calmingmelody96

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 26 - Dragon and The Lost Hound

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, possessiveness

Masterlist

The morning sun spilled across the crimson stone walls of the Red Keep, bathing Maeliora's chambers in a golden glow. The scent of lilac and fresh linen wafted through the open windows. All was still, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of a newborn nestled in the crook of her mother’s arm.

Maeliora reclined on a chaise of plush velvet, her silver hair unbound and spilling like molten moonlight across her shoulders. In her arms lay the newest flame of House Targaryen — Daelyra. Tiny, perfect, and already with a hint of silver in the downy fuzz crowning her little head.

A gentle knock on the door stirred her from her reverie.

“Enter,” she called softly.

Rhaenyra swept into the room with a rustle of silks, cheeks flushed with delight. “You should have named her Alysanne reborn, sister,” she said, laughing as she bent to kiss Maeliora’s cheek. “She’s more beautiful than I imagined.”

Maeliora smiled tiredly but with pride. “Her name is Daelyra. Uncle also approved.” She glanced toward the cradle beside the bed, empty now, as Daelyra lay snoozing against her.

“Of course he did.” Rhaenyra chuckled, brushing a finger down the baby’s cheek. “He must be over the moons.”

“You have no idea,” Maeliora replied, shifting to sit up straighter. “He’s been more protective than a dragon curled on a clutch of eggs. He barely lets the nurses near her. Puts her to sleep himself every night, sings to her in High Valyrian. You should hear it. He sounds... absurdly tender.”

“Oh gods,” Rhaenyra laughed. “Daemon - The Rogue Prince? Tender? You’re lying.”

“I am not,” Maeliora said, grinning. “He even swaddles her himself. If she so much as hiccups, he threatens to cut the throats of all the nurses.’”

“Sounds about right.”

Just then, a smaller pair of footsteps came padding down the hall, heralded by an unmistakable pout. The door creaked open, and in walked Daeron, with his hands jammed into the sleeves of his tunic and a dramatic scowl plastered across his face.

“I wanted a brother,” he announced by way of greeting.

Maeliora arched a brow. “Good morning to you, too, little prince.”

Daeron climbed onto the chaise beside her, peering skeptically at the baby. “I told everyone it would be a boy. Boys are better. You can’t play swords with a baby girl.”

“You can't play swords with a baby anyone, Daeron” Rhaenyra chuckled.

Daeron continued to complain. “And now Father never has time for me. He just walks around with her like... like he’s got a dragon egg under his shirt!”

Before Maeliora could respond, the door opened once more, this time, with the gentle creak of iron hinges and the warm scent of leather and smoke drifting in.

Daemon entered, clad in soft black and crimson tunics, a faint trace of stubble on his jaw.

“I heard that,” he said mildly, crossing the room. “A dragon egg under my shirt, hm?”

Daeron looked slightly abashed but stuck to his frown.

Daemon dropped onto one knee before his son and held the baby out just slightly, enough that Daeron could see her face clearly. “This is your sister,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Your family, your flesh and blood. She will grow, and walk, and speak, and gods help us, she’ll probably command you around like a little queen.”

“She already drools,” Daeron muttered.

“As you did,” Daemon said smoothly, brushing a finger against Daelyra’s soft cheek. “But listen to me, son. One day, someone will try to take her from this family, someone will try to court her, wed her, maybe even try to take her far from here, from this ratched city.”

Maeliora and Rhaenyra exchanged glances.

Daemon’s gaze sharpened. “And on that day, it will not be some boy from Oldtown or Vale who claims her. Do you know why?”

Daeron blinked. “Why?”

Daemon gave a slow smile, dark and wry. “Because no man on this earth will ever be good enough for her... except, perhaps, her brother.”

Rhaenyra snorted. “Seven save us. You’re already planning their betrothal, uncle?”

Daemon didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I am. As if I would let my daughter be shipped off to strangers? The blood of the dragon must remain unbroken. And I certainly won’t have her married to some green-eyed, weak-willed, puffed-up knight with no spine.”

Maeliora laughed aloud. “You act as though she’s to be betrothed tomorrow!”

“No, but the day will come,” Daemon said, rising and placing Daelyra into Maeliora’s arms once more. “Targaryens wed their kin. She’ll be safe, loved, protected, and well taken care of with her family, with her own blood.”

Daeron scrunched his nose. “Does this mean I have to marry her?”

“You get to,” Daemon corrected, patting his son’s shoulder. “And until then, you’ll be her sword and shield. Anyone so much as sneezes near her, you’ll cut them down. Understood?”

Daeron’s eyes lit up just a bit. “Even the Hightowers?”

Daemon grinned. “Especially the Hightowers.”

They all laughed, and the chambers of the Red Keep echoed with a warmth rarely felt in those ancient halls. Outside, a dragon roared somewhere over the city, as if in approval.

The sun hung lower now, casting long golden beams through the high windows of the Tower of the Hand. Dust motes danced in the stillness, disturbed only by the soft, clipped tones of conversation.

Alicent stood near the arched window, her green gown sharp against the stone. Below, the courtyard hummed with life — squires training, couriers rushing, nobles parading in silks. Yet her eyes remained fixed toward the Red Keep’s upper towers, specifically, the ones where Maeliora resided.

“She has not invited me,” she said quietly, bitterness coiled beneath her voice. “Not once. Not even a glimpse of the child.”

Otto Hightower, seated near the hearth with a goblet in hand, glanced over at his daughter. “And would you have gone if she had?”

Alicent didn’t answer.

“She has no care for propriety,” she said instead, her tone sharp. “Daemon — Daemon — was present for the birth. In the chamber. No guards, no maesters, not even a septa to oversee the rite. He held her hand the entire time, I’m told.”

“Disgraceful,” Otto muttered, shaking his head.

“Romantic,” said a voice from the hall.

Gwayne entered, folding his arms. His face, though composed, was tight around the edges. “Or so the whispers go. The fearsome Daemon Targaryen, lovingly cradling his screaming wife while bathing in her blood and afterbirth.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “The court eats it up like a bard’s song.”

Alicent turned toward her brother with a faint sneer. “It was your wife once.”

Gwayne stiffened. “Aye. Once. Before he crept in like a flame and burned what was mine.”

Otto exhaled heavily. “Maeliora was never truly yours, Gwayne. You know that.”

“We had a family once... We were raising Daeron together.”

“Daeron, huh” Alicent said bitterly. “The boy no longer even speaks to you.”

Gwayne’s mouth tightened. “That is Daemon’s doing. He poisons him with his ‘dragon blood’ delusions. He teaches him to hate us.”

“And yet you still follow her around the court like a lost hound,” Alicent snapped. “You think no one sees you, that no one notices. You think you’re subtle and clever. But I know you, brother, I know you...”

Gwayne didn’t answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

In the royal gardens, beneath the shade of a Myrish oak, Daeron sat alone, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick. Beside him sat a small wooden dragon — crudely carved, but lovingly so. Clearly Daemon’s work.

Gwayne approached cautiously, hands clasped behind his back.

“I used to bring you here when you were small,” he said, kneeling beside the boy. “You’d climb the trees and pretend you were a dragon.”

“I am a dragon,” Daeron replied, not looking up.

Gwayne offered a strained smile. “I see Daemon’s taught you well.”

“He’s my father,” Daeron said flatly.

Gwayne flinched. “You used to call me your father once.”

Daeron turned, violet eyes narrowed. His voice was low, steady. “You are not my father. My real father is Prince Daemon Targaryen — rider of Caraxes, warrior of the Stepstones, blood of Old Valyria. And I am proud to be his son. And my sister will be my wife when we grow up. Because the blood of the dragon belongs together only. She will ride a dragon, too. We will be fire together.”

Gwayne blinked, stunned. “That’s madness. Your sister is an infant... and your sister, Daeron. Where are these thoughts coming from? Daemon? I raised you better than this.”

“You took me from him, and my mother too!” Daeron said, rising to his feet. “You married my mother when she belonged to him. You and Otto tried to ruin our family.”

“He’s poisoned your mind.”

“No,” Daeron said with quiet pride. “He told me the truth. I am no Hightower. I am Targaryen. And Hightowers should stay far from my family.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the wind rustling through the trees.

Gwayne finally spoke. “You used to call me Papa. You used to run into my arms when I came back from patrol.”

Daeron’s expression faltered for a moment. Then the mask returned, cool and proud.

“That was before I knew who I really was.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Gwayne kneeling in the dirt, fists clenched at his sides.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @archerxnn @jessimay89, @elliott-calls

[calmingmelody96]

Hello everyone! :)

I am back from my holidays and soon I will start writing the next chapter. Sorry that I took so long. :D And thank you for being patient with me! :)

[calmingmelody96]

Update on The Dragon's Niece

Hello everyone! 🙋

Just letting you know that I won't be online for a week or so. I have holidays ahead 🙈☺️

Therefore I won't have time to update my story. But don't worry, I haven't given up on my story! 😁

I'll update the next chapter as soon as I am back from my holidays!

Thank you all for your support and kind comments! 🤗❤️💋

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 25 - Daelyra

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, possessiveness, pregnancy, child birth

Masterlist

The afternoon was thick with heat, the kind that clung to skin and slowed time itself. Sunlight streamed in golden slats through the high windows of Maeliora’s chambers, pooling on the marble floor like molten amber. The scent of lavender drifted faintly in the air, mingling with parchment, ink, and the sharp tang of summer roses wilting in a vase nearby.

Maeliora sat curled in a cushioned chair by the window, a book resting gently on her rounded belly. Her fingers idly traced the faded lettering, but her mind wandered to dreams and fears, to fire and prophecy, to the life stirring within her. The child had been restless all morning, shifting and kicking as if impatient to taste the world.

Thalia sat nearby, her hands busy with embroidery, occasionally glancing up with the quiet attentiveness of one who had been through this rhythm before.

A breeze teased the sheer curtains, and for a moment, all was still.

Then... a cramp. Subtle, fleeting. Maeliora’s brow knit slightly, her fingers tightening on the edge of the page. She brushed it off at first, a mere discomfort, perhaps from sitting too long.

But then came the second. Sharper. Deeper. It stole the breath from her lungs. She gripped the edge of the table beside her and let out a low hiss.

Thalia looked up at once, her needle pausing mid-stitch, eyes full of worry. “Princess?”

Maeliora shook her head, “It's nothing. Just a cramp.”

But even as she spoke, another wave of pain struck, more insistent this time, low and grinding and impossibly real. She pressed a hand beneath her belly and exhaled shakily.

Thalia stood up quickly, skirts rustling. “Is it time…?”

Maeliora didn’t answer. Her eyes had gone wide with the knowledge already dawning in her bones.

Thalia’s eyes widened. “I’ll send for the maesters and midwives.”

She didn’t wait for permission, only bolted from the room like a shadow loosed from the wall, her skirts flying. Servants scattered as she cried out orders, demanding midwives, clean linens, boiling water. The castle stirred like a waking beast. Footsteps thundered, voices rose, and the slow, golden peace of the afternoon shattered as the dragonling stirred to be born.

The ring of steel and grunts of exertion echoed off the sun-heated stones of the yard. Daemon moved like a dragon unbound — precise, swift, cruel in his elegance. His hair clung to his neck with sweat, and his blade flashed like a serpent in the light. His sparring partner struggled to keep pace as the prince spun, parried, and drove him back with a predator’s smile playing on his lips.

Then came a voice that broke the rhythm.

“My Prince! My Prince!” Thalia’s shout cut across the yard like a blade. She ran toward him, breathless, her hair wild. “It’s time! The princess, she’s is in labor!”

The sword dropped from his hand.

Daemon didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He turned on his heel and was gone, sprinting across the sun-drenched stone with the speed of a man possessed. His footsteps thundered up staircases and down corridors, servants leaping aside as he passed in a blur of black and crimson.

When he reached her chambers, the doors were closed, flanked by a wall of guards.

He stopped at the threshold, a storm cloaked in silk and fury. His jaw clenched. His eyes, shadowed and unrelenting, fixed on the wooden doors that muffled another cry — her voice, raw and breaking.

“Move,” Daemon growled.

“My prince, this is not permitted,” one of the guards said carefully, his tone almost pleading. “We were ordered not to—”

Daemon’s hand slid to the hilt of his dagger.

“Touch me,” he said, voice low and cold, “and I’ll find out what color your insides bleed.”

Silence.

No one stopped him after that.

He pushed the doors open with both hands and strode into the room.

A maester stepped forward, hands raised in pacifying panic.

“My prince,” he stammered, “with all due respect, it is not customary for husbands to—”

Daemon didn’t even look at him. He shoved past without breaking stride. The maester stumbled back, nearly colliding with a midwife.

Another tried to reach for him.

“Please, Prince Daemon, the birthing is delicate—”

Daemon turned then and the look in his eyes silenced the room.

“Stand in my way again,” he said, voice like a drawn blade, “and I’ll see if you can birth a second head from your neck.”

The world narrowed.

He crossed the threshold into the chamber, and the door slammed shut behind him.

The chamber was thick with heat and the scent of blood and lavender oil. Shadows danced across the stone walls, cast by flickering braziers. Women moved in a blur — hands reaching for towels, cool cloths, bowls of steaming water. Maeliora barely registered them. Her world had shrunk to a single, searing point of pain.

She gripped the edge of the birthing bed as another wave rolled through her, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her hair clung to her damp skin, her mouth was dry, and her throat raw from biting back screams.

Beside her, Rhaenyra sat, calm but tense, a wet cloth in hand. Her silver hair was pulled back, her eyes fixed on her sister — warm, present, fiercely protective.

“You’re doing well, sister” Rhaenyra murmured, dabbing Maeliora’s brow. “You’re strong. Just a little longer.”

Maeliora tried to respond, but another contraction ripped through her like fire. She cried out, and Rhaenyra’s hand found hers, strong and steady.

Then the door burst open.

All heads turned. Gasps.

Daemon strode in like a storm unleashed, black and crimson, windswept and furious. His eyes locked on hers across the chamber.

Her breath caught, not from pain this time, but from the sight of him. From the sound of him. Like war itself had entered the room.

“Daemon,” she managed, voice thin, trembling.

He crossed the space in three long strides.

“Uncle, you shouldn’t be here,” Rhaenyra said softly, rising partway to intercept him, but she didn’t move to stop him fully.

He didn’t answer her.

He dropped to one knee beside the bed, his hand finding Maeliora’s — warm, calloused, unyielding. His eyes searched her sweat-slicked face, full of fear, fury, and love all at once.

“I’m here,” he breathed, grounding her. “I’m here now, sweet girl.”

She looked at him through a veil of pain and tears. “It hurts…”

“Shhh��� I know.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “But I’ve got you. You’ll get through this.”

Her body arched with the next contraction and she screamed, squeezing his hand until her knuckles went white.

Daemon didn’t flinch. He whispered through her cries, brushing his thumb in slow circles over her wrist. “Breathe, sweetling. You’re doing great. You’re strong. Strong and brave. You’re a dragon, remember?”

He wiped her brow with his own hands. He held her through every tortured moment.

Daemon refused to move from her side, anchoring her through every wave of agony, every push. She clawed at his arm, nails biting into his skin and he welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to hers.

Another long hour passed.

Outside the chamber, heavy footsteps approached.

The guards stood straighter, whispering halted. A moment later, King Viserys, pale and stooped with age, rounded the corner, leaning heavily on a cane. Beside him swept Queen Alicent, expression tight as a sealed letter, and Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, face stone-hard and unsmiling.

The scent of incense and blood met them before the door.

A guard stepped forward, bowing low. “Your Grace, My Queen, Lord Hand. The prince is inside. He—he forced entry. We tried to stop him.”

“You tried?” Otto echoed, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “And failed, clearly.”

“He would not be denied, my lord,” the guard said, faltering. “He drew steel.”

Viserys lifted a trembling hand to still them.

Alicent frowned, glancing toward the door. “It is improper. He has no place within—”

“He is her husband,” Viserys interrupted gently. “My daughter is giving birth. She deserves peace. If Daemon’s presence gives her strength, then let him be.”

Otto said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Alicent shifted uneasily.

And then — a wail.

A new sound filled the chamber: small, sharp, alive.

A baby.

The midwives caught the child and quickly set to their tasks, but Daemon didn’t look away from Maeliora until he saw the tears spring in her eyes, the relief, the disbelief, the joy.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Maeliora’s temple, then her lips, reverent and fierce. “You did it,” he murmured. “My brave girl.”

“A daughter, my prince,” one of the midwives said gently, wrapping the child in soft linens. “Strong lungs. Healthy.”

Wrapped in linen, mewling, she was placed in her father’s arms before anyone else.

Daemon stared down at her, silent, awestruck. Then he turned to Maeliora, exhausted, tear-streaked, but still his — alive and radiant.

“She’s perfect,” he said softly. “Like her mother.”

Maeliora reached out and touched their daughter’s cheek, already seeing the fire that ran through her blood. She looked between Daemon and the child and smiled faintly, though tears brimmed in her lashes.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Daemon tucked them both close. “You’ll never have to do anything without me. Not again.”

His fingers never left her skin.

Maeliora clung to him like an anchor in a storm, her cries muffled against his shoulder, her nails digging into his arm. He stayed. Through every cry, every contraction, every labored breath — he was there.

The rogue prince. The monster. Her husband.

And in that moment, her sanctuary.

Maeliora looked down at their daughter again, brushing a curl of damp black hair from her brow.

“Daelyra,” she whispered.

Daemon lifted his gaze, and something ancient and tender burned behind it.

“Our Daelyra,” he echoed, voice thick with emotion. “Blood of the dragon.”

And the name, like flame, took hold in the room — in their hearts.

Daelyra.

Born of fire. Claimed by love.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @archerxnn @jessimay89, @elliott-calls

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 24 - The Dragon's Arrival

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, possessiveness, pregnancy

Masterlist

The gates of the Red Keep groaned open beneath the weight of whispers.

Word had spread like wildfire that Prince Daemon Targaryen was returning, triumphant and unrepentant, with his “stolen bride” and her son at his side. Whispers filled the corridors and taverns alike, that he had defiled the oldest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen years ago, that his exile had been her doing, and his return was for her alone. That he had kidnapped her, hidden her away in the dark halls of Dragonstone, locked her in dungeons, and broken her spirit. And now, the child in her womb was whispered to be the spawn of sin, shadowed by madness and forged in defiance.

But none of the gathered courtiers were prepared for what they actually saw.

Prince Daemon Targaryen entered like a blade unsheathed.

He wore black from throat to boot, his sword strapped to his hip, his silver hair gleaming like a blade under torchlight, his chin held arrogantly high, a smirk already tugging at his lips, eyes raking across the room with insolent confidence. He glided forward like a dragon lord returned from conquest. Each step echoed, slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring every second of this moment.

On his arm was his visibly, undeniably pregnant wife — Princess Maeliora.

Her gown was a soft Targaryen red, cinched beneath her breasts to accommodate the round swell of her belly. Jewels sparkled at her throat, a gift from Daemon no doubt, but no amount of finery could mask her nervousness. Her cheeks burned pink, her lashes fluttered downward under the weight of every stare. She looked like a girl thrust onto a stage she had never wanted, the weight of judgment falling upon her from every direction.

Beside them, young Daeron walked holding his mother’s hand. A child born of scandal. Bright silver hair and violet eyes just like his father's — he looked every inch a Targaryen prince.

All eyes were on them and the throne room felt like a stage built for one purpose: spectacle.

The court had heard rumors, but the truth was more shocking than any whisper.

Some had claimed Daemon had abducted her. That he kept her in a tower. That he forced her to his bed. That she bore the marks of madness, not motherhood. Others said she had bewitched him, that no woman could hold Daemon Targaryen’s leash, unless she had shadows behind her eyes.

Now, they were seeing the reality. And it was worse or better than they imagined.

Whispers died. Mouths gaped. All eyes locked on the family walking with impossible grace down the long stretch of the throne room. They were a portrait of scandal and sin.

King Viserys Targaryen sat slumped on the Iron Throne, skin pale, eyes sunken... but when he saw them, he sat up with a wheeze, life snapping back into his gaze.

Alicent Hightower’s face was carved from marble. Her lips pressed thin, her green gown almost seeming to bristle with silent fury. She said nothing. She did not need to. Her gaze alone screamed betrayal, shame, disapproval.

Otto Hightower stood beside her. His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes were flames. Otto’s gaze locked with Daemon’s — the two men silent in their contempt.

Gwayne Hightower was pale with rage. His jaw was locked so tight he looked about ready to shatter his own teeth. The sight of his former wife heavy with Daemon’s child shattered whatever composure he had left. He shifted a step forward before a Kingsguard laid a quiet hand on his shoulder, restraining him. Barely.

And yet, amid all this tension, one woman stepped forward, smiling and radiant. She moved past the others with open arms and embraced Maeliora before any formal greeting could be made.

