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Her eyelids were stuck together, and there was a foul taste of stale alcohol in her throat, and she knew, without opening her eyes, that she didn’t know this room, and that the arm around her shoulders did not belong to her husband. Her curls felt stiff and sticky with hairspray, she must have smeared makeup all over the pillow, and her whole lower body ached. There was something on her thighs. What had she done?
She’d been with Criston last night, she remembered, with immediate trepidation, at some bar. The Something Worm. Drinking to a piece in a high-profile newspaper she couldn’t quite remember that explained why Rhaenyra was completely unfit to inherit Iron Throne. Criston wouldn’t have done this, she thought frantically, even if I’d begged him. She forced her eyes open. It was worse than she could have imagined.
Daemon Targaryen, her husband’s wastrel brother, had one arm slung around her, his long white hair tickling her nose, and the other around Criston. Daemon managed to look wicked even in his sleep, a cruel grin tugging his lips - perhaps that was only because his arm pulled Criston’s face so close to him, in perfect contrast. Alicent thought he looked like an angel, curls mussed, lips parted slightly, dog tags resting on dark chest hair. What had Daemon done to her? What had Daemon done to him?
She had the worst headache she’d ever had in her life. She couldn’t remember last night.
——
Daemon thought, sometimes, that people were right about him having the devil’s own luck.
It had started with a newspaper tell-all on Rhaenyra’s ‘teenage indiscretions’, chiefly how they made her a ludicrous pick to run an orgy, let alone a Fortune 500 company. He featured heavily. They’d been enjoying it - some college pal of hers had sent it while they’d been having dinner, and it had quickly become the main event.
“‘History of wanton sexual behaviour and indulgence… renders the spoilt Targaryen ‘princess’ unfit for anything but another spell in rehab’. Did they dig up Martin Luther to write this?”
“While Aegon’s a shining light, I’m sure. I’m surprised he hasn’t bought out PornHub yet.”
She read on, eyes bright and tongue between her teeth. “Oh my god, they namedropped Criston. Under Rising Stars at Iron Throne back Aegon as Heir, look. He’ll be delighted.”
“He’ll be masturbating furiously.”
“Committing the solitary vice?” she mimicked his pompous tone perfectly. “He’d never. Alicent’s getting this.”
“She’ll wonder why he thinks her name is…” he checked the author. “Eustace.”
Rhaenyra burst out laughing. “She’s been telling him it isn’t Rhaenyra for years.”
Daemon disliked Cole, wholly unprofessionally - he’d been Rhaenyra’s first serious boyfriend, in college on scholarship, and had asked her to marry him after only a year of what Rhaenyra insisted had never been more than casual sex and coffee dates. Thankfully, his niece had had the good sense to laugh in his face, which he’d never gotten over. He’d no idea why Rhaenyra had entertained him for that long; handsome or not, from what Daemon had seen the man was utterly insufferable, a Bible-bashing hypocrite who’d expected Rhaenyra to cut ties with her family if they were going to stay together, and turned on her entirely when she’d refused. Daemon had no idea what issue he took with the Targaryens - he and his niece had always kept things very chaste in front of him - and had always suspected he’d been hired by Otto Hightower to distract Rhaenyra.
She’d dated Alicent in a far less official capacity, for two weeks of the summer she’d turned fourteen, abruptly ended by Hightower catching on and having Alicent sent to conversion camp quicker than you could say Love Simon. If sending mushy love poetry to Rhaenyra was a sin, fucking her father, his own dear brother, before Rhaenyra’s late mother’s side of the bed had cooled, was evidently fine. As was, according to popular rumour, cucking him with his own employee, a man he had to assume she’d chosen specifically to upset his niece.
All this meant that, when Rhaenyra declared, “I bet they’d both still fuck me if I let them. They’re obsessed, it’s pathetic,” he understood at once that this could be entertaining.
“How much?”
“How much would I bet?” she replied, amused.
“Yes.”
“Five grand. Minimum.” With the amount in the Targaryen account, there was little fun in betting in smaller denominations.
“I’ll take you up on that. If you fuck both of them, I’ll give you five grand.”
She grinned. “That’s too easy. What’s the catch?”
“If I fuck them both first, you owe me the same.”
She burst into lovely, clear peals of laughter. “Good luck. Alicent’s frigid, and married, and Criston once beat Joff up at a party because he thought he was checking him out.”
