#hotdaemyrasummer

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

Tension was a familiar guest when it came to family dinners—it had been ever since Aemma died, taking her seat at the table and making the atmosphere into something fragile and threatening instead of floral scented and welcoming, like her late mothers perfume and cadence had been.

Its presence had been nearly constant ever since Daemon was sent away for the first time. Since Viserys married a girl only a handful years older than his own daughter—a handful years older than her. Since said girl gave birth to a boy, the heir her father always wanted. It had been invited into her life by her fathers actions, and though it wasn’t a welcome guest, it couldn’t be excused, either, not when the relationships between them all were tenuous at best. 

Well, except for her relationship with Daemon. 

Or—the relationship she used to have with Daemon. 

He clashed with his brother, her father, and she knew that. But his frustrations always faded when he turned to her, smiles warming his handsome face and inspiring matching grins to light up her own. He traveled often, but he always came back to her. He always promised to come back. 

Their family business wasn’t a kind one. It was one built on fear and maintained with equal quantities of bribes and bloodshed. Nothing was safe, and nearly no one could be trusted —-a simple fundraiser was more of a menagerie than a place to meet people. Wolves and lions stalked around corners, looking for prey while disguised by their designer suits. Snakes slithered between tanned legs and heels, on their best behavior as they spoke only sweetness, scales and venom hidden by saccharine promises and shrill laughter. 

She’d had nightmares of vipers once. Of being lost in a  jungle, the screech and roars of wild cats closing in. Of being on a cliff with a pack of large canines approaching—forcing her closer to the edge, that seemed to crumble away with her every move. 

It was Daemon who had comforted her then, who wiped her tears and kissed her hair. Who told her that she was a dragon, and no other creature was immune to fire. 

“And, I’m a dragon too, so I’ll protect you.” 

She had believed him then. And in the years that followed. She had believed him the previous year—when she turned seventeen. 

.

Her party—(if you could call the gathering of hundreds collected in the gardens that seemed to extend miles from the mansion she shared with her father a party), was perhaps the only time she had felt something resembling tension between them. Though it was different—it was the sexual variety, even if she hadn’t recognized it as that at the time. 

It was the first time in two years she had seen him. And his behavior wasn’t so different from when she was younger—shorter— thinner. But now she was older, and—okay, she wasn’t that much taller. But what she lacked in height she made up for in hips—in her bust, curves that weren’t fully contained by the modest gown Alicent had insisted she wear this day.

But perhaps more importantly, she was legal. 

She had googled it once, out of curiosity. Telling herself it was natural to be interested, shouldn’t the daughter of the ‘ King’ know what the rules were—the laws were, even when her family weren’t required to follow them?

Maybe that was why the casual brushes of his thumb against her neck, and the way his palm ran down her arm felt different. The action hadn’t changed, but she had. The possibility of what they could lead to had, too. 

That thought had come to her early in the evening, and it hadn’t left. It hadn’t had a chance too—now when it grew and curled, flames being stoked by every stroke Daemon left against her skin. Of which there were many. Daemon was tactile, and she was too—she had been ever since Aemma died, craving the physical closeness and evidence that someone was next to her.

It was one of the things she missed most, when he was gone. Praise found her easily, from boys and girls and magazines. But the casual intimacy was one she couldn’t replace so easily. It required an amount of trust she couldn’t afford to give up.

But more importantly she couldn’t give up the flicker of hope that Daemon might—-well. 

Daemon had always indulged her, but it hadn’t felt like this. Hadn’t made little shivers run through her. Hadn’t made her feel warm inside. Hadn’t made her blush. He’d hardly left her side the night of her birthday, that night , and he was perceptive, he had to have known she didn’t drink more than a few sips from her cocktail—which was something fruity he stole for her from the bar.

“It’s your birthday!” He’d said cheerfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before pressing the cold glass into her clammy hand. She had nodded, taking a tiny sip—but finding herself too distracted to swallow much more throughout the evening. 

But even so, he teased her, asked her why she was flushed, implied she was tipsy when he knew damn well the only thing she was drunk on was his affection. 

They’d been seated apart at dinner, and every gaze—every sip of water, even every bite of food somehow felt like foreplay. Not that she knew much about that. She was well guarded, with her father being the ‘King’ and few men would dare to even consider deflowering her. It was annoying. 

She’d kissed boys, she’d flirted, she’d done enough to recognize that whatever was between them this night wasn’t the type of familiarity most would approve of—not between family. Not between her, and someone nearly twice her age. Not between her and her uncle. 

The tension she knew from previous dinners was a warning—something threatening to snap and lash everyone in its wake, but this— this was a tightening in her gut that warmed her to the very core. 

Still, in the end, she had been hurt by it. 

.

It was already late when she tumbled into her room, giggling as she rolled across the fresh sheets stretched taut across the pillowy mattress. They were pink. Girlish in childish, the way her father preferred her. It was easier to pretend then, that she wasn’t a person, that she wasn’t a woman. 

Gods, she was sick of pretending. 

And Daemon wanted to give her a night where she didn’t have to. 

The letter was crisp on her pillow—the handwriting familiar, one she’d seen on cards every year since she was old enough to read. But this one was more than that. It was an invitation. 

She didn’t see the hurt coming, then. Nor when she pulled on a simple tube dress that would serve as her disguise for the few hours remaining before dawn. She definitely didn’t see it coming when she slipped out the back door, running barefoot across the garden with her heels in her hand, before coming across the alcove where her uncle was hidden. 

If she was distracted then—when she giggled into his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, she was delirious when they got to the club. She hadn’t drunk anything more—though Daemon had offered, and she hadn’t taken anything either, annoyingly—Daemon had stopped her. But she was grateful for it now, because she felt high from feeling of him against her. The pounding of the music. The dim lighting of the club, pounding in time with the beat of her heart that seemed to thrum only for this moment.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed like that. Until they were sweaty enough they feared drowning—desperate the escape the heat of the dance floor, but finding a different sort of heat in their embrace.

They spilled out a back door, and she sighed in relief as the air hit her—the humid night tempered into something cool thanks to the early hour. It was an alleyway that greeted them, she thought, but she didn’t see much of it—didn’t care much about anything at all, not when her hands were in his hair and his lips were against her own. 

It hurt when he pressed her against the wall —she felt the sting on her palms from the concrete, layers of skin peeled back, and she grinned at that. She laughed at the feeling of his  teeth, the bite of them into her tender neck that would turn to bruises on her pale flesh. She wouldn’t have minded if—in fact she resented that he didn’t hurt her more. 

She’d wanted to feel the stretch of him in her cunt—the bruising force of hips against her, as the hard member she’d felt in the club pressed into her, freed from the barrier of his dark washed jeans. So perhaps it was her fault, what followed. A manifestation of her misinterpreted dreams, a suffering that couldn’t come from the width of his cock, or the pressure of his palms around her neck. 

Because the true hurt came when he left. 

And for the first time, he didn’t promise to come back. 

.

He didn’t  say goodbye. 

.

He didn’t comment when pictures of that night were leaked. 

.

He didn’t  text when she turned eighteen. 

.

He didn't reply to the good news, either. 

.

Now, on this day—a year and some months since they had seen each other, there was once again tension between them. It felt like a blanket, smothering everyone within glaring distance of them. Even her father looked uncomfortable. Fuck, even Ageon looked uncomfortable, and that boy was as dull as an included diamond. 

She eyed her cutlery, because if she looked down she wouldn’t risk catching his gaze. Her fingers dragged across the polished ebony wood of the steak knife. You could cut the tension with a knife, she thought with a snort. Fuck, she wanted to cut him with her knife. 

She wanted to flay him open. Maybe rip out his heart, because maybe it could soothe the damage and hurt he’d done to hers. 

She swallowed her anger, returned her fingers to her lap. 

As she looked at them, without the distraction of tableware that could be used for violence, she found she needed to swallow a sob, too. 

Because the wedding ring was another reminder of what could never be. 

Written for THIS event, and THIS Ao3 collection.

My Ao3!

England, 1938

.

Rhaenyra hadn’t had many boys in her rooms, though she supposed this boy was more of a man. Daemon Targaryen was twenty four to her sixteen, and he looked it. He was tall, and though not the most muscular of men, he walked and moved with a lithe confidence that spoke to his strength. 

She imagined he could be an intimidating man if he wanted to be. But in her presence he had chosen to be charming and he succeeded in that quite fantastically. They had met the previous morning—nods of recognition that were suitable to pass between a princess and a man—-her cousin, she thought? Or her uncle once removed? Her grandfathers, brothers, youngest son, if she recalled correctly. Farther from the throne than she was, but still with a strong current of royal blood in his veins. 

It was funny, how obvious that was. She didn’t need the nose of a hound to know his last name was Targaryen, no one would, not with his eyes and hair and smirk. But he was a bit of a pariah, the third son, and not one willing to fall in line behind the others. 

She didn’t know much about her cousins, at least not more than whispers her mother discouraged around the dining table but embellished when taking tea with friends. But she knew of Daemon—his photos were often in the papers, or rather, photos of him. 

Not him making speeches, or cutting ribbons. No, they were of him at bars, drunken in the streets and disheveled. She had to hide her grin when they met that morning, when she got to see him in the flesh—his hair slicked back save for a stubborn strand that fell across his brow. He looked every bit a prince then, as he did now, so many hours later. The newspaper didn’t do him justice, smudges of dark ink creating shadows where there were none, and hiding the best and brightest of his features. 

Daemon hadn’t gone into service—even with talks of war brewing. He hadn’t turned to the faith. He hadn’t even attended university to learn the laws and become a solicitor. He had gone to France, to art school. Her father had scoffed at the notion, of a son, of a man in line for the throne—albeit not near the front, choosing such a ridiculous path for life. 

But Rhaenyra had admired it then, when she heard. Thinking it must be nice to live a life creating things others liked to look at. She admired it now too, perhaps even more given that Rhaenyra spent her days feeling like she was one of those things that had been created for others to look at. 

A bit like a sculpture, maybe? Carved from marble. Chunks of what she could have been and would have wanted, chipped away until all that remained was pale and smooth and inoffensive. Until she was exactly what her parents wanted her to be. 

Because that was her purpose in life, wasn’t it? 

That was what they had always told her.

Her appearance—her actions, her existence, was a reflection of their parenting. 

Of their family. 

Of their country. 

.

Daemon didn’t seem impressed by the space she called her own, despite the large size of elaborate quarters carved out for her in the palace. His seemed to carefully scrutinize the walls—the furniture, and even the floor. He wasn’t looking in awe at the grandeur, and his eyes didn’t widen in envy at the luxury she spent her time in. 