Princess Rhaenyra.

Her voice broke the silence like a breeze breaking tension.

“Sister,” she said warmly. “You’re glowing.”

Maeliora swallowed the lump in her throat, clutching Rhaenyra back. They embraced. The warmth between them was real. For the first time since entering, her shoulders relaxed. Daeron ran to Jacaerys and Lucerys, and the three boys fell into an easy cluster of quiet, gleeful greetings.

Rhaenyra looked down at the bump beneath Maeliora’s gown and smiled.

“Another dragon will soon join the fold,” she said, stepping back carefully.

Daemon watched with mild amusement, arms crossed. He wasn’t here to make peace. He was here to stake a claim.

Then, slowly, his eyes rose to the throne.

For a breathless moment, brother met brother — decades of silence, betrayal, blood, and memory suspended in that single gaze. Daemon tilted his chin, unrepentant, daring.

The King, by contrast, looked worn and withered. His eyes were glassy, his face pale with exhaustion. Each breath rasped in his chest as he sat slumped upon the blade-forged throne. He looked first at his brother. Then at Maeliora. And finally at the rounded swell of her belly in disbelief.

Daemon bowed with the arrogance of a man who knew he couldn’t be punished — mocking, theatrical...

“Your Grace,” he said. “We come as summoned. I trust the spectacle is sufficient?”

“You bastard,” the king rasped, half in disbelief, half in fury. “You actually did it.”

Daemon smirked, tilting his head like a predator.

“You summoned me, brother,” he said silkily. “And I came… with my wife, and your grandson.”

Gasps rippled through the court.

Maeliora’s fingers curled into Daemon’s sleeve.

In that moment, Alicent’s jaw tightened, her gaze sharp and unyielding. The emerald of her gown caught the light coldly, reflecting the chill in her stance. Every subtle tension in her posture spoke of restrained contempt.

“Shameful,” she whispered to Otto beside her.

Viserys pushed himself up from the throne with visible effort, descending two steps while wincing. He slowly approached Maeliora, his gaze fixed on his firstborn daughter.

“Maeliora,” he said, voice softer now. “My child…”

“Father,” she said quietly, bowing her head.

“Gods,” he breathed. “Daughter... What has he done to you?”

Before Maeliora could respond, Daemon started laughing.

“I’ve married her. Loved her. Protected her. Given her a child. Is that so monstrous, brother?”

“She was mar—” Viserys cut himself off. “You had no right. She was under my protection.”

“And now she is under mine,” Daemon said. His eyes gleamed. “And she is more alive than she ever was.”

Daemon’s arm wrapped fully around her waist now, and he pulled her gently to his side.... possessive and protective...

Viserys stared at the two of them. Then at the swell of new life between them.

Finally, he looked at Daemon again. Eyes narrowed.

“I should have you hanged from the walls.”

“You should have done it 8 years ago,” Daemon replied with a grin. “Now? It's a bit too late for that, don't you think, brother?”

The tension crackled.

Maeliora stepped forward, gently.

“Father,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. For the pain. For the silence. I know you are angry with me, with us... But I made my choice.”

Viserys looked at her. Really looked. Her face had changed. Softer, but stronger too.

“Sweet child... You were meant to be safe,” he said hoarsely. “Not... this.”

“I am safe... with my husband,” she replied. “Daemon may be many things, but he has never lied to me. No one has ever cared for me better than my uncle... and you know it too, Father. I—”

Viserys raised a hand to silence her. His face crumpled with something that hovered between heartbreak and bitter awe.

“He took you from me,” he said. “And still you defend him.”

“I love him,” she said softly, but with unshakable certainty. “He loves me too. I’m not ashamed of what we are.”

“Even now?” came a cold voice.

Alicent Hightower.

She had stepped forward, her face a mask of royal composure, her eyes daggers.

“You stand in front of the realm, pregnant by a man who all but defiled you, abducted you in the middle of the night, kept you captive, wed you forcefully... whose sins are endless... and you defend him?”

Maeliora met her gaze.

“I carry my husband’s child. There is no shame in that.”

“You dishonor your house,” Alicent spat. “Your name.”

Daemon’s smile turned vicious.

“She doesn’t carry your name anymore. But Ser Gwayne’s seen to ruin of Hightower name quite thoroughly, hasn’t he?”

Then the fire was abruptly silenced by the King himself. Viserys’s voice thundered through the vast throne room, sharp and commanding.

“That is enough,” he declared, addressing both his wife and brother. “Cease this quarrel at once.”

Daemon stepped forward, eyes flashing with a fierce pride. His reply was cool as steel:

“Maeliora is my wife. The mother of my children. And I will defend her honor against all who dare to question it.”

The room fell heavy with silence, the weight of his words lingering like smoke in the air.

Then the king’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. You’re here now. What’s done is done. We cannot change the past... we must look forward, and face what comes with resolve.”

Alicent’s gasp of protest was cut short by his raised hand.

“My daughter will be treated with respect. She is a Targaryen. She is still my blood.”

Daemon smiled, a slow, triumphant curve. “A Targaryen indeed. Both by birth and by marriage.”

Viserys exhaled, weary but resolute. “But the realm will not forgive you this,” he said.

“I don’t want the realm’s forgiveness,” Daemon replied, voice low and unyielding. “Only its fear.”

The long dining table at Great Hall glittered with candlelight and golden plates. Dishes untouched. Wine cups full. Conversation muted.

The dinner was meant to be a gesture of civility — a welcome for Prince Daemon and his family. But tension clung to every breath.

They had entered hours earlier beneath a storm of whispers.

Daemon lounged at one end of the table, sipping from a goblet of Dornish red, utterly unconcerned by the tight faces around him. His posture had spoken volumes — chest high, eyes glinting, a smirk carved across his face as if to say, I’ve won. And in a way, he had.

Maeliora sat beside him, composed, her hands folded in her lap, her appetite gone. Her rounded belly pressed gently against the edge of the table. She could feel the stares. Every motion she made was a spectacle.

Only Rhaenyra smiled at her, genuine and warm, her eyes dancing with welcome.

“My sweet sister,” she said gently, lifting her cup. “You’ve always carried beauty with grace, but now you carry life as well. I am glad to see you.”

Maeliora tried to smile, but it faltered under the weight of so many eyes.

Across the table, Alicent set down her cup with a soft clink and turned to her with her well-rehearsed, queenly smile. The kind that never reached her eyes.

“You must be tired from the journey. So much travel in your condition. I’ve had your former chambers aired and cleaned, linens replaced, the hearth warmed, everything as you left it. It will do you well to rest somewhere familiar.”

It was an olive branch laced with poison. A suggestion. A boundary. A reminder of who Maeliora had been — Gwayne's wife.

Maeliora opened her mouth polite, ready to thank her, but Daemon cut through the moment like a drawn sword.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, loud enough for the entire table to hear.

The table stilled. Alicent blinked. Heads turned.

Even Viserys looked up from his wine with weary dread.

Daemon sipped from his goblet, calm and cruel. “My wife and I will be staying in my old chambers. Together. Daeron can take hers.”

Gasps rippled. The air in the room turned still as glass. Even the servants paused. Rhaenyra covered a small smirk with her cup. Viserys rubbed his temple with a groan.

Alicent’s smile faltered, her lips parting. Even Otto, ever the ice-veined Hand, looked up with barely veiled disgust.

Viserys groaned under his breath, “Seven help us.”

“My prince,” Alicent began, carefully, “that would be… most unconventional.”

“Unconventional?” Daemon tilted his head with mock confusion. “It’s hardly the first time we’ve shared a bed.”

Maeliora dropped her gaze, color rushing into her cheeks. She could feel the heat of every stare.

“There is decency to uphold,” Otto snapped before Alicent could reply. “You mean to say, with her belly round and the entire court watching, you’ll parade her into your chambers? You disgrace every inch of this court,” he hissed. “You bring scandal, shame, blood—”

Daemon stood. He leaned forward, palms flat on the table.

“Careful, Otto. You’re starting to sound like a man who’s forgotten he no longer has any real power.”

The firelight caught his eyes, and for a moment, he looked more dragon than man.

Otto stood too, bristling. “This is indecent. An affront to tradition. To courtly order.”

Daemon laughed softly — a dry, joyless sound.

“Tradition?” he echoed. “Was it tradition when your son tossed her aside like a used goblet for ambition? When you all let her rot behind cold stone walls to cover your own sins?”

Silence.

“I don’t give a fuck for your traditions,” Daemon finished.

He turned then, gently helping Maeliora rise from her seat. She looked startled, but obeyed. He pressed a hand to the small of her back, possessive and firm.

“We’ll take our leave,” he said.

“A good night to you all,” Maeliora said, then she turned to the King to offer a soft bow. “Forgive us… if we’ve brought discomfort.”

Viserys waved her off with a tired hand.

As they exited the hall, eyes still burning into their backs. Daemon swept his wife out of the hall, his hand resting protectively over the curve of her back.

Only Rhaenyra watched them go with any hint of warmth and joy... and perhaps, just a touch of envy.

The doors closed. Alicent sat frozen. Otto stared at the door as if he could burn it down with will alone.

And somewhere deep in the stone belly of the Keep, the scandal grew its wings.

The door shut with a heavy finality, sealing them away from the judgmental stares of the court.

Maeliora stood still, her back to the door, breath uneven. The warmth of the fire across the room did nothing to quiet the burning beneath her skin — shame, fear, disbelief. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

“You didn’t have to say all that, Uncle” she said quietly.

Daemon stood near the hearth, already stripping off the layers of his formal coat, unhurried. He glanced at her with a wicked grin.

“I rather think I did.”

“They think I’m a—” her voice broke off, tight in her throat. “You heard Otto.”

“I did,” he said, tone sharpened. “And I’ll carve his tongue out if he dares to offend you.”

She flinched. “Daemon…”

He crossed to her in two strides, his fingers lifting her chin so gently it made her eyes sting.

“Let them stare,” he said, voice low. “Let them whisper. You belong to me now, and I won’t hide you like some shameful thing behind a tapestry.”

Her breath hitched. “But they all hate me.”

“They fear what they can’t tame,” he said simply. “I should know. I’ve lived my life on their leashes, cutting their hands every time they tried to pull too hard. You think I’d let them do it to you?”

Her eyes searched his. “You’ve given them reason. We walked into that hall like a spectacle.”

He smiled again, slower this time. “And you walked like a queen.”

His hand slid from her chin down to her belly, resting lightly over the curve of her child. His child.

“Let them be scandalized,” he said. “This, you and I, we are dragons and dragons were never meant to be quiet. Let them choke on it.”

She leaned into him, her body instinctively remembering the comfort he offered even when her mind still doubted it.

“You’ve ruined me,” she murmured, half-heartedly.

Daemon chuckled softly against her hair, pressing a kiss just behind her ear.

“No, Niece,” he said, voice dropping to a darker timbre. “I’ve set you free.”

She turned to him then, fully, letting her hands rest on his chest. Her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with the slow unraveling of tension.

“I’m still afraid,” she admitted. “They’ll come after me. They’ll say I seduced you. That I lost my mind. That I let you… shame me.”

Daemon’s arms wound around her, iron-strong but gentle, like the rings of a fortress.

“Then let them come,” he said. “I’ve fought worse bastards with less cause. And if they think I’d ever let them lay a finger on what’s mine—” He cut himself off, then kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or hungry this time.

It was slow.

Possessive.

Reverent.

His hands moved to cradle her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks like he was trying to memorize her shape with touch alone. She responded with equal tenderness, the walls inside her softening one by one until she was breathing into him, lips parting in a sigh that was part surrender, part need.

He led her to the bed, not forceful, but certain. The firelight caught the gold in her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the small tremble in her hands when he unlaced her gown and helped her step out of it.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Even like this?” she asked, half-teasing, hand on her swollen belly.

“Especially like this,” he murmured, pulling her close, one hand supporting her lower back as he guided her down onto the bed. “You carry my blood now. My fire. There is no shame in that.”

They lay down together, her head tucked against his chest, her hand curled over his heart. The closeness was full, overwhelming , not lust, not quite, but something heavier. Need and Hunger. And that desperate, aching peace that only came with being seen entirely and still loved.

He kissed her again, softer now, mouths tasting of heat and promises unspoken.

“I don’t want to be a scandal,” she whispered into the hollow of his throat.

He tilted her chin, holding her gaze.

“Then be a storm instead,” he said. “Let them drown in you.”

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @archerxnn @jessimay89

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 23 - The Dragon's Joy

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, possessiveness, pregnancy

Masterlist

The weeks passed gently, each one settling like a soft layer of snow over Maeliora’s world. Her belly, once flat, had begun to round with quiet insistence. There was no denying it anymore, not to herself, not to Daemon, not to the curious stares of the keep’s servants. The child within her was growing stronger by the day, and so, strangely, was her sense of peace.

Mornings were slow and warm. Daemon had taken to rising later than usual, often just to stay curled beside her, his hand resting possessively over her growing belly. Sometimes he spoke to it in Valyrian, murmuring things only Maeliora understood, and the sound of his voice made her chest ache in the most tender way.

Daeron was full of questions — endless, curious, and eager.

“Is it a boy or a girl? When will you know, mother? When is it finally coming out? And how will it come out from your belly, mother?” he’d ask, sitting cross-legged on the bed, his small hand trying to feel a kick. “Will it get a dragon egg too, like I did, father? Can it sleep in my room? Will it speak in our special language or do you have to teach it first, father?”

She would laugh and promise they’d find out together in time. Watching Daeron with such excitement, already imagining himself as an older brother, made something tight and heavy loosen in her chest.

Daemon, lounging nearby with a goblet in hand, only smirked at their son’s relentless enthusiasm. “Seven hells, boy,” he muttered, amused. “You ask more questions than a maester at council.” Still, he ruffled Daeron’s hair fondly and added, “You’ll be a fine brother. Fierce. Like a dragon should be.”

Daemon, for all his usual pride and sharpness, had become... softer with her, in his own strange way. He would carry her to bed if she looked even slightly tired. He sent for sweet fruits and rare creams when she mentioned an ache. And though he still teased, still smirked and called her “my fierce little wife” — there was a protectiveness in his touch that doubled after her pregnancy. He shadowed her steps, questioned every meal, and looked at the world as if it might rise against her at any moment.

Sometimes, she’d catch him just watching her. Not with hunger, but something deeper. Something reverent.

“You’re more radiant than a summer sky, Niece” he’d said one evening, brushing her hair with slow fingers. “And I intend to make you bloom like this again and again.”

She had rolled her eyes, but her heart had soared all the same.

Despite the nausea and moodiness, the sleepless nights and aching hips, Maeliora found herself happy. For the first time in years, she felt like the center of something whole — loved, protected, and held.

And the dragon at her side, for all his fire and fury, had never looked at anyone the way he looked at her now.

One night, Daemon slipped into their chambers late, the scent of wine and fire clinging to his cloak. He bent low, kissed her cheek, then her belly, and murmured against her skin, “Prepare yourself, wife. Choose your prettiest gown. There will be a feast in a fortnight.”

Maeliora looked up at him, brows lifted in sleepy surprise. “A feast? Why?”

He gave that familiar, crooked smirk, the look on his face sharp and proud. “To celebrate the arrival of our second child, of course. Let them raise their cups or choke on it, I don’t care. The blood of the dragon grows strong, and the realm should know it.”

The Great Hall of Dragonstone had never looked so alive.

Firelight danced across dark stone walls, casting golden reflections on goblets, polished plates, and silken banners stitched with the sigil of House Targaryen. Long tables brimmed with roasted meats, spiced fruits, sugared pastries, and wine that flowed as freely as the music rising from the minstrels in the corner. The air was rich with warmth, spice, and something rarer — joy.

At the high table, Daemon sat like a king of old Valyria, his goblet raised and his arm settled possessively around Maeliora’s chair. His smile was faint, but his eyes gleamed with unmistakable pride. Every time someone offered a toast to the growing child, his fingers would tighten ever so slightly on the curve of her back, like he was staking claim not only on her, but on this moment, this legacy.

Maeliora sat beside him in a flowing gown of deep crimson and black, the fabric chosen by Daemon himself. Her hair was swept back, her face lit by soft candlelight, and the unmistakable glow of a woman well loved, well watched over. She was the star of the evening, though she hadn’t asked to be.

Every eye was drawn to her. Some with curiosity. Some with resentment. Others with admiration.

Even Daeron, small though he was, had a place of honor at the high table, grinning as he tore into honeyed bread and answered questions far too seriously for his age. “It’s a boy, I shall have a brother” he said with authority, though no one had confirmed it. “And I’ll teach him everything I know. Even how to speak High Valyrian.”

Maeliora reached for her son’s hand and squeezed it gently, a smile playing at her lips. The sight of him beside her, and Daemon just beyond, filled her with a strange, fragile sense of completeness.

Daemon leaned close to her ear. “They can drink and feast all they like,” he murmured. “But none of them will ever have what I have.”

She turned to him, brow raised. “Which is?”

He grinned, devilish and soft all at once. “You.”

Maeliora’s breath caught, but she said nothing. There were no words that could match the way he said it.

Daemon raised his goblet and stood.

“To my wife,” he said, his voice ringing over the crowd. The room fell quiet. “To the mother of my children. To the fiercest, most radiant creature ever to walk these cursed halls.” He looked down at her, gaze unflinching.

The crowd erupted into cheers and raised glasses. Maeliora, flushed and blinking back tears she’d never admit to, could only reach for his hand beneath the table and hold it like a lifeline.

The feast roared on, laughter echoing, goblets clinking, and music swelling with renewed fervor, but for a moment, it all seemed to dim as Daemon rose from his seat and extended a hand toward Maeliora.

She blinked, startled. “What are you doing, Uncle?”

“Dancing with my wife,” he said simply. His smirk softened just enough to betray the truth behind it. “Come, prepare to be admired properly.”

Around them, the hall quieted. Nobles turned to watch, their curiosity thinly veiled, some surprised that the Rogue Prince would stoop to something as tender as a slow dance. But Daemon cared little for their stares or whispered judgments. His gaze was fixed solely on her, his heart beat only for her. Every intention he held was devoted to her — to cherish her, to protect her, and to make her the happiest woman alive.

Maeliora hesitated for the briefest moment, then took his hand.

Daemon led her down the short steps into the cleared center of the hall. He drew her close with practiced ease. One hand rested gently on the small of her back, the other held her hand as if it were a crown jewel. She felt his thumb brush over her knuckles, slow and reverent. Her free hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers curling instinctively into his tunic.

They moved in easy, fluid steps, like they had done this a hundred times before, though neither of them truly had. Daemon, for all his sharpness and bite, was quiet now. Focused. Every step was measured, every glance full of wordless feeling.

“You’re staring, Uncle” she murmured.

“Don't I always?,” he replied. “And I never tire of it.”

Maeliora’s lips twitched. “You’re being sentimental.”

“I’m allowed,” he murmured, spinning her gently, his hand never leaving her back. “It’s a feast. You’re glowing. I’m half drunk. And the realm is forced to watch as I dance with the most beautiful woman in the world and she is carrying my child in her womb. Let me have this.”

She laughed under her breath, swaying closer into his arms. The music curled around them like smoke, but nothing else existed. Not the lords and ladies whispering behind goblets, not the distant tension of a realm at war with itself.

Only this.

Daemon leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers.

“When you’re old and grey,” he murmured, “you’ll remember this night.”

She smiled, breath caught in her throat. “Will you still dance with me then?”

“Even if my knees give out,” he promised. “But I expect you to hold me up.”

“Always,” she whispered.

The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Red Keep's throne room, casting colored patterns on the cold stone floor. But the air in the Small Council chamber was thick with unease. King Viserys sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. The usual murmur of courtly discussions had given way to a tense silence.

A courtier approached, bowing deeply. "Your Grace, news from Dragonstone," he announced, voice trembling slightly.

Viserys leaned forward, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. "Has my brother finally responded to my letters?"

The courtier hesitated. "No, Your Grace. But... it's said that Princess Maeliora is with child."

A hush fell over the throne room. Otto Hightower's expression tightened, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on his belt. Gwayne Hightower, standing nearby, clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing.

Viserys's face was a mask of conflicting emotions — joy, betrayal, concern. He looked up slowly, his gaze sharp. "Is this confirmed?"

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, clearing his throat, “Prince Daemon has hosted a feast in celebration of... his wife’s pregnancy.”

The murmur that rippled through the hall was immediate.

Viserys sat upright, eyes narrowing. “A feast?” he echoed.

He swallowed hard and nodded cautiously. “It is said to have been… lavish. Bonfires in the courtyard. Musicians. Even banners bearing the three-headed dragon... the sigil of House Targaryen... They toasted to a strong dragon yet to be born.”

Otto Hightower's lips pressed into a hard line. “And yet not a single word sent to King’s Landing. Not to you, Your Grace. He celebrates his defiance.”

