#hotdaemyra

some favorite bits of mine,

He would hardly call that bloodthirsty—the only time he truly enjoyed the metallic taste on his tongue was when it came from a woman's cunt, the flavor of their broken maidenhead, taken by his cock as he took his pleasure from their folds.

He was not a monster though, the only reason he knew this flavor—that of blood mixed with seed—was from his insistence of making the girl find her own release, flooding his mouth with the sweet taste of her ecstasy as she peaked.

💕

“A queen lacks a throne.” He warned.

“Is that not the purpose of the king’s lap?” She responded, with little hesitation.

“Would you take such a seat during court? While subjects and nobles looked on?” He wondered, prepared for her to emphatically say no.

“I sat at my father’s feet for years, and many claimed it an honor just to fill his cups. I see little reason to feel shame for filling the king’s lap, should such close proximity not be even more honorable?”

💕

Now he grinned in earnest, taking a step back towards her. “To the contrary, little proves a woman’s virtue more than allowing a prospect to admire their form so fully. Why would one deny their betrothed to see proof of their virginity unless they feared he would discover it missing?” He pondered.

She bristled, “Would you dare question a princess on the matter of her maidenhead?”

“If they are bold enough to demand marriage, I have little doubt they could demand a man’s cock long before they have a marital bed of their own to lay in.”

She straightened, “A princess can demand all she wants, can she not? And yet my chambers are not overflowing with things my position could afford. It is cruel to expect this to differ with my cunt, uncle.”

💕

Her nails were longer and sharper than his own, when they dug into his flesh it stung, the film of scar tissue piercing easily beneath them. He was certain dark red crescents would be left behind, adding texture and color to the  weakened skin that still bore evidence of prior trauma. 

“It brings me great comfort that you did not go without suffering while you were away from me, uncle.” 

It took him a moment to process her words, and then he couldn’t help but laugh. 

Her nails dug in harder, and he hissed. When was a woman last brave enough to make him hurt? 

When had he last let one? 

He could not recall. But he was letting Rhaenyra do so now, even enjoying it. For he’d enjoy any attention at her hand, he thought, no matter if it left blood behind. 

“Was being away from you not suffering enough?” He finally asked. 

“I would not know, as you did not write to me.” She said, sounding caught between anger and sadness over this fact. 

💕

“I think you have gone without the presence of an available Targaryen man for too long. Only then would a woman of your breeding find desire for a brunette.” He spat, rather disgusted by the thought of dark hair so much as touching her milk colored flesh—it was wrong, for a Targaryen to want anything other than their kin. 

“Your mind lacks the creativity that is a Targaryen man’s form.” He insisted, his fingers working down the front of his doublet. 

She shook her head, “Whose fault is that, uncle?” She asked with a glare. “Perhaps such desires would not be roused if there was another option, but there wasn’t. And now…maybe such preferences are set, and it is too late for me to find fondness for you.” 

It was his turn to shake his head, “You’ve had fondness for me since the day you were born.” 

💕

“It’s very hard.” She muttered, her eyes focused down but wide enough he could see the surprise and interest in her gaze.

She looked up at him for just a moment, amusement on her face once more, “It is Valyrian Steel in a way, is it not?” 

He hummed, “Forged in the womb of a highborn Targaryen lady.” He agreed. 

Her hand reached for the length then, her fingers brushing it so gently—it tickled more than feeling good, but any touch from her was stimulating. “To be wielded by a Targaryen too, I assume.” She said, softly, “But you have sullied it by allowing the hands of whores and smallfolk to use it, have you not?” She said, her fingers stroking a bit more firmly while she looked back to his face. 

“I suppose.” He admitted, letting out a gasp as she squeezed her fingers around the head of his length. 

“I need salvation then, don’t I? I cannot be punished, not as king, but I shall happily purify myself in your eyes, and those of your gods, through frequent baths in the waters of my niece’s cunt.” He said, the final word harsh.

Her grip was harsh then, too. 

💕

🌧️ deliciae 🌧️

Once, all of the known world worshiped the old gods of Valyria. At least that was the claim she had heard from the village elders—a handful of men and women so old their skin resembled dried fruit in texture, and parchment in color. Rhaenyra had been scared of them as a child, but now as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, she found herself fascinated by them and their knowledge.

There was a church for the Seven on the island, too. The majority of the island had been converted to their ways and beliefs now, but Rhaenyra was a Targaryen. The blood in her veins was as pure as what flowed through the gods who sculpted Valyria itself. She would never  insult them by praying to another. 

Her father knew how proud she was of her—their—heritage, but he still gave her a choice when it came time to secure a match for her. She could wed a man of the faith in the church, or she could wed a man who worshiped the old gods. It was an easy choice, and she was not dissuaded by his next statement,

 “You will have to practice the marriage rites, if you wish for it to be valid.” 

She nodded, uncaring of the warning. 

But then—she did not truly know what the rites entailed. 

.

She had seen Valyrian weddings before, though always from a distance. They took place on the highest peaks of the island, so they could be closer to the gods that still inhabited the clouds. Rhaenyra knew it involved small offerings of blood—one for the gods, served in a holy goblet, and one another for the couple, served from the other’s lips. Some thought it barbaric, but Rhaenyra thought it romantic—the long held Valyrian way was sharing all of yourself with your partner, and blood was no exception. 

She had not seen the marriage rites, though. The practice was not in any tome or scroll, considered too sacred—too private to be written. It was Rhaenys, the mother of her betrothed, who told her of them in detail.

The gods worshiped most openly on Dragonstone were those of the sea and the sky, for they controlled nearly every part of the islanders' life—or at least the quality of it. But there were other gods, ones rarely even whispered about, either for lack of need or due to long held superstitions.

Daemon was the latter. 

Rhaenys said his entire purpose was debated—some thought him evil, a harbinger of death and the god of darkness; of night. Others claimed he was a god of death, but a god of life, too. He could bless a life as easily as he could take it, which is why brides made such a sacrifice to him on their wedding night. 

“Myths say they used to sacrifice virgins to him, that his alter was hungry for their blood. When that was outlawed, they realized it was not their life he desired, but rather their purity. By offering him that, by giving yourself to the night, he in turn blesses you with life. The first babe born to you is thought to come from his seed, and will ceremoniously be brought back to the altar in which they were conceived to be offered to the god.” 

She went on to explain that they used to kill the first baby, as it was not thought to belong to the woman’s husband. Its blood was yet another sacrifice to Daemon. But those who dared were cursed, the women's wombs never quickening no matter what was done. 

Now a small offering—that of simply showing the infant to the gods before it was named, was done in its place.  It completed the cycle—for Daemon had taken one's innocence and replaced it with the most innocent creature of all—an infant. 

“What must I do?” Rhaenyra asked, sounding determined. This new knowledge was surprising, but did nothing to sway her. Her lack of familiarity with a god made him no less powerful, and made her no less willing to offer something—even herself—to him. 

She realized, as Rhaenys explained, why this was such a tightly held secret. People were embarrassed by the fact they underwent it, something so at odds with the more common faith who claimed a woman was only for their husband. Even amongst those committed to the Valyrian ways, like Rhaenys herself, recalled the practice with mixed feelings. 

“It is a blessing, in one way. For the act of intercourse is at its core an invasion of your body—not dissimilar to a sword being buried inside you, though its tip is blunted. The fact that the first intrusion was something I controlled made me feel quite…powerful. It was as if it took any nervousness along with my maidenhead, leaving me prepared—even confident for what may come with my husband.” 

She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before continuing, “Despite that, it is not pleasant. The act—the phallus, it may pierce you but it is unlikely to provide pleasure. It’s large, cold, and unyielding. It lacks the intimacy of a man, of their arms around you and the contact of skin to skin. I think it a pity, I suppose, that such things were missing from my first experience of something entering me there.” 

Rhaenyra swallowed, her throat feeling thick. She had never felt much fear for sex. Valyrian’s were more free than those who followed the Seven. They expected chastity until marriage, and fidelity within the confines of it, but once a pair was wed their intimacy was celebrated. She’d heard legends of her grandparents and how sounds of pleasure filled every corner of the stone cottage, no door or curtain capable of stifling their enjoyment. And even without tales like that, the illustrations and art of the Valyrian  people created showed a reverence and enthusiasm that vastly differed from the Seven. 

The followers of the Seven believed sex was for procreation—the possibility and hope for a child was the only pleasure that should be felt by a woman when she was with her husband. 

But the Valyrians believed that a union—a wedding following their traditions, was not just blessed by their gods but involved them. Passion between a man and wife flowed through them, their pleasure serving as a gift that would in turn reward the couple with good health and happiness. 

And so, it was not a frightening prospect to her, such an act with her husband. 

But this…

.

There were several feasts leading up to her wedding, while the ceremony itself was private. Vows were given with only their closest family and the gods to serve as witnesses.

 It was still summer when she wed the eldest son of her Aunt, Rhaenys Targaryen, and her husband, Corlys Velaryon. Her groom, Laenor Velaryon, was a slim man, only a few years older than her. His face wasn’t masculine enough to be handsome. But instead she considered him rather pretty. His skin was smooth, free of any beard or blemish. A perfect mixture between the shades of his mother and father.  

Despite the season, she shivered as they spoke their vows—she wondered if a storm was coming, the sky seeming to form a haze even thicker than what was common on Dragonstone. The wind whipped at her free hair, distracting her from the Septon’s words and making her stumble over her own.

The wedding wasn’t quite what she had imagined. Despite his good looks, she wasn’t enamored with her groom. The lack of enthusiasm for the match left her to focus on her discomfort—the way the headdress dug into her scalp, and the weight of the heavy robes she wore. They had belonged to Rhaenys and still smelled musty from storage, too, which assaulted her delicate senses and made her nose wrinkle throughout the entire ceremony. 

Laenor cut his palm, and they shared sips from the goblet—the taste was metallic, bitter, and unpleasant, but she knew she could not spit it out. She bit her lip and swallowed, swallowing a gag with it. Next her lip was pierced with the dragonglass, as was Laenor’s, and the vows were sealed with a gentle kiss. 

They walked side by side down the mountain and through the village—he returned to his home, and Rhaenyra returned to her own. Though neither were their homes, for they were shared with their families. 

Rhaenys and Laena were by her side for this, knowing the traditions and preparations far better than Rhaenyra’s stepmother who practiced the Seven and was not keen to even witness the ceremony, much less take part in what was to come.

Rhaenyra was happy to shed her robes and slip into the warm bathwater—the heat soothing the ache in her shoulders. Rhaenys protested when she dunked her head beneath the surface, but Rhaenyra did not care, the water felt good on her sore scalp. She massaged where the headdress had pressed into her, before reaching for the fragrant charcoal soap that was meant to cleanse her. 

When she was done, a steel strigil was used to scrape the residue of oil from her body and then she was dried with white cloth.  Unlike brides married under the Seven— who coated their bodies with perfumes and creams in an effort to appeal to their husband’s, the Valyrian gods desired women in their purest form. 

And so, Rhaenyra was dressed in a simple pure white linen robe. 

She was barefoot as she walked through the tunnels—the ones beneath Dragonstone. There were springs down here that some used for bathing, or laundry. Some was even funneled through pipes into cottages close to the keep. But if you went deeper, down what felt like hundreds of steps, you would reach Caraxes Crypt.

Caraxes was one of three serpent deities the Valyrian’s believed in—there was one of the sky, one of the land, and one of the sea.

 The scaled beasts were thought to be evil by some—but also worshiped as a symbol of rebirth and fertility. They could shed their skin and were born anew in an ease and grace expectant mothers craved to experience in the birthing bed. 

Caraxes was a serpent of the sky, revered for bringing fire to the earth with lightning that spewed from his monstrous mouth. Perhaps it was odd, that a creature of the sky was worshiped so far below the ground, but it was intentional—the crypt was close to the veins of lava that lived beneath Dragonstone and the heat was said to satisfy the creature.

Rhaenyra asked why Daemon was worshiped here too, and Rhaenys said it was because it was the closest they could get to the center of the earth—the closest they could get to the void of darkness, absent of life and all but his presence. It was not a comforting answer, but she nodded, as she could do little else. 

She had never been in the crypt before, and she was somewhat awed by it—the walls lined with scales and Valyrian script. The space was lit with an eternal flame—one that never required tending, at least by no other than the deity Caraxes. It lived in the jaws of the creature's likeness, a massive head carved from dark stone and painted red with the blood of offerings. The eyes were rubies, glimmering and strangely lifelike despite the crystalline shape and sheen.

Rhaenys did not follow her into the final room. 

Even the door was intimidating—a mixture of steel and lacquered black wood. Rhaenyra swallowed, pushing it open—surprised to find it warm on her palms. 

The last room had been noticeably warm, but not uncomfortably so. Not sweltering or sweat inducing. But this one was different—the air was thick, almost syrupy in her throat and lungs as she breathed it in. There was no fire in here, save for the flame she carried, which Rhaenyra used to light lanterns on either side of the door—which had slammed shut as soon as she slipped through.

When she turned she had her first chance to look at the room. The previous chamber had been dark, chiseled from the stone and lava rock that made up the island. But in the lamplight it had not seemed so ominous in its coloring—not so different from Rhaenyra’s own stone-walled chambers. 

This room was smaller and lined in obsidian tiles. Any reflected light from the flame bounced, but in a way that only emphasized the depth of its coloring. The lava-glass was often used for jewelry and blades, and though not rare it was prized for its sheen and inky shade. Medallions of it hung at the breast of many, representing luck and love and all sorts of things. But Rhaenyra had never seen it used like this. 

It truly felt she was entombed by shadows, able to see but just barely as she approached the throne she was meant to mount. It was only a few steps away given the room's size, but she was sweating when she reached it—the heat was oppressive, unlike anything she had experienced before. She took off her robe then, hoping her skin would be able to breathe if exposed to the air. 

If anything, she seemed to grow even warmer. 

She placed her lantern next to the throne—illuminating it further. It was such an odd creation, made from the warped weapons of soldiers who had been killed in battle. Rhaenys said Daemon was once a war god, too—people thanked him for his part in skirmishes with offerings after the enemy was defeated. She wasn’t sure when it was formed into a seat, nor when the statue was added to it, but it was…exquisite. 

It was made from shining obsidian, the muscle structure so very realistic she swore she saw the chest breathe. She knew little of mens appendages, but she could only assume it shared the same level of accuracy as the upper body, and…gods. That was beautiful too, the intimidating length that curved upward. The tip was thicker, delicate ridges and even veins carved into it. 