No, instead his first words were about what it lacked. 

“There are no mirrors?” Daemon said, looking around her bedroom curiously. It was an odd thing to notice, she thought—made stranger still by its relevance to the thoughts that had seemed to swim in her head throughout the day. 

Perhaps it was coincidental, but no one had ever noticed the absence of them in her rooms. For her walls were hardly lacking decoration—papered with something thick and expensive, with foiled vines stretching across it like they were trying to reach the sun. It was a droll tragedy, how they were doomed to end at the ceiling, never reaching the sky. Sadder still were roses entwined with them, all mere buds that would never bloom. 

She hadn’t chosen the paper. She had even tried to rid the room of it, once, finding a seam and picking at it with a hair pin until a maid found her and scolded her. Sometimes she looked at those marks—scratches in the thick paper that couldn’t be repaired that remained  a reminder she had tried to change her circumstances once. 

A constant comfort, perhaps. 

She had chosen the paintings on her walls, at least. The expanse of them big enough to hold several of her favorites—pieces deemed to garish for the gallery, but not inappropriate for a girl of her age. She liked some of the darker ones—the heavy oils that displayed realistic scenes of murder or adultery. Works from the Renaissance or when her ancestors walked these halls, then gruesome acts and religious imagery were some of the few subjects artists felt drawn to. 

But she liked pretty things, too. Viserys had once called her taste childish, scoffing at the bright colors and abstract styles that impressionists used. Rhaenyra thought it interesting, how so much could be said with so little detail. How much richer it was to look at, when such things were left up to imagination. 

It took talent, the modern paintings equivalent in her mind to a poem that shared as much as a published volume of history. More words didn’t make something better. Didn’t make something true. Perhaps that was why she hated her reflection, for it was more detailed than any picture or portrait, but it didn’t seem to portray who she was at all. 

Maybe it was part of what drew her to Daemon, curiosity not stemming from his unruliness but rather his shared interest in the world. Or maybe it was envy, either for his talent or his passion and ability  to commit years of his life to its study. She would have no such luxury, at least not within the walls of a classroom. 

She had her tutors, but her concerns once her education finished would be with the country, the people, not silly pictures, as her mother called them. Everything Rhaenyra liked was silly, her interests brushed aside while her mother insisted upon the importance of charity work and appearances. As if they weren’t one in the same, money directed towards causes that would make them look better, prop up their position even higher while doing alarmingly little for the lower class. 

Not that she cared about that, either. She was just tired. Tired of true intentions being hidden behind bobbed hair and bright smiles. Speeches about how they were doing their best that people would accept simply because her father was nicely dressed and descended from the King’s and Queen’s that lined the halls of England's finest gallery. 

It was exhausting, the inability to be yourself, even in your own rooms. Though this was the closest she could come, and so she shouldn’t have felt the need to justify her decor choices to him, a near stranger despite their shared blood.

But they were her choices and for once, she was curious what someone would think of them. What he would think of them. He had a quick wit that kept up with her own. He was handsome, and he knew it, but he didn’t hold that like a weapon against her throat—didn’t use it as an excuse to make cutting remakes. At least not towards her. She didn’t think he would tease her, if she told the truth—and so, she did. 

“I don’t like my reflection,” She admitted. The words sounded silly between them, and she suddenly cursed herself for not making up another reason. 

Her distaste for such a thing had stemmed from her childhood, the warnings of how she was a reflection of her family turning literal in her younger selves mind. She feared she would see them looming behind her in the pane of glass, like a shadow of ancestors warning her of the potential for disappointment. 

She grew out of the childish fear, but not the dislike for such objects. She didn’t like looking at herself—being forced to see what others did. See what others believed. The good girl who always had fresh stockings and polished shoes, skirts the perfect length—necklines appropriately modest. Compliments towards her were endless, and well earned by the effort she put in. She knew she was comely, not needing a mirror to prove she was pretty. 

Not just pretty, but perfect. 

She didn’t feel perfect. She didn’t want to be perfect. And she didn’t want to see evidence of the illusion her appearance gave. Didn't want to become convinced by her own tricks, for fear she might lose sight of her own self. 

“You surprise me.” He admitted, though the words sounded fond. “I thought a princess would want to do little but stare at her beauty.” 

She tilted her head up, trying to stand taller—as if that would disguise the feeling that curled in her gut, the one that made her feel uncertain and small from her inexperience .  She’d been called beautiful before—many times in fact, far more directly than his comment, which was really more of an implication than a statement. 

But it felt different between the four walls of her room. Different when they were alone. Different when it was Daemon, and he was looking at her like that.

She laughed, hoping it sounded natural despite the tightening of her throat— “Hardly so.” And then she smiled, though it wasn’t as genuine as she’d like, either, “Are all princesses not beautiful? What need does a rose have to remind itself of its petals?” It was his turn to laugh, a sound quite a bit deeper than hers—and one that made her feel something deep inside her own gut

“Are you a rose then?” He asked, and she shrugged. “Perhaps.” 

He took a step closer, “A proper english rose?” 

She took a step back, and it wasn’t lost on her that he was herding—for that’s what it felt like, her closer towards the bed. This was supposed to be her territory, but somehow he was the collie and this was his field. 

“I don’t know.” She admitted, feeling quite like a dim sheep. 

Daemon paused—seeming surprised that she had discontinued their banter. But he wasn’t discouraged, going so far as to reach his arms out and pull her towards him. She followed his lead, as he folded her into an embrace.  

Rhaenyra hadn’t hugged many men—perhaps a dozen? And none so recently as a girl—near women, of sixteen. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. How good it felt to nuzzle closer against the crisp lapels. The warm scent of smoke and spicy cologne they used to try and cover it was so distinctly man . It distracted her into relaxing, though she had enough awareness to notice the comically loud sniffing noise. 

She pulled back, affronted—looking up at his grinning face. “You smell like a rose.” He said, and she laughed, tipping easily back into his arms and making a point to noisily sniff his collar—she had to go on her tiptoes to do so, and her lips brushed his jaw in the process. 

She didn’t think it was intentional on her part. But maybe it was. She certainly didn’t protest at his response, which consisted of catching her face  in his palm. Tipping her chin up until her gaze was forced to meet his own. His hand stroked down her jaw, thumb pressing at the hollow of her throat before cupping her neck.It was odd, the weight of a hand there, though not unpleasant. 

It fell to her waist, pulling her closer to him still before he tipped his own jaw and brought their lips together. Rhaenyra had kissed a few boys, and a few men, but none like this. This was the type of kiss children weren’t allowed to see—it wasn’t a promise of affection, it was a promise of more, of lust. 

She’d heard whispers of naughty stories, even thought she’d come close to being kissed in such a manner herself! But this was different. It was intoxicating, the way his tongue pressed against hers—exploring her mouth and claiming the territory as its own before his teeth followed, scraping against her bottom lip and inspiring her to follow his lead. 

They ended up on her bed, somehow. He must have had more awareness than her, because she felt them moving—felt his hands running down her back and gripping her hips as she attempted to straddle him. She swore at the style of her dress, too narrow for what she wanted. The rayon made noises of protests as it tore from the strain, but the stiff lining beneath trapped her legs all the same.

It wasn’t elegant how she huffed, jumping off Daemon before fussing with hooks to try and remove it. Daemon laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel sound—simply one of amusement over her antics. He pulled her closer to him, attempting to undo the hooks at her side while he remained seated on her bed. He wasn’t doing a very good job, she noted. He seemed distracted by looking at her. His eyes unapologetically meeting her own, as if looking for an answer to something.

Finally she grew frustrated, “What?” 

He shook his head, returning to the task at her waistline while he spoke, “I just, can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like looking at yourself.”

Her breath caught. “It’s not that.” She said, wetting her lips—her mouth that had seemed wet to the point of embarrassing when they were kissing now felt dry. “I just don’t think it’s very accurate.” she paused, “Or maybe it’s too accurate.” she pondered, wondering if that was the truth of it. 

“Have you had your portrait painted?” He asked, successfully freeing her from the taffeta skirts. She awkwardly slipped out of it, hating the inconvenience of side closures. She was sure she looked a mess now—hair rumpled and in nothing but a slip, but it was hard to be embarrassed with the way Daemon looked at her. 

“No,” she said slowly. “Not since the invention of cameras.” she teased. 

“A painting wouldn’t show you what you look like. It would show you what I see when I look at you.” He said, sounding awfully serious despite her state of undress. 

“Are they not the same?” She asked, fingering the undone  lengths of his tie. 

He smiled, leaning back against the bed. “Let me show you,” 

“Now?” She teased.

He shook his head, “No, now I’ll show you something else.” 

It was her turn to grin. 

.

She hadn’t planned this. Inviting him to her room. She thought he was handsome, true. Interesting, perhaps. But she hadn’t expected this fascination —the way her eyes followed his every move. She understood now, the way maidens would wait on their suitors every breath. It would have been pathetic, maybe it was, but he was too charming to make her feel anything other than warm.

And then after dinner, he had cornered her. 

“I wish we had more time to talk privately, princess.” 

“Talk?” She had queried, a bit skeptical.

“In your rooms, maybe.” He had hinted, reaching to wipe something from her shoulder—a piece of imaginary lint, to be sure, her attendant would never allow her to leave her room with such a thing on her person.

“My mother would say you are seeking an invitation for something less savory than talking ” She said, blushing a little at the implication. If she was wrong, if he truly craved mere conversation, he’d think her probing foolish. 

“And if I am?” He asked, not looking the least bit bothered by her search for the true meaning of his words. 

“I suppose…I would say to follow me.” 

.

She hadn’t spoken to him of her inexperience. She assumed he knew of it—she was a princess, with few opportunities, and few interactions with men willing to risk their place by propositioning her. Not to mention the scandal it would cause if news broke that she…before marriage, gods. It felt too late to mention it, when she had already agreed to have him in her rooms. She knew what the implications of that were, she wasn’t dim. 

When a man asked to go to your room, it was because it had a bed, and beds were for….

She knew the basics of what they were for at least. She just didn’t know about… this. She thought it would be awkward. A bit of fumbling before two nude forms met each other. She didn’t expect the teasing—the tongue tracing her shoulder blades while teeth plucked silk straps from them. 

There was so much kissing—endlessly their mouths met, drinking each other's moans and laughs and cries as their hips ground together in a way that inspired their lungs sing in pleasure. 

