#daemon targaryen fan fiction

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Eyes Black Like an Animal

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, smut, choking, degradation, rough sex. Word count: ~1.6k

Summary: When Daemon returns covered in blood from his duties as Commander of the City Watch, his wife requests that he uses her to ease his anger. Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The steam from the bath she has had the chambermaid prepare curls upwards from the water, dampening the bare skin of her neck as she leans over it to pour in the scented oils, the precise ones she knows Daemon likes.

This is their nightly routine. He will be back from his duties as commander of the City Watch soon and, ever the dutiful wife, she always has a bath awaiting him, so that he can wash away the grime of the city.

The heavy wood of the door to their chambers slams loudly against the stone wall, the noise echoing off of the vaulted ceilings, causing her to startle. Her head snaps up, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of her husband.

He stalks through their apartments, his expression a glower, ichor splattered across his face. His hands are bloodied and there is a darkened stain across the breastplate of his armour. His golden cloak seems to be the only thing that has escaped the gore that decorates him.

Rushing to him, she takes his face in her hands, only to be gently pushed away as quickly as she touches him.

“Leave me,” he says sullenly, unclasping Dark Sister from his sword belt and leaning it against the wall.

“You are hurt,” she protests as her arms drop slowly back to her sides, her brow furrowing in concern.

“It is not my blood,” he snaps, dropping his helmet down onto the settee with a clatter, before striding over to the bathtub and rinsing his hands and face.

She watches the blood float through the water like tendrils of silk, her mind racing with thoughts of the terrible fate someone has likely met at the hands of her husband this evening. When Daemon straightens again his face is clean, but his dark and angry demeanour remains.

“What happened?” She asks gently, eager to reach for him but knowing her touch is the very last thing he wants when he is in this mood.

“I executed justice,” he tells her, drying his face and hands, “but that is not the problem. My brother gave me an army of two thousand men to command, yet his cunt of a Hand feels it is his right to dictate the punishments I see fit to serve.”

There it is; Otto. Daemon’s rivalry with the Hand of the King had been a bitter one ever since Otto had convinced Viserys to remove Daemon from office when he was Master of Coin, and again when he was appointed as Master of Laws.

Daemon has flourished in his new position as commander of the City Watch since being awarded it, yet he is at constant odds with Otto regarding the harsh punishments he exacts on the criminals of King’s Landing.

“He had the audacity to compare me to Maegor the Cruel,” he continues, and she can see the anger within him rising once more as his gaze darkens and his nostrils flare.

She takes a tentative step forward, eager to calm him down, not wanting him to ruin their evening with his foul temper. “My love, you know his words are untrue. Pay him no mind and allow me to help you out of your armour.”

He shakes his head, turning away from her. “You are better off leaving me alone tonight. I have no kindness to offer you.”

Taking another step towards him, she speaks quietly. “What if it is not your kindness that I seek?”

His head lifts, half looking over his shoulder at her as his eyebrow raises in curiosity. “And what is it you do seek?”

She swallows thickly, her pulse racing with a mixture of fear and excitement. “I want your anger, your frustration, all of it. Take it out on me.”

Daemon turns fully, closing the gap between them slowly, a predatory glint in his eye as he looks down at her, leaning in so close that his nose brushes against hers. “Are you fully aware of what it is that you are asking for?” He whispers, his breath fanning hotly against her face.

Her core throbs in anticipation, thoughts of how roughly Daemon manhandles her in the throes of passion swirl in her mind, making her feel lightheaded with lust. “Yes,” is all she is able to utter.

“Very well then.” His hand reaches around the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging gently so that she is forced to meet his eyes. “And what is it you say should you wish to stop?”

“K–kelītīs,” she stammers, arousal making it feel as though there is fire in her veins.

“Good girl.” He gives her hair another gentle tug, before grasping the back of her neck and pushing her towards the bed. “Lay down. On your back.”

She does exactly as she is told, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the accelerated breaths of her excitement.

Daemon grabs hold of her by the ankles dragging her until her backside just barely rests on the edge of the mattress. Still fully clad in his armour and golden cloak, he reaches for the dagger that remains sheathed upon his sword belt. Her breath hitches as he withdraws it, a shiver running through her body, whether it is from fright or anticipation she is unsure. The Valyrian steel shines in the dull light of the bedchamber and when he brings it down upon the neckline of her nightgown it moves through the material like fingers through spiderwebs.

The dagger rattles with a metallic clink against the flagstone floor as Daemon drops it, pulling open the now two-slashed halves of her cotton shift to reveal her nakedness. A low noise of approval rumbles in his throat, the sound shooting straight between her thighs as she feels wetness gather there.

Daemon’s pupils are blown wide with lust, in the low lighting they appear almost black as he stares hungrily down at her. He leans over her, the coldness of his armour against her bare skin making her gasp. Her nipples pebble at the chilly sensation and, as though fully in tune with her body’s response to him, two of Daemon’s calloused fingers tweak harshly at one of them. It is a pleasurable hurt, one that makes her mewl piteously and arch against him.

“Wanton little thing,” Daemon rasps, “I bet you’re wet already.”

His other hand finds its way between her legs, cupping roughly at her mound before his digits spread through the slickness of her folds. Her hips buck, chasing his touch until he swats between her legs, causing her to yelp, the sensation sending waves of warmth throughout her lower belly.

“Don’t be greedy,” he hisses, pulling away to unfasten his trousers and push down his breeches, freeing his erection. He runs his hand up and down the length of it, eyeing her with an animalistic hunger, the slightest of smirks tugging at his lips as she instinctively parts her legs wider for him.

As he guides himself to her entrance she barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing forcefully inside, pushing apart her inner walls and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“Fucking take it!” He spits out, wrapping a hand around her throat, while the other grasps her hip, tugging her violently against him to meet each of his hard thrusts.

She is struck by the imbalance of power; she is bare beneath him, utterly vulnerable, while Daemon remains not just fully clothed, but clad in armour, free to do as he pleases to her. She clenches at the idea, causing him to grunt.

“Such a slut,” he pants, the smack of his thighs against hers becoming more insistent as he quickens his pace, his fingers applying more pressure to the sides of her throat.

She feels lightheaded, the only thing that seems as though it is stopping her from floating away entirely are the harsh, sharp thrusts that meet the end of her, causing her to wail, tears forming in her eyes, before trickling down her cheeks.

As Daemon’s hips begins to falter in their movements, the hand grasping her hip snakes between their bodies, his fingers expertly circling her pearl, causing heat to lick at her lower spine. He presses down more firmly, making faster, tighter movements against her bud and she jolts, sudden warmth crashing over her in waves as she cries out, tightening around him.

With a groan, he stills, leaning over her, pulsating as he spills deep inside of her. For a few moments he does not move, simply hovering over her, careful not to crush her with the weight of his armour.

She feels boneless, weightless, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and drift into a peaceful, satisfied sleep. But that is not what Daemon has in mind.

As his breathing slows, he lifts himself to look at her, tenderly gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face towards him so that he can take in the sight of her tear stained cheeks, glassy eyes, and parted lips. The softness is a dissonant juxtaposition from the brutality he displayed just moments ago.

For the first time that evening, his lips find hers and he kisses her, slowly and sensually. She sighs happily into it, enjoying his closeness.

“Thank you”, he murmurs when he eventually pulls away. “Allow me to remove my armour and I will have another bath drawn. This evening we shall bathe together.”

As inviting as sleep seems at this moment, she knows that the offer from her husband is far more appealing.

[rax-writes]

↬ desperation

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ !! Smut, afab!reader, p in v sex, oral (f!receiving), not proofread, whole lotta breeding kink because my girlie @drizztdohurtin needed a fix

Upon deciding to turn in for the night, you only managed to remove one singular piece of jewelry before your husband's hands were on your hips, and his lips were on your neck, trailing desperate kisses along the curve of it.

"Hello to you, too," you jested, only earning a hum in response. It seemed Daemon's focus lay outside of pleasantries. 

Unsurprising.

Daemon made quick work of your dress, and the moment he got to your thin linen shift, he was ripping it in two, wrenching it apart at the front and earning a small gasp from you.

"Gods, what's gotten into you today?" you inquired, although your voice held no agitation or malice.

"A burning desire for my beautiful wife. What else?" Daemon replied simply, groaning softly as he cupped your breasts in both of his hands, massaging them and leaving more kisses upon your neck and shoulder. Moments later, he pressed a kiss to the shell of your ear before earnestly whispering, "I need you, ābrazȳrys. You'll let me have you, won't you, ñuha jorrāeliarzy? I'll make it good for you, you know I will, my love...."

As he whispered these promises to you, one hand trailed down to your still-clothed sex, his middle finger rubbing you through the ever-dampening fabric. 

Somehow, you managed to breathe out "Yes," and that was all it took for Daemon to hoist you into his arms and carry you to the bed. He all but threw you upon the mattress, and he hastily removed your underwear, throwing it so harshly that you'd think the garment itself had wronged him in some way. 

Daemon dove between your thighs then, throwing them on his shoulders in a hurried manner, as though he couldn't get his mouth to your cunt fast enough. It was immediately clear that he did not intend to take his time tasting you as he normally would, but that did not mean it was unenjoyable. No, Daemon knew precisely how to get you off as quickly as possible, and he accomplished that goal in record time, moaning against you as his hot, desperate tongue hastily lapped up the juices that spilled from you. 

You had half a mind to wonder if there was some sort of time crunch you were unaware of, as you watched him rip off his own clothing through half-lidded, hazy eyes. Once he was bare, Daemon met your gaze, and he had this... almost *feral* look in his eyes, as though he would either die or kill someone if he didn't bury himself inside you this very instant. 

You had seen that look before. You knew what he was desperate for – what he was desperate to do. 

Before you could address it, he was caging you with his arms and his body, moving your legs to his shoulders as he situated his knees on either side of your waist, already ensuring that he would reach as deep inside of you as possible, before the act had even begun. His eyes closed for a moment, and he exhaled very slowly, as he rubbed his cock against your wet warmth, before notching the head of it against your still-quivering cunt. He glanced at you, waiting for either confirmation or denial, and as soon as he saw your small nod, he filled you to the hilt in one swift thrust.

Daemon was not a meekly-endowed man, and the sudden sizable intrusion stole the air from your lungs. He usually rocked himself into you slowly, letting you adjust to his size before continuing. Even after countless experiences with bedding him, it was still a lot. It burned – just enough to feel positively fucking glorious. The gasp you'd let out faded to a moan, and Daemon knew that was a sufficient cue for him to continue, and he began a brutal pace. 

Finally, he revealed the truth you'd already surmised, cradling your face a little while asking, "Issa dōna ābrazȳrys... will you give me another? Another child. I've spent all day picturing you with a rounded belly and swollen tits, and it's driven me to madness, my love. I need it. I need to see you so beautiful and so fucking full of me again. Please, ābrazȳrys, let me.... Let me fuck another babe into you...."

As though to sweeten the offer, he stopped cradling your face to reach down and begin rubbing your clit. Your ability to respond was cut off with another moan, and Daemon added another "Please." The way he wasn't quite begging, but still making it obvious that he would only do it if you were agreeable to it.... That had you throbbing around him. The mere notion that this man, this Rogue Prince that so many fear, is seeking your approval for finishing inside of you and giving you another child, for no other reason than he's desperate to see the way you look while carrying them. It was dizzying.

"Yes," you breathed, and Daemon's eyes met yours, an unmistakable glimmer of excitement in them. "Yes, my love. Give me another baby. Let everyone who looks at my rounded belly know that I belong to you, and you to me." 

Daemon practically growled upon hearing your words, and removed his hand from your clit to move both hands behind the base of your head and grab two fistfuls of your hair in a tight grip, pounding into you with a newfound vigor. It didn't take him long to finish inside of you, the sensation and the positively feral look upon his face – the slight snarl of his upper lip, the way his teeth were clenched, the sheen of sweat on his brow – it all sent you hurtling over the edge as well, milking him until he had nothing left to give, his seed so abundant that it was spilling out of you as he continued to fuck the rest deeper, harder, desperate to ensure his seed takes hold within your womb. 

[miaisocool]

Succession in the city

Daemon Targaryen Business man! × College student reader!

Summary: You’re a college student working on the project for your business/finance class which was last minute until a random man comes up to you saying he could guide you in the world of business. Will you ever be able to keep up with the frantic pace of your potential marketing career?

chapter one: | chapter two: Echoes of silence

A NOTE!: this will have multiple chapters soon.