Suddenly the lantern wasn’t enough, seeing it wasn’t enough. She set it down, reaching her palm to the stone. She traced it with her fingertips, completely awed by the feeling of it in her hand. She knew it was stone—obsidian, it was not alive the way a human was, but it seemed to pulse beneath her fingers all the same. It was warm too, even hotter than the rest of the room. 

She was eager now, to have it inside her. To sit in the lap of this godly figure  and offer him her maidenhead. 

There was oil in the pocket of her robe and she reached for it—thinking it may not even be necessary for she felt hot in her loin, she felt hot all over. Feverish and needy as she spilled the liquid across the phallus, just as Rhaenys had instructed. 

What else had she said? Rhaenyra could hardly remember—something about fingers, and the length of it being too much. Yes. Not to take all of it, not to hurt herself, but not to stress either.

Well. She certainly wasn’t stressed. 

She stroked between her thighs, dipping the tips of her fingers between her folds. She had done this before—not for pleasure, but for sanitary reasons. And though the action wasn’t different, it felt different. It made her shiver, the sensitivity odd but far from unpleasant. She was slick there, with something thicker than oil or water, and it eased the entry of her fingers as they pressed deeper. 

I think you’re ready, deliciae. 

She startled, nearly slipping and having to catch herself on the arm of the throne. She looked around, but the room was empty—it was just her, and…

She looked at the sculpture, it lacked a face, and it had no arms. It was a torso, with legs and hips merely to support a base for its phallus. It could not speak. Gods, she was going mad—driven by the heat of her desire and the room, to be sure. Because it didn’t matter if the sculpture had a face, for a stone mouth was no more capable of speech than a nonexistent one! 

She calmed herself with deep breaths, focusing on the hot air entering her lungs until she was swaying slightly, as if drunk on it. No matter where the words had come from, she was ready. 

Already nude, and with the phallus oiled, there was little left to do but…mount it. She felt slightly awkward as she attempted this, positioning herself on the lap of the statue until its appendage was pressed between them. It was more intimidating like this, against the pale skin of her stomach, showing how deep it could penetrate her. It didn’t make her less aroused, though, if anything she felt anticipation—an eagerness to see how much she could take. 

She rose upward on her knees, supporting herself with one hand on the shoulder of the torso while the other parted her folds. With how slick she was, and with all the oil, it did not take long for her to ease the head inside—though even that was a considerable stretch.

It didn’t hurt, it felt right, as if her muscles were made for this—to accommodate a man. And she supposed they were, this was just the first evidence she had seen—felt—of it. 

What little ache there was, was chased away by the heat of the phallus—her aunt had called it cold but Rhaenyra thought its temperature far closer to something that would burn. She liked it though, and was suddenly desperate for more—but when she pressed down, her body protested, still attempting to adjust to the size of its bulbous head. 

I can help you, deliciae. 

She yelped—jerking in surprise. She likely would have lost her place on the lap of the throne if not for the—hands. Yes. Those were definitely hands. That gripped her waist and stilled her. She was panting now, the arousal and fear and confusion proving to be too much. 

Don’t be afraid, deliciae. The night does not harm the day, nor does evil harm the innocent. 

Her fingers clawed at the stone beneath them—proving to her that it was not a person, that this wasn’t real. But that voice seemed the opposite, echoing in the small room in a way that made her so sure it wasn’t just in her head. But that was impossible! 

You won’t be innocent for long though, will you? Parting the petals of your precious flower and planting it on the root of my loin. So desperate for seed, greedy with the desire for a babe. 

She shook her head, “No—” she wasn’t greedy for that. Her desire was for—she swallowed, she didn’t know what it was for. She simply wanted this—his length inside her. She wanted to know pleasure, even if she’d not been promised it by this ritual. 

She said none of this, but he heard it. Gods, he wasn’t even there. She was going mad. 

Oh deliciae, I shall give you both. 

She didn’t know what that meant—and then the hands holding her waist moved. They did what she had not, pulling her further down the length—it was so hard inside her, so warm, seeming to thrum in time with her own heartbeat. She was stretched tightly across the appendage, skin straining and burning but doing so with an eagerness that made her desire more. 

He gave it to her. Another inch—and she felt it, the tearing and pain that signaled she was no longer a maiden. It hurt, but she had little time to think for she was suddenly jerked further down the length—all the way down his length, she realized,  for her body was now fully seated atop the statue's own without an inch between them. Though no tearing sensation accompanied this movement, the pain made her woozy, made her scream. It made everything go black. 

.

One of Rhaenyra’s first memories was a poem. A man was jealous of his lover’s mindless playing with a sparrow. Whether it was because he wished to play so lightheartedly with the delicate bird, or because he wished to be in its place and play with his lover, was not made clear. She could not recite the exact words. After all, she hadn’t heard them in nearly a decade—not since her mother died, taking Rhaenyra’s interest in poetry with her. 

It took a while for her to regain enough awareness to listen. The candance was the same, familiar enough to spark the memory of her youth. It must have been written by the same person, but she had not heard this part. In it, the sparrow was dead, and the man was blaming god—

‘you devour all beautiful things,’ 

‘now on account of your work my little girl's slightly swollen eyes are red from weeping.’

She wondered if it was a warning that he was going to devour her. Or perhaps meant as a compliment, that he thought her beautiful. She sniffed, her nose snotty from the tears that had come before she lost consciousness. There was a finger brushing them away, gentle thumbs cradling her face as she lay back against something warm. 

Oh. She realized, almost wanting to laugh, it was because her eyes were swollen and red from weeping.

I shall reward you, deliciae, for your cleverness.

The voice sounded closer, now, and she shivered as lips brushed her ear, a tongue dragging to the lobe before teeth nipped at it. She wasn’t sure what this…whatever it was, would consider a reward, but if it was death, she wanted to see what creature would take her to the afterlife. Her eyes opened just enough to see him in the dim room.

She was shocked by what she saw, for he was the opposite of their surroundings, the opposite of the obsidian body that sat atop a throne. 

His skin was white as snow, and his hair as bright as polished coins of silver and gold. He was handsome, breathtakingly so, with piercing eyes and plush lips. He looked more like a prince, than a god, though he was attractive enough to be both. 

Was it so awful that his appearance alone soothed her fear? 

Was it vain that he did not seem so monstrous when she knew he was handsome?

That she would rather die at the hand of someone beautiful?

Death—yes, she could imagine no other outcome, and his next words were no comfort. 

I shall devour you, of course, my beautiful thing.

She waited for the pain—but none came, aside from the pressure of his hands on her pelvis, which reminded her of the ache in her cunt. It felt like an overstretched muscle, twisted and sore but in a way you knew would be better in the morning. Hardly damaged beyond repair, no matter how excruciating it had been when he fully entered her. 

It was soothing—the weight of his palms pressing down on her, as if it could heal her that way. They soon moved, though, cupping her thighs and lifting them—bringing her cunt to his mouth as if he wished to sip from a bowl of soup. And this was what he had meant, she realized, as his mouth descended on her folds. 

She didn’t know how to describe it—though she doubted her ability to describe anything at that moment. But it was warm and wet and wonderful. He lapped at her voraciously, as if he was starved for this act and unable to restrain himself. While his tongue curled into her, his fingers roamed—joining his tongue, and tracing both above and below her folds. She was shaking in a matter of minutes, and  pleading for release. She had to look at herself to be convinced she wasn’t expanding, for her skin felt tight and she swore she was going to explode.

And then it came.

She came.

And she did again, and again. 

She begged for mercy but he gave none. Her pleading seemed to amuse him, but he did not stop, for he was parched and intended  to quench himself on the juices of her cunt. 

Despite her protests, she ground her hips against his chin and dug her nails into his scalp in an attempt to drag him closer. It was as if her body knew she could take this, her body wanted this, it was just her foolish brain that was unwilling to resign to such pleasures. 

It did, eventually. Or rather he forced her to resign. She came too many times to think, her vision blurred and she feared she may pass out again if he did not stop—though this time it would be for a reason opposite that of pain, it would be for pleasure. He seemed to know this, but remained unbothered—continuing to lap at her until her lids fell shut and grip on his hair weakened. 

.

When she woke, there was an ache inside her, a cramping making her aware of an intrusion. Her upper body was against the stone tiles—they felt cool in the heat of her room and she moaned, momentarily distracted as her nipples scraped across their rough surface. 

Her hips were held by large hands, the cheeks of her rear pressed against unyielding flesh. Warm. So warm. One hand stroked her hip while the other ventured up her side, cupping a breast before traveling to her stomach, pressing gently against the place his cock had reached inside her. She whimpered, and he made a shushing noise, like she was a child. 

It shall pass. Tis a risk little things like you take, when they crave the cock of a god.  

“I didn’t.” She cried, nails curling against the tiles before they bit into the skin of her palm. 

Didn’t you?

She shook her head, and he made a humming noise behind her before leaning over her—trapping her body beneath him and whispering into her ear. 

You  will. 

.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that, him stroking her flank as her core desperately tried to adjust to his length. It could have been minutes, or hours, she didn’t have the slightest idea. But eventually her muscles gave up—growing as slack as they could while being stretched so thoroughly. The ache of pain faded slowly, and the ache of desire readily took its place. Soon that was all that remained—pooling in her gut and making her cunt slick, though it had nowhere to go with how his cock plugged her.

His cock. God, it was so warm, so hard. It soothed the ache it had caused in her, while leaving her burning for more. She wanted for him to move. She wanted him. She wanted.

“Please.” She whispered, though it sounded pathetic, even to her own ears. 

He hummed. 

Please what, deliciae? 

“Please move.” She begged.

I am not sure you have earned it. When you claim to not even crave it.

She sobbed in frustration, “I do! Please! I need it.” 

Greedy little thing. Alright deliciae, I am not so cruel as to deny a pretty thing such as you.

And he didn’t—his thrusts were shallow at first, letting her adjust to the sensation of something not just being there but moving in there. She thought her muscles were too fatigued for it to hurt, she barely twitched at his movements, though she felt them. She couldn’t escape them,  the force of each thrust flowing from her folds to the tip of each of her fingers. 

She swore she felt more than the force of his movements, but also the force of his being. If he had been a shadow when she first walked into this room then perhaps it was not so impossible that part of him had crept into her with each breath. She would worry over that later, for at this moment all she could focus on was him pressing into her—and then pulling out until only the head remained, before slamming back in and making her shriek and scramble. 

It was not predictable. Each thrust was a different pace and length—she trembled in anticipation as he pulled back only to nearly collapse in pleasure when he pushed forward.  His hands hadn’t moved through all of this, somehow still supporting her. They soothed her with strokes along her flank, before slipping down to where they were joined—a fingernail scraped against the taught skin that clung to his cock and her entire body seemed to coil before it snapped. 

He kept thrusting, his finger dancing around where they were joined, then rubbing the bud above her folds. She felt tears spilling from her eyes and she bit down on her lip in an effort to avoid crying audibly. 

Do not hide from me, deliciae. Not your tears, or sounds, or body. Let yourself be. Let yourself cry out for me. 

She hiccuped, “I don’t even know who you are.” 

I am Daemon— and perhaps more than that to you. 

She didn’t know what that meant. 

But she knew his name, at least. And she became familiar with it on her tongue, as she cried out for him again, and again. He was relentless, the coupling seeming endless until he finally—finally emptied himself into her. She knew a man would spend themselves, but she hadn’t expected to feel it—the heat, and the pressure. The way it managed to pour into every crevice his cock itself had not reached, being pushed deeper and deeper with his shallow thrusts until she was sure it filled every empty part of her.

There was no way she could know this, but somehow she did. 

And somehow he did too. 

Name him Baelon. He whispered, before gently pulling out of her

 She whimpered—now unused to being empty, even though before that night it was all she knew. 

She felt herself being lifted into his arms and being moved—she was curled up quite efficiently in his lap, her lips and face buried in the crook of his neck. “It won’t be a demon, will it?” Rhaenyra asked, thinking of the legends—creatures born by evil spirits as punishment for one's misdeeds. 

No more so than you.

She laughed a little at that, stroking his chest, her thumb dragging across scarred flesh that nearly covered his right nipple. It was strange for a god to have scars. 

A warrior wears his failings and his victories on his flesh. It is a fact unchanged by death or deity. 

She hummed in response, unable to think of anything else for his own fingers had wandered. She hissed as his thumb touched her own nipple—the bud scraped, as was most of her chest, from being pressed against the tile floors. The sensitive nubs had gotten the worst of it, given their hardened state that only served to press them more harshly against the jagged stone. 

Daemon did not apologize—instead enveloping one  in his mouth. The heat of his tongue against broken skin stung at first, but the suckling sensation was soothing and pleasant enough that any other feelings soon faded. She petted his hair while he lapped at her, sucking turning to lazy licks before he repeated the act on her other breast. 

She had seen women in the village feed their children before, and so she never gave much thought to her breasts' purpose beyond that. If anything they were an annoyance, making her back ache because of their size. She didn’t know they could feel like this. But then, she’d never had a man's hands massaging them, nor one's mouth miming the act of drinking from one. 

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she collapsed against the armrest—her head tilting back against the throne. The last thing she remembered was being very warm, very tired, and asking for a good night's kiss. 

Of course. Sleep, deliciae. 

His lips were soft and warm, and she was asleep before their mouths fully parted. 

.

.

.

She was warm. So warm. Not like the night before though—this was uncomfortable, stifling, claustrophobic and not at all like the embrace of her god. She struggled, and hands pressed her down—she tried to fight them, but she was so weak. 

Why was she so weak?

A woman’s voice tried to calm her. 

“Go back to sleep, Rhaenyra, you have a fever, you need rest.” 

.

The next time she awoke, she was more comfortable—but when her eyes opened, everything was much too bright. It was as if they were still adjusted to the dim crypt, and her head pounded as they attempted to adjust. Or perhaps her head just pounded. She touched her forehead—it felt grimy with sweat, but had no exterior damage. 

What had happened? The last thing she remembered was…

Daemon. 

.

Rhaenys was the one to explain—that Rhaenyra never returned to the ground level of the keep. Rhaenys had stood watch all night, and when morning came both she and Laena descended into the crypt to search.

They found her asleep on the throne, curled against the side of the statue. 

“You were pale and completely unresponsive. The Maester said he has only seen such a water imbalance in men who had been missing for weeks.” Laena told her, sounding far more concerned than her mother had. 

“You were alone down there, yes?” Rhaenys asked, after Laena had left the room. Her tone was very serious. Rhaenyra picked at her fingers, she could hardly admit that a god took a human form in order to take her virginity. They would think her mad. Maybe she was. But she knew from the ache in her legs, and the sensitivity of her breasts against the chemise that something had happened.