Gwayne Hightower, who had stood silent until now, shifted uncomfortably. His jaw clenched, the knuckles of his gloved hand whitening as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “He parades her like a conquest,” he muttered under his breath, too low for many to hear, though the look Viserys gave him suggested otherwise.

Lord Lyonel Strong, interjected, attempting to diffuse the tension. "Perhaps Prince Daemon is merely preoccupied with the affairs of Dragonstone. The arrival of a child is a significant event."

Gwayne couldn't contain himself any longer. "Or perhaps he's deliberately ignoring the crown, flaunting his defiance."

Otto shot his son a warning glance, but the damage was done. Viserys's gaze settled on Gwayne, cold and piercing.

"Mind your words, Ser Gwayne," the king said icily. "This is a family matter."

The room fell silent once more. Viserys stood, his robes rustling. "I will summon Prince Daemon to King's Landing. This matter requires a face-to-face discussion."

Otto bowed slightly. "As you command, Your Grace."

As the council dispersed, whispers filled the corridors of the Red Keep. The news of Maeliora's pregnancy had set the court abuzz, and the implications were far-reaching. Alliances would shift, loyalties would be tested, and the realm would watch closely as the Targaryen family's internal dynamics played out on the grand stage of Westeros.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @archerxnn @jessimay89

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 22 - The Dragon's Happiness

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, dirty talk, pregnancy, possessiveness, humiliation, name calling, begging kink, praise kink, male dom, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing, shameless Daemon 😆

Masterlist

Since that night, something unspoken had shifted between Daemon and Maeliora. The barrier of shame and resistance had crumbled, replaced not just by duty, but by desire — undeniable, unrelenting, and mutual.

There was no more hesitance, no more fumbling. She came to him willingly now, sometimes even bold enough to initiate. She learned how to touch him, how to whisper things that made his breath catch and his hands tremble with restraint.

And he gave, in turn. With lips, with tongue, with praise whispered into her ear until her thighs trembled and her voice broke on his name.

Their chambers became their sanctuary. And their sin.

“He is my husband. I have to fulfil my wifely duties,” she’d often whisper to herself, but even she no longer believed that was the whole truth. It wasn’t just obligation, it was hunger. A need that lived beneath her skin, rooted in the way he looked at her, touched her, claimed her.

Daemon knew it too. The Rogue Prince was nothing if not perceptive. And once he discovered just how deeply his wife enjoyed worshipping him with her mouth, how wet she became from his taste, how eagerly she took him down her throat, he made it a regular part of their private rituals.

But Daemon being Daemon, he didn’t let it stay sacred. He made it play, weaponized it, teased her with crude little jabs meant to make her squirm.

“So sweet for me now, aren't you, Niece?” he’d murmur with a wicked smirk, fingers tangling in her hair. “Who knew my shy little bride was a cock-hungry whore begging for her reward?”

“Now I’ll have to find a new punishment,” he’d muse aloud, letting the words drip with challenge. “You seem to enjoy this far too much.”

And gods help her, she did.

She’d kneel without prompting the moment he entered their chambers, his cloak still dusted with the scent of wind and blood and dragonback. Her fingers would work his belt loose with reverent precision, her eyes never leaving his as she freed his already-hard cock. And then, with all the grace of a princess and the hunger of a starving woman, she’d lower her mouth to him.

Slow kisses at first. Languid licks along the shaft. Her fingers curled around the base while her tongue teased the head. She’d hear the catch in his breath, feel his fingers slip into her hair, guiding her, encouraging her.

Then she’d take him in fully.

Her mouth worked in perfect rhythm, wet and willing, her throat adjusting to him, wanting to feel him twitch and pulse against her tongue. She lived for the sounds he made — the low groans, the deep growls, the breathless curses in High Valyrian that he spat when she swallowed him just right.

When he came, she didn’t flinch. She drank every drop, suckled at the tip, and gently cleaned him with kitten-like licks, looking up through damp lashes with devotion shining in her gaze.

And he adored her for it.

His touch afterward was always soft, thumb brushing her swollen lips, fingers smoothing her hair. “My good girl,” he’d whisper, not mocking, but praising. “Mine.”

In those moments, it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just dominance or submission. It was something deeper — a twisted, passionate devotion, forged through fire and flesh, as volatile and eternal as the dragons they rode.

Even the chambermaids had stumbled upon them a few times, entering the chambers in the middle of the day, not expecting to find the prince and princess in such a compromising, scandalous state.

Daemon would be seated comfortably in a chair, breeches around his ankles, legs spread wide, his expression half-lidded in pleasure as Maeliora knelt between his powerful thighs, lips wrapped eagerly around his cock. Her head would move in slow, steady rhythm, eyes glassy with devotion, completely lost in the act of worship.

The Rogue Prince’s depravity was no secret in court, but it was Maeliora's role in it that caused whispers. The once-shy, gentle princess on her knees, mouth full of her husband, moaning softly, clearly enjoying herself far too much to be under duress.

At first, the maids had thought she was being forced... how could someone so innocent look so utterly debased? But then they saw her eyes. Her eagerness. The way she held his hips, the hum of pleasure vibrating from her throat. And the way Daemon looked at her — not cruel, but possessive, almost reverent.

Still, Maeliora would flush crimson when she realized they had an audience, quickly pulling back and wiping at her lips, shame mingling with arousal. But Daemon? He was never embarrassed.

He turned toward the startled maids with a sharp glare, irritation flashing across his face like lightning.

“Do you not knock?” he snapped, voice laced with disdain. “I’m clearly occupied with my wife.”

The girls stammered, unsure whether to flee or bow, but Daemon only growled and waved a dismissive hand.

“Out. Whatever you came to do can wait. Unless you'd prefer to stay and learn something useful.”

That last line made them scurry off like frightened mice, cheeks blazing, leaving the chamber door wide open in their haste.

Daemon chuckled, then looked down at Maeliora, brushing his thumb along her flushed cheek.

“Now, where were we…?”

One morning, well past the break of dawn, Daemon had her bent over the edge of the bed, her shift hiked up around her waist, his hand splayed across the small of her back as he thrust into her with deliberate, punishing rhythm. The window shutters were open. The door unlocked.

They didn’t hear the servant enter until it was too late.

The tray hit the floor with a crash. Maeliora shrieked, trying to pull away, but Daemon only tightened his grip with a growl.

“Out,” he barked over his shoulder without even breaking rhythm.

The maid scrambled out, crimson-faced, muttering apologies. The door slammed shut behind her.

Maeliora buried her face in the blankets. “Gods,” she groaned. “She saw—”

“She saw a man fucking his wife,” Daemon said lazily, one hand snaking around to rub her sensitive clit. “Let her watch next time if she wants to learn something.”

“Daemon!” she hissed, half scandalized, half aroused.

He leaned down to her ear, voice a dark purr. “You’re mine. Let the whole castle see. Let them know how often I take you, how sweet you sound when I make you come.”

Despite herself, she did... right there in his arms, while her cheeks still burned and her legs trembled.

Afterward, she hid beneath the covers, mortified. Daemon only laughed, sprawling beside her, smug and unrepentant.

“Should I speak to her?” she mumbled into the pillow.

“Why?” he drawled. “She’ll recover. And I doubt she’ll ever bring breakfast unannounced again.”

Weeks passed. Her monthly bleeding did not.

At first, Maeliora blamed the heat, the sleepless nights, the ever-present weight of tension in the household. She told herself it was only stress, her body rebelling, not unusual. But then her appetite shifted. Her back began to ache in dull, unfamiliar ways. The scent of spiced wine, once comforting, now turned her stomach.

Standing before the mirror, she studied her reflection with quiet intensity. Her hand came to rest just above her navel. Her belly was still flat, unchanged… but she felt it — a difference beneath the surface. A quiet knowing. A spark, small but unwavering, like the first flicker of flame in a dark hearth.

She was with child.

Daemon had spoken often, too often of wanting another. A second child. He hadn’t hidden his desire for more heirs, more blood, more legacy to forge in his image. This time, she knew he would be pleased. Triumphant, even. Maybe even gentle, in the way he rarely was. The thought made her throat tighten.

And yet…

A shadow passed through her.

She remembered her first pregnancy — how it had sealed her fate. The moment the maesters confirmed it, everything changed. There was no time for wonder, no space for joy. Only scandal. And swift decisions.

She hadn’t been allowed to feel anything. Not awe. Not fear. Not even hope.

She’d been rushed into a marriage she didn’t want, bound to Gwayne under the pretense of honor and damage control. A union forged not in love, only necessity. Her body, her child, her future had all become tools in someone else’s game. Her father’s shame. The Hightowers’ redemption.

Daemon had been in exile, banished from court, blamed for the disgrace. She had carried Daeron in a household that did not want him, beside a man she did not love. She remembered how quiet the chambers had been, how lonely the nights, how cold the bed.

And now, this time…

She was married to the man she had always longed for. No longer hidden. No longer silenced. And he wanted this openly, fiercely. He would be pleased. He might even be tender, in his strange, volatile way.

But still, as she looked at herself in the mirror, her palm resting low on her belly, the past clung to her.

She needed some time to digest her new reality.

Daemon had always been meticulous in his choices — soldiers, spies, even servants. And the girl he placed closest to Maeliora was no exception. She was young, soft-spoken, and loyal, but not to Maeliora. Not truly. Her loyalty belonged to the Rogue Prince. A shadow cloaked in silks and courtesy, meant not to betray, but to protect. To report.

Thalia. When she whispered to him hesitant and unsure, that the princess had been pale for days, forgetting things, avoiding meals, and often touching her belly as though cradling something unseen... Daemon knew.

He said nothing.

Only dismissed the girl with a nod, turned on his heel, and went to find his wife.

She was sitting in the solar, light spilling through the tall windows, a book in her lap she hadn’t turned a page of in an hour. When she looked up and saw him standing there, eyes burning with unspoken knowledge, her heart skipped a beat.

He crossed the room in three strides and stood over her.

“You weren’t going to tell me?” His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.

Maeliora stiffened. “Uncle…”

She opened her mouth, but he crouched before her, hands resting on her knees, gaze locked with hers.

“You knew,” he said. “You knew, and you kept it from me.”

She looked away, guilt blooming across her face like a bruise. “I… I needed time. I wasn’t certain, and I... needed to sit with it, for myself.”

His eyes softened, but not the intensity behind them. “You think I wouldn’t want to know?” he asked, voice thick. “You carry my child and you thought I wouldn’t want to know the moment it happened? Or did you plan to hide it from me like you did with my firstborn?”

“I wasn’t ready to say it aloud,” she admitted. “It felt like once I did, it would be real. I didn't mean to hide it from you. I swear I was going to tell you. ...Please don't be angry with me, Uncle.”

Daemon exhaled like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her stomach, hands cradling her hips with surprising gentleness.

“No one will take this from me, from us,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “No one. Not even you, Niece. You are mine. And so is this child. I’ll see the world torn open before I let harm come to either of you.”

His gaze softened just enough as he looked up at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

Then, softly, with their foreheads nearly touching, he added, “Next time, tell me. I want every heartbeat, every shift in your body, every ache and joy. I want to know it all… with you.”

“Next time?” she whispered to herself, eyes widening. For a breath, the words tasted like both promise and warning. He was already thinking ahead of more children, more heirs. How many would satisfy him? The question sat heavy in her chest, but she buried it quickly. The thought coiled tight in her chest, equal parts thrill and unease.

But she schooled her features, managed a small nod. Defying him now, when the dragon’s fire still smoldered in his gaze, would win her nothing.

The past few weeks had been a rare kind of bliss. Daemon had been softer, more attentive. Not gentle, he was never that, but present. Fiercely hers in a way that made her ache. She didn’t want to risk unraveling that fragile peace. Not now. Not with his dragon’s temper always lying in wait, just beneath the surface.

Daemon’s gaze sharpened as he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her expression. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “What is it, sweetling, what's wrong?” he said, quieter now.

She let out a shaky breath. “I only… remembered how alone I felt last time.” Her voice wavered. “I don’t want that again, Uncle.”

“You won’t.” He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “I wasn't there before. I didn't know about our son. But this time, I am here. And I am not leaving. Not now. Not ever again. You will never face another moon of sickness or worry without me at your side. On that, I swear."

There was steel in the promise and something warmer. Resolve. She searched his eyes, found fierce protectiveness that bordered on reverence.

Her hand covered his, resting against her belly. “Then… next time,” she whispered, a hint of shy laughter slipping through, “I’ll tell you the very moment I suspect.”

“Good.” A satisfied smile touched his mouth, wolfish and boyish all at once. He pressed a final kiss to her brow, then pulled her gently into his arms, turning them so she could rest against his chest while sunlight spilled across the floor. Outside, Dragonstone’s winds howled, but in the quiet of the solar, a rare hush settled. Two hearts beating, and a third, quieter one beginning to echo in secret.

The sun hung low over Dragonstone, casting its golden light across the stone courtyard. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and the faint crackle of flames from the nearby hearth. The towering walls of Dragonstone seemed to breathe with history, but for now, all that mattered was the small family gathered beneath the fading sky.

Daemon, holding Daeron in his arms, stood at the edge of the courtyard, gazing out toward the restless sea. The boy squirmed playfully, eager to break free and explore, but Daemon’s hold was gentle, yet firm. Maeliora sat nearby on the stone bench, her hand resting lightly on her belly, a soft smile curving her lips as she watched the pair. The world seemed still, peaceful... a rare moment of calm in their lives.

It was Daeron who broke the silence, his voice full of wonder.

“Muna!” Daeron cried out, his eyes wide as he spotted his mother. The little prince hurried toward her. “Father said I’ll be a big brother soon. He said you’ll give me someone to play with. Is that true? Where is the baby? When is it coming?”

Maeliora blinked, taken aback for a moment. She looked at Daemon, who only chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a mischievous smile.

Maeliora smiled softly, beckoning Daeron closer. He eagerly scrambled onto the bench beside her. His eyes were full of innocent curiosity, a child’s wonder at the mysteries of the world.

“It’s in here, little dragon,” she said softly, her voice filled with a warmth that made Daeron's wide eyes even wider. “The baby is in my belly.”

Daeron’s gaze dropped to her belly, his brow furrowing as he pondered this new information. He leaned in closer, eyes searching for the baby, and then turned back to Maeliora with an innocent, puzzled look.

“But how did it get in there?” he asked, his voice high and curious. “Mother, did you eat the baby?”

His eyes widened in shock as if the idea of eating a baby seemed so strange it almost couldn't be true. Maeliora’s face turned crimson, but Daemon, who had been watching with a wry smile, let out a deep, hearty laugh. The sound was warm, infectious, and rippled through the air.

“No, little dragon,” Daemon said, his voice rich with amusement as he leaned down to lift Daeron into his arms, settling him on his hip. “Your mother didn’t eat the baby.”

He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips, and then added, “I put the baby there.”

Daeron’s eyes grew even wider, his mind working hard to make sense of this strange new explanation. The idea of his father putting a baby inside his mother’s belly was both confusing and fascinating.

“You put it in there, father? But how?”

Maeliora shot Daemon a sharp look, but the discomfort that had flitted across her face quickly melted away under the warmth of their shared laughter.

Daemon winked at her, clearly enjoying the moment more than she was. Maeliora rolled her eyes at her husband, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Despite her mild exasperation, she couldn’t help but laugh at Daeron’s innocent face, his curiosity shining through.

"Now, that is a lesson I'll teach you when you're a bit older, my son." Daemon said, pinching Daeron’s nose playfully.

Daeron frowned but accepted his father’s words, though more questions were clearly brewing in his mind.

“Do you know if it’s a brother or a sister?” he asked eagerly. “I want a brother. Then I can teach him swordfighting, just like you taught me, father!”

“We don’t know yet, little dragon,” Maeliora replied gently, smiling at her son’s enthusiasm. “But we’ll find out in about nine months.”

“Why does it take so long? Can you make sure it’s a brother, muna?” Daeron asked, his voice a mix of frustration and hope. “I need someone to practice swordfighting with. A sister can’t do that.”

“Now, now, if it’s a brother, you can teach him swordfighting. But if it’s a sister, you can be a strong, responsible big brother and protect her.” Daemon’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, “And who knows… maybe she’ll even be your wife when you two grow up.”

Daeron frowned, considering this new and curious idea, but the evening fell into a peaceful quiet, filled only with the soft rhythm of their laughter and the gentle comfort of family. Dragonstone, with its ancient stones and unyielding winds, was home. And in this small, perfect moment, it felt as though nothing could ever change that.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @archerxnn

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 21 - The Dragon's Surrender

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, kidnapping, holding captive, dirty talk, possessiveness, humiliation, name calling, begging kink, praise kink, male dom, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing

Masterlist

Daemon tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Blushing like an innocent, begging like a sinner.” He studied her face — the heat in her cheeks, the way her lips parted like she wanted to speak again but couldn’t. “Beautiful.”

She shivered at the word, uncertain if he meant it for her looks or her surrender. Maybe both.

He slid back slightly, just enough to let his hand drift down her body. His touch was slow, reverent, as though he was memorizing every inch of her through the thin fabric of her nightdress. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer, lost all trace of mockery.

“You don’t need to be ashamed with me,” he said. “I know what you want, wife. I see it when you look at me. You crave me. You burn for me.” He leaned in close, his lips brushing her temple. “And I love that fire in you. Don’t hide it.”

She exhaled shakily, her hands curling in the fabric of his tunic. “I just… I don’t want to disappoint you, Uncle.”

Daemon gave a low, almost amused hum, but there was no cruelty in it. “Disappoint me?” He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes again. “You couldn’t. Not like this. Not when you’re being so obedient for me.”

He let the silence stretch for a moment, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Now come,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Show me what you asked for, sweet niece.”

Maeliora hesitated for only a heartbeat before sliding from the bed to her knees before him. Daemon watched her the entire time, not with mockery, but with something fiercer, deeper. Possession. Dominance. And Love.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached up, her eyes darting up to his for permission. His hand found its place in her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as though guiding her, but not forcing. Not this time.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rich. “My good little wife.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, her shame mingling with anticipation, and something like reverence. The warmth of his praise made her stomach twist with want. She wanted to please him. She needed to.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “I've got you, sweet girl.”

As she leaned in, lips brushing over the warmth of him through the thin barrier of fabric, she heard his breath hitch, just slightly. Enough to make her feel powerful in her surrender.

She reached for the fastenings of his breeches, fingers fumbling with the ties. He didn’t help. He stood perfectly still, watching her with a hunger that stole the air from the room.

When she finally freed him, her breath caught. No matter how many times she’d seen him, the sheer presence of him — hard, heavy, demanding — always made her throat dry.

“You’re doing well,” he said, voice low and coaxing, like a secret shared between them. “There’s no need to be afraid of me, little wife.”

She swallowed hard, cheeks still burning, but the sound of his voice, that rough tenderness, the way he looked down at her with both pride and hunger, eased the knot in her stomach.

He guided her with the softest pressure at the back of her head, not demanding but offering direction. “Start with a kiss,” he murmured, eyes dark and unreadable. “Nice and slow.”

Maeliora leaned in, her lips brushing soft, tender kisses along his length, starting at the tip, circling slowly, then trailing downward toward the base. She was still hesitant, but he gave a reassuring nod, urging her on.

“Good. That’s it. Don’t rush. You’re not trying to impress me, sweetling. You’re trying to enjoy me.”

Encouraged by his praise, she opened her mouth, taking the tip in slowly. Her tongue circled, exploring, tentative but eager. Daemon’s hand remained steady in her hair, guiding gently, allowing her to set the rhythm.

Daemon tilted his head slightly, studying her with open hunger. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he said, voice roughening. “On your knees, looking up at me like that...”

His thumb brushed the edge of her cheek, a quiet, indulgent caress. “You were made for me, Niece.”

She shivered, not just from the words but from the way he said them — like she was something rare, something precious. His hand stayed in her hair, gentle now, stroking as if she were something to be worshipped even as she gave herself over to him.

Her fingers clutched at his thighs, anchoring herself as she took him deeper. Tears pricked her eyes, her throat tight, but she didn’t stop. She wanted this, wanted to be the one who unraveled him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice growing heavier with heat. “So eager to please… and so damn beautiful when you try.”

His praise was molten, seeping into every unsure part of her. It didn’t erase the shame entirely, but it turned it into something else, something thrilling. She wasn’t sure if what she felt was boldness or surrender… or if those two things had always been the same with him.

She pulled back slightly to breathe, her lips glistening, before taking him in again. Her cheeks were wet, her jaw sore, but the way he looked at her — dark eyes wide, mouth parted — made it worth it.

He looked down at her with a kind of reverence then, one corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk, but his eyes softened.

“You’re learning fast, wife,” he said, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “And you make it very, very hard to be patient.”