As you step out of the Uber that you had ordered an hour ago, you feel the crisp, cool air of the Los Angeles night settling on your face your clothes still warm from the air of the car. You take a deep breathe taking in the the faint aroma of coffee beans and pine scent coming from the coffee shop feeling a slight chill seep into your bones as you still were getting used to the life of living in Los Angeles it was all new to you, you only had moved here to pursue a career in finances it wasn't all that different from New York it still had the same aura, the aura of success. People wearing expensive suits and mostly designer brands that you weren't used to as you were still trying to achieve that level of succession, you were trying to relax after the stressful moments before. The car had been delayed due to traffic, which had only added to your stress and made you more impatient. You can hear the sounds of horns honking, people muttering, and shoes clacking against the pavement as the wind blew past you it complimented the strong smell still coming from the coffee shop the uber had dropped you off at. You decided it was a good environment for you to work on your marketing project for it was a group of four people each but out of the four, you were the one putting in the most effort since you were committed to finding a spot in the richness of just having luxury in your life like everyone else.. or even just a career, something.. anything! to make a living and be wealthy. Thats the only reason you had put your mind to this to this marketing project more than anybody else, your professor assigned it to you knowing you had the effort but not the time. He challenged you with projects like these as he had this vision of what you were bound to be after college. A successful business woman..

A successful business woman

A successful business woman

Were you really bound to be a successful business woman or was it the pressure you felt to not just succeed but do something useful with your life and try to live up to not only society's but also your family's and professors expectations and not end up living a mediocre life? Your mind boggled with the future as you always lived up to the quote of "living life to the fullest" but ever since you left the carelessness mindset life in new york to pursue going to UCLA you've been putting more effort into school than you had ever did in your 20 years of living.. you felt like it was your duty to make something of yourself. Despite your doubts.

The next few years were going to be crucial in shaping your future, and you were determined to make every moment count.

You enter the coffee shop as you scanned for a place to sit most of the tables were occupied and the ones in the back were mostly empty the smell of baked pastries filling your sense of smell as you looked around the room noticing the way the coffee shop was set up with coffee machines, water glass dispensers, and a bakery case with curved glass displaying the seasonal foods for the winter as you scanned the room for a place to sit you see a table near the bathroom that looked vacant so you walked towards to it with your heels clacking against the wooden floor, the dim light complimenting the vibrant and colorful decorations that were on the wall the playlist of music and chatter in the background complimented the comforting vibe the coffee shop had. As you took a seat and placed your bag on the chair beside you, and the weight lifted off your shoulders as you let out a sigh of relief. You were here to focus on your work and the calming atmosphere made it easier to focus, you insert your headphones as you turn on your phone and play some music from your normal playlist you've had ever since you started college slowly fading out the noise of people chattering and the music coming from the speakers of the shop. You reach for your bag slowly pulling out your computer which always felt unusually heavy. With a deep breath, you start the computer, holding your breath as you wait for it to boot up. Finally, you see the home screen, and with a sigh of relief,  you click on your notepad writing down ideas for what your marketing project should be about with each key you hit effortlessly with your fingers you slowly sink into a zone of satisfaction and comfort feeling full of focus as if the people in the coffee shop fade away and you were the only one there.....

Half a hour of nothing but faded music and keys being pressed passes by and you slowly start to tense up not feeling as confident as you did when you first took a step into the coffee shop slowly rubbing your fingers against the temples of your forehead and letting out a heavy sigh as you looked up into the atmosphere there was still people sipping on coffee, conversing, working on papers or just relaxing you envied how calm they looked as your work had started to tense you up. Slowly your nerves kick in as a sense of doubt starts to enter your mind as you work on the project. A knot in your throat tangling up the words you wanted to put into your project and your palms start to sweat

A tall lean man dressed in a clean and expensive looking suit that defined his toned build and his sharp bone structure. The suit was made of black satin fabric, and was tailored to fit the mans toned frame perfectly, It had a sleek and modern style look to it which made him stand out from the other business men that had approached you during your time in Los Angeles you always couldn't help but ignore or either act interested in whatever business topic they talked to you about as they felt like the business industry was mostly dominated by men. Whenever conversing with them all you could do was nod your head and agree with anything they said even though your mind was blank and filled with thoughts of just wanting to leave the conversation with no judgement and fear Although, you couldn't do that your curiosity was still peaked by people who ran in the business field and you felt as if listening to them talk would benefit you as a business student but it didn't and it never will. The man stood tall as he towered over you, His facial features were sharp and strong his a jaw that looked like it was carved from marble a aquiline nose... and piercing emerald green eyes were what stood out most about him which was what first caught your attention before his actual approach to you did. His nose was strong and prominent, with a slight upturn at the end. Each strand of his brown hair is perfectly styled, with not a single strand out of place which was what brought out something about him. The man's presence was commanding. He radiated a sense of professionalism and efficiency that seemed to surround him like a mantle. His body language was precise and controlled, as if he knew exactly what he was doing at all times his presence just blocked out everyone in the coffee shop from your mind

You finally glance into his eyes that seemed like they were piercing into your soul as if you were being torn up and shredded to pieces by his presence his gaze felt like he could already see every thought or secret that you kept to yourself You feel vulnerable and exposed in a way that makes you feel naked. Yet, despite the discomfort, you also feel drawn to him, as if there's something about his presence that speaks to you. You take a deep breath and try to steel yourself for what you're about to say. The man's piercing gaze is almost too much to bear, but you force yourself to push through it.

You can feel his eyes locked on you, watching every move you make, and you can't help but feel vulnerable and exposed. Despite the nerves, you manage to push through, and finally get your question out.

"Do you need anything?"

Your question comes out in a bit of a weak, anxious, whisper you still felt vulnerable under his gaze as you anticipated for his reply The man reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a small, glossy card that shines in the light from the coffee shop's window. "Here," he says, passing it to you. The card is perfectly folded and crisp, not a crease or wrinkle to be seen. As you take the card in your hand, you can feel an almost electric energy coming off of it, as if it were more than just a simple piece of paper. You look at it closely, seeing the man's name and information printed on the front which says

DAEMON TARGARYEN

TARGARYEN LAW AND ASSOCIATES - BUSINESS LAW

As you read the card you looked gawked back into the mans green emerald piercing eyes still taking in all of his features to his perfect untouched suit, brown slicked back hair-

"If you ever want some help with your business just give me a call."

The coffee shops light complimented the card that was in bone material and in a font that you had noticed from the previous writing you usually used when working on your marketing projects which was Romalian Type

Every movement seemed practiced and intentional, as if he had spent years perfecting his deportment and mannerisms. His voice was deep and clear, carrying a weight of experience and knowledge that made it clear he knew what he was talking about.

He takes a sip from his plastic cup, the clicking of the lid against his teeth echoing clearly in the somewhat quiet coffee shop it had only been two hours ever since you stepped foot in the shop. As he pushes the door open with the pad of his hand, you can almost see him strut in confidence as if he carries this sort of successive aura about him you gaze at his figure slowly savoring the moment, And then he's gone, disappearing into the hustle and bustle of the city outside, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering scent of his expensive cologne. The man was clearly powerful and successful, yet there was something about him that left you feeling a mix of admiration and unease, as if whatever secrets he held were just out of reach. And you can't help but think that you may never know what truly lay behind that expensive suit and piercing eyes.

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[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within. 

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont. 

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins. 

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?” 

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part. 

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

[targaryennumberonelover]

Betrothed.

Summary: In which reader is from the north (house Glover), but is betrothed to Daemon, and is annoyed of the southron ladies at court, and gets very excited to see Cregan Stark when he visits from the North as it reminds her of home. Reader spends a great deal of time with Cregan, who is a very pleased guest, almost completely ignoring her betrothed. This prompts Daemon's jealousy, because who else can have you but him?

Notes: This wound up being fairly vanilla. Also my first proper, non-crack fic. Also my first time on this app + first time writing Daemon; so yay! Big milestone. Saw some other stories on this app and got inspired (+love the font). Idk how to write short stories, so girl is long + very loosely spell/grammar checked (should be ok but some parts might be odd). I personally love the northern reader concept lol, hope y'all enjoy.

Warnings: swearing, canon-typical misogyny, Daemon Targaryen (man needs a whole warning, bffr)

In Deepwood Motte you detested late summer snows, they ate away the summer of your early childhood. You always envied Winterfell for the boiling water that runs through the castle walls; and rejoiced each time your house stayed as guests there. What you had envied most, as a babe, was warmth of the south. Now, however, that you had arrived in the southron lands, you missed those late summer snows terribly.

The south was unbearably hot, you'd have servants delivering you iced milk each day, and too often would you remind them to keep it unsweetened. The heat was not half as over bearing as the ladies of court and all their gossip. Back home, there was scarcely any gossip or other wasteful activities. You spent your youth being educated by the septa, learning the lady ways, and once you came of age, you spent your time putting those ways into practice.

The southron ladies always bragged of their luxuries, which were considered nonsensical in the north, their sweets and silks and careless grandeur. It was draining, sickening, even. Even ever modest Queen Alicent, soon to be your sister by law, would agree with the court ladies when they offered you a sweet as though it was an thing utterly unknown to your northern self, and on occasion would ask you to try a tart or cake she enjoyed.

The only person's company you could find peace in this blasted place was your betrothed, Daemon Targaryen. He was not overbearing, was not mocking of your northernness, but rather found common aspects in your values. Often, you two would walk together, and when there was a moment of respite from both of your busy schedules, he would take you to the skies on the back of Caraxes. You'd even visited Dragonstone, once, but most briefly.

Today was no different. The summer sun bore down over King's Landing, and despite the lush shade provided by the garden plants and sandy canopies that were stretched over head, you were hot. Despite the thick honey, you sipped on the iced milk gratefully, and made a mental reminder to gift the poor servants who fanned you generously later.

"These cakes are quite nice," one of the southron ladies said, sliding over a plate full of thick, layered cakes that smelt so strongly of sugar you might've smelt them when Daemon offered you a ride on Caraxes, leagues in the sky. You'd much rather be on Caraxes, with Daemon holding you close, leagues in the sky rather than here. You wished he would come and save you, but alas, you were stuck between a rock and several smothering southerners.

You smiled politely and took the smallest bite of one. "You're right, my lady, these are quite... tasty." You lick your lips, and are momentarily forlorn when there's nothing unsweet to remove the thick taste from your mouth.

Another southron lady seems to remember something, and rushes to finish her bite, fanning her hand in the air to invite our attention to her. "Have you heard?" She asks once she has swallowed, "lady [name], this would be of great interest to you, the good northfolk, like yourself, are coming to the Keep for a visit."

Despite the almost taunting way she says 'northfolk,' you find yourself intrigued. "Which house?" You ask, and your curiosity is not unheard. They seem to hold back snickers as another one of the ladies reply.

"The House Stark, and their party." She says, smugly, though you are lost as to why. It baffles you further how they regard the Starks, the wardens of the north, so casually. Did they not realise that every northern house beyond the neck swore their fealty to the Starks? The negative thoughts do not linger long, for you can't help but be excited at the thought of seeing Cregan Stark once more. In your childhood you had become acquainted with him, and his lord father offered your father a place on his table on several occasions, and later on he did the same.

You smile, widely, and ask, "do you know when they are to arrive?"

The southron ladies seem to look amongst each other for a moment, and it is Queen Alicent who replies from behind us. "They are to arrive on the morrow, Lady [Name]." You did not notice her arrival, and all seem to turn and stand to greet her.

"Queen Alicent," you exclaim, rising to bow to her. "I must excuse myself, I'm afraid I must prepare to see my fellow northfolk. I must catch you at court later, your grace." You give the ladies of court a small nod, before slipping away the way Alicent had came, glad to find respite from the suffocation of court.

-

The following morning you had dressed more northernly than you had in your entire stay here. You wore a gown with grey over white, with slim fur trimming, little enough that you wouldn't boil. It felt pleasant to be wearing northern colours once more, over the golds and silvers and silky things the south fashioned themselves in. You even found an old pin with the gauntlet of Glover on it, and wore it most proudly as you broke your fast with the court ladies. It was boring and tiresome, as it usually was, but you braved on without complaint and with a smile until, finally, the word came the Starks had arrived.

It took you little time to find yourself in the vast throne room, standing happily by Daemon, your sweet betrothed, awaiting Cregan Stark and his party. It had been nearly two years since you had last seen the Lord of Winterfell, never finding cause to visit before your betrothal, and finding it impossible to do so after.

"Eager, are we?" Daemon hums, noting your excitement. You do not make it difficult. You're practically jumping up and down in anticipation.

You look up at him with a small chuckle, "yes, I'm afraid so." You say, looking down the length of the throne room, a tad disappointed when there are no northerners marching down the hall. "Whilst the south has it's certain... qualities, it has been difficult not to miss the north."

Daemon only chuckles, seemingly amused by both your enthusiasm and desire not to offend any southerners by your distaste for their society.

When the Starks arrive, murmurs flutter around the hall for a moment, then spread madly like wildfire. They come down the hallway, proud and honourable as the Starks are, and bow down to their king and his new queen. There are compliments exchanged, and brief conversation, all the while you're teetering away, waiting for a moment to greet Cregan Stark; when it finally comes, it feels like you are back home.

"It is good of you to make the trip, Lord Stark," you smile as you speak, "not only for the court, but for myself. It may be selfish, but I've been missing the north terribly."

Cregan laughs, lightly so, at my comment. "And the north as been missing you, Lady Glover. Your house is morose without you, and Deepwood Motte emptier than ever. It is a shame you are not to return, you'd make a fine lady for the north."

You let out a laugh at his words, and speak, almost bashfully, "you are too kind, my lord. I am sure my family is doing fine with out me. I would love to return, alas, my place is in the south now."

