Work Text:
After the excitement of the last twenty-four hours, Rhaenyra wants nothing more than to fall into bed. Sheer exhaustion pales in comparison to the state she finds herself in, sore from the night before and weary from the games that have been played—some battles won and others that resulted in an impasse.
Yet, even when she finally, finally crawls beneath her bed covers, sleep does not claim her.
Every time she closes her eyes, her mind replays the same scene.
Bodies writhing, tangled together as moans of pleasure fill the space. Men and women take pleasure from one another. The indecent words he spoke, their chests pressed together, so tightly she would have sworn she could feel his heartbeat. The heat that radiated from him when he held her face in his hands, his nose nearly brushing hers. And the way his lips felt, how skilled his fingers were as he touched her so intimately.
Rhaenyra tosses and turns for the better part of an hour before a knock echoes through the room. The sound does not originate from the heavy, ornate door where her knight stands sentry—guarding the princess, the heir to the Iron Throne.
How simple life would be if she could focus on him instead? Sweet, gentle Ser Criston, who blushes every time she catches his eye, as if he has suddenly remembered that he knows what she looks like entirely bare, joined with him so intimately.
Still, her thoughts return to the very bane of her existence. For as badly as she wants—no, wanted him—the headaches he causes are hardly worth it. She should ignore his summons, pretend as though she’s asleep. The hour is certainly late enough that it would be believable.
Yet, rather than abiding by the most sensible of her options, Rhaenyra rises from her bed. She treads softly toward the place where Daemon surely waits at the second point of entry into her private quarters, drawn by some unseen force. It can only be him, given that the secrets of the castle are only known by those with Targaryen blood in their veins.
The thin gown she wears to bed offers little protection from the cool night air. And while it would be advisable to grab her robe and make herself more modest, she doesn’t. Instead, she goes directly to him, pushing the wall aside to reveal the source of all her vexation.
“Uncle,” she says by way of greeting.
Though the moonlight streams from behind her to bathe the room in a soft glow, he stands in the shadows of the hidden passageway. His face is illuminated by the candle he holds and the fire casts sharp shadows across his features, creating an air of mystery—of danger.
Rhaenyra shivers beneath the weight of his gaze.
“I’m taking my leave of King’s Landing.”
An expected turn of events. Given how angry her father was with Rhaenyra, it isn’t surprising that he would send Daemon away. Even if she was able to convince the king that her maidenhead remained intact, it would be too much of a risk to allow her uncle to remain at court. The role he played was so exceedingly grievous that it could not go unpunished.
“I pray the Mother will guide your travels,” she says.
“Are those your only words of parting for your beloved uncle?”
She keeps her features stony, a mixture of impassivity and disinterest, even as her anger grows. Though he tries to goad her, Rhaenyra will not react.
“Should I not wish you a safe journey?”
“You might tell me how you’ll miss me,” he says.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a devilish grin. And while his charms might work on most women, Rhaenyra will not succumb to him—not again, at least.
“‘I won’t, though. You’re away from court more oft than not, gallivanting around the Seven Kingdoms deflowering maidens and doing whatever else godless men do. In all honesty, I’ll hardly notice your absence.”
This, of course, is not true.
Despite the ire she feels toward him, Daemon is the only interesting person in the entire city. He makes daily life far less monotonous. And despite his predilection for depravities, she does care for him a great deal. He has always been a favorite of hers, ever since she was a little girl.
When she was young, Rhaenyra dreamed that she might travel with him—before she knew of the truths of his adventures. He left out the worst of his misdeeds, only regaling her with exciting stories of the places he had traveled with Caraxes. It was impossible not to idolize him. Even now, even with the knowledge of precisely the kind of man he is, she still loves him. With her mother gone and her father lost to her, Daemon is the only person she has left in this world. Nevertheless, she will not reveal any of this to the man before her.
“Are you cross with me, Princess?”
The title sounds like an insult on his tongue. He takes a step closer, crossing the threshold into her quarters. Instinctively, she takes a step back. She should tell him to leave, this thorn in her side. While she can readily acknowledge the role she played in the tribulations she has faced, Daemon’s influence was not insignificant. Everywhere he goes, destruction is left in his wake.
She never has been prudent, though, not where her uncle is involved.
“Of course, I’m cross with you!” she spits out, finally surrendering to the anger that lights her veins. “You left me… Deserted me in that brothel in the middle of the city, alone without the faintest idea on how to return to the castle!”
“You’re a woman grown, Rhaenyra, and a capable one at that. One day, you will rule all of Westeros. I knew you could manage a situation as simple as navigating your own city.”
The smirk he continues to wear makes her furious, as does his dismissal of how terrifying it was to find herself unescorted—without the knights and guards who were her near-constant companions.
Tears prickle the corners of her eyes as her wrath grows to an inferno.
“You’re a scoundrel,” she says. “You led me to believe that you wanted me, only to abandon me for another woman. Was it always your intention to make such a mockery of my feelings, or did you merely seize an opportunity to have a laugh at my expense?”
“What serious accusations you make,” he says. “You can’t know how I spent the rest of my night…nor should you presume my motives.”
“Everyone in King’s Landing knows what a whoremonger the rogue prince is, how easily you fall prey to any woman with a narrow waist and round hips. I was left to ensure my needs were tended to, that I might find the pleasure you spoke of.”
“Did my little princess fuck herself on her fingers?” he asks. There’s a sharp edge of sarcasm in his voice, as if he doesn’t think she could or would be so bold. “You must have looked rapturous bringing yourself to pleasure the way I taught you to.”
“I wasn’t alone, Uncle. I found someone to warm my bed, since you were otherwise uninterested in finishing what you started.”
She smiles wryly, crossing her arms over her chest. Although the pain of his rejection still smarts, at least she accomplished her goal of losing her maidenhead—even if it wasn’t with the person she truly wanted.
“You allowed another man to touch you?”
The rage in his voice makes her blood run cold. And when he crosses the distance between them in a few short strides to tower over her, she tastes fear on her tongue. Still, she doesn’t show it. He has no right to be jealous.
“Why wouldn’t I? You left me with a terrible ache between my thighs, so I sought the relief I needed. Just like you said—we fuck whomever we want.”
“Who was it?”
“That is none of your concern!”
“Who, Rhaenyra? Do not make me ask again.”
She juts her chin at him, silent in her defiance.
“Was it your knight, the one who watches you with those pathetic puppy eyes?”
“It’s none of your concern,” she says, an emphasis on every word.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Daemon laughs, a cruel sound. “That boy wouldn’t know how to please a woman, much less an obstinate princess like you, sweetling. Did he even make you come?”
“Of course, he did!” she says, bristling at this insult of Ser Criston’s abilities.
The encounter might not have been perfect, but he was attentive and considerate. These qualities more than made up for the awkwardness of the coupling. In the end, he was the antithesis of her uncle, a man who only cares for himself, and that was what mattered most—more than pleasure.
She simply needed a way to rid herself of the memory of Daemon’s touch. And in that, she succeeded, even if the reprieve was brief.
“I would wager he didn’t.”
He reaches for her. Bold, just like the night before. As if he already expects she will yield to him, surrendering in this fight and submitting to his wishes. His fingers rest against her neck, thumb along her jaw. He takes a step closer and their position nearly mirrors the one they found themselves in at the brothel.
Sucking in a quick breath, Rhaenyra steels herself. It doesn’t matter that this simple caress has reignited her desire, that he makes her feel more alive than she has ever felt. The facts remain: he left her and he cannot be trusted.
“Believe what you will, but—”
“Did he lap at your sweet cunt until you cried out? Did he bother to stretch you out with his fingers or did he merely rut into you like the inexperienced boy he is?”
“He was very gentle—”
“You don’t need gentle, Rhaenyra. It won’t bring a woman like you satisfaction.”
She seethes at his impudence. It was audacious enough to appear at her chambers at this late hour, entirely unannounced and uninvited. Now he dares question her choices? He has no right to assume that he knows what she needs. He had the opportunity to be her first. Rhaenyra would have given him her maidenhood. She wanted to, more than anything.
Daemon was the one who pulled away.
“You don’t know anything about me or what I need,” she says, the edges of her vision white with fury. “You hardly know me at all. Even before your exile, you were too busy with your paramours and the whores of King’s Landing to spare me more than a second glance.”
“And yet you still wear the necklace I gave you.”
His fingers tug at the Valyrian steel, twisting the pendant—the one she so rarely takes off.
“It says nothing of my affection for you, only my attachment to the proud lineage of our house.”
“You’re lying,” he murmurs, leaning ever closer.
“You presume too much,” she says, turning away just as his lips brush the corner of her mouth. “You had your chance and you squandered it.”
Daemon rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed.
“Let me earn your forgiveness then. I know you as intimately as I know the beating of my own heart. You and I are of the same blood, my love, which means few in this world are able to understand you as I do. I can give you a far better experience than he could.”
“Ser Criston was there when you weren’t. He wanted me, cherished me. He made me feel desired, soothing the sting of your rejection. Do not disrespect him again.”
“And when you reached your peak? How did it feel then?”
Her cheeks color at the indelicate nature of this inquiry.
“Beg pardon?” she chokes out.
“How did it feel when you reached your peak?” he asks again.
“Why does it matter what it felt like?”
“Indulge me. A parting gift for your uncle, even if I am undeserving.”
“It felt…” She pauses, searching and failing to find the words to describe it. “Good. It felt good.”
A triumphant look crosses his face and even before he speaks, Rhaenyra understands how severely she has miscalculated in offering an answer.
“It should feel rapturous,” he says, his hand spanning the small of her back to tug her even closer, “as though every cell in your body is vibrating with pleasure—alight with a flame like the very one our dragons breathe. Whether with his fingers or with his mouth, a man should worship your cunt until all rational thought has abandoned you.”
He traces his fingers across her clavicle, shifting the gown she wears to reveal her shoulder. Then, leaning in, he presses a kiss to her skin. A fire blooms at his touch. Yet, she refuses to soften, determined to remain impervious to his wiles.
“I shall convey that to Ser Criston then, for our next coupling.”
“You won’t bring that boy to your bed again,” Daemon says, his lips against her neck.
“You have no say in the matter.”
“I’ll fuck you so well that you won’t ever want another.”
“If I were to allow that, you would only leave again…just as before.”
“Not by choice,” he says. “Regardless, the sweetness will be worth the sorrow of parting.”
She pulls away—just enough to search his face. Although she is vexed with him, Rhaenyra cannot bring herself to leave the warmth of his embrace.
“Why did you leave last night?” Her voice is hardly more than a whisper and despite her best efforts, it trembles with uncertainty. “Did you find me lacking? Was I not beautiful enough to tempt you any further?”
“You’re the most beautiful maiden in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea.”
“Then why didn’t you want me?”
Silence fills the space between them, giving way to ever-growing doubt.
Insecurities have plagued her ever since he walked away, rejecting her advances as though her touch was poison. Her uncle is hardly a man to deny himself the pleasures of the flesh. This is well-known, just as she said to him. Therefore, it stands to reason that he simply didn’t want Rhaenyra. And even though Criston was more than eager to fall into bed with her, she can’t ignore the sharp pain at the reminder of Daemon’s dismissal.
“It’s a precious gift, your maidenhead. I may be a greedy man, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it from you in a pleasure house. A princess like you deserves far better than a first time among the degenerates of the city.”
She laughs, incredulous.
“Since when do you have morals?”
“I don’t,” he says, “except where it comes to you, I suppose.”
“And yet you seem eager to defile me now, though we are not wed.”
“We would be, if the decision were mine to make. However, if you’re intent on disposing of your virtue, I’d rather you sin with me than with some lowly knight.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she says.
“As to whether I found you lacking? I have never desired a woman the way I desire you. Look at how you affect me, Rhaenyra—the way I burn for you.”
He takes her hand in his, slides in between their bodies until her fingers brush against the length of his erection. Tangible proof of how he wants her. And while she should be outraged at his boldness, she isn’t. Feeling the evidence of his need for her only makes the ache between her thighs bloom.
When he leans in again to kiss her, she lets him.
“Please accept my sincerest apologies, Princess,” he murmurs. “For last night—for every instance in which I’ve disappointed you.”
“I’ll grant you pardon once you’ve earned it.”
Anger and confusion still linger, but of one thing she is certain: she wants Daemon. Even if she tried to deny it before, the desire remains. It makes it easy to lean into his arms as he lifts her, to wrap her legs around his waist like some wanton harlot. It feels instinctual, this need to be pressed against him.
For his part, he grips her thighs as if he fears losing her. He lets her take his face between her hands, controlling the kiss as she pleases—taking and taking and taking. Not a word of protest forms on his tongue. His lips never leave her mouth as he stumbles through her chambers, blind as he moves them both toward her bed.
Rather than setting her down, though, he merely sits at the edge with Rhaenyra perched in his lap. His hands smooth over her thighs and hips before dancing along the ladder of her ribs. She can feel him pressed now against her core, the very space that she desperately needs him to fill. His hard length offers a modicum of relief, but it isn’t enough. Still, she indulges in merely kissing him.
It’s so different than it was at the brothel.
Those kisses, while given without restraint, could not compare to the way he devours her now. It’s as though she is the very air that fills his lungs. When he groans into her mouth it speaks of the same ravenous want that continues to build within her.
Unable to bear the ache any longer, she rolls her hips in a small, tentative movement. Suddenly, she’s unsure of herself. Ser Criston had been easy to impress, hers from the moment she disrobed. Yet, her Uncle has lain with so many women. Ones that were far more beautiful and with a wealth of experience.
What can she offer him that would even begin to compare?
“Rhaenyra,” he breathes out, her name on his lips like a prayer.
Just like that, she pushes fear from her mind.
“Show me,” she says—or rather, demands. “Show me what it can be like.”
He breaks the kiss, studying her. And for a moment, she wonders whether he might say no. If he will leave again. Yet, he doesn’t do either, contenting himself with merely watching her. Their breaths mingle, eyes never leaving the other even as he drags his thumb across her bottom lip—just like he did before kissing her in the pleasure house.
His expression is unreadable, enigmatic.
“How should I fuck you?” he says, after an eternity of silence. “Like a lady, or a whore?”
Like someone you love, she wants to say.
She doesn’t, though.
Quite honestly, Rhaenyra doesn’t know whether her uncle is even capable of such an emotion. Surely, he feels a sense of loyalty toward his family—that much is clear. Despite the way he delights in tormenting her father, there is no one with a stronger allegiance to the king.
His enemies would say that Daemon is only acting in his best interests, his desire for the crown still evident. Rhaenyra knows better than to believe that, but she cannot say whether there is a genuine fondness shared between them.
If he loved anyone, it would have been Mysaria, the woman from Lys.
Rhaenyra was always resentful of the way her uncle looked upon his paramour, as if she had hung the very moon and stars in the sky. No one would ever bestow such a gaze on her, of that she was certain. Men only wanted her for power and prestige.
“Whichever way will bring the most pleasure,” she says finally.
Another pause and then, “Do you trust me?”
She doesn’t even have to think before answering.
“Yes, Uncle. I trust you.”
Even though I shouldn’t.
Those words remain unspoken.
Pushing up the skirt of her gown, Daemon runs his calloused palms over her skin until he reaches the crease of her thighs. His hands engulf her, making Rhaenyra feel protected—cherished. When his thumb brushes over that sensitive little bud tucked between her folds, a cry escapes her at the overwhelming surge of sensation.
“Quiet now. You wouldn’t want anyone to think the princess is in trouble.”
He repeats the movement again, though this time she’s prepared. Burying her face against his neck, she muffles her moan against his skin.
“My darling girl, so responsive for me,” he praises, “as though your body recognizes my touch.”
Already she can feel the heat building beneath her skin. Yet, she knows how skilled Daemon is with his fingers. And as pleasurable as it may be, she wants more.
“Fuck me,” she says, the word still foreign on her tongue.
“Do you want my cock?” he asks, grinning once more.
“Yes, you rogue. It’s all I’ve wanted, yet you continue to deny me.”
“Such impertinence,” he says, clicking his tongue as his smirk grows.
“Please, Daemon. I need your cock.”
It feels bizarre to say it, to call him by his name and utter such a crude word, but the effect is precisely what she hoped for. His eyes grow ever darker, nearly black with want. He stands abruptly, making her dizzy even as he drops her flat on her back. A huff of breath escapes Rhaenyra when her head hits the mattress.
“Take off your garment,” he says, reaching for the strings on his trousers.
She doesn’t waste a single moment following his instructions. Sitting up straight, she pulls the gown over her head and relishes the way his eyes drag from her chest to her hips to her thighs. Her nipples grow stiff from the cool night air but as she reaches up to pinch them, he moves above her with alarming speed.
“You cannot touch yourself unless granted permission.” He takes her hands in one of his, pinning them above her head. “Your pleasure is mine to give. Are we understood?”
“Yes, Daemon,” she says.
He rewards her compliance with a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with hers while his fingers trace the seam of her cunt. Her hips jump forward when he slides a finger inside her. The intrusion, while not as startling anymore, is still so new. She’s sticky with want, arousal leaking from her as she whines into his mouth.
“You drive me mad,” he says, though it’s unclear whether he’s speaking to her or to himself. “How will I ever content myself with anyone else?”
“You belong to me,” she returns, breathless as he abandons her mouth in favor of kissing the swell of her breasts. “No one else can have you.”
He hums his assent, too preoccupied with her nipples to respond properly. Tugging one between his teeth, he bites down. The shock of pain stands in stark contrast to the way he continues to stretch her—now filling her with two fingers—the palm of his hand pressing to that sweet spot from where her pleasure seems to radiate. And when he soothes her nipple with his tongue and sucks on it, a trail of fire races up her spine.
His frame is so much larger than hers, his body draping over her so that Daemon manages to somehow keep her hands pinned to the bed while his mouth remains on her breasts and his fingers work her open—preparing her for him.
The first orgasm comes as a surprise, a tidal wave of euphoria crashes over her. Her mind grows hazy, her back bowing off the bed even as her cunt clenches around his fingers. Her hair clings to her forehead, damp with sweat.
Surely, if she could look at her reflection, Rhaenyra would find her cheeks flushed. As it is, the heat on her face is the only evidence of the euphoria she feels. Through it all, her uncle continues his ministrations, slowing his fingers as she grows more sensitive. He has three of them inside her now, and it’s still not enough.
She’s about to plead for more, uncaring of how desperate and pathetic it might be, when Daemon lifts his body from hers and flips her onto her stomach. Pushing her legs together, he trails kisses down her spine before spreading the globes of her ass to lap at her cunt.
“Oh, gods,” she says, her cry smothered by the bedsheets.
It feels incredible, despite how forbidden the act may seem. When he pulls away, a whine of protest escapes her.
“Patience, Princess,” he says, laughter evident in his voice.
He doesn’t make her wait long, though. The warmth of his cock presses against her, the head notched between her folds. A sense of trepidation arises, even though she does want this. While she can’t see it, Rhaenyra has heard tales—whispers told by the ladies in court of how well-endowed her uncle is. And as he starts to push in, she understands. Even with his preparations, it’s still a considerable stretch.
“Daemon?” she asks.
“Yes, my love?”
“What if it doesn’t fit?”
“We’ll make it fit,” he says. “Now, be a good girl and breathe for me.”
She does as she’s told, eyes drifting shut as she focuses on the weight of him against her. Skin presses to skin as he blankets her, his lips against her neck and his teeth digging into the muscle of her shoulder until he fully sheathes his cock inside her.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans. “Your cunt was made for me.”
Rhaenyra needs him to move, but she can’t find the words. Thank the Seven, it doesn’t take long for him to give her what she wants. Daemon merely grinds against her at first, hips pressing into her ass as though he can’t bear to slide his length out. It’s a sentiment that she shares wholeheartedly.
Slowly, pain melts away, leaving only pleasure.
Now, she can’t imagine not being filled by him. Except, when he braces his weight on his arms and starts thrusting in earnest, that feels incredible, too. The drag of his cock makes her see stars, reducing her to a trembling, weeping mess as her uncle shows her what real pleasure is.
If her encounter with Criston the night before was akin to a fire, this coupling is a blazing inferno—destroying everything in its path. She nears her second peak with alarming speed, helpless to the way Daemon makes her feel with every push and pull.
And yet, as amazing as it feels, something is missing.
Turning her head, she bleats out, “Please.”
“What is it you need, Rhaenyra? My fingers on your sensitive little clit?”
She nods, even though she isn’t entirely sure what he means. A whimper of protest catches in her throat when he pulls out, arranging her flat on her back as though she is little more than a doll—a toy to use to his liking.
And although she will one day be queen, Rhaenyra finds she enjoys this. Her entire life has been built around behaving properly, of expressing the right sentiment at the perfect time and ensuring she maintains the goodwill of all those around her. It’s exhausting. Now, she doesn’t have to think or calculate or plan. All she has to do is feel.
That’s why she doesn’t protest when Daemon sets her ankles on his shoulders, sliding his cock back into her and nearly folding her in half as he seeks her mouth once more.
His thumb somehow finds its way through a tangle of limbs to that spot between her thighs—her clit, apparently. He rubs it in time with the undulation of his hips, alternating between long strokes and tight circles.
She falls to pieces just like that, with his cock splitting her open and his lips pressed to her jaw. His movements become erratic as she clenches around him, no longer sure and steady. Even so, Daemon still fucks her hard, hips finding purchase against her skin as he buries himself inside her again and again. Yet, it’s clear that he is barely clinging to the last vestiges of self-control.
When she threads her fingers in his hair and brings his mouth to hers, he comes with a low groan. The aftershocks of her orgasm have yet to abate entirely, her cunt squeezing—milking him as he spills his seed inside her.
Even after they’re both entirely spent, he stays slotted inside her. He only moves to slide her legs from their perch on his shoulders, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder with a heavy, sated exhale. Quiet contentment settles over them as Rhaenyra revels in this forbidden knowledge of how pleasurable fucking can be. Just like her uncle told her.
It’s impossible to tell how much time passes like this, with their bodies entwined. Although his cock softens inside her, they remain pressed chest to chest. The silence continues until Rhaenyra can bear it no longer. As rapturous as the experience might have been, the ecstasy fades eventually. In its place, trepidation grows.
She tugs at his hair so she can press her lips to his.
“Don’t leave me,” she says. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”
Tears spring in her eyes, only to be brushed away by his thumb. His lips press gently, trailing kisses across her nose and cheekbone.
“As unprincipled and unruly as I may be, I cannot disobey a command from His Grace. There’s nothing I would rather do than stay with you, but I must return to the Vale.”
“Let me talk to him,” she pleads. “Make him see reason. I don’t want to be without you.”
“It will only be in the temporary, my love. Nothing can keep me from you.”
She nods as another tear rolls down her cheek. It is useless to persist in quarreling, especially when it means wasting precious time that can be spent loving one another.
“I will return to you, Rheanyra. I swear it on my honor as a knight and a prince.”
He seals the oath with a kiss, one that she is all too eager to return.
The sadness, as poignant as it may be, will not last forever.
Of this, she is certain.