Daemon's breath grew ragged, his hand tightening ever so slightly in her hair as he guided her, not with force but with reverence, as if the act itself was sacred between them. His other hand brushed her cheek, thumb stroking the flushed skin in a quiet rhythm that grounded them both.

“Just like that,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “You’re perfect, sweet girl. Perfect and Mine.”

His praise spilled over her like warmth, steadying her nerves, melting the last of her shame. She could feel him trembling slightly, tension coiling through him, and it thrilled her to know she could bring him to this edge.

She hollowed her cheeks slightly as she drew back, tongue flicking along the ridge just beneath the tip before taking him in again, deeper this time. He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening as his fingers threaded more firmly into her hair, holding her in place, not forcing, but guiding, letting her feel the quiet strength in his restraint.

“Mmmm...,” he murmured, voice roughened with pleasure, eyes never leaving her. “That's it. Such a good girl for me.”

Encouraged, she relaxed her throat, letting him slide further past her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she adjusted to his size, the weight of him, the warm pressure, the heat. Drool began to gather at the corners of her mouth, and he caught the sight with a dark, approving look, thumb brushing along her cheek in wordless praise.

Her pace steadied, obedient, wet. Every sound she made, every soft gag and swallow, only seemed to fuel the tension coiling in his muscles. He was still holding back, every ounce of control visible in the way his hips resisted the urge to thrust, allowing her to take the lead at her own speed.

“You’re doing so well,” he said, voice low, velvet wrapped around steel. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes, and when their gazes locked, the intimacy of it nearly undid her. It wasn’t just submission, it was devotion, offered freely and taken with care. His hand tightened once more, guiding her into a deeper rhythm now, a silent conversation of breath, muscle, and need.

She obeyed without hesitation, never breaking eye contact as she sank deeper, her throat stretching to take him in. He groaned low in his chest, the sound primal, restrained, his hand flexing in her hair, urging her into a steady rhythm. Wet sounds filled the space between them, mingled with his breath, heavy now, ragged.

“Good… don’t stop,” he murmured, the command quiet but absolute. His hips began to move, slowly at first, shallow thrusts that matched her pace, then deeper, more deliberate. She let him guide her, meeting his rhythm with soft, willing sounds, the slick warmth of her mouth drawing him closer to the edge.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t pull back. She took him, again and again, her hands braced on his thighs, her jaw aching, throat working. His muscles tightened beneath her touch, every line of his body straining toward release, his control fraying with each passing second.

“Fuck…” he hissed, voice taut with need. “You feel incredible. So good.”

He looked down at her, eyes dark, locked onto hers as his pace faltered. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, catching a strand of saliva before pressing gently to her cheek.

“I’m close,” he warned, a final growl in his voice. “You'll take every drop… understand?”

She nodded, the motion subtle but sure and that was all it took.

His grip tightened, his hips stilled, and with a deep, shuddering breath, he came... hot, pulsing, deep in her throat. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She held him there, swallowing around him as he trembled, his other hand cupping the back of her head in silent praise.

Even as the last wave passed through him, he didn’t rush her. He stayed still, breath heavy, fingers softening in her hair as she slowly pulled back, her lips slipping free with one last, reverent kiss to the tip.

He looked down at her, chest rising and falling, eyes still dark, but now warm, proud, and full of something unspoken.

“You were perfect,” he said, voice low, sincere.

He remained still for a beat, catching his breath, gazing down at her with something softer in his eyes.

He ran his fingers along her jawline, guiding her chin upward. “Good girl,” he said, voice low and rich with approval. “My good girl.”

Her breath hitched at those two words... good girl — so simple, but they lit something deep inside her. Praise from him was rare, and when it came, it meant everything.

Maeliora’s cheeks were still flushed, her breathing uneven, but she met his gaze and this time, she didn’t look away. There was still embarrassment lingering in her, but also pride. She had wanted to give him this, and she had.

Daemon leaned down and kissed her forehead, then brushed a lock of hair back from her face.

“Come,” he said gently, tugging her up into his arms. “You’ve done enough. Let me take care of you now.”

And with that, he scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her toward the bed with a rare tenderness that made her heart ache. Whatever she had feared earlier — the shame, the uncertainty, it all felt quieter now, dimmed beneath the way he held her close. Not as a toy, not as a conquest. But as something he treasured.

He laid her gently on the bed, the silk sheets cool against her skin as he stretched beside her, propping himself on one elbow to look at her. The firelight played across his face, softening the sharper edges of him — the battlefield prince, the infamous rogue — and left behind only the man.

Maeliora’s fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his tunic, unsure of what to say, though her body remained close to his. He watched her quietly for a moment, then reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

“You surprise me,” he said, almost thoughtfully.

Her brow furrowed. “In a good way?”

Daemon’s lips quirked into something between a smirk and a real smile. “In every way that matters.”

That drew a soft laugh from her, almost reluctant, as if she hadn’t meant to let it out. “You’re being gentle,” she said, voice low.

He didn’t deny it. “I can be. When you let me.”

The moment hung between them — fragile but sincere. She looked at him, truly looked, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was being studied as a prize or pushed as a pawn. She felt seen. Chosen.

“I wanted to… give something to you,” she whispered, voice still tinged with embarrassment. “Not just because I’m your wife. But because I wanted you to feel good. Wanted you to feel… mine.”

His eyes darkened at that, but not with lust, with something heavier. He leaned in, his lips brushing her forehead, then her cheek, then hovering near her mouth.

“I already am,” he murmured. “More than you know.”

She closed her eyes, the warmth of him seeping into her, steady and sure. For now, in this quiet cocoon of firelight and tangled sheets, there was no court, no politics, no punishment. Just Daemon and Maeliora. Husband and wife.

And perhaps, something beginning to shift from power to partnership. From control to a more gentle, mutual surrender.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog

[calmingmelody96]

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!, original female character, non-con, bondage, forced orgasm, unprotected & rough p in v, mentions of alcohol abuse, breeding, name calling, creampie

Synopsis: Hoshiko is assigned to guard Shinjuro and help with his alcohol addiction, but he resists her efforts. One night, he decides to assert his dominance in the Rengoku mansion, proving that despite being a former Hashira, he remains a dangerous man

A/N: this original story was commissioned by my lovely @serenesaku on my Ko-fi page. Thank you once again for trusting me with your request ♥

DEMON SLAYER KO-FI COMMISSIONS CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 1 - THE HAPPENING

The night was thick with an oppressive silence, the kind that blankets the world just before a storm. 

Within the Rengoku estate, the air was stifling, filled with an unspoken tension that seeped into every corner. The household, once filled with laughter and the sounds of training, had succumbed to a heavy stillness, its vitality drained away by the despair that had taken root within its walls.

Shinjuro Rengoku, former Flame Hashira, sat slumped in his chair, a half-empty bottle of sake clutched in his hand. The room reeked of alcohol, a stark testament to his descent into self-destruction. His once fiery eyes were now clouded, the flame of his spirit dimmed by years of pure grief and regret. The loss of his wife, the pressures of his position, and the weight of his own failures had driven him to this sorry state. 

He took another swig from the bottle, the liquid burning down his throat, but it did little to numb the ache in his heart. 

The knock on the door was an unwelcome intrusion, cutting through the fog of his inebriation.

Shinjuro scowled, ignoring it at first, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave him in peace.

But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent. With a growl of frustration, he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered to the door, sliding it open with more force than necessary. He squinted at the figure standing before him, his vision swimming.

A woman stood there, with long, silver hair cascading down her back. She wore a dark, form-fitting uniform, a white cloak draped over her shoulders, and her hand rested on the hilt of a katana at her side. Her eyes, cold and piercing, met his with an intensity that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

"What do you want?" Shinjuro barked, his voice slurred and rough. "Can't you see I'm busy, woman?”

The woman did not flinch. "Shinjuro Rengoku, I am Hoshiko. I have been assigned to ensure your protection and to assist you."

Shinjuro's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in anger. "Assigned? By whom?" he demanded, his grip tightening on the bottle. "And why would I need protection? I am no longer a Hashira. I am nothing."

Hoshiko's expression remained impassive. "Regardless of your current status, the higher-ups have deemed it necessary. Your life is still valuable, and there are those who would seek to exploit your weakness."

"Weakness?" Shinjuro roared, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation. "You dare speak to me of weakness? You know nothing of what I have endured, what I have lost."

Hoshiko's gaze did not waver. "Perhaps not. But I do know that drowning in sake will not bring back what you have lost, nor will it protect those who still depend on you."

Shinjuro's breath came in ragged gasps, his fury battling with a deep, gnawing despair. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but something in her unyielding demeanor held him back. "Why a woman?" he spat finally. "Do they think I am so far gone that I need a babysitter?"

Hoshiko's gaze hardened. "I am not here to coddle you, Rengoku-sama. I am here to fulfill my duty. Whether you accept my presence or not is irrelevant."

Shinjuro staggered back, the room spinning around him. He slumped into his chair, clutching the bottle like a lifeline. "Fine," he muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. "Stay if you must. But do not expect me to be grateful."

Hoshiko inclined her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. "I expect nothing from you," she replied. "My duty is clear, and I will see it through."

Hoshiko stepped across the threshold of the Rengoku mansion, her boots making a soft thud against the wooden floor. 

The air inside was thick and stagnant, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Her keen eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the scene of disarray that greeted her. 

The grandeur of the mansion’s past was still visible beneath the layers of neglect, but it was a faint echo of what once had been.

Empty bottles were strewn about the floor, some still upright but many toppled, their contents long since evaporated or soaked into the wood. The acrid scent of stale alcohol clung to the air, mingling with the musty odor of dust and decay. Shards of broken glass glinted menacingly in the dim light, a silent testimony to the fits of rage and despair that had evidently taken place here.

Furniture was upturned, cushions and blankets tossed carelessly, creating an obstacle course of clutter and chaos. Papers and scrolls lay scattered, their edges curling with age and neglect. The remnants of what might have been meals were abandoned on tables, now a haven for flies. The once meticulously kept home of the Rengoku family was now a desolate, almost sleazy, space.

Hoshiko's gaze flicked over to Shinjuro, who had collapsed back into his chair, the half-empty bottle of sake still clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes, bloodshot and bleary, barely registered her presence as he took another swig, the liquid dribbling down his chin. His appearance mirrored the state of his surroundings — disheveled, broken, and completely lost.

She took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to comment on the squalor. There was no point in voicing her thoughts; the evidence of his downfall was all around them, and Shinjuro was undoubtedly aware of it. Instead, she steeled herself, allowing her eyes to convey her disapproval as she surveyed the room with a calm, detached air.

Moving deliberately, Hoshiko stepped over a pile of discarded clothing and made her way deeper into the mansion. She would need to clear a path, at the very least, to ensure there were no hazards for her charge — or herself. The sooner she could bring some semblance of order to this chaos, the better.

As she began to right some of the upturned furniture, Hoshiko cast another glance at Shinjuro. 

He seemed oblivious to her efforts, lost in his own world of misery and self-pity. 

She would not pity him, she decided. Pity was useless. What he needed was someone strong enough to drag him out of the abyss he had fallen into, someone who would not coddle or enable his self-destruction.

"Stay out of my way," Shinjuro muttered, his voice slurred, though the anger in it was unmistakable as he repeated himself yet again. "I don’t need your help."

Hoshiko paused, straightening a chair with a measured calm. She met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. "Whether you think you need it or not is irrelevant," she replied evenly. "I distinctly remember saying I am here to fulfill my duty."

Shinjuro scoffed, turning his head away, but not before Hoshiko caught a glimpse of the torment that flickered in his eyes. She continued her work, silently vowing to herself that she would not be swayed by his resistance. There was too much at stake to allow his pride and despair to thwart her mission.

As the night wore on, Hoshiko methodically cleared away the detritus, creating a semblance of order amidst the chaos. She worked silently, her movements efficient and precise. 

As she cleaned, Shinjuro watched her from his chair, a strange mix of emotions churning within him. Resentment, shame, and something else �� a glimmer of hope, buried deep beneath the layers of his self-imposed misery. His gaze occasionally lingered on her with a flicker of curiosity as well.

The mansion, though still far from its former glory, began to look less like a ruin and more like a home in desperate need of care. 

Hoshiko knew that the physical mess was only a symptom of a deeper rot, one that would take far more effort to cleanse. But it was a start, and in this grim, forsaken place, even the smallest step towards order felt like a victory.

As dawn approached, Hoshiko finally paused, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. She looked around, assessing her progress. It was far from perfect, but it was better. 

She glanced at Shinjuro, who had fallen into a restless sleep, the bottle finally slipping from his grasp. 

For the first time since she had entered the mansion, Hoshiko allowed herself a moment of hope. The path ahead would be long and arduous, but she was determined to see it through. 

Shinjuro Rengoku might have been a broken man, but within him still burned the embers of the warrior he once was. And she would not rest until those embers were rekindled into a roaring flame.

The days that followed were a grueling test of endurance, both for Hoshiko and for Shinjuro. 

He made no effort to hide his contempt, his behavior a mix of belligerence and self-pity. 

Yet, Hoshiko remained steadfast, her presence a constant, unyielding force in the household. She shadowed him with a quiet resolve, ensuring he ate, rested, and did not completely succumb to his vices.

Each morning, Shinjuro would awaken to find Hoshiko already up and about, methodically cleaning the mansion and preparing a simple breakfast. He would scowl at the sight of her, muttering under his breath about her intrusion. "You don't need to do this," he'd snap, pushing the bowl of rice away. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Hoshiko would simply raise an eyebrow, her expression remaining impassive. "Clearly," she'd reply dryly, her tone never wavering. "And yet, here we are."

One particularly rough morning, Shinjuro stumbled into the dining room, his eyes bloodshot and his movements unsteady. The previous night had been a haze of sake and bitter memories, and now, the light of day was a harsh and unforgiving reminder of his failures. He saw Hoshiko setting the table and felt a surge of irrational anger. "Why are you still here?" he growled, his voice rough and strained. "I told you I don't need your help, woman!"

Hoshiko paused, her eyes meeting his with that same unwavering intensity. "And I told you I am not here for your approval," she said calmly. "I am here to ensure your well-being, whether you like it or not, Rengoku-sama."

Shinjuro's hands clenched into fists, his body trembling with rage. He wanted to throw something, to break the suffocating calm that she exuded. Instead, he swiped the bowl off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. "Damn you, woman!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "Do you think you're better than me? That you can just waltz in here and fix everything?! Get out of my fucking kitchen! I don't need your damn pity," he snarled, his voice slurring as he swayed on unsteady feet.

Hoshiko did not flinch. She bent down, picking up the shattered pieces with a steady hand. "No," she said quietly. "I do not think I am better than you. I am not here out of pity as well. I do think, however, that you can be better than this."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet challenge that cut through his fury. 

Shinjuro turned away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but deep down, he knew she was right. The fight left him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow ache.

There were other moments, too, where Shinjuro's brash behavior tested Hoshiko's patience. 

One evening, after a particularly heavy bout of drinking, the former Hashira confronted her in the courtyard. 

Despite the bleak circumstances, Hoshiko's discipline never wavered. She trained in the courtyard, her movements precise and deadly, a silent reminder of the strength she possessed.  She was practicing her forms, the fluidity and grace of her movements a stark contrast to his stumbling gait.

"Why do you bother?" he slurred, leaning heavily against the wall. "Why waste your time on a broken man?"

Hoshiko did not pause in her practice, her katana slicing through the air with deadly precision. "Because you are not broken," she replied evenly. "You are wounded, yes. But wounds can heal."

Shinjuro laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. "You speak as if you know what it's like," he sneered. "But you don't. You have no idea what I've been through."

Hoshiko finally stopped, lowering her katana. She turned to face him, her dark blue eyes cold and unyielding. "You are right," she said softly. "I do not know your pain. But I do know that wallowing in it will not bring you peace."

Shinjuro stared at her, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "And what would you know of peace?" he asked, his voice tinged with vexation.

Hoshiko's gaze did not falter. "I know that it is not found at the bottom of a bottle," she stated simply. "And I know that you will never find it if you do not at least try."

Without warning, he lunged at her, his movements fueled by rage and desperation. Even in his drunken state, his speed and strength were formidable, remnants of the Hashira he once was. His hand shot out, aiming to grab her by the collar and throw her off balance.

Hoshiko reacted instinctively, her training kicking in. She sidestepped his initial attack, her body moving with a fluid grace that belied the tension of the moment. 

But Shinjuro was relentless, his fury driving him to press the assault. He swung wildly, a powerful backhand that she narrowly avoided by ducking low and rolling to the side.

"You think you're better than me?!" he roared, his voice a guttural snarl. "You think you can save me?! No one fucking can!"

Hoshiko's response was calm, almost maddeningly so. "I think you are worth saving."

Her words only seemed to enrage him further. With a roar, he charged at her, using his full weight to try and overpower her. 

Hoshiko danced out of reach, her movements precise and measured, but even she couldn't avoid him forever. 

Shinjuro managed to catch her off guard, grabbing her wrist and twisting it painfully, forcing her to the ground.

Pinned beneath him, Hoshiko looked up into his wild, tormented eyes. She could feel the strength in his grip, the raw power that still resided in him despite his years of self-destruction. But she did not flinch. Instead, she allowed herself a small, knowing smile.

Shinjuro's eyes widened in confusion and anger as he felt a cold, sharp pressure against his side. Glancing down, he saw the tip of Hoshiko's katana pressed against his ribs, the blade angled perfectly to pierce him if she so chose.

"Even in your current state," she said softly, her voice steady despite the intensity of the situation, "you are still a force to be reckoned with. But strength without control is meaningless, and you of all people should know that."

He stared at her, breathing heavily, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He had her pinned, yet she had him at her mercy. The realization of his predicament, the futility of his rage, hit him like a physical blow. Slowly, the fire in his eyes began to dim, replaced by a flicker of something else — shame, perhaps, or recognition. “Why?" he rasped, his voice cracking. "Why do you care?"

Hoshiko's smile softened, but her grip on the katana did not waver. "Because, Rengoku Shinjuro, you are not beyond redemption. You still have a purpose. You just need to find it again."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Shinjuro's grip on her wrist loosened, and he pulled back, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He stumbled to his feet, looking more defeated than ever.

Hoshiko rose gracefully, sheathing her katana with a fluid motion. She stepped closer, her expression a mixture of determination and empathy. "Let me help you, Shinjuro," she said softly. "You do not have to do this alone."

He looked at her, his eyes haunted and filled with a deep, abiding pain. "I don't know how," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"You don't have to know how," Hoshiko replied. "You just have to be willing to try."

Shinjuro's gaze dropped to the ground, his shoulders trembling. The journey ahead was daunting, and the shadows of his past loomed large. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a tiny spark of hope — a fragile, flickering flame that Hoshiko had ignited within him.

He nodded slowly, the smallest of gestures, but it was enough. 

Hoshiko inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of his first step towards healing. 

The days dragged on, a relentless cycle of anger, despair, and fleeting moments of clarity. 

Hoshiko remained a steady presence, her resolve unbroken by Shinjuro's brash behavior. 

Slowly, painfully, he began to see glimpses of the man he once was, buried beneath the rubble of his grief.

It was a long, arduous journey, fraught with setbacks and moments of darkness. But with each passing day, Hoshiko's unwavering dedication began to chip away at the walls Shinjuro had built around himself. 

And though he would never admit it, even to himself, a part of him began to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the shadows.

Weeks after Hoshiko first arrived at the Rengoku mansion, the atmosphere had begun to change. 

The once pervading scent of stale alcohol had lessened, and the mansion, though still showing signs of neglect, had started to regain a semblance of order. 

Shinjuro had seemingly limited his drinking, his temper had cooled, and there were even days when he participated in the training sessions with a renewed, albeit tentative, vigor.

That evening, Hoshiko decided to prepare a simple yet thoughtful dinner. She hoped it would be an opportunity to foster a more constructive conversation with Shinjuro, to delve deeper into the pain that had driven him to such depths of despair. She spent the afternoon in the kitchen, her movements purposeful and serene as she prepared the meal. The aroma of simmering miso soup, grilled fish, and freshly steamed rice filled the air, a comforting contrast to the mansion’s usual gloom.

As the sun set, casting a warm, golden light through the windows, Hoshiko set the table. She arranged the dishes with care, creating an inviting space that spoke of normalcy and hope. She called for Shinjuro, who had been in his study, a room that had seen more use in recent days as he slowly reconnected with his old scrolls and writings.

Shinjuro appeared in the doorway, his face a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What’s this?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"A meal," Hoshiko replied, her tone gentle. "I thought we could enjoy it together."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the table, then nodded slowly. "Alright."

They sat down, and for a while, they ate in silence. 

Hoshiko had learned not to push too hard, to let the conversation flow naturally. She watched Shinjuro as he ate, noting the way he seemed more present, more engaged with the simple act of sharing a meal. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

As they finished their meal, Shinjuro set down his chopsticks and looked at Hoshiko. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For this."