Cregan lets out a long sigh, and rests a sympathetic touch on your arm. "Alas indeed, but if you ever feel inclined to visit, both Deepwood Motte and Winterfell would be more than glad to take you." He offers, and you smile warmly up at him. You have missed the north grievously, and it brings you deep comfort to speak with a northerner, and to see the direwolf of House Stark, the embodiment of the north, in plenty now.

"It would be good to have another northerner to keep me company, show me the ways of the south... if you would be so kind, my lady?" Cregan asks after a moment of respite, and you are to kind to decline, too glad to have another north soul to save you from the court ladies to say no.

So, you give him your prettiest smile and say, "of course, my lord. I'd be honoured."

-

Perhaps it was the way he spoke to you, how he called you a lady for the north, never of the north, the sly remarks he would make about the south, of how utterly glad and honoured he would be to take you in the north. Perhaps it was the light touches he placed on your arm, your back, and the way you returned them so innocently. Or, perhaps it was the fact that for the last two day's he had been in King's Landing you had utterly ignored him that made Cregan Stark not sit right with Daemon Targaryen.

More than once he'd clenched his fists and gritted his jaw and ignored the way you two laughed together, the obscene amount of time you spent together. How interested you had been in his gnarly, overgrown dog that slobbered after him everywhere he went. Daemon was left baffled, why would you want a dog when you could have a dragon? He couldn't understand your obsession with the Stark boy, and watching you ignore him and give into the flirtatious prick made him angrier than words could explain.

He didn't know how often his hand strained around his cup until his knuckles went white, or how often he took long sips of his wine to keep himself from saying something that would ruin your happiness. It was the only reason he put up with the ugly cunt as he flirted with you, took advantage of your innocence. He'd longed to kill him, but seeing you more content at court than ever before had prompted him not to.

His patience was wavering thin now, as the two of you sat together, ate together, practically glued at the hip as you laughed over something trivial. Jealousy burned in his stomach, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And when the feasting was over, and it came time to dance, he wanted to slam his fist down when the bastard stood up before you. "Your hand, my lady?" He asked, with a gross smirk he was sure you'd perceive as a kind smile. "For a dance." He adds, and it is like a cruel taunt directed to him. Did the boy not know you were betrothed to him? That you were happy with a prince? That you didn't want a little lordling instead?

"Yes, of course," you agree, ever glad to indulge in his northernness. Daemon feels his nails dig roughly into his palms as he clenches his fist, and he doesn't care if he draws blood. All he can feel is horrible, terrible jealousy. You were his betrothed, his and his alone. Who did this winter cunt think he was?

He might've ripped off the bard's head for playing such a jovial tune. He watched as Cregan's hands gripped your waist and twirl you around the room. He reached for his goblet and tilted it it back into mouth, and when it emptied, he jerked over a serving girl and had her fill it to the brim. He'd drank overmuch already, but it was all he could do to not knock that poor boy to his feet like the dog he was.

His eyes remained fixed on you like a predator to prey. He watched as the bastard spun you into the crowd, as he lifted you by your waist, at the wide grin on flashing on your lips. Your pretty lips that were meant to be his, and his alone. He took another long sip from his cup. Through the gowns and the jewels he watched you with the ugly winter dog.

And, when Cregan Stark dipped his head down and whispered something to you, too close to your ear for his liking, making you through your head back in laughter, Daemon had enough. He stood up, his movements too sharp, sending his chair scraping behind him. He navigated his way through the heart of lords and ladies, past some drunken fool lifting a serving girl and spinning her in the air whilst the tray she carried clattered onto the ground.

Soon enough his hand found it's way to your shoulder, and held onto you a little too tight as he yanked you away from your dance with the winter boy. "You don't mind if I share a dance with my betrothed, do you, lordling?" He asked, his tone curt; he saw no reason to give this bastard any respect. Trying to steal his own betrothed from right under his nose. No, he would not have it.

His eyes seemed to squeeze with delight and his smirk widen as he watched Cregan's face twitch. "Of course, my prince," he says with a smile, and a short bout of laughter so fake Daemon might've puked. "I do hope you enjoy your time together." The winter dog says, and lift's up his betrothed's hand and gives it a disgusting kiss. The nerve.

"Thank you," you murmur, ever the sweetheart, as Cregan Stark finally takes his leave. You watch after him as he disappears into the crowd, as Daemon's grip on your shoulder holds you tight against him. Once the Stark boy is well and truely gone into the mass, he releases you momentarily.

When you dance again, it is him gripping your hips, it is him picking you up and twirling you around the room. Exactly the way it should be. "You seemed to be enjoying your time together," Daemon croons, looking down at your face with devilish eyes. There is anger in his voice, but it is swallowed up by his affection for you.

"Yes, I suppose I was." You say, meeting his gaze with a soft smile. "IT is nice to have a break from the southron ladies, to have a friend who doesn't mock my northernness."

Daemon's eyes narrow, and he lets out a short hum, his head tilting to a side as he watches you. "I think the little lordling wanted to be more than just your friend, sweet thing." He murmurs.

Your soft expression furrows into one of confusion, and you let out a slight scoff. It's almost amusing how disbelieving you are that pissy lord of the north took an interest in you. "Lord Cregan is merely a friend, I assure you," you say, ever innocent in your ways.

"Oh, my sweet thing, you can not be so naive. Surely you've seen the way that dog eyes you," he says, shaking his head, "it's disgusting, frankly."

You laugh nervously, your head swishing back and forth in denial. "He would never, he knows I am betrothed. I haven't shown any interest in him, regardless." You argue. It's almost frustrating how you jump to defend the boy's actions, but he can not blame you. The ladies of Westeros are often too sheltered, made to think every lord is a gentleman. Sure, you knew of whores and cunts, but Daemon found there was much your sweet, trusting nature kept from your grasp.

He runs a hand gently down your cheek and offers you a kind smile. "Oh, my princess, your betrothal only makes you want him more. Do you not see the strays that sniff under the tables for food just beyond their reach? It matters not if you'll have him or not, he wants you the same." He coos, tilting your chin up to look at him. "The mutt wants something nice to warm his tiny little cock, and what better than a prince's wife?"

"Even if what you say is true," you pause for a moment, perhaps you're contemplating the truth of his words, or uneasy by his vulgar language. With a weak smile but a firm gaze, you finish, "I would never entertain his desire."

Daemon smirks at that, "of course not." He says, proudly so. "Why walk a bitch when you can ride a dragon?"

[darylandbethfanforever9]

Not Team Black friendly

None of my upcoming HOTD fics will be team black, Viserys, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Corlys or Rhaenys and Strong boys friendly. Please stop sending messages hoping to change my mind about Daemon not being a paedophile and domestic abuser.

I don’t support people who celebrate the murder of a six year old and threatening to rape a six year old girl in front of their mother. Nor do I support a woman who sends men to raid septs and rape civilians.

These are the things that will not be included:

Aegon being a rapist and a shitty brother. In the books, he loved his family and went full warrior and that’s how he’ll be in my fics.

Aemond being a psychopath and rapist.

Daemon being nice, he isn’t a nice man and nor is he a good father.

Viserys being a good father, he wasn’t a good father to any of his children and he only cared about Rhaenyra.

Anti Alicent Hightower, I adore that woman and she’s been through hell.

Helaena dies, hell no. Helaena will be given happiness in my fics and no B&C in my stories.

Not Cregan Stark friendly, I think he’s overrated and I’m not a fan of him. Nor will he be having affairs with my OC’s.

Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela and Rhaena will not be redeemed in my fics. In my opinion, they’re bullies.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hey, dear! could i get an extremely fluffy picture/oneshot Daemon x pregnant!poc reader where ever since they found out about reader's pregnancy he has been super protective, loving and an excellent husband with her and the unborn baby so one afternoon they're spending quality time together (maybe she's reading to him) while he caresses her belly and the baby kicks for the first time, please?

Here you go.

The soon-to-be father

Pairing: Daemon x Fem. Reader (From the Summer Isles)

Themes : Soft | Fluff

Warnings : None

Word Count : 1.3k words

Want to be tagged? Want to know the reader request rules? Read all   here

It was the height of autumn.

The leaves turned red, dusk crept in faster, and there was a growing nip in the air.

The dragons had taken to gorging on anything and everything the dragon keepers offered them, as if preparing for the lean winter years. It would not be long, they said, before the dragons retreated under the pits to sleep away the winter.

Even here, in the Red Keep, life grew slower, with the rooms and corridors growing darker. Torches were lit everywhere, and fires were blazing to provide the warmth and light that the sun couldn't. Despite everyone’s efforts, the cold still crept in through tiny cracks and crevices, as if the season was determined to have the last word.

Today, however, was tolerably pleasant, although you debated if "tolerably" was the right word. As a lady of the Summer Isles, you were accustomed to warmer weather and sunnier skies. Still, this was the place your husband called home, and you were determined to love it.

No, you tell yourself. This isn’t just your husband’s home. This is the place your unborn child will call home soon enough.

Your hand fluttered to your growing belly. Two more months, the Grand Maester said. Two more months, and everyone will know if it is a son or a daughter.

Your husband didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl. He was just eager to be a father. A father who was driving everyone to distraction with his plans for the nursery, the midwives, even going so far as to insist on being present for the birth. Not that you minded. You were just happy to indulge his whims, often shaking your head and grinning whenever he went overboard, something he did frequently and without shame.

A pelt being draped over your shoulders brought you out of your daydreaming.  "You’re shivering." Daemon had walked in, silent as always. "Come sit by the fire, you’ll be warmer."

You studied him, discreetly, as he went over to the hearth to add more logs to the fire. Daemon was much calmer now, a far cry from the bundle of brash energy he was when the two of you wed. He also looked a little surly this afternoon. "What happened at the council meeting?" you asked, as you made yourself comfortable on a large sofa. Daemon finished his task and took his usual place next to you, picking up a book as he did so. He threw an arm around you and sighed.

"The pissant everyone is determined to make king has been visiting fighting pits every night for weeks now." Daemon rubbed his eyes, wondering how his brother managed to sire one such as his oldest nephew. Perhaps it was a punishment from the Gods for what had been done to the late queen Aemma, he reasoned, though he'd never say it aloud.

"Fighting pits?" You inquired, your gaze drawn to the book in his hands. It was dubbed, The Songs of the Seven Kingdoms. "Like your boxing?"

Daemon sighed and shook his head, his mood darkening. "I wish it was the case. We all do. No, my sweet, this is nothing like that, where there are judges and rules and where the opponents are grown men.

"But I’d rather not talk of that." He continued after a moment’s pause. "I just want you to promise me that you’ll come to me if Aegon comes anywhere near you."

You'd heard the rumors about the prince; everyone had. But hearing something that was passed off as mere gossip confirmed as true was a frightening prospect. "It cannot be that bad…." You say in disbelief. "I mean…. Aegon is a prince… He’s Viserys’ son, surely he…"

"Aegon is nothing like his father, so promise me," insisted Daemon. "Promise me you’ll come to me. Aegon is nothing like the sweet princeling he pretends to be. He’s far more dangerous than you think."

You swallowed as the gravity of the situation started to sink in. Daemon had moved with and fought alongside some of the most dangerous men in the kingdom. And if he thought Aegon was that bad, then—

"I will come to you if Aegon approaches me," you promised.

"Good," Daemon was pleased. "And how have you been? How is our child?"

"A little uncomfortable now that the baby is getting bigger, but I’m good. And the baby is healthy," you said indulgently, rubbing your belly. "And growing strong. The Grand Maester is very happy with everything. He said two more months before the baby is due to make their grand appearance."

Daemon placed a hand over yours, his joy matching yours. "That’s good. I told Viserys I’m not going anywhere till after out child arrives. He agreed."

"And I’ve had word from my mother," you picked up a letter on the side table and hand it to him. "She’ll be here before the birth. She also said four of my father’s finest warriors will be coming with her, and that they’ll be staying here as my sworn protectors. It’s rather odd, since I never asked for such a thing."

You tilted your head to one side when Daemon went red in the cheeks. "Husband," you said in amusement. "What did you do?"

Daemon groaned and mumbled something under his breath.

"Husband," you snickered. "What. Did. You. Do."

In one quick breath, Daemon  finally mumbled: "Imayhavebadgeredyourfatherintosendindwarriorsforyou."

"I’m sorry, but what?"

Daemon groaned again, speaking more clearly this time. "I- may have - badgered your father into sending warriors for you."

You just chuckled and buried your face in your hands. "Oh Daemon. It’s not necessary, my love, really."

"Not necessary?" Daemon stammered in shock. "My dear wife, did you not just listen to a word I said about Aegon? And have you not heard of that brother of his?"

And there he goes, being the protective husband. You couldn't fault the man because your own lord father was exactly like him. It honestly made you love him even more. "I heard you. And yes, I have heard the stories about Prince Aemond. Alright. Father’s warriors can stay."

"Thank you," said a relieved Daemon. "Now, enough of dark topics. How about something light?"

"Like this book?" You hold up the Songs of the Seven Kingdoms. "Perhaps I could read it?"