“Was he?”
She shrugged. “Hardly matters. He’d burst into tears if you looked at his ass. I’ll take your bet and double it, it’s never happening.”
Only days after this, he’d paid Mysaria a visit in her new location, and seen two unmistakable figures at the bar. He’d known them at once by Alicent’s long auburn curls - his brother’s lovely little trophy wife, and that Dornish-Marcher mongrel everybody knew was fucking her. When he’d gone over to greet them, grinning wolfishly, they’d both glared at him, but taken the free drinks he insisted on, ordering them with a wink at Mysaria. She’d rolled her eyes, but understood.
They’d been tipsy when he met them - he gathered they’d meant to leave soon - but he was nothing if not persuasive, and by the time he’d plied them with several more drinks and a few hours of conversation, it was easy to convince them that he couldn’t possibly let them go home, and that there were rooms upstairs they could stay in for free. He was partial owner, didn’t they know, and he’d never let anything happen to his sweet sister-in-law. Cole had glared at him, told him that he would never let anything happen, and Daemon had smiled and replied, lightly, that in his current state any thug could have pushed him aside and done as they liked. Alicent had seen better sense, and had asked to see the room.
Cole insisted on helping Alicent up the stairs, bristling when Daemon brushed her lower back, and tried immediately to get him out of the room. Probably eager to get in her, Daemon thought, the second he was out of the way. Everyone knew what Dornishmen were like. Perhaps he made a habit of this, perhaps this wasn’t even the first time they’d come to The White Worm. He’d ask Mysaria. He replied, pleasantly, that if he was paying for the room, he might come inside a moment.
Alicent collapsed, at once, on the bed, while he sat on the side. Cole, his effort to assert his dominance having evidently exhausted him, dropped to sit on the ground, eyes mistrustful.
Daemon watched him, mind clear. Alicent would be the easier of the two - he’d always suspected she nursed a teenage flame for him, to irritate daddy if nothing else - so he’d start with Cole. Despite his purported pious self-discipline, the younger man was hotheaded, his passions easy to inflame.
“I know why you want me out. You’re aching to fuck her, aren’t you?”
Cole froze, immediately defensive. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play coy. Everyone knows.” He glanced over at Alicent, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. “Fucking my dear brother’s whore wife. On the hours he pays you by? Or under the roof he keeps over your head?”
Cole staggered upright and made a lunge towards him, but overbalanced with one well-placed shove. He gasped, left swaying on his knees at Daemon’s feet, looking a little like his brain had just reset.
“Perhaps he knows,” Daemon mused, watching Cole’s expression flicker, fury underneath a haze of inebriation. “Perhaps he likes it. Perhaps he lets you fuck her in front of him. He did always have strange tastes.”
Cole recoiled, struck dumb. That was better.
“I bet she’d like to see her husband fuck her little boyfriend.”
“We’re not,” his tone pretended at determination, diluted by booze. Daemon’s taunt was apparently too upsetting for him to even register - either that, or Cole was as stupid as he looked. “We never.”
“Rubbish.” He was clearly too dim to play with like this. Losing patience, he seized the younger man’s head by the sides, twining his fingers into thick dark curls and ignoring his struggles. Cole allowed his head to be manhandled into Daemon’s lap easily, and feeding the tip of his cock between those pretty lips was scarcely more difficult.
He was obviously inexperienced, and likely blackout drunk to boot, so Daemon let him get accustomed to the idea a moment. He didn’t want any biting. His big dark eyes were glazed, but there was a spark struggling to light in them that might have been resentment, and might have been something else. He gave a testing thrust, enjoying the snug wet cave of his mouth, and the younger man adjusted himself, blinking stupidly. Good. He was quite lovely when he wasn’t talking.
It took only a little more coaxing to get him sucking properly, bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks and tonguing the tip and watching for Daemon’s reaction. If there was anything military men could do, it was follow orders. He’d almost reached the snowy pubes at the base when Daemon gave a quick, punishing thrust into his tight throat, and sighed as the stunned choke reverberated deliciously through him. Daemon cast his eyes over to see Alicent revived, watching her boyfriend slide up and down his length with flushed cheeks and an unreadable expression. Was she thinking about servicing Viserys, her own dear husband, his own dear brother?