She smiled, a rare and genuine expression that softened her usually stoic features. "You’re welcome."

He paused, then asked, almost hesitantly, "Would you share a cup of sake with me?"

The request caught her off guard. She felt a surge of anger, a sharp reminder of the battles they had fought against his addiction. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw no defiance, only a tentative plea for companionship. Hoshiko took a deep breath, reigning in her initial impulse to snap. "One drink," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Just one."

Shinjuro nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He fetched a small bottle of sake and two cups, pouring the clear liquid with a steady hand. 

They raised their cups, and for a moment, they simply sat in silence, the sake warming their throats and loosening their tongues.

"To small victories," Shinjuro said, raising his cup.

"To small victories," Hoshiko echoed, clinking her cup against his.

One drink turned into another, and then another. 

The conversation flowed more freely with each cup, their words mingling with the night air. 

Shinjuro opened up and spoke of his past, of his lost wife and the burden of living up to the Rengoku name. He spoke of his failures, his grief, and the crushing weight of expectations that had driven him to the brink.

Hoshiko listened, her heart aching for the broken man before her. She shared pieces of her own story, fragments of a life dedicated to duty and honor, and the sacrifices she had made along the way. 

It was the most honest and open conversation they had ever had, a raw and unfiltered exchange that brought them closer than they had ever been.

But as the night wore on, the sake dulled their senses, and the constructive conversation they had hoped for began to slip away. 

Shinjuro’s words grew slurred, his movements less coordinated. 

Hoshiko felt a familiar sense of dread creeping in, knowing they had crossed a line. “We should stop,” she said, her voice laced with concern.

Shinjuro shook his head, his eyes bleary but determined. “Just one more,” he mumbled, pouring another cup for each of them.

Hoshiko hesitated, but the momentary bond they had forged made it difficult to refuse. She took the cup, her resolve weakening. 

They drank, the sake blurring the edges of their conversation, turning it into a hazy recollection of shared sorrows and fleeting laughter.

By the time the bottle was empty, Shinjuro was slumped in his chair, his head resting on the table. 

Hoshiko felt a wave of disappointment and regret wash over her. She had allowed herself to hope, to believe that this night might mark a turning point. Instead, it had become another reminder of the long, arduous journey ahead. She rose from her seat, her steps unsteady. Carefully, she lifted Shinjuro, guiding him to his room. 

He mumbled incoherently, his body heavy and uncooperative. 

As Hoshiko guided Shinjuro to his room, she felt the alcohol beginning to exert a stronger influence over her senses. Each step grew increasingly difficult to control, the hallways of the mansion seeming to blur and shift around her. She watched Shinjuro collapse onto his bed, his breathing already deepening into the heavy rhythm of sleep. For a moment, she stood there, gripping the doorframe, trying to steady herself. "Rest well, Shinjuro," she murmured, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears. With a final glance to ensure he was settled, she turned and began the long, unsteady journey back to her own chambers.

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls closing in and then expanding again in an unsettling dance. Hoshiko's steps were slow and deliberate, each one requiring a concerted effort to maintain balance. She had consumed alcohol before, even in significant amounts, but never had she felt its effects so profoundly. Her mind buzzed with confusion and a growing sense of unease.

By the time she reached her room, her vision was swimming, the edges of her sight tinged with a strange, almost dreamlike quality. She pushed the door open and stumbled inside, the room spinning around her. Her usually sharp, disciplined mind felt clouded, detached. It was as if she were merely an observer within her own body, watching herself move without truly controlling her actions.

She didn't remember crossing the room to her futon, but suddenly she was there, her fingers fumbling clumsily with the ties of her kimono. The fabric felt heavy and uncooperative, slipping through her hands as she tried to undress. Her normally precise movements were slow and uncoordinated, each task requiring an immense amount of concentration.

Hoshiko's vision blurred further, the room tilting wildly as she finally managed to shed her clothes. She couldn't recall how she had done it, only that one moment she was struggling with the ties, and the next she was lying on her futon, her body bare and exposed to the cool night air if not counting her cotton lingerie.

She felt herself drifting, the futon's soft surface barely registering through the haze that enveloped her. Her mind swam with fragments of thoughts and images, none of them clear or coherent. 

The events of the evening played back in disjointed flashes, her conversation with Shinjuro, the shared drink, the vulnerable look in his eyes.

Hoshiko's eyelids grew heavier, her vision darkening as she lay there. A vague sense of alarm flickered at the edge of her consciousness, but she was too far gone to grasp it fully. The room continued to spin, her body feeling both impossibly heavy and weightless at the same time.

As she finally succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness, a single, disjointed thought lingered in her mind: something was wrong. But the thought slipped away as darkness claimed her, leaving her in a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first thing Hoshiko noticed as consciousness clawed its way back to her was the darkness. 

The room was shrouded in the oppressive blackness of midnight, broken only by the faintest sliver of moonlight filtering through the shoji screen. The second thing was the rough texture of the futon beneath her, and the biting sensation of silken cords digging into her wrists and ankles. She was naked, her body splayed out and completely vulnerable.

Panic surged through her like ice water, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage. She tugged against the restraints, but they held fast, cruelly binding her to the futon beneath her. Every frantic movement only served to chafe her skin, the silken bonds cutting deeper into her flesh.

Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory. The sake. Shinjuro. The room spinning before everything went black. She had been assigned to watch over him, to ensure he didn’t spiral further into his drunken stupor. But now, it was she who was helpless.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she scanned the room for any sign of explanation. Her own quarters, normally a sanctuary of solitude, now felt like a prison. Her clothes were in tatters on the floor, the remnants of her once pristine uniform scattered like the fragments of her dignity.

A shadow loomed above her, and Hoshiko's eyes were drawn upward, her breath catching in her throat. 

Shinjuro Rengoku stood over her, his towering form bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight. The upper part of his attire was gone, revealing a muscular chest marked with the scars of countless battles. His broad shoulders and powerful arms exuded strength, yet it was the look in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

"Shinjuro," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. "What are you doing?"

"Well, look who’s awake," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "The mighty Hoshiko, brought down to this. How the mighty have fallen."

"Shinjuro, please," she pleaded, trying to keep her voice steady. "This isn't you. You're better than this." 

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. He knelt down, bringing his face close to hers, the heat of his alcohol-stained breath ghosting over her skin. "You think you know me, Hoshiko? You think you understand what I'm capable of?"

"Shinjuro, let me go!" she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and fear.

His hands roamed over her naked body, rough and possessive. 

She shivered, a mixture of rage and helplessness flooding her senses. "You won't get away with this," she hissed, her voice breaking.

"And who's going to stop me?" he taunted, his grip tightening. "You? You're tied up like a helpless little bitch you are."

Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault, her body betraying her as it responded to his touch. "Shinjuro, please..."

"Begging already?" he sneered. "How pathetic."

She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of his face so close to hers.

His hand moved roughly to her face, gripping her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Look at you, the mighty Hashira, all tied up and naked like the helpless bitch you are."

He shifted his weight, straddling her as his hands roamed over her body. His fingers trailed over the tantalizing curves of her breasts, squeezing and fondling them with a cruel possessiveness. "So soft," he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

"Stop it," she gasped, trying to twist away from his touch. 

Her protest was met with a sharp slap across her cheek, the force of it snapping her head to the side. "Shut up," he growled. "You're mine now. You'll do as I say."

Tears of frustration and fear welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault. "Rengoku-sama, please..."

Another slap, harder this time, made her vision blur. "I said shut up. You don’t get to speak unless I say so."

His hands moved to her other breast, kneading the flesh roughly, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. 

The sensation sent unwanted shivers through her body, each touch a bitter reminder of her helplessness. She sobbed, her body trembling beneath him. "Please, Shinjuro, stop..."

But he didn't stop. He continued to toy with her, his hands roaming and exploring, leaving bruises and marks on her skin. Each slap silenced her cries, reducing her to a state of broken compliance. He took his time, savoring every moment of her humiliation. His hands roamed over her body, lingering obscenely on her breasts before trailing down to her thighs. He spread her legs roughly, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You think you can just walk into my life and order me around?" he sneered. "You think you're better than me?"

She tensed, her body trembling with revulsion. “You’re disgusting. Stop it!”

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he growled, his fingers parting her folds. "You're mine to use as I see fit."

He drew away a bit, teasing only the outside of her opening until he managed to lull her into a false sense of safety. As soon as she relaxed, he pushed his thick digit into her, not leaving her muscles any other choice than to yield and allow him entrance. He growled, "Fuck, how are you so tight, little Hashira?"

Her body tensed at the unwelcome intrusion, and a tear streamed down her flushed cheek. She bit her lip, trying to stifle a cry of pain and humiliation. "Please," she whispered again, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Stop."

"Not a chance," he murmured, adding another finger and curling them inside her, trying to find the sweetest spot of hers. "You're going to take everything I give you."

He moved his fingers with a cruel, practiced precision, in and out of her tight hole, while his thumb brushed against her sensitive nub. 

To Hishiko’s horror, his increasingly demanding strokes on her clit made her body react and to her embarrassment, an unwelcome heat started spreading in her belly. A while later, the woman felt a trickle of wetness between her legs and her cheeks burnt in embarrassment while she whimpered softly in denial. She squeezed her eyes shut. The unwanted pleasure mixed with the pain, sending conflicting signals through her body. She hated herself for the way her body responded, the way it betrayed her.

He stopped rubbing her clit, and her closed eyes popped open. 

Shinjuro was staring at her slick pussy with a hungry look in his eyes. "You are so beautiful like this, so exquisite" he claimed almost reverently. "I need to taste you now, so be a good girl and lay still for me," he chuckled darkly, as if she had any other choice.

Shinjuro then slowly lowered his mouth, all while holding her gaze. 

Hoshiko started protesting, but her protests were cut off with a gasp as he sucked her clit into his mouth. An involuntary moan made its way out, but she was too shocked to feel embarrassed. 

His hands stroked her thighs while his mouth attacked her core.

Hoshiko squealed quickly as she felt him release her clit and start petting her lower tummy soothingly while the other finger continued to slowly stroke in and out of her pussy, making her tremble. 

He then continued his ministrations on her clit while slowly pushing another finger into her while sucking her bundle of nerves into his mouth. 

She groaned and ground her teeth together as the slight burn made her pussy tense up. The stretch was harsh; he really had big hands, and she desperately tried to move her pelvis from side to side as if she could escape him. 

Shinjuro just chuckled and continued to pump in and out of her pussy while licking and suckling on her clit. 

Her inner muscles slowly started relaxing, and the burn turned into a firm pressure. She felt an orgasm building and was oh so desperate not to come. Hoshiko started protesting and begging him to stop yet again, but he just continued while humming softly with his mouth attached to her clit, the vibration adding to the torture. 

The next thing she knew, an unexpected orgasm slammed into her without her permission, and she was left spasming around his thick fingers.

He continued to stroke her velvety walls and tease her clit, drawing out the intense waves of pleasure. As the climax gradually subsided, he stilled his movements and gently withdrew his fingers from her pussy. 

She groaned at the relief from the overwhelming pressure, her entire body going slack as she tried to recover.

"So fucking beautiful, doll. Absolutely perfect, and all mine," Shinjuro murmured, his voice thick with lust. As he spoke, his other hand moved to stroke the bulge in his hakama pants, the fabric straining against his hardening dick. "I wonder, if feeling you come all over my fingers makes me feel like this, how would it feel having your pussy strangling my cock while you come all over it?"

He brought his fingers, slick with her juices, to his mouth and slipped them in, tasting her. His eyes never left hers, a dark satisfaction gleaming in their depths as he savored her essence. "Delicious," he growled, the word dripping with possessive hunger.

Rengoku’s words sank in, and she whimpered, a cold dread seeping into her bones. Her gaze drifted downward, her eyes slowly lowering to his pants, and she let out a gasp. He was clearly aroused, and the sight of the obscene bulge straining against his hakama sent a wave of terror through her. Tears trickled down her cheeks as the horrifying realization set in — he was going to take her, and by the looks of it, it was going to hurt. The anticipation of the impending violation made her shudder, her body trembling with a mix of fear and helplessness. “Leave me alone…” she begged.

He got off the futon and began undressing, peeling off layer after layer until he stood completely naked before her. His enormous cock was erect, its hefty weight counteracting its upward strain. The sheer size of him filled Hoshiko with dread.

Seeing her expression, he chuckled darkly. "Don't worry, you will take me, and you'll learn to love it before we're finished.”

He bent down and opened a bag that stood near the futon which she hadn’t noticed before.

With trepidation, she watched him lube up a large harigata.

He got on the futon again and moved towards her, and she was again reminded of her vulnerable position — completely restrained and exposed, with no chance of avoiding him or whatever he wanted to do to her. 

His calloused hand pushed the head of the harigata towards her rosy opening, and she tensed. "Relax, or this will hurt more than necessary," Shinjuro warned before firmly pushing the toy past her tight entrance.

Hoshiko let out a scream, but he didn't relent until the toy was fully seated inside her, bottoming out painfully. She started shaking and panting, trying to cope with the painful stretch and the horrible cramps from the firm pressure against her cervix. 

For a moment, he remained completely still, and through her whimpers, she heard him speaking.

"Good girl, such a good girl," he praised.

"It hurts," she whined pitifully.

He then started stroking her clit and withdrew the harigata before pushing it all the way inside in one long, relentless stroke. 

Groaning, Hoshiko had no other choice but to take it, letting him claim her pussy with the toy.

After what felt like an eternity of him thrusting it in and out of her, she tried to focus on her breathing to deal with the intrusion. The tingling sensation in her pelvis caused by the stimulation and the pressure on her clit made her groan in despair. She knew now that she had no control and no energy left to fight the upcoming climax. Hopelessly, she gave in to the electric waves of pleasure inside her and came with painful spasms, her body trying to expel the intruder or draw it in — she wasn't sure anymore.

As her orgasm subsided, her inner muscles relaxed, and the sensation of the toy inside her became intense but less painful. She drew a deep, shaky breath, and he immediately smiled down at her. 

"Absolutely beautiful. I knew you could do it. And I think you are ready for my cock now, my little Hashira,” Shinjuro mused.

She had little energy left to protest and just shook her head weakly, but with plenty of her juices trickling down around the harigata and aiding its intrusion, she had no doubt he would manage to get inside her, no matter his size.

He gently pulled the toy out of her abused pussy and tossed it on the floor beside the futon. He then stroked his cock, a bead of precum already visible on the tip. Settling his body over hers, panic surged through her again, and she started pulling on her bindings. He ignored that, lining up his cock against her opening and slowly began to push.

"No! Rengoku Shinjuro, I beseech you!" she groaned as she felt her pussy desperately trying to stretch around the head of the monstrosity, but it wouldn't go in. He didn't seem bothered and just increased the pressure until she felt a pinch that rapidly turned into an intense burning. 

All the while, he stroked her body in a mockingly soothing manner. His rough hand moved down to her clit to try to aid her in relaxing, and her inner muscles twitched in confused response as Shinjuro petted her bundle of nerves.

She ground out a pained cry as you helplessly pulled at the silken cords that tied your hands together above her head. 

Suddenly, the steady pressure made his thick cockhead pop through Hoshiko’s opening, and she screamed just as Shinjuro let out a guttural groan.

Desperation set in, and she started thrashing against her bindings until his voice cut through her panic, deceptively soothing. "Take it easy, doll. Just relax, it will feel good soon, I promise.”

Yet Hoshiko hissed through clenched teeth, tears streaming down her cheeks again.

"Don't cry," he reminded almost regretfully, holding himself completely still with just the head of his cock inside her velvety pussy. He reached up with one hand to wipe her tears away. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, but the pain will stop soon, I promise. And after that, I'll give you endless pleasure. I'll make you come until you don't care how much it hurts when I claim you with my cock.."

His words both soothed and worried her, but she knew she had no choice but to submit. Hoshiko obeyed him by taking a deep breath. The woman’s inner muscles relaxed a fraction.

He then started moving inside her, pushing slowly until he was fully seated in her wet, warm pussy. 

She panted as he withdrew almost completely before pushing in again, harder this time. There was pain, intense pressure, but also something else. Raw, crackling pleasure zapped up Hoshiko’s spine as Shinjuro’s thick cock touched every part of her pussy, forcing it to mold itself around him.

A sudden feeling of being completely and carnally claimed washed over her, and she moaned as her pussy spasmed painfully around his thick cock. 

"Little cunt," he growled in warning. "Don't do that unless you want me to take you hard. Do not test my patience."

But she couldn't control it. His words made more juices trickle down around his cock, and another spasm of her inner muscles made her moan.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice like steel. "Look at me while I take what's mine, you fucking useless cunt."

Reluctantly, she turned her gaze back to him, her heart pounding in her chest. 

His expression was one of dark satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with a twisted hunger. He was relentless, each thrust claiming her further, branding her as his.

Rengoku then withdrew and immediately slammed into her again, and she lost all control over her body. The moans leaving her lips were no longer her own, and she writhed on his cock, trying simultaneously to escape and to draw him deeper at the same time. 

But it wasn't fully her choice — his hands held her hips in an iron grip as he slammed into her over and over again.

Her mind fragmented under the relentless assault, her sense of self slipping away with each brutal thrust.

She was too lost in the moment to reflect on the situation anymore. She felt another orgasm building and just let it happen, not caring about the pain she knew would come from her muscles tightening around his enormous cock. She heard him talking, praising her for taking him so well, calling her a good girl as her pussy melted around him as she came yet again in intense spasms. “S-Stop, please…”

But he didn't stop. He fucked her oh so hard, each time pushing her further into a haze of pain and unwanted pleasure. 

As Hoshiko seized again and again, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body, she felt Shinjuro's movements becoming more sloppy, more primal. His thrusts grew deeper, more desperate.

Then, like a thunderclap in the night, she heard Shinjuro's primal roar. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed. In that moment, Hoshiko felt the warmth flooding her insides as he released his thick, warm seed deep within her. “Fuck, take it, bitch, take all of it. I can’t wait to see you swell with my fucking offspring.” He continued to thrust his hips into hers with unrestrained fervor, ensuring that she received every last drop of his semen.

Their cums mingled together in a potent concoction, flooding her core until she felt drenched to the brim, every fiber of her being saturated with their combined releases.

He was mumbling soothingly in her ear about how beautiful she was shortly after. “That’s it, my little whore. You were so good to me, taking my cock oh so well.” He slowly started withdrawing his half-hard cock, and she whimpered as the pain made its way back into her consciousness. Shinjuro shushed her and soothed her with kisses and gentle caresses, pulling out as carefully as he could.

Hoshiko lay there, broken and violated, the reality of what had happened sinking in. She was no longer the aloof, untouchable Hashira. She was Shinjuro's possession, his conquest.

Her whole body ached as he began untying her legs. Shinjuro massaged her sore muscles gently and kissed every part of her. He was mumbling about how Hoshiko was his now, his woman, and how he was going to pleasure and claim her again and again. When he had untied her completely, he left the bedroom briefly, returning with a glass of sake. Rengoku carefully soothed her when she whimpered from the soreness, and then supported her head as he helped her down the glass of alcohol. “Drink. It’ll ease your nerves.”

Having swallowed the drink, Hoshiko felt a haze descend upon her, enveloping her in a cocoon of numbness. As she closed her eyes, surrendering to the oblivion that awaited her, the final image that burned itself into her consciousness was that of Shinjuro's face, twisted into a malevolent grimace.

"You belong to me now," his voice echoed in the darkness, each word dripping with possessiveness and dominance. "You are mine, my little, sweet cockslut."

The darkness of the night lingered long after the sun rose, casting a shadow over Hoshiko's heart. 

She woke up, a pounding headache splitting her skull, and an overwhelming nausea clawing at her stomach. As she tried to shift, she winced, feeling a sticky discomfort between her legs. Her heart plummeted as the realization struck her - she sensed the dried cum of Shinjuro on her inner thighs, a sickening confirmation of her worst fears she desperately wanted to erase from the back of her mind.

For a moment, she couldn't move, her body frozen in shock and disgust. Her eyes darted to her side, and she saw him lying there, naked and sleeping peacefully, as if nothing had happened. Rage and revulsion churned within her, a storm threatening to consume her whole.

With trembling hands, she pulled herself from the futon, her movements slow and deliberate. Each motion sent waves of pain through her body, both physical and emotional. She dressed carelessly, her fingers fumbling with the fabric as she tried to cover the marks of her violation. The once-pristine kimono hung loosely on her, a stark contrast to the meticulous care she usually took with her appearance.

She stood in the center of the room for a moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps, as if she could expel the filth through sheer force of will. The room around her seemed to close in, the walls pressing down with an oppressive weight. The very air felt tainted, corrupted by the heady scent of sex.