Daemon picked out a story, about the North and the children of the forest. He was content to let you read, his hand still over your belly.

The afternoon drifted on, with nothing but you reading stories out loud and Daemon rubbing your stomach whenever you grew uncomfortable. He became aware of something beneath his palm. Muscles rippled as something moved. "What’s that?"

There it was again, and this time you too felt it. "That, my love, is our baby." You put the book down, placed your hand over his. Sure enough, there was another ripple. "Kicking at my insides again."

Daemon grinned. "A child of true Targaryen and Summer Isle stock then,"  he said it so gleefully, you forgot your discomfort in an instance. "I wonder if they would be the one to bond with Grey Ghost."

You gave him a double-take. A wild dragon? Your child wasn't going anywhere near a wild dragon. "Grey Ghost? No."

Daemon’s eyes glinted mischievously. "Sheepstealer then?"

"Not on your life!"

He tsked and thought about it again. "I know! The Cannibal!"

"No!" You grinned. Daemon was only teasing you, after all. "My love, can we please stick to the practice of placing a dragon’s egg in the babe’s cradle?"

"Spoil-sport," he said cheerfully. "Alright, my love. An egg in the cradle it is."

"Thank you." You allowed Daemon to take the book. He then spent the rest of the afternoon reading to you and the child in your womb.

[bottlesandbarricades]

The Hour of Ghosts

Summary: A short story exploring the supernatural consequences of the Dance of the Dragons. Word Count: 2961 Warnings: Major spoilers for House of the Dragon season 2 / Fire & Blood, Major Character Deaths, Suicide, Mental Illness, Violence, Graphic Injury, Spooky Themes A/N: Hello! This is my first time writing something hotd-related and is essentially my coming-out-of-writing retirement fic to ease myself back into writing. Big thank you to @beaconofthehightower for pushing me to finish this and @dreamymoomin for beta reading. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my silly little ghost story 👻

The Dance of the Dragons left deep scars on the Seven Kingdoms, political and otherwise. Although the literal stench of death was vigorously scrubbed clean, the stains remained, ingrained into the very fibre of the people and the world left behind.

The battered, burnt banner of fire, blood and loss hung over the ruins of a once noble house. Hastily patched and practically mended with rough hands attempting to salvage what remained of House Targaryen and restore order to the realm. The bitterness of it all stuck to the tongue like ashes in your mouth - it had been for nothing.

No one had won; everyone had lost.

The generations to come would debate the facts and wage their own war with words, for and against each side’s claim in volume after volume of biassed histories. Others would simply gloat with the gift of hindsight, suggesting that those involved should have foreseen that a war of kin slaying kin and dragon fighting dragon would never have had a glorious victor.

As the years passed, the memories of the war faded from the sharp, throbbing string of freshly cut wounds to aching battle scars. Moving into that part of the collective memory, where the lines between fact and legend become murky and confused. Truths became as tangible as wisps of smoke from an open hearth, sewn together with the thread of imagination by every wet nurse in Westeros.

Something haunted these lands - collective trauma manifesting and twisting into tales of ghosts, ghouls and fantasm.

From the North shore of the God's Eye, where the blackened ruins of Harrenhal sit decaying, it is said that some evenings as the sun drops below the Western horizon, a high-pitched whistle can be heard in the wind. A piercing unnatural sound that makes the blood in your veins run cold.

To the native smallfolk, this sound is a well-known harbinger, a sign to shutter your windows tightly and turn in for the night - less you wish to glimpse something eerie illuminated in the moonlight over the inky black water.

The story goes that the shrill sound of Prince Daemon's mount, Caraxes, is always followed, even on the clearest of nights, by a rumbling like thunder, so loud that it sends ripples through the lake - the roar of the once mighty war dragon, Vhagar.

Phantom snarls shake the ground, hailing the infinite clash between the Blood Wyrm and the she-ancient dragon of the one-eyed Prince, Aemond Targaryen.

The sound of wings that no longer beat and gnashing jaws that have long since crumbled to dust echo for dozens of miles. Sparks of white-hot dragon fire gone cold reflected in the water below. As spectral flashes of red and bronzy green scales appear against the colourless void of night, weaving and merging like a coil of translucent serpents, struggling and writhing for dominance.

Shades of memory replay - Caraxes’ jaw locked tight around the larger dragon's throat, as Vhagar clawed, bit, and ripped in bloody retaliation. Tearing scales from flesh, and flesh from bone with the ease of Valyrian steel.

However, most unnerving are the two pale princes themselves mounted on the ghastly long dead beasts, as silver as their hair was in life, both gaunt with death and cadaverous to the eye. Sallow skin pulled taut over their skeletal faces, cheeks stained with tracks of red from bloody tears, which ran from sunken eyes.

Two souls destined to be locked in a battle for eternity, forever to play out their mutually assured destruction. The elder fated to leap from his dying mount and drive his blade of moonlight into the younger’s skull - again and again overlooked by Black Harren’s accursed seat.

A sickening and frightening spectacle for mortal eyes to perceive, yet in the absence of fear you might say there was a chilling beauty to the scene. Always to end the same way - poetically some would say - in fire and blood.

To the south, high above the city of King’s Landing upon Aegon’s Hill, the mighty Red Keep plays host to many ghosts of its own. This is no surprise as many people would wager that enough blood had been spilt within its walls over the years to fill the Blackwater. The castle is plagued by ghouls from across the ages, some from the days of the conqueror, himself.

Folk could pass many a long winter’s night recalling the countless tragedies of that castle and those who were said to remain there. It appeared that this war of dancing dragons only added to that grisly spectral collection.

It is Maegor’s Holdfast, where servants don't dare linger alone and guards dread to be posted in fear of hearing her. The whisper of phantom sobbing that murmurs just beyond the reach of your ears or more terribly ghoulish shrieks of anguish that grasp your throat with fear and settle in your chest. It is the sound of grief-driven madness consuming a gentle, yet tortured soul.

Even as the years passed, the agony of Queen Helaena’s bereavement was palpable, the sounds of her anguished cries were enough to drive anyone to madness. They consumed you, drowning you in sorrow and dragging you down with suffocating melancholy.

Some say that Helaena’s haunting was part of what drove her Mother, the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower to her own derangement in the years following the war.

Tormented, not only by the loss of her three sons but also by the cries and whimpers of her dead daughter, which echoed off the pale red stone. Confined within the very same walls that had been sweet Helaena’s home turned prison in the last half year of her life before she had flung herself from the window to her death, impaled on the spikes below.

Alicent Hightower had been harshly punished for her sins. The feeling of being trapped, one way or another, had been a constant companion throughout her life. Yet it seemed being locked away, like her daughter before her, was the final straw.

No needle and thread nor book could save her sanity.

She spent her time attempting to converse with people unseen, sickened by the colour green and longing to hold and comfort her dearest babe in distress whom, like the rest of her children Alicent could no longer picture the face of.

On her deathbed, it appeared that the raging fever quieted the madness and allowed for moments of clarity and reflection for the Queen in chains. As expected, Alicent spoke at length of her regrets and confessed her transgressions. It seemed for the first time in a very long time, Alicent Hightower was at peace.

“I want to see my sons again.” Alicent had said, as her life ebbed away. “And Helaena, my sweet girl.”

The Septa who sat in vigil over Queen Alicent that night, failed to mention everything that happened in the final hours of Alicent’s life in her official account. What the poor woman had witnessed as the rain lashed against the castle windows had left her shaken, clutching her seven-pointed star so tightly that each corner had left tiny cuts on her palms and fingers.

At the hour of the wolf, the Stranger had come for Alicent Hightower, but it appeared death was not alone.

The Queen’s breaths had become shallower and shallower until finally, the death rattle had set in. It was then that an eerie coldness filled the bed chamber, at odds with the raging fire in the grate. Gooseflesh prickled across the Septa’s skin as the chill engulfed her. A cold so biting that she could feel it seep through the numerous layers of her coarse linen robes.

It was strange and unnatural.

With an abrupt rush of wind, the fire was extinguished from the hearth. Snuffing out her last fragile defence against the fear that had suddenly taken hold of her. The room was consumed by darkness and the Septa’s only solace now was a handful of low-burning candles clinging to their flame within the bedside lantern.

She knew she should move; she should attempt to rekindle the logs that smouldered in the fireplace or call out to the guard on the door and yet she could not. Instead, she sat frozen in her chair and was forced to bear witness.

Between the hammering of her own heart, the rasping breaths of the dying Queen and the rain that pounded relentlessly at the window panes, it was hard for the Septa to hear them at first.

The voices started softly and indistinct, like overhearing a conversation in another room, but grew louder and more coherent with each passing moment. Till it was as if they were in the very bed-chamber itself.

Initially, she believed they were children’s voices due to their high and melodic quality. However, as the Septa strained her ears to hear, she soon realised these voices chopped and changed in tone with every few syllables, distorting into a heavier and deeper pitch and then swiftly returning to a higher register.

Stricken with fright, all she could do was listen. Discerning that the voices seemed more masculine than feminine, the Septa tried to focus on distinguishing meaning in the sea of words as the voices continuously talked over each other.

Then she heard it, the common thread. One word was repeated over and over.

“Mother.”

The realisation was scalding, in sharp contrast to the icy air that surrounded her. The Septa’s initial instincts were correct; these were the voices of children - Alicent’s children.

The blinding clarity only seemed to make the voices grow louder. Becoming more frantic and fractured, flicking rapidly between youth and maturity. It was chaotic and confusing, as if years of memories were trying to compress themselves into a single moment. Blurry, broken and half-remembered.

“Where are you, my loves? I can’t see you.” Came the weakened voice from the bed between laboured gasps.

The Septa’s eyes had now adjusted to the dark and she watched in horror as she began to notice the movement of unnatural shapes forming in the gloom.

Hearing them was one thing, but seeing them was another.

Twisting and bending, the four misshapen figures that manifested could not decide what they wished to embody. They shifted in stature and years in the same disturbing manner as their voices, morphing from adult to child and back again.

They crowded the bed, tugging at the bedclothes as they had once tugged at Alicent’s skirts in life, so many years ago. All the while their voices kept on calling for her. It was too much to bear.

This fresh wave of alarm seemed to bring the Septa to her senses and she did the only thing she knew she could. She began to pray, hands clasped together around her seven-pointed star. Shutting her eyes tightly as she recited the words, she wished to hear no more, to see no more.

Time seemed stagnant as each minute that slipped by felt like ten. The Septa focused on her prayers, drawing comfort from the words she knew so well. The familiarity shielding her from the ghoulish sights and sounds around her.

Until all of a sudden, she felt a shift in the air and the voices were gone, fading just as fast as they had come. A balmy glow now beckoned through her closed eyelids.

There was light and warmth as the fire returned to the grate. The logs were ablaze once again, heat flooding the room and banishing the chill which had consumed it.

The Septa took a shaky breath before daring to open her eyes, taking a moment to bask in the feeling of being warm and alive in the peaceful, blessed silence.

As the rain pattered softly against the glass, she realised the storm had passed, along with Alicent Hightower.

Across the water, clinging to the face of the volcano known as Dragonmont, sits the fortress of Dragonstone. A place of salt, smoke and brimstone. The ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a relic of Old Valyria forged by dragonfire and the forgotten magic of Dragonlords.

This castle was the grim and eerie backdrop where some say Aegon II claimed victory over his half-sister, the Black Queen. A hollow and costly victory, which hardly tipped the scales in the face of all that he had lost.

One final petulant jab in this bloody squabble.

Though accounts from both sides of the warring factions differ on many things, they find common ground on one exchange, which took place upon Rhaenyra’s arrival from King’s Landing to find herself betrayed and Aegon in situ.

“Dear Brother, I had hoped you were dead.” Rhaenyra called out at the sight of Aegon’s half-charred and twisted form. Delighted by the small triumph of his injuries and satisfied that even though she would almost certainly die at his hand, Aegon would spend the rest of his days bearing scars done in her name.

“After you. You are the elder.” King Aegon spat back with a pained grin, his jaw clenched hard as he fought to hide the agony that coursed throughout his broken body. He had refused milk of the poppy out of the fear of poisoning and paid tenfold for it.

“I am pleased to know that you remember that.” Rhaenyra replied.

Now friendless and at the mercy of the enemy, Rhaenyra Targaryen was forcefully separated from her son. Little did those present know that once the dust of conflict had finally settled, this child would in fact be King in his own right. But, for now, he was just a boy.

A boy forced to watch his Mother die.

The Realm’s Delight was served up to Aegon’s dragon, Sunfyre, who bathed her in red-hot dragonfire. As the flames consumed her, Rhaenyra raised her head skywards and shrieked out one last curse.

What didn't burn, was swiftly devoured. The final memorial to the Half-Year Queen being nothing more than the scorch marks left on the ancient flagstones.

The words and meaning of Rhaenyra’s dying curse are lost to time, but many suspect it was the root cause for the strange happenings that followed.

