#daemon x reader

[fantasydreamland]

ME WITH FICTIONAL MEN

[desigal-26]

“Husband” “Wife” is amazing, for a first smut you did very well, you even made me feel…things while I was reading😏😏😏🤭🤭🤭. Thank you so much for accepting to write my request. And now, if it's not too much to ask, can I get the grand finale, with them months or even years later being a powerful couple in an enviable marriage, and Martell Reader finding out she's expecting her first baby and the whole process, from the discovery, her telling Daemon, the court whispering how their marriage is probably over now and Daemon will be a terrible father, just for our dear Rogue Prince to show everyone they're wrong, and him being a devoted husband to her throughout the pregnancy, fulfilling her wishes, helping with her mood swings and pains and when the baby is finally born, he proves himself to be an incredible father, (maybe with a 5 or 6 year time jump with their child being a little older?) Basically Daemon being an incredible man, husband and father and if possible all the stages of Reader's pregnancy, please?

It’s never too much to asked

Little Dragon

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

Read Part One here, Part Two here and Part Three here

When parenthood comes knocking on their doors

After almost a summer turns since their marriage, the couple finally are blessed with a child.

Warning: Mentions of pregnancy and related problems, mentions of childbirth, the court speculating about the couple—mostly Daemon. Rest all fluff.

Word Count: 2.3k

“Daemon,” she cooed softly, peaking her head through the gap in the fluttering curtains that divided their bedchambers from the study the prince had erected only to read ancient tomes in High Valyrian in quiet peace, away from the bustling chaos of the court that was governed mostly by snakes and crabs that whispered in the shadows.

The Commander of the City’s Watch didn’t look up from the account he was reading on the Doom of Valyria—or more precisely, an assumption. He only hummed, tilted his head to the side only a fraction to let her know that he heard, but not entirely ready to indulge in a conversation yet.

She pouted, rolling her eyes and stepping into the room with an authority of a Queen’s—which she wasn’t, but that didn’t mean she won’t hold herself like one. The Dornish lace glowed underneath the flickering candlelight—sewn into an alluring and not too appropriate night shift by accompanying the delicate lace with the richest of Essosi silk in the shade of crimson that resembled the prince’s beloved mount Caraxes.

She sauntered over to the table, leaning down on it to let the low neckline deep scandalously, allowing anyone sitting where Daemon did a view too obscene to be deemed lady-like. But she was anything but that when she was with her husband. A seductress dancing and alluring her favourite prey to a night too sinful to deny.

She purred his name again, stretching the syllables—a siren’s call. But Daemon didn’t budge, not when he had already experienced almost all of her techniques in the one summer’s turn they have been married for.

She huffed then, straightening up and crossing her hands in front of her. “I had something to tell you,” she announced finally, in a voice that conveyed her annoyance and brought a little smirk on her husband’s face, who finally placed the tome down and looked up at the tempting sight of his wife all dolled up for him.

“And what would it be, my love?” He queried, standing up and walking around to tower over her. His amethyst gaze roamed over every inch of her bare skin, committing the sight of her in that shift to his mind for he didn’t know if the garment would survive the night or not.

A small smile graced her face, radiant and bright. Like she was to let him in on a secret too sacred for the world to know.

She leaned into him, lips brushing his ears as she whispered, “I am with a child.”

A moment passed between them, silent and charged. Daemon stood still, face unreadable while the gears of his mind churned to process the news she gave him. Not long after, his hands found her waist, lips parting while eyes widened as he looked down at her still flat belly.

He knelt, slowly and gently in a way that he probably never did, one of his hand moving to splay protectively over her belly while he looked up at her with tears glistening in his eyes. He placed a kiss on her stomach, whispering to the child.

“You will be loved, little dragon.”

From that moment on, he changed—not becoming distant as the court whispered, but more attuned to his Desert Snake’s needs than ever before. Watchful and protective in a manner that made her tease him for his glares to anyone who would stare at her for a long time.

The court speculated once the news was announced. Whispers spun behind the backs of the couple that had finally been blessed with a child. They murmured of how he will grow tired of the Martell princess once she swells as the pregnancy would advance, that he will seek comfort in the arms of some other women or a common whore once she couldn’t fulfil his baser needs.

But they didn’t saw him holding her hair back for her while she emptied her stomach in the chamber pot, or whispering soft murmurs into her hair when she would embrace him after that��tired and heaving.

He had grown attuned to her newest dislikes, remembering what all she looked at with distaste and personally made sure were kept away from her. May it be the shrimps that had made her look at the servant girl like she had personally offended the princess, or the boar meat that didn’t stay in her stomach for more than a few minutes.

There were nights when she couldn’t sleep, when her body was too sore and tired but her mind somehow couldn’t stop working. Even on nights such as that, he remained awake with her, whispering about fabricated tales of dragons or singing her a lullaby in the language she couldn’t quite grasp on, or even just lying beside her, his hand rubbing circles on her slowly growing belly.

And once her pregnancy started to show, he glowed more than she did. Assisting her when she climbed stairs—a hand on the back or perhaps taking her arm to support a bit of her weight. The court grew accustomed to the Rogue Prince always touching the Martell Princess in one way or the other. Maybe a hand at her back, or his hand resting gently against her bump. A soft kiss brushing against the back of her hand or her temple.

No one anticipated to ever saw Daemon arguing with a tailor over fabric for his wife’s dresses until they were comfortable to wear and the painful corsets were replaced with silk lining. Or to see her braiding his hair for a moment of hormonal amusement while he sat still, allowing her to do whatsoever she pleased.

The nights though, were spent soothing the restless child until it settled, allowing the mother to fall asleep while he spoke to the growing baby in hushed High Valyrian, narrating stories of the great conqueror and warriors before gently reassuring the child that he would always be there to protect them—the two most important beings in his life.

The beginning of the third trimester was marked by the beginning of the uncomfortable pain and the turbulent mood swings. The Desert Snake turns into the shifting waves of Driftmark—one second, glowing and basking in the glow of the sunlight and in another, reduced to tears because whatever she craved for wasn’t given, or because the fruit she wished to have was only found in her native land.

And Daemon? Like a devoted husband and a soon-to-be husband, flies to Sunspear and brings back three baskets of the said fruit, while Caraxes looked at him—judging silently

One night, when he reached out for her in bed, she flinched and turned away, grumbling about being too hot—but the prince knew better than to believe the white lie. “What happened, little wife?” He had queried, nudging her to face him and looked at her with concern flickering in his eyes, his hand instinctively resting against the curve of her stomach.

She tried to dismiss him with the same lie repeating on her lips, but he persisted, replying that he knew her better, that he knew that something troubled her. “I am not how I was before,” she whimpered, crystal tears flowing down her eyes while she turned her face to the side—sniffling and trying to hide from his gaze.

But Daemon had none of it. Callous hand softly cupped her face, turning her to look back into his eyes that looked down at her, reverent as if gazing down at a goddess.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid my eyes on,” he whispered, lips grazing hers in a soft kiss while his hands moved slowly, fingering the hem of her shift and pushing it up, much to her protest. The rest of the night, he spent tracing each of her stretch marks with his lips like holy runes, reminding her of how beautiful she was—body and soul.

But despite the bliss of the fatherhood knocking on the doors of his life, there was denying in the fear that crept in the Rogue Prince’s mind as the days to the childbirth passed away like sand slipping through fingers. His own mother had perished in childbirth, for giving birth to a son that soon followed her into death. His brother Viserys’ first wife died the same painful deaths fulfilling her duty to the throne for providing the king an heir. And those were just the cases that Daemon had seen with his own eyes. The ones he had heard of? Countless.

And he would be damned if anything was to happen to his wife and child.

“You’re silent,” she had whispered one night when his mind had raced too far, thoughts too loud and fear gripping him too tight. He hadn’t broken his silence, but he had gathered her in his arms—or so he tried, because with her bulge, it was hard to embrace her now; and he had counted her breaths while she slept.

The birth itself started during a celebration for the name day of the King. Her soft, almost hesitant voice informing him of the pain that shot through her body, of the warmth of her water trailing down her legs.

It was a long labour. Maesters and midwives scrambling to deliver the child and comfort the princess respectively while also trying to get Daemon to step outside the room. But he had decided long back that he won’t be his father or brother. He refused, instead kneeling down next to her, hand encasing hers while another pressed cold cloths to her brow, cleaning the sweat. He muttered encouragements in her ear, like battle prayers.

She screamed and withered, cursed him and the midwives and the maesters. And while the midwives all turned wide-eyed and flustered at the unladylike words spilling from the usually composed Dornish woman, the Rogue Prince only grinned grimly, letting her squeeze his hand as hard as she wanted while she pushed their child into the world.

“Just once more, Princess,” the oldest of the midwives—a woman in her early fifties encouraged, drawing circles on her calf. The said Princess gritted her teeth, and pushed with a scream that shook the entire wing of the Red Keep until a shrill cry followed it.

Daemon kissed her forehead, praising her for her resilience and strength while everyone else moved to cut the umbilical cord and clean the baby while also preparing to deliver the afterbirth. But there was a heavy tension as the maester moved to hand the child to the heaving mother.

“It’s a girl, my prince, my princess.”

The Rogue Prince. The Commander of the City Watch. The Prince of the Realm. He weeps, quietly but the tears fall while his heart threaten to burst from the joy that fills it. She holds the baby—their daughter, who quietens down once in her mother’s embrace. He placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead before turning to the little bundle that looked like the perfect mixture of the couple.

“Are you satisfied, my love?” She asked in a whisper, her eyes soft as she watched her husband gently cradle their child in his war-hardened hands, cautious as if she was made of glass—delicate like a flower found only in the Highgarden.

“Are you well, my wife?” He queries back, his gaze flickering up just in time to catch her tired smile and sparkling eyes. She nodded, her hand moving to rest on his shoulder, a calming presence in his turbulent and chaotic life.

An ambient silence settles in the room once everyone is gone, leaving the family to be. His rough hands, so attuned to holding Dark Sister, feels a different kind of peace whilst holding a flower that bloomed from his seed—nourished inside the woman he has come to love. His eyes traced each of the girl’s little feature, committing it to the memory while his wife shifted, leaning closer to them.

“My little dragon,” he whispered, leaning down to place a kiss on his daughter’s forehead—a father pledging his life to his little girl.

“Alyssa,” she whispered into his ear, watching with a soft smile as she watched Daemon’s lips part in realisation, eyes widening while a stray tear trailed down his cheek while he looked up at her. She moved her hand, cover their daughter’s face so as if the tear dropped, it won’t disturb the child who had fallen asleep.

“We could name her after your mother,” he offered with a trembling voice, silently at awe of the woman he had married and chosen to finally settle with. She shook her head, leaning down on his shoulder and let out a tired but content sigh. “I don’t remember her, but I want to remember yours.”

And so it was decided. Alyssa Targaryen was born again.

And unlike the one before, she did not grow up in the politics of the court of King’s Landing. But she grew up in the ambient sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs of Dragonstone, watching her mother give birth to her younger brother—Baelon, and father teaching her dragon riding and the skill of sword.

“Muña.” (Mother)

The former Martell looked up with a smile, her son rocking on her hips while her daughter bounced on her heels, closely followed by her smug looking husband. She raised an eyebrow at the pair, tilting her head to the side.

“What mischief were you two up to today?”

Alyssa grinned, flopping down at the cushioned bench.

“You won’t believe what we did today!”

Daemon grinned too, looking at his wife who was watching him with a pointed glare. He only shrugged.

“Just a little fun with my little dragon, my desert snake.”

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 23 - The Dragon's Joy

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

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Hall of Dragonstone had never looked so alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon raised his goblet and stood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staring, Uncle” she murmured.

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

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

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

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

Only this.

Daemon leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers.

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

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

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

“Always,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The murmur that rippled through the hall was immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[xx-dinah-writing-xx]

Closer to Gods Than to Men

Daemon Targaryen x reader

Angst

————

They married you to him like they were feeding a lamb to a dragon.

You remember the heat of the sept, the scent of incense thick in your throat, the weight of the crown prince’s eyes as he stared past you as though you were glass. Daemon Targaryen stood tall and regal, but the disinterest on his face burned more than hatred ever could. He did not sneer. He did not spit. He did not draw his sword in protest. He simply tolerated your presence, just as he might endure a dull ache in his jaw or a stone in his boot. His hand held yours for the briefest moment during the ceremony, cold and still and impersonal, and when the vows were said, and the crowd erupted into applause, he did not lean in to kiss you. He walked away before your hand had even fallen to your side.

That was the beginning.

The days that followed passed like a slow suffocation. The walls of your new chambers were made of dark stone and darker silences. The servants bowed, but they spoke in hushed tones when you entered. The courtiers smiled with pity you refused to acknowledge. And your husband, your prince, spoke to you less than anyone else.

You would hear his boots in the hall, the low murmur of his voice as he dismissed guards or issued orders. But when he crossed the threshold into your shared spaces, he barely looked at you. He dined without speaking, drank wine until his tongue loosened for others, but not for you. His gaze remained distant, drifting past you, seeing everything but you.

He did not touch you. Not in anger, nor affection. Not even to claim what had been handed to him in marriage. And in a way, that hurt more than any cruelty ever could. Because indifference is its own kind of violence.

You stopped hoping for more after the first fortnight. You stopped dressing to please him. You stopped waiting for him to ask questions about your past, your interests, your favorite poems or perfumes. He did not care. And so you buried the girl who cared beneath layers of courtesy, compliance, and quiet. You learned to live beside a man who wished you were someone else.

The days turned into weeks. You slept alone, even in the same bed. He came and went as he pleased, always shrouded in armor or irritation. The only thing that seemed to spark any emotion in him was a blade, or his dragon, or Viserys’s ever-disappointing council meetings. You became part of the furniture. A shadow in his household. A silent woman in a home filled with echoes.

And then you began to bleed. Not the kind that came with moons, but something darker. Heavier. Something that made your limbs tremble and your head swim. You collapsed once in the corridor, and the maesters rushed to your side with furrowed brows and worried murmurs. They examined, they prodded, they whispered behind closed doors. When you asked for the truth, their voices softened with grief.

Your body was dying. Some sickness in the blood. Something slow, merciless, and beyond their skill to cure.

You kept it to yourself.

You had already grown used to the idea of not being loved. You could grow used to the idea of not being alive.

It wasn’t until the second collapse, in front of a noble visiting from Oldtown, that Daemon noticed something was wrong. You had tried to excuse yourself, to stand, to hide the trembling in your hands, but your legs gave out and the world tilted sharply. And suddenly he was there, catching you before you hit the stone. His arms were stronger than you expected, rough where yours were delicate, and he held you for a moment too long. Long enough for your breath to catch, long enough for his to slow.

He carried you to your chambers without a word.

After that day, something changed. Not immediately. He still vanished for hours. Still spoke little. But sometimes you would look up from your books and find him watching you from across the room, his expression unreadable. Other times he would brush your fingers with his as he passed you a cup, and though it might have seemed accidental, you knew it was not. He began to sit with you at meals instead of eating in the solar. He would speak, just a few words at first, asking after your noon activities or the book in your lap. But his voice no longer sounded like steel. It sounded curious. Careful.

He asked you once if you feared dying. You were lying in the garden, the sun warm on your face, the scent of lemons in the air, and his voice broke the silence like a knife in water.

“No,” you answered softly, eyes on the sky. “But I fear never having lived.”

He did not reply for a long while. Then he lay beside you on the grass, so close your fingers nearly touched.

“I hated you,” he said. “At first. Because you were a cage. Another chain Viserys wrapped around my throat.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“But you are not a chain. You are the only thing in this castle that does not suffocate me.”