He drew his cock out, nicely wet and fully hard, and gave it one smooth stroke. Cole flinched, as if he was about to spend on his face. As though it would be so easy. Daemon chuckled, ruffling his hair hard, as one would to a big dog. “Well done. You’re a natural talent - good for if the business thing falls through.”
He glared, teary-eyed, up at him, lips red and wet.
Daemon would leave him alone a moment - he turned around to Alicent, inflamed on the bed, eyes fixed on his prick wetted in her boyfriend’s throat.
He fell upon her - her blood was already up, and he snaked a hand into her panties to find she was growing wet. When he tongued at her mouth, she kissed him back, with all the wanton abandon of any unsated housewife, blackout drunk.
Her wet warmth practically sucked his fingers inside - he wondered when the last time was that Viserys had pleased her - and he dipped in deeper, inserting a second, then a third. She made the sweetest noise he’d ever heard when he found her button, and took to rubbing it in slow circles.
“My, my. Otto’s worst-“ he pinched, hard, and she canted her hips, “nightmare.”
“Don’t talk about my dad,” she gasped, glaring.
Cole was watching them, stupid eyes blown wide, looking as though he was about to say something annoying. Daemon tossed him the bottle of lube, which he caught, clumsily.
“You’re next. Prepare yourself.”
“What?” His response was slurred. Daemon sighed.
“Get it wet, stretch it. It’ll make it hurt less.”
He twitched a finger inside Alicent, and she keened. The sound seemed to bring up what Cole was trying to say, as if through deep water.
“No…”
“No what?”
“Can’t. It’s wrong, dirty.” he frowned, as though this was obvious, but as if he couldn’t quite remember why.
“Can’t get fucked?” He coloured, and nodded. “Is that what your septa told you? What would she know?”
“I-“
“It’s a pleasure. You’ll see. It’s happening anyway - be grateful I’m letting you prepare yourself. It’d hurt a lot more if I didn’t, and I would like so desperately to hurt you. Strip while you’re at it.”
He refocused his attentions to Alicent. If Cole wanted to take him unprepared, that was his own pride’s fault.
She’d wriggled out of her skirt while he’d been dealing with Cole, and her soaked panties lasted little longer. He purred, biting her neck.
“Something for Viserys to remember me by.”
She’d gasped, as though she’d forgotten the wedding band on her finger. She didn’t care about Viserys, everyone knew perfectly well, but he was sure the Seven-Pointed Star said something about fucking your husband’s brother.
She was wet enough, now - he thrust his cock into her heat, and they moaned as one.
“God, you’re tight,” he hissed.
“Tighter than Rhaenyra?” she replied, challenging. He removed her shirt in a hail of fabric-covered buttons, sending her cross necklace bouncing, and grabbed her tit. She squealed, and sighed as he started kneading her chest.
“Don’t talk about her,” his words were punctuated by rough thrusts, and she mewled under him. He brought up his other hand, playing with her clit as he fucked her savagely, reconfiguring her body to fit his cock.
She took dick like a trained corporate whore, but was as sensitive as a virgin - she came, copiously, on his cock, head thrown back in a pornstar moan. He fucked her through it, salivating at the filthy wet sounds, the slapping, of his cock in her dripping cunt, before burying himself deep and erupting. He felt the flood of hot cum around his head, three pumps, and she shrieked at the sensation of him filling her belly, and he was taken, for a moment, by the idea of his brother’s obedient, fertile baby factory being knocked up by him, slim figure growing heavy and birthing a healthy Valyrian-featured baby she’d know perfectly well was his son. If he got her in this position again, and he planned to, he’d fuck load after load into her greedy cunt, and turn her over to enjoy that pert virgin arse once she’d grown loose and unfeeling with overuse. He’d take great pleasure in watching her waddle about in her modest green dresses, enormously fat with what Viserys would be sure was his second son, smiling half-convincingly to hide her great shame. He fucked her cunt frothy, breeding her like the pedigree bitch she was.
Still breathless, he pulled out and gestured Cole over to the bed, setting him stumbling up from where he’d been sprawled, half-overcome, eyes blown wide. He had undressed, white button-down and jeans folded neatly over the back of a chair, as if that might make the whole situation any more in his control, and obeyed warily.
“Good. Bend over, arse up.”
The younger man either ignored him or didn’t know what he meant - he shoved him down on the bed, pulled his hips up roughly to cock-level, and examined the result of his fumbling effort to prepare himself.