“Yes. I was alone.” Rhaenyra said. She had to have been. Rhaenys had been at the entry all night, and the rooms had been empty when she first entered them.

“There were marks, Rhaenyra.” The older woman said “Bruises. Trauma.” She paused for a moment before gritting her teeth and saying, “There was seed.”  

Rhaenyra looked at her lap, blushing despite not doing anything wrong. She gathered despite the rumor of the stone phallus leading to conception on a woman’s wedding night, it was not meant to leave visible evidence like it had with her.

“You saw me bare and unblemished just minutes before I went into that chamber. You saw me enter that chamber alone. You saw that no one else entered! I will not deny the marks or moisture that was present, but I was alone.” 

Rhaenys eyes narrowed, and then softened when Rhaenyra yawned—exhausted from merely sitting up and speaking. She clutched her daughter in law's hand. “Regardless of what happened—I’m glad you survived, and I bid you not to speak of it to others.” 

Rhaenyra nodded, that much she could agree to—as it was she had little plan to tell anyone of what happened. Of what she thought happened. She would not let a…hallucination brought on by lack of water be the downfall of her marriage or life. 

It was to be forgotten. 

.

It did not want to be forgotten. 

.

She did not consummate her marriage with her husband until a full month after they married. He was insistent that her health had to come first, and that she was still recovering what had occurred in the crypt. Rhaenyra swore she was fine, but he protested all the same. 

She was quite sure when he did agree, it had to do with his mother’s interference rather than his own desire. 

Despite his good looks and the easy friendship they had developed, he was not suave. He treated her more like a sister than a lover, even when they had the privacy of shared chambers. She was somewhat…offended at his lack of interest, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it. She was confident it wasn’t her fault, for she was beautiful, and she knew it. Which meant it was something he had to decide to fix, and he seemed more eager to avoid than address it. 

It was somewhat of a relief to learn his lack of desire applied to the entirety of her sex, rather than just her. He had admitted this when his cock refused to thicken enough to even press it inside of her. She had held him, his face against her chemise covered chest—for he had asked her not to remove it during—while he sobbed.

Before he returned to his room, he swore he appreciated the female form, he just had no appetite for it. 

That night, her fingers roamed beneath her chemise. She remembered the sensation of Daemon’s appetite, the unrelenting tongue that had made her come until her body could no longer take it. It was this that brought on a release, though it was less satisfying using her own hand. 

Her sleep was fitful that night.

.

She started feeding the sparrows, leaving little bits of bread on the windowsill of her room. 

She started reading her mothers poetry books.

She started to acknowledge that she was going to be a mother too.

.

The bump was small, but could not be ignored. Her husband did not ask questions, and neither did Rhaenys. 

Corlys seemed to know the truth of it, but was uncaring—names were what people remembered, he claimed, and her child would be a Velaryon. 

There was a terrible storm that night—unexpected and violent. The wind ripped shingles from rooftops, and the seas were so rocky they wrecked parts of the dock and sank several boats. 

A bad omen, the townspeople claimed. 

.

Laenor had gotten the wound while sparring—just a small cut, not worthy of seeing a Maester or stitching. He was insistent on that, brushing it off in the unserious manner he did almost everything. Rhaenyra huffed but didn’t argue, it wasn’t worth it, he never listened. 

The wound festered.

His pride kept it hidden beneath his sleeve, until the swelling and stiffness made the severity obvious.

The Maester did what he could, but the infection had spread to the point where even amputation would not stop it. “If it already travels through his veins, the presence of the original source has little effect on what comes after.” He claimed. “Best to clean the wound, use the pastes and tonics.” He paused for a moment, “And pray.” 

Laneor had laughed at this, too, claiming his arm ached but he was fine. 

He seemed it, too. Until the fever came.

After that, his condition deteriorated rapidly. 

.

Rhaenys spent hours at the altar. Perhaps that was what motivated Rhaenyra to do it—to visit the only place she had truly felt the gods presence. Or at least one god's presence. 

The task was harder now that she was more than halfway through her pregnancy. Everything was harder now. But the steps felt especially treacherous now that she was unable to see her foot placement over her swollen belly. She was nervous too, which didn’t help. Far  more nervous now than she had on her wedding day. 

Though there was no reason to be, it turned out.

The ruby eyes of the dragon Caraxes followed her as she opened the steel door to the obsidian room. . 

The room was different than she remembered. It was cold. Or rather, it wasn’t warm, not like it had been. 

She swallowed as she approached the statue—missing the arms she swore she had felt, and the mouth she had kissed. Whatever she had coupled with that night had been more than her imagination, she knew that now. The evidence of this grew bigger each day—for she grew bigger each day. She palmed her stomach before reaching out to touch the shoulder of the obsidian torso—the stone was cold, like ice. 

Yes—she knew what she had coupled with that night had been more than her imagination. 

But whatever she had coupled with that night was gone now, she knew that too. 

.

Her eyes strayed to the sky during the funeral, even before the pyre was lit. She swore she saw a dragon circling ahead, or something too big to be a bird, with shiny red reptilian scales in addition to wings. Laena squeezed her arm, and Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the service. 

When she looked up again, whatever the creature was, it was gone. 

The only tears that fell from her eyes that day were from the smoke—making her eyes itch in a way the loss of her husband hadn’t.

.

The town seemed to be buzzing—rumors had spread that inhabitants were returning to the great keep, named Dragonstone after the island it sat on. It was an intimidating structure, and said to be very grand inside, but the definition of grand on Dragonstone paled compared to the Crownlands or Essos. Clearly it wasn’t enough for her distant relatives, the Targaryen’s, who had left the island centuries ago and taken the dragon’s with them. 

Dragonstone was not entirely uninhabited. The Septon’s and Maesters retained residence there, with special permissions, and was maintained by a skeletal staff with servants split between the keep and nearby stone cottages. 

Having existed long before the village itself, the keep was built with the intention to serve the soldiers and a large number of attendants in addition to the ancestral family. When the family left, this practice remained, leaving crypts, springs, places for prayer, and the kitchens accessible to all. 

Rhaenyra knew the lower floors offered little insight into the grandeur of the structure. It was hard to consider anyone who lived there—in the servants chambers—an inhabitant, for they too were limited from enjoying its glory. 

It was exciting, Rhaenyra supposed, but she was more concerned with what lived in her womb at that moment, than what lived in the keep. Her babe was expected in mere weeks and she couldn’t help but worry—for herself, and for the baby. If it was a baby. 

She had nightmares of a midwife placing a bundle into her arms. In one, the weight of it felt strange, and when she pushed back its blanket, the babe was nothing but black stone. 

In another, the lively human wails made her sob in relief. But when she attempted to lift the babes head and help it latch, she found a hissing dragon that left her breasts bloodstreaked. 

.

Her worry was for naught. 

“A god was watching over this one, watching over them both, never seen a first labor like it.” The midwife said, after it was over.

 Rhaenyra was grateful for the apparent ease of it—though it had still hurt to the point she screamed and threatened the poor woman’s life. She was not eager to repeat this, much less a dozen times like some villagers had. But it could have been worse.

So much worse. 

She blinked away the memory of how her mother had been flayed. 

And the babe…he was perfect. 

A little boy. Ten fingers and ten toes. Ruddy cheeks and bright eyes and hair as white as ash. She was immediately besotted with him, stroking his hair as he mouthed at the bud of her breast. 

“Lusty, that one.” The midwife said, and Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if she should cry or laugh, because all she could think was, yes, just like his father. 

.

She missed the arrival of the Lord that had returned to Dragonstone, for it had occurred the same day at the birth of Ba—she swallowed the name. It was considered bad luck to name a babe in its first fortnight of life. Rhaenys said it was only to be done after the infant had been offered to the gods. 

Rhaenyra put this task off for seventeen days. Using healing as an excuse until she could no longer. 

.

She never made it to the crypt. 

.

She stumbled on the hem of her dress—it was one from when she was pregnant and without the roundness of her belly it was too long. It was an easy alteration to make but Rhaenyra despised hemming with a passion, and so it had not yet been done. 

She was relieved when she was saved from injury by someone catching her arm. She knew the firm grip belonged to a man before she looked at him, but she had not expected it to be him. 

He was more handsome in daylight, she thought. His skin was so bright he almost glowed, and his eyes shone more like jewels or glass than anything human. He was beautiful—if he existed at all. 

His name was caught in her throat, as he looked down at her expectantly. She had never seen him standing, had she? Never been able to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders and how his height compared to her. 

“Are you alright?” The man asked, and gods, even the voice was what she remembered. 

She blinked, her voice hoarse when she replied, “No, I think perhaps I’ve seen a ghost.” 

He smirked, leaning in slightly—his hand notably still on her arm. His breath smelled warm, spicy and sweet and it made her want to do nothing but breathe in the aroma of him. 

His voice was low, “I think, deliciae, I’ve seen something I’d like to eat.” 

She shivered—the prospect arousing, for she remembered that act well…but, wait—gods, her voice was a panicked whisper, “You don’t mean the baby, do you?” 

He laughed. A masculine yet musical sound full of such mirth and humor it almost wiped away her worry before he answered, “No, Rhaenyra, I do not mean the baby.” His attention was turned to the babe now, though, looking down at the bundle in her arms. 

“He is beautiful.” His eyes glanced up to her own, “I think he looks quite like his father.” 

She did not disagree. 

“Tragic, how young you’ve been widowed—I do hope you would allow me, as the new Lord of Dragonstone, to offer you aid if you are ever in need of it. In need of anything.” He said, the last part sounding sinful in the tone he used. 

“I thank you for that but—-” he cut her off, “There is little reason to go there now, Rhaenyra. Baelon is a fine name for a son. I’m positive your gods would approve.” 

His fingers were stroking the trim of her sleeve, and then the strip of exposed skin below it.

“Join me for a meal instead?” He asked. 

She nodded.

.

She had never eaten so much or so well. He fed her quail and meat pies and pudding and syrupy wine, until she swore she had never been so full  in her life.

He insisted she had room for just a little bit more, before feeding her his cock.  It was a clumsy act, a mess of drool and gagging around the length, but he seemed pleased all the same, watching with a smile and gently stroking her hair while she sucked.

She had barely wiped the seed from her chin before she was in his lap and her breasts freed from her dress. He looked awed by them, swollen with milk and larger than they had been even a few months ago. His thumbs brushed her nipples, before his tongue descended—giving them far more attention than they had ever known before.

He did not move away when the milk came—quite the opposite. He lapped up what spilled before sucking the rosy peak between his lips. She wasn’t sure why it felt so good—but it did, the relief and the pleasure of it all was almost enough to make her come. She thought she might have, when his lips swallowed the other breast, and she sobbed while curling herself around his head.

No part of her wanted him to stop, but she pulled at his hair and pleaded, “Leave some for Baelon.” The words a mere gasp on her tongue. 

He pulled away, though looked quite pathetic as he did. 

“Pity, the sacrifices a father must make to keep their son from going hungry.” 

She stiffened—he had fully admitted it with that statement, hadn’t he? 

“What does that make me, if he is your son?” She asked. 

“You are my deliciae, but if that is not enough, then I shall have to make you my wife, too.” 

.

Her second marriage was consummated mere minutes after the vows were said.

The taste of blood made Daemon thirst for something else, he claimed. 

She did not find it so invigorating—though she was pleased when she did not find it grotesque, either. Daemon was smug when she admitted this—that his blood was far more palatable than her first husband’s. He promised he would bleed for her eagerly if she desired it. 

She found she desired a different part of him in that moment—and she helped herself to it, sliding down the appendage with a long moan. 

.

He had to carry her back to the keep, her legs refused to work. But that was alright, their function was not required in what he had planned. 

“It is tradition,” He said, when he pressed his length into her once more, “For us to conceive on your wedding night.” 

.

.

definition of deliciae |  latin

1, delight, pleasure (an activity which affords enjoyment)

2, pet, darling, sweetheart, beloved object

.

.

.end.

References, quotes via wikipedia:

a. Throughout the ancient Mediterranean images of Priapus with a phallus were used in deflowering rituals of newlywed, virgin brides. Though the bride would later consummate the marriage with her husband, the deity was said to impregnate her with her firstborn child.

In early times, this child begotten of the deity was sometimes then offered back to the deity as a sacrifice, just as the first fruits of all kinds were offered to the deity who provided them.

b. During preliminary marriage rites, Roman brides are supposed to have straddled the phallus of Mutunus to prepare themselves for intercourse. Arnobius says that Roman matrons were taken for a ride on Tutunus's "awful phallus" with its "immense shameful parts" and “Tutinus, upon whose shameful lap sit brides, so that the god seems to sample their shame before the fact.”

“Daemon” was based mostly on gods from the Aztec Pantheon who generally covered a realm of things — a sky god would provide water for crops, which would grow and represent new life, for example. But I primarily used: Tezcatlipoca as a reference, he is associated with a variety of concepts, including the night sky, hurricanes, obsidian, and conflict.

Snakes, serpents, and dragons were often a sign of evil, rebirth, fertility, and sensuality. There is like a wikipedia page for each religion and how horny/scared they are of them. This might have been what partially inspired my Oberyn / Daemon / Rhaenyra fic, lol.

🖤 Global Warming🖤

Rhaenyra Targaryen did not, did not have a size kink. 

Her personality was large, but her person was not. She had often been compared to a doll in her youth for her dainty features—so fine that they could have been made from porcelain. As she grew, her nickname by all who knew her was princess, because she was a demanding thing with a low tolerance for discomfort. 

“You, princess, were made to be carried in a golden palanquin. For a girl so precious should never have to touch the ground.” Her uncle had once told her, much to her delight as she completely agreed with him. She reminded him of it, too, when she wanted to be carried—which as a young girl was always. 

As a teen she was still called princess, and at a height just shy of five feet, she could likely still be carried by her favorite uncle. But that would be inappropriate, and she had long since come to terms with the cruel reality that required her to walk places. 

She did more than just walking, though. Enrolled in a pretentious private school from kindergarten onwards meant she attended fencing classes and practiced horseback riding like every good little rich girl should. She was proficient at them both, too. Though she was short, and curvy—something emphasized further by the height she lacked—she was toned. She liked pushing herself, seeing what her body was capable of in the sports she had been practicing since she was a young girl. 

She liked feeling powerful.

And then, they moved. 

Her new school favored one sport and one sport only: Football. 

She had been aghast at the lack of options. Irritated that the girls seemed to think sports were for boys and that muscles weren’t feminine. Rhaenyra had just blinked at them before looking down at herself—or more specifically, her breasts. 