Rhaenyra didn’t have much insecurity about what lay beneath her slip, constant dress fittings and physicals long sense undoing her sense of modesty. She had un-stylishly full breasts that felt heavy but sat high on her chest, even when the hooks of her bra were undone. Her waist was small, but curved into hips that she swore made their own sigh of relief as she peeled her girdle off. Curves weren’t in fashion, much to her chagrin. The suit of nylon an attempt to hold in what her body begged to truly be. Because of this she was unsurprised by the fact the metal suspenders had dug in, leaving angry marks behind as she tossed aside her hose. 

When she turned back to Daemon—feeling relief over the removal of the offending garments rather than embarrassment over her bare body, she delighted in his expression. It was a bit awed, a bit dumbstruck. He looked younger—lighter, and it was so sweet she had to stifle a giggle. 

He made no move to well… move, and she huffed, her patience wearing thin even if he was looking at her so nicely. “It’s your turn.” She said firmly, and he nodded—his tie had been loosened by her wandering hands, so it came free easily. She was sure a few links for the buttons would be found in the plush carpets of her room, so that garment was swiftly set aside too. It was hard to care about her potential carnage, when she was so eager in wanting more of him to be exposed to her. 

And when he was… gods. 

Rhaenyra thought she knew what the male form looked like. She treasured her books on greek sculpture after all! She’d been to galleries across Europe. Her fingers had traced the marble lines of Michelangelo's most famous  works. And so she didn’t think a nude man would be a stranger to her, and it wasn’t strange! It was…gorgeous. 

She realized she probably had a similar expression that he’d had a moment prior—something dumb as she took in what was his naked body. As she came to terms with what she wanted to do to his naked body. Desires she certainly hadn’t felt when looking at the marble forms in a gallery. She swallowed, before gesturing for him to come closer. It tickled her, how he obeyed, how he brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. 

He was softer than a statue, made from flesh and bone and sculpted by the gods rather than the palms of a mere mortal. Perhaps that was why he was even more lovely than any creation she’d seen in a museum. But she couldn’t reflect on this for long, not when his fingers were roaming and tongue lapping at the swell of her breast. 

He was lazy in the exploration of her body, unhurried in a way that both tormented and thrilled her. Though he seemed to move too slowly, time was passing so quickly, pleasure seeming to turn to steam and rise through the air before grasp it with her palms or come to terms with it at all. And when his mouth met her cunt—

Gods. 

This must be what people lived for. What they killed for. What wars were waged for. This feeling, it was everything. She was lost in it, the tongue battling against her folds despite both being on the same side that was her pleasure. She didn’t know when her fingers found his hair, but they were twisted in the silver locks—holding on so tightly it must have hurt—but when she let go he growled. It was as if her grip had kept the beast at bay, and now it was freed from her thighs and ready to strike, its mouth meeting her own as they teeth clashed and in a sloppy kiss. 

Her hands found his hair again, and their bodies found each other too—slotting together like they were made for this, it took the simple guidance from Daemon’s fingers to press his length inside of her. She thought it hurt, but she was distracted by the fact she was being devoured. By the fact his teeth were digging into her neck and his thumb twisting the peak of her breast. There were too many sensations flowing through her for the contractions in her cunt to phase her. 

Not until they started feeling good. 

She was quiet now, she thought—no longer moaning, her lips silenced by Daemon’s own. The noise was of him inside her the slick slapping sound of flesh repeatedly meeting each other. The sound reminded her of a baker kneading dough until it was ready to rise, and that made her want to laugh too—but she couldn’t, she didn’t have space inside her to make sounds. She was too full of him.

Gods, perhaps he was kneading her rearranging her with his cock until she was perfect for him. And she was rising for him, too, everything seeming to tighten as she approached a new height she didn't think she was capable of. She was delirious now—comparing herself to baked goods! Whatever she was, whatever this was, it truly was good. It was better than good. It was… everything. 

It was perfect. But better than that. Because it was tangible and real. 

She was still holding onto his hair when he came, ducking his head in the side of her neck and pressing gentle kisses to the curve of it. She winced when he slipped out of her, the absence of pleasure making lingering pains noticeable. 

He stood and slipped the rubber from his length, which she was equal parts fascinated with and disgusted by, before lazily throwing it in a waste basket that was decorated with baroque scrolls. 

 She had a moment of fear when he reached for his pants—it was mixed with embarrassment and attraction to his nude form, but the fear overshadowed them both for she was worried he would leave. 

He didn’t, though. He fished out a lighter and a package of cigarettes before dropping the wool trousers to the floor. When he returned to her, he propped himself back against the headboard, and made no move to cover himself before lighting the coil of paper. 

“Have you smoked before?” he asked, looking at her curiously. She shook her head, eyes following the trail of smoke that blew from his lips. 

When he passed it to her, she took it eagerly—-following the steps she’d seen her father and his men do thousands of times before. She coughed inelegantly, inhaling too deeply and too much before cringing in embarrassment at her poor showing. When she caught her breath, she was happy to pass the offending thing back to him, shivering a little at the drag of his calloused fingers against her own.

“It takes practice.” He insisted, showing off by blowing a ring of smoke towards her ceiling. 

“Does that get better with practice, too?” She asked, looking at the space between them to implyl the true meaning of her words. 

“You hadn’t done that before, either.” He said, catching her gaze. She didn’t think it was a question but she shook her head all the same.

“When you come to my studio, you can find out.” He said, a little smug. 

She tried not to show her enthusiasm, her pleasure that he still wanted to see her again. She had heard of men and their appetites, knew that his charm might be as much of a facade as her own. Falling from his features when he was alone and had no need for her body for his pleasure. 

“You still want me to come?” She asked, trying to be brave as she stole the cigarette from his hand. She didn’t cough this time, which seemed to please them both.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asked, his expression one of amusement, causing little wrinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. She reached out to feel them, stretching the skin that wasn’t her own with her thumbs and grinning because he let her. 

“Some might say a deflowered rose has little left to offer.” She said, a bit primly, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to see how he’d respond. 

He surprised her, putting the cigarette out on the lacquered surface of her night stand—chemicals melting and mixing with the scent of smoke. It would leave a mark, she realized. One she’d have to explain, but that was for later, and for now he was pulling her back into his lap—a duvet between their loins but leaving enough skin exposed to make her blush. 

“I don’t think that’s true.” He said, leaning back against the headboard and cradling her hips with his palms. “About the deflowered rose, they still have lots to offer.” He specified. 

She giggled, cupping his face, “Like what, exactly?” she asked. 

They were maybe an inch apart now—noses brushes, breath tangled, when he whispered, “They still have thorns.” 

.

Daemon left that night, like she knew he would. 

The smell of smoke faded.

Rhaenyra wrapped the rubber in toilet paper, stuffing it beneath every bit of garbage she could find in her room with hopes of disguising it. The sigh of relief she felt when trash was emptied with no question was astonishing. 

No one asked about the mark on her side table, but it remained. A divet in the lacquer, showing a man's defiance—only a few feet away from her own act of rebellion, scratches at the seam of foiled paper. 

It was the only outside sign of his presence in her rooms. Aside from the square of paper he’d withdrawn from his pocket before leaving. It had the address, for his apartment and his studio on it, written in the hand of a well bred Targaryen, not a loop out of place—too ingrained in them from a young age to be absent even in a casual missive.  

The paper was worn now, from being folded and carried in her pocket. Even though she had memorized the numbers that very night she took it with her everywhere. Too afraid someone else would find it. Too afraid to throw it away. She needed it as a reminder he was real. That this was real. 

.

His studio was small, in a good part of the city but a poorly maintained building. The windows were big, and the amount of light extraordinary—but it was drafty, curtains doing little to hide this as they blew in the breeze from the gaps in the window panes. 

The floors were old planks, the finish long since having worn away, leaving them an uneven shade of brown that was barely remedied by the cedar oil she could still smell in the air. It hid the scent of damp, at least, mixing with the smoke of his cigarettes and his cologne. 

She loved it, though. The mismatched pieces of furniture and the large rugs clashed horribly but did a great deal to cover the damaged floors. And there was art everywhere. Not the type in her books, or in the galleries, or not just those types. 

His collection was varied—he seemed to dislike most of them when she inquired, which amused her endlessly. But he had such an appreciation for their existence and creativity. The way he talked about art, the way he respected things for being different, rather than trying to make them all the same.

It was…extraordinary. 

.

He is extraordinary, she thought, when they reached his own works. The talents of the old masters mixed with a modern palette, creating something modern but respectful and not at all like she had expected from him. 

It was genuine, when she said she loved his work. 

It was scary how genuine she thought the same words might be in regards to her feelings for him.

.

He drew her with charcoal first. Portraits and limbs and a dozen poses. Quick sketches that hardly looked like her but exposed so much in the ways they did. 

His hands were a sooty mess after, leaving prints on her hips when he fucked her. He’d laid her over the drafting table, every thrust of his hips pressing her breasts against his drawings, smudging the lines and obscuring the subject further. 

“They’re ruined,” She said, running her fingers over the dark lines that dragged across the page. Sweat and oils from her skin having distorted the beautiful forms he’d outlined on the paper. But he shook his head and sounded confident when he said, “They are exactly what I wanted.” 

She wondered if she was what he wanted. 

She was grateful she wore black that day, as she pulled the cotton twill over her smudged chest. Grateful for her etiquette lessons, for it kept the tears at bay when she said goodbye. 

“You’ll be back.” He said, and it wasn’t a question. But she wasn’t sure it was something she could promise, either. 

That night she was intentional in the way she looked at her reflection. Thinking for the first time she looked like something of her own making. Or of his. 

It washed down the drain, leaving behind once more pale skin.

.

She was punished for missing her lessons. Questioned about where she went and what she did. The unaccounted for hours in her life seemingly unacceptable to those who were paid to care for her. 

Viserys assigned her a new guard, a man of the faith turned devotee to the crown, who watched her like a hawk with clear blue eyes. Her every step was shadowed by his own, his looming presence at her door long after she went to bed. The worst of her indiscretions had not been realized, but she was being punished for them all the same. 

She saw Daemon once at a dinner, weeks later, but they didn’t have a chance to mingle or speak. 

He was not shy in the way he gazed at her, she would even say he was rude in how he started. But she didn’t mind it. She liked it, the feeling of being alive under his gaze, of being seen. She had forgotten how heady that feeling was, how desperate she was for more of it. 

But it seemed life was determined to keep her from it. He was noticeably absent from the small birthday celebration they had for her the following month, the larger party canceled due to talks of war which would make celebration seem uncouth.