It started at the site of her killing, a peculiar sweltering heat rising from the stone for which there was no logical source. Those foolish enough to dare place their hand on the blackened marks themselves would come away harshly burned in searing pain. A mere moment's touch brought about hideous blisters that bubbled on the skin and left the surrounding flesh charred and cracked.

Then came the sightings, it was said that if you ventured to cross the courtyard in the dead of night you may catch a glimpse of the Black Queen herself.

A haunting apparition composed of swirling smoke and glowing embers. The flaming skirts of her gown twirled around her as long silver-gold hair burned bright like white hot iron. Flames licked around her once beautiful face, now reduced to nothing but ash and a pair of hollow eyes.

The smell of burning flesh and brimstone filled the air as an aura of blistering heat that radiated around her form, shimmering and distorting. No words came from her blackened mouth, only thick, choking smoke as she silently screamed, leaving trails of cinders in her wake as she stalked the castle grounds.

Rhaenyra Targaryen conveyed her displeasure through the flame, which had been her demise. Burning anything to which her spirit took offence. Newly hung tapestries were known to spontaneously combust and seven pointed stars melted in their holders.

She may not have held the Seven Kingdoms or sat the Iron Throne, but it was clear that Dragonstone was her domain and even in death she would remain its mistress.

As the decades passed, it appeared her restless soul seemed to quieten - the sudden fires becoming less frequent and sightings fewer and fewer. Till the tales of her spectre had become nothing more than a story to frighten children.

Theories to the reason for this change were in the dozens, some claiming that a young brave Septon had been to Dragonstone and bravely banished the fiery ghoul from the castle, casting her down to the Seven Hells where she belonged.

Others believe her spirit's suddenly passive nature was linked to an even greater shift, something was changing for House Targaryen itself. Where the air of Dragonstone had once been thick with Valyrian enchantment there seemed to be rot.

Their magic was dying, eroding away further and further with each generation.

People once said that the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men and yet it would seem that the sin of the dance had angered something much older and much crueller than the deity of several aspects worshipped by the faith of the Seven.

This was something ancient and primal that wished to punish them for tearing apart their house with the blessing of dragons that had made them Kings. Many argued that the sins of the Greens and the Blacks were the reason that after the war House Targaryens’ dragons declined, getting smaller and weaker as their power faded with each malformed dragon and unhatched egg.

In the end, the doom of the Targaryen dynasty was inevitable. The damage was done and the dominos would continue to fall uninterrupted. Without their dragons what truly separated them from the other great houses of the Seven Kingdoms?

How long would it be before others saw the mirage for what it was and another contender took their chance for the Iron Throne?

After all, power only resides where men believe it resides. Truth does not matter, only perception and once the illusion of power is extinguished, snuffed out with the dying breath of the last dragon, there is no returning to what once was.

[grimmbunniee]

Me transferring into my Whitesona when reading house of the dragon reader insert

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Ask, and You Shall Receive

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of female masturbation, slight coercion and degradation, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Daemon's maidservant has been quietly lusting after him for three months, waiting for him to make the first move. Based on this request.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications for updates of when I post fics. Community labels are for cops. Thank you to my boobear @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for giving this her stamp of approving, and beta'ing what my antibiotic addled mind was unable to.

When she’d first been assigned the duty of serving as Prince Daemon Targaryen’s maidservant, a rush of excitement had run hotly through her veins.

There were many names that the King’s younger brother went by, but the one that intrigued her most was Lord Flea Bottom, a moniker earned for how often he was seen in that particular part of the capital. It was no secret that the Rogue Prince enjoyed the company of whores; he frequented all of the pleasure houses within the Street of Silk, despite his marriage to Lady Rhea Royce, and no matter how much nobles and smallfolk alike enjoyed gossiping about his exploits, he was undeterred from this salacious behaviour. Daemon was not a man who concerned himself with the opinions or approval of others.

She had lusted after the Prince from afar for as long as she’d worked at the Keep, and ordinarily she’d never dream that someone of such high standing would give her the slightest bit of attention - she was a lowborn servant, a nobody - yet learning he frequented brothels gave her a glimmer of hope that he might deign to give her the attention she so desperately craved from him. A maidservant was certainly a step up from a common whore, and at the very least he would not have to part with coin in exchange for her company.

Much to her disappointment, it has been three months since she began attending to Daemon and he has not so much as spared a glance her way. He returns each evening from his duties as Commander of the City Watch, and she draws him a bath before helping him from his gold cloak and armour.

She allows herself the briefest gaze of admiration before averting her eyes, feeling her skin grow heated whenever he stands bare before her, tall, broad and godlike. He is the very image of power itself, surely hand-carved by the Seven.

When he reclines in the tub full of steamy water, her eyes roam appreciatively over the breadth of his chest and shoulders as she drags the dampened wash cloth across them, down the length of his arms and the span of his large hands.

The silken strands of his silver hair are impossibly soft against her fingers as she runs them through it, washing away the dirt of the city. The rumble of contentment that vibrates in his throat as her fingertips work against his scalp has desire pooling between her legs. She wonders what else she could do to elicit those sounds from him. Alas, no matter how deftly she washes his body and attends to his needs, he has never touched her. Though he is utterly relaxed in her presence, it seems to be in spite of it rather than because of it. 

This frustrates her. She goes to bed each night pent up, her hand slipping between her legs and bringing herself to release, imagining what it would feel like to have his dampened body move against her own.

There is fire in his eyes when he returns to his quarters that evening, his brow furrowed in long spent anger, his jaw set in a way that indicates he is in no mood to talk. The darkened maroon splatters on his breastplate are doubtless dried blood, and not his own.

She longs to ask what has happened, but knows better. It is not her place to question a Prince. She has heard talk of Daemon putting tougher measures in place to deal with the rapists of King’s Landing, a recent development. She suspects that this is likely the cause of his bloodied ire tonight. Her heart swells at the thought of his chivalrous bravery. Longing to reward him for his service to the people of the city, and perhaps a last ditch attempt at gaining his attention, she decides to put extra care into his evening bath.

She ensures the water is slightly hotter than usual, scented with rose and lavender, and sets oils beside the tub, almond to use on his hair, and lemon for his body. Her final action is to strip down to just her shift, stepping out of the dress she wears that identifies her as serving staff of the Red Keep and shedding her smallclothes. She wants him to see her. If he takes offence or queries it, she reasons that she will simply apologise and say that the warmth of his bath was making her too hot. However, somehow she doubts he will be offended.

As she steps towards him to begin helping with the removal of his armour, she notices his eyes drift over her body. Covered only by a thin layer of cotton, her silhouette is illuminated through the material by the soft light of the candles that burn throughout the chamber. He says nothing, standing in silence and allowing her to disrobe him. She places each heavy piece carefully to one side, as always, though this time her hands shake with the effort.

Sweat prickles the back of her neck as he is revealed to her, her mouth running dry at the sight of him, thick thighs slightly parted as he stands with his feet planted. She catches his eye as she glances upwards and her breath sticks in her throat. He is watching her ogle him. The faintest twitch of his brow is his only reaction. She cannot tell if it is amusement or annoyance.

He lets out a low hum of appreciation as he steps into the tub, clearly noticing the difference in both scent and temperature. A small smile of pride tugs at her lips as she steps behind him, preparing to begin their nightly routine.

Carefully she wets his hair, cupping water into her hands and spreading it from root to tip, before coating her palms and fingertips in almond oil and working it through his pale tresses. She takes her time, rubbing tight, slightly pressured circles against his scalp, noticing the way his eyelids drift closed, leaning into her touch. She forgoes the use of the washcloth this evening, pouring lemon essence directly into her hands and massaging it into his chest and shoulders. The tightness in his muscles melts like butter beneath her touch as she works her way down the length of his arms, watching the way the tension he has been clinging onto dissipates with every sweep of her hands across his body.

As she moves lower, about to dip her hand beneath the surface of the bathwater, she lets out a small gasp, caught off guard by the suddenness with which Daemon grasps her wrist - not applying enough pressure to hurt her, but enough for her to know she can no longer move her arm of her own volition. Her wide eyes stare at him imploringly, though his expression is impassive as he regards her carefully.

“Do you wish to fuck me, little maid?” he asks, voice low, the slightest of smirks upon his face.

She feels as though all the air has been sucked from the room. Her heart hammers wildly in her chest as her lips part in shock. She knows that Daemon speaks plainly, but she had never expected him to be so lewd, so direct. It has warmth blooming in her lower belly. A dull, throbbing ache settles between her legs.

She lets out a squeal when, clearly dissatisfied with her silence, he hauls her into the tub with him. She sits astride him, shift soaking wet and clinging to the contours of her body as she attempts to control her breathing. His hands grip her waist, holding her in place to ensure she doesn’t try to climb back out. The hardness of his body against hers, the warmth of the water lapping against her skin, the heady aroma of rose and lavender, it is all too much. Her head swims with the effort to keep her composure. 

This is all she has ever wanted. Yet, she knows one wrong move could spoil it all.

Daemon reaches up, tweaking the hardened peak of her nipple that pebbles through the wet fabric, making her whine and clench around nothing. “You didn’t answer me - but I think I already know the answer. I see the way you look at me, the way you prance about my chamber like a bitch in heat.”

She squirms, mewling desperately when he hands push her soaked cotton of her shift above her hips, his thumb dipping between her legs to lightly circle her pearl. She clings tightly to his shoulders for support, wanting to say something, anything, but the words will not come. Mercifully, he is eager to speak for both of them.

“The thing is, little maid, wanton sluts don’t get what they want unless they ask nicely. Did you really think the power of your feminine charm alone would be enough to entice me? I am a Prince. People beg for my attention, not the other way around.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly with effort it takes her to remember to breathe. Her thighs shake either side of Daemon’s hips as he continues to rub against her sensitive bud. Her brows are knitted together, an expression of both unbridled pleasure and humiliation.

He chuckles quietly. “So, are you ready to ask for what it is you want?”

Resolve crumbling, she nods fervently, hoping he will take mercy on her, but it is not enough.

“Say it,” he commands forcefully, removing his hand from between her legs.

When she eventually finds her voice, it sounds foreign to her, broken and pitiful, not her own. “P-please…Your Grace…I-I want you to fuck me.”

“Good girl,” he whispers.

She barely has time to register the weightiness of his thick cock as it rests against his palm before he is pressing it inside of her, its girth pushing apart her fleshy inner walls with its brutal intrusion. Though she is adequately aroused, it is a stretch to accommodate him. She muffles a squeak into the crook of his neck as he sheathes himself fully within her.

His fingers curl themselves into the hair at the back of her head, gently tugging her back, an air of smugness etched across his handsome features as he looks up at her. “You will not hide from me,” he says huskily. “You wanted me to fuck you, so you will let me watch you as I do it.”

The slight threat that simmers beneath his words sends a shiver of excitement through her. The bath water begins to sway with the undulation of his hips as they thrust languidly up into hers. His pace is lazy, unhurried, yet every stroke is achingly deep as the head of him brushes against the rough patch inside of her that causes her toes to curl involuntarily. He is like a cat playing with a mouse, his eyes never leaving her face, studying every slackening of her jaw and slight scrunch of her nose as he fucks himself into her.

As he coaxes her towards her peak, she feels a familiar pressure building inside of her. It crashes over her in white hot waves, causing her to slump against Daemon’s chest with a cry of ecstasy. She feels boneless, weightless, but he is far from done with her.

Seizing her incapacitation as an opportunity, he grasps her hips, quickening his pace and pulling her downwards to meet each snap of his pelvis, the force of his movements causing the water to cascade over the sides of the wooden tub and onto the flagstone floor as he chases his own end. He grunts in satisfaction as he spends inside of her, and in the back of her pleasure-addled mind comes the hazy thought that she will need to drink moon tea in the morning.

They lay as they are for a few moments longer, as Daemon catches his breath, what remains of the bathwater rapidly cooling around them. When she finally has the strength to lift herself from his chest, she sees fire in his eyes once more, though it is not derived from fury. There is warmth behind his gaze, a fondness that she has not seen before.

He strokes her back absentmindedly, his fingers plucking at the wet shift that sticks to it. “Take this off,” he whispers, “and go to my bedchambers. We shall see if you are as good at warming my bed as you are at making my bath go cold.”

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

The safest place in the world

Summary: It's a long way back to King's Landing but Daemon knew how to spend his time with you on the back of his dragon.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem. Hightower reader

Wordcount: 2.5k

Rating: E

Warnings: mentions of abusive relationship, angst, fluff, pregnancy, smut (unprotected sex on top of a dragon, do not try this at home), protective Daemon, a little bit of violence and blood

A/N: Yes. This is exactly what you think it is. This one goes out to @wheresarizona who simps for Daemon as much as I do lmao

Masterlist

“Sometimes I believe you hate my father even more than I do,” you mumbled, laying with your front on the soft mattress, only a sheet covering your naked body, watching Daemon walk towards the window.

He looked over his shoulder, giving you a cheeky grin  before he turned back around, a cup of wine in his hand. 

You bit your lip, watching him swagger towards you, his cock right at your eye level. 

“I do not think so. He made you marry a Lannister, you must hate him more,” he sipped on his cup, coming to stand right in front of you. 