Yeah, femininity wasn’t a huge concern of hers. It was an inescapable reality with her chest size.

She couldn’t play football—not that she wanted to. She valued her brain more than her body and wasn’t looking to damage either via tackling, thanks. 

But—she could be a cheerleader.

 She didn’t have any experience being a cheerleader, but she was in good shape, she was hot, and she was blonde. Those were the only prerequisites one needed to join the team. 

But like almost everything Rhaenyra put her mind to, she was good at it. Really good. 

Good enough that in her senior year she was cheer captain. And cheer captains dated the star quarterback—it was like a thing. And Rhaenyra had been fine with it, she was single, and so was he. And…well, he might have been really hot, which certainly helped to ease the burden. 

The thing was, Harwin was a big guy. She knew that from seeing him in passing at the practice field. But when she was next to him, he seemed way bigger than she remembered. People said it was cute, how her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. It was cute how he had to fold himself nearly in half to kiss her. They were cute. 

It didn’t feel cute to her. It felt awkward. 

Her friends sighed in envy when speaking about his big hands and long fingers. But Rhaenyra knew how they felt on her—in her and the reality was they were almost clumsy. The nuanced movement that was required to finger her to orgasm was clearly one the jock lacked. 

He was good with his mouth, though, even if the stubble was slightly irritating. 

But then there was the expectation she would use her mouth on him, too. Which was fine, she knew how to give a blowjob. How to give a good blowjob. She was confident right up until she saw his penis. 

If you could call that thing a penis. 

Rhaenyra was getting flashbacks of her favorite deli—the subs they would cram so full it was impossible to take a bite out of both the top and bottom buns at once. You just sort of had to squish it and nibble it until it was an easier shape to get your mouth around. 

However, this was all meat. Man meat. No bread. No squish. And nibbling would likely be frowned upon by the man who possessed it, to say the least.  

She didn’t even attempt it, saying she felt sick and giving him a quick handjob before going home. He was sweet, unbothered, and promised to call and check on her—to see if she felt better, he reminded, when she looked confused over her own excuse. 

Ugh. 

.

She told Laena about it the next day—the Friday night spent painting their nails and watching the newest season of Bake Off. At three years her senior, Rhaenyra’s cousin was half way through college already. She spent most of her time living in campus dorms which were the bane of her existence. It was why Laena took up residence in their guest bedroom most weekends, giving her a taste of the luxury she was used to before being pushed back into the ‘inhumane box they call a room’.

Her words—not Rhaenyra’s.

It was nice, though. Rhaenyra didn’t have many close friends, and the age difference that had seemed insurmountable when they were younger didn’t seem to matter now that they were both over the age of eighteen. The field had leveled a lot and no subject matter was considered sacred. 

Not even the subject of her boyfriend’s cock. 

“It is fucking massive.” Rhaenyra whined, but Laena looked unsympathetic. “How massive?” She asked, and Rhaenyra blinked at her. She didn’t have a fucking ruler on her, she just new it was big. “I didn’t measure. But, like, if a normal penis is a ‘pleasant hike’, this thing is ‘mount everest’. I’m pretty sure you’d need equipment to take that thing safely.” 

Lanea looked intrigued, “Ok. I get the vibe, but I need more of a visual. Tell me when,” she said, before moving her palms apart as if she was a dude boasting about the size of a fish he caught. When Rhaenyra finally stopped her, Laena looked a little impressed. “No kidding? Fuck. I’m jealous.” 

Rhaenyra glared, “It’s not something to be jealous about, there is no way I can get that inside of me.” 

Laena shrugged, returning to her nails, “That’s how I felt with Daemon but he managed.” 

Rhaenyra gaped at her. 

Daemon? 

Like her UNCLE Daemon? 

Laena slowly looked up, her face twisted into something apologetic. “I didn’t mean to say that.” 

Rhaenyra hit her—somewhat playfully, but not entirely. “When did you fuck Daemon?” 

“It was only one time! It was like, two years ago? We were drunk after one of dads parties and he stayed over and…yeah. I told him it was a good ride but he was too old for me and he laughed and said I was too tall for him.” She said, the words coming out quickly. 

“Are you mad?” She asked, sounding nervous. 

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure. She shouldn’t be. She finally settled on saying, “I wish you had told me.” 

Lanea winced, “It was before we were close—and then we were and it seemed like you liked him and it seemed weird. I’m sorry.” 

Rhaenyra shook her head. “It’s fine.” And then, “But you have to describe his cock to me.” 

Laena grinned, “That, I can definitely do…” 

.

She was sitting across from him and thinking about it. 

The it, in this situation being his allegedly gigantic penis. 

Laena claimed it was long—like almost painfully so when he went too deep. And the head of it was thick, but once it was in the length followed easily. There was a lot of foreplay, and even tipsy he had mad stamina. 

Rhaenyra had gaped at her the entire time, and when Laena finished her description she looked at her strangely. “Are you really that surprised? That man radiates big dick energy.” 

Well. She wasn’t wrong about that, now that Rhaenyra thought about it, she just hadn’t thought about it. 

She was thrown by this realization—because her uncle had been her first crush. He’d been the man she imagined being with ever since she became capable of imagining things. Not just as a girl, when he’d been the knight in shining armor and she’d been the princess, but when she grew older, too. 

When she’d first touched herself…intimately, she’d thought of his smile. And a few years later when she got something more substantial courtesy of her private amazon account, she imagined the purple silicone appendage inside her was him. 

She’d just never tried to visualize his penis. 

But now she couldn’t stop. 

After dinner, they gathered around for card games—one by one people slipped away, until it was just them left. And Daemon wasted little time in asking her what was wrong, because apparently she had not been subtle. 

“What did I do to deserve your glaring all evening, princess?” He asked, leaning back in his chair. 

Her mouth opened and then closed. What was she supposed to say, ‘I wasn’t glaring at you, I was glaring at your crotch as if I might develop x-ray vision and be able to see your penis’? 

Actually—this was Daemon. The most sexually liberated guy she knew. He’d given her condoms and paid for her birth control so Alicent wouldn’t find out about it. He embraced their weird ancestry and did little to hide the fact he’d fucked nearly all his cousins on family vacations. He wouldn’t care. And if this was someone else, she wouldn’t care. It was just…

She loved him too much to lose him. To make things awkward. But wasn’t lying about this more likely to put a wedge between them than just being honest? 

“Rhaenyra?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. 

Ah, fuck it. She thought, before it came pouring out. 

“I wasn’t glaring at you. Laena told me you had sex and it was good and you were big. So I was glaring at your crotch because I can’t stop thinking about it, and maybe I’d develop x-ray vision and be able to see your penis and the curiosity would be sated?” 

Daemon laughed. 

“What brought on this?” He asked, like that was the big takeaway. Maybe it was. To him this probably seemed completely random—he had no context for why Laena mentioned it, or why Rhaenyra would be thinking about it. She wasn’t sure if it bettered the situation, but she felt like she had to somewhat defensively explain herself. 

And so began the story of her boyfriends horrifically huge penis. 

When her tale was finished, Daemon looked amused—and unbothered, as he watched her with rapt attention. He wet his lips before speaking, and her eyes followed the path his tongue took, distracted enough by it that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking.

“I was going to offer to show you mine, since you were so curious, but after hearing all those unkind descriptors for your boyfriend's erection, I’m a little self conscious.” 

Wait—he said—her brain turned to fuzz—he was going to offer to show it to her? Holy shit. And she had blown her chance by slandering Harwin because of his size? That was…tragic. Like so tragic she could cry. 

She chewed on her lip, wondering how she could convince him to show her anyway. Eventually settling on, “I would never talk about yours that way,” she said defensively, somehow instinctively knowing she would never even think those things about him. 

“Hmm, I don’t know—It would wound me, knowing you thought of me as having something ‘resembling a battering ram built for bludgeoning a poor girl’s cervix rather than a penis’”

Her eyes narrowed. Had she really said that? She might have. But—”I wouldn’t—I swear. I can’t imagine thinking of any part of you as unattractive.” She said, the last part a whisper—her tone softening with shyness at the admission.

“Oh princess, come here.” He gestured for her to sit on his lap, and she did—even though she hadn’t since she was a child. The chair was big enough for her to settle between his thigh and the armrest, while her cheek nestled against his neck. She inhaled deeply, the smell that was so familiar. So wonderful. So him. 

 “Do you still want to see it?” He asked, and her breath hitched—then she nodded, dragging her chin across his chest in the process. “Alright. But you have to do the work.” 

She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling a bit dry as her hands reached for his belt. He made a tsking noise, though, making her pause before she got there. “You’ll hardly be able to see from there, princess. You can’t admire a cock properly unless you’re on your knees.”

She got the hint, sliding from her place beside him to between his knees in what she thought was a rather graceful move. She could feel Daemon staring at her—still relaxed as ever, leaning back in the plush chair. 

She knew she couldn’t disappoint him—in this, or in anything, he loved her too much to ever be disappointed in her. But she wanted to impress him in this—in whatever this ended up being. She took a deep breath and used that to fill her chest with confidence, too, before rising up slightly and reaching for his belt buckle. 

He didn’t stop her this time, though he looked a bit amused when she pulled it entirely free from the belt loops. She tackled the button and zipper quickly and tugged at the waistband until he lifted his hips enough for her to pull them down to his knees. She had originally assumed he would just pull his dick out from the zipper to show her—but when he told her to more or less get on her knees and do it properly—she became determined to go all out. 

She was glad she had, now, as she looked at the bulge beneath his grey cotton underwear. It was…prominent. Like to the point where bulge seemed an inadequate word—it even seemed to be stretching the fabric to the point it thinned, to the point where she could see veins through the material. Or maybe that was her imagination? But fuck she wanted to find out. 

It was curiosity that drove her to touch, unable to resist tracing the alleged veins with her fingertip—the dick jumped beneath her touch, and she felt it change beneath the pad of her finger, growing harder and thicker. She squeezed it gently, enjoying how it swelled in her palm—the length soon protesting her grips confinement as it attempted to plump further. 

She released it, her fingers going down to the heavy sack beneath it that was equally well defined through the Calvin Klein's her uncle wore. She palmed it too, squeezing gently in a way that finally garnered attention from her uncle. He was watching her, almost seeming to challenge her with his gaze.

It wasn’t a hardship to move closer—to run her nose along the length, inhaling the smell of him all the stronger here and more musky, but no less pleasant. When she reached the tip, her tongue took over—sucking on the ridge of the head through the fabric. Letting saliva dampen the fabric, providing enough sensation that soon his dick was leaking and contributing to the ruin of his underwear. 

Her eyes never left his, not once. Not even when he taunted, “I thought you wanted to see it?” 

She did, didn’t she? She leaned back—not even looking at his lap as she pulled the underwear to his knees. She wasn’t afraid to look down, exactly, but a pang of nervousness had hit her—what if it was horrifying? But how could it be? When it was part of Daemon?

With this reassurance, her gaze turned downward, and oh.

 He was huge. 

But there was an elegance to it, too. 

Harwin’s was like…a rock formation made by earth, where Daemon’s was a marble sculpture. 

And where Harwin’s had made her cunt feel as dry as the desert at the mere prospect of trying to get it inside her, for Daemon…god, she was a glacier, she was melting and needed to be saved.

It wasn’t quite as large as Harwin’s, she didn’t think. Probably the same length, but a less intimidating width. Something about the lighter hue, the rosy color of the tip, the pale hair that it sprung from—it was just…beautiful. Any terror at the thought of it being in her was replaced by desire of the thought of it being in her. 

She wanted it. She wanted her hands on it, and her mouth, and her folds, and—”What do you think?” Daemon asked, sounding a little less confident than he had earlier. 

“It’s—perfect.” She whispered. And she meant it. “Can I touch it?” She asked, and he let out a huff of laughter—she supposed given what she had been doing a moment ago, she probably had permission. But now that it was bare before her it seemed different. Not necessarily more intimate, but more like…this was a work of art he owned and she didn’t want to break it. 

“What’s mine is yours.” He said, encouragingly, and she didn’t waste any time.

Her fingers couldn’t wrap around it, not completely at least. And even with her fists stacked on top of each other, there was cock visible above and below them. It was intimidating, and she doubted she could take it all into her throat without practice. Instead she focused on the head of it, licking at the ridges and slit before sucking the entirety of it into her mouth. Fuck it was massive, stretching her lips tightly and making her gag reflex protest with barely two inches inside her mouth. But it felt good too, the weight of it on her tongue and the slight pulse of blood pumping inside of it, like it wished to expand even further. 

She laved the tip with attention for a minute or two while daemon stroked her hair, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted it inside her. All of it. And if her mouth couldn’t accommodate it, then her cunt would have to. 

She was wet already, she knew that. The heat had been pooling there for what felt like ages, prompted initially by the mere clinking of his belt buckle. There was a sticky feeling in her underwear too, a sign of an arousal she rarely got to—even after heavy petting with her boyfriend. 

She pulled back, standing and quickly slipping out of her underwear—the skirt could stay on, some pleated thing that wouldn’t get in the way. Daemon clearly knew where this was leading, and he told her to, “Take the shirt off too, princess. Want to see my niece’s pretty tits.” 

She grinned, and did just that—the t-shirt being tossed aside and revealing pink lace beneath. 

She seated herself on his lap then, his cock slipping between her thighs and resting against her stomach. The feeling was distracting, but she was focused on her uncle’s lips, gently parted and so very close to her own. “Do it,” she whispered, and the words had hardly left her lips before his own crashed into them. 

It wasn’t a sweet kiss. But she didn’t need a sweet kiss. She wasn’t a virgin, and god knows neither was he—they were Targaryen’s, they were passionate people and this kiss spoke to that. 

It went on for ages—parting only to inhale before teeth and tongues met once more. Daemon’s fingers found her folds and his multitasking skills were on display as he stroked her through an orgasm. His fingers weren’t the thickest, but they were talented. They managed to pinpoint that fleshy spot that Rhaenyra herself struggled to find when masturbating, and he abused it until coming was inevitable. 

When his fingers left her, she was still desperate for something, and her body tried to find it by thrusting against the length between her thighs. It wasn’t enough, though, and she whispered little pleas against Daemon’s lips. 

He knew what she wanted. He always knew. He guided her onto his length—pulling her folds apart as the head notched into the place she wanted it more desperately. His fist was below the head, stabilizing it while she used all her weight as leverage to get it in. Fuck he was big. She whined a little, frustrated, but persevered and then—oh.