 “Oh, his behavior towards you didn’t seem quite appropriate.” Her mother admitted, giving her an apologetic smile along with the explanation. 

His interest in her hadn’t gone unnoticed. And her mother—or the crown, did it even matter which? Had decided it wasn’t of her interest. 

Rhaenyra stared at the mark on her nightstand. 

.

Then, one day, it was gone. 

“There was a dent—some sort of damage, I do apologize for it not being noticed earlier.” 

.

It was replaced with something eighteenth century—white with gold gilt. It was pretty. It fit the room perfectly. It was as if the previous piece was never there. A priceless antique that had been in the palace for centuries was easily replaceable to a family like hers. 

She wondered if she would be replaced that easily too. 

Her brother Baelon was young, but of just as good breeding. His hair was platinum and his irises purple. He would have the same tutors as her, and tailors. Even more opportunities than her thanks to his gender. What would happen if she stumbled? If she became marred like the nightstand was. She might not be thrown away—but she would be set aside, something better taking her place. 

She didn’t get much sleep—her eyes were searching for something that was no longer there. 

Her mind was searching for a reason to stay here. 

.

She should have been ashamed, that when she heard the news of an invasion that could motivate England to finally act, that her first thought was of freedom. People were scared, and when scared they were sloppy. 

She stole a coat, giggling despite her unease in regards to this escape. It swallowed the red burgundy velvet of her gown, hiding the stretches of skin that had been allowed for the evening and falling past her hands. It was easy to slip away while cocooned in its embrace. She kept her head ducked low while she caught a car. 

The address spilled from her lips quickly, eagerly, the engine revving as it accelerated towards the outskirts of London. The driver was listening to the radio so loudly it hurt her ears, but she could barely hear it over the pounding in her chest. She was grateful for it, either way, that he didn’t try to make conversation. 

.

The car didn’t linger, seeming to disappear as soon as her heel met the curb. Four steps lead to the door that boasted his address, something old and grand and appropriate for a member of her family to have. 

Leaves decorated the stoop, saturated with water and squelching unattractively beneath the leather soles of her shoes. She realized, somewhere between paying her fare and knocking on the door before her, that this was perhaps a foolish idea—what if he wasn’t there? What if he laughed at her? What if—

The door opened.

The hall behind him was dimly lit, and she realized he must have been sleeping because a pair of half buttoned pajama pants were all that covered his form. She couldn’t help but grin at his tired state, his rumpled hair. 

A giddiness at being close to him again overtook the nerves and then he was kissing her. 

.

The next morning he made her eggs, while she watched in rapt fascination—never actually witnessing the task before. He drank coffee instead of tea, offering her some only to laugh when she nearly spat it back into the mug. “It takes some getting used to,” he said. 

“I think I’d like to get used to it.” She admitted quietly, looking down at the mug of dreadful liquid. It may have been vile but she was grateful for the grounding nature of its heat in her palms, the euphemism it offered when discussing a more challenging topic. 

“There would be a media storm,” Daemon mused, though he didn’t look bothered by the thought. 

“We’re British, we can handle some rain, can’t we?” 

“I do have experience making women wet.” He said cheekily. She gaped at the jest, reaching over the counter to hit him, but he caught her palm and pulled her to him. 

“I’d like to weather a storm with you.” He said, more serious now. 

“I’d like to do more than just that.” She admitted, smiling before their lips met—and she found coffee didn’t taste as bad from his tongue. 

.

They went to his studio—the radio turned off, eating rations an older woman from upstairs insisted on dropping off. She was nearly blind, Daemon whispered to Rhaenyra before letting her in. Daemon told her that they were newlyweds and the woman grinned, saying she would be back—- muttering something about fuel before trudging up the remaining stairs. 

Daemon posed her, and sketched at a canvas for what felt like hours before they broke for lunch. They ate her offerings and napped on a dusty chaise lounge. They didn’t wear much clothing, too enamored with each other's nude forms to bother. 

Daemon became nearly frantic in his work—layering oils and mixing paint until the smell of turpentine permeated the air,  growing even stronger as hours passed. He was too caught up in his work to take breaks for smoking, or —to her annoyance, sex, at least not until the light turned bad. 

Then they would come together, in more ways than one. 

.

When he showed it to her, she almost wanted to cry. Because it was her. Hair long, eyes alluring, lips turned up in something her mother would call a smirk. Her form was bare but for a sheet, as was her face and she had never looked more...perfect was a cursed word on her tongue. She wouldn’t use it. 

But this was how she wanted to be seen. 

And it was how he saw her.

And that was all that seemed to matter.

.

She felt very young and small as they left his studio—dressed in an ill fitting navy suit and large sunglasses that hid the most notable of her features. She’d huffed, when the store didn’t have any pants—a novel style she had never been offered the opportunity to wear in her life in the palace. Daemon promised she could have all the pants she wanted, they just had to get out of this god forsaken country first. 

It was strange how no one looked at them on the busy streets, too caught up with their jobs and lives and concerns with war to be bothered by the pair of blondes slipping onto a train. 

Daemon had a friend file paperwork for them, ink drying on the license declaring them wed before they even stepped off the train. They stayed at an inn, a raunchy establishment named Silk Street. Daemon loudly exclaimed his intentions towards his new bride before the evening began, and though she had been embarrassed at first, she drank too much and had too much fun dancing with him to care by the time they retired. 

“They have to know I deflowered you,” he said between kisses, “Can’t let them take you away from me.” he insisted, sounding almost desperate, justifying the treatment he gave her with a few more whispers before dropping his mouth to her cunt.  

She tried not to give him the satisfaction of screaming—biting her fist until the marks bruised. But soon she couldn’t resist, whimpers and shouts turning to broken cries while her hands grasped his hair. 

.

When they left the next day, there were jeers and glares in equal measure. 

.

The room on their ship was, thankfully, better insulated. 

.

Rumors didn’t break of that night, or their travels. Though Rhaenyra had little doubt word of it made it to her parents—the crown. She hadn’t heard from them either, despite sending them her address months prior. It was her friend—another cousin, Laena, who told her that they placed a tiny announcement in the paper. There wasn’t even a photo, just a short message saying she had wed and moved to another country with her husband. 

Baelon was announced as heir a week later. 

Rhaenyra was right, she was easily replaced—at least in their eyes. 

.

There never was a media storm like they worried, she thought, looking down at a newspaper sticking to the wet concrete while she waited for the stupid beasts they called pets to find a place suitable to pee. They were unbothered by the rain that dampened the shoulders of her coat, the scent of wet wool mixing with the rose perfume she still favored.

It hadn’t been long, since they had left. Months, though it felt like a lifetime sometimes. Reminders were still easy to come by, poking at fears that had yet to come to fruition. Her parents held the strings too tightly for her betrayal to be fully revealed. But she had worn a veil at first, when she left their apartment—not  because she mourned her old life, but because she feared strangers would recognize her in this one.

She didn’t bother anymore. Between the flush that winter left on her cheeks, her loose hair, and the dark coat, she found there were few similarities to the english princess she once was. She liked wearing Daemon’s old things, hanging off her shoulders and belted tight around her tiny waist. But he kept his promise, buying her pants, though they both preferred her in skirts for… reasons. 

She painted her nails red. Wore red lipstick, too, and though Daemon complained about the marks it left on his neck, he didn’t seem to mind them late at night when it left rings around his cock. That was something she had learned about, too. There was freedom in this life, a type she’d never known. 

The pair of hounds pulled her towards home golden and red coats shiny even in the poor weather. They stopped twice to sniff in front of a barber shop, where a large mirror served as a backdrop for their list of services. She found herself unbothered by it, blinking mindlessly at her reflection before pulling the beasts towards home.

She was eager to be home—tossing the twill leashes, coat, and keys into a heap by the front door. Daemon would scold her for it later, but she didn’t care. He thought he was so much more dignified than her, learning menial tasks while he was at university. She’d had maids for those things, and hadn’t quite built the habits he boasted just yet. 

She hadn’t tried that hard, either. But she would rather learn than get a maid—she didn’t want to give up their privacy. The luxury of being responsible for the state of their own things. She wasn’t sure they could afford one, either. . 

They weren’t rich the way her parents were—how could they be, when they were people rather than an institution? But Daemon had his mothers old apartment and investments, teasing that she was his favorite,   given that she willed it to him despite being the forgotten third son.

“Is that why you are so attention seeking?” She had asked, “Worried they will forget you if you aren’t in print at the breakfast table?” 

“Me? Of course not. I’m unforgettable.” He had argued, and Rhaenyra found she couldn’t disagree. 

.

He made sure she would never be forgotten, too. 

.

Every stroke reads like a sentence, leaving the finished piece more akin to a love letter than a painting. It’s extraordinary how he captures her—his wife of twelve years, and the once princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen. It’s her nude body we admire, but it seems only a fair exchange given the way her husband bares his soul. 

It’s no wonder they’ve taken the art scene by storm, and I feel lucky to have been in its path. The wreckage of emotions left behind is a gift as it renders you more time to examine the beauty of their shared work. 

.

end

Edits by me! I Dividers by Firefly Graphics

this was written for my prompt summer snippet event!

this was written for reflection and storm.

His class was at two PM on a Wednesday afternoon. Rhaenyra didn’t expect much from the two hour slot marked out as Medieval Works ~ Literature, Life, Love and Language. She liked medieval art, and she liked to read, so it had seemed like a more enjoyable elective than most, if not super relevant to her major. But she excelled at bullshitting her way through assignments, and essays were no different, regardless of the topic, so she wasn’t worried either. 

But when she took her seat, she realized something odd. There wasn’t a single guy in the classroom. Like it was all girls. And Rhaenyra wasn’t great at math, but that seemed statistically unlikely to be a coincidence. Especially since the girls in question were wearing makeup, twirling their hair, and giggling as if they were at a high school mixer instead of inside the walls of a college classroom. 

Of course, it all made sense when the professor walked in, giving them a wide smile before introducing himself as Daemon Targaryen. 

.

She wasn’t proud of the fact she had sex with him, but it felt kind of inevitable given the month that followed the start of the semester. If she only saw him once a week from a safe distance in which her tongue couldn’t reach him, she was pretty sure she would have been able to resist. 

But the world—or at least their shared place in society, seemed to push them together. The list of events her mother insisted Rhaenyra attend seemed to match his own, which he admitted came from his own mother.

She had laughed at that, “She still controls you?” It was nearly inconceivable, given his age and…swagger. She hated that word but it seemed accurate given the type of suave energy and charm that radiated from him. 