Shinjuro might have won this battle, but the war was far from over. 

Hoshiko clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain grounding her in the present moment. She would rise from this torment, stronger and more determined than ever. And when she did, Shinjuro would face the full force of her wrath.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the shoji screen, she closed her eyes, a single thought echoing in her mind: She would make him pay for this. But that would be another part of her story.

She moved silently through the mansion, her steps light despite the turmoil within her. The house seemed eerily quiet, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of her thoughts. Each room she passed through held memories of her attempts to help him, now tainted by his betrayal, his violation of her rights.

When she reached the entrance, she paused, looking back one last time. The mansion stood as a testament to Shinjuro's fall from grace, a place she had hoped to bring light and healing. But now, it was merely a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him — and nearly consumed her as well.

Without another glance, she stepped out into the cold morning air. The chill bit into her skin, but it was a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. She walked away from the mansion, each step a declaration of her intent to survive, to fight back. She left all her belongings behind, not sparing a single glance for the possessions that had once seemed so important. The kimono she wore was her only possession now. There was no intention of returning to this place, no desire to reclaim what she had lost. Everything she needed, she carried within her: her resolve, her strength, and the burning desire for justice.

The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and challenges. But Hoshiko knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would not be broken by this. She would rise from the ashes of this night.

As she disappeared into the distance, the first rays of the sun pierced through the morning mist, casting a pale, ethereal light over the land. It was a new day, a new beginning, and Hoshiko would seize it with every ounce of her strength. 

The battle was far from over, and she was ready to wage it with every ounce of her being.

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 20 - The Dragon's Desire

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, kidnapping, holding captive, dirty talk, possessiveness, humiliation, name calling, begging kink, praise kink, male dom, oral (m receiving), slightly dub-con

Masterlist

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows against the stone walls of the chamber. Daemon sat alone, elbows resting on the arms of the high-backed chair, a goblet of dark red wine untouched at his side, the parchment from King Viserys unfurled in his hands. The candlelight flickered across the inked words, and as he read, a sneer curled his lips.

“Properly recognized… addressed…” he muttered, voice low with disdain. “As if I ever needed his blessing.”

A bitter scoff escaped him.

“Always demands. Never questions. Never once asked what I wanted.”

He crumpled the parchment, the wax seal cracking under his fingers. His violet eyes were sharp with irritation. There was a fire in his chest — a simmering resentment and the old ache of being underestimated, dismissed, and now, commanded like a misbehaving child.

With a flick of his wrist, the parchment hit the flames. It curled and blackened, the ink blistering into illegible smears. Daemon watched until it was ash.

He stood suddenly, the chair scraping back with a harsh screech against the stone. Pacing now, his long strides eating the space between wall and window, boots thudding with coiled frustration.

His thoughts raced through his mind, each more contemptuous than the last. My son… my wife… He stopped in his tracks. No one will tell me how to rule my own family.

Daemon’s lips curled into a grin, dangerous and smug. There was no way in hell he would return to King's Landing as Viserys demanded. He would go when he was ready. And when he did, it would be on his terms.

The evening air clung warm and heavy to the stone walls of Dragonstone, thick with the scent of salt and sea. In the grand dining hall, flickering torches illuminated the three figures seated at the long table — Daemon, Maeliora, and their son, Daeron.

Maeliora had been locked away in her chambers all day, but Daemon had allowed her to see Daeron. He knew she needed her son, despite the tension in their household. Their son, though young, had grown used to seeing his parents at odds. But tonight, there was an air of relative normalcy, at least on the surface.

Daemon, as ever, was the one to break the silence, his voice a sharp, commanding presence in the room.

“I received a letter from your father today, Niece,” he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “He demands we return to the Red Keep at once.”

He reached for his wine, violet eyes gleaming with mirth or perhaps mockery.

“Seems my dear brother misses the charm I bring to his court.”

Maeliora’s breath caught. Her gaze snapped toward him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He never shared matters of state with her, especially not now. Had there been other letters? Other commands gone unspoken? A dozen questions crowded her mind, but she said nothing.

Across the table, Daeron glanced up from where he’d been idly picking his food.

“Will we go back, then, Father?”

Maeliora turned to her son, her heart thudding. She didn’t let herself hope. Not out loud. But her fingers curled tightly in her lap, and inwardly she begged. Please, say yes.

She missed her father and sister dearly. The thought of facing the Hightowers and Queen Alicent, cold and watchful, made her stomach twist, especially after all that had unfolded. But still, despite the shame, despite the uncertainty, her heart yearned for home. Daemon leaned back in his chair, considering. For a flicker of a moment, something softened in his expression, but it passed as quickly as it came. “You know, Daeron, your grandfather doesn’t understand. He thinks that a king should be able to control everything and everyone. But I’m not one of those men.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. Maeliora stayed quiet, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She knew better than to interfere when Daemon was on a roll.

“Viserys thinks he can force us to return to King's Landing. But you and I, my little dragon, we don’t take orders from anyone, not even the king himself.” The words tinged with dark pride.

Daeron’s eyes brightened, clearly fascinated by the idea of defying his grandfather. “We don’t, Father?”

“No,” Daemon said, his tone low. “We do as we please. When we please.”

Maeliora shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to ignore the small pang in her chest. This was Daemon, her uncle - turned captor - turned husband... And she knew him all too well.

The tension between them lingered, unspoken, but thick and inescapable. She hated the way Daemon so effortlessly pulled their son into his games of power and defiance. And yet, she couldn’t deny it… Daeron seemed to revel in it. He was already the spitting image of his father, and now he was learning to think like him, speak like him, even beginning to act like him. A chill settled in her chest. Perhaps she was already raising a second Rogue Prince.

Daemon, sensing her discomfort, turned his attention to Daeron once more. “Tell your mother what we’re doing tomorrow, Daeron.”

The boy lit up. “We’re going to the dragon caves, Mother!” he beamed. “Kepa said I can learn more about the dragons and he’s going to teach me to ride soon!”

Maeliora reached out, ruffling his hair gently, a soft smile breaking through the haze of unease. “That sounds like a great adventure, my love.”

“Come with us!” Daeron grasped her hand, his small fingers warm against hers. “I want you to see!”

Her breath caught. Just last night, she and Daemon had spoken, truly spoken for the first time in weeks. The tension had lessened, if only slightly. But had her punishment truly ended? Was she free to go where she pleased again? She looked to Daemon, hesitant, only to find his gaze already fixed on her.

It was Daemon who answered for her.

“Your mother is punished, little dragon.”

Daeron blinked, confused. “Punished again? Why?”

Daemon crouched beside him, lowering himself to the boy’s level. His hand ruffled Daeron’s silvery hair.

“She was misbehaving,” he said simply.

Maeliora stiffened, though she kept her composure. Her lips pressed together tightly, as she glanced down at her plate, struggling to keep her emotions in check. Her son was excited, Daeron’s joy was still shining too bright and she wouldn’t dim it. But Daemon's words felt like a cold, bitter reminder of her place in their relationship.

“Poor Muna,” Daeron sighed, giving her a sympathetic look with his wide, innocent eyes. “Always punished.”

Daemon snorted, clearly amused. “Your mother just needs to learn to be a proper wife, little dragon. Dont worry, she’ll come around.”

Her nails pressed into the flesh of her palms beneath the table, but she kept her eyes averted. She didn’t dare challenge Daemon here, not with Daeron sitting between them, but the frustration bubbled inside her.

After the meal, Daemon stood, slinging his sword over his shoulder, as though the conversation had never happened.

Daeron, ever cheerful, leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’ll tell the dragons you miss them,” he said sweetly, before scampering off after his father.

Maeliora forced a smile, as she looked at her son. She watched him go, her heart heavy. He was still so young, still so kind. The child had so much to learn, but Daemon was the one teaching him, molding him, shaping him, day by day, word by word. And she couldn’t help but wonder if, one day, Daeron would become just like his father.

The fire in their chamber burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The wind howled beyond the windows, but inside, all was quiet save for the soft rustle of silk and breath.

Maeliora lay curled beneath the furs, her nightdress thin and pale against her skin. She heard the door shut softly behind him — Daemon returning late, as he often did. There was no need to look. She could feel him even before he reached the bed.

He didn’t speak. He never did, not in moments like these.

She felt the mattress shift beneath his weight, then the warmth of his hand brushing her hair back from her face. Lips grazed her temple first, then her jaw, trailing slowly down the curve of her neck. His touch was unhurried, familiar and still it set her nerves alight. His fingers ghosted down her arm, over her ribs, then cupping her breasts through the soft fabric of her nightdress.

Maeliora inhaled sharply, her body responding before her mind could speak.

His hand moved again firmer now, possessive, as he pressed a kiss just beneath her ear. “Sweet wife,” he murmured. “Waiting for me, were you?”

She turned her face away, cheeks flushed. “Uncle…” she began, voice tight.

His hand slid up her thigh. “Haven’t touched you in days,” he muttered against her skin, voice low, drowsy with want. “You've been very obedient lately. I thought perhaps you’ve decided now to behave.”

His mouth found her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly. One hand slipped beneath the hem of her nightdress.

“Daemon,” she said again, firmer this time. Her hand caught his wrist.

He stilled, his eyes flicking up to meet hers in the dim light.

“I can’t,” she whispered, ashamed that her voice faltered. “I have my moon blood.”

There was a pause long enough that her stomach turned with dread. And then Daemon leaned back slightly, studying her as though she’d just said something amusing.

“I’m a dragon, sweetling,” He let out a soft, dry laugh. “Do you truly think a little blood would scare me away?”

She looked at him then, eyes wide and uncertain, her voice barely audible. “Please, Uncle… I feel uncomfortable. And ashamed.”

Daemon exhaled slowly. He touched her face, gentle now, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Very well,” he said with a smirk. “Have it your way, sweet niece. I’ll spare you tonight.”

She cleared her throat once, then again. Her heart thudded against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. She wanted to touch him, to please him, to hear again those manly sounds — dragonlike growls he made... gods, she craved the closeness, but the words lodged in her throat like thorns.

Her fingers twisted in the furs as she fought the heat rising in her cheeks, unsure if it was from longing or shame. How could she ask? How did a proper lady, a wife, say such things? Was it even fitting for an honorable woman to ask for something like that?

Her mouth opened, then closed again, breath hitching in frustration. He would mock her, she was sure of it. But the memory of him fucking her mouth so dominantly, the taste of him, the smell of him, the way he felt so soft and hard at the same time on her tongue — burned hot in her chest.

She didn’t know why it was so difficult, they had done far more than this. Maybe it was the shame. Or maybe it was because she wanted to offer something freely this time, not taken in anger or by force.

She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor as her voice stumbled out in a whisper, broken and trembling. “Uncle… perhaps I could… I could satisfy you… in other ways…”

Daemon raised a brow. A beat passed. Then another. And then he laughed. It wasn’t cruel, more amused than anything, but it cut nonetheless.

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she turned her face away.

One finger gently lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Well, well,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Didn’t know, my sweet little niece was such a depraved whore, longing to have my cock in her mouth. Such a filthy girl.”

She flinched, eyes flicking down. Her shame was a physical thing now, tightening in her throat. Still, she didn’t pull away.

Daemon tilted his head, watching her carefully, not unkindly, but like a cat toying with something fragile.

“Tell me, sweetling... Did you enjoy the taste of your uncle that much?” he whispered.

Maeliora’s face burned with humiliation, her pulse quickening in a frantic rhythm as she felt his gaze on her, piercing and unrelenting. She wanted to look away, but something about him, the way he held her in place with just his eyes, made it impossible. She bit her lip, trying to swallow the shame that threatened to choke her. The words she wanted to say were tangled in her throat, buried beneath layers of fear and desire.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She could feel his fingers still on her skin, waiting for her response, a strange mix of amusement and something darker in his eyes. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she couldn't pull herself from his hold.

Daemon’s grin turned wicked, his hand tightening just slightly as he drew closer, breath hot at her ear. “Don’t lie to me, sweet girl,” he growled. “If I’d known you were so eager to choke on your uncle’s cock, I’d have fucked that pretty mouth of yours the first night I claimed you.”

The words stung, but Maeliora didn’t move. She couldn’t. He had a way of making her feel small, of twisting her into knots, but there was no denying the way her body responded to him, despite the humiliation, despite the guilt.

“I—I wanted to...” She broke off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence, her voice faltering under the weight of her own emotions.

Daemon’s hand moved lower, but he paused, waiting for her to speak. He had always enjoyed the control, the silence that stretched between them, a dangerous dance of power and restraint.

Finally, Maeliora found the courage to speak, her words rushed and fragile. “I wanted to… please you, Uncle. I don’t know why, but I do.”

Daemon studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet nod, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“There's no need to be ashamed, sweetling,” he said, his voice a strange mixture of tenderness and something else... Perhaps understanding, perhaps something darker beneath it. “I am your husband, after all. It's only natural for a wife to want to please her lord husband...” His smirk returned, slow and wicked. “Though it seems you share your uncle’s taste for depravity as well.”

Maeliora’s chest tightened at the words, a wave of relief flooding over her, though it was mixed with confusion and shame. She didn’t know if she felt grateful or disappointed. Either way, she could breathe again, if only for a moment.

He stroked her hair with deliberate tenderness, his smirk never fading. “Should’ve known. You are my niece after all, blood runs hot in dragons,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek. “But if you crave your uncle's cock in that sweet mouth of yours, you'll have to ask for it properly, sweetling. Like the well-mannered lady you are.”

Her eyes widened as she realized what he wanted from her. She barely was able to voice her want for him, her perverted wish... Now he wanted her to ask him properly and politely for... For something so filthy it twisted her insides into knots.

“Go on,” he coaxed, voice rich with amusement, his fingers curling possessively around her hip. “I know you know how to be proper. You were taught to ask nicely for the things you want, weren’t you, sweet girl?” His tone was mock-gentle, indulgent and devouring all at once. “Ask… and you shall receive. You know you want to.”

Her lips trembled. “May I…” she started, then faltered, her throat tightening. She cast her eyes down, cheeks burning crimson. “May I… please…”

She struggled for the words, tried to shape them in a way that didn’t sound shameful, but the very nature of the desire made that impossible. She closed her eyes, swallowed her embarrassment, and whispered: “M-may I taste you again, Uncle?”

His smile deepened, but something warmer flickered in his gaze. Approval. Satisfaction. And just beneath the wickedness — affection.

“Yes, you may, sweet wife,” he said. “It’s yours to touch, to kiss, to suck. Just as you are mine to hold, to worship, to ruin... to love like my beloved sweet niece and to fuck like my personal perfect little whore.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead, not mocking, but sincere.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

End Notes: Maeliora’s got some very spicy thoughts, doesn’t she? 😈 Bet you can’t wait to see where this is going… hehe. 😏 Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

I've been thinking... should I post full smut of chapter 5 - where Daemon claims his unwilling niece for the very first time..? Or is it not necessary at this point? Since they had more smut scenes and flashbacks from that night. What do you think...🤔

[calmingmelody96]

So I had an idea for a one-shot/drabble

Yandere! Shinjuro x Nanny! Reader

Basically, you've been the live in nanny for the Rengoku family ever since Ruka passed and Shinjuro notices how motherly you are towards Kyojuro and Senjuro. So logically, he guilt trips and blackmails you into marrying him.

Yandere! Shinjuro x Nanny! Fem! Reader

18+

Sfw Warnings: Wholesome Kyojuro and Senjuro... that's it

Nsfw Warnings: Yandere, TW Non-con, Peer pressure, Coercion, Forced drinking, Drunk Sex, Non-consensual touching, Vaginal Sex, Breeding kink, Creampie, Cockwarming, Forced Pregnancy, Blackmail, Manipulation, Toxic, technically cheating bc reader is engaged ig, Time period sexism and gender roles

Im going to hell for writing this lol :P IM NOT WRITING A PART 2 SO DONT EVEN ASK

<8k words

-

-

-

"Boys! Be careful now!" you called out to the two children as the eldest chased the youngest. Kyojuro looked back at you and let out a boyish laugh, his brother beaming at him and mimicking it. You could see the gaps in the younger's smile where his baby teeth had fallen out (some probably knocked out with how roughly the eldest played with him.) They resumed the chase through the garden, dodging the bordering florals so as to not damage them. Their past mother's sacred roses.

You clicked your tongue but couldn't help but chuckle at their innocent excitement, looking forward to the day that you'd raise your own little bundles of joy. Raising these one's was a privilege but a true gift such as genuine motherhood was one not tied by payment.

Your hands pet through the cottoned fabric as you wrung it out of all liquid and clipped it to the wire to dry. It was easier to complete these chores while the youngers were occupied and distracted than to give them the opportunity to divert your focus. Such energetic children required your constant call and attention. Although, they were being more tame today than they had the previous, likely due to the intimidating presence of their father, who was set reading on the porch. Presence. Not watch. He gave them no inspection.

No, that privilege was preserved for you, who felt the said man's eyes keep on you at all times. His form was faced toward his offspring, but you could sense his gaze linger at the corner of his eye, focusing on you. Seeing you. Minding you. Observing you. As he always did. You thought the strange action out of superstition - a former Hashira was bound to be distrustful, even of you, who'd been working under his careful watch since the passing of his former wife. Although, the glances had never been so concentrated nor malevolent as they had as of now. Like you'd been a cause of distress for him. You guessed the reason to be of a more recent event.

You'd told him of your engagement a mere few days ago.

-

"Engagement?" Lord Rengoku asked, a more somber tone in his voice than questioning. You nodded.

"Yes sir - to be married," you clarified, "I thought to tell you as this may affect my work schedule in the near future... I was thinking perhaps another maid could fill in if that were to be the case?"

He laggardly hummed, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. You took his disinterest to be of just that. Disinterest.

You failed to see his hand clutch the pages in his hand tensely, hidden by your view of his back.

You were wrong.

-

The sun slowly dripped in the sky at a distance, and you noted in the back of your mind that there would only be a couple more hours until you had to take the clothes down. And give those filthy boys a bath, those rascals.

"(L/n)."

You barely heard the soft call. If the wind had picked up even a second before it had, you wouldn't have heard him. You turned to see him raise his cup in your direction, his intention obvious. You hid the twitch in your eye and sighed. Filling his drink was something that would have been a minimal task on his part but a chore on yours, being you had to leave your current post to go tend to his. He'd been needier lately, constantly calling on you to do the most mundane of tasks for him. Putting his novel away, filling his plate, closing his door. It was as if he'd wanted your attention every waking moment and hid it with these trivial objectives. He'd also tried to get you to start up his bath the other night. He'd had a strange look in his eye as he requested you to do so, and it'd made you uneasy, but luckily, you'd had the excuse of having to set up his children's, so he left you alone. Having grown up in a town occupied by mostly elder individuals, you wondered if perhaps he was getting lonely with age, even if his years were only a decade or so to yours.

You went to him quickly, a light jog in your step, and brought him the pitcher of what was thankfully just rice water. After some annoying persistence on your part, the man had dwindled down to only the occasion glass of sake. He wouldn't admit it, but you were certain his mood had improved due to change, and his energy was increased. But that also meant a rise in his destitution.

"Here you are, sir," you announced as you poured the nearly transparent juice into his cup, "Will that be all?"

His gaze was fixated on the playing infants outside, running and jumping and playing. He took a long drawl of his beverage before he replied.

"Your husband," he began, "What is the nature of your union?"

Fiancé, you wanted to correct. He was your fiancé, not husband. The incorrect termage worried you not due to the lack of accuracy, but because of the malicious way with which he coined it. Like it disgusted him.

"Nature?" you asked, confused. It was a weird question, uncalled for, and certainly not one of an employer to ask his employee.

"The purpose."

"Oh. To simply be married... I suppose. I'm to turn twenty-five soon, so it'd be best for us to wed as soon as possible."

For a woman of your lower class, it was unusual to be so old and untaken. Your mother had been three-quarters your age when she'd had you. Your fiancé was younger than you himself, by four years. You'd been his babysitter when you were both younger, and he said he'd been waiting for the chance to propose ever since. Such talk would make any woman swoon. That's what you told yourself, at least.

"So it's not a matter of money?" he questioned and his eyes focused in on his boys. You thought for a moment, taken aback by his brashness at suggesting such a thing, as if you were being forced to marry out of poverty.

"Well, not directly. The extra wealth would be beneficial, but it's not the cause, if that is what you infer." You let out a deep breath, praying the conversation to be over. With others, you'd been elated to discuss you future life, but with Shinjuro, he was far too prying and cynical. While his negativity had decreased tremendously over the time you'd been here, when it came to your life outside of this place, there was always something bad to say. Your family was backward and plain, and your town undecorated. Any talk of your previous living was met with eyes rolling and a scoff. You had two theories for his disapproval.

One, being your more hopeful assumption, was that the man was so closeminded to his own activities that he couldn't fathom a life outside his own preferences.