Laena was right. The slide was easy from there—but the last two inches were almost excruciatingly sensitive as he went deeper into her than anything else had before. It felt right though—like he was supposed to be there. This was where his cock belonged, he belonged inside her, and she never wanted him to leave. 

But she did want him to move. 

It was a team effort—her rising up using his shoulder for support, then thrusting down. His hips jerked up to meet her, too, and eventually they found a pace that made her moan with every tiny movement because it was so good. They were still kissing, kind of, their mouths brushing and tongues lapping at whatever skin was near them. Daemon had one hand on her hip, and another on her breast—he’d freed them from her bra, and her nipples dragged against the fabric of his dress shirt. It wasn’t fair that he wasn’t naked, she thought, in between moans of pleasure. Maybe next time? There would have to be a next time.

She felt herself getting close, and Daemon must have too, because he whispered, “Come for me, princess.” And she did—biting down on his neck to stifle the scream her orgasm tried to draw from her. She’d never had it feel like this—every muscle clenching so tightly but unable to because they were so stretched by him. But gods, they tried, and the sensation of them meeting resistance in the form of his cock? Fuck. 

Her hips jerked without rhythm against him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He let her ride it out while gently stroking her back as if she was a child recovering from a tantrum. But when she had calmed, and her eyes opened, he looked nearly predatory. 

He hadn’t come yet, she realized. 

He switched their places in a somewhat inelegant move, but she was too out of it to really care. His length fell from her folds, but once she was repositioned he waited little time in fixing that. She hissed as he pressed back in—her cunt contracting as soon as he left it, desperate to regain its usual tightness. But his cock didn’t care, pushing past the tired muscles until he was buried in her to the hilt. 

She was on her back now, shoulders against the chair Daemon had been seated on. Her legs were around her hips, which he supported with his palms. He had leverage now, and he used it. He fucked her in earnest, his head thrown back and sweat beading at his throat. He was gorgeous and he was fucking her. And she felt so privileged she could cry. 

She felt so good. 

Her palms rested on her belly—surprised she couldn’t feel his cock through the flesh of it for it seemed to be so deep inside of her. But it didn’t matter when she could feel his cock everywhere else, lighting up nerves she didn’t know she had and making her moan with each thrust because she was so oversensitive. 

She felt him still—and then throb, and then come. The foreign sensation of release flowing into her set her off again, and she bit down on her lip to avoid crying out. Fuck, he was still coming—she could feel the twitch as the head served as a hose, spraying her insides with his seed. She hadn’t realized it until now, how she could feel his veins and his skin and how it made everything so much better. 

She’d always used condoms before. 

But him…he was her uncle, he was family, it was allowed. 

She felt sleepy, as he pulled out—moaning as he looked down at the state of her, probably swollen and stretched out and leaking thanks to his come. The brat in her clearly wasn’t exhausted, for she asked, “What do you think?” Just as he had earlier, when she was admiring his genitals. 

He smiled. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, princess.” 

Her legs hit the floor and she groaned at the prospect of having to walk upstairs. Daemon teased that she was lucky, “I have to drive home.” 

He helped her up the steps and to her room—she wasn’t really limping, she was just a little sore. “Maybe I’ll come over tomorrow?” She half asked, half stated, as they stood in the doorway of her room. “You’ll come over or—” She slapped a hand over his mouth to end the euphemism and giggled. He kissed her palm before pulling her hand away.

 “I’ll always be happy to have you.” He said, sincerely. 

It was those words that looped in her head, long after he left. They held more meaning than the sex—then anything else. 

She knew he didn’t just mean he was happy to have her in his apartment. 

He was happy to have her in any way she’d let him.

And…there was little she wouldn’t let him do to her.

Because she wanted him to have her, too. 

.

Rhaenyra had a long bath the next morning. For no particular reason. Definitely not because of the ache in her pelvis. And thighs. And calves. And fuck she was in good shape but apparently sex used muscles she did not have. 

Ah, well, all the more reason to practice. 

But for now, she would let the warm water and two tylenol wash the pain away. 

She had already texted Daemon that morning—telling him of her woes. He promised to kiss it better if she came over. She told him to give her an hour. That should be long enough to finish her lazy Sunday morning routine and eat breakfast. She hoped she would need the stamina from it.

She assumed when her phone buzzed again, that it would be Daemon. 

The fluttery feeling in her stomach at this prospect quickly disappeared when she saw Harwin at the top of her messages. 

Fuck. 

can’t wait to see you tonight, babe!.

Fuck.

.

She was late. He tapped his fingers on the tablecloth, a little peeved, because he was trying so hard. He knew she wasn’t that into him, he knew he couldn’t force her to like him. But he had hoped she would start to as they spent more time together. 

It had been weeks, though, and she still treated him more like a co-worker than a boyfriend. Which sucked. Because she wasn’t just pretty, she was confident and funny and nice and he really liked her. 

His eyes looked to the door again—he’d give it five more minutes and then leave. Or that was his plan, until she walked in. God damn. She was tall—statuesque, with impeccable posture. She wore her height like it was a weapon, rather than something to be ashamed of (it wasn’t) and that level of confidence was hot. 

Her features were almost delicate, despite her height, and she had the most amazing blonde hair that fell down her back in tight coils. And her skin…god, it looks so smooth and shone like polished metal, all different shades of gold and bronze and brown. He looked down at his hands and realized he’d shred a napkin while salivating over her. Embarrassing. He had a girlfriend. 

But his girlfriend wasn’t here. And the blonde goddess was sitting down across from him, casually arranging a napkin on her lap as she said, “You must be Harwin?”

He nodded, dumbfounded. 

“Oh good.” She leaned in a little, and he did too, involuntarily. 

“I have good news: Rhaenyra is breaking up with you.” She said.  

He leaned so far back his chair almost tipped before steadying himself. “How is that good news?”

The goddess grinned. “Because I’m here instead. I’m Laena Velaryon.” She said, extending her hand.

.

Laena was the first woman to ever look excited rather than fearful when seeing his erect penis.

She got really close to it and whispered, “What a beautiful beast. I shall call it Vhagar.” 

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t care what she called it, when she rode it like that.

He laid her on the bed, watching her curl up while looking at him intently—enjoying the show of him stripping, revealing flesh she’d had to go without seeing for hours. It pleased him how she seemed to enjoy his body as much as he enjoyed hers. She had spent hours learning every scar that marred his skin, licking them, nipping at them, finding out what hurt and what felt good and what he’d allow her to do.

Anything. 

In return, he had yet to go a day since they wed without sucking on her breasts as if he was her babe and not her husband. Even if they did not yet leak for him, the comfort of their ruddy tips between his lips was bliss.

Afterward, they were all swollen and sensitive and she made the prettiest little whimpers when he pinched and twisted them. 

“Are they not mine to torture? I am your husband.” He had told her once. 

She used the same words against him the following hour when her teeth sunk into his sack, making him gasp and swear because fuck it fucking hurt. 

Still, she had a point, he supposed. 

He didn’t stop his ministrations, of course not, he simply told her to torture him in ways that wouldn’t impact his ability to sire children. 

The next day, her teeth tugged on his own nipple—pulling away for just a moment to tell him—to warn him—that if he ever angered her, her teeth would ensure his torsos' symmetry. 

He responded with a filthy kiss. 

It seemed the only appropriate way to show his affection and adoration which remained unwavering, if not intensified for the insanity of her promise. His little niece—his little wife, threatening to tear the nipple from his flesh with her teeth if he dared wronged her. 

After the kiss ended, he asked her, “Do you promise?” 

Her cheeks were flushed, likely more from drink than arousal—a pretty shade of pink across her face, matching the shade of her parted lips and rosy nipples. As if her body coordinated the tones specifically for his pleasure—and gods he was pleased by her, every inch of her was perfection, as if she had been crafted just for him and his desires.

Perhaps she was, though he doubted his brother had known what his seed was making at the time of Rhaenyra’s creation. That his spend would turn into the most precious gift for his younger brother. 

But then, she wasn’t given to him by his brother—no, Rhaenyra had given herself to him. She’d been in a robe, not red ribbons, but the function was the same when she returned to her chambers to await his arrival. She planned to flirt her way into a crown of her own, or at least a circlet that would sit on her finger as a mark of his ownership.

She’d succeeded. Through her good looks, charm, and promises of how she would bear him heirs.

“I wished to stretch you out more, but I fear for how desperate your poor little cunt is—grinding against me in the night and seeking pleasure. You need a cock, princess.” He muttered, his tone making the situation sound rather dire.

She let out a little huff, her nose wrinkling as her eyes glared at him, “I recall you grinding against me at night, also, uncle. Perhaps it is you who need cunt.” She said, full of fire even now, when she was half asleep and dulled by drink. 

“Perhaps we need each other, hm?” He suggested, the words sounding sweeter than he expected, but still entirely true on his tongue. 

She shook her head, her teeth gritted as she spoke, “I’m angry because it hurts.” 

“Can you not take it?” He wondered, “Can’t take your husband’s cock? Must I seek another cunt to fuck? Perhaps a Velaryon bride would have been better suited.” 

Her nails curled, carving crescents into his shoulders and showing how much she disliked this suggestion. It did not stop him, though, “Are you too little? Too small? Unprepared for the burden of taking your king?” He mused. “Scepter too large for the queen’s pretty cunt.” 

“I’m too sleepy to practice more,” she muttered, her eyes fluttering shut and blonde lashes sitting prettily atop her cheeks. 

He hummed, “That’s okay, we can practice while you sleep.” He promised, curling himself around her while their loins remained pressed together. 

much much more to this on ao3!

🕯️without reservation🕯️

Rhaenyra was a beautiful bride—her eyes bright and smile wide when she leaned in to kiss her new husband. Harwin Strong was not a prince, but in her eyes he was better. He was a knight, a protector, and best of all—he loved her. 

Her father was pleased that she had finally settled on a match, and one so close to his own advisor. The Strong’s were loyal and trustworthy, a good family to bind themselves to through marriage, even if they were not a particularly famed name. 

Rhaenyra did not need to marry for a name—she was a Targaryen, after all. 

No, she needed to marry because she needed to have an heir. 

But Viserys hoped she would find happiness, too.

There was not a doubt in anyone’s minds that she would have both in her marriage, with how she smiled on her wedding day and seemed to bloom in response to her new husband’s touch. 

Her wedding night, however, wasn’t spent smiling.

No. It was spent with her head buried in a pillow—it muffled her sobs, and hid her tears. Though it could not hide her shame, the pain, the embarrassment. 

.

Harwin was a good man. 

He was a good enough man that when his new wife complained of pain, he stopped. 

No matter how much she pleaded, he wasn’t going to hurt her. He couldn’t, truly. His length flagged just from seeing her wince beneath him. 

He knew violence and suffering from his work and it had no place in his bedroom. He wouldn’t inflict such things on his wife. The mere thought made him feel sick. 

 She was young, and stressed from the day. They would try again, he promised. 

.

Harwin was a good man. 

He was, perhaps, not good with his fingers. 

Not that either he nor Rhaenyra were aware of this. 

But it meant they made little progress, and all attempts had ended much like the first. 

Despite being married for twenty days, Rhaenyra was still a maiden.  

Harwin insisted it was enough to kiss her, and to lay with her. 

It wasn’t enough for her, though. 

.

It was strange how all the things she loved about him were the same things causing her resentment. 

She could hardly complain—what would she say? Her husband was too kind. Her husband didn’t wish to hurt her. Her husband was too honorable to even stay aroused when she was in any sort of distress.

Gods, women would swoon at the thought of a man so honorable. And Rhaenyra would have, too, a month ago. 

But now…

Rhaenyra knew she was more than a vessel for an heir. But that was all she was to her father, and his council, and his kingdom. The expectation of conceiving someday was there, it was why she had wed. And the lack of success and consummating the match was a failing that seemed to guarantee her future failure, too. . 

But what could she do? It was too late to tell someone. It would invalidate the marriage and make them vulnerable. More than that, it was embarrassing. Harwin has been promoted to Commander of City Watch, and though he had thrived in the role, men were fickle creatures. They were eager to compare their virility in a bedroom to all they did beyond it—this fact would make Harwin seem weak, even if the  kindness should have been seen as a strength. 

It was embarrassing for her, too. She had failed to take him—her duty as his wife, perhaps her singular duty as his wife. 

She tried. She was willing! She begged him. She knew any pain would fade, but Harwin denied her. And every time she was left naked, alone, and humiliated. 

If she believed in a god, she would pray to them. 

Pray for someone who loved her without reservation. 

Pray for someone who would hurt her in this way. 

.

Daemon returned a moon later and was apologetic for missing her wedding—”I would have liked to see it—or at least the bedding ceremony.” He said with a teasing leer. 

At the mention of that, Rhaenyra burst into tears. 

The truth came out with them, as she cried into the leather vest covering her uncle’s chest. 

.

He kissed the top of her head, shushing away her worries and fears as his thumbs brushed tears off her reddened cheeks.

“I’m here now, I’ll help you. I promise.” 

He had never broken a promise to her before. She knew he wouldn’t break this one, either, and the relief it brought her was palpable. 

.

Harwin complained at supper that patrols had been changed—as commander he could adjust the schedules, giving him a reprieve opposed to taking night shifts three days in a row, but that would be unfair. 

“I shall miss you.” He said with a smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She nodded, poking at her food, realizing this meant he would not come to her rooms that week. “I shall miss you, too.” she said. 

It was partially true.

She liked being held at night. The warmth and comforting embrace that reminded her of sneaking into her mother or uncle’s rooms when she was a girl. But with Harwin it made her heartache, too, for his presence in her bed reminded her of what they had failed to do there. 

.

She did not consider that her uncle had orchestrated her husband’s absence. Not until she entered her rooms, ready to retire for the evening, only to find him seated at the table she often ate breakfast at. 

“I was not expecting you.” She said, though she wasn’t upset, not really. 

He leaned back in his chair—the action rude for he should stand in greeting her, the princess, but they had never cared about such formalities. 

“I do not make promises lightly, princess.” He said, his voice smooth. 

“Perhaps, but even so I was not expecting you so soon.” She said, correcting herself. 

He tilted his head, “I wished to unburden my niece of her troubles, I would not wish suffering upon her for a moment longer. I saw little reason to wait.” 

Her lip trembled, he sounded so very sincere. He beckoned for her then, pulling her into his arms and lap. Cradling her like she was a little girl while she clung to him. 

“My poor niece has been neglected, does your husband not even do this? Does he not even hold you?” She shook her head, he didn’t, not really. He was afraid to even touch her, most nights, for fear she might find pain in it.

That memory emboldened her—Daemon was here to help her. She wanted to know what that would entail. And so she asked him what was to come. 

Daemon’s hand, the one running up and down her back, stilled. “I shall tell you, but you must undress first.” 

Rhaenyra felt her cheeks flush. It had to be done, she supposed, in order for him to aid her. 

She hadn’t expected him to help, though. It felt oddly intimate, having a man undo the laces and hooks of her dress. Harwin had always come to her later—after she had changed into a chemise, either on her own or with the help of a servant. The sensation of his deft fingers and short nails pulling through the lacing was…nice. She could feel the heat of him behind her, too, and his breath on her neck. 

When the dress was in a puddle of fabric on the floor, he peeled the chemise over her head—done so quickly she was too surprised to stop him. She hadn’t realized by undressed he meant fully nude. But she didn’t want to doubt his methods when he was helping her. She was still as a statue—and naked as one too, save for the silk stockings that clung to her legs. 

Daemon made no move to touch her, and she found herself almost…disappointed by that, even more so when he backed away. 

“Come here—yes, on the table.” He said, tapping the surface of the wood as she turned and looked at him with confusion. She did what he said, feeling awkward as she sat on it, still naked and now with her feet dangling slightly off the floor. 

“Now lay back.” Daemon said. She swallowed, still unsure, but she followed the instruction. She felt a warm hand wrap around her ankle—and she damned the stocking that prevented her from feeling it fully. He gently brought the ankle to the table's height, and then—oh.

He repeated the action with her other ankle—the positioning of them had her feet flat on the table, and her knees bent, forcing her thighs to part and fully display her folds. Gods, this was humiliating. She bit her lip, willing him to say something, but the only sound in the room was of fabric shifting—him sitting, and then the scratch of the chair scooting closer. She tilted her head up, slightly, to see him staring intently at her most private parts. 

She wanted to cry. This was stupid, she was about to close her legs when his hand stroked her ankle—the pressure of a thumb on the sloping bone helping to calm her, despite the humiliation of the pose. 

“This is how a Maester would examine you—but I will attempt to make it less dreadful, and I beg you to feel no shame.” His words were almost reverent when he next spoke, “You’re beautiful, Rhaenyra. You always have been, trust me—have confidence in your beauty here too.” He whispered, and she thought he might be leaning in closer. 

Her own breath hitched at the compliment, suddenly feeling a bit warm. 

“I’ve seen more cunts than I can count—whores, lady’s,  queen’s, and everything in between, but none as perfect as yours.” He said, sounding sincere. 

“I have to touch you, to help.” He said—opposed to asking her if he could touch her. But he did say, “I shall stop, if you ask me too. I promise.” 

She nodded, and he squeezed her ankle before it began. 

He pressed on her stomach and stroked around the flesh between her legs—gently parting her folds but making no effort to penetrate. His fingers moved above her slit, his thumb gently pressing a bud of flesh that rested there. 

“Has he touched you here?” Daemon asked, and she shrugged. He had tried, she thought. But he had large hands, his fingers were not very precise. 

Her uncle made a humming noise, and she heard the sound of a bottle uncorking. His finger returned to that spot, this time slick with something, and then he began rubbing. 

Gods, that was lovely. She wanted more of that. It was like the coil of arousal she had felt was finally expanding—lengthening into a spring as it was all drawn to the place where his finger was—and then he stopped. 

She whimpered, and Daemon calmed her before once again parting her folds. “Good, that’s good.” He murmured, “You’re wet now—you just needed to feel good, before your cunt would consider allowing something inside it. Some women can’t get wet, but not you—not your perfect cunt, it’ll weep and gush as it should, it  just requires your partner to earn it first.” 

Rhaenyra blushed, not sure what to think about that. 

“Now that you’re wet this shouldn’t hurt.” Daemon said, and she felt a digit slip into her. She whimpered a little at the stretch—though he was right, it didn’t hurt, exactly. He curled it inside of her before thrusting it gently. When he paired the movement with his thumb pressing down on that spot above she—ohhhh.

She was moaning, she thought, and her head ached from where it had slammed against the table. She didn’t even notice when he added another finger, too concerned with the pleasure. Her hips arched against his hand as she rode out her release—her first release, before collapsing back to the lacquered wood 

Daemon was stroking her still, his fingers wet and slipping easily across her skin. “That was good, Rhaenyra. Now—you’re relaxed and wet, this is when a man should try and enter you,” Her breath hitched, and Daemon smiled—”Or,” he continued, “When they should try to stretch you for such an entry.” 

Two fingers pressed back in, curling and making her plead for something. Something more. 

A third finger squeezed in between the other two, sinking in without incident but making her hiss when it settled fully inside her. It wasn’t the stretch so much as the sharp sensation of cool metal on the hot overstretched skin of her cunt—a signet ring. A Targaryen signet ring. She thought with a whimper. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but the ring reminded her of who was doing this to her—her uncle, her Daemon, and she wanted to watch. 

He had been watching her, she realized with a little gasp—her eyes opening only to see his own gazing at her in return. And then she saw his mouth move before she heard the words, it was as if everything was off slightly. 

“Do you want more?” He asked, and she nodded without hesitation. “What do you want?” He followed, and her brow creased—wasn’t it obvious? He smiled, a soft thing, at her confusion. 

“I could fill you with a taper—just enough to rid you of the film that ails you.” She shook her head, she didn’t want him to remove his fingers only to replace it with some object as impersonal as a taper. 

“The alternative is my cock, Rhaenyra.” He said. She knew he was going to say it, watching his lips form the harsh sounds with an eagerness that was shown when she nodded in response. 

He smiled, fingers lazily pumping into her while his other hand freed his tunic from his trousers. He’d already removed his leather vest, and the belts that held his blades. Whether it was for comfort, or because he intended on their meeting ending this way, she wasn’t sure. 

She wasn’t sure she cared. 

Why did his intentions matter, when it was she who wanted this?

She didn’t even see the appendage—it was slipped out from his pants and covered by the tails of his smock. But she felt it being lined up with her folds, the tip dragging through the mess of fluids Daemon had drawn from her. 

Before it pressed inside, he rearranged her slightly—bringing her legs around his waist and forcing her hips to arch up slightly to meet his own. It was more comfortable, less awkward than before, when she was spread wide for him—though truly even that had not been as embarrassing as she feared. 

She had never felt more comfortable with someone than she did with her uncle. She trusted him, in this and in everything—and so there was not a trace of nervousness as he began to press his length into her. It was warm, and big, but everything was so incredibly slick that it felt right. 

His hand guided the appendage, feeding it slowly into her folds—there was no awkward ramming or thrusts that resulted in him between her thighs instead. He was practiced in this, that much was obvious. But it didn’t bother her—the practice had contributed to this being good and she was grateful for that. 

She whimpered as her folds swallowed the head of him—and then bit her lip, tensing—worried he might stop at the sound. It wasn’t painful, it was just a lot and her body conjured a noise that wasn’t entirely of pleasure. But even that had been enough to make Harwin still, and she didn’t want that to happen now. 

But Daemon didn’t stop, his hand stroked her thigh until she relaxed, and then he carried on—pressing deeper. God the stretch of it, his fingers had not prepared her for that, and it ached, the muscles unused to being strained from the inside in such a way. She whined, biting her lip so he wouldn’t hear—but Daemon’s thumb pulled her lip from her teeth’s prison. 

“I want to hear you.” He said, words firm.

She shook her head before admitting, “I might cry.” 

He smiled, a twisted crooked thing, “I’m almost certain you will, my delicate little princess.” 

She shifted a little—still speared on the first inch of his length. “Y-you won’t stop, if I do?” She asked nervously. 

“Oh sweetheart, I promise you, tears have never been the reason my desire wanes. Especially not from you—you look so pretty when you cry, princess, makes me so hard. Don’t hide it from me. I swear I will stop at the word ‘no’ and nothing less.” 

God, the relief that offered her—she felt her entire body relax. She didn’t even flinch when he warned the next bit might sting. She just nodded, her eyes closed and fingers gripping the edge of the table. 

She wailed when he seated himself fully inside her, the task done with a single thrust that bludgeoned through whatever barrier of innocence remained—then went so far beyond it she swore he was in her guts. 

It hurt. It was like the pain of every previous attempt combined and multiplied by a thousand, the tearing sensation in her core so sharp she was sobbing. His length was unyielding inside her, solid as an iron stake, and feeling like one for how it burned. But there was a relief in this fact, that he was still hard—that he had done it, she had done it. He hadn’t pulled out, even as she writhed and whimpered and cried. 

Her tears were in pain—partially, but they were in relief too. Finally she wasn’t a maiden, and she had her uncle to thank for that. 

One of his hands was stroking her thigh, while the other cupped her neck—his thumb brushing tears away from her cheek while he remained inside her, unmoving, and likely waiting for the pain to fade. She wasn’t sure it would. Her whimper of, “It hurts, kepa.” Was evidence of that. 

His expression was one of sympathy—but his words were not an apology. “That’s because you’re so perfect, a cunt so tight your husband can’t even handle it, can he? It’s so little and so pretty.” He paused for a moment, his eyes squeezing shut as if trying to control himself. “But the prettier the cunt, the more it hurts at first. It has to be broken in, sweetheart, before it feels good.” 

She nodded, though to be honest she wasn’t entirely listening, too distracted by the pain. It was still there—though not as sharp, it was as if the points had dulled slightly and it was more of a throbbing than a stabbing. It was still enough to make tears leak from her eyes, though. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t used to pain, not like this. 

But Daemon was there. Which made it better, somehow. He didn’t coddle her. He didn’t stop. He was honest with her, that this might hurt—but that it would pass, and he would be there.

Gods, she loved him. 

She loved his fingers, too, especially now as they slid between their bodies—finding that little bud above her folds. It was stretched too, as if he had pulled it closer to her opening with his cock. He freed it, though, and rubbed the sensitive nerve with slick fingers. It felt good, both the sensation and the reminder of how this had led to pleasure earlier in the evening. 

A shadow of that pleasure seemed to loom, lingering below the clouds of pain. And for the first time since he entered her she could imagine it feeling good, even if that feeling was far away. He seemed to sense this too, for he started moving. 

She had thought it might make things worse—like a leather shoe rubbing against a blister turned wound on your heel, adding to the rawness. But it wasn’t, it was a relief, the movement creating a distraction from the pain that turned into…something else. She closed her eyes and let her body move with Daemon’s, the thrust creating a rhythm of the flesh that was so unfamiliar, so unlike her other attempts with Harwin. 

Daemon was nothing like him. 

He was better. Part of her whispered. 

Harwin didn’t love you enough to do this. 

Harwin was too weak to do this. 

She moaned, surprising herself—and then it happened again—her eyes fluttering open to see Daemon smirking, almost victorious at the noise of pleasure he had wrenched from her. 

“Does it feel good now, princess? Getting used to the feeling of a cock in that pretty cunt. Just a matter of time until you crave this, too.” He said, hiking her leg higher and leaning forward to brace his other arm on the tangle. The angle changed and she moaned loudly, her hands rising from the table to reach for Daemon. The length inside her wasn’t enough, she wanted to feel his flesh beneath her palms. Beneath her lips. She wanted him everywhere. 

She wanted him. 

His thrusts were emphasized with a grinding motion now and it was pressing him even deeper in a way that felt unnatural and impossible but not unwelcome. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but suddenly her body had decided to accept him, and decided to allow the pain to fade away. It wasn’t a conscious choice on her part, she could only thank the gods for it—because gods, she was grateful for this feeling.

Her hips were rising from the table to meet his own, and his chest was heaving—a droplet of sweat falling from the tip of his nose and landing on her neck, the exertion he was putting forth obvious. They were both moaning, the sounds of their breaths and hips meeting contributing to the sinful noises that echoed through the room. 

They would echo in her head after, too, she thought. She’d never forget this—the way he felt inside of her, and the way he sounded. This is how it should have been—this is how it should always be. 

Her nails dug into Daemon’s shoulders—more like claws than fingers with the brutality of their grip. Daemon just moaned, his own fingers digging into her thighs, so hard that even his dull nails felt like daggers against her skin. She wasn’t sure why that of all things did it, but the sharp sensation was one too many—she burst. 

She clenched down so tightly Daemon hissed, as if the pressure wounded him. Her core was trying to force him out, but he was stronger, continuing to thrust through the pulse of her muscles in a way that made her release just keep going. 

It took all her energy with it, and when the tingles of pleasure began to fade, fatigue set in. She slumped against the table, her desire—her ability to participate had been drained from her. Daemon didn’t seem to mind, though, his pace didn’t change—though he gripped her more tightly and his gaze strayed to where he was entering her. 

She wondered if it looked obscene, it must, surely? She’d felt herself down there—the slit that seemed much too small for anything more than a finger. But he’d fit three in there, and then somehow his cock had followed. And it was perfect, but she doubted it looked that way—Daemon’s expression could have fooled her, though, he looked awed by what he saw. 

[He was]

[She did not know that he had dreamed of this.]

[That he had been enraged by his actions that forfeited his right to this, to her.]

[That he thought he had lost his chance at this, at having her like this.]

[But no, his little niece—married for a month and still a virgin, as if she was waiting for him.]

[He’d taken it from her, happily, biting back the desire to come when she whimpered and struggled because her tiny little cunt was too tight for his cock. But she took it. He made her take it. And she had loved it,  she’d come from it, and now—gods, he didn’t know if she was still conscious but he was going to finish. 

It was going to happen soon. The sight was too good—her stretched around his length, body clinging to him and pulling him back in while also fighting him, trying to rid itself of the appendage. It was perfect. She was perfect, now more than ever, with her folds stretched out around him and messy from come, blood, and sweat that had spread from his cock to her pelvis with the enthusiasm of his thrusting. 

He wanted to make her even more messy. Wanted to fill her so full of his seed she was choking on it. With so much she got pregnant.

Fuck—that was it, he spilled inside her, deep thrusts that he ground even deeper. He wanted it to get to her womb, he wanted his seed to plant a baby in her before her husband could. If he would even live long enough to. He was slamming into her now and she was whimpering, and he wasn’t sure if it was in pleasure or pain, he didn’t care. His purpose was getting all his seed into her, where it wouldn’t spill. Even if it hurt—she’d understand when it was their child she held to her breast.]

[Eventually, he was empty.]

She was empty—he had come, gods he had come, so much. She was sure when he finally finished and slipped out of her that it would come pouring out—enough to fill a washbasin, if not two. But she couldn’t focus on what was spilling out, no, all she felt was empty. 