“Some things never change.” He mused, but his smile was fond when he spoke of Alyssa Targaryen. Rhaenyra learned that after her husband’s death she had taken a backseat to charity work, and encouraged her son to take her seat at these events instead. It was sweet. 

Rhaenyra liked sweet men. 

Okay, maybe she just liked him. 

Either way, she wondered if he would taste sweet, too.

.

They’d spoken a half dozen times since then, sometimes even sitting together. Despite the two decades between them, they were still younger than almost everyone else in attendance and had a good amount in common. But it was more than that, as cliche as it sounded, they just clicked. 

She’d been forced to attend these events since she was old enough to talk and she’d never had this much fun. They would make ridiculous lip reading guesses based on the body language of people who were too far away to actually eavesdrop on. They would do crossword puzzles on his phone. They would take bets on what would be served for dinner (it was always salmon. Always.) And, perhaps regrettably, drinking games. 

They had really underestimated the amount of times that woman would mention her dog while thanking people for their donations to a cancer foundation. 

“I—guess, dogs can get cancer too?” She had said between giggles while they waited for an uber. 

“It’s can-cer, not can’t-cer, anything can get it.” He said seriously. 

“That is such a fucking dad joke! You haven’t earned the right!” She said with faux anger, shoving his shoulder but not putting any real weight behind it.  

Maybe it was her hand on his chest. Or maybe it was her stupid comment that did it.  It  certainly got her thinking about how kids were made, which she figured got them both thinking about sex. Because when they got inside the car, their lips were against each other and they were licking into each other's mouths with little restraint. 

Rhaenyra wished she could blame it on being drunk, but she really wasn’t that drunk. She was just drunk enough to use that as an excuse for doing something she was too afraid to do fully sober.

They stumbled out of the uber and into his apartment, still kissing as they ripped at each other’s clothing. God it was hot hearing fabric tear and buttons fall. She hadn’t had rough sex in ages, her last boyfriend was the gentle giant type and that was nice but this was—her own thoughts were cut off by a moan as Daemon bit down on her shoulder. 

It was a fast fuck, sort of brutal as he took her from behind, slamming into her in a way that would ache the next day but was so good. She didn’t expect to come from it, but his fingers slipped under her and managed to put pressure exactly where she craved it. The combination of that and the stretch of his cock was enough, she was gone and moaning and he followed close behind. 

They lay side by side after, breathing heavily. 

“That was good.” She said, too drunk on fucking and wine to think of much else to say.

“It was good.” He agreed. But then he turned to her, and cupped her cheek, “We can’t do it again, though.” 

She nodded.

(The morning sex they had when she woke up definitely didn’t count, though, they both agreed.) 

.

Things didn’t change much. She liked his class, the hours passing quickly as he spoke passionately about the first scholars in England and the theories they had left behind on paper. It wouldn’t make her overly devoted to the topic herself, she didn’t think, but it was a pleasant enough period in her schedule. And the eye candy wasn’t bad, either…especially now that she didn’t have to imagine what was beneath the crisp collared shirts he favored. 

He really was handsome. And not in that generic way of being super tan and buff that CW shows had been shoving down girls' throats for the last decade. He was the opposite of all that in a way that made him all the more intriguing, too. 

He had muscles, but they were softer—and she liked how they weren’t hard or bulky against her fingers when she rode him. She liked that they probably meant he had hobbies other than going to the gym. But he was more than a body, he’s a pretty face too, she thought with a snort. And the face in question was framed by light blonde hair that was streaked with silver. She wasn’t sure if they were a sign of age or time spent in the sun, but either way, it was hot, ok? 

Outside of the classroom, they still saw each other at events. And things weren’t awkward, really. They were mature enough to separate sex from the other elements of their relationship, she thought. 

And it was by that logic that they decided to keep having it. 

.

She realized that if they were compatible in conversation, that they must be something else entirely when it came to this. 

It was like they knew each other in a past life, how he seemed to know exactly where to stroke to make her cry or come. He found that rough spongy patch with his fingers in like a day, when it had taken her years of exploration with her own fingers before she realized it wasn’t a myth. He was generous with not just his fingers but his tongue, too, lapping at her until she was too tired to move much less have another orgasm, because yeah, with him she had multiple. 

She tried to give it as good as he did, swallowing his dick every morning like it was a multivitamin. The aftertaste was probably about as unpleasant, too, but she liked the weight of it in her mouth and the feeling of his fingers in her hair as he roughly thrust against her lips.

She was growing used to this treatment, of being adored and driven to orgasm and then being fucked like she didn’t have to walk tomorrow, and it was, quite honestly, glorious. She liked admiring the bruises on her hips, and the fact he encouraged her to return the favor by dragging her nails down his back until scratches lingered. 

There was something primal about the way they came together. How they both needed it to ache a little before they could fully let go and feel pleasure. Whether that came in the form of teeth digging into flesh, or nipples being twisted until the other sobbed, it didn’t matter, because it drove them closer. 

Truly, social norms seemed to slip away as did her embarrassment when they were together. She’d asked him to spank her, for fucks sake, and he’d turned it around and begged her to choke him. They were truly mad for each other, feral when they were behind closed doors and had their hands on each other. 

It was probably why they got sloppy. 

.

His apartment seemed pretty safe, the second story of a brownstone in an area that wasn’t overly populated or close to school. 

Rhaenyra’s apartment had a doorman, which they tried to avoid at first. But they reasoned he was unlikely to have a chance to tell her parents. 

She had a roommate, too. But Alicent spent the weekends at home, so they turned the communal living room into a sex den during those two days. 

They vetoed his office, of course. But… he had this fantasy about having someone over his desk, and that sounded pretty hot to her. 

(For the record, it was pretty hot.) 

And she had a fantasy about sucking him off in the classroom. So, that happened too. 

And then there was a fundraiser with an unlocked coat room…

Ok, so perhaps they weren’t as careful as they should have been. 

But things were so good, it was hard to imagine they wouldn’t stay that way.

.

Assignment: 

Provide a rough draft of your essay by Oct. 3 for review. It should include a thesis statement with a comparative nature between two pieces of literature that have been selected from the list provided. 

“I didn’t realize you were a masochist.”  Rhaenyra said as she squinted down at her screen. She had never had a professor ask for a draft of anything, much less a rough draft. He peeked over her shouldering, seeing the familiar format of the ancient edu email system. He just shrugged in response, leaning back against the pillows and returning his gaze to his laptop. 

“You know what rough draft means, right?” She said, seriously curious what justification he would have for allowing it. As his student she should have been delighted by the ask, but she cared about him as a person now, whether she should or not. And selfishly, she cared about his time too, and how much time he had for her. 

He sighed, looking back at her. “I happen to like rough drafts. If they are bad, students are more accepting of criticism when it’s their first attempt. They tend to be more willing to shift their arguments if they haven’t invested as much time into polishing them.”

“And…there is just something about people being comfortable enough to share their ideas in that way. And you don’t get that when you demand perfection. Because sometimes people edit themselves away when they edit the grammar and structural issues.” 

That was more answer than she expected, fuck. It made her wonder if she had edited away some of the best parts of herself because of the pressure to be perfect. 

“When you remove that requirement, you get to see their thoughts unfiltered and whether they are stupid or not it gives you insight into their process that ultimately helps me guide them to something great.” 

She must have been quiet for too long, because his foot nudged her. “You okay?” 

She nodded, “I’m fine. It’s just,” she sat up, “You’re a really good professor.” 

He laughed, “I’m not, I'm an opinionated asshole who likes providing input early enough to change things.” 

She rolled her eyes, shoving the laptop off him and taking its place. She didn’t disagree with his statement—but it didn’t change the fact that he was a good professor in her eyes. He was a good person, too. 

And fucking hot to boot, she thought with a dreamy sigh before she brought her lips to his. 

They weren’t wearing much, and she was grateful for it when she slid onto his cock a mere minute later. It was such a stretch every time, no matter how wet she was. There was something so hot about the fact he was just a little too big, and she was a little too small, and to get them to fit they had to force themselves together. 

The twinge of hips meeting was like penance for doing what their gods and bodies tried to prevent. They were choosing this, choosing to be with each other like this. And that fact made it better, even if it hurt a little. Or perhaps that made it better too. She rode him hard, fingers braced on his broad shoulders until the aftershocks were too much for her to control herself, much less her pace. This was evident in how her nails dug in when she came, leaving little crescents that would bruise by tomorrow. 

Daemon squeezed her hips, setting a gentle pace that was more gyrating than thrusting, but it was enough, because she felt him come and heard his familiar groans in her ear. 

After, her head was on his stomach, and his hands were running through her hair. She couldn’t imagine anything better. 

.

She was late to brunch, but still there before her mother, which was a relief. Their relationship was… special. Rhaenyra was in the odd position of being a spoiled only child, and a reminder of her parent’s inability to have anothe r child. 

Yes, in their quest to have a bigger family, Mr. and Mrs. Arryn had quite thoroughly neglected the daughter they did have. She was never lacking necessities, or clothing, nor accessories, but she had learned to be independent and a little bit bitter given her parents' apparent disinterest. 

Things were better now. Her mother seemed to realize the error of her ways, finding time in her busy schedule of fundraisers and charity work to at least dine with her daughter. The food and company was usually pleasant enough, though Rhaenyra hadn’t really missed them in the months her mother had been away. 

The twenty year wedding anniversary trip through the Mediterranean had lasted nearly two months. She looked tan and healthier than ever, but was clearly hungry for gossip, and had managed to find some relating to her daughter.  

“ They said you were with a very handsome blonde man. And you left together. At many events.” 

Rhaenyra coughed, not expecting Aemma to have heard. At least this act was easy to defend, she just had to act cool. But she was used to acting around her mother. 

  “That is Daemon Targaryen.” 

“How did you meet?” Aemma asked, eyes sparkling as she leaned. 

“A literature class.” 

“He’s in your class?” Her mother said, cheerful. Fuck. Okay, that phrasing had been poor, but before she could correct herself her mother had moved on, “Are you dating? Is it serious?” 

“No!” Rhaenyra insisted, though Aemma looked unconvinced. 

“I do hope I get to meet him, now that I’m back and all.” She said with a sly smile.

Rhaenyra sighed. Her mother was progressive in many of her views, but she thought a girl who wasn’t married by eighteen was a sad creature likely to crumble to dust without a man to support her. Rhaenyra, being nineteen, was at dire risk, clearly. 