The breeze carried your breath away before you could find words.

After that, he stopped pretending not to care.

He brought you wildflowers. He sat with you by the fire and told you stories of Dragonstone’s past. He ran his fingers through your hair when you could no longer braid it yourself. He kissed you for the first time in the courtyard after the rain, your cheeks wet and your lungs tight, and it felt like something desperate, something he had been holding back for too long.

You let yourself hope. You let yourself believe.

And for a little while, you were not just Daemon Targaryen’s wife. You were the woman he wanted. The woman he held when sleep eluded him. The woman he murmured to in the dark.

He touched you like he was afraid you would vanish. He kissed you like he needed to remember the shape of your mouth. He held you close enough that the sickness almost seemed to retreat. Almost.

But the gods are cruel.

They are especially cruel to Targaryens, those born of fire and blood, who walk closer to heaven and madness than any mortal should. They are not meant for peace. Not meant for joy. And so they gave him you, and then they took you away.

You were lying together in the garden that evening.

It was unusually warm for that time of year. The skies had taken on a golden hue, and the sea wind had softened to a gentle hum. The servants had laid out furs beneath the blooming lemon trees, and you had sunk into them like something boneless, your head resting against Daemon’s thigh. His fingers carded through your hair, unhurried, almost absentminded, like he still could not quite believe you allowed it. Or maybe that he allowed himself to do it.

He had been telling you about a boyhood hunt on Dragonstone, his voice rough with smoke and memory. You only listened half-heartedly, too content, too tired, tracing invisible circles on the back of his hand where it lay across your stomach.

You did not feel it at first. Just a tickle in your throat.

Then the taste.

Salt. Metal.

You sat up, one slow motion at a time, blinking. You wanted to say his name, but something rose up too fast from your lungs, hot and choking.

Daemon’s brows furrowed. “What is it?”

Your eyes widened. Your lips parted.

The blood came quickly.

A hot rush flooded your mouth, spilling between your teeth before you could cover it. You turned your head, gasping, but it was already pouring down your chin, staining your gown, the furs, your fingers. You tried to speak but only coughed violently, red splattering across your lap like spilled ink.

He stared at you for one stunned moment. Then everything changed.

“Someone fetch the maesters!” he roared, already gathering you in his arms, your body limp and shivering. “Now!”

You tried to breathe, but each inhale came shorter, sharper, as though your lungs had been turned inside out. Blood bubbled at the corners of your lips. You could feel it dribble down your neck, thick and wet and warm. He pressed his hand against your back, tried to lift you upright, to help you breathe.

You could hear him saying your name.

Again and again.

Frightened. Furious.

“Look at me,” he commanded, voice cracking. “You are fine. Do you hear me? You are fine. Look at me. Look at me, godsdammit.”

But your gaze had already gone glassy. You blinked, slow and languid. The pain in your chest twisted, then dulled, as if the world had been plunged into water. His face swam in front of you. You tried to lift your hand to his cheek, but it slipped down your side, useless.

He held you tighter. His eyes were wild. His mouth moved around prayers he did not believe in.

You coughed again, a terrible, gurgling sound, thick with blood, like a dying animal with its throat cut. The taste of it drowned your tongue. You could not speak. Could not ask him not to cry. Could not tell him that you had known, that you had made peace with it long ago.

Your fingers twitched once. Then stilled.

And just like that, you were gone.

Daemon did not realize it at first. He kept shaking you, calling your name like a man possessed, his voice rising and breaking and turning into something hoarse and broken. He clutched you close, the blood soaking into his clothes, his hands stained crimson.

By the time the maesters arrived, he was on his knees, cradling your body in his arms, rocking it gently, like a father might soothe a sleeping child.

He did not look up.

Not even when they touched his shoulder. Not even when they spoke his name.

He stayed there long after your skin cooled, until the stars came out, and the fireflies buzzed low to the ground, and the entire world felt insultingly unchanged.

His face was wet, though no one ever saw him weep.

He had told you once that he hated cages. That he hated being chained.

But in the end, it was your death that bound him tighter than any crown, any throne, any war.

He had waited too long to love you.

And now there was no time left.

They say Targaryens are closer to gods than to men.

But the gods, in their jealousy, curse them all the same.

————

They dressed you in white.

He had not asked for it, but the servants must have known. Or perhaps they feared what he would do if it wasn’t done right. There were things one didn’t risk with Daemon Targaryen — especially not when his wrath was being held together by a single, fraying thread.

The room where your body lay was filled with flowers. Lilies and hyacinth. Roses from the gardens you loved. Someone had braided your hair with little sprigs of jasmine. He had not touched you since the blood dried. Could not bring himself to clean it from his hands.

He wore it still. Under his nails. In the lines of his palms. A mark he would not wash away.

He had not spoken since that night. Not properly. His brother had written. So had Rhaenyra. He burned both letters unopened.

There was a silence in the castle now. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that crept like smoke through the stones, heavy with waiting. The servants did not look him in the eye. The guards stood stiff at their posts. Even Caraxes kept his distance, pacing restlessly in the pits.

Daemon spent his days in the solar. The room you loved. The one you filled with books and candles and things he used to mock you for, once upon a time. He sat in your chair, legs spread, arms limp at his sides, as if the effort of holding himself upright was just too much.

That was where he found the letter.

Not tucked away. Not hidden in some secret compartment. But right there. On the desk. Beneath the paperweight he had once seen you use.

It was sealed with wax. Pressed with your signet. His name written in your hand.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he opened it.

Your writing was softer than he remembered. You must have been trembling when you wrote it. The ink in places looked smudged, as if your fingers had dragged over the lines before they dried.

Daemon,

If you are reading this, then I am gone. And you are furious.

Please do not shatter the solar. Or fly to Oldtown and burn the Citadel. Or kill anyone. I know you. I know your fury. And if I could stay, I would have. If I could give you more time, I would have stolen it from the gods themselves.

But I knew. For months, I knew. I felt it in my bones, in my blood. The maesters confirmed it, though they dressed it in kinder words. I chose not to tell you. Not because I wanted to lie. But because, for the first time since our wedding, you began to look at me like I mattered. And I could not bear to take that from myself. From you.

You hated me when we wed. You never pretended otherwise. I had made peace with that. I had made peace with dying alone, unloved. But then you changed. Or maybe I did. And we met each other somewhere in the middle, where the silence broke and your hands finally stopped trembling when they held mine.

It was enough, Daemon. It was everything.

You gave me laughter in my final days. You gave me the warmth of being seen. Touched. Held. I did not want our love to be shaped by grief. I did not want to spend what little time I had watching you fall apart.

So I let myself have you, just as you let yourself have me. And that is how I want you to remember it. Not as a tragedy. But as a mercy the gods rarely give our kind.

You were never a cage to me. You were freedom.

Please remember that.

Yours,

Always,

Your Wife

Daemon did not move for a long time after reading it.

The air in the solar turned thick. The candle flames bent in the wind.

He read the letter again. And again. And again. As if somewhere in the repetition, the truth might change.

But it didn’t.

You had known.

All that time. You had known.

You had lain in his arms, smiled at him, let him whisper promises into your hair, knowing you would never live to see them kept.

He crushed the letter in his fist. Rose from the chair. For a moment it seemed like he might upend the entire desk, splinter it into a thousand pieces, tear the books from their shelves and set them alight.

But he didn’t.

He only turned toward your empty chair.

And knelt.

He pressed his forehead to the place where you always rested your hands. The wood was worn there. He remembered once watching you tap your fingers against it while reading. He had mocked you for it. You had smiled.

Now, he would have given anything to hear that sound again.

“You should have told me,” he said softly. It came out cracked. Barely a whisper. “You should have told me.”

The grief settled into his bones, not like fire, but like frost. Cold and slow and permanent.

You had not died in his arms like a queen, soft and serene. You had choked on your own blood like something hunted. And he had not even known why.

He thought he hated you once.

But nothing compared to how much he hated the silence you left behind.

[lanadelreylover11]

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

[the-djarin-clan]

When you look for a fic on Tag Reader and the main character already has a name and social security number...

[goldensunflowe-r]

“What would you call the husband to the queen?”

“Well the king…”

“-there it is then.”

“-consort.”

Umm... Literally my new favorite character. Simon Strong, ladies and gentlemen. The only one who humbles Daemon during these days.

[moonlight-joy]

The Dragon’s Defiance

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Queen Alicent Hightower attempted to humiliate you, the pregnant wife of Daemon Targaryen, by summoning you to the throne room in a calculated power play. However, Daemon fiercely defended you, publicly dismantling Alicent’s scheme and forcing King Viserys to intervene in your favor. Alicent’s plan backfired, exposing her desperation and strengthening your bond with Daemon. Together, you stood as an unshakable force, a reminder that dragons bow to no one.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

The Red Keep had always been a maze of whispers and shadows, but since Queen Alicent Hightower had risen to power beside King Viserys, the castle walls seemed alive with sharp ears and sharper tongues. You had lived within these halls long enough to understand how quickly alliances could shift, how loyalty could be traded like coin. Yet, for all the intrigue that surrounded you, you had never let the weight of court life break you.

You were Targaryen, wife to Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—and mother to his children. For over a decade, your union had weathered storms that would have destroyed others. Now, pregnant with your fourth child, you carried the latest testament to the strength of your bond. But this time, the storm came not from without, but from the very heart of the Red Keep.

The morning had been peaceful, the sun streaming through the windows of your chambers. You reclined on a cushioned chaise, a hand resting on the swell of your belly as you read. The warmth of the fire lulled you into a sense of calm until hurried footsteps interrupted the tranquility. A servant entered, pale and trembling.

“My lady,” the servant began, their voice unsteady, “the Queen requests your presence in the throne room.”

You frowned, sitting up straighter. “In my condition?” you asked, your hand instinctively cradling your belly.

The servant hesitated. “Her Grace insisted, my lady. She wishes to… address you before the court.”

You understood immediately. This was no simple summons; it was a calculated move. A veiled insult. Alicent had always sought ways to assert her power, to remind others that she ruled beside the King. Now, she sought to humiliate you in front of the court as she had done to Rhaenyra years before.

“Fetch my husband,” you said firmly, closing your book. “I will not attend alone.”

Moments later, Daemon entered, his steps deliberate, his expression dark. The servant recounted the Queen’s summons, and as they spoke, you could see the fury building in your husband’s eyes. His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.

“She dares to summon you like this?” Daemon growled. “In your condition?”

“She wishes to make a spectacle,” you replied calmly, though your pulse quickened. “To remind me—and the court—that she is queen.”

A dangerous smile spread across Daemon’s lips, one that never reached his eyes. “Then she will be reminded why I am her greatest threat.”

He helped you to your feet, his hand gentle but unyielding as he guided you. “You will not walk into her trap alone,” he promised. “And if she dares to humiliate you, I will tear her games apart.”

The throne room was filled when you arrived, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on you. But you held your head high, refusing to show any weakness. You were a dragon, and no Hightower would ever make you cower. Your hand rested lightly on Daemon’s arm as he led you into the hall, his presence a shield against the sea of whispers.

Queen Alicent stood near the Iron Throne, draped in green silk that shimmered in the torchlight. Her smile was thin, her eyes sharp as they fixed on you. King Viserys sat upon the throne, his frame frail, his face lined with illness. He looked troubled, his gaze flickering between you and Alicent.

“My lady,” Alicent greeted, her tone sweet but laced with malice. “It is so good of you to join us. I hope the walk was not too taxing in your… delicate state.”

You met her gaze evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I am quite capable, Your Grace. Though I admit I was surprised by your summons.”

“It is important for the realm to see the strength of its women,” Alicent said, her voice carrying through the hall. “Just as Princess Rhaenyra demonstrated after the birth of her sons.”

The implication was clear. Alicent wanted you to endure the same humiliation Rhaenyra had suffered years ago, parading yourself before the court mere days after childbirth. It was a calculated move to demean you and remind the court of her power.

Daemon’s low chuckle broke the tension, drawing every eye in the room. “You must be mistaken, Your Grace,” he said, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. “My wife is no servant to be paraded before the court like a curiosity.”

Alicent’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “It is a gesture of unity,” she replied, though her tone tightened. “One that would surely be appreciated by the people.”

Daemon stepped forward, his presence consuming the room. “Unity?” he echoed, his voice mocking. “Unity is forged through respect, not humiliation. My wife carries a Targaryen heir. If you think I will allow her to be used as a pawn in your games, you are gravely mistaken.”

A murmur rippled through the court, courtiers exchanging wide-eyed glances as Alicent’s composure slipped. Her cheeks flushed with anger, and her voice rose. “You overstep, Prince Daemon. This is not your decision.”

Daemon’s laugh was cold, his violet eyes darkening with fury. “Everything concerning my wife and child is my decision. And you would do well to remember that.”

The tension in the room reached a breaking point until Viserys raised his hand, his voice weak but firm. “Enough,” he said, silencing the court. “This matter is settled. My daughter-in-law will not be subjected to such treatment.”

Alicent opened her mouth to argue, but Viserys’s glare stopped her. She curtsied stiffly, her expression tight with barely concealed anger. “Of course, Your Grace.”

As you left the throne room, Daemon’s hand remained on your back, his fury palpable. Only when you were alone in your chambers did he let his anger spill over.

“She will pay for this,” he said quietly, his voice cold and dangerous. “Alicent forgets that dragons do not bow.”

“She sought to humiliate me,” you said, placing a hand on his arm. “But she failed. Thanks to you.”

His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as he cupped your face in his hands. “I will not let anyone harm you,” he vowed fiercely. “Not her, not anyone. You are my wife, my queen, and the mother of my children. Let her play her games—I will burn her ambitions to ash if she dares threaten you again.”

You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. “We are stronger together,” you said softly. “Let her see that she cannot break us.”

Daemon kissed your forehead, his lips lingering as if to seal his promise. “Together,” he agreed, his voice low and certain. “Always.”

Word of the exchange spread quickly, the whispers echoing through the Red Keep. Alicent’s attempt to assert her dominance had backfired, and even her closest allies began to waver. The queen had sought to humiliate you but instead found herself exposed as desperate and grasping.

Within your chambers, there was peace. Daemon remained vigilant, his protectiveness extending to you and your children. The tension of the court lingered, but in his arms, you felt safe—untouchable. Alicent had underestimated the fire that burned within you and the bond you shared with your husband.

You were a dragon, and dragons did not kneel. Together, you and Daemon would ensure the world remembered that truth.

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[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Perfect Size

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: reader is described as short, name-calling, swearing, Daemon being a horny menace, soft!dom! Daemon, talk of impregnation, talk of pregnancy, pregnancy, smut

Summary: It was Daemon’s life mission to remind you of your size difference, in every aspect of your shared lives.

A/N: This is part of the wonderful @targaryen-dynasty 3K celebration, congrats by the way!!!! I had so much fun with this prompt. Enjoy everyone and enjoy the other wonderful and talented writers' fics. 3K Celebration Masterlist

My masterlist

The gods make humans in their image. They make them grow until they see them as perfect. Or so your Septa used to say whenever you were frustrated about your small stature. And it was no help that the greatest rake of the realm, Lord Flea Bottom, the Rouge Prince himself, made it his life’s mission to remind you of how small you were.

As children, you had been a bit taller than him. He had a problem with it. The need to be bigger than a stupid girl was great. His growth spurt came and he nearly towered over you, looking down at you with a smirk on his lips. “How is the weather down there?” He would often tease. “Just fine.” You would retort back. “I hope your small brain will get enough air up there. A shame if you lost more of it.” Was your sarcastic comeback.

