#mideval

The hidden chamber deep within the Red Keep was stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of burning wax, spilled wine, and slick skin. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh and the ragged hitch of her breath.

Daemon had her pinned face-down against his massive oak desk, scattering maps of the Stepstones to the floor. His hands were bruised from the training yard, his grip like iron on her hips as he pulled her back into his relentless thrusts.

"Do you know what the Hand suggested today?" Daemon asked, his voice completely casual, save for the slight grunt that escaped him as he buried himself to the hilt.

She could barely form a coherent thought, let alone follow royal politics. Her nails dug into the dark wood of the desk, her spine arching as a whimper tore from her throat. "D-Daemon, please—"

"He suggested," Daemon continued, leaning his chest flush against her bare back, his silver hair brushing her shoulder, "that I be sent back to the Vale. To my bronze bitch of a wife." He snapped his hips forward, a vicious, punishing thrust that made her cry out. "Otto Hightower has been whispering in my brother's ear again. Like a fucking snake."

He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into her, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.

"I should take Dark Sister to his throat," he muttered, his breath hot against her skin, completely unfazed by the fact that he was currently ravaging his favorite whore on the very desk where he was supposed to be planning war. "But instead, I have to sit there. And the entire time, all I could think about was getting you in here."

His hand moved from her hip, sliding up her stomach to wrap a large, calloused hand around her throat—not tight enough to cut off her air, just enough to ground her, to force her to pay attention.

"Which brings me to my next point," he growled, the casual tone vanishing, replaced by something dark and intensely possessive. He slowed his pace, dragging out the friction until she was trembling. "You are done at the pleasure house. You don't go back to the Street of Silk. You don't serve another man, you don't even pour wine for another man."

"Daemon," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as he hit that perfect spot inside her. "I need the coins…the madam—"

"I will buy the madam's entire establishment and burn it to the ground if she argues," he sneered, thrusting harder now, his control finally beginning to slip. "You stay here. In these chambers. You wear the silks I buy you, you eat the food from my table, and you spread your legs only when I walk through that door. Do you understand me?"

His thumb pressed hard against her pulse point. "Say you understand. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she sobbed, completely wrecked by the sheer force of him. "Only yours."

"Good," he snarled, finally giving into his own ruin. He buried himself as deep as he could go, a guttural groan vibrating in his chest as he poured his seed into her, holding her tightly against him as they both came apart over the ruined maps of Westeros.

For a long time, the only sound was their heavy breathing. When Daemon finally pulled away, the sudden loss of his heat made her shiver.

She expected him to dress and leave, or perhaps toss a pouch of coin on the table as he usually did. But instead, he lifted his heavy velvet cloak from the back of a chair and draped it over her trembling shoulders, swathing her in the scent of dragon and leather.

He didn't call for a servant. He walked over to the heavy door himself, opening it just a crack to bark an order at a Kingsguard stationed down the hall.

Ten minutes later, while she was still catching her breath wrapped in his cloak, a massive silver tray was brought in. Roast quail swimming in honey and garlic, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, sharp Dornish cheese, and a pitcher of the King's own Arbor gold.

Daemon poured a goblet and pressed it to her lips himself, waiting until she drank before setting it aside. He didn't just give her a pouch of coin this time. Instead, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a heavy purse of gold dragons, enough to buy a small estate—and dropped it onto the desk.

But it was what he did next that made her heart stop.

He stepped behind her, brushing her hair over her shoulder. She felt the cold kiss of metal against her collarbone. She looked down and saw a delicate, masterfully forged necklace of Valyrian steel resting against her bare skin, a small ruby dragon in the center.

Daemon secured the clasp at the back of her neck, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the same spot he had bruised earlier.