Aemma had tried to pair her off with Laenor since they were both old enough to walk—and the fact that he was both her cousin and gay did little to deter her. She had openly made jokes about wedding bells when a poor panicked boy named Cristin took her to prom. And when Rhaenyra had dated Harwin last year…well, she was pretty sure Aemma was responsible for her birth control pills “accidentally” getting thrown out twice in a three month period. 

So, there were a number of reasons she was not eager for her mother to meet Daemon. And the fact he was her teacher, though very much on the list, wasn’t at the top of it. 

And though she had warned Daemon that her parents had returned and would likely try to hunt him down at the next event he attended, he hadn’t seemed overly concerned. He had admitted that he had literal privilege and figurative armor. 

“From what?” She had asked, and he looked a little bashful as he mumbled something about being a rich-white-man. “I’m not proud of it, okay?” He said defensively. Her lips thinned because she knew he also wouldn’t change any of those things. Though neither would she, she liked him that way. 

She showed him as much, and in doing so she kind of, forgot to tell him about her father. 

.

It took approximately two minutes for Aemma’s eyes to latch onto Daemon in the crowd of dozens. With Viserys on her left and Rhaenyra on her right, she dragged them both to the unsuspecting man and extended her hand in greeting.

“I’m Aemma Arryn.” She said with a perfect society smile. 

Daemon looked between her and Rhaenyra, clearly seeing the resemblance and putting things together. He took Aemma’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of it like some sort of prince. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, but she could tell her mom was hooked . 

“I believe the popularity of the comment has removed any sincerity from it, and I can use context to make other assumptions. But without that I would think you Rhaenyra’s sister, not mother, Mrs. Arryn.” 

Rhaenyra had never seen her mom blush like that. 

The grin Aemma gave Rhaenyra was nearly as predatory as it was delighted. 

“This is my husband, Viserys Arryn.” Aemma said, nudging him forward so the men could shake hands. They did, but Daemon’s smile was stiff. 

“We’ve actually already met,” Viserys said, clueless and jovial as usual. “Daemon is the youngest Chair of the English department we’ve ever had.” 

With that Aemma’s smile tightened, “I thought you met in class, Rhaenyra?” 

She swallowed. 

“Yes.” Daemon said with a smile before speaking highly —but not too highly of her performance in his lectures. He played the part of teacher well, answering questions and charming them both until a polite amount of time had elapsed and he could dismiss himself. 

“What a nice man.” Viserys said. 

“Perhaps too nice?” Aemma asked, gaze fixed on Rhaenyra. 

She just shrugged, not sure if she could keep her voice steady enough to answer. 

Daemon, as she expected, avoided her for the rest of the evening. 

The car felt very quiet on the way back to her apartment

.

The joy that usually followed these events was absent as she unlocked the door of her apartment. There was no kissing or giggling, no rough hands dragging down the zipper of her dress and pulling pins from her hair. 

She kicked off her pumps, and tossed her lingerie on top before crawling into bed. It was bad for her skin to leave her makeup on but she didn’t care, she just wanted to sleep and have this day be over.

Still, she was responsible enough to set her alarm and check the reminders for tomorrow—one of which was in regards to her essay for Daemon’s class. She tapped on it, laughing without humor at the irony when she read the first few lines of her notes.

"Throughout all the ages, there have been only four degrees in love:

"The first consists in arousing hope;

"The second in offering kisses;

"The third in the enjoyment of intimate embraces;

"The fourth in the abandonment of the entire person."

.

After two weeks, she felt abandoned enough to visit him during office hours. 

“It’s not against the rules you know.” She said, pushing a sheet of paper across his desk. 

Relationships between professional staff or and an undergraduate, graduate/professional student, that pre-date enrollment as a student, are permissible provided that employee notifies their direct supervisor or department/unit head. The supervisor or department/unit head will work with the covered individuals to ensure that they are not in a direct supervisory or instructional relationship (and, if so, will develop a management plan for the employee), but there is no prohibition on maintaining the relationship.

“Did our ‘relationship’ pre-date your enrollment last semester? Because I don’t quite recall that.” He said, as he read over the paper. 

“Okay, fine, we’d have to lie a little. But the rest of it is fine! You’re the department head, we wouldn’t have to tell anyone. And you said Mysaria was responsible for grading my work.” She said, hoping it was convincing. It was convincing to her, at least. 

“Would your father agree with that?” Daemon asked, leaning back in his chair. 

She rolled her eyes. “I really don’t care what he thinks. But if we manage a few more months without him finding out, it won’t matter. He won’t have the legal authority to fire you and he did, I doubt he would. That man fears public opinion more than anything else.” 

Daemon looked surprised, “You’re sure he wouldn’t think I was taking advantage of you? Be too worried about your safety to think rationally?” 

She laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.   “I’m pretty sure he would think I was taking advantage of you. Trying to ruin your career or improve my grades out of spite or scholarly goals.” He’d certainly had no issues implying as much when she complained of his handsy colleagues coming onto her when she was barely through puberty.

“I wasn’t trying to hide this from you, I just don’t like thinking about him. Especially when I’m with you.” She admitted. 

“It’s not because of rampant daddy issues?” He asked, but he was smiling a little now.

She stood, walking around his desk, until she could place her hands on his shoulders. “ If I had such a kink, it would be towards authority figures in general, Professor.” 

He had her face down on his desk a minute later, skirt flipped up and underwear shoved aside in his desperation to have her. He came quickly, apologizing for it, before fingering her until her release followed. It didn’t last long, but she could already feel the ache from how he’d speared her unprepared cunt. It was good though, and she would treasure it on her way home. A reminder that they were back together…In whatever undefined way they were together..

They carried on in whatever undefined way they had before for a few weeks. Until she fucked up.  

.

“I want to use all of these, they are so good.” She moaned, as she scrolled through her notes. 

“It almost makes you realize why someone would devote their life to medieval literature, huh?” Daemon teased at his place from his desk. 

“I think you’re in it for the illustrations of weird boobs, to be honest.” She sniped back. He opened his mouth to respond and she held up her finger, “If you say anything to do with me and weird boobs, so help me god…” 

He laughed, “I would never.” 

She went back to reading her notes. “Hm, perhaps this could be our affirmation, ‘The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.’” She wasn’t sure she agreed with it completely, but it certainly fit their relationship so far. 

“Love, huh?” Daemon responded, sounding surprised. 

“Love?” She asked, then retracted what she had said and—oh, fuck.

“I didn’t mean that!” She said, panicked. 

Daemon made a tsking noise with his tongue. “It’s a shame, for I find myself quite enamored with the thought. They say when a lover suddenly catches sight of his beloved his heart palpitates, and I believe it’s true.” 

She gaped. He stared, lips turned into a smirk. 

“Do you mean that?” She asked, voice a little wobbly. 

“A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thought of his beloved.” The words weren’t his own but the way he said them…he meant them. 

“Then I think I may also be afflicted.” She said, with a wet laugh as she got up to kiss him. 

.

She found out during a family dinner. They were all weirdly dressed up for the occasion, which was catered despite there only being three of them in the family dining room. Her mother, for all her domestic abilities, could not cook. 

Aemma dominated the conversation, though not in a rude way. The topics were mindless, until Viserys spoke about work—”We had to fire three staff members this week.” He admitted, “They were all getting er, favors from the same girl in exchange for better grades. A fourth denied her, and the girl tattled in anger.” 

Rhaenyra suddenly felt a little sick, “Has that happened before?” She asked, keeping her tone casual and picking at her salad but making no move to eat it.

 “No,” he said, having no trouble eating himself and taking a generous length of time to chew before continuing. 

“Not since we changed the employee policy. People used to claim relationships were pre-existing, but the marriage clause put an end to that.” 

“How awful,” Aemma said. Her eyes caught Rhaenyra’s, “I’d be so devastated if someone I knew got caught up in that.” 

Rhaenyra nodded, “Me too.” 

.

She drove back to Daemon’s place after dinner, kissing him quickly in greeting before logging onto the student website she had grabbed the relationship policy from a few weeks ago. When she scrolled down to the bottom of the page, it distinctly said c.2019.

Fuck. It could be out of date.

“Do you have your employee contract?” She asked Daemon who was watching her glare at the computer screen with a strange look of adoration and confusion.  

While she waited for the document to load he made an offhand joke about her using it to steal his identity and SS number. It would have been funny under normal circumstances, but she felt itchy and nervous. She was too impatient to even scroll, instead using ctrl-f to find marriage in the file and jump to the section she was really hoping did not exist when he was hired three years earlier. 

Fuck.

She fell back against his couch, looking up at him with a frown, “They changed the policy. preexisting relationships are only considered exceptions if the relationship is a legal partnership or marriage.” 

She was expecting him to throw her out, but he just shrugged. Apparently he had gotten over his fear of her father and the school's rules? That was her assumption at least, but then he spoke, “You know, it is not proper to love any woman whom one would be ashamed to seek to marry.” 

She was pretty sure one day his quotes from 12th century texts  were going to lose their charm. But today was not that day. It was such a him thing to say, such a perfectly strange proposal, and she loved it and she loved him, and she couldn’t resist springing up to kiss his handsome lips.

But after they had parted, she did make one complaint. “You didn’t even get on one knee.” 

A minute later he was on both knees, with one of her legs thrown over his shoulder while he lapped at her cunt.

This was way better. 

.

“I’m going to put this in my office next to the diplomas once you graduate.” He said proudly, as he held up their marriage certificate. 

She smiled, “You think we’ll make it that long?” 

He glared. “We better, till death do us part and we’re too young and pretty to die anytime soon.” 

She nodded, “You’re right, and there is that list of castles you wanted to fuck in is incomplete.” Her tone was teasing, and he knew it, responding defensively because of it. 

“Sex is one of the few acts you can perfectly recreate from the period! And doing it in front of walls that once housed my ancestors? That’s a beautiful thing. I think they’d want me to do it, too.” 

Rhaenyra was not convinced. It was perhaps a testament to her love that she agreed to spend their eventual honeymoon that way. Though to be fair, sex on a damp castle floor with him was probably still pretty good. But even if it was a hardship, she would do it to make him happy. 

.

She was pretty sure Aemma’s concerns about their relationship were washed away when she mentioned getting a C in his class. She had made a pitying noise, probably assuming he had denied her attempts at seduction and given her a shit grade. 

“It’s not my fault.” Daemon said when he saw the print out. “And to be fair, Mysaria has no idea how good you are at giving head. If she did, who knows, maybe you’d have gotten a B.” 

She glared at him, “You’re right.” She agreed, “Next semester I’ll fuck the TA.” 

He grumbled something and she grinned. 

“You know what they say, ‘real jealousy always increases the feeling of love.’” 

“You know it isn’t cute when you use medieval literature against me.” He said. 

She snorted, “That is a lie and you know it.” 

He sighed, “You’re right, you are very cute.” 

.

They managed to keep their relationship secret up until the week before spring break. They hadn’t been overly careful for the last little while—she wasn’t his student anymore, and with the marriage license on file they felt pretty safe. Not to mention their armor of being rich, white, nepo babies. No matter what happened they would be okay, and they would have each other.

Still, they could have at least locked the door. 

The sound of it opening caught her by surprise, she had jerked, hitting her head on the bottom of Daemon’s desk. With her position given away, she crawled from her place between Daemon’s thighs and peaked over the desk. One of his students was there, and Rhaenyra stood up with hopes of explaining—forgetting her state of undress. 

The door slammed shut. 

.

“Let me do the talking,” she said. 

Daemon eyed her skeptically.  

They took their seats in front of Viserys and the HR rep, and Rhaenyra straightened her skirt which suddenly felt way too short in the presence of her father.

“There was a report made by a student about inappropriate conduct between you two.” The rep said dryly. 

“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.” Viserys said, “Right?” 

The last word was followed by a glare in her direction. With a sigh, she launched into an explanation. 

“I was in his class last year. We were catching up in his office and um, eating lunch. I’m clumsy, and knocked over a drink and uh, tried to clean it up with my shirt. And in doing so, I knocked the container of fries under his desk, so I was simply cleaning them up.” 

She could feel Daemon’s look of amusement. She could see the look of disbelief from the HR rep. But most importantly, she could see her dad smile. “Of course, I knew there would be a reasonable explanation.” 

He clapped Daemon on the back when they left his office, saying they should get a drink sometime. 

“I told you we had nothing to worry about.” Rhaenyra said as they left the building. 

It didn’t stop literally everyone else in the department from finding out about it, though. Or every female student (and honestly, a surprisingly large chunk of the guys) from glaring at her from time to time. They clearly hadn’t found her excuse overly believable, and honestly, Rhaenyra couldn’t blame them.

.

Three years later when Viserys actually found out about their relationship, he looked shocked, muttering something about how there were never any signs. 

Aemma looked delighted. Rhaenyra had been hinting she was involved with someone for literal years. She wasn’t sure if her mother put the pieces togethers, but it seemed time had warmed her up to the idea of her dating Daemon. Now that Rhaenyra had graduated, scandal was less of a concern and she could be happy for them publicly. 

“When is the wedding?” Aemma had asked, a few minutes after hearing the news. 

“Well, uh, about that.” Rhaenyra said, looking at Daemon for help. 

.

Once her mother got over the tragedy of them being already married she was delighted that her daughter was married! The medieval honeymoon of their [Daemon’s] dream was delivered to them as a late wedding gift in the form of a blank check. 

The highlight was renting out an 11th century castle that belonged to his ancestors who ruled a corner of the coast for a time. It cost a small fortune, but it afforded them privacy that they made good use of. And the tapestries that lined the walls were truly inspired. 

It turned out that rough sex was a bit hard, literally, to accomplish on the rough stone floors. But she didn’t have any complaints about what they did instead. She was pretty sure she would never complain when she had his dick inside her. It was perfect. Or at least pretty close. And their relationship was too. Or if not perfect, it was on its way and she had faith Daemon would guide them there. 

After all, ‘love can deny nothing to love’

.

.

end

all quotes medieval quotes came from De arte honeste amandi by Andreas Capellanus

sources: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_amore_(Andreas_Capellanus) https://files.oakland.edu/users/clason/web/grm381/capel.html

I decided daemon was a Prof for Comparative Medieval Literature which is a real thing btw.

relationship policy was edited from here.

this was written for my summer snippet event and the prompt "rough"

more info about the event:

Rules / Ao3 Collection / #HotDaemyraSummer

Of course, the dragon babies from house of dragon.

Lucifer: 

Maleficient: 

Date with an Angel: 

In addition to the above ideas, you can also use the term wingin’ it as inspo and just write whatever you want. It counts! 

May 15 1822, London 

A spectator would have described the evening as extraordinary—the ball something a young girl would read about on the pages of Bronte’s works, with hopes they would someday be lucky enough to read their own name upon an invitation instead. 

Necklines were wide, and waists laced tightly. Hair slicked into coils and embellished with flowers—each girl desperate to look in bloom enough for a gentleman to choose her, and not just for a song or bouquet but for life. They simpered as music played, as they followed the steps of the man hoping to impress and garner praise.  

Romance was in the summer air, dancing upon exposed skin and flushed cheeks as couples took their turns around  the ballroom. This was the season in which matches were made, and in which true love was sure to prevail. 

A spectator, however, wouldn’t have to suffer the humid air—feeling thick and heavy upon the skin the deeper you waded into the room. They wouldn’t have to smell the sweat that dripped from every brow, mixing with the cloyingly sweet scent of powder and floral perfume. 

They wouldn’t have to feel the pinch of a corset, laced tight enough poor girls wondered if the bones would leave behind bruises. They certainly wouldn’t have to feel the hair pins that seemed to sharpen with every hour, digging into the scalp and causing splitting headaches. 

They wouldn’t have to feel the heavy weight of petticoats, starch dampening and making their stockings itch. They wouldn't have to feel the blisters rubbing from the satin slippers that were so stylishly narrow they scarcely even fit! 

If they did know the truth of what it was to be a girl of seventeen in that damned ballroom, perhaps they would feel more sympathy for Rhaenyra. Perhaps they would understand why she wanted to slip away—to have a break!

These evenings went on for hours, and they were pointless for her, for she was already promised! It had been fun at first, being simpered over and told she was beautiful. But father had given her hand to her Velaryon cousin, and her stepmother sniped at her when she dared to flirt with another. 

She would rest in the gardens for a few breaths, drink her tiny glass lemonade—for these events didn’t even allow wine, and enjoy the air of the summer night. 

It smelled much better out here, she thought. The scent of flowers was light, unlike the concentrated fragrances girls her age wore. Rhaenyra swore she could smell a hint of salt, betraying their closeness to the ocean. And something else, she just couldn’t figure out what it was—-maybe… oh, cut grass! 

She grinned at her conclusion—only for her mouth to curve into a shriek as a hand clamped over it. She tried to bite down against the offending palm, but her teeth barely dented the thick leather it wore. 

Gentlemen don't wear leather gloves, she thought, dumbly, as he shoved her to the ground. 

She tried not to think much at all after that. 

.

The word extraordinary may once again come to a spectator's lips when describing Daemon Targaryen. Perhaps not to describe his place in the world alone, for he was merely solidly in the upper middle class. His last name was one of notoriety, but not one of wealth given that he was the third son of a second son whose father was also a third son. 

It had been luck that his birth was so close—mere weeks, to his twice removed cousin, Viserys. Despite their differences in stations, their mothers had been friends and the boys had become close enough to nearly resemble brothers. They were fostered together, even attending school together before taking responsibilities expected of them by their respectives families. 

Daemon’s grandmother had arranged him a match, and though he hadn’t been fond of his wife—the Royce estates and riches that she left behind in her passing made up for a great deal of what he had suffered in the decade by her side. It was an accident, the fall that took her from him—and no matter what her family claimed, there was little to be done for her even with his skills as a physician. 

With pockets lined, he was eager to put the boorish lands and people of Vale behind him. He wanted to move onto something better, or at least more exciting. He had earned it. And London, he thought, sounded perfect. 

So no–neither an extraordinary life nor family, but he was rich when it came to all else. The man was taller than most, with both an attractively thin and well muscled frame. He’d sheared his hair short before he moved, and kept his sharp jaw free from the beards that had become so stylish. 

His eyes were piercing, in a way some found thrilling and others disconcerting. He was charming, flirting endlessly with any woman who passed him, and teasing in a way that often made them long for more. His charm was not even reserved just for women, men seemed eager to impress him given his reputation for wit, and that opened doors for him. 

His cousin's doors had opened for him, too. One of his strongest supporters, Viserys, had welcomed him into his home immediately, delighted to introduce his old friend to his wife and young daughter. He charmed them too, the girl—Rhaenyra, a girl of perhaps three? Sitting happily on his knee before the evening was through. 

That had been more than a decade ago, now. He’d done well for himself in his own right, expanding his practice into all corners of the growing city. But he remained close with his childhood friend and cousin all the same. There were a mere two streets between their dwellings and rarely more than that many days between greetings. Though Viserys had settled into something of a family man, and a loyal one at that, he still enjoyed a drink around a card table nearly as much as Daemon. 

It wasn’t friendship that brought his cousin's summons to Daemon’s doorstep that day, though. It was the tragic assault and injury of his daughter, the missive brought by a servant who apologized for the late hour. Daemon barely spared her a smile, his charm fading as his jaw clenched in anger. He was hasty as he grabbed for the necessities he traveled with for his work, eager to tend to the girl he had become so fond of. 

Daemon could, perhaps, under duress, be made to admit he was more than just fond of his cousin's daughter. Rhaenyra smirked as readily as she smiled, balancing sass and wit while embodying a pretty face and full bust that begged for a taste of earthly pleasure. 

When Viserys had mentioned her betrothal contract some months prior, Daemon had hidden his shock behind a cough. The girl was barely seventeen! All the same, by the time he heard of it the ink had dried on the paper. He had gotten over his resentment, though. Made due with a blonde whore that night who vaguely resembled the maiden.

Still, even if he no longer considered her as a prospect, he didn’t wish harm to come to her. 

It was clear, when he arrived at the Targaryen house, that he was not the only one who felt this way. Viserys was in near tears, blubbering about the state of his eldest daughter. “They suspect she has been… raped,” Viserys said, wiping the short greasy hair on his cheeks. “And there was so much blood.” 

Daemon stiffened. “Blood?” 

There was never supposed to be blood. 

.

Rhaenyra heard her bedroom door open, but she did not look up. She didn’t want to see her stepmother's smug face—expression pinched in a way that seemed to suggest she deserved this. She didn’t want to see her  father, looking at her with horror at what had become of her. She didn’t want to see her maid, either, the girl who looked near tears herself, expression so heavy with sympathy. 

She had dismissed them all, though she wasn’t overly surprised to find them ignoring her wishes. But as the figure stepped closer, the gate smooth and footfalls heavy, she knew it must belong to another. Curiosity overcame her, even in a time like this, and she looked up to see the physician and friend of her father, Daemon Targaryen. He bent before her, the posture of a gentleman as he reached a hand out to her. 