He had split her open and hollowed her out, rearranged her body to make a place for his cock and then just taken it from her, and he was gone, and she was crying before she even knew what she was sad about. Daemon hugged her to his chest as she, not for the first time that day, sobbed into his fabric covered shoulder.

It was a long time before she was calm enough to speak—but Daemon seemed to know, asking her, “What’s wrong? What can I do?” 

She pulled back from him, so she could see his face—his eyes lined with concern and face set in a frown. 

“Don’t leave me again. Not ever. If you go, you have to take me with you. The Keep is empty—I’m empty without you, especially now.” She said, wiping snot from her nose and using her thumbs to rub away tears. He had always filled her emotionally—the cups of joy and happiness never as full as they were in his presence. But now that she knew what it was like to be full of him physically, too, she couldn’t imagine being parted. 

“Okay. But—I must warn you, I take my job of filling you very seriously.” He teased in an attempt to lighten her mood and it worked—she laughed. 

Eventually, a peacefulness settled between them, a contentness with his palm stroking her hair and her nose against the bone of his collar. He was standing, while she remained seated on the table they had just coupled on, making their difference in height less dramatic than it usually was. And so, when her chin tilted up slightly, she found her mouth so very close to his—close enough to kiss.

They hadn’t done that yet, and she remembered—faintly, him saying to her as a girl, ‘kisses are for those you plan to marry’. 

Well. That settled it. 

She cupped his cheek, drawing him to her and letting their mouths meet. 

.

Poor Harwin never made it back to his wife’s bed—the streets were a dangerous place. Sometimes the gold cloak served as a beacon instead of protection. 

..

When Rhaenyra started showing, people pitied the young widow all the more. 

(After all, they had no idea she spent nearly every night in her uncle’s bed.)

Her father was almost thankful, when Daemon offered to wed her—to treat any child like his own. 

(After all, they would be, but they had no idea of that, either.) 

.

Rhaenyra was a beautiful bride—her eyes bright and smile wide when she leaned in to kiss her new husband. Daemon was a prince, but in her eyes he was better. He was a knight, a protector, and her uncle. He loved her as only another Targaryen could.  

.

She cried on her second wedding night, too. 

Daemon wasn’t a good man, after all. 

And he was far too good with his fingers. 

He drew nearly a half dozen orgasms from her, leaving her writhing and pleading and sobbing until finally he entered her with his cock. 

That was finally enough to satisfy her.

.

stories with similar themes,

Daemyra prevailing over Rhaewin: Being Strong | 6k words / complete / Modern!AU Global Warming | 4k/complete/Modern!AU

crying during sex: deliciae | 8k/complete/westeros!au give me what i want | 15k words / complete / historical westeros!AU ←also one of my favorite things i’ve written.

Week One: 

Tension / Related Post

Reflection / Related Post

Storm / Related Post

Sparkle / Related Post

Cloud / Related Post

Week Two:

Shield / Related Post

Stitch / Related Post

Burn / Related Post

Blood / Related Post

Haunt / Related Post

Week Three: 

Rough / Related Post

Silk / Related Post

Wing / Related Post

Gift / Related Post

Ink / Related Post

Week Four: 

Signature / Related Post

Investment / Related Post

Squeeze / Related Post

Swallow / Related Post

🍼 Curses 🍼

[lyrics from 'curses' by the crane wives]

.

It was not an unusual story—though it was one often scrawled on a page rather than lived by a human being. 

She was a princess, who ran away with a knight. She had a child, and tragedy befell them all—perhaps a punishment for her sins, her dalliance, and her abandoning her duties. The lesson of this tale would, of course, be that little girls should always listen to their parents and always follow the rules. 

Rhaenyra had, unfortunately, never excelled at either listening nor following. 

Perhaps that was how she came to be standing at the doorway of a grand keep in Dorne, alongside a dozen other hopeful girls—many with swollen bellies or carrying young babes. These served as evidence of their capabilities, Rhaenyra supposed, and made them more likely to be chosen for what appeared to be a competitive position. 

Because of course it wasn’t going to just be given to her. Why would anything come easily, to a girl who had sinned such as her?

That is what would be scrawled on this page of her life, she thought. That was how others would see this.

But as the person living it, she saw things a little differently. 

.

Rhaenyra was, perhaps, slightly to blame for her situation. 

As a girl she knew marriage was a reality awaiting her. As a princess, she knew it would be discussed earlier for her than it would be for someone of non-noble birth. And as a Targaryen, she knew the timeline was accelerated even further—her mother had been just eleven when she wed Viserys Targaryen, the current King and Rhaenyra Targaryen’s father. 

She was lucky, they said, that her father waited until she was a girl of three and ten. 

She did not feel lucky, when she was paraded in front of men old enough to be her grandfather. She refused every man whose name she heard, until her father stripped her of the right to choose at all. It seemed fate was on her side though, and not her fathers. Much to Rhaenyra’s delight, some unknown force seemed determined to sour his plans. Again and again. 

Her first betrothed was gored, the wound festering and him perishing of infection. The second drowned. The third was slain on a battlefield. The fourth was poisoned. The fifth was apparently stung by a bee—his entire face swelling until he could not breathe! 

“Perhaps I’m cursed,” She had said cheerfully when she heard the news. Viserys had glared. Alicent had admonished her for talking so casually about a good man’s death. 

There were others after that, but truly at some point you forget the cause of deaths. There were so many. But finally—finally, one made it to King’s Landing. Made it to the wedding, even. He was a fine man, the heir of Driftmark and pretty to look at—even if he seemed more interested in his squire than her. 

He was certainly more interested in his squire than their vows, which were rudley interrupted by his murder. A rogue knight had  pulverized the squire’s face until  mere chunks and matted blonde hair remained. Laenor threw himself on the man's body—and took the knight's morning-star straight to his pretty  face. What a pity. 

Perhaps she was cursed. She thought, a little more morbidly this time after having witnessed the bloodshed in person.

It seemed Alicent—her stepmother, the Queen had the same thought. But as per usual, they disagreed about how to resolve the ‘problem’ that was Rhaenyra’s future. 

The conversation Rhaenyra overheard consisted of Alicent pleading with Viserys to send Rhaenyra away. This was a sign from the gods that she was not to marry—she could become a septa. Aegon was already heir, there was little need for a daughter. How many more men would Viserys doom to death by betrothing them to her?

Rhaenyra shifted, feeling twitchy from the insult but not wanting to give away her hiding place. Her nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood  when she heard her father speak. 

“Perhaps you’re right—I shall think of it.” 

.

She seduced her guard. He was fond of her. Fond enough to do right by her, she thought. 

They discussed running away as they lay together, after. She would bring jewels and dresses—things to fund their travels and acquire a home for them. Criston had family in Dorne, she would like it there, he swore. He would be good to her. He loved her. He’d always loved her, he whispered into her hair. 

Perhaps not what she wanted to hear, given that he had been her guard since she was a girl of seven. 

But she would rather be chained to him than a church. And she would rather wear light silks in Dorne than a heavy veil in King’s Landing. 

So she smiled. She told him she couldn’t wait to begin their life together. 

It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. 

.

won't you stay with me, my darlingwhen my walls start burning down

.

Their life together began on a boat—the captain wed them, and they were shoved into a tiny cabin with an even tinier bed. It was not glamorous, and Rhaenyra quickly learned she cared little for her new husband’s…everything. She grit her teeth and tried to bear it—it would be better when they reached Dorne, she told herself. 

She ignored the whisper that said, that is months away. 

She spent a great deal of time on the decks. Away from him and the stuffy space they shared.

.

She was visibly pregnant by the time they reached Dorne. She had suspected it, given the disruption of her courses, but she could blame that on stress, and the nausea on seasickness. But the protrusion from her stomach was unmistakable, evidence that there was no returning from this choice—this marriage. She would be tied to Criston in the form of a baby. 

He was delighted, so much so he cried tears of joy. 

Rhaenyra cried, too. 

.

Criston joined the guard—but he joined something else, too. A subgroup who patrolled the streets of the most lascivious areas of the city, breaking up couples they deemed inappropriate and breaking fingers of those who were clearly practicing infidelity. It was for the good of man, Criston claimed. It was for the good of their gods. 

Rhaenyra didn’t fear him, exactly, but she realized in this moment that one day she might. 

Perhaps that was why his death was a relief. 

He lasted longer than the others, she thought. He even lasted long enough to marry her. 

.

She was sixteen years old and a widow, heavily pregnant as she watched dirt topple over her husband's wooden casket. Some of his extended family had come—offering condolences to her, when she didn’t deserve them. She wasn’t sad that he was dead—she was sad that she was alone. And the looming prospect of caring for a baby by herself  was…terrifying. 

Perhaps it was luck that she didn’t have to look after him for long. 

The birth was horrific, something she never wanted to repeat. The pain was enough to make her beg for death to take her, for it would be kinder than having to suffer such agony. And when it was over, finally over, they set the brown haired babe to her chest and she…felt nothing.

He was not the blonde haired purple eyed Targaryen she had dreamed of. He was a tiny Criston, the little leech drinking eagerly from her breast just as his father had with her spirit. Resentment bubbled in her throat, acidic enough that it burned  and made her want to vomit. 

Criston’s cousins cooed over the babe, a few  staying the night to watch over the babe so Rhaenyra could rest. She nearly sobbed in relief, sleep coming easily as her body and mind were both exhausted from the labor.

 When Rhaenyra woke, the brown haired infant was pale and cold to the touch. Everyone was distraught. 

Everyone but her. 

The midwife said babies were fragile—one could appear healthy but pass quickly, it just  happened sometimes and no one was to blame.

Rhaenyra was…numb, nodding along and indifferent to it all. 

The babe was buried next to his father, the cross bearing a date but no name. 

.

this house says my name like an elegyechoing where my ghosts all used to bethere's still cobwebs in the cornersand the backyard's full of bones

.

Rhaenyra healed quickly thanks, in part, to her young age—or so the midwife said. Her malaise led to little appetite, and weight from pregnancy fell off of her in a matter of weeks. She looked at her body in the mirror each night, tracing the marks that had appeared as her stomach grew. They were fading too, and she wondered if one day there would be no evidence to tie her to the fact she had been a mother for one singular day. 

But then, she would weigh the weight of her breasts in her palms—the size of which still seemed obscene. They had grown along with her stomach, and she barely noticed for the bulge in her abdomen was so much more jarring. She had known they were larger, but they had seemed proportional to her stomach, and to her. 

But now her stomach was flat, and her chest remained…prominent. 

It demanded her attention for more than just its size, though. Her breasts ached. 

And, they leaked. 

At first, she was told to ignore it—with nothing to nurse the milk would dissipate. 

But it didn’t, and it hurt, gods it hurt, the skin feeling so tight and swollen she feared it would burst. She sobbed as she tried to massage them like the midwife had said too, but the pain was too much for her to continue. Finally one of Criston’s cousins took pity on her. Her baby was a few months old, eager for sustenance and uncaring of whose tit  it came from. 

The relief she felt as the baby latched was indescribable. She cried after it was done because it was so wonderful to feel like herself again. Her body was hers in that moment, not her husbands, not her child’s, hers. 

But then her breasts swelled, again. 

It was the midwife who made the suggestion—at her six week checkup she inquired about Rhaenyra’s output, and warned her it wouldn’t stop if she kept nursing. But Rhaenyra had tried to stop and the pain became too much—she didn’t know what to do. 

The midwife had clucked her tongue, “It isn’t such a bad thing I suppose. Tis the way of things, more babes than there are breasts to feed them. The wages of a wet nurse can be good, depending on who hires you. I can show you where the postings are—the pole in town, just for em’.” 

A year ago Rhaenyra would have laughed at the suggestion.

Most women of her station didn’t even feed their own children—Alicent certainly never had, and Rhaenyra wouldn’t have been expected to. But things were different here, or perhaps Rhaenyra just saw a different side of things here. The village truly raised each child, caring for them and sharing the burden of everything from feeding to clothing to teaching them. Breastfeeding was an expectation if you were capable of it. 

And clearly, it could be a job, too. 

Her half siblings had wet nurses—they were older, though. Their faces lined and bodies round. It was said the fat in the body produced fatty milk and healthy babies, at least in King’s Landing. But she wasn’t sure if that was true everywhere—if it was, her prospects didn’t look good. 

She never imagined herself working. Much less the job entailing the use of her breasts. But she would try—it was something to do. And she needed that, something to ground her here and keep her from running back to her father. She needed a life here. And perhaps, that life would begin with a job.

She reminded herself for what must have been the thousandth time—it was better than being a septa.

She would rather die than live a chaste life devoted to gods she didn’t believe in. And at least in this moment, she would rather try to live than die—even if it meant not just living, but working like a commoner. 

.

singing songs to the secrets behind my eyeall my aching bones are tremblingand I may yet fall apart

.

There were a dozen pieces of parchment pinned to the post in town—some were written in a neat hand, where others were mere scribbles on a scrap of paper. A young boy asked her if she needed help, and Rhaenyra realized that most women wouldn’t even be able to read the listings detailing what was required. She thanked him but shook her head.  

Perhaps it was ambitious of her to pursue what was clearly the best of the listed opportunities. It was written on crisp letterhead, the cursive spoke of the writer's wealth—or the fact he was wealthy enough to employ one to write it. The request was from a Lord. He had two young daughters, he was widowed, and it was a live-in position that would pay accordingly. 

Rhaenyra got the impression most women who took on such work did it in addition to their other jobs, and in addition to feeding their other children. It would make them poor candidates for this, even if the position was considered ‘better’ — Rhaenyra hoped her lack of commitments, lack of children, would make her better  suited in the eyes of whoever was interviewing for the position. 

Report to House Targaryen, 8am Saturday morn.

The seal at the bottom was of a three headed dragon—not one her family had used for several generations. But one they had used at one point, which—if the name wasn’t evidence enough—implied some relation. 

She would ask the Cole women about it, she decided, to see if they knew how the Targaryen family came to be in Dorne. If Rhaenyra hadn’t heard of them, they were likely quite far removed, and she doubted they would try to report that they found someone resembling a princess. 

.

They were not ‘quite far removed’ at all. 

It seemed after winning the war in the Stepstones centuries back, the third  Targaryen son had retired in Dorne with his cousin by his side. Their children had married, as had their children, as had their children, keeping the bloodline nearly as pure as the one Rhaenyra herself came from. 

Well. Fuck. 

.

She went anyway, deciding if her father didn’t inform her of their existence, then they likely wouldn’t be inclined to inform him of her. If they recognized her at all, that is, which she doubted. There was little reason to expect the first born daughter of the King to be in Dorne dressed as a commoner and looking for work as a wet nurse. 