The older the two of you got, the taller he would get and you would only grow a few inches if you even grew at all. First, he was slightly lanky. His muscles had yet to grow. He would remind you of a newborn horse whenever he would stumble over his two long feet as he trained with his sword. Often giggling to his dismay.

“I will cut your head off, and then you will be smaller!” He would shout in anger when he saw you snickering. Daemon’s temper seemed to grow with every inch he gained. You enjoyed it immensely when it would rise because of you.

As young adults, it was fairly certain that you would grow no more. If you stood behind one of the large dinner chairs you could easily hide behind them. Everything seemed to dwarf you.

Daemon prided himself in the knowledge that he was taller than you. Towering over you like the Hightower in Oldtown. And he never passed down the opportunity to remind you. “Shouldn’t you be with your nurse, little one? I think you got the wrong room. The nursery is that way.” Or other things.

You would glare at him. Often kicked his shin when no one was watching. He would yowl in pain. Jump around and hold his leg. “You little pest.” “Maybe you should get your head out of the clouds.” You teased back.

But there were the times he would call you more affectionate words associated with your small stature.

“Why the sour face, my little love?” He mumbled into your ear as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been hiding from his grandmother and her attempts to put boring and plain noblewoman under his nose.

A huff of annoyance escaped your throat. “Mother forced me to wear this ridiculous gown.” You seethed. Your teeth bared like a wolf snarling.

Daemon found your discomfort rather amusing. You looked like a pretty doll all dressed up. Your hair braided into the style of the land you came from. The gown so unmistakably the colours of your house, shining in the light of the candles.

"Oh, no - you're a lady and you have to wear pretty dresses and jewels and oh no, how horrible!" He teased you lightly. He leaned his head on top of yours. A habit he adopted quite recently. Loving the way you fit under him.

You snorted, very un-ladylike. But he was used to your characteristics. You were not one of those up-tied, boring wenches who tried to turn his head. He would rather gauge his eyes out before he gave them a second of his attention.

His attention was only worthy of one woman. And she was right literally under his nose.

He leaned down, just next to your ear. His hot breath fanned over the sensitive shell. “Do you think it would fit?” You could feel the smirk in his voice. You turned to him with a confused look on your pretty face.  It stayed that way until you felt something. You felt it, him. Hard as a rock, pocking you through the fabric of your wedding gown.

Your face grew hotter than the flames of Caraxes. Your body stiffened as you felt him softly rub against your buttocks. He only laughed lowly. His chest vibrates, sending chills up and down your spine. “You scoundrel!” You lowly scoffed. Your heart beating faster.

Not from his antics. Oh no, you were used to them by now. About the whole banquet finding out about Daemon’s little innuendo. “Oh, little love. I am your scoundrel now. It was ordered by the Queen herself.” He chuckled darkly.

She hit his shoulder lightly. “Stop it!” You tried to reprimand him. But your words fell on deaf ears. “Oh, my little love. How funny you will look with my seed growing inside you.” He began to whisper his lewd words. “You probably won’t be able to walk, so large your belly will grow.”

Your body grew hotter and hotter. It didn’t help that he had you pressed to his chest. His erection pressed against the cheeks of your perfect ass. His hands wander lazily over the front of your dress. Stopping over your belly before wandering further down.

“Oh my little love, will it even fit in your little tight hole? Or will I have to mould your little cunny so only my cock can fit inside?” Your breathing hitched at his dark, lustful words. Daemon’s predatory smile grew at your body's reaction to his scandalous words whispered so softly into your ear.

He often wondered if he was unfair to his wife. She was small, her body had nearly strained from the weight of the beautiful two children she had already given him.

He was right at their wedding feast. Her swollen stomach looked too large for her body. It hadn’t been long before the first signs of pregnancy made themselves known.

From the small bump only three moons after they conceived. He still can remember how his hands could cover it until she was seven moons pregnant. She had been ordered to rest. To not exhaust herself too much.

Daemon, looking at the image of her laying in their bed, their little one nestled in her belly. The sight did things to him. Things where his darkest desires seemed light in comparison. Oh, how he had spent his days behind her, driving himself into her tight cunt instead of sitting in a boring small council meeting. His wife and unborn child needed him, and he needed them.

“Another one?” You looked at him from where you stood. Children’s toys in your arms as you helped your daughters clean the room for the day.

Daemon just shrugged. “Why not? Add another one to our hoard. What about you girls? Do you want another sibling?” He crouched down so he was level with Alyssa and Visenya. Both girls looked away from their task to clean up the solar, screeching with joy as their father spoke to them.

“They are tots, Daemon.” You protested. Picking up more of the girls’ toys. “They will agree to anything if you say it with enough enthusiasm.” Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I think they know what I am saying, elillus (honey).” He smirks softly. His eyes roamed her body without shame.

“It has been so long.” “It has only been a few hours. You had me in the morrow.” You snapped back. Cleaning your daughters’ toys from the floor. Putting it into the chest designated for their toys. “I did not mean our coupling, prūmȳs ñuhus (my heart). I meant another child. The girls are six and four.” He mumbled gently.

She looked up at him sitting in the armchair at the edge of the carpet where the girls were playing moments ago. His violet eyes were dark as he watched her like the hunter his prey. “I don’t know, valzȳrys (husband). You heard the maester's words after Visenya’s birth.”

Daemon saw the change in demeanour. He nearly had you, only a small push. “It is your choice, ābrāzȳrys (wife). I do not want to force you.” He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you with cleaning the toys up.

You were tossing and turning in bed. Nothing seemed right. Thoughts swirled through your head. So many voices at once.

You wanted to scream. But you would only wake up your family.

“Tell me what is keeping you from sleep, ābrāzȳrys (wife)” Daemon's gravel voice rang through the room. He sounded tired. His back turned to you.

“It’s nothing.” You whispered. “Bullshit!” Daemon groaned. Turning to face you. “It feels like I am sleeping next to a bloody sack of kittens. What is it.” He tiredly glared at her. Knowing full well what was going on.

“You’ve gotten into my head, you menace!” You growled out. Pouting at him. His usual smirk grew on his lips, a soft chuckle escaping. “Apologies for that, ābrāzȳrys (wife).“ „You are not sorry, Daemon.” His grin widened more. “You know me so well.”

A huff escaped your lips. “Why must you torment me so?” Daemon sat up on his forearm, looking down at you. Your hair was splayed out in a messy halo. A bright smile adorned his face as he saw the light, tired glare and the pout on your lips.

“Oh, little love, I vowed to be the bane of your existence since we played with the small dragon figurines our daughters’ play with now. And ever since it was announced you would be my dear lady wife I swore to torture you even more.” He softly nipped at your collarbone, his large hands coming to rest on your rips, just under your breasts.

“Let me help you with your decision-making. Let me enter your little cunny and stay there when I cum. Let my seed fill your womb once more.” His imposing frame loomed over you. Covering you like a blanket.

“What if the maester is right?” “The maesters are cunts who want to see me unhappy and you in doubt. They told you after Alyssa you could not carry another child. Two years later they said the same after Visenya.” He kissed your shoulder gently before his expressive violet eyes stared at you. “What is your body telling you?”

You bit your lip gently, A small rumble going through Daemon’s chest at your gesture. But he restrained himself. “I want another one.” You whispered gently.

A smile broke greater than before out on his lips, his dimples showing. “I will not let anything happen to you. The moment your body is resisting, I will get you moon tea or whatever is necessary.” You nodded gently.

His eyes darkened with lust. “Now before we can even discuss the pregnancy, we must make it happen.”

He lifted himself so his arms were on either side of your head. “Oh my sweet, I longed to fill up your little cunny. Seeing it overflow with my seed. Stuffing it back in.” He laughed gently as you shuddered.

With haste born of his pent-up desire, he ripped all of your clothes off your and his body. You gasped softly, scolding him for literally ripping your nightgown. “I never liked it anyway.” He mumbled against the skin between your breasts. Slowly moving down to your stomach.

He worshipped your body, caressing your thighs and hips. Squeezing the flesh around them, even gently nibbling on it.

He kissed each and every lightning-bold-like scar. Mumbling with every kiss a small thanks. These were the marks of his children. Evidence of your brave sacrifice.

He went further down. His lips ghosted over the soft locks, his eyes watching you heave out breaths of anticipation.

A loud scream ripped from your throat when you felt his tongue plunge deeply into your wet core. The eagerness of his lapping overwhelmed your senses. His nose ever so lightly brushed against your pearl. Teasing it to shoot lightning throughout your body.

You came undone. His tongue, nose and two of his digits working in tandem to torture you. And it worked. Your back arched off the bed. Loud cries of his name and pleas for him to stop accompanied your downward spiral into the abyss of your pleasure.

He stared down at you hungrily. His vibrant eyes were dark with lust. He looked every bit the dragon he ought to be. “Little rabbit.” He growled out. “Sweet, little rabbit. Trapped beneath the large dragon.”

He leaned down again. Like Caraxes would decent upon his pray, Daemon came down upon you. Devouring you once more.

He held your thighs wide open as he ploughed into you. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin rang through the room. His large hand wrapped around your delicate neck, softly pressing against it. Your breathing coming out in small pants.

“You should see yourself, little darling. My large hand is like a necklace on your throat. I can nearly wrap it around.” He chuckled darkly.

His words elicited shivers to run up and down your spine. This action causes your body to tense slightly. Daemon roared as he felt you squeeze his cock. “Seven fucking hells, woman! Do you want to kill me?!” He panted out. Driving his cock deeper inside you. The stretch is a familiar pain. But not too unpleasant. He had prepared you for him. And he would hate for you not to enjoy your coupling.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, sensual kiss. It was so different from the way his hips moved. So slow and loving. “I am not hurting you, am I, my little darling?” He whispered. You shook your head. “Nothing I am not used to from you.” He grinned, nipping at your lower lip, “That’s my good girl.” He whispered.

He picked up his pace. His hands on your thighs clawing into your skin. His knuckles are white. He groaned and grunted, looking down at you with an intense stare. Your own moans and cries mingle with his. Creating a symphony of pleasure.

He came with a roar of your name, his face buried into your neck. Panting heavily next to your ear. Your own climax is triggered by the feeling of being filled with his potent seed. Both your eyes closed in bliss.

He stayed inside you even as his member softened inside you. The grip on your thigh remains tight. Like he needed to be grounded by you.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, softly caressing his head. He hummed gently, letting you know he loved what you were doing. “Do not dare to stop.” He mumbled gently into your neck. You continued with your caress. Softly petting him like he was a dog.

He fell asleep like this. His spent cock inside you, keeping his precious seed inside you. His body acted like a blanket. Your hand in his hair.

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[aeralux]

"My Sweet Little Niece" - Daemon Targaryen

Summary: You foolishly thought that no one would find you pleasuring yourself in the midnight hours...

Warnings: SMUT; typical targcest (reader is Daemon's niece and it is mentioned a LOT); use of the terms 'uncle' and 'niece' during sex; degradation (slut, whore etc.); light spanking (like one/two spanks); doggy style; quite rough sex (but both like it); breeding kink (Daemon finishes inside reader); dirty talk (use of the words cunt and such)

Notes: Reader is Daemon's niece (Rhaenyra's sister) and has white hair, but nothing else is specified. No specific time frame or mention of marriages/other relationships.

Words: 4.2k

-- aera xx

As Daemon Targaryen paces the cold, stone floors of the council room in Dragonstone, his footsteps echo softly against the walls, a rhythmic cadence that punctuates the heavy silence of the chamber. The room is austere yet grand, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the sigil of House Targaryen — a three-headed dragon — woven in threads of crimson and gold. Tall windows line one side of the chamber, their panes frosted with a thin layer of ice, allowing slivers of pale winter moonlight to filter into the room and cast ethereal patterns upon the floor.

As Daemon's thoughts whirl in the chill air, his attention is suddenly drawn to quiet sighs and moans from a nearby bedchamber.

The castle was asleep at this hour, and it possibly couldn’t be a maid. Curiousness got the better of Daemon, and he went to investigate against his better judgment.

Once he reached the source of the sound, he smirked to himself. Of course. Who else could it be besides his sweet niece? Acting all innocent and loving before the eyes of the court and making sounds like a whore from the Silk Streets during the night.

He wondered who the lucky man between her plush thighs could be. Was it Aemond, or perhaps Aegon? What if it was Helaena, and this was the only time the two girls could show their desire for one another?

Already starting to walk away, something stopped him. The hardness in his breeches made it uncomfortable to move. He sighed and wiped across his face to compose himself.

Daemon needed to see. He needed to see his niece being pleasured by whoever it was. Be it a knight or a maid. Agonisingly slowly, he pulled open your door. Making sure no sounds betrayed his presence.

At first, you didn’t even notice his intrusion, too lost in the pleasure of two fingers circling your clit and two in your tight hole knuckles deep. But once you heard the familiar creak of the venerable wooden door, its aged hinges announcing a timeless entrance, your head instinctively snapped up. The air around you shifted, thick with expectation.

"Uncle Daemon!" you exclaimed, hastily pulling the sheets up to cover your bare form beneath. "I…I didn't expect you!"

You could feel the heat of embarrassment rising to your cheeks, mixed with a twinge of annoyance at having your private moment interrupted. Your long silver-white hair was tousled against the pillow, strands clinging to your sweat-dampened skin.

"I was just…" you fumbled for an excuse, your voice trailing off lamely. There was no hiding the truth - you had been caught in the throes of self-indulgence, fingers buried knuckle-deep inside your dripping cunny as you imagined being taken roughly by one of the handsome young knights in service to the crown.

Your mind raced as you tried to find the right words to explain yourself, but your tongue felt heavy and clumsy in your mouth. You knew that your actions were scandalous, especially for a highborn lady of House Targaryen, but you couldn't help the thrill of excitement that ran down your spine at the thought of being caught in such a compromising position.

Your fingers were still buried deep inside your sopping wet cunny, the evidence of your shameful desires dripping down your thighs and staining the fine silk sheets beneath you. The air was thick with the musky scent of your arousal, mingling with the faint smell of lavender that clung to your skin from your earlier bath.

Daemon's eyes widened slightly at the sight before him, his gaze flickering over your dishevelled form and the obvious signs of your recent activities. For a moment, he was struck dumb, caught off guard by the raw, primal desire that radiated from his niece's body like a physical force. He could feel his cock stirring to life in his breeches, thickening and hardening as he drank at the sight of you.

But then his training kicked in, and Daemon schooled his features into a mask of stern disapproval. He crossed the room in a few long strides, the heavy tread of his boots muffled by the plush carpet. Leaning down, he grasped your wrist firmly and withdrew your fingers from between your thighs, ignoring the way you gasped at the sudden loss of stimulation.

"Darling," he said, his voice low and cold. "What in the seven hells are you doing, girl? Playing with yourself like some common whore? Is this how you spend your nights, indulging in base carnal desires?"

His grip on your wrist tightened, and he brought your hand up to his face, pressing your fingers against his lips. The taste of your arousal exploded on his tongue, sweet and musky and utterly intoxicating. Daemon's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savouring the flavour of his niece's essence.

"You're a Targaryen," he growled, releasing her wrist and straightening up. "You should know better than to give in to such shameful appetites. Especially not with your uncle standing right outside your door."

Despite his harsh words, there was an undercurrent of something else in Daemon's tone - a dark, simmering heat that belied his stern exterior. He could feel the pulse of his own need, throbbing in his loins and demanding to be satisfied. The sight of you sprawled out across her bed, flushed and wanton and ready to be taken, was almost more than he could bear.

Daemon took a step back, putting some distance between them. He raked a hand through his golden locks, trying to calm his growing hunger for you.