He was almost surprised Cole had even attempted it, though he’d done a poor job - it was wet, though hardly stretched. He was privately pleased; his tastes ran in a particular direction, and a tight maiden arse met them nicely. As a gesture of goodwill, he lubed his own cock before resting it at the entrance, though he made no attempt to work him wider.
The press inside was red and tight, driving a cry out of Cole as he squirmed. It’s only the head, take it like a man. He knew he’d see blood upon pulling out - Alicent watched with what he was sure she’d like him to mistake for rapt horror. He gestured her over, and brought Cole’s head into her lap, the lean forwards and back punching more pretty noises out of him.
“Go on. You don’t have to say grace, you know.”
He started eating her, clumsily, but with obvious practice - his rhythm interrupted every few moments by Daemon’s rutting pushing his face into her, fucking moans out of him and into her entrance. He wondered if he could taste his cock, his cum, in her. She trembled, lips parted.
It was becoming easier, a slick slide in and out at a brutal, bruising pace. Breaking him in. The younger man might be too drunk to remember this the next day, but he’d certainly have enough purple-blue reminders, if his being unable to walk wasn’t enough of a clue. Taking pleasure at the thought, Daemon gripped his hips harder, hoping he’d leave handprints.
Under this onslaught, caught between the large slick cock impaling him and her sopping, throbbing matrix, it was hardly surprising that Cole came without a touch to his prick, sobbing and gasping like a girl. The noises he made into her pushed Alicent over, and they came in near-unison, her drenching his mouth.
He liked them like this, he thought, all warm and pliant with booze, posable as dolls. He yanked Cole away from her by the hair, eyes glassy and beard wet. “Get up.”
It took only a moment to reposition them - missionary, he thought, was appropriate - and for Cole to slide into her, both sighing. Daemon watched as he started to thrust, gently, almost caressing. He wouldn’t be as rough as Daemon wanted him to be; an idea occurred to him, and he seized his narrow hips, slipping back inside. The younger man keened into the sloppy makeout session he’d been having with Alicent, but made no effort to force him out.
Daemon thrust down, hard, experimentally, and they both moaned helplessly, his prick fucked into her harder than he’d ever dare. He found a quick, harsh rhythm, and dragged them along to it, wet noises and the smell of sex and Alicent coming, almost sobbing, to her third ever orgasm, her third of the night, as he fucked her with Cole’s cock. Cole was faring little better, panting and writhing and having sweet little sounds of pleasure knocked out of him - Daemon had found his prostrate on the second thrust, and he’d seized around him deliciously. Daemon hadn’t missed once after that. The punishing pace set his thighs trembling, and he collapsed after spending, buried deep inside of her, walls fluttering and tightening. Daemon had no problem with that, chasing his pleasure into his limp body in rapid thrusts until he shot hot seed into and over his abused hole.
Having pulled out and wiped his cock, he examined his work - both of them were all but unconscious, still entwined in a lovers’ embrace, but the lower half was the truly pretty picture. Him still limp, inside her cunt, with his and Daemon’s seed beginning to leak down the side of his cock. His own entrance, just above, wet and red and thoroughly no-longer virgin, dripping spend. He considered leaving them exactly like this, to find themselves in the morning in a grimy motel and state of absolute shame. He considered taking some tasteless pictures - her pristine white tits against his dark chest hair could have been in the Tate Modern - and telling them, threatening, that the whole debauched scene would fit perfectly in that Eustace’s next article, unless he could be sure of a repeat performance. Perhaps even a sober one. Perhaps Rhaenyra might like to watch, or join in.
Thinking slightly better of the idea, he pulled Cole off of her - she whined at the loss, or at the feeling of leaking - and settled between them. He wouldn’t wipe them off, he wasn’t Mother Theresa.
Was Alicent on birth control? If not, Cole had better pray Daemon’s seed had beaten his to it. Nobody need ever know, then. What was the Seven’s position on the morning-after pill?
He pulled the covers up, bringing both of them in closer. It took him a moment to find a good position for the picture, salacious but not pornographic - his own grinning face, Cole, shirtless, curled into his shoulder, Alicent with lips parted and a crucifix rested on the tops of her tits - and send it to Rhaenyra.
i win
- what the fuck
- how
they were both very drunk. slutted out
- youre insane
- he hates gay people
i’ll bet tightest arse i’ve ever had
came on my cock same as her
- she’s MARRIED
it’s only viz
you owe me ten grand