Tilting your head up so you could look at him, you smirked. 

“He spread the rumour that left you in exile.”

“We both know it was only partly a rumour.”

“Still. His… meddling… his thirst for power is making me sick. No wonder he married me off to the first Lord who came his way. Alicent is way easier to manipulate.”

Daemon set the cup down, his finger running a line from your temple down your jaw. You kissed his thumb when he lingered at your lips. 

“Shame what happened to your husband,” he hummed and you grinned, leaning in to press your lips just above his hip bone, letting your lips wander as you slowly got onto your knees.. 

“Yes, shame that he ran into your dagger repeatedly before he jumped into the sea,” you sighed, playfully nibbling on his nipple before you felt both of his hands pull you up, his lip crashing down on yours. 

“Imagine what your father says when he finds who left with, after your husband passed…” he bit into your bottom lip, both of his hands groping your ass as you knelt on the bed in front of him. 

“Imagine how he reacts when he finds out I married you already,” you grinned, your hands on the back of his neck, pulling a little at his hair. 

He pushed you down on the soft mattress with a grin before he climbed on top of you. 

“Imagine all of their faces when they learn you’re already pregnant.”

You let your hand run over Caraxes hard skin, the Dragon almost puring. At least you imagined he was. Daemon had given you the choice to stay back while he travelled to Kings Landing.

It would probably be the better choice to stay back. But a part of you wanted to face the people who had spent all their life making a living hell. 

You wanted them to see how you came out on top. 

“Ready to depart, my love?” You turned around, finding Daemon walking towards you, dressed for battle while you were wearing a soft pink dress he had brought you from one of his latest travels. The fabric playing around your curves. 

“How long will it take?” you asked. Daemon grinned as both of his hands stroked over the cold skin of his Dragon. You smiled, always fascinated by the bond between him and his gentle beast.

“Around a day.”

You sighed. 

“I will find ways to keep you entertained, my wife,” Daemon winked and you narrowed your eyes with a playful smile. 

“Keep in mind I am with child.”

“And I shall keep you and our babe perfectly safe,” he walked over to you, pulling you into his arms. 

“There is no safer space for you in this world than on my cock,” he whispered, sucking on your earlobe. You gulped, holding on to him as he kissed down your neck.

“Daemon…” you whimpered. 

“Climb on Caraxes, my love,” you felt him grin against your skin, “so you can climb on me.”

You were still in awe every time you travelled with Daemon on his Dragon. You remembered being scared the first time, but as soon as you sat in front of Daemon it was like your anxiety melted away. 

The world looked so small beneath you and you wondered more than once how just one person was allowed to rule over everything. 

It made you wonder about the men in this world. 

You and your father never liked each other. 

All your time was spent with your mother. You were devastated when she passed away. But you had not been allowed to grieve for her. Your father had married off within a week to John Lannister, a disgusting old man who made your life a living hell as soon as he took you away after the wedding. 

It was pure luck that Daemon had found you, remembering you from court. He had arrived as a guest to your home on his way to Dragonstone.

Within two days he had figured out something was wrong, noticing the bruises you could not cover up during the day when he walked with you to the gardens. 

He kissed you on day three. 

By day five you were widowed, swept away by the King of the Narrow Sea. 

There were rumours about your whereabouts. 

The right thing would have been to travel back to King's Landing, to inform your father about the sudden death of your husband so he could find a new match for you. 

Daemon had taken you to Dragonstone instead, making you his wife within weeks, showing you how beautiful and pleasurable life could be if you were happy. 

As happy as you could be with a man whose heart belonged to someone else.

A fact you chose to overlook time and time again when he made you cry out in pleasure, whispering words of affection in your ear at night, holding you close during thunderstorms because he knew you were scared of them. 

It was easy to fall for him and imagine your future with him. Outside of responsibilities and court.

You felt the Dragon ascend, the ground coming closer. 

“Are we landing?” you asked, turning your head over your shoulder so you could look at Daemon. 

“A quick break for some food,” he kissed your shoulder and you shrieked when the Dragon almost dropped out of the sky, holding onto Daemon’s arms, who just laughed against you. 

“Not funny,” you pouted, your heart beating quickly. 

It was almost nightfall when you finished eating. Caraxes had flown off to find himself something to eat too, but you could see him come back in the far distance. 

“I want you to sit on my cock for the next part of our journey,” Daemon smirked and you raised one eyebrow. 

“You just want me dripping with your cum once we arrive in King's Landing, don’t you?” you asked, sitting next to him. He pulled you on his lap, one hand protectively on your stomach, your belly only a little fuller than usual. 

You had started to show in the last week, but it could still be played off with enjoying the food a little too much. 

His other hand tilted your chin towards him, his eyes looking into yours. 

“You do not need to drip with my cum, you are growing my seed inside of you. You are my wife. You are mine in all ways possible,” he said and you smiled at him. 

“But yes I want you dripping with me. I want you to feel me with every step you take. I want you to feel me while they all look and juge us. I would fuck you in front of your father if I could. Fuck, I would fuck you in front of everyone just to show them that you’re mine,” you whimpered at his words, his breath brushing over your skin. 

“Daemon…” 

He kissed you, the kiss softer than you had anticipated, his hand rubbing over your belly. 

“You are my wife. And I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

You were sitting in front of Daemon, facing him this time as Caraxes flew through the night. The wind was bearable but Daemon had put a soft cloak around your shoulder, keeping you warm. His arms were around you as he held onto the saddle you were sitting in, one of your arms around his back as you rested your head against his shoulder.

Your legs were hooked over his, keeping you sitting chest to chest against each other.

“Just like that,” he hummed and you grinned, your other hand pumping his cock. 

“Don’t you think it’s inappropriate to have sex on your dragon?” you asked and he smirked. 

“He’s seen worse,” he kissed you. 

“A part of me really wants to know what you mean by that, but…”

“Maybe later,” he agreed and you looked up at him, your thumb spreading the precum over his tip. He groaned, letting his head fall against yours. 

“Stop teasing me, wife and come and sit on my cock,” he hissed and you grinned. You took a deep breath before you let go of him and pushed your dress up.

“If you let me fall I will hunt you from the dead to kill you,” you said.

“I would never do anything to harm you,” he promised. 

“You are about to fuck me on a Dragon while flying gods know how high above the ground during the night,” you remind him as you used both arms around his neck to pull yourself up. You felt one of his hands on your back, his other hand between your bodies to line himself up. 

“Fair. But just imagine how good it’ll feel once I’m inside you,” he grinned, his lips parting as you slowly sank down on him. You closed your eyes, feeling as his other arm came around you to pull you against him. His face was buried against your neck and you gasped when he was fully inside of you. 

You rolled your hips against his, letting your head fall back. He kissed up your throat and you moaned as he thrusted up. 

“Daemon please…” you let your head fall against his, looking into his eyes. 

“I want you to cum just like this,” he said as you rolled your hips against his. 

“And you can scream as loud as you want to, no one will hear you here,” he mumbled, before he kissed you. 

He moved his hips too, the proximity making it hard to move without risking certain death, but you already were close.

Being pregnant had made you more sensitive. Daemon was easily able to make you cum four times in a row now and you got the feeling this part of the journey would be no different. 

He began to quickly thrust into you, and you cried out, needing just a little more. 

You pulled at his hair and he groaned, his lips pressing against yours desperately. 

His tongue played with yours while he continued to move into you. 

You moaned into his mouth when your orgasm washed over you, taking you by surprise. You feel his lips grin against yours as you squeezed his cock, whimpering as you parted from his lips. 

“That was one. Let’s see how many time I can make you cum into we’re in King's Landing.”

Lips on your forehead were what woke you up. 

“Wake up my love. Time to face the vultures,” Daemon hummed and you blinked your eyes open slowly, noticing that you weren’t in the air anymore. 

You had fallen asleep at some point last night, losing count on how many times he had made you fall apart and how often he spilled inside of you. You looked down, finding him tucked back into his pants, your dress covering you up. He gave you a tiny smirk before he carefully helped you climb down the Dragon, following you close by. 

Caraxes looked at you and you felt shy for a moment before he nudged his head carefully against your belly, making you smile. 

You felt Daemon’s arm sling around your body as he kissed your temple. 

“You are exiled, Prince Daemon,” you heard the voice of your father behind you. You took a deep breath, looking up at Daemon who squeezed your hip before you both turned around. 

Your father’s eyes widened when he noticed you next to Daemon. 

“What is the meaning of this? We have been looking for you. You are a disgrace to this family…” he began, already walking towards you, when Damon stepped in front of you. 

“Choose your next words wisely, old man. You do not speak to my wife like that.”

“Your wife?” your father spat and you took Daemon’s hand as you stepped out of his protective shadow. 

“The husband you chose for me found…. A sudden death a while ago, I’m sure you heard. Prince Daemon asked for my hand and I agreed,” you said and Daemon smiled at you. 

“You have no right….” your father began. 

“We’re not here to offer you of all people any explanations. You did not care when you married me off to a monster who spent every waking hour making my life a living hell. You choose your path, and I will have no part in this. For all I know I have no father anymore,” you said. 

“Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re here to see the king,” Daemon said and began to walk towards the castle, pulling you with him. 

“The king is not available,” your father called behind you. 

“Then I’ll take a dragon egg myself and we’ll be on our merry way.”

You felt a hand around your wrist in the next moment and you could not look as fast as Daemon had pulled his dagger, pulling it against your father’s throat. 

“Let go of her,” Daemon hissed through his teeth and you felt your father’s hand slowly letting go of you. 

“You’re pregnant,” your father spat and you took a step away from him while Daemon once again stepped between the two of you protectively. 

“Which is none of your concern. You heard her. You have no claim on her life anymore.”

“You can’t just…” he began but Daemon did not let go of him, the blade of the dagger breaching his skin, drops of blood running down his throat.

He closed his eyes before he took a step back and Daemon reached for your hand. 

“Now go do your job and tell your king we’re here. But no rumours this time. Tell him how the daughter you married off to a monster finally found a suitable husband on her own and wishes to see the king,” Daemon sneered and you shivered at the tone of his voice. 

Otto Hightower looked at the both of you, his hand rubbing over the blood on his throat before he angrily released a breath and walked into the castle. 

“Are you alright?” Daemon turned towards you, his hands on your shoulders, his eyes searching for any injuries. You took a deep breath, but nodded. 

“Just a little shaken. I knew he would not be happy. And I still don’t care, but…”

“I know,” Daemon kissed your forehead. 

“Let’s go see my brother, so we can leave again,” he hummed and you nodded. 

“I’m glad you came into my life, “ you whispered and he smiled at you. 

“I’m glad too.”

[miaisocool]

Echoes of silence

Business man!Daemon Targaryen x College student reader!

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: A very short chapter but as the story progresses it will get longer and more exciting i promise and props to @kymopoleiak for making me this collage please go follow her she is also working with me as i write the chapters. This is a chapter two to Succession in the city so if you haven't read that please go do so!! check it out i will provide a link below!

Chapter one: Succession in the city

Chapter summary: You discover yourself entangled in the intricate dance of hesitation. Your Heartbeat resonating with echoes of silence and opportunity as you prepare to take the initiative. You cant help but ponder what will this engagement of communication lead to opportunities or a chapter in your life writing itself away.

At brunch:

As you walked and talked with Mia, there was a sense of comfort held within her presence as she was your childhood friend well, not technically since you only met her your freshman year of high school. she also moved to los angeles to pursue her dream of going to college in california but she wasn't sure what to study. You talked about everything from work to relationships, the conversations you guys usually held between each other flowed easily there was never any awkward silence being held or grudges against each other.

Only the feeling of each others presence comforting the two of you there was a sense of vulnerability in you whenever it came to mia she was the friend who you would come to whenever there was something that you couldn't reveal to others she was the only one that had ever seen tears flowing from your eyes which was all so new to you since sadness was the one emotion you never truly expressed to anybody, not even yourself it was a rare occurrence whenever you would break down either due to stress, sadness or just bottled up emotions of holding everything in for so long.

The streets were filled with horns honking, shoes clacking against the pavement the cool breeze swept your hair into your face, you tucked it behind your ear with a thoughtless, practiced motion, as if you'd done it a thousand times before. Your high heels clacked against the concrete as you and mia walked to your favorite brunch spot that remind you of a similar brunch spot in new york,

During your junior year of high school where your ex boyfriend took you out for a first date you were young, vulnerable and thoughtless. He was whom and what your whole world revolved around you pushed all of your friends away to make room for him causing your social skills to go down although you were very social and a great conversationalist and just a good people person in general. You felt like you were bound to him, the late night phone conversations, talking about wedding plannings and how many kids you guys would have, where you guys would settle down and his answer was usually italy which was a answer you didn't agree with since california was your mission ever since you were a young girl you felt as if he was the only guy you could ever put your trust in.

Even years after the breakup there was slight tinges of heartbreak pulling on your heart strings as you still remembered the contact of his touch the way his calloused fingers from playing guitar for you until you fell asleep would graze up and down against your soft thighs the skin to skin hard and soft contact felt comforting to you, you guys were complete opposites but there was something that spiritually connected you guys together you couldn't remember his face though it was hard to get it out when your heart yearned for him.. But you were alone now not hopeless, alone, broken but you were free, alone, still young and truly yourself.