Your heart raced as you watched Daemon lick your essence from his fingers, his eyes closing in bliss as he savoured the taste. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, and you couldn't help but spread your thighs wider, inviting him to take a closer look at your dripping cunny.

The guilt that churned in your stomach was nothing compared to the raw, primal desire that consumed you. You had done far worse things behind closed doors, indulged in darker, more forbidden pleasures. This was merely a taste of the debauchery that coursed through your veins.

“Daemon," you breathed, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation. "Please, don't be angry with me. I… I couldn't help myself. The need was too great, too overwhelming to ignore."

You batted your eyelashes at him, hoping to soften his stern demeanour with an innocent, pleading look. You knew the power of your beauty, the way men were drawn to you like moths to a flame. It was a gift, one you had learned to wield like a weapon.

"You're the only one who truly understands me," you continued, your words dripping with honey.

As you spoke, you reached out with trembling fingers, tracing the hard planes of Daemon's chest through his shirt. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath the fabric, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It called to you, urging you to press herself against him.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you awaited Daemon's response, your dripping sex exposed to his piercing gaze. You could feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine. The vulnerability you felt at that moment was both terrifying and exhilarating, a heady mix of fear and desire that made your head spin.

Daemon's eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of your glistening folds, his nostrils flaring as he caught the intoxicating scent of your arousal. He could feel his cock straining against the confines of his breeches, throbbing with the need to bury itself inside your tight, wet heat.

He took a step closer, looming over your prone form on the bed. "You're playing a dangerous game, little one," he growled, his voice low and rough with barely contained lust. "Teasing me like this, exposing yourself to me. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

Your breath caught in your throat as Daemon reached out, his fingers grazing along the soft skin of your inner thigh. You could feel the calluses on his hands, the strength in his grasp as he slowly inched higher and higher, until his touch was mere inches away from your aching core.

"I… I wanted you to see," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. Although it wasn’t entirely true, you did still however want him to take you. And with these sweet words, he would cave in no time.

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control over his raging desires. He knew that what he was about to do was wrong, a betrayal of every moral code. But the temptation was too great to resist, the allure of his niece's forbidden fruit too powerful to deny.

With a low, animalistic growl, Daemon surged forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. He plundered your mouth with his tongue, claiming you, possessing you, marking you as his own. One hand tangled in your long, silver hair, tugging it.

You moaned into the kiss. It was like a siren's call, luring Daemon further into the depths of depravity. With a growl, he allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed, his muscular body covering yours as he claimed your mouth with renewed hunger. His hands roamed over your curves, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh like a man possessed.

Your fingers scrabbled at Daemon's linen shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin. You tugged impatiently at the fabric, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the garment over his head and toss it aside. Your eyes widened at the sight of his toned chest, marred only by a few silvery scars from battles long past.

"By the gods, Uncle," she gasped, your hands greedily exploring the planes of his back and shoulders. "You're so strong."

Daemon's lips curled into a smirk as he ground his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard length of his cock straining against the confines of his breeches. "And you, my little girl, are a temptress beyond compare," he growled, nipping at your earlobe. "So soft, so ripe, so ready to be plucked."

Your back arched off the bed as Daemon trailed his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the ache between your thighs growing more intense with each passing second.

"Please, Daemon," you whimpered, your hips rocking against his in a primal rhythm. "I need you, I need to feel you inside me, filling me, claiming me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his control hanging by a thread. With a low growl, he captured your lips once more, swallowing your moans as he reached down and tore at the laces of his breeches. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and throbbing with need.

Your eyes widened as you took in the impressive sight of Daemon's manhood, your breath catching in your throat at the sheer size of him. You had always known that your uncle was a proud, confident man, but now you understood the true source of his cockiness. His cock was a work of art, thick and veiny and pulsing with an almost palpable hunger.

Unable to resist, you reached out with a shaking hand, wrapping your fingers around the hot, velvety length. You licked your palm, spitting into it to provide some lubrication as you began to stroke him slowly, marvelling at the weight of him in your grasp.

Daemon let out a low, guttural moan as your hand moved along his shaft, his hips rocking into your touch. "Fuck, that's it," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Stroke me, princess. Show me what that clever little hand can do."

You smiled up at him, your eyes shining with wicked delight. You shimmied closer to him on the bed, watching with rapt attention as Daemon stood before you, his cock extending out obscenely from between his legs.

The blood coursed hot and heavy through Daemon's veins as you worked his shaft, your delicate fingers gliding over his throbbing flesh in a slow, torturous rhythm. He could feel every nerve ending screaming for more, for the tight, wet heat of your cunt wrapped around him.

"You like that, don't you?" You purred, your hand pumping faster, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. "You like feeling my hand on your big, hard cock. I bet you've dreamed of this, of fucking your sweet little niece, filling her up with your seed."

Daemon let out a feral snarl, his hips snapping forward as he fucked your hand, chasing the pleasure that only you could give him. "You have no idea what I've dreamed of," he growled, his eyes burning into yours. "What I've planned, what I'm going to do to this tight little body of yours."

"Mmh, yeah? Why don’t you tell me then?” Your words and actions grew bolder as you saw his reaction to your touch, your arousal gushing out of you at the erotic sight.

Your daring words and bold actions ignited a fire in Daemon's loins that threatened to consume you both. His cock throbbed and pulsed in your grasp as you started to tease the tip with your tongue, your lips forming a tight seal around his engorged head. The sight of his niece's pretty mouth stretched obscenely around his shaft sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his groin.

"Fuck, you filthy little minx," Daemon growled, his fingers tangling in your long silver hair. He tugged at it roughly, forcing you to take more of him into your hot, wet mouth. "You want to know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going to ruin you for any other man. I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, that you'll never be able to forget the feel of my cock inside you."

You moaned around his length, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through Daemon's body. You could feel the sticky wetness of her arousal coating your thighs, the musky scent of her desire mingling with the taste of his pre-cum on her tongue.

"Mmmph, yes Uncle Daemon," you slurred, your words muffled by his thick cock filling your mouth. "Ruin me, use me, make me yours. I want to feel you in every inch of me."

"That's it," he growled, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper into your warm mouth, throbbing. "Take it all, baby girl. Take every inch of your uncle's big, hard cock."

You moaned around him, the sound sending shivers down Daemon's spine. You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slide deeper until the head of his cock was bumping against the back of your throat. Your nose nestled in the thick, wiry curls at the base of his shaft, inhaling the musky, masculine scent of him.

"Gods, you're a natural," Daemon praised, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "Such a good little cocksucker, so eager to please your uncle."

Your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the haze of pleasure as you worked Daemon's cock with your mouth and hand. You could feel the heavy weight of it on your tongue, the pulsing heat of it against the roof of your mouth.

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light, his breath coming in short, sharp pants as he fought to maintain control. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, the urge to bury himself to the hilt in your tight, dripping cunt becoming more and more overwhelming with each passing second.

"Enough," he snarled, yanking you off his cock with a lewd pop. "I can't take it anymore. I need to be inside you, need to feel you wrapped around me like a vice."

With a swift, brutal movement, Daemon flipped you onto your hands and knees, kicking your legs apart to expose the glistening folds of your sex.

The sudden shift in position caused you to let out a surprised yelp. You felt Daemon's strong hands grip your hips, lifting your rear end high in the air. You instinctively arched your back, presenting yourself to him like a bitch in heat. The cool air of the bedchamber kissed your bare flesh, sending goosebumps racing across your skin.

The depraved display sent a bolt of pure lust through Daemon's veins, his cock twitching with the need to claim you, to make you his in the most primal way possible.

"Gods, you're a vision," Daemon growled appreciatively, his emerald eyes roaming hungrily over your upturned ass and dripping cunny. "So wet and ready for me already."

He gave you a sharp smack on the rump, relishing the way you jolted and let out a gasp. The reddening handprint on your skin looked deliciously obscene.

"That's it, present yourself to your uncle like a good little whore," he commanded, lining up his swollen cockhead with your entrance. "Show me how much you need my cock filling this greedy little cunt."

You moaned wantonly, reaching back with one hand to spread herself open for him. Your puffy folds glistened with arousal, practically begging to be stuffed full. The shame of what you were doing only served to heighten your arousal, the taboo nature of your relationship sending electric thrills down your spine.

"Please, Uncle Daemon," you begged, your voice high and needy. "I need you inside me, stretching me, filling me up. I'll do anything, be anything you want me to be."

Daemon let out a low, appreciative chuckle as he stepped up behind you, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force. "Anything, hmm? We'll see about that."

Without warning, he slammed his cock into you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You screamed in ecstasy, your walls clenching around him like a vice as he filled you.

"Fuck, you're tight," Daemon grunted, his hips snapping against your ass as he set a punishing pace. "So fucking tight and wet for me, baby girl. Your little cunt was made for my cock."

You could only moan in response, your body rocking forward with each powerful thrust of Daemon's hips. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your cries of pleasure and Daemon's grunts of exertion.

As Daemon pounded into you, one hand snaked around your waist, his fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it roughly, the calloused pads of his fingers sending jolts of electricity through your body.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you felt his fingers rub tight circles around your swollen clit. Hips jerking from the stimulation.

"There she goes," Daemon growled, his fingers working your clit with merciless precision. "My sweet little niece, so responsive, so desperate for her uncle's touch."

You could only moan in response, your head hanging down, your long silver hair cascading over your shoulders. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, a lewd symphony of flesh slapping against flesh and the squelch of your dripping arousal.

You shivered at his praise, your body still humming with pleasure. Despite the shame that threatened to overwhelm you, you couldn't deny how much you had enjoyed being used so thoroughly.

Daemon angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot inside you with each powerful thrust. He could feel your velvety walls rippling around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

As he looked down he could see a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, your arousal so evident. He smirked to himself and sped up his pace, fucking you almost brutally.

Daemon's brutal pace showed no signs of slowing, his hips pistoning in and out of your tight heat with relentless force. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed off the stone walls, mingling with your wanton moans and whimpers.

"Look at you," Daemon growled, his voice rough with lust. "My sweet little niece reduced to a mewling, cock-hungry slut. You love this, don't you? Love being used like a cheap whore, love having your uncle's cock stuffing your needy cunt."

You couldn't deny it, not with the way your body was responding to his harsh words and even harsher thrusts. Your back arched, pushing your hips back to meet him thrust for thrust, your nails digging into the fine linens beneath you.

Daemon's hand left your clit, moving up to fist a handful of your long silver hair. He yanked your head back, forcing you to look at him over your shoulder. His eyes were wild, burning with a primal hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

"Who does this cunt belong to?" he snarled, his voice a dark promise. "Who owns your pretty little body, baby girl?"

"You do," you gasped out, the words spilling from your lips unbidden. "It's all yours, Uncle Daemon. I'm yours."

"Damn right, you are," Daemon growled, releasing his grip on your hair to wrap his arms around your waist. He pushed you down onto your stomach and lifted your hips, shifting the angle of his thrusts to strike even deeper, harder, faster.

The new position had you seeing stars, your cries of pleasure resonating off the stone walls. Each thrust sent ripples of ecstasy through your body, your muscles clenching around him like a vice.

"Say it again," Daemon demanded, his voice strained. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to."

"You," you sobbed, your voice high and breathy. "It's yours, Daemon. All yours."

"That's right, baby girl," Daemon growled, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigour.

Your body was trembling beneath him on the silky sheets of your bed. Your tight hole spasming around Daemon's big cock, creaming all over his length. Like a bitch in heat you screamed in pleasure below him, cunt gripping him in a vice.

Daemon's grip tightened on your hips as he drove into you with pure animalistic lust, your cries of pleasure mixing with his grunts of exertion. Bed creaking beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each violent thrust. The feeling of your tight, dripping cunt spasming around him was almost too much to bear. Daemon could feel his release barreling towards him like a freight train, his balls drawing up tight against his body. The filthy sounds of your cries and the obscene squelch of your arousal filling the room only served to heighten his lust.

"That's it, princess," Daemon growled, his hand coming down on your ass in a sharp smack. "Take it all, take every inch of your uncle's big, hard cock."

You moaned wantonly, your hips bucking as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. Your juices coated his shaft, easing the way as he pounded into you relentlessly.

"Uncle Daemon," you gasped, your voice strained with pleasure. "It's so good, so deep. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Daemon grinned savagely, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigour. He could feel the tension building in his lower belly, the tell-tale tingle in his spine that signalled his impending release.

"Oh, Gods! I'm gonna cum!" You managed to squeal into the sheets, tears starting to stream down your face from the intensity of his thrusts.

"Aw, fuck yes, you are," Daemon growled, his voice a dark promise. "Cum for me, baby girl. Cum all over your uncle's big, hard cock."

His hips snapped forward, driving his cock deep into your convulsing channel. Your cries of ecstasy filled the room, your body shaking with the force of your release.

You could feel your juices squirting out around Daemon's shaft, your inner muscles clenching and fluttering as you rode out the waves of your orgasm. It seemed to go on forever, your vision blurring at the edges, your mind numb from the sheer intensity of it all.

Daemon held you close, his arms wrapping around your trembling form as he continued to thrust into you, prolonging your pleasure. His release was fast approaching, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained. "Gonna fill you up, gonna pump you full of my seed. Gonna make you mine in every fucking way."

With a final, brutal thrust, Daemon buried himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilt his hot seed deep within your womb. You could feel it, the way his thick, potent cum coated your inner walls, marking you as his.

As you both came down from your high, Daemon pulled out of you with a lewd pop. He flopped down onto the bed beside you, gathering you into his arms and pulling you close.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat as you basked in the afterglow. Despite the taboo nature of your relationship, there was a rightness to being here with Daemon, a sense of belonging that you had never felt with anyone else.

[novaursa]

The List Of My HOTD Reader Insert Works:

The list received a makeover. There is no longer a second one. All is here, in one place.

I don't give permission to others to use my original ideas for their works (that includes any form of art). I also don't give permission for my work to be copied or translated into another language and posted somewhere else. This also applies to anything regarding an AI. You have been warned.

Requests are CLOSED! Please stop sending them to me, and respect me enough to understand how I'm unable to be doing anything outside my schedule right now!

Aegon II Targaryen

Helaena Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Daeron Targaryen

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

Daemon Targaryen

Baela Targaryen

Otto Hightower

Gwayne Hightower

Alicent Hightower

Cregan Stark

Harwin Strong

Criston Cole

Jason Lannister

Tyland Lannister

Jason and Tyland Lannister - The Golden Court

Davos Blackwood

The List Of My ASOIAF Reader Inserts Works:

Oberyn Martell

Aerys II Targaryen

Rhaegar Targaryen

Daenerys Targaryen

Arthur Dayne

Robb Stark

Sansa Stark

Arya Stark

Jon Snow

Edmure Tully

Euron Greyjoy

Theon Greyjoy

Margaery Tyrell

Tywin Lannister

Cersei Lannister

Jaime Lannister

Tyrion Lannister

Robert Baratheon

Eddard Stark

Brandon Stark (The Wild Wolf)

Lyanna Stark

Roose Bolton

Ramsay Bolton

Jojen Reed

Petyr Baelish

Jaqen H'ghar

Sandor Clegane

Khal Drogo

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater

Beric Dondarrion

Styr the Thenn

Oswell Whent

Ser Duncan the Tall - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

The List Of My F&B Reader Insert Works:

Aegon I Targaryen

Visenya Targaryen

Rhaenys Targaryen

Maegor I Targaryen

Torrhen Stark

Orys Baratheon

Aegon (The Uncrowned) Targaryen

Viserra Targaryen

Aegon III Targaryen

Aegon IV Targaryen

Daemon I Blackfyre

Aerion Targaryen (Brightflame)

Brynden Rivers

Original Targaryen Characters

Dune Crossover

The Truth About The Chosen Ones (my original book, a small introduction)

SW KOTOR fic: The Last Daughter Of Onderon (Book 1), Sons Of Dxun (Book 2), Legacy Of War (Book 3)

Requests are CLOSED!

About Me

[paulyenvol6]

To Lose Yourself (Chapter 1)

Contains: no warnings really, just a lot of fighting and jealousy

Wordcount: 4,042

Masterlist of this story

Daemon's eyelids fluttered and he instantly felt a sting in his head.

He closed them again but the ache didn't vanish, no it even worsened.

He sighed and rolled on his side hoping to find relief once he fled from the piercing sunlight that shone through the windows but after a little while he realized that these simply were the consequences from his extensive celebrations last night and there was nothing he could do about it.

So the rogue prince opened his eyes and quietly cursed the bright sun. Daemon slowly got up with a throbbing head and spotted his linen shirt in the corner of the room. It was dirty from the mud on the ground, had wine stains on it and other liquids that could be anything from bird shit to sperm.

Either way, Daemon most certainly wouldn't wear it so he searched the room for the cloak he had worn on top of it last night and picked it up once he had found it. There was no trace of the whore he had spent the night with whose name he had forgotten, but it didn't matter anyway. He had paid her if remembered correctly and if he hadn't, she surely had taken what rightfully belonged to her. Daemon couldn't even remember the whole night and probably had passed out during the act. All he could remember were her tits when she was bouncing on his cock and then… nothing.

He scoffed and then started to make his way out of the inn where he and his friends had celebrated last night. They had invited a dozen whores and things had quickly turned into something between an orgy and a feast and the whore he had slept with definitely hadn't been the only woman he had touched last night.

Daemon opened the door, walked down the stairs and then out of the inn and the hot sun shining down on his heated body was so intense and overwhelming that he wished to turn around at once and bury his head in the cushions again.

Nevertheless, he blinked a few times and then started to make his way back to the red keep. Every step was agony and his legs felt as heavy as if he wore his armour but eventually he managed to endure the short walk and a few minutes later Daemon approached the knights that guarded the gate. He most certainly was a sight, he thought. With his sweaty and messy hair, the dirty clothes and his face the tiredness could not be overlooked.

"My Prince," they bowed despite his state and opened the gate for him. He was definitely too exhausted for any kind of polite greeting so he silently stepped inside the walls of the red keep.

His next destination was his room to get changed into fresh clothes. Daemon would've loved to take a long bath to wash the dirt from his skin but he had only just remembered the small council meeting he was to attend and which he was already late for. Usually the rogue prince wouldn't have cared and simply not showed up at all but his brother the king had only recently complained about the "attitude he brought forward" and Daemon most certainly didn't want to risk his place in his brother's court by being absent once again.

But he had a pretty strong idea who really was behind all of this. Otto Hightower.

Just thinking of Viserys' hand made him grind his teeth and Daemon felt the need to hit something. He was behind every problem he had ever faced surrounding his brother, he was the reason for every argument he had ever had with the other lords of the small council and he was the one who wanted Daemon gone.

Otto Hightower, the master of manipulation and intrigue. All he ever did was meddle with things that weren't his business and tell Viserys how evil of a person Daemon was. He whispered things in his brother's ear and critized him at any given moment but Daemon knew that he did all of this only because he was a power-hungry and greedy cunt who wanted to strenghten the Hightower name. Because that seeminlgy was the only the thing he and Otto could agree on, Daemon thought.

The Hightowers were a pathetic, weak and insignificant family but unlike Otto he understood that nothing could save this family. Not even his miserable attempts to get his daughter Alicent on the throne. And then there was his other daughter, Anissa. And she seemed to be the only good thing that had ever come out of this family. She was a sweet girl, big green eyes and brown locks that danced around when she ran through the corridors. She was the only member of the hightower clan that he didn't despise but rather… enjoyed to look at.

And Anissa was lovely, so unlike her father. She had a kind smile, was joyful and gentle but also lively and had a mind of her own. Daemon knew that she was under her father's influence because the girl couldn't stand him but at the same time he had also noticed how she was eager to make her own decisions and experiences and wanted to have her own opinions. He honestly pitied that she had grown up with a father like this.

Now Daemon had to face Otto Hightower to his misfortune because of course as the hand he was present at all council meetings. Daemon had swiftly changed into new clothes and brushed his hair and now walked to the king's chambers where a knight waited who opened the door for the prince. Inside, the light was dim which he more than welcomed.

"Daemon," he heard his brother's voice. "You finally made it."

To his relief the king had a friendly smile on his face so it seemed like he wasn't in trouble for his delayed arrival. Daemon returned the smile and took his place in his seat next to his brother.

"Yes, I have."

He exhaled deeply and looked around only to meet the gaze of Otto Hightower. Daemon involuntarily rolled his eyes at his tense mouth and the stubborn look on his face and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"You're very late," Otto said and Daemon hated the way he said it as if it was nothing but an objective observation.

"I am," he sarcastically smiled and poured himself a cup of wine.

"The commander of the city watch should neither be late nor absent for any small council meeting," Otto said his voice growing louder towards the end of the sentence.

"Otto," Viserys tried to calm him but Daemon raised his hand to silence his brother.

"Oh dear Otto…," he purred sounding amused. "But there is no need for me to attend when I know there to be such wise and smart advisers just like yourself. I just know that my brother only gets the best council."

"Where were you?" Otto hissed sharply which made Viserys chuckle.

"That really is none of our businesses, Otto. We might move on from this now. He's here now, so…"

"I was busy fucking some whores," Daemon's voice cut through the air and everything went silent except for the gasps and indignant murmur of the lords.

"Well. That was yesterday but I was quite exhausted afterwards and in need of a good night's sleep. I can't tell if you actually can understand that, Otto, because… well, you have to be a passionate lover in order to feel tired afterwards and you know, passionate is not the word that comes to my mind when I think of the hand of our good king, so – "

"Enough, brother," Viserys interrupted him sharply and angrily flashed his eyes. In the meantime Otto had stood up and clenched his fists which more than amused Daemon because it was exactly what he wanted.

"You're a messy, lazy and choatic man and not at all fit to have a seat on this council," he growled and the prince raised his eyebrows.

"Chaotic? Good. It keeps the schemers like you on their toes. But I see we’re going for honesty today. Shall we talk about your qualifications and talents next?"

Otto flared his nostrils. "Never since I've started to serve on this council has anyone ever had reason to doubt my loyalty or my ambition to serve the king. Unlike you who prefers to spend his time whoring around or bringing instability upon the king's reign."

"Stop it! The both of you, now!" Viserys shouted, pounding his fist on the table. "This is childish and a waste of time for all of us."

Daemon thought about it for a second but then chose not to say another word and risk to enrage his brother. As much as the rogue prince acted out of temper and instinct, in this case he knew that it was better to have Viserys on his side. And so he silently watched Otto as he sat down on his chair and only gave him a provocative grin.

"Forgive me, your grace," Otto spoke and bowed his head. "That was inappropriate."

Daemon scoffed in disgust but fortunately no one heard it. In response the king smiled briefly and then turned to the rest of the lords.

"Perhaps we can continue now."

Half an hour later the meeting was over and Viserys lifted himself of the chair to dismiss the council. Everyone bowed their heads and then the lords went about their business while Daemon slowly got out of his chair to walk to the door. He saw Otto's gaze on him in the corner of his eye and sighed to himself. Eventually he gave him his full attention and turned his head.

"Anything else to say or was this all about turning my brother against me?"

The hand of the king slowly shook his head and almost looked a little sad.

"Actually this was about pointing out the responsibility you have as commander of the city watch."

"I know my duty," Daemon whispered and now they stood in the corridor. "My duty is to my brother. But do you know about yours? Because it is not to fiddle and manipulate my brother and try to bring your own flesh and blood on the throne. It is not to drive a wedge between Viserys and me because you hope to whisper in his ear like a pathetic weasel. And it most certainly is not to pull your strings in the shadow while painting yourself as the unwavering and loyal adviser. I see you for what you are, Otto. My brother does not, I'm afraid, but perhaps he will some day. And when that day comes I will be the first one to carry out his orders and put you in your place."

Otto exhaled loudly. "My duty is to advice my king as best as I possibly can."

"Then why don't you?" Daemon hissed dangerously.

"You, my prince, bring chaos and violence upon this kingdom and I try to make my king see it."

The prince scoffed and blared his teeth. "My brother does not need protection from me. All you want is to strengthen your own house and you desperately cling to the thought of seeing your offspring on the iron throne one day."

"It is the realm that needs protection from you," Otto said a little louder now. Daemon hesitated and watched his opponent threateningly.

"Oh, the realm will judge us both, Otto. Let’s see who they remember fondly."

Otto opened his mouth like he wanted to answer him but then seemingly decided not to. Instead he shook his head one more time and then turned around to leave Daemon alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Quiet sister, they might hear you," Alicent whispered close to her ear while anxiously glaring at the lords and ladies they passed while the sisters walked through the corridor.

"Oh Alicent, they won't. And if they do my words might move something inside of them and they will reflect on their behaviour for once," Anissa spoke out while daringly raising her eyebrows. Now her sister couldn't help but burst into laughter.

"You're merely insulting them."

"I'm just jesting. And this is exactly what this place needs." She grimaced in agony. "Court is so terribly boring these days, isn't it?"

"I wish it was," Alicent scoffed and tightened her grip around Anissa's arm. "You can be glad that father tries not to marry you off to some lord."

Alicent had spoken so quietly that her sister almost couldn't hear her and she chuckled.

"Are you scared that someone might hear you? Do not worry about that, dear, you've already made your attitude towards men pretty clear last night at the feast. I will never forget your face when Loras Tully asked you to dance for the second time that night."

Alicent rolled her eyes. "Please do not remind me, Ani. I'm not meant for… this. I always get so lost for words and I turn red like a tomato whenever someone approaches me. Father knows that, he sees it and yet he won't stop pressuring me to wear mother's pretty dresses and attend the king's feasts. I'm just glad he hasn't given my hand to some lord yet."

"At least you know that I won't have my peace for long, dear sister. Soon you'll get to watch me dancing with some nobleman."

As if she wanted to dance with an imaginary person, she took a few steps to the side and raised her arms while twirling around. Alicent giggled with one hand over her mouth and quickly grabbed her sister's arm to pull her back so they could continue their walk.

"I'm certainly looking forward to that. But I have a feeling you have a lot of growing up to do. I don't think someone like Corrad Lannister will appreciate your jokes as much as I do."

Both sisters laughed out joyfully and only noticed the person walking towards them when he was right in front of them. Alicent gasped and tensed up in surprise while Anissa narrowed her eyes.

"Gods be good, more Hightowers to look at," Daemon spat and contemptuously glared at the girls.

"My prince," Alicent managed to collect herself and curtseyed in front of him. That made him scoff and his eyes wandered to Anissa.

"Have you forgotten your manners?" he said with a low voice and could almost hear her think.

On one hand she was intimidated by the rogue prince's presence and confidence but Daemon also knew how much she despised him and refused to show any signs of awe of him. Eventually her respect and perhaps even fear won and Anissa followed the example of her sister.

"My prince," she said though with a furrow on her forehead. Then after smugly observing them for a brief moment Daemon continued on his way and passed them.

Anissa and Alicent were silent for a moment afterwards until the younger sister angrily glared at Alicent.

"Seven hells, he's so… so arrogant and pretentious."

"That's nothing new, little sister," Alicent sighed and interwined their arms again to keep walking as well.

"Father told me about a small council meeting a few weeks before. He showed up drunk and said the most disrespectful things about everyone. Even about the king, his own brother."

Alicent shrugged her shoulders and turned her head to Anissa. "He says terrible things. And he's violant and cruel."

"I don't even care so much about that. I just hate how he goes around thinking he's on top of everything and can get away with anything. Just because he happens to be the king's brother. I wonder why he hasn't sent him away already."

Alicent exhaled. "You know why. Father says that Viserys is blinded by his deep brotherly love for him which is why he does not act reasonably."

Anissa stopped and frowned at her sister. "Viserys? Why do you call him that?"

The girl blushed at once and turned her head away.

"I… I don't know, I… He asked me to."

Anissa squinted her eyes and grabbed her shoulders to make her look at her.

"Why has he asked you to call him by his name?"

Alicent dropped her shoulders deciding to give up the fight. "W-We talk sometimes, you know? Not often but… you know, after the queen's death father asked me to accompany him a little. He said that I have a kind soul and that I was exactly what his grace might need in a difficult time like this is."

Anissa was still suspiciously observing her as if she tried to find out whether she was telling the truth or not but the sisters continued their walk heading to the library to attend their lessons with their septa.

"Odd," was all she had to say about Alicent's confession and it made her frown as well.

"Why odd?" "Because… I don't know, I just didn't expect it. It's as if I would come to you and tell you that Lord Lawsen and I have been talking recently."

Her sister softly hit her arm. "It's different than that."

"It's not," Anissa insisted and hit her back which made the two of them laugh and it didn't take long until they were involved in a playful fight that ended when the strict voice of their septa Katryn cut through the air.

"Oh gods be good, girls! Stop this childish nonsense at once," she scolded and Anissa and Alicent straightened up in front of her.

"This is no behaviour fit for a lady and I didn't think I had to tell you that."

"Forgive us, septa Katryn," Alicent said with big eyes and anxiously toyed with her fingers.

"Well," the old woman spoke with arched eyebrows. "Come in now and collect yourselves."

With these words Anissa smiled relieved and she followed her sister inside the library.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Daemon felt a thousand times better than the previous day and yet he was not eager to get up once his eyes were open. He hummed, turned to the other side and spent a couple more minutes before he got out of bed and put his clothes on. But while he still changed he heard a knock on the door and rolled his eyes. Of course there was some cunt disturbing him this early.

"What?" he shouted without caring about his tone.

"I have something important to discuss with you, my prince," he heard a familiar voice and Daemon had to surpress a loud grunt. Out of all people it had to be Otto Hightower. He wouldn't have thought that he could be able to hate this man more but listening to Otto's voice in the morning was a whole new dimension.

"What business," he hissed and closed the lacing of his shirt.

"May I come in?" Otto demanded to know.

With quick and loud steps did Daemon approach the door and opened it so forcefully and abruptly that the man in front of it took a step back which made the prince smirk to himself.

"What is it?" he asked again and Otto cleared his throat.

"It concerns your dragon, my prince."

Daemon narrowed his eyes feeling that this was not heading where he had expected it to go.

"What of him?"

"We've had a lot of people, farmers especially, complain about Caraxes stealing their sheep."

Daemon chuckled and rested his arm on the door frame no hint of asking Otto inside his rooms.

"This is about sheep?" he then asked mockingly and sensing how Otto's anger made the vein in his temple stand out gave him great satisfaction.

"Yes it is. Your dragon can't go on killing sheeps that are not his to kill. These farmers need their sheep because it is the source of their income," Otto determinedly said and Daemon crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Then he was silent for a moment. So silent that his counterpart frowned in confusion because he had expected a sharp comment from him. But just when Otto intended to add something he heard a little chuckle from the prince which developped into loud laughing.

"Why are you laughing about this now?" he said, his mouth tensed with bitterness. If there was one thing that Otto Hightower despised it was when people didn't take things seriously. And unfortunately Daemon tended to do this a lot.

"Gods…. Life must be so good when you're Otto Hightower. When you're biggest concern are some sheep," Daemon chuckled and shook his head.

"I see that you refuse to take this seriously, my prince," Otto hissed.

"Oh I'm taking this very seriously," Daemon said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Someone has to think about the sheep."

"Well, it seems you don't want to cooperate with me. Then I will deliver your very clear message to the king."

Now it was Daemon who frowned and he narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I come on the king's behalf. He heard several complaints about your dragon and told me that he intended to speak to you. I offered to go in his place."

He sounded triumphantly, proud even and Daemon would've loved to punch the smile off his face.

"You little…," he whispered dangerously and Otto arched his eyebrow.

"Do you really want to lower yourself to this level?"

The hand of the king observed him expectantly but as Daemon kept his mouth shut he continued.

"I will tell his grace about your… reaction to my demand and I assmuse that your dragon is going to spend the next few weeks in the dragonpit. Until we find a way to fix this problem and you'll present yourself more open to find a solution."

"You will not lock Caraxes in a fucking cave," Daemon said clearly unable to hide the anger in his voice.

"You're leaving me no choice, my prince. I came here to you trying to find a more elegant solution but you refused to take this seriously."

"I take it serious now," the prince spoke through grinded teeth but Otto just tilted his head.

"Let this be a lesson for you. I'm afraid you really need it."

With these words and before Daemon could interfere and make him stay the man left and walked around the corner.

"Fuck," Daemon cursed and hit with his fist against the wall. He felt the need to hit or squeeze something, anything to let out his fury.

And again it was the name of Otto Hightower that haunted his upset mind. He hated him so much that he felt his stomach twisting and turning. Of course this manipulative cunt hadn't told him that his brother had sent him. Of course he had expected Daemon to react the way he had and therefore he could now claim that he wasn't interested in negotiating.

Otto knew exactly that if he had told him that he came on behalf of the crown Daemon had at least properly listened to him. His hand hit the wall again but it didn't make him feel any better. His burning anger lived inside of him and it could only be removed by some kind of inner satisfaction. And that could only be reached by hurting and humiliating Otto the way that he always did when he was talking to the small council as if he was nothing but a stubborn and chaotic child.

And it only made Daemon angrier to know that he was doing this utterly to strengthen his very own position. He strained his brain trying to calm himself on one hand but also to come up with a plan to finally pay his enemy back.

He needed it the way he needed air. Feeling this incredible pride when Otto's face tensed with despair. Gods, just thinking about it filled Daemon with warmth. He had to come up with something. He had to think of a way to embarrass Otto in order to somehow deal with his own anger that could only be calmed if he managed to disgrace him. He clenched his fists again feeling how his nails pressed into his palms. He was Daemon Targaryen. So he would find a way.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@archerxnn

[desigal-26]

Hey dear! could i get an imagine/oneshot, angst, rough nsfw(if you write nsfw, otherwise just angst) Daemon x poc fem reader (Martell or dornish or essosi reader) inspired by "shikayat"(gangubai songs) Maybe they have a relationship but they have to break up because the reader was promised to someone else, but with happy ending please?

So, I love writing Martell Reader x Daemon. Hence, the reader is Martell again 😅.

Also, I am sorry. I did try to write the smut but I somehow couldn’t. So, it ends before the real smut could happen.

Complaints

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

In her absence, her complaints rang loud—ones he could not bear.

She was a maiden, begging him to request her hand in marriage—but he never gathered the courage, until it was too late.

Warnings: ANGST, OOC!Daemon (I guess), Mentions of Arranged Marriage, Hightower Slander, My bad writing. Inform me if there is anything else.

Word Count: 4.4K (MY BIGGEST EVER)

Kisiki yaad mein

Shamein guzarne ke liye

Kaleja chahiye khud ko

Maarne ke liye

Flea Bottom never slept—or so the realm whispered in hushed tones—and for once, the rumors spoke true. Beneath the shadowed sprawl of King’s Landing, where cobbled alleys twisted like serpents and the stench of life clung to every stone, the heart of the slums pulsed ceaselessly with riotous vigor. As dusk surrendered to darkness, the district bloomed anew with flickering torchlight and the bawdy chorus of the night’s temptations. Taverns spilled golden glow and drunken laughter onto the muddy streets, brothels opened their silk-draped arms to the willing and the weary, and the boundaries between lowborn and lord blurred amid cheap ale and silken skin.

Men of every station—ragged sellswords and silken courtiers, fishmongers and hedge knights—mingled under the same roofs, seeking the same fleeting comforts. A coin here bought a drink, a kiss, a moment of forgetting. A coin there bought silence, pleasure, or the illusion of love. Exotic beauties from the ports of Lys and Volantis, perfumed and painted, promised escape in every breathless moan and beckoning glance.

Once, Daemon Targaryen had lived for these nights. He had thrived in the raw pulse of Flea Bottom’s underbelly, laughing with cutthroats over spilled wine, sword-fighting in the alleyways for sport or pride, and indulging himself with women as fierce and untamed as wildfire. The brothel mistress knew him well—always saving the rarest flower for the Rogue Prince, an exotic jewel from Essos with eyes like molten gold or skin like polished obsidian. He had once claimed the night like it was his to rule.

But not anymore.

Not since her.

Now, Daemon sat in the darkest corner of the tavern, tucked behind rotting beams and smoke-stained walls, where no torchlight dared linger. A threadbare hood was drawn low over his head, the deep cowl casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face, hiding the unmistakable Valyrian silver of his hair and the unmistakable grief in his eyes. His once-proud shoulders slumped with the weight of memory, and his gloved hand curled tightly around a mug of lukewarm ale—his only companion in the midnight hours. He drank not for pleasure, but for numbness, each gulp as desperate as a babe clinging to its mother’s breast, trying to drown the taste of sorrow that clung to his tongue like ash.

His mind, thick with haze and wine, wandered where he dared not go when sober. To her. To the scent of her skin and the sound of her laugh, low and secret like a promise meant only for him. He remembered her touch in the darkness, the way she had fit against him like a blade in its sheath—his alone, fierce and soft and utterly his. Now, that warmth was gone, and the night held only ghosts.

He was no longer Daemon the Rogue Prince here. He was a shadow drinking in silence. A man lost to love, cloaked in memory, hiding from a world that no longer made sense without her.

Suna hai ke unko

Shikayat bahut hai

Toh phir unko humse

Mohabbat bahut hai

The memory of earlier that day haunted him still, etched into his mind like a fresh brand on flesh. It played over and over, unbidden, beneath the haze of ale and grief that wrapped around him like a funeral shroud.

He had heard the sound before he saw her—the delicate chime of anklets against stone, a sound he had come to associate with joy, with stolen moments and secret smiles beneath the blood-red leaves of the ancient weirwood tree. It was their place. Hidden, quiet, forgotten by the Red Keep and all its watching eyes. The place where she would come to him with windswept hair and sun-warmed skin, where her lips would part in laughter meant only for him.

So he had turned, expecting her. Hoping.

But it wasn’t his Dornish Rose who stood before him.

Instead, it was her shadow—her lady-in-waiting. Stern-faced and steely-eyed, with her arms crossed over her chest and her expression carved from stone. A woman who had never once tried to hide her disdain for him, who saw Daemon Targaryen not as a prince, but as a threat. A flame too wild to be tamed. Too dangerous for the cherished daughter of Sunspear.

He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Where is she?” he snapped, the words edged with anger and the faintest flicker of dread. It wasn’t like her to send someone in her place.

The woman did not flinch. Her composure, as ever, was unshakable—no fear, no courtesy, just cold efficiency.

“The Princess has sent me to deliver a message,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion, as if reading from a ledger.

Daemon’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Instead, he tilted his head and waited—though every passing second scraped at his nerves like a blade drawn too slow.

“She is to be wed,” the lady continued, her words striking like falling axes. “To Ormund Hightower. By the consent of Prince Qoren, Lord Hightower, and His Grace, King Viserys. The match is finalized.”

He stared at her, as if the sheer weight of his disbelief might force her to take the words back.

“She asked me to deliver her grief,” the woman added, a small twist of disdain curling the corner of her mouth. “And her fury. She says you never listened. Not to her warnings, not to her pleas. She begged you to stop pushing, to be patient. But you are who you are.”

His breath was shallow, unsteady. It felt as though the world had tilted beneath him, as though the earth itself rejected the news. His Rose—his wild, radiant Rose—married off to a Hightower? To one of them?

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. Her brother couldn’t possibly be so blind. So reckless. So cruel.

The Hightowers were vipers cloaked in robes, smug with their piety and poison. They were nothing but polished rot. And now she would be chained to one, her fire smothered by their cold, grey stone.

For a moment, he said nothing. He simply stared at the woman who bore the news of his ruin.

Then, softly, he asked, “Does she love me?”

It was foolish to ask, perhaps. But in that moment, he needed to hear it—needed to know. Even if it was too late. Even if it changed nothing. He needed truth to anchor him amidst the wreckage.

The lady-in-waiting’s brow arched. Her disdain deepened into contempt.

“The Princess holds many complaints against you—” she began.

“—Which means she loves me,” Daemon cut in, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. Because only those who love us enough to dream expect better of us. Only those who care are wounded by our failings.

And Daemon had failed her. Repeatedly. Spectacularly.

But she had loved him. Of that, he was suddenly, painfully certain.

And now, she was lost.

Not to death. But to duty.

And that was somehow worse.

Suna hai ke nafrat

Woh karte hain humse

Hume unki nafrat se

Raahat bahut hai

“She hates you,” the lady-in-waiting snapped, her voice sharp as a blade drawn in judgment. Her hands folded tightly in front of her, knuckles white, the lines of her posture rigid with restrained fury. Her eyes, warm in hue but burning with cold disdain, pinned him where he stood.

Daemon only chuckled. A low, bitter sound that lacked any trace of amusement. He shook his head slowly, the weight of her words settling into his chest like an old friend returned with a dagger. His violet eyes, once alight with mischief and arrogance, drifted away from her—past the red stone walls, past the realm and its petty games, toward something distant. Something lost. Perhaps a memory. One of those golden afternoons where time seemed to bend for them—where laughter tangled with whispers beneath weirwood branches, and the world, for a fleeting moment, had belonged only to them.

He exhaled slowly.

“Then,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “may the gods of Valyria bless her—and me. For hate exists only where love once dared to live.”

There was no jest in his tone. No defiance. Only the raw, aching truth of a man realizing that the fire she once burned for him hadn’t died—it had turned. Transformed into something jagged and cruel, forged by disappointment and disillusionment.

His gaze lifted to the sky, clear and indifferent above the castle walls. The same sky under which they had loved. And now, under which she would wed another.

He turned his eyes back to the Dornish woman before him. She looked ready to spit fire—jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in her neck strained, eyes aflame with a hatred to match the one she claimed her lady bore.

But Daemon didn’t care for her rage. Not anymore.

He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist, the gesture careless, hollow. As though shooing away the last echo of a dream he could no longer hold on to.

And then he turned, his cloak catching the wind behind him as he walked away. But each step was slower than the last—as though the very ground conspired to drag him back into the memory, into the place where she still smiled for him.

The words clung to him like chains. Not the ones she had sent, but the ones he had not spoken. The promises he’d never made. The battles he hadn’t fought. He, who had defied kings and spat in the face of death, had been silent when it mattered most. And now it was done.

His shoulders, broad and once proud, sagged beneath the weight of realization. Each breath scraped against his ribs like a dull knife. His heart, fierce and wild like his dragon, now coiled in on itself—dragged down into the pit of his stomach where sorrow festered.

She was gone. Not because he couldn’t have fought for her.

But because he didn’t.

Wo ilzaam jitne bhi

Chahe laga le

Wafadaar hain

Bewafa hum nahi hain

“Don’t look so disappointed, my prince,” came her voice behind him, steeped in mockery and venom. The words slithered through the silence, cruelly deliberate, aimed at the hollow where his heart once beat with reckless fire.

But Daemon did not turn. He couldn’t. Not for pride, but for fear.

Fear of what might show in his eyes if he dared meet hers—the cracks forming behind his mask, the silent shattering of his heart beneath the weight of her absence. He kept his face turned away, locked in place like a statue mourning in shadow, not trusting himself to conceal the glint of unshed tears or the ruin scrawled across his expression.

“You can go back to your ways again,” the woman added, her voice cold with satisfaction—as if this, this heartbreak, this abandonment, somehow justified her hatred for him.

The words struck like a whip, lashing through him without mercy. His ways. The whoring, the drinking, the chaos he once wrapped around himself like armor. The same indulgences that had earned him the derisive title whispered across the realm: The Prince of Flea Bottom. A man of appetites, they said. A man who burned through lovers like kindling and drank like he meant to drown himself.

But how could he explain—how could he make anyone understand—that he hadn’t touched another since her?

That she had ruined him for anyone else, without ever baring herself fully to him—without shedding more than the cloak of formality she wore at court, and the carefully measured decorum of a Dornish princess sworn to duty.

She hadn’t needed to touch him for his world to shift.

And now, that world had collapsed.

They would never know the man he had been in those stolen hours. The prince who abandoned swords and schemes for a quiet patch of sun-dappled grass beneath a weirwood tree. The man who waited not for war or command, but for the hush of her voice as she spoke of faraway dreams and childhood memories of Dornish summers, her lap cradling his head like it was the only place he belonged.

They would only remember the version of him they wanted to remember: the careless lover, the exiled husband, the royal disgrace. The world expected him to return to his ruin, to drown his sorrow in the arms of women whose names he wouldn’t remember, in cups of wine he’d never taste. They expected him to fall back into infamy, to become once more the reckless shadow of a prince that haunted the alleys of Flea Bottom.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

Because fidelity, to him, had never been a vow spoken aloud.

It had been the silence between their meetings. The ache in his chest when she was gone. The breath he held every time she approached. The life he would have given for one more day with her.

And now that life meant nothing.

Humein unki yaadon ki

Daulat bahut hai

A sudden cheer erupted around him, breaking through the fog of memory like a blade through silk. Daemon blinked, pulled reluctantly back into the present by the raucous laughter of drunk men and the clatter of overturned mugs.

A tavern girl squealed with delight, perched precariously on the shoulders of a large, swaying brute whose grin was missing more teeth than it kept. Another man—flushed, staggering—pressed a sloppy kiss to the hand of a passing server, who giggled and twisted away, used to such displays.

None of it amused him.

But it was that second man, the one clinging to a fleeting touch, that struck a chord deep within Daemon. Not because of the scene itself—but because it was a mirror, warped and distant, of something he once had. Something now lost to memory.

And memories were all he had left of her.

The feel of her hand in his—small, warm, soft in a way that disarmed him. The gentle drag of her fingers through his long silver hair, an absent, loving touch that made him forget he was a prince, a warrior, a Targaryen. Her scent, always citrusy with something deeper beneath—something uniquely her, that clung strongest behind her ears, where she was most sensitive. He remembered how she’d flinch ever so slightly when he kissed her there, and then melt into him like silk against flame.

He remembered her hair tangled in his calloused fingers—those same fingers that had known only the hilt of a sword and the cold of steel for most of his life. She had softened them. Softened him.

The vision of her sitting beneath the weirwood tree, nose buried in some tome, lips parted just enough to show her quiet absorption. Her cheeks flushed with the sun—or with the heat of his compliments, the ones he tossed at her carelessly, but always watched for the way they made her eyes shy away and her mouth twitch into a half-smile.

It was all gone. No more than smoke rising from a fire long dead.

Because he hadn’t chosen her.

Not when it mattered.

And that truth, that bitter, cruel truth, had wrapped around his heart like a noose.

He had the time. He’d had every opportunity to go to his brother, to go to Prince Qoren, and speak with the same fire he so often wielded in battle. To claim her, not in secret, but in light. She had asked for it—not once, not twice, but again and again. Not with demands, but in soft, plaintive whispers as she lay curled in his arms beneath the bleeding leaves of the weirwood tree.

“Why don’t you ask Qoren for my hand in marriage?” she had murmured once, voice barely louder than the wind. Her lips against his throat, her breath warm, her body fitting so easily against his. A plea disguised as playfulness. A question laced with longing.

He remembered how he had deflected it, again. As he always did.

He had kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder—anywhere to silence her words before they could settle into the space between them. He had thought it was enough. That she would wait, as she always had.

But even fire grows cold when left untended.

He had seen it, then—truly seen—in her eyes during that final meeting. That flicker of pain, quickly hidden beneath her usual smile. That quiet defeat. She had known the betrothal was coming. And she had given him one last chance.

A chance he had wasted with arrogance. With hesitation. With silence.

And now?

Now she was gone.

Not dead. But lost all the same. Not to war, or to distance.

But to the one thing he couldn’t fight—consequence.

Suna hai ke unko

Shikayat bahut hai

Eight pints of ale later, he stumbled out of the tavern, the night air biting at his flushed cheeks. The laughter and music behind him faded into a dull hum, a distant echo of a world he no longer felt tethered to. Women called to him, reaching with wine-slicked fingers and practiced pouts, but he brushed past them all with barely a glance. Their perfume made his stomach turn.

His mind, despite the alcohol, was clearer than it had been in weeks. Every gear turned with purpose now, slick with desperation and fury. The haze of indecision had lifted, replaced by something jagged and sharp.

He would not let her go.

Not without a fight.

His steps were uneven, but his will was iron. He made for the Red Keep, bypassing the main gates where the guards would surely notice the slump of his shoulders and the wild gleam in his eyes—and report it to either Otto Hightower or Viserys, both of whom would try to leash him with words, titles, or threats.

No.

Daemon Targaryen took the path only ghosts and rebels knew—slipping into Maegor’s Fort through the secret tunnels carved into the stone centuries ago. He moved like a shadow, one born from old fire and new regret, the cold stone walls guiding him to the wing he knew too well. Her wing.

The Hightowers—so pious, so proud—would never take a bride who wasn’t untouched. Not them. Not the keepers of their precious Seven. And that, Daemon thought darkly, could be the thing that shattered this cruel betrothal.

He reached her chambers with little resistance. No guards at the door. No maids bustling about. Just silence. Thick and grieving.

He pushed the door open soundlessly, heart thudding louder than his steps.

And then he saw her.

Curled on the bed like a wounded bird, knees drawn tightly to her chest, the fine silk of her nightgown wrinkled and clinging to her in the candlelight. Her hair, usually a glossy curtain of Dornish pride, was a tangle of grief around her face. Dried tear tracks marred her flushed cheeks, and her lashes were matted with salt and sleep. She looked so small. So breakable.

Daemon felt his heart crack at the sight.

Cautiously, he stepped forward, his hand trembling as he reached out to brush a lock of hair from her brow. Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips—so alive, so real—and yet he still feared she might vanish if he touched her too roughly.

He let his fingers slide through her hair, slowly, reverently, and her body stirred under his touch. A soft sound—a whimper, half-formed—escaped her lips. Her brows twitched, lashes fluttering like the wings of a moth struggling to rise.

Then her eyes opened.

And for a moment, neither of them breathed.

She blinked at him, her limbs slowly uncurling from their tight knot. Disbelief etched across her face as her gaze roamed over him. Her lips parted in a small gasp, voice lost to the lump forming in her throat.

“Daemon?” she whispered, almost inaudibly. As if saying his name aloud might break the fragile illusion her mind had conjured in its sorrow.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not yet. He only looked at her with an expression that hadn’t been seen on the Rogue Prince in years: raw, exposed, pleading.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with all the words they hadn’t said, all the chances he hadn’t taken.

And now, he was here—because it wasn’t too late. Not yet.

Her breath caught as she sat up fully, the silk sheets falling from her shoulders as she stared at him, still unsure if he was real. But the scent of ale clinging to his cloak, the disheveled state of his hair, and the storm in his violet eyes confirmed it—Daemon Targaryen stood before her, not a dream, not a memory.

And yet, there was no joy in her expression. Only the tremble of betrayal barely contained beneath her pride.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, voice thin, still hoarse from crying.

“I know,” he replied quietly, stepping closer, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across his face. “But I had to see you.”

Her gaze hardened. “You had months to see me. To speak to my brother. To speak to your brother. To fight for me. And now—now you come?”

He flinched. Not visibly, not in a way any courtier would detect, but she saw it. She always saw everything.

“I was a fool,” he said, the words gravelly with regret. “Too arrogant. Too sure you’d always be there. I thought…” He paused, exhaling a sharp breath. “I thought they’d never dare take you from me.”

Her lip quivered, just for a moment. “Well, they did. And you let them.”

Silence settled between them like snowfall—cold, soft, and deadly. She looked away then, staring toward the canopy, her throat working as if to swallow down more tears.

“You knew they were arranging a match,” she said, quieter now. “I told you what my brother was planning. I begged you, Daemon.”

“I know,” he murmured, stepping closer again, now only an arm’s length away. “And I ignored you. I thought… I thought your heart was mine.”

“It was,” she snapped, turning to face him again. “It still is, damn you.”

The words stunned them both into stillness.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and he watched her war with herself—between the love she hadn’t stopped feeling, and the pain he’d caused by doing nothing when action was needed most.

“I would’ve defied them all,” she whispered. “For you. I would’ve walked into the Throne Room and declared myself yours, if you had only asked.”

His hand reached for hers before he could stop himself, but she recoiled just slightly—enough to break his heart again.

“Why now, Daemon?” she asked, voice shaking. “Why tonight? Is it guilt? Possessiveness? Or did it finally dawn on you that I wasn’t just a dalliance?”

“No,” he said, jaw clenched, voice dangerously low. “It’s because I finally realized what it meant to lose you. And I can’t let that happen.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears. “It’s already happened. The betrothal is sealed. The Hightowers—”

“They haven’t taken your maidenhead yet,” he interrupted darkly. “And they never will.”

Her breath hitched. “Daemon…”

“Let me fix this,” he said, stepping forward again. “Let me undo the mistake I made by doing nothing. I’ll go to Qoren. To Viserys. To the gods themselves if I have to. I’ll tear down the Hightowers brick by brick if that’s what it takes.”

She stared at him, searching his face for any sign that this was another one of his whims—another reckless scheme forged in emotion and doused in wine. But all she saw was him.

The man she loved.

The man who had broken her heart.

The man who, despite it all, still held it.

Her mind raced and so did her heart—but they sprinted in opposite directions. Duty screamed of consequences, of names soiled and honour lost, of alliances shattered and realms plunged into chaos. But love—love whispered in the voice of a silver-haired prince who had come for her at last.

The war inside her raged silently, visible only in the flicker of her eyes as they darted away from Daemon’s and settled on the fire. The flames mocked her—wild, untamed, and far too much like the man before her.

Then, something shifted. A thread in her resolve snapped—not with violence, but with quiet inevitability.

Her gaze returned to him.

Daemon, who stood like a condemned man before a silent god, waiting to see if salvation would come in a whisper or a sword. He watched her not with the hunger of a rogue, but the reverence of a penitent, every breath held between worship and fear.

And then—wordlessly, mercilessly—she moved.

Her arms wrapped around his neck with a desperation only love betrayed can summon. Her lips crashed into his, fierce and unrelenting, the taste of salt still lingering from her earlier tears. He gasped into the kiss, surprise parting his lips just enough for her to take more. The moan that escaped his chest was guttural, unfiltered.

She straddled him, her silk-clad thighs bracketing his hips as if she’d done it a thousand times before. One hand tangled in his silver hair, the other slid down his chest, fingers pressing over the leather of his doublet before venturing south, igniting every nerve she passed like wildfire through dry grass.

Her hips rolled with purpose—teasing, taunting—and he groaned against her mouth, his hands flying to her waist as if by instinct, gripping her as though she might vanish again.

But she didn’t vanish.

She claimed.

And Daemon—Daemon, who had spent so long commanding, conquering, claiming—yielded.

He kissed her back with a hunger born not of lust, but of longing long denied. His hands slid beneath her nightgown, rough palms reverent as they mapped her body with an awe he rarely showed even in war. Every curve, every scar, every sacred line was memorized, worshipped.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes, his voice gravel-soft. “Are you sure?”

A flicker of something vulnerable passed through her gaze—fear, maybe. But beneath it, stronger and steadier, was resolve.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Even if the world hates me for it.”

His breath hitched, and in that moment, something in him broke—not from pain, but from sheer overwhelming relief. His forehead touched hers, his thumb brushing her cheek, his voice raw.

“Then let them all burn.”

[wholoveseggs]

Homecoming

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Reader} You haven't seen your husband since your passionate wedding night, leaving you to doubt his love. Now, three months later, you're round with child and missing him more than ever—until he suddenly returns.

♡♡ This is purely just to get all my daddy Daemon feelings out, I 100% believe he has a breeding kink. ♡♡

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, major breeding kink, slow sex, so so so much fluff, a little bit of angst and Daemon apologizing in bed...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

It was another quiet night, in a bed far too large for one. The wind was gently blowing through the curtains, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the sea. It was late, and everyone was asleep, yet you laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

You rolled over onto your side, the silk of the sheets sliding against your bare skin. These days, sleep evaded you, no matter how much you tried. If it wasn't your thoughts keeping you up, it was your changing body and the ever growing life inside of you.

Three months ago you had gotten married to the prince Daemon, a dream of many girls across the kingdom. But your marriage was hardly that. The day after the ceremony you woke up in an empty bed, and hadn't seen your husband since, leaving you to wonder if you had done something wrong.

He had left you no letter, no message. Nothing. Only the memory of your wedding night, the way he touched and kissed you, his sweet whispers of adoration as he made you his. On the loneliest days you would close your eyes and remember it all, his lips on yours, the way his fingers caressed you, the feel of him inside you.

You place your hand on the small bump of your stomach, a smile spreading across your lips. Although it had only been one night, he did his duty and you were pregnant. A piece of him was always with you.

But it wasn't enough.

You longed to see him again, to touch him and be held by him, to tell him of the life growing within you. You wanted so desperately to be with him, but instead you were left with the ghost of his love, a memory that wasn't enough to fill the hole in your heart.

You sighed, trying to push away those thoughts, and attempted to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes all you could see was his handsome face. You opened them again and sat up, staring into the darkness.

You could see the light of a torch through the cracks of the door, and the sound of footsteps. You knew exactly who it was, the guard outside your door. His shift was almost over, and soon a new one would be out there, watching over you. There was a muffled conversation, and the sound of someone walking away.

A few moments later the door cracked open, and the torch light poured into the room. Your eyes squinted at the sudden brightness, and as the person entered the room they shut the door.

You were about to give your guard a kindly lecture on waking you up when you noticed that it wasn't the guard who had walked in, but a hooded man. You opened your mouth to call for help, but before you could get a sound out he was at your bedside, his hand covering your mouth.

"Don't scream, my love, it's me." He whispered.

You blinked at the voice, your mind taking a second to process what was happening. Your eyes widened, and you reached for his hand. He took it away from your mouth and intertwined your fingers together, his other hand pulling down his hood.

"Daemon." You breathed, looking up at his face.

The torchlight casted a warm glow on his handsome features, highlighting his strong cheekbones and sharp jawline. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, hanging past his shoulders, his eyes were dark and clever, looking you over with admiration.

You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing into his. He let out a sigh, a sound that sounded almost pained, and returned your kiss. Then you harshly pushed him away, hitting his chest.

"Where have you been?" You demanded.

"I had matters to attend to." He told you.

"Three months!" You cried. "Three months I waited for you, and you were doing what?"

He smiled and pulled off his cloak, his eyes raking over your form. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

You wanted to be angry with him, you really did, but the look he was giving you, like he was starved, melted away your resolve. You leaned into his touch and looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Asshole," You whispered.

"My love." He whispered back, leaning down and placing a kiss to your forehead.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for another heated kiss. You were angry, yes, but seeing him now made all of that fade away. Your ire could wait until the morning.

His lips were gentle and loving, and you were so happy that you had almost forgotten that he had been gone. He kneeled on the bed and pulled you close, his hands cupping your cheeks.

When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, smiling and breathing hard.

"I thought you left me," You admitted, your hands gripping his wrists, as though you could keep him there forever by holding on to him.

He hummed, his nose nuzzling against yours and you pressed yourself closer to him, trying to get as much contact as possible.

His large, warm hands moved down to the swell of your stomach. He placed his palms flat against the bump and leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Did the maesters tell you?" You asked, placing your hands over his.

He nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet yours. "How are you feeling?" He asked, with such gentle kindness that it made your heart melt.

"Big." You answered, laughing slightly. "I can't wear any of my old clothes, and I have to have new ones made all the time. And the way the ladies look at me when I go out..."

He shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him, his thumbs caressing your skin. It was true that you had changed since the wedding, your body swelling with his child. You were nervous about how he would react, but the softness in his eyes and the way he touched you told you otherwise.

"I wish I could have told you the news myself, it's a shame you had to hear it from some crusty old maester," you said.

"It is a wonderful thing to return home too," he smiled, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

He kissed you deeply, his arms wrapping around your waist. You smiled into the kiss, your fingers weaving through his long, silver hair. You could feel his lips turn up against yours, and you both pulled away.

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your features, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands trailed down your sides, sending a wave of heat through you.

"My prince," you said softly, your fingers brushing along his cheekbone. "We've already made a baby. You don't have to do this."

He laughed, and shook his head, a look in his eyes you couldn't decipher. "I forget just how innocent you are," he said, his hands trailing down to your thighs.

“Well, whose fault is that?” You teased, smiling up at your handsome husband.

You sucked in a breath as he leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.

"It's true, I've been away for too long, my lady wife has forgotten what it is I crave," he breathed against your skin, his lips finding yours once more.

Your hands slid down his shoulders and arms, feeling his muscles. He pulled back slightly and tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

"You have gotten bigger as well," you said, running your hands across his chest, feeling the hard muscles.

He smirked, a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Oh?"

"It suits you," you said, a playful smile on your lips.

His hand came to rest on the side of your neck, his fingers caressing your jaw. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip and he leaned in, capturing your mouth with his.

"And you are more beautiful than the day we wed," he said, his voice husky.

"My prince flatters me." You breathed, a blush rising on your cheeks.

His eyes went to the ties on your nightdress, a row of pretty little bows that went down to the valley of your breasts. He tugged at one of the ribbons, the fabric becoming loose.

He pushed it aside and his hand moved up to caress your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple, causing you to gasp.

"Still as sensitive." He said, a smirk on his lips.

He leaned down and took your other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before gently biting down. You tugged hard on his hair, your legs kicking and squirming as he continued to play with you.

"Daemon," you moaned.

He hummed, the vibration causing a wave of pleasure to wash over you. He let go of your nipple, and his mouth moved lower, placing hot kisses along your skin, his hand pushing up your night dress.

"Perhaps a bit more sensitive." He commented, his hand brushing along your thigh.

He hooked a finger into the waistband of your small clothes and pulled them off. You were now naked, your body on full display for him, and he leaned back and admired his work. His hand on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing over a stretch mark.

"Beautiful." He said, a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

You looked away, suddenly shy. You had only spent one night with him, and now he was here again. His touch, his words, they all still had an affect on you, making your stomach flutter and heart race.

He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your bump, his hand resting on the side of it, his lips trailing lower. You smiled softly, and ran your fingers through his hair, the silver strands smooth between your fingers.

His hand came to rest on your thighs, gently coaxing your legs open. You watched as he positioned himself between them, his head almost disappearing behind your bump.

His eyes flickered up to yours, and his smirk was all too knowing, causing you to blush and turn away. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking up your slit.

You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening. He did it again, this time focusing his attention on that sensitive little spot he introduced to you on your wedding night. He placed a soft kiss on it, his tongue circling it.

"Dae-ah," you moaned, trying to muffle the sound by pressing a hand over your mouth.

You didn't know if it was the fact that you were pregnant, or maybe that you missed him more than anything, but everything felt different, his touch more intense.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you down as his tongue licked and circled you. His mouth moved down and his tongue slid into you, making you arch and cry out. He lapped at your arousal, his tongue going in and out, the sounds he made, the hums and sighs, driving you wild.

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through your entire body, and his tongue went up, swirling around that little spot again, his mouth closing over it.

You moaned his name, your thighs squeezing him, your whole body trembling as your release washed over you.

He placed a few more kisses to the inside of your thighs before rising up, his hair messy and face glistening with you. He wiped his face with his arm and leaned down, his lips capturing yours.

You could taste yourself on him, and you kissed him hard, your hand tangling into his hair, the other reaching down to the ties of his trousers. He helped you undo them, and kicked off his pants.

His hard length sprung free, and you wrapped a hand around it, causing him to let out a shaky moan. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and his eyes locking onto yours.

You slowly started to stroke him, and he let out another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath hot against your skin.

"My love," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand.

You loved the effect you had on him, the control you had. To have the prince of dragonstone, the most dangerous man in the realm, at the palm of your hand, made your heart flutter.

His hand found yours, and he guided it away from his length, a whine leaving your throat. He chuckled and gave you a quick kiss before positioning himself between your legs.

He slowly pushed himself in, causing you both to moan. It hurt a little, just like the first time, but his hands were on your thighs, his thumb caressing your skin, and he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, letting you adjust.

"My love, I'm not going to break," you said.

He smirked and gave a shallow thrust, a gasp leaving you.

"I can't be too careful with what is mine." He said, leaning down and giving you a heated kiss.

He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hand sliding up the length of your leg, coming to rest on your bump, his other hand planted next to your head, holding himself up.

He started to move, his length slowly sliding in and out, the pace slow and gentle. You could feel every inch of him, rubbing against that perfect spot. A soft moan left you, and you reached out, your hands on his chest, feeling the hand planes of muscle underneath his skin.

His thumb caressed your belly, his eyes never leaving your face, studying every detail, memorizing each feature. You felt so exposed under his gaze and turned away, your cheeks flushed.

He smiled, a soft, loving smile, and kissed you.

"How I've missed you, my beautiful wife," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love in his eyes. It was the way he had looked at you at your wedding, the two of you standing there in the sept, whispering promises to each other. The world had disappeared around you, and in that moment you were the only people that existed.

He kissed you again, and began moving a little faster, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room. He groaned, his hand still gently stroking your bump.

"I can't believe such a perfect creature could bear my child," he said, his eyes trailing down to where his hand rested.

"Our child," you corrected, giving him a teasing smile.

He hummed, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your waist and helping you into a sitting position. He pulled you onto his lap, and you moaned at the way he was buried deeper inside you.

His lips left open mouth kisses on your shoulders, and his hands rested on your hips, guiding you. You braced yourself on his shoulders, his hands back on your bump as you moved. You knew he liked the feel of it, and he couldn't get enough.

Your name left his lips as you bounced in his lap, his hands cupping your ass, squeezing you. You moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging at the silver locks. You were growing louder, your body humming, that feeling building within you.

"Not too loud, my love," he whispered. "I do not wish for the guards to hear,"

A moan, that was halfway to a laugh escaped you, and he cut it off with a deep kiss. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, as you kept moving, the feeling of your release building.

"For your lovely sounds are only for me," he continued, his voice in your ear.

You let out another shaky moan, his hands squeezing you. He was moving his hips to meet yours, and you could feel him shaking beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, and pulled you harder, his voice soft yet commanding as he talked you closer to your peak.

Your hands gripped his arms and back, and when he said your name, a deep, low groan that sounded almost pained, you toppled over the edge, falling in a pool of ecstasy. All the pent up emotions and frustration that you had been holding in were released, and you let go of a final moan that you muffle in the crook of his neck.

He followed soon after, capturing your lips in a heated kiss and letting out a deep, satisfied moan. You clung to him, afraid that he might disappear if you didn't. His arms were wrapped around your middle, cradling you close to him, his lips pressed to your temple.

The two of you breathed in each other's air, a simple shared breath, your foreheads pressed together, your eyes closed. You could feel his lips on your sweat slicked skin, his fingertips still caressing your bump.

When you both had returned to your senses, he gently laid you back on the bed. He leaned down, the tip of his nose nuzzling against yours, and peppered your face with little kisses. You smiled and let your eyes flutter open, finding him staring at you, a sweet, lovestruck look in his eye.

He grabbed the blanket, and covered your naked form with it, tucking it around you, almost protectively. He crawled under with you,his head resting against your chest, his hand still protectively cradling the swell of your stomach.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. He looked up at you, his eyes sleepy, and he pressed a kiss to your bump.

"I hope it's a boy," you said, continuing to stroke his hair. "With the most handsome features, and a true warrior, like his father."

"Mm," he hummed, his eyes closing, and his arms wrapping around your waist. "I hope it is a girl, a daughter that looks just like her mother."

He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if he had fallen asleep, when his eyes suddenly opened.

"Or perhaps both," he said, his voice serious, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

"Twins?" You laughed. "I don't think I could handle two little dragons running about."

He chuckled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin. "I will be here to help you," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I am not going anywhere."

"You better not," you warned, poking his chest. "You've kept me waiting long enough."

He laughed again and caught your wrist, bringing your finger to his lips and placing a gentle kiss there. He slid his arms back around you, and pulled you close, your foreheads touching, your noses brushing.

You were content, your heart filled with so much love for him, and as his breathing evened out and his eyelids drooped, you knew he felt the same. You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of what was to come. Of a big family, a happy life, and many more nights just like this one. 

[d-targaryenshoe]

To Protect And Adore - Aegon II Targaryen

Word Count: 1219

Summary: Queen nor a Princess shall threaten an unborn child, should they? Most surely not if it's the king's child.

The dragonfire flickered and danced in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls of the Red Keep.

You sat in the dim light, your hands protectively cradling your swollen belly.

The child within you was a secret you had kept for as long as possible, but the inevitable truth could no longer be hidden.

You were with Aegon's child, a fact that could change many lives.

Aegon Targaryen, the king, had taken you as his mistress at the time when his marriage to Helaena had been strained and loveless.

You were no noblewoman, but your beauty and grace had caught the eye of the dragon king.

What began as a passionate affair soon deepened into something more, and now, you carried the heir to the throne within you.

But with Helaena's tragic death, the court was rife with intrigue and whispers.

Power was up for grabs, and the position of queen was vacant.

As you sat in the quiet of your chambers, a knock at the door disrupted your thoughts.

Before you could respond, the door swung open and Alicent Hightower swept into the room.

Her face was a mask of cold fury.

"Y/n," she began, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "You should not have allowed this to happen."

You rose to your feet, your heart pounding in your chest. "Your Grace," you said, bowing your head slightly. "I did not intend for any of this."

Alicent's eyes narrowed. "Yet here we are. You are carrying my son's child, a bastard that will only bring disgrace and scandal to this house."

You felt a surge of protectiveness for your unborn child. "He is Aegon's son, and nothing will change that."

Alicent stepped closer, her expression growing darker. "You are a fool if you think I will permit this child to live. There are ways to deal with such inconveniences."

Fear gripped you, but you stood your ground. "You would not dare harm your grandchild."

Alicent's smile was chilling. "You underestimate me. If you value your life and that of your child, you will leave and never return."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to show weakness. "Aegon will protect us. He loves me, and he will not stand for this."

Alicent laughed, a cold, bitter sound.

"Aegon is weak. He is ruled by his desires, not his mind. But you are correct about one thing, he will protect you, at least for now. But even he cannot disobey me forever."

With that, Alicent turned and swept out of the room, leaving you trembling and alone.

You knew you had to tell Aegon, but fear for his reaction and what it might cost him stayed in your hand for a moment.

You could not put it off any longer.

The next morning, you went to his chambers.

Aegon was lounging on his bed, a goblet of wine in his hand.

His violet eyes lit up when he saw you, but his smile faded when he saw your expression.

"What is it?" he asked, setting the goblet aside and rising to his feet.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"Aegon, I need to tell you something. Your mother... she threatened me and our child. She told me to leave or she would... she would see to it that our child did not survive."

Aegon's face darkened with fury. "She said that? To you?"

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I am frightened, Aegon. I do not know what to do."

Aegon's hands clenched into fists, and he turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal.

"She has gone too far this time," he muttered. "I will not let her harm you or our child."

He strode towards the door, and you hurried after him. "Aegon, please, do not do anything rash. She is your mother."

He turned to you, his eyes blazing. "She may be my mother, but she has overstepped her limits. No one threatens my family. No one."

With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving you to follow in his wake.

You found Alicent in the throne room, deep in conversation with one of her advisors.

She looked up, startled, as Aegon burst in.

"Aegon, what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, rising to her feet.

Aegon strode up to her, his face a mask of fury. "You threatened y/n and our child," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"You think you can control me, manipulate me, but you are mistaken. I will not let you hurt them."

Alicent's eyes flashed with anger. "I am your mother, and I know what is best for this kingdom. That child is a threat to everything we have created."

Aegon took a step closer, pressing a finger to his mother's chest. "You do not get to decide who lives and who dies. I am the king, and I will protect those I love. If you ever threaten y/n or our child again, I will see to it that you are punished for this."

Alicent's face paled. "You would not dare."

Aegon grabbed her arm, his grip firm. "Try me."

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then Alicent wrenched her arm free and took a step back, her expression one of fury and disbelief.

"You will regret this, Aegon," she spat. "You are making a mistake."

Aegon shook his head. "The only mistake I made was not standing up to you sooner. Y/n is carrying my child, and I will marry her. She will be queen, and our child will be the heir to the throne."

Alicent's eyes widened with shock. "You cannot be serious. The nobles will never accept her."

Aegon turned to you, who had been standing silently by his side.

He took your hand and looked into your eyes. "I am very serious. I love her, and I will do whatever it takes to protect her and our child."

Your heart swelled with love and gratitude.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, you knew you would face whatever came together.

Aegon was willing to fight his mother, and risk everything, for your love and your child.

Alicent stood there, her face a mask of fury and disbelief. "You are a fool, Aegon. This will be your undoing."

Aegon turned back to her, his expression hard. "If protecting my family is my undoing, then so be it. I will not be a puppet for you to bear. This is my decision, and it is final."

With that, he led you out of the throne room, leaving Alicent to fume in silence.

As you walked down the corridors of the Red Keep, Aegon squeezed your hand.

"Do not worry," he said softly. "I will keep you safe. No one will harm you or our child."

You nodded, tears of relief streaming down your face. "I know. I trust you."

Together, you faced the uncertain future, your love and determination stronger than ever.

Despite the challenges and dangers ahead, you knew you could overcome anything as long as you were together.

Aegon's promise to protect his family was a vow that would never be broken, and your love would become the foundation of a new era for the Targaryen dynasty.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, eventual smut, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i nearly decided on nuking this because it feels so fucking bad and aimless guess in the end I'M really the tormented spirit huh anyway if I'm glad i didnt and decided to wait it out. if you enjoy this please think of leaving a comment and/or reblog because i need the reassurance. | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

"Father," Alicent pleads, "she needs to see you."

Otto's jaw clenches as he lifts his gaze from his desk. He looks upon his youngest child's features. You were one in the same, his first daughter and last. He thanks the gods that she did not inherit the curse you bear.

Alicent picks at her fingers while awaiting a response. Though she draws blood, no sound leaves her lips. She did not know it, but her father catches this anxious tick. He mentally corrects himself: at least she did not inherit it at equal intensity.

"A man has no place in the dressing room of a bride-to-be," the Lord Hand dismisses.

Alicent knew about as much would be said, yet she still tries, "please. She is having a-"

"And when has my presence ever soothed her?" Otto interrupts, raising his voice to make his point clear.

It was enough. Alicent understood.

He turns back to his papers. He reads them but none of the words register. He says, "I am sure your brother is already there, coddling her as he does."

Alicent does not respond.

Otto lifts his gaze, "go," he speaks as though his daughter missed the obvious, "if she needs someone so badly, coddle her with Gwayne."

Alicent returns to your chambers. Her heart pinched in every which way at the sight of you. Here you stood, clothed in one of the few precious dresses that belonged to your mother— a bride. Dark blue satin and gold jewelry embellished your form. Your brown hair was curled and plaited and pinned. Your face had a glow, only because it was stained with tears. It was terrible and magnificent all at once.

Rhaenyra goes to her best friend, and the two girls clutched hands before walking towards you. Gwayne spots them and gives your hands a tight squeeze. Because of this, you turn from your older brother to your younger sister. Your eyes are pink with melancholy.

"Lord Hand," Alicent mutters, "is deep in his work."

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw, loathing your father more than normal in this moment.

More than your own, you cannot stomach your sister's duress. You stroke her cheek, "I am well now. Worry no more."

Alicent catches Gwayne's expression and knows that is a lie. Still, she smiles and nods, "I am glad," she looks you once over, "you are an exquisite bride, sister."

Rhaenyra offers a smile, "I agree, dear aunt."

Your face twists at the young princess's words, though you knew she meant well. You will away the dreadful sensation in your stomach and manage a smile, "thank you... sweet niece."

You relish their company for as long as you can in this moment. You gather strength from Rhaenyra's smile, from Alicent's touch, and Gwayne's words. Then, all at once, you were alone, walking towards Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he was not curious of you. He despised you, for after all, you were the spawn of that Cunttower. But, gods, what could possibly be the reason you were taking so long to walk down the aisle? It was not like this room was that big. And so, he turns over his shoulder to inspect you. His hand remains on Dark Sister and his weight still rested mostly on one leg.

He squints at the sight of you, moving like a snail. He is about to roll his eyes, but then he catches a glimpse of your countenance.

Tis strange.

You were not nearly as repulsive as he remembered you, and not nearly as similar in likeness to your rotten twin. How could that be, when it was not only- what, a season since he had pummeled Ser Cuntface to the ground? He will never forget your screaming face in the audience, and how deliciously distressed your father had been from hauling you away.

Even now, as Daemon's lilac eyes appraised your distant silhouette, gliding towards him like a phantom intent on haunting, he second guessed if that weeping woman from the tourney was you. But then he turned to your brother and saw his jaw harden. It was unmistakable then you were the weeping woman, and now, you were his weeping bride.

Gwayne, could not help the way his hands tightened into a fist as he helplessly watched you inch towards his most ardent foe. Beside him, unmoving, stood the very man who allowed such madness to ensue: your father.

You pass the pew that seated your family. Your twin's expression softens. He nods, and you know he means take heart. Your sister does the same. But your father, who stood between his children, does not spare you a glance.

Daemon notices the coldness. He would feel bad, but then again, he has been proclaiming his ill-guided brother's Lord Hand was the biggest cunt in the realm for so long, so he doesn't. Oh, but then you look at him with those beady eyes, and he did not know why his thorax felt uneasy.

Twas strange indeed.

Soon you stood in front of your promised, and, finally, Otto lays his eyes upon you. He does not see you though. He does not see the woman dressed in the garments that once belonged to his wife. He does not see your trembling hand and glassy cheeks. He sