. I want, like dry soil desires water. I also desire you, as something I need, as something that is owed to me."

A small shadow flashed on the handsome male face. He did not bring up the topic of your marriage, not as sharply as he would have wished, and certainly never told you how he hates your husband simply for existing, for the fact that it is not himself.

"And I want you to be on top, my lady."

Sparks of playfulness very quickly appeared in his eyes, Daeron skillfully put on his usual mask of the jester. He is wounded, but will never ask for help, even if he is dying bleeding. His harmful addiction to alcohol, his stubbornness, this is how he independently coped with his dreams.

You wanted to argue for a moment, but the prince had already settled on his back, looking at you from below and at the same time not looking submissive. The same mischief in the smile, as if you are the same children as before without previous cares. Daeron's palms gripped your thighs, fixing you on himself below the waist.

His arousal pressed into you with obvious need. No more phrases were spoken. A small piece of the remaining clothing rustled. The tender skin of your cheeks was warmed immediately. You forced yourself to maintain composure, wanting to look majestic, towering above your childhood friend, but it was hard to keep a straight face, feeling how the head of his cock touches your wet folds.

You bit your lip, when you helped yourself lower onto him. It came out somewhat impatiently, not as you wanted stately and slowly. A jerky movement, because of which you both moaned gutturally.

"Careful, my beloved. Otherwise my heart will stop now," Daeron joked, and his voice went hoarse, became even lower and more seductive.

This possibly spurred you to do the opposite, but seeing his pitiful expression of the face, you acted mercifully. You rocked on the prince, gradually picking up the pace, he squeezed your thighs, not to control, but to restrain himself. He moaned sweetly, muffledly.

Daeron's fingers left weak white prints, and it would be better for them not to turn into more tangible marks. Or better to turn into…

You felt more confident, lowering yourself deeper, faster, seeing how this becomes for him a natural torture, how his whole body tensed, how he pulsed in you.

At the same time, each new thrust brought you closer and closer to a new orgasm. You grabbed his hand, moving it from the buttock to the most sensitive spot. His fingers lay on top of yours, when you stroked the swollen clitoris in time with your rhythmic hip movements.

You came first, clenching on Daeron's cock tightly, producing these maddening small contractions. He thrust with his hips upward a few more times, when he hotly spilled, moaning through tightly clenched teeth. A droplet of sweat appeared on his forehead, rolling down his cheekbone with an elegance comical for this situation.

You did not disentangle, not immediately, could not find the strength, could not find the words, simply still lay like that, as a single whole in the most natural expression.

You drove him away by force half an hour later, and yourself began to rub yourself, trying to refresh, but the blush, as if imprinted into the skin, and on the buttocks, it seems, the marks of his elegant fingers will remain. Let them remain, you thought, smiling bashfully, when you brought the cloth, moistened with cool water, to the place, where quite recently Prince Daeron had been, and quite intensely.

a/n: god, thank god he's half dornish (i mean, you've seen henry's bare torso, i couldn't just ignore it)! i was... very inspired, if you know what i mean.

divider by: @strangergraphics​