The restaurant was your comfort spot the warmth of the sun glazed on your face bringing out your dilated pupils as you thought of the man that came up to you in the coffee shop last week. The outside fan blowing a slight coldness to your face fighting against the sunny heat of california, dishes were clanking against each other as waiters were scurrying around the restaurant as if they were rats from ratatouille helping to serve the rush of customers that came in. The modern black leathered chairs bringing out the restaurants not very vibrant atmosphere gave you a weird tinge of discomfort people walking near you and mia as you guys sat down outside listening to the birds chirp and cars pass by. You felt a knot slowly untangle in your throat as you let words flow out your mouth "I mean.. i dont know.. should i call him?" you asked under your breath as you fiddled with the glass you were holding the question hung in the air until, mia took a sip of her water. Ice clinking against the glass and then she brought back the glass down to the table "i mean whats the worse that could happen?" she said nonchalantly. Mia was somewhat right whats the worse that could happen but what could go right and if it did end up going up right what would happen?

"I dont know.. im just scared"

"Of?"

"I dont know.."

"See? you dont even know whats holding you back," mia shook her head at you as she scrolled through her phone before putting it facing down on the table again

"Sometimes, it's easier to do nothing rather than put yourself out there," you whispered the words catching the back of your throat.

"Sometimes it's ok to be the first to reach out" mia gritted her teeth in frustration as her eyes drooped low in dissatisfaction

you nodded your head cause you knew she was right

You take out the business card from your wallet, and carefully dial the number into your phone, trying to steady your somewhat shaking hand. The ringing sounds of the phone echoes in your ear as you look and make eye contact with mia as she takes a spliff of her cigarette between her cherry tinted lipstick staining thumbing the print left by her lipstick as she dusts the idle ash as her eyes connected with yours with a mere look. You feel your heart beating fast as you await to hear someone's voice on the other end.

After what felt like an eternity, the seconds seem to stretch on for an eternity before someone finally answers, and you can hear the relief wash over you as you hear, "Thank you for calling Targaryen Law and associates you’ve reached Alexa how can i assist you today?” Her voice resonated with assurance, triggering a vivid flashback to your own days in customer service. Memories flooded back from when you were just 18, working at a local grocery store. You remembered the feeling of dread each time the phone rang, the pressure to handle customer inquiries. Alexa's composed demeanor stirred those long-buried recollections, reminding you of the challenges you once faced in a similar role you didn’t enjoy it but your coworkers that got along with you made you enjoy it. you had to make a living if you wanted to end up successful or not homeless at least.

With a deep breath, you manage to clear your throat and free it from the tense knot that had formed there. The echoes of the impatient silence you heard on the phone still ring in your ears, causing a dull ache deep within your chest. You feel as if the silence itself had taken physical form.

“Yeah hi this is kiara i was hoping to speak with Mr Targaryen? is he available by any chance?”

"I understand your urgency. Let me see if I can arrange a brief moment for you. Please hold for a moment while I try to get Mr. Targaryen on the line."

You place the phone away from you as you fiddled with it in with your right hand waiting for what you assumed to be his assistant or one of his employees to say a response back quickly as if you knew the next words that were going to come out her mouth but that was a lie you didn't know her at all you wanted to, you longed for the mystery everyone had.. the mystery the people in Los Angeles held in his aura peaked your curiosity.. You take a few deep breaths to release the tension from your shoulders. As you look up, the light from the sun reflecting off the glass buildings surrounding you blinds you for a moment. A cool gust of wind blows past, bringing in the smell of flowers and city life. The sounds of honking cars, people chatting, and the hum of the city surround you, but you feel disconnected from it all being seconds or minutes away daemons presence as you were being transferred right there and on the phone with you knowing you had to take initiative.

“Daemon Targaryen speaking.”

As you heard Daemon Targaryen’s, dominant voice, a palpable sense of authority washed over you sending adrenaline throughtout your heart slowly beating at a faster tempo his words, deep and commanding, resonated through the phone, leaving no room for uncertainty. You couldn’t help but feel a mixture of respect and awe, tinged with a hint of intimidation. It was as though his voice had a magnetic pull, drawing you into his sphere of influence. His confident tone left an indelible impression.

You found yourself in shock by the way his voice flowed through your ears, each word dripping with authority and confidence. It wasn’t just the words he spoke, but the cadence, the resonance that seemed to echo in the very core of your being his words resonating with every chord coming from the music that was blasting in the restaurant. In that moment, you realized you were not just hearing a voice…

you were experiencing a commanding presence that stirred something deep within you.

“Yeah hi this is kiara… you gave me you’re Business card last week in the coffee shop i’m not sure if you remember” In a moment of panic, you found your voice, though it trembled slightly, breaking the silence that followed his powerful presence although he was over the phone and had no physical contact with you showed you how vulnerable you could be in his presence.

“Ah yes kiara i remember you, i gave you my card since i knew once how it was to be working on those weird marketing projects”

His voice had a magnetic pull, echoing into your ears It was a voice of empathy and softness, yet there was still an underlying intensity to it, as if it was trying to hold back the strength of his power. It was a voice that commanded attention and respect, yet it was also a voice that invited tenderness and compassion.

“yeah… studying marketing is weird.. it’s just that i’m struggling with it you know?”

You felt like there was barbed wires wrapped around your throat as words left your tongue when you made contact with the man who had higher power, held such a confident demeanor over you which is what possibly could’ve attracted you to call him he wasn’t ordinary like everyone else but he carried this mystery about his self and it felt like you had the opportunity to break his skin open and crawl inside his body confronting every secret he was hiding the mysteries or grudges he held against the strangers he would come across the interactions he had with a object or just a human in general made your mind wander with curiousity.

“Im available tomorrow since all my meetings were canceled due to.. god knows what.”

 his voice was like thunder sharp and commanding a touch of amusement in it, a glimmer of light that made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. His words held power, but there was a playful note in his voice, as if he were letting you in on a secret that nobody else ever had their ears opened to.

“My companys address is on the back of the card how does three pm work for you?” His deepened voice that sounded like silk against your touch intensified with curiosity that had peaked

“uh… yeah! i can meet that time at three pm tomorrow” You said overlapping the noise of the resturants music so mia could hear you. You couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement as mias eyes widened in surprise and her lips curves into a smile as she patted you on the forearm, her actions bringing back all of your senses as the man’s voice of authority and confidence had blocked out everything from the world and made you feel like there was nothing else in the world except his presence or yours. The thought made your heart race with anticipation. It was a feeling that was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time

“I’m glad to hear that, tomorrow give me a call when you’re here” It was a voice that demanded attention, and you were powerless to resist.

His voice combined with that sentence sent adrenaline to coarse throughout your veins. slowly coming back to your senses as you take a look at the brunch spot you guys had been at for the past hour and a half the aromas of cooked foods such as eggs, toast, sausages and variety’s of different lunch and breakfast sandwiches.

The not so vibrant interior comforting your skin as you made contact with it slowly turning into a cozy sense of home the home you had back in new york the warmth of the sunlight beaming off of the windows onto your face showing all of your features to your dilated pupils and exposed pores, porcelain skin.

Unfortunately the brunch spot wasn’t in a quiet neighborhood away from the city unlike the other spots you were used to in new york you could hear horns honking the sounds of people chattering and laughing somewhat muffling the conversation you held with mia and the conversation you held not too long ago with the man.. Daemon..

Daemon targaryen

You remembered from his card that he previously handed to you

The brunch spot was perfect for chatting and enjoying the presence of loved ones.

Perhaps even daemon.

if you dared to allow yourself the possibility. But deep down, you knew that was your delusions getting to you. It was best not to set yourself up for disappointment, to keep a clear head and enjoy the moment for what it was nothing more, nothing less. As you sat there, you let out a deep breath, watching the steam rise from your lips and melt into the air around you. For now, you were content to simply relax and let the world pass you by, taking comfort in the knowledge that, in this moment, everything was exactly where it should be.

[snowprincesa1]

Masterlist 𓅻𓅼𓅽

House of the Dragon 🐉

Daemon Targaryen:

A Fool of a Brother {2 Sept 2023}

{Daemon goes to the Vale to retrieve you, a particular woman who he thinks will help him win his brothers favour👀💟}

A Fool of a Brother🔥 (2/2) {4 Sept 2023}

{Daemon feels upset by your decision to leave kingslanding for the Vale. He would do anything to make you stay 💞💞}

Jacaerys Targaryen:

Seducing the prince🔥{21 Oct 2023}

{Jacaerys is betrothed to his childhood bully and finds pleasure in seeing her attempt to win his love and affection 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨💕💕💕}

Aemond Targaryen:

What bothers you? {2 Sept 2023}

{Aemond is upset by the fact that you won’t reveal to him what ails you 😮‍💨💗}

Aegon Targaryen:

Aegon’s Christine {22 Aug 2023}

{phantom of the opera au! Where prince Aegon attempts to hide his identity from you, a singer he’s obsessed with 💖💋}

Aegon’s Christine🔥 (2/2) {31 Aug 2023}

{Aegon’s plan to bring you to the red keep causes a drift in your relationship with you, will you overcome the hurdles together?}

Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Alicent Hightower:

Others:

Fanart Masterlist link

[lizzie-queenofmeigas]

do you know of any good Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen fanfics.

I don't know if they are good but I can tell you my favourites.

Wrestling with Snakes by madgirlslovesong(Sympathy4theDevil)

The Blacks and the Greens by SweetestPopcorn

Helaena Saw by sweetandviolent

Worse things to be sold for by PixieShips

Bigger than the whole sky by CharlieLeau

Lean on me by Liawhya

Until we are both ashes by Awfullylongtime

Those are the ones I can think of now.

[djlexi]

This was just an idea I had in my head for a little bit

So what if Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys have another child, around the same age as Helena (yes I know it’s odd, but can happen) she takes after her mother with long dark hair, but darker skin and emerald eyes. Laena takes her to Pentos with her and raises her as one of her own, her and Daemon also have a good relationship. She was there when Laena died and cried in Daemons arms. When they return back to Westeros for the funeral, she is greeted by Aegon. Their first interaction does not go well. She first finds him to be an annoying, selfish, drunk prick, meanwhile he is totally infatuated with her and tries his best to be around her. She instead choses to spend time around her nieces and nephews, being quite close to Jace. One night while again crying over her sister in the garden, Aegon happens to find her and offers her comfort( she begrudgingly accepts) they slowly grow closer, finding him to be quite sensitive, and seeing how he lacked love and compassion while growing up. She even goes as far and trys to defend him when Aemond accuses him of spreading rumors. When she find out that Laenor had died and that Daemond and Rhaenyra have been married, assuming they had been behind her siblings deaths, she loses it and flys off. Aegon is the only one who finds her, comforts and calms her down. Meanwhile Alicent and Rhaenys have noticed their affections towards one another and plan on marrying them to form an alliance. Daemon find Xreader and trieds to convince them to come back with him to dragonstone. She refuses and calls him a murder, announcing her engagement to “their future king”. She is married to aegon shortly after a marriage of not only convince but love

I’m not really good at writing whole story’s. I’m sorry if none of this makes sense, it’s all from my malipitive daydream 😭 if anyone else can just work off this for me that would be great please and thank you <3!!!🫶

Idk guys I am just hopelessly in love with this blond headed troubled boy 😭 I think all he needs is someone to truly love him.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hey! i just read "The soon-to-be father" and i wanted to say that it was one of the best things i have ever read, you are very talented♥️♥️♥️♥️ having said that i would like to know if there could be a sequel with reader's parents coming up at court and how is Daemon's relationship with his in-laws and with the birth going on and him not leaving her side for nothing (always encouraging her), With a lot of fluffy, a little angst (at the time of birth) but happy ending, please?

A sequel you shall have.

A princess is born

Paring : Daemon x Fem. Reader (from the Summer Isles.)

Themes : Angst | Happy Ending

Warnings : Mentions of maternal death | Complications during childbirth

Word count: 2.8k words

I drew inspiration from the birth scene in Daniel Steel's "Silent Honour" for this story.

Autumn was determined to stay.

The weeks dragged on, cold and dreary, each day seamlessly melting into the next.

Those within the Red Keep finally had something besides the weather and the King’s sons to talk about. They were having visitors, all the way from the Summer Isles.

Viserys was seated on the Iron Throne when Prince Sandoq Xho and Princess Ayana Qo were escorted in by Prince Daemon. "Your grace," he addressed his brother. "This is the Prince Sandoq Xho of the Red Flower Vale," Daemon first gestured to Prince Sandoq, "and this is his wife," He turned to the princess next. "The Princess Ayana Qo."

"Welcome," said Viserys, as cheerfully as he could muster. His condition had worsened, and some days, he struggled to make up the steps of the throne."And I must offer an apology, your highnesses, for not being able to attend the wedding of my brother to your daughter, the Princess y/n. I hear it was a most splendid affair."