Because that was precisely what she was doing, in that moment, as she stood outside the keep with a dozen other women. All of them were older than her—most taller, and bigger too. Rhaenyra knew her strength, but she wasn’t sure it would be recognized with a passing glance, and so her odds did not seem good. 

They were let in at eight, and seated in wooden chairs that lined a hallway. The ornate carvings on the wooden backs made Rhaenyra think of home, as did the tapestries on the walls and plush carpets beneath her feet. She had not starved since leaving King’s Landing, but she had not lived in the same level of luxury, either. And damn it to hell, she missed it. 

A wiry man in a suit surveyed the women seated before him—finally gesturing to one, with a sharp, “You!,” Before directing her to follow him. Rhaenyra watched the plump women enter the office of whoever was responsible for hiring, while the rest were left to wait. 

Rhaenyra didn’t like waiting. It made her nervous and it took every part of her to avoid picking at her nails. She could no longer fiddle with rings like she used to, for she no longer wore them at all. Nothing spoke of wealth quite like wearing a fortune on your fingers. She missed that, too. 

The plump woman left the office, walking quickly through the hall without an escort—presumably towards the door they had come through. Rhaenyra gathered it didn’t go well, and this was proven when another woman was selected by the well dressed man. 

And then another. 

And another. 

Babies were crying now, the women muttering amongst each other and tapping their shoes. They were obviously growing impatient and Rhaenyra was too, while she waited her thumbnail picked at a stray thread of her dress so aggressively a small hole had started. 

This time when the women left the office, a man followed her out. A different man. This one was well dressed too, but not skinny like the other—he had broad shoulders, and a commanding presence. An intimidating man, Rhaenyra thought. But in addition to that he was handsome, so, so, handsome. He had the bone structure of royalty—that odd mix of high cheekbones and softness that resembled marble carvings. His skin was fair, and his hair a silvery blonde that Rhaenyra would recognize anywhere as Targaryen. 

His brow was furrowed, and jaw clenched. He stomped rather than walked through the hall, giving a quick once over at the remaining women before pointing at her. Rhaenyra blinked in shock, and the skinny man who had selected the others openly gaped. “Are you sure?” In a near sputter, only to earn a glare from the blonde who was clearly his superior. Rhaenyra was glad he had been the one to ask, because she had wondered the same, but she didn’t want to suffer the weight of that gaze. 

“Come.” He said, simply, gesturing for her to follow him. She scrambled, gathering the bag at her feet and doing just that.  The nerves seemed to bubble in her gut now that she had been chosen—the realization she had no idea what to expect or to do became enormously clear as the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

She hadn’t been alone with a man since Criston was alive, she realized. But Criston had never made her feel like this—twisted up in knots and unsure of herself. She had been his superior before they wed, and even after his adoration was skewed in such a way that made their marriage peculiar. He’d never really had power over her. The only man who had that was…well, her father. And she hadn’t been nervous with him, either, she’d been angry. So this was different and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. 

The man sat behind his desk, leaning back in the chair and looking at her curiously. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure if she should sit, or remain standing, but either way she felt awkward being so far away. She walked closer to the desk and when her head tilted towards a chair, the man nodded in confirmation. 

She sighed as she sunk into the plush velvet cushion, much more comfortable than the wooden one she had been in for the better part of an hour. 

His eyes narrowed slightly, before he shook his head. “I am Lord Daemon Targaryen, as I presume you know.” 

She didn’t, actually, but she nodded.

He looked at her expectantly. Oh, she blushed realizing she was supposed to introduce herself. “I’m Rhaenyra T—Cole. Rhaenyra Cole.” 

“How old are you?” He asked, almost sounding bored. 

“Seventeen.” She muttered, fiddling with her dress again out of nervousness. 

“Does your husband support this?” 

She swallowed, “I’m a widow.” 

He hummed, “And so young—how tragic.” 

“Perhaps not as tragic as being married to him.” She muttered without thinking. Oh gods she wished she could take those words back but—the lord was smiling. Keen to ignore her comment apparently, he carried on. 

“And your children?” 

“One baby. Buried with my husband, as of a six weeks ago.” 

“And where did you come from, Miss. Cole? Wearing a fine dress, with no references, no husband, and no child.” 

She bristled, “I do not believe the quality of cloth and the fact I’ve been dealt two losses has anything to do with where I come from.” 

It was not a polite answer, but she didn’t care, his question was rude. It wasn’t even a question, it was an assumption. He ignored this, though, swiftly moving on- this time with a demand instead of a question. 

“Take down your hair for me.” He said, his eyes seeming to sparkle as he stared at her, almost amused. 

She could leave. She had no real need to abide by this request. But she did, reaching for the pins that secured the plaits to her head in a crown like fashion. With them out, the braids could easily be undone with her fingers—leaving her wavy silver locks pooling in her lap. 

“Gorgeous.” He whispered. She looked down, fiddling with the split ends as she felt her cheeks heat slightly at the compliment. It had been an age since she got one. She almost wanted to say his hair was gorgeous too, because it was—the same color as hers, and almost as long. 

“Take off your dress, now.” He said, in the same casual tone as the first command. But this time her eyes snapped to his, and her face twisted with  indignation—”I will not!” She said, firmly, before even thinking about it fully. 

He leaned back again, “You want this job, don’t you?” 

She nodded, despite everything she did. She had been adjusting well to life in the tiny stone cottage, she thought, but just a half hour spent in a keep that was warm and didn’t smell of lard and smoke was so refreshing to her senses, she didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to have to make bread every morning, and pay extra for meat because she didn’t know how to hunt and skin things. She didn’t want her fingers to become calloused, scaly, and bloody  from scrubbing stains out of  laundry.  

“This job requires nursing two infants—and I see little evidence that you would be capable of that, just a wisp of a thing in a pretty gown. You could have been sent to seduce me, even.” He said, seeming amused by the prospect. 

Her jaw clenched and she stood. Fine. She would prove it to him, then. She looked down at her fingers, which were shaking with anger not nerves as they  pulled laces from eyelets. The dress wasn’t particularly flattering on her—she liked the color which is why she had kept it, but it had never fit her well. Too big and shapeless for her taste. But she became  grateful for the quantity of fabric after pregnancy, when her breasts swelled to the point her other dresses fit too tightly. 

With the lacing undone to the waist, she untied the sash, freeing the front of her dress. A thin film of cotton covered her, the chemise made from  finer quality cloth than her dress—the weave so very thin that her breasts were nearly fully revealed to the man, even with it still on. She looked up but pointedly ignored his gaze, finding someplace to stare at above his head. This was humiliating, and she hated him for making her do it, even if a shred of her could understand why he had. 

And then he asked her to come closer. 

“Come now, you’re meant to show me evidence—I cannot see from here.” His voice was placating, as if trying to appeal to a child or stray dog— but it was a little sarcastic too. She huffed, looking at her feet—not him as she shuffled around the desk and stood on his side of the wooden monstrosity of a desk. He turned in his chair, looping his fingers through the dangling ties of her dress and using them to tug her closer. 

She was still not looking at him. 

Her breath hitched when she felt his fingers at her chest—undoing the knot that kept the chemise neckline cinched. She felt it happen, not even bothering to look down at herself as the fabric fell—gaping away from her chest and fluttering to her waist, leaving her breasts fully exposed. 

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself. This was fine. He simply  wanted to see what would feed his children. She was just unused to showing herself to a man in this way. She was unused to herself looking this way, truly—and sharing it with a stranger felt intimate, and a little embarrassing, even if it was not intended to be. 

Daemon’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she braced herself for another command. Another snide comment, if not something worse. But his voice was soft, as if full of admiration or awe even, and his words…

“I thought there was no beauty that would compare to your face—and then you took down your hair,  and looked like an angel draped in silver—the word beautiful did not seem to be enough of a descriptor, and now.”  He paused, “I think they must invent a new word, just for you, for the more of you I see the more I despair in my inability to praise your looks adequately.” 

That—what?

She looked at him now, at the way he was admiring her breasts. She didn’t understand why—they were too big, heavy globes that no longer sat as high as they once had. Veins lined them, especially now, the flesh feeling slightly hard and swollen as it had been hours since she had last fed. But he looked at her like she was a goddess, one he couldn’t resist touching. 

She let him. 

She didn’t pull away when his palm cupped her breast, seeming to weigh it in his hand—which was impressively large, managing to support the entirety of her breast—though some flesh spilled between his spread fingers. He squeezed gently—so gently, but she whimpered at the light touch. He gave her an apologetic look before asking, “Very sensitive, hm?” 

She nodded, “I—I haven’t fed in a few hours, they are… full.” She whispered the last word, sounding embarrassed because she was. Daemon nodded, seeming to understand—he released her breast, gently laying it the globe against her rib cage, before repeating the process with the other. 

“You mean to say you could feed, now?” He asked, his hands having returned to his lap—a fact she hated herself for being disappointed about, but gods it had been an age since she was last touched by a man. 

She nodded, she would like to, honestly, her breasts ached in a way that wouldn’t be relieved without it. 

He smiled, his features softening into something she didn’t recognize. He pulled her closer to him, and she stumbled forward—until she was trapped between his seated body and the large desk. His eyes were level with her breasts, only inches between his face and her chest. She was going to protest, truly, but then his thumb reached up and brushed her nipple, the delicate touch making her shiver.

“Evidence, yes? I cannot know if your tits produce milk unless I taste it, can I?” She swallowed loudly—the gulping noise audible even over the thunderous  pounding of her heartbeat  in her chest. 

“I—I don’t know.” She whispered. She assumed she would feed a babe in front of him,or  perhaps show him the let down that would come soon if she was not given that opportunity. She didn’t expect that he would put his mouth on her. A man! A grown man! That was perverse and wrong and—

“I’ll be gentle, princess.” He whispered, and then…

Gods. It was different. So different. His mouth was large, his tongue licking at the swollen bud of her nipple before sucking on it—long pulls that made her moan in relief as the tension was drained from her breast. His teeth were delicately covered by his lips to avoid hurting her, and his thumbs brushed the think skin that spanned her ribcage, which felt oddly sensitive too. 

He would alternate pulls on the nipple, and pulling more of the breast into his mouth—sucking on whatever would fit before returning to the nub that bore sustenance. She was clinging to his hair—long silver locks becoming tangled as she arched against his mouth. 

He switched sides, as if knowing she was feeling unbalanced and—oh, gods it was so good. She had never moaned like this before, but it had never felt like this before. This wasn’t a wholesome act between a mother and a child, this was sinful. It was wonderful. She could almost peak from this alone, she thought, it was so good.

When he pulled away she nearly cried, but his hands took the place of his mouth—rubbing her nipples between his fingers and watching the bead of milk that the stimulation forced out. It dripped down her breast—and Daemon’s eyes followed the droplets, before tracing the path they took with his tongue. 

Her breasts were more malleable now, sensitive but in a different, less painful way. She moaned at how he stroked her, the pleasure making her breasts leak and then his mouth was back, making sure nothing was wasted. Her hands were back in his hair, her body slack against him, supported by his seated form and his mouth as he suckled from her breast. 

He drank until she was empty, until there was no more left, and then mouthed a while longer—as if he was still hungry. When he finally pulled away, he did not steady her—but rather encouraged her to collapse into his lap. His arms trapped her there, stroking her stomach with long fingers while his eyes continued to admire what was exposed to him. 

She was flushed, breathing heavy and too tired to avoid his gaze. 

“Too beautiful for words, truly.” He said, his lips turned up in a bit of a smile. “I never expected a Targaryen princess to fall into my lap, like this. In Dorne.”

Rhaenyra stiffened, fear washing over her and turning the heat in her gut to ice. 

“It’s alright, I won’t tell anyone. I’ll keep you for myself, hm? And if they do find out…they could not take away my wife.” 

She swallowed, not sure if she should cry out of concern or happiness—but quite sure she was going to cry of something. 

He kissed the top of her cheek, his hands still stroking her lazily. “You’ll fit right into this Keep, won’t you? And you’ll fit in my bed just like you do my arms.”

.

oh ashes, ashes, dust to dustoh, lay my curses out to restmake a mercy out of metell me I am good enough

.

Rhaenyra Cole was seventeen when she became a  Targaryen, a mere fortnight  after meeting the handsome lord who shared the name.

She had been living in the Keep for almost as long, but the wedding was delayed until consummation would be possible—his concern for her condition after pregnancy was unusual and noble, the midwife said, sounding impressed. 

Rhaenyra did not think noble was quite the right word, given that the same man suckled at her breasts numerous times a day. He claimed it was the only way he could enjoy the sweetness of her body, until he was able to drink from her folds, too. 

Her breath hitched at that thought. 

She could scarcely breathe at all when that thought became a reality. Their first time together bringing her pleasure she thought impossible for a woman to experience—much less repeatedly. Daemon was just as attentive to the tap between her thighs as he was her breasts—and she feared she would be a poor wife with him as her husband simply because she would never want to leave their marital bed. 

When she shared her concerns, he laughed, hugging her close to him. “If that is the case then I am to blame, I suppose. But it is a husband’s duty to take care of his wife—and so your breasts will never spill over, and your cunt will never be empty. I swear it.” He said, and she believed him.

It was not the flowery promises of love and happiness that Criston gave her, after she took him into her bed. But this was better—it was honest. And that was all it took to make her believe that love and happiness may one day follow. 

.

won't you stay with me, my darlingwhen the war starts in my heart

.

Years passed, but the passion between the couple never faded. Love grew—for each other, and for their growing family. Three sons had joined Daemon’s two daughters in the nursery, in the mere five years since he wed Rhaenyra. They were handsome boys with pale blonde locks and amethyst eyes—sure to be the talk of Dorne when they grew older. The couple doted on them, on all the children. 

But. Rhaenyra never fed any of them from her breast. 

Her husband was greedy—he refused to share her, even with his sons.

Rhaenyra thought him ridiculous, but agreed to this—assuming she could be responsible for hiring the wet nurse for them.

“You cannot be trusted.” She teased, thinking back to how they met. 

Daemon just smirked as he too recalled the memory—though, his perspective was a bit different than hers.

.

{Rhaenyra never realized that a wet nurse wasn’t hired on that day.}

{She never realized that there was no intention of hiring one on that day.} 

{No intention of anything at all, beyond acquiring a Targaryen princess as a bride.} 

.

the devil's after both of us ooh, lay my curses out to rest make a mercy out of meoh my, oh my

.

{Sometimes a curse is a man made invention.} 

{Sometimes the devil chases you to his doorstep.}

{Sometimes it is him, who offers mercy.}