And the other, far more unnerving, was that any existence that wasn't coupled with his own he deemed unnecessary and wrong. While you hadn't wanted to assume this of him, a man of great caliber such as himself, to be so envious, his controlling nature that you'd witness first-hand made it hard not to. He was possessive. So much so that you felt he was fighting for your attentiveness as much as his children were.

It was odd, being that you had been hired only to cater to the young ones, that was the deal. Lord Rengoku had made a big fuss about not wanting to even hear a sound out of you during the day, ordering that your only purpose was to keep the boys quiet. Such was an obstacle with two energetic males, but you'd managed nicely. Growing up the oldest of five had educated you on how to properly raise a child. You think the lack interaction was what encouraged him to come out of his shell, not having to deal with the one's he deemed 'annoying.' Perhaps he'd missed the socializing. And look at him now, sober and attentive. He'd even took Kyojuro training the other week when the boy had asked.

But that was only after you'd spent the entire evening tending to the man, serving him food, cleaning his room, and engaging in his small talk. That was his currency, attention for attention. And you had no doubt that if you hadn't given him some form of regard, he would've told his kin to piss off. But you could deal with the exchange, you could deal with caring for him as you did his sons. You'd have to do the same for your husband and children one day anyway, so you didn't mind the practice.

But now, he seemed insatiable. And you didn't look forward to telling him you could no longer live in his estate after the wedding either.

"And what of his nobility?" he grilled.

What of it? - was what you had wanted to say, but you knew better than to give lip to your superior.

"He is a commoner and a merchant. Although, I think he may have an uncle on his mother's side who is a scholar-"

He scoffed and took another drink from his cup. The liquid was dwindling so you refilled it while trying to maintain a fake composure.

"May I ask your interest on the matter, sir?" It was only fair since he'd taken time out of your day only to judge you.

Shinjuro finally looked over at you, his mouth opening to answer.

"I-"

"M-miss (l/n)! Kyojuro scraped his kn-nee!" called a bawling, fickle voice. You whipped over to see a teary-eyed Senjuro pointing at the accused, who was rubbing at the wound and wincing.

"It's not that bad, Sen," assured the older of the two. You quickly sprinted over to take a look at it. Yes, it was just a scratch, but it still needed to be cleaned. The sky was getting dark anyway, and the clothes were surely dried by now.

"It's nearly time for bed anyway boys. Let's get you inside to eat and then a bath, alright?" They both nodded, and you wiped away the tears on Senjuro's cheeks and kissed his forehead.

You didn't see the clench in Shinjuro's jaw. Nor could you imagine his blinding rage, thinking of you tending to any child that was not his own. The cup in his hand shattered.

-

"Aaaaaand done!" you exclaimed, giving Senjuro's head one last shake with the towel, and he squealed. Kyojuro was already dryed and sat on a stool by the tub, still picking at the wrapping around his knee. You gently smacked his hand away and tutted at him.

You groaned and stretched out your exhausted back. "Alright boys, off to bed. If I hear any giggling, there will be no snack time tomorrow," you warned. They both gasped and vowed their good behavior. They'd never acted up before, but a good threat of punishment never hurt.

Now onto your other duties of the night, more laundry. You ambled down the hallway to damn near the opposite side of the estate where you kept the clothing. You had to hide it away in there or the boys would roll in the warm clothes and make a "fuzzy pile." You remembered how furious Shinjuro acted when it first happened, but you knew deep down he thought it was adorable. It was these small moments of humanity that made your efforts feel worth it.

The clothes you'd hung today were still a bit damp but you could hang them tomorrow as well. For now you folded the dried into their sections so you could put them away on the morrow as well. You'd do it now but you didn't wanted to disturb the children. Or Shinjuro.

Now onto the more delicate clothing. These you had to hang more carefully and needed a more tender drying process. You began spreading them out onto the drying rack.

A breeze hit your neck and your hair stuck up. You reached back a hand to soothe the area and your instinctual curiosity got the best of you as you looked back, eyes flying open.

"Lord Rengoku!" You gasped and scrambled back from how close he was. He must've snuck up on you, as you hadn't heard a thing, and you weren't sure how long he'd been standing there, staring at you with that strange look again.

"My apologies, sir. I hadn't heard you come in," you sorried, even though it should have been him apologizing since he was the one who scared you.

His eyes hooded over, and you looked down in submission, seeing how his robe was hanging open at the chest and revealing his fit chest and abdominals. It amazed you how his body managed to stay in such peaked shape with his depressive lifestyle. If he didn't give off such an unpleasant energy, you would've found him quite attractive.

"I require your assistance," he muttered, turning heel and walking out before you could inquire more. You looked hopelessly at the pile of clothes you had left to sort and prayed whatever he needed wouldn't take long. Creased fabric made the boys fussy. By the time you had made it to his room, he was already set down and facing the opened doors to the outside, bottle of liquor in hand. You gave a worried look, hoping for some kind of explanation that wouldn't result in him breaking sobriety.

He glanced back from his view of the night sky and saw your fearful look.

"Relax," he mumbled, "I'm not drinking." You sighed and rubbed your sweaty palms down the front of your yukata. The last thing you wanted to deal with at this time of night was a drunk and angry Shinjuro. He sneered at your naïve relief.

"At least not alone." He conjured up two mugs and set them down beside him. "Sit," he commanded. You bit your tongue and did as he said, taking your place next to him and the cups. He filled each one to the top with a reddish-brown liquid and took one in hand.

"Sir, I don't think this is appropriate, nor should you be doing this right now," you damn near pleaded. Drinking was not something you'd had the opportunity to do in excess before, being burdened with responsibility at all times of the day for as long as you could remember. Nor did you want to test your tolerance in front of your lord.

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, lazy and uncaring as he took a swig. "If you don't drink it I will. Would you rather have that?" The threat in his words was clear, and as obvious as it was that he was pressuring you, your obedience training urged you to listen to your master and play along, but the feeling in your gut said otherwise.

"B-but-"

"You will do as you're told." The finality of his voice made you cringe and obey, picking up the chalice with a trembling hand and bringing it to your quivering lips. You hesitantly tipped it back, letting the wine seep into your mouth. It was bitter yet sweet, the burn immediately hitting your throat and making you sweat. Heat spread down your lungs and pooled in your belly. Before you knew it, half the cup was gone. He finally looked away, appeased with your compliance.

"Tell me about your family." Shinjuro stated, not a worry in his voice that you wouldn't do it when your master had told you to. You were upset that he was right, that you wouldn't dare deny him, upset that he had that control over you.

You cleared your throat and spoke. "W-well, I've talked about them before. My father is a tailor and I have four siblings..." Four right? Yes, four. Why was it getting hard to remember that? "What would y-you like to know?"

He set his drink down in between you and licked his lips. Your eyes followed his tongue.

"You are the eldest, correct?" he asked softly.

You nodded slowly, vision a little shifty.

"So you know how to care for children." It was less a question and more of statement, and you nodded again.

"Well, I wouldn't work here if I didn't," you joked and scrunched your nose in distaste with yourself. Joking bad. Don't joke with your boss. Bad. Stop drinking. Stop drinking. But you didn't. You swallowed the last of the booze and when you put it down, he promptly refilled it back to the top.

You were surprised to hear him give a light chuckle to your witicism and had actually thought you'd imagined it until you saw his shoulders lightly bouncing.

"No, no I suppose you wouldn't. How about infants?"

Another gulp of liquor ran down your throat and you wiped your mouth.

"Yyyesss," you coughed to gather yourself, "I c-can do babies, they'rre easier a-actually." Your words slurred a bit as you spoke, and you could feel your muscles relax. But your slowed brain prevented you from caring too much about your fragile state, and you took another drink. The strong taste it was more subtle now, somewhat pleasant.

"So if you have a newborn, you would be able to nurture it?" He shifted, and you thought he got closer but you weren't sure. You didn't remember where he was before. And why was he talking about you having babies all of a sudden? He was so odd sometimes.

"Y-yeah, but, ha, I'm not gonna have to take care of a baaaby for a loooong time." You stammered out. Shinjuro's smile dropped, and he said nothing. Did you do something wrong? Oh god, it was hard to think.

Another empty cup. Another refill.

But his cup was pretty full. Nearly full, you noticed. In fact, you couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a drink. But then again, your vision was getting pretty blurry. The tips of his blond hair were mixing with the red in a weird orange color that had you nearly giggling. It was hilarious, and you couldn't begin to explain why.

You took a sip and brushed your hair away from your heated face.

"Heyy, Why're you 'nterested 'n b-babies all of a s'dden, anyway?" you said with a teasing smile and leaned toward him, nearly falling. "Are you expecting 'nother?" His gaze drifted off of you from the corner of his eye and back to the deep sky above. And for the first time since you could remember, you saw him finally take a drink of his liquor. Shinjuro said nothing.

You looked away, confused, uneasy, a bit nauseous. Whatever the Lord had given you was far too strong, especially for a beginner such as yourself. Hands pushing weakly on the tatami floor, you attempted to get up.

"'M g-gonnna goo..." A large hand wrapped around your wrist, tight and restricting. Suffocating.

"Stay."

His words echoed in your brain like waves in a seashell, but in no way relaxing. A fear nagged at the back of your mind, beckoning you to disobey and take your leave. But like strings on a puppet, he lured you back down from the few measly inches you had risen, and brought you what seemed to be even closer to him. Was he always this close? No. You were damn near blacked out, but you at least knew that somehow, you'd grown closer.

Shinjuro's breath tickled your face, and you could smell what little alcohol he consumed, deeply contrasting the bottle he'd made you down. Your vision was clouded and blurred, the man before you appearing as a flurry of burning flame, red and yellow. Bloody gold. Your stupid mind pieced together the picture of a bright fire, but not warm or safe. Scorching and dangerous, like the flickers of fire were to swallow you whole and leave nothing but shards of bone and decay. But you were cold, freezing, longing for some form of warmth that would burn away the longing in your chest, your want for something that wasn't so planned and boring in your simply-lead life that you'd come to hate in your drunken state. And for some reason, his proximity was helping you. Was he always so searing? and hot?

You felt it on your hands. You felt it in your lungs. You felt it on your lips. Your lips that you didn't quite remember being devoured by his own hungry mouth as your thoughts failed to make an appearance. Your reaction was torn from you, manifesting into a weak attempt at voicing your bewilderment, only allow his tongue an opening to impale your throat. Tastebuds burned to nothing from the thick poison you'd been coerced into, his flavor was indistinguishable, possibly bearing the memory of what could've very well been ash from his last cigar and the sweetness from the liquor. The short hairs of his scruff scratched at your chin like tree bark.

You felt consumed, a weak prey that could only manage to gnaw at the maw of your predator that was claiming every inch of your throat. Your trembling hands somehow found their way to his scalp as you grasped and pulled at the locks, surprised at their messy softness, and you sighed. It was like you were kissing bare magma.

A liquid knocked at the back of your throat, begging you to let in it, and so you did, forgetting how to keep your throat closed with how much the world was spinning. And as the gulp of mixed saliva dropped down into your stomach, a recognition sparking inside your head that a part of him was now inside you, and you began to wake up.

You hastily pulled away from him, his tongue left hanging lonely and dripping after you'd confiscated your own from it, and you took in deep heaves of air.

You hiccuped, "W-wa-wai-t-"

Shinjuro grabbed at the hinge of your jaw, pinching your burning cheeks together and bringing you back toward him. Firm but not bruising. Possessive.

"Do as I say. You-"

His teeth bared, like he was going to rip you apart.

"You're mine."

You were relieved to finally feel a surge of fear course though your bones, your sobriety perking up and gifting you with that familiar stone-cold clarity that plagued you always. Leave. Leaveleaveleaveleaveleave. But you didn't. And you couldn't tell if it was by your choice or not.

He pulled your pliable form over into his lap, and as you settled, you only just now realized just how much bigger he was compared to you. Bigger, and stronger. And it was up to him whether you were safe or not, because in the end it was Shinjuro's choice. His choice. His choice. His choice. And it was his choice to start kissing you again and roam your body with greedy claws. He seemed to be on you all at once, tongue in your mouth and hands violating your every curve through your dress. Some part of you was embarrassed, but another was grateful for the added heat that accompanied his feverish flesh. You, pitiful you, was a mess, saliva dripping down your neck and hair disheveled. You couldn't control the little noises that escaped you as his palms kneaded at your breasts and tugged down the folds of cloth until your plump bosom pooled over it, exposed.

You were vibrating. Or you think you were. You were moving somehow, back and forth, back and forth. To and fro in his lap. Warmth invaded your belly, but this time it wasn't just from booze or touch, this felt lower, and inside you. And whatever solid bulge you were being rubbed on felt amazing. His lips slipped from your swollen ones, venturing down along your jaw to the slope of your neck. At first it tickled, and your slow muscles twitched at the strange sensation, but then it bloomed into a sweltering pleasure that had you whimpering. The man sucked your pulse into his mouth, tasting your heartbeat and leaving it bruised and raw. Was something so dangerous supposed to feel like this? Was being eaten alive and torn to pieces supposed to make you shudder and whine like a whore? Old maids tales told you it was, but this seemed wrong. Undeserved. On both your parts.

His head was between your breasts now, the heat between your legs continuing to build as he bounced you in his lap like a rag doll and groaned into your flushed skin. You weakly pushed at his face, the pressure amounting to practically nothing as he hadn't moved even an inch. Did it really matter what you had to say?

"Y-yoou c-can't gooo th-therrre - ah!" you cried.

Apparently it didn't as he took your rebellious wrist into his hand and held it away from its distracting post, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. It didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense why something like this felt so good. Despicable, but good. Like you would go to hell for enjoying. Hot and avid and wet. The heat radiated through the rest of your body right through your teat that was being nursed into his awaiting mouth. You mewled and pulled at his locks, unsure if you wanted him away or closer. Oh, how you so wished your mind would just choose one.

Shinjuro pulled off with a pop, pinching at the other bud and panting. "These need milk." Your hips were pulled down harder against his lap, more pressure building against your deprived center. Oh god. Something familiar and tight was collecting in your belly with each rock into his erection that teased your clitoris just right. But just when the pleasure was about to melt your bones, he pulled you off completely.

He set you down onto the floor. Maybe he'd meant to do it gently, but your hobble body made a harsh impact regardless, your head throbbing and aching with the collision. Your writhing was ceased by a strong force against your chest, a hand that held you down as another crept up the skirt of your dress. With one curled digit, your underwear was torn down your slickened thighs. You could feel the fabric cling to your skin as it was taken away, stinking like it was held by glue. You wished it was. Because by then you had grasped what the de-clothing was leading up to and came to the realization that you hadn't meant for it to come this far. But you could turn back now, you could stop this. You just had to - you rolled over and clawed away at the wood - get away.

You crawled towards the open door to the outside, staring longingly at the blurry sky and praying your skirt behind pushed up to your waist was just your imagination.

"N-n-nooo... w-w-we c-cannn't - I, p-please," you garbled with pleading words. Your ears rung when you heard his uncaring grumble.

Two hands wrapped around your ankles dragged you back to the man, the claws then sliding up to lift your hips. There it was. The embarrassment. The recognition that the intimacy of you was on full display in front of a man that aimed to ruin you. And, most shameful of all, was how wet you were. How eager your core had been to be touched and rubbed and played with. And that was what he was doing - playing with it. Two fingers parting your nether lips and petting through your slit in teasing swipes that had you shaking. Shinjuro watched you with hungry eyes as your body keened for him, and he wound messy circles around your bundle of nerves to keep it that way.

Were these your sounds? These wanton whines and cries that echoed in your head? You'd never made these sounds before, not alone. But now it was a symphony of moans that left your babbling lips that drooled onto the tatami floor. You wished his caress would be rougher so it wouldn't feel so good, but his fingers held their feathering touch and motions, pleasant and painfully gentle. The tightness in your core returned, stronger than before and more desperate, and you squirmed to get more petting.

"~~~t."

He said something, but you didn't hear, your head too jumbled up from drunkenness on alcohol and carnal bliss. His fingers worked faster on your sensitive clit and made you gain some semblance of clarity.

"Say it."

Say what? What was he saying...

"Say I own you. Say you're mine. Say it."

A tear fell down you cheek and you bit your tongue. You didn't want to. It wasn't true. His maneuvers around your clit dimmed to a stop and you whined as your peak slipped away yet again.

"Say it," he traced your sopping entrance, "and I'll help you. Say it, woman."

You humped his hand and whimpered. "I-I-I'm... y-yours." You heard him hum in approval behind you, and he picked up his pace around your sex. "What else?" he demanded.

"Y-you... own m-me."

Faster. Faster. Faster. He smiled.

"Good girl. My girl."

You came with a gasp, thighs clamping around his still moving hand. He maintained the precise motions as you rode out your high, more tears dripping down your face. At least your climax gave you a brief moment of peace from all the shame, even as it delved into overstimulation.

Finally he pulled away, his digits drenched in your juices that he quickly lavished with his tongue while you were still recovering. You were tired, and aching from all the moisture you'd lost. It didn't help that the alcohol was starting to wear off, and your oppressive thoughts were coming back. As was your anxieties. But that all came to a halt when there was a shuffle behind you and suddenly a thick rod of flesh slapped against your heat. You weakly writhed again, trying to get away, but he held you still with a hand wrapped into your scalp of (h/c) hair. Your hips swayed as you reached back to pull his hand away, and his cock throbbed between your legs. He tightened his grasp on your locks and gave your head a firm shake.

"Stop," he growled, voice tense and agitated. Your shoulders shook as a sob was wrenched from your body, but you did as your were told and laid back down onto the floor, ass propped up in their air, presented to him. He let go of your hair after a few moments of quiet obedience and pulled away from you, his cock sliding out from your legs and dragging across your clit. You bit your lip to stifle your whine.

You heard a spitting and slapping noise coming from him, likely the result of him pumping himself, and Shinjuro let out a soft groan. A sultry sound you'd never expected to hear from him, and for some hellish reason, it made your insides flutter in emptiness. You wanted to die.

He sighed. "Spread yourself open for me." Your fists clenched and face burned. Your throat made a strangled noise as if to communicate your refusal that you were too afraid to actually voice. He snarled.

"Do it." He was growing tired of your unwillingness to cooperate. Even if you hadn't been intoxicated, he knew you would've made this difficult and dragged it out for longer than it needed to be. Well, longer than this part needed to be. He planned to be on you for the rest of the night and long into tomorrow, after all.

You reached a shaking hand between your legs to pry at your lips, spreading them apart as he requested and revealing your delicate and dripping entrance. Shinjuro cursed lowly and came closer, pressing the thick, leaking head into your opening. Your breath hitched and fears skyrocketed. It was going to hurt, you knew that just from logic itself. Pressing his hips forward, his length slid through your labia and across your clit. Once. Twice. He gave laggard passings between your fingers that allowed you to feel just how massive he was. "Fuck," he cursed, "I love you." Your eyes widened.

And that was all the warning he gave before delving into your walls, fat flesh stretching out your virgin walls with a burning sensation. Your hand fell away from your sex to claw at the floor, scratching and slapping at the wood. It hurt. It burned. You gargled and cried, like you were being strangled to death. The feeling wasn't what was torturing you. It was the fact that he was taking something from you that you couldn't get back.

You hardly noticed when his pelvis met yours when you were howling like a wounded animal, dramatic and loud, guts full beyond belief. Shinjuro carassed a hand down your side and shushed you.

"Hush, the boys... you wouldn't want to wake them would you?" He whispered with sickeningly sweet tone, as if he were genuinely concerned. Liar.

You suddenly stilled and tensed, bile rising in your throat at the thought of them seeing... this. He had the same train of thought and was obviously not worried in the slightest, but he could play the part.

"No, no, they would be scared, right? So keep quiet - for their sake, dear." He leaned over you, his chest pressing over your back, and delved a hand under your bodies to toy with your clit again. And you let him. Because there was just no point delaying this anymore.

You clenched around him with the touchings, small swirls around your bud that made it that much harder to think and pretend it didn't feel amazing. Your cunt was drooling all over him, dripping down his balls and making a mess on the floor. You were a wet little thing, he mused. Wet and fertile, perfect for taking his plentiful seed and baring his children. Shinjuro grimaced at the remembrance of how much of himself had been wasted into his own hand on lonely nights when it could've been savored inside of you, keeping you sated and full and pregnant. But he couldn't be bother with past mistakes right now, not when you were right in front him and ready to be bred. He'd make sure it took, no matter how many times he'd have to ravage you.

Breath was evaded from your lungs as he delivered the first thrust into your tight walls, both of you wincing. He didn't need to tell you to easy up as you forced yourself to relax, more so for your own comfort than his. He gave another. And another. Building up a deep and steady pace that stretched out your gummy walls to his shape. Your face gently rocked into the ground, lips bitten to the point of bleeding from how much you were silencing yourself. You couldn't let him know how good it felt, how pleasing it was being stuffed to the brim. But he already knew with every shallow plunge into your center that made a sopping wet squelch.