In truth, Viserys could not make it as it would have been humiliating for a Targaryen king to arrive on anything other than a dragon's back. For years after Balerion’s death, he tried to bond with another dragon, but all his attempts ended in utter failure. His condition worsening had also made long journeys excruciatingly painful. Daemon came up with the excuse of conflict at the Stepstones in order to soothe ruffled feathers.

Prince Sandoq was not one to hold onto grudges, and he sensed that the king was not as well as he appeared to be. Viserys did not put on a convincing show of hiding his physical discomfort, and the cloudy right eye gave Sandoq pause. "Water under the bridge, as your people fondly say," the prince’s voice was rich and deep, like all those who lived on the Summer Isles. "And it was indeed a most splendid affair."

"Your brother got into a drunken boat race with my cousin," chortled Ayana. "Speaking of which, good-son, Quhuru insists on a rematch."

Daemon grinned. "Tell him to bring the boats. I’ll be more than happy to supply the wine."

"I'll make sure to start a wager," Sandoq said as he turned to face his captains. "Tell the others if they want to join."

Viserys, visibly relieved that his kin-by-marriage had not been insulted by his absence, broke out into a smile. "If there is to be a wager, then I insist on putting my own name into the pot. But for the time being," he clapped his hands, and servants carrying trays of salt and bread came forth. "We must engage in a traditional welcome."

Daemon had already told his good-parents about the bread and salt, how it was meant to ensure their safety during their stay.

"And have people honoured it?" Sandoq inquired as he showed them around the Red Keep.

"For the most part, yes." Daemon said as they exited the grand library. "Although, it is no guarantee."

"I suppose," said Ayana, as they stopped to admire the frescoes decorating the walls. She nudged her husband and smirked. "Left by your Targaryen forebearers, no doubt?"

"Indeed," Daemon stopped to consider the paintings. He had never paid them much mind before, the explicit details of couples and groups engaged in various acts of sexual intimacies "Although the Septons consider them lewd and vulgar."

"Mutually shared pleasures are lewd and vulgar?" Ayana pointed out another fresco to her husband, thinking their priests and priestesses might like to incorporate such paintings in temples dedicated to love. "How so?"

Daemon merely shrugged.  "Because they are hypocrites of the worst sort. They preach piety and fidelity and all the rest while committing every known sin under the cover of darkness." He started walking again, hoping to show them the sparring yard. He thought Sandoq might like to see the weapons they used. "And I think some of them never really had a good time in their lives, so they look down their noses on those of us who do."

Both Sandoq and Ayana snorted with laughter.

⍣ ⍣ ⍣

Both Sandoq and Ayana were pleased to find you in good health.

"How long before the baby comes into the world?" Your mother fluffed up your pillows as maids scurried about, preparing the bedroom for the birth.

"Another month," A good kick against your insides had you wincing. "But things feel different now. Daemon insists on moving me to your ship."

"He must have a good reason, to do such a thing."

"He’s worried, Ama." You groaned when there was another kick. The baby was very active this morning and seemed determined to not give you any peace. "He doesn’t trust his brother’s sons."

"We have all heard the stories. Especially about the oldest." said Sandoq, as he peered over a balcony. He and Daemon were looking out into the sparring yard, where Prince Aemond was dueling with Ser Criston. Both parried and slashed, and Aemond had to leap away whenever Criston brought down his morningstar. Aemond finally managed to knock the weapon out of the knight’s hand before gaining an edge and earning himself a victory.

Aemond was skilled, thought Sandoq, taller than most boys his age and three times as fierce, but there was something in his bearing that unnerved him. The prince’s jaw was always clenched, and his shoulders tensed up at the back. There was voilence there, voilence that could bubble up without a moment's warning. "Nasty things," Sandoq added, his alarm growing when Aegon and Aemond turned on each other, trying to beat each other to bloody pulps. "if you ask me."

Daemon sighed when Ser Criston had to force the brothers apart. "That’s why I want y/n on that ship as soon as possible," he said, as he led the way back inside. "Those boys will not take kindly to a prince that might supplant them in the line of succession."

Sandoq was stunned. "Can your brother do that? Simply disinherit his sons?"

"Viserys is the king. He can do it if his council believes it to be necessary. He was even told to do it for me and--"

"Well, you did try to seduce the Hand’s daughter," Sandoq interjected. "And the lady, I believe, is now married to the king?"

Daemon snickered, shook his head. "It was actually she who threw herself at me. Tried to kiss me one night during a feast. Her father turned up just as I was about to push her away. He looked at me, then at her, got this scheming look in his eye, and twisted everything to suit his own ends."

Viserys actually treated Otto’s words with large grains of salt, but to keep the peace, he asked Daemon if he would like to leave for Essos for a while, till things calmed down. Daemon agreed, not wanting to do anything that would make Viserys a target for Otto’s ire. He was now grateful for Otto’s scheming, as he would not have met you while touring the Summer Isles.

Sandoq’s bright feathered cape rustled with every movement he made. "The queen’s father is Otto Hightower, yes?"

"You have met him?"

Sandoq had indeed met him and remembered their interactions with distaste. "Years ago, in Braavos. A leech, if I ever saw one."

"An apt description, if you ask me." Daemon beamed when they walked into the bedroom. "And how are you two ladies doing."

"Talking about your nephews." You had been fanning yourself. Despite the cold, you felt uncomfortably warm. Hot flushes, the midwife said, nothing to fret about.

"Which is why we came with four spearmaidens," said Ayana. "They can accompany you where men cannot go."

"Thank you, Ama." There was another kick, making you wince and draw breath. Your back had been hurting all through the morning, and just now, a sharp pain shot up your back, making it feel like your body was on fire. "And how was the voyage here?"

"Long. Tiring. To be honest, I kept below decks for most of it." Ayana studied you, thinking she detected something familiar in the way you caught your breath, how you let out a soft exhale as some unseen pain passed.  There was still a month to go, so she decided it was best not to worry. "But I did get to see a dragon fly over our ship as we neared Blackwater Bay."

"A grey-white one, like the morning mist." Supplied Sandoq. "We were told it was a wild dragon."

"Grey Ghost, I'd wager." Daemon gave the name for one of several wild dragons that lived on the far side of Dragonstone. "He’s not as bad as the others. He hunts fish."

"And no one has claimed him?" Sandoq turned to you, his eyes gleaming. "Daughter, perhaps for the baby, I think—"

"Aba, I will tell you the same thing I told my husband." You ignored the pain and cut your father off before he got any ideas. "No wild dragons. No," you say as you raise your hand and wag your finger at him. "I will not entertain talk of your grandchild going anywhere near a wild dragon."

Sandoq muttered under his breath, "Spoil-sport." He grinned, spread his hands. "But can you imagine the prestige? Your child flying atop a wild dragon?"

"I told her the same thing," huffed Daemon. "And she still refused."

"Maybe the two of you could try and bond with one of the wild dragons then," Ayana quipped.

You snickered. "Aba going anywhere near a wild dragon? Oh, this I would love to see."

Sandoq sputtered in mock indignation and clapped a hand to his chest. "You doubt me? The prince Sandoq Xho? Daughter, I-" His words died on his tongue when you clutched at your stomach, your mouth half-open in a silent cry, your face going white as a sheet.

"Sweetheart?" Daemon came over, panicked. "Sweetheart, what’s wrong?"

You let out a sigh of relief and fell back onto soft pillows when the pain left as quickly as it came. "It’s the baby. I think it’s time."

⍣ ⍣ ⍣

There was no time to move you to your parents’ ship.

There was no time to even get the healers that came with your parents.

Everything just happened in a rush, as if the baby was determined to make their entry into this world. Sandoq still rode to the harbour, to fetch the healers, in case your labours dragged through the night and more help was needed.

Until then, however, Daemon had to yield to the aid of the Maesters and the midwives, and insisted on being present in the room.

"Your presence is not necessary your grace," said Grand Maester Mellos. "And it is all rather odd. Fathers are not wanted or even needed in the birthing room."

Daemon stared the man in the eye while the rest rushed about to get you ready. "I am not leaving my wife here, you are not sending me anywhere."

"B-but m-my prince," huffed Mellos, his sense of propriety thoroughly offended. In all his years he had never witnessed such a thing: wives leaning on a Maester and their midwives, the husbands eager to quit the room as soon as opportunity presented itself. "This is most unheard of."

"Really?" Daemon just smiled sweetly and reached for Dark Sister. The air seemed to vibrate and hiss when he unsheathed his sword. "And what do you propose to do about it, hmm?"

Mellos, having borne witness to the prince killing Lord Vaemond in the throne room years ago, blanched in fear. Anyone with wit knew better than to test the Rogue Knight, and Mellos prided himself on being a man of wit. He swallowed, and finally nodded in acquiescence. "B-but th-there can be exceptions, my p-prince." He gulped and eyed the sword in Daemon’s hands, the one that could cut through flesh like a hot knife through butter. "You may stay."

"Of course I may," Daemon hissed before making his way to the bed.

Your mother held a cold washcloth over your forehead, helping you breathe and letting you squeeze down on her hand as a new contraction ripped through you. Daemon took over, taking your hand into his. "I th-think I h-hate y-you," you grumbled after your next contraction.

Daemon simply grinned. "Of course you do, my love," he teased. "I did this to you, remember?"

Your giggle died at the next contraction, this one so sharp and painful it made you scream in agony. What rolled off your lips next was a litany of oaths that would put the most ill-bred of sailors to shame. Colourful and very inventive, and scandalizing Mellos’ sense of propriety even more. The women were unconcerned, having heard and said far worse things during their own labours. Daemon kept grinning, not complaining when your hand squeezed hard against his on every contraction. He kept encouraging you, cracking jests at his own expense, trying to distract you from the pain.

The chief midwife examined you after the next contraction. "I see the head!" she cried. "Keep pushing, princess, they’ll be out soon enough."

Alas, that was not the case.

An hour passed.

The another. And another.

With each passing hour, you grew weaker. And the baby hadn’t moved, stuck where they were, unable to move forward.

Daemon was growing more fearful by the second. He knew what happened to his good sister. His niece told him everything, holding nothing back. Gutted like a fish, Rhaenyra had spat, and no one thought to even ask if my mother was willing to make that sacrifice. Daemon shook his head as he held another cold compress to your head while you tried to rest. He was not going to entertain the notion at all.

A door opened, then closed. Daemon could see more maesters coming in, conferring with Mellos, the chief midwife. A leather pouch was produced, and a thin blade made of Valyrian steel was pulled out. "Is there another way?" Desperate, he turned to your mother. "Is there a way to save them both without resorting to that?"

Ayana saw the blade glinting wickedly in the dying light and winced. She remembered attending her sister’s birth and what was done when the baby refused to move.  "There is, but we have to act fast. Sarell," she summoned a young midwife with hands gentle enough for the task at hand. "Place your hands here, and when y/n pushes, I want you to push down as much as you can. It might make the baby move."

Sarell gulped but placed her hands over your ribcage, just above the baby. Daemon helped you up, made you focus on him. "Wh-what is sh-she doing?"

"We’re trying to force the baby out." Ayana moved to between your legs, to see if there’d be any change. She shot a look at the chief midwife, and the woman took the hint, tried to keep the Maesters distracted.

"Can you do this?" asked Daemon.

Daemon told you the story of his brother’s wife—what happened and how everything went wrong. Fear whipped through you like angry coils, but you couldn’t give up now. Your life and your child’s life depended on it. You dug deep, found a reserve of strength you never knew you had, and fought against the terror that threatened to devour you. One more try. You had to try one more time. "I c-can."

On the next contraction, Sarell pushed down when you did, and the pain was nothing like you had experienced before. You screamed and screamed, as wave after wave of pain hurtled over you. There was another contraction, another push. You could have sworn you crushed Daemon’s hand to dust, but you heard nary a word of complaint from him. He kept encouraging you, giving you the strength to go on, even when it felt like your ribs were being crushed under Sarell’s hands.

You kept trying. And trying.

And you kept weakening, like your life-force was draining from you. You still kept fighting, unwilling to give up.

The Maesters pushed past the other midwives, ready to intervene, and then –

"The baby’s moving!" Your mother nearly sobbed. "A few more pushes, daughter, and they’re out!"

You felt something moving and shifting, going faster and faster, and then an indignant howl pierced the air. There was another order to push, this time to bring out the afterbirth. You were beyond exhausted, but a wave of new energy claimed you when you heard your baby crying.

"A girl," Ayana wrapped the infant in cloth and handed her to Daemon to hold because you were so exhausted from your ordeal. "A new Targaryen princess, good-son."

Daemon was overawed for the first time in his life as he held his child. He felt tears for the first time in his life.

"A daughter," he rocked the baby and brought her to you, holding your arms over his as they’d been trembling from exhaustion. "We have a daughter," he cooed. "And I’m so proud of you, my love."

Seeing your child in your arms made the pain of the previous several hours fade away, if only for a moment. "And she has your eyes," you beamed weakly. "True Targaryen purple, like amethysts."

"Have you decided on a name?" Ayana asked after cleaning her hands.

You looked at Daemon and smiled. "Baela. Baela Targaryen."

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