She thought it amusing, how he approached her, like she was a skittish wild animal. But perhaps it was fitting, she did not feel so unlike a fearful creature given the events of the previous hours. His acknowledgment of her sensitivity was comforting, enough so that she found herself taking his hand and allowing him to pull her from her crumpled position on the floor. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, a bare thumb pushing her chin back so she was forced to look at him. She nodded, turning so he could see the back of her—where she felt the worst of it, the blade dragging into her as the captor had tried to strip her. The pain had dulled some, but still ached something awful. 

“Sweet girl,” the doctor whispered. “We need to get this off to clean it.” He said, which she realized was logical—but when his hands roamed to his bag rather than her gown she grabbed his wrist. “Could you please, please, not cut it off?” She begged, feeling very young and silly for the wish. The thought of steel against her skin was—-she shivered. 

“Of course,” he promised, smoothing his hands across her shoulders as she turned away from him once more. His hands were gentle, not disrupting the wound while he carefully unlaced the silk bodice of her evening gown. She wasn’t sure if time was passing quickly or slowly, for everything felt unclear given the trauma of the evening. The only thing that grounded her was the solid work of Daemon’s hands on hers. She appreciated that his fingers were bare, so unlike the cold leather gloves that had grabbed her earlier that evening. His thumbs were warm as they hooked the gaping neckline at her shoulders and dragged the garment slowly off her. 

The hook of her skirt waistband followed, then the ties of her petticoat, until it was just stockings and her thin cotton chemise that protected the length of her body from him. It didn’t occur to her to be embarrassed, as his hands began to unwork the laces of her stays. The stiff garment would slip over her head under usual circumstances, but the thought of that movement alone made her cringe. She was grateful that he had the foresight to fully undo it opposed to merely loosening it. Though it did make her wonder just how many maidens he had undressed—as patients or otherwise. 

Gods, under other circumstances she would be blushing something fierce. The doctor was handsome. Charming and tall and blonde. She had giggled about him with her friends, about his reputation that had made it to even their innocent ears. It was hard to blame him for it, though the ladies must line up to tend to him at the clubs every man seemed to frequent. Even the married women of town flocked to him like hens!

She’d imagined this, being bare before him. But never after being assaulted. Being stabbed. She swallowed back a sob, wiping at her eyes while the stays fell away from her front. 

It shouldn’t have surprised her, the drag of her chemise over her hips—but it did, goosebumps seeming to follow the path of this man's knuckles as he bared her fully to him. She was still as a statue before him, flinching only once the fibers of the cotton pulled away from her wounded flesh. 

She could feel his breath on her skin—so damned close as he examined the torn skin. 

“You’ll need stitches.” He remarked, taking a step back so he could reach into his bag. 

There was a clink of objects that made her shudder, thinking of the pain they would likely inflict. But when Daemon turned to her, it wasn’t a needle he held but a small bottle.

“Milk of the poppy,” he said, passing it to her, and then, “You’ve suffered enough pain tonight, I think.” 

She did not disagree, drinking the contents in a single gulp, wincing a bit at the bitter flavor. She’d never had it before—her pains never being severe enough to justify it. Though rambunctious as a girl, her injuries consisted of skinned knees and scratches tended with soapy water from the doctor and kisses from her mother. She had no tolerance for this type of pain, nothing to compare it to other than the cramps that came each month, and even those had become easier to bear with age. 

Still, she knew of the liquid. Enough that she wasn’t surprised as her vision grew cloudy and limbs heavy. Daemon guided her to the bed, passing her a pillow to clutch onto while he prepared to stitch and dress her cut. 

“Will it leave a horrid scar?” She asked, or tried to—the words seeming oddly slurred. It seemed vanity was returning, now that pain was fading. 

Daemon seemed amused, as he reassured her, “I don’t think anything could be horrid, on such a pretty girl as you.” She bit her lip, wondering how she had it in her to grin after a night like this. 

He apologized for something, but she wasn’t sure what—and then she hissed, realizing it was the sting of alcohol. She didn’t feel much after that, floating on a flower bed of poppies. There was a noise of metal hitting a tray, of scissors making a cut, and then his voice saying he was done. 

“Your voice is handsome, too.” Someone—she wasn’t sure who, but surely it couldn’t be her said, in regards to his statement. 

“I must examine you now.” He cooed in his handsome voice, and she nodded sleepily into the pillow. The weight of her chest shifted, pressing against her blankets as he aligned her hips with the edge of the bed. 

She’d forgotten her nudity, until then—until his hands stroked her hips, widening her legs until one could slip between them. This didn’t seem right—but he was the doctor, and his touch was confident as a finger trailed between the cheeks of her bottom and through the slit of her cunt. It pressed gently against the opening, until the folds parted for him.

She hadn’t even touched herself there before, and now this man was…She wasn’t sure what he was doing, as a finger pressed into her. It seemed slick, or perhaps she was slick, but there was little resistance as it sunk deeper. It was fascinating, how her body accepted him—and then another, and this was—-she moaned, a sleepy sound into her pillow.

She meant to question what he was doing, why this examination had to be so invasive, but the thought faded until she could no longer follow it, too distracted by the way he worked and moved the digits inside of her. Little huffs were coming from her lips, turning loud enough that he shushed her, and she muttered an apology, biting on her bottom lip and hoping if she was quiet he would continue further. It felt nice, warm—clawing it way into her stomach and making it twist with pleasure. 

Her stepmother had warned her of such pleasures, forbidding Rhaenyra to do this with her own fingers. She had even burned the naughty novels she had snuck home from Laena’s library, as if reading about such acts might sway her to the devil. But this was not so sinful, surely? He stroked her like she was a kitten, and she purred as involuntarily as a cat who craved affection. 

No, this couldn’t be sinful. He was a doctor, he was just…she wasn’t sure, and she couldn’t seem to find the words to ask what he was doing. But she trusted him, and she found comfort in that, enough comfort that she could relax, and comfort made her think of clouds and then she was floating away.

.

He found his cousin in his office, cradling a heavy glass of brandy. Daemon was glad that his wife—Alicent, was not present for the matter he had to speak on was far from appropriate for a delicate woman's ears.  

He was contrite, as he confirmed his friends worst fears. 

“You’re sure?” Viserys said, face crumbled. 

Daemon nodded, “Quite so. There was blood between her thighs, and evidence of… spend.” 

Viserys rocked back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “I cannot wed her to the Velaryon boy now. Now when she might be…Gods, who will have her?” 

His voice was choked, as if on the verge of tears, but Daemon had little sympathy—he found his eyes narrowed in disgust at the response. For the concern was directed towards his daughter's prospects rather than the girl herself. The one who called him father . The one who was supposed to protect her from this! 

Daemon swallowed the bitter taste of bile, though it still seemed to burn his tongue as he spoke, “I’ll have her. I’ve grown fond of her over the years. I’d hate to see her without prospects or her spirit crushed in a convent. Wed her to me.” 

Viserys responded with a cry of relief. 

He was drunk, Daemon realized, when the man enveloped him in a hug and thanked him for his selflessness. 

But, thankfully, not so drunk that he couldn’t pen a letter to his solicitor. 

.

Laena was the first to call on her. She had questions, and little tact in answering them. Too curious about what had happened to consider her friend's feelings. 

“I—it was very fast, I remember the gloves, and the scene of grass, and then the pain, but everything else…” Rhaenyra swallowed. 

“You don’t remember…?” Laena prompted, and Rhaenyra admittedly shook her head. 

“No!” Everything was so blurry, she squinted as if that would bring her memories back into focus but it was useless. “I am sore. Down there,” She said with an embarrassing gesture to her lap, covered by the chenille coverlet. “And my petticoats were torn, so I suppose it must be true but I—I don’t remember.” 

Laena took her hand, stroking her knuckles. “Perhaps that’s for the best.” 

Rhaenyra swallowed.

.

Daemon called on her a week later, bringing flowers and a velvet lined box that contained his mothers ring. “It’s beautiful.” She said, and she meant it. It was grander than she had expected, an heirloom he said, and it seemed to suit her finger nicely as he slipped it on her.

He had smiled at her, before admitting, “I’m afraid I'm not here just for pleasure, I wanted to check on your stitches.” 

“Oh!” She was sure she was blushing at the realization, doubly so once he rucked up her nightgown to see the slash that spanned nearly from her shoulder to waist. 

She shivered when his finger stroked the sensitive skin. “Does it hurt?” he asked, and she shook her head. No, no, it was quite the opposite of that. 

.

He came back the following week to remove the sutures. When he was done his thumb brushed the length of it, once again asking, “Does it hurt?” 

She was brave enough to speak her response this time, hoping she sounded confident as she said, “No.” 

His response was a surprise. “Pity, I’d have liked to kiss it better.” 

She wondered if he would make her blush like this after they were wed, too. 

.

The next time she saw him, it was a Sunday. She scarcely breathed while the banns were read. 

It seemed cruel, that the kiss pressed against the back of her gloved hand was all she had to remember while she waited for the following week. 

.

He kissed her wrist, the next Sunday. The bare strip of skin between her dress and silk clad palms.

.

On the third Sunday, the dry press against her cheek nearly made her swoon. 

.

On the fourth, he was kissing her lips—in front of a humble service of friends in addition to her family. 

.

On the fifth, he was kissing her somewhere else after telling her they were allowed to miss church for this was their sacred first week together. It was hard to argue, when his tongue did that, in fact she found there was little she could do but moan. 

.

.

.

Thirty five more Sunday’s passed, the majority in a similar state of bliss. The last was more joyous than all the others, though, for it was when their son was born.

“Baelon, for my father.” Daemon had said, pressing a kiss to her cheek as his thumb stroked the much smaller and more ruddy one the baby between them bore. 

.

.

.

“Are you sure?” Viserys had asked, hearing the ancestral name as he looked down at the sleeping infant. The implication was clear, Viserys had seen a half dozen of his own in the cradle and he knew enough to know this one was not as early as was being claimed. 

Daemon bristled, “Of course. He’s my son in every way that matters, and he will be raised as such.”

“You’re a good man,” Viserys said, feeling a flash of shame for the times he had doubted his cousin. He’d once said Daemon was the type of man who would do anything for what he wanted. But it was clear to him now that he would simply do anything for those he loved. 

.

.

.

What Viserys didn’t realize was that, perhaps, Daemon loved himself most of all. 

But one thing was true—he got what he wanted. 

.

.

.

end

this was written for my summer snippet event!

the prompt for today was: stitch