And you thought you were warm before, now you were boiling, belly full of a sweltering thickness that pumped in and out of your velvety insides like you were made to take it. Hot veins dragged along your sweet spots, coaxing a choked mewl from your lips, and he took the sound as his cue to pound harder. Oh god. Fuck. You couldn't contain your noises anymore, several whines and moans slipping out and gracing his ears. Shinjuro grunted and leaned off of you, taking your hips into his mitts and slamming you back into his lap. The change in motion allowed him to reach that much deeper, and as you looked down, you swore you saw his cock bulge out from your tummy. He was going to ruin you.

He threw his head back and groaned, voice gravely and deep. "Fuck, you're perfect - shit... can't wait to make you a mother." You could hardly understand him with how fucked out you were becoming, drool pooling down your chin onto the floor and eyes tightly shut.

"Feel that?" he purred, "you belong to me now."

He pressed his palm against your belly, right where his cock was hitting your womb. The pressure was flooding over again, ready to snap and leave you shattered. You couldn't stop tightening around him, trying to get more of his pulsing veins to nudge into your sensitive tissue. He shifted his hips to drive into a sweet spot near your cervix and hammered into it, pounding cries out of your throat.

"Come for me," he commanded and you broke.

You wailed, scrambling on the floor for purchase as the buildup inside of you finally exploded into white-hot bliss. Your vision went completely stark and body limp but shaking. He continued fucking into you, rocking your lax hips back into his own and milking his dick with your fluttering walls. Your body twitched from the oversensitivity of it, shuddering with the forced sensation and nerves damn near hurting. But you knew better than to beg at this point, pleading having done you no good formerly, and let him use your cunt as he wished.

Shinjuro didn't hold himself off, didn't drag out his own finish to draw out another orgasm from you. He didn't want to with how perfectly your hole was fluttering around him, milking his balls for all he was worth. Nor would he need to with how backed up and long-lasting he was. It'd be a miracle if he was at any point not hard around you for next several hours. So why stave off his own release when he could milk every drop into your molten, welcoming pussy?

You were pulled flush into him, the mouth of your heat locked around the base of his swelled and twitching cock. You offhandedly thought that your muscles should've been sore from how arched your backside was into him, but they weren't. Another challenge awaiting tomorrow perhaps.

A torrid thickness spread throughout your nethers, making you jump slightly before melting into it. You mewled as it piled in, collecting into a hot pressure at the mouth of your womb before seeping into it. It only took you a brief moment to realize what it was. Cum. His.

Your body trembled from the overwhelming hotness and he smoothed a hand over your bloating stomach.

"Shhh, take it. Take it all," he crooned.

You babbled and puled as it built and built and built, like there was a dam of his seed spurting into you. You unintentionally, probably instinctually, squeezed around him, drawing more out and he whined and murmured his praise. "Good girl, get as much as you can." You threw your face into your arms and shook.

Finally, the flood seemed to stop, his length quickly hardening once more between your puffy lips. You felt too full, too fattened. You wanted him to pull out so the pressure could be released inside of you and allow you to finally breathe. But instead he began rolling himself right back into your soiled cunt, grunting viciously and holding you in place for the abuse. And you couldn't do a thing to stop him.

It was like you were on the cusp of consciousness and unconsciousness. Sanity and insanity. No feeling existed other than that of his thick cock thrusting inside of you, occasionally stilling to release a hot and heavy load into your womb that left you floundering. And it continued that way, all through the night, perhaps the day too, you couldn't recall. On top, on bottom, on your side, on the floor, on the bed, on the dresser, inside of you, all inside of you, never pulling out for more than a few seconds and only to change your position. And at some point, your endurance finally caved in, giving in to asleep.

Waking up, you felt groggy, head pounding and body so sore and bloated that you felt you couldn't even move a muscle. The chirping of birds and whisks of wind stirred you from your uneasy rest, a nervousness present in your chest with no clue as to what happened the night before. Sweat was collected in a cold sheen over your aching flesh from under the covers and made them cling to your skin. Too hot. Too bright. You grumbled with fluttering eyes from the light that was beginning to leak into the room, and you peeled the blankets off, bracing yourself to get up. Your heart stopped and dropped into your stomach when you felt something large wedged inside of you. And everything came flooding back.

You froze, only now aware of the person behind you and the appendage keeping you connected. You couldn't stop your leaf-like shaking, and prayed it wouldn't wake him. You didn't want to deal with this, you just wanted to get up and leave and scrub at your skin until you were nothing but bone and marrow. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gingerly tried to pull yourself away, cringing at the feeling of his member sliding out of your bruised walls.

"Mmmm... don't."

All you could do was yelp and choke when you were forced back down onto his prick, the head slamming back into your guts. Shinjuro took a deep breathe and mumbled, tucking your head under his chin and hugging your back into his chest. He twitched inside of you, and you felt you were going to break down at any moment.

"Please," you whispered with a cracked voice, "I-I want to b-go- clean." Be clean, is what you had wanted to say. He muttered something under his breath, 'just go back t' bed' or something like that, but you had already made up your mind. You sniffled, the tears prickling your eyes beginning to drip down your cheeks, and a sob managed to escape your lungs. He groaned behind you annoyed and shuffled. "Fucking hell," he cursed and yanked out of you in one swift motion. Your ears rung from the wet pop it made, and you gasped as the pressure locked inside of you finally pooled out down your legs and onto the sheets. His sinuous arms released their hold around you and you damn near booked it to the washroom that was connected to his bedroom, your limp thankfully masking how eager you were to get away. Cleancleancleancleancleancleanclean

You didn't care that the water was ice cold nor did you take the time to heat it, in fact, you welcomed the freezing balm on your burnt flesh and scrubbed as hard as you could at the caked whiteness.

Hearing the door open stopped you.

"Tch, you didn't - here." He lit up the firewood under the tub, letting the fire sizzle and grow. You did turn to him, didn't look at him. You just starred down at your lap, hoping he'd just leave. Hoping you'd vanish from existence.

Shinjuro knew he should do the gentlemanly thing and at least help you clean up, give you aftercare and the such. He worked himself so hard breeding you last night that he'd let it slip his mind then. No, he was going to be a good husband this time around. A perfect one. And that started with mending the damage. He lifted you up under your arms and set you down into the waters, climbing in after you and pulling you into his lap. You breathed not once.

He softly kneaded your slicked skin, tutting when he'd gotten to the patches between your legs that you'd rubbed raw from scraping. How could you clean a brat so well but not yourself? And your silence was killing him. More so than your usual chattiness, even.

"What?" he muttered as he wiped at the back of your thighs. Teary droplets hit the water.

"I want to go home."

He cocked an eyebrow but continued cleaning.

"You want to go home?" he repeated in a condescending tone. You didn't answer, so he continued.

"This is your home. So I don't know what you mean."

Your shoulders shook. "No," you croaked, "I want to l-leave. I-I w-want to go b-back-"

This time he chuckled and stopped scrubbing, pulling you back down to sit down on him.

"To your fiancé?" He mocked. You whimpered and he shook his head with a smirk.

"You know you can't go back there right?" Your eyes widened, confusion riddled over your features, along with shock. He laughed again.

"How dishonorable it would be - you, an unmarried woman, becoming pregnant by another man. While having an awaiting suitor, no less. That would be the talk of your little town, would it not?

Your face paled. You weren't preg... you looked down between your legs, growing nauseous at the remembrance of your former filth. Nor were you on any contraceptives. Why would you be? You weren't married yet and even then, children would've been the priority. And your tender breasts and aching uterus told you it was your fertile week. The man seemed to revel in your grief.

"No, you're staying here. You will call off that damned engagement, become my wife and bear my children. That is your only option - unless of course you'd enjoy the reputation of a common whore."

Your head was still spinning as he set you on the edge of the bath and pried you legs apart.

There's no going back. You're stuck here.

He ducked his head down and his teeth nipped up your thighs, slow and teasing.

No one would believe you. Not the word of a peasant woman over a noble samurai.

He edged closer to your center, bitings turned to kissing and licks as he sucked marks into your plushness.

The wedding was - would have been - four months from now. You would have been showing by then. Nor could the baby be passed off as your fiancé's with such unique physical traits - blond hair and gold eyes.

His tongue swiped up your slit, swirling around your clit and bringing it into his mouth in a harsh suck. You gasped and tipped your head back, unprepared for the stimulation.

He was right. This was your only option. It was him or a life of rumors and lies. It was just him. Him and this life that he would now dictate and control. Just him.

Because you were his. And he owned you.

[calmingmelody96]

Matt Smith and Natalie Dormer spicy time in “Patient Zero”

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

I've been thinking... should I post full smut of chapter 5 - where Daemon claims his unwilling niece for the very first time..? Or is it not necessary at this point? Since they had more smut scenes and flashbacks from that night. What do you think...🤔

[calmingmelody96]

Results are ready! My next fanfic will be about Aemond and Strong Niece. 🥰

If you have any ideas, requests or anything you'd like to see in this fanfic, then please let me know as soon as you can before I start writing and I promise to take it into the consideration! 😊

People who wanted to read Robb Stark and Lannister Reader fanfic - please don't be disappointed, because I can fit that one into a oneshot. If you'd like that as a oneshot, then just let me know, otherwise you'd have to wait until I am done with my current fic and then the Aemond one. It might take long.

And Matt Smith one - well, this one I cannot fit into a oneshot unfortunately. Therefore people who wanted to read that one will have to wait. I'm sorry about that. 😞😔

Wishing you all a wonderful week! ❣️💕🌺

New Fiction ideas

I have a question to ask. After finishing my current fic (The Dragon's Niece - Daemon Targaryen and niece reader) I want to start writing a new one and I have 3 different ideas. However I can't seem to decide which one... Therefore I need your help. 🤗

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 19 - The Dragon's Regret

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, kidnapping, holding captive, dirty talk, possessiveness

Masterlist

The fire crackled low in Daemon’s solar, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. He stood by the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, as the young maid was ushered in. Thalia curtsied deeply, eyes lowered.

He didn’t turn to face her right away.

“So. It was you.”

His voice was calm and cold, slicing through the quiet like a drawn blade.

“The moon tea. You brought it to me.”

Thalia lifted her chin only slightly, her voice steady. “Yes, my prince. I thought you should know… I only wish to serve your house faithfully.”

Daemon turned then, his expression unreadable. There was no amusement in his eyes now, only weariness.

“And serve, you shall.”

He walked toward her, slowly, and dropped a small velvet pouch into her hand.

“A reward. For your loyalty.”

Her fingers curled around the pouch, lips parting in surprise.

“From now on,” he said, “you will serve in my wife’s chambers. Quietly. Without drawing suspicion. Her previous maid’s loyalties wavered. I trust yours won’t.”

Thalia's breath hitched in her throat as he stepped closer, his tone sharpening.

“Make her believe you are on her side. Tend to her gowns. Prepare her favorite meals. Braid her hair. Watch everything. Hear everything. And report to me directly.”

Thalia swallowed, then nodded.

“Yes, my prince.”

He met her gaze.

“You did well, Thalia. I don’t like being lied to. Especially by my wife.”

“I understand, of course” she said softly.

“Keep close to her,” Daemon went on, gaze turning hard. “If she sends for tea again... I want to know before the cup touches her lips.”

Thalia nodded. “I’ll keep watching.”

He gave a short nod. “Good. You may go.”

The chamber was silent but for the occasional crackle of the hearth. Maeliora sat curled on the velvet-cushioned window seat, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting on them as she gazed out into the mist-veiled sky above the Dragonmont. Her eyes were dry, but her heart beat heavy with confusion, sorrow, and the ache of something she couldn’t name.

Daemon had not returned ever since. The door had closed behind him with finality, and the silence that followed had grown louder by the hour.

She touched her throat absently, remembering his voice... not the sharp, commanding tone of earlier, but the gentler one that used to be reserved just for her.

“You’re so beautiful, sweet girl,” he had once whispered when he took her for the very first time, all those years ago, brushing her hair away from her face as she lay trembling in his arms. “So brave. So obedient. You did well, Melly... I’m proud of you, little one.”

The memory came unbidden… warm and delicate, like silk brushing against her skin. She had been nervous that first time, not of him, never of him, but of the unknown, of herself. Afraid of what was right and what was forbidden, of the laws of the realm, of faith, of her father’s judgment… of disappointing him. But Daemon had guided her with such tenderness. Every touch was reverent. Every kiss a quiet promise meant to soothe.

He had stroked her hair as she trembled beneath him, praising her softly. Afterwards, he hadn’t just turned away. He had fetched a cloth and cleaned her with care, then tucked her against him, arm wrapped around her shoulders, lips brushing her ear.

“You’re mine now, sweetling. You’ve made me the happiest man in the realm.”

That night, she had fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, wrapped in warmth and safety. If only she could have stayed in that moment forever. If only morning had never come, if only that foolish maid hadn’t burst into her chambers and found her cradled in her uncle’s arms. If only her father hadn’t found out… hadn’t exiled him. If only she hadn’t been forced to marry Gwayne Hightower. She might have had Daemon’s warmth forever.

And now?

Now the warmth was gone.

She curled tighter against herself, unable to stop the thoughts from flooding her mind. Is it my fault? she wondered bitterly. Did I drive him to this?

Daemon's anger had scorched her. His words still echoed in her ears. Not the soft ones, not the ones she cherished... but cold commands, sharp reprimands, and looks that held judgment instead of adoration.

She hated it when he was angry with her. Hated how distant he became, how his eyes, once filled with such pride, now looked at her like a misbehaving child.

But worse than his anger was the absence of the man who once cradled her so tenderly. She missed him — her uncle, her husband, her protector, the man who had once chosen her above all others and sworn to make her feel loved.

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the knot forming in her throat. She couldn’t let herself cry. Not now. Not when she had to appear strong.

Still, a whisper in the back of her mind asked, What if I’ve lost him? What if his lips never call me ‘sweetling’ again?

The ache settled low and deep, familiar now. She closed her eyes and leaned against the window stone, letting the quiet suffocate her guilt. Outside, the sea roared faintly against Dragonstone’s cliffs, but inside her chambers, the silence was too loud.

The door creaked open.

She turned slightly, expecting Lyra’s soft shuffle and mumbled apologies. But it wasn’t Lyra who entered.

A girl stepped in — young, with dark curls, a calm expression on her face. She curtsied low and smoothly.

“Princess,” the girl said, voice measured. “Prince Daemon has asked that I be added to your service. I’m Thalia.”

Maeliora blinked, thrown off. “Where is Lyra?”

There was a pause. A small one.

“Reassigned, my Princess,” Thalia said gently. “His Highness was… displeased.”

Maeliora’s stomach twisted. So he had found out that Lyra was the one that helped her. And acted accordingly.

“Displeased,” she echoed quietly.

Thalia nodded once. “I will try my best to fill her space for you, Princess. I’ve worked in the kitchens, mostly, but I’ve tended to chambers before.” Thalia replied, her tone gentle. “Who knows, you might find me helpful, Princess. I am quiet and hardworking. I promise I won't disappoint you.”

“Very well,” Maeliora said, sitting straighter. “You may begin.”

Thalia stepped smoothly into place, eyes already noting where hairbrushes were laid, where linens had been folded. Her presence was soft-footed, efficient.

“Would you like your hair brushed, Princess?” she asked, her voice pleasant. “Or shall I prepare something for your bath?”

Maeliora didn’t answer at first. Her gaze lingered on the silver brush Lyra used to wield every evening. She missed her. But she also knew better than to protest.

“Brush it,” she said finally.

As Thalia came behind her and began to untangle the strands with practiced hands, Maeliora stared into the mirror, into her own eyes.

He replaced her, she thought. Just like that.

The air in the Red Keep’s solar was thick with incense and dust motes. King Viserys sat slouched upon a cushioned chair, his back aching from the strain of age and throne. He held the parchment in a trembling hand, his expression unreadable as he read it for his ever so loyal Hand — Otto Hightower.

To Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone,

Your sudden and unannounced union with Princess Maeliora has reached my ears, and though I have long grown used to your defiance, this matter touches the throne more deeply than you realize — unlike your previous affairs, which did not involve a clandestine ceremony and your self-serving whims.

The realm is watching us, Daemon. I urge you to return to King’s Landing, with your wife and son, so that this union may be properly recognized and addressed. I would have words with both of you.

King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

He sealed the scroll with wax and pressed the dragon stamp deep into its center. Then, he handed it to the steward without looking up.

Otto stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, watching the king carefully.

“When Daemon reads this,” Viserys said softly, “he will do the opposite of what I ask.”

Otto spoke carefully, “Shall we prepare for their arrival regardless?”

Viserys gave him a sidelong glance. “Prepare? No. Wait.”

The heavy door opened with a low groan, stirring the quiet like a blade through silk.

Maeliora looked up from the chaise where she sat curled in silence, wrapped in a deep plum shawl. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the carved stone walls. Her gaze flicked to the doorway — Daemon.

He entered without a word, his violet gaze sharp but unreadable as it swept over the room. He didn't stop to greet her. Instead, he unbuckled his sword belt with a practiced flick and tossed it onto the chair beside the bed. His silence was heavier than steel.

“Uncle,” she said softly, testing the water.

He said nothing, just shrugged off his black cloak and began unfastening the silver clasps of his doublet. His face was hard, his mouth drawn in a line she knew too well. Not cold, not cruel, but guarded. Wounded pride wrapped in armor.

She stood, hesitantly.

“I... wasn’t sure if you would come,” she offered, voice low.

“I live here,” he said flatly, not looking at her.

She tried again, voice light. “I can help you with that—”

“No need. I’ll manage.” he cut in, sharp and dismissive.

Maeliora shifted in her place, fingers brushing against the embroidered edge of her sleeve. She hated the silence. It coiled around them like smoke.

After a beat, she offered, “Do you want me to braid your hair before bed? It will tangle otherwise.”

He paused mid-motion. A long, heavy pause.

“No. Leave it.” he said at last.

Still, she approached him slowly, carefully, as he sat at the edge of the bed, his back to her, pulling off his boots. She didn’t touch him, not yet. Just stood beside him in the quiet.

“You’re still angry with me,” she said softly.

“I am,” he replied without looking at her.

A long pause.

She stepped a little closer, voice soft. “Are you going to keep punishing me in silence?”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

She stepped behind him, her hand hovering before settling lightly on his shoulder.

“Uncle please... I was scared. Angry. Lost,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Then you should have come to me,” he said, meeting her gaze over his shoulder. “Not lied. Not gone behind my back like some petty court girl playing at rebellion.”

That struck deeper than she expected. Her lip trembled before she bit it back.

“I never meant to lie. I regret it now. But I couldn't just forgive you. Couldn't let go of my grudge... I wanted to hurt you. To cause you pain. To make you regret ever abandoning me and Daeron back then.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.

“I did not leave you by choice. You were there, in that damned throne room when your father exiled me. I was prepared to wed you. I fought for it, fought for you... I tried everything to make it happen,” he said after a moment, “But I came back for you. Came back to claim what was mine. Did I hold grudges against you for marrying my enemy, or hiding my son from me, sweetling?”

Her throat tightened. Tears shimmered behind her lashes.

“I miss you, Uncle… I miss how you used to be with me. All these years, every time I looked at Daeron’s face, I saw you. I never stopped thinking of you.” she swallowed, her voice trembling, “I hate it when you're angry with me, please don't be angry with me anymore.”

He was quiet for a beat, then nodded once, just barely.

“Me too, sweet girl. When I was bleeding in the Stepstones, it was the thought of you that kept me going.” he said. “But no more secrets. No more moon tea. No more defiance. I’m going to take care of you and you’re going to let me.”

She nodded, voice barely audible. “I promise.”

Another long pause.

He stood slowly, stepping closer. For a heartbeat, he just looked at her. Then his hand reached up, fingers brushing a tear from her cheek.

“Come here,” he murmured.

She stepped into his arms, burying her face against his chest. He held her, firm and warm, his chin resting atop her head.

They stood like that for a long moment, letting the fire warm what cold words had strained.

At last, he pulled back slightly, eyes on hers.

“Let us get some rest now,” he said quietly. “We'll talk more tomorrow.”

She slid beneath the covers beside him, the space between them once heavy with unspoken words now softening, their bodies drawn together by the quiet aftermath of the storm. As they lay there, side by side, the silence between them filled with a gentle knowing, their closeness needing no words, only the steady rhythm of shared breath.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012, @aleemendoza2425-blog

[calmingmelody96]

New Fiction ideas

I have a question to ask. After finishing my current fic (The Dragon's Niece - Daemon Targaryen and niece reader) I want to start writing a new one and I have 3 different ideas. However I can't seem to decide which one... Therefore I need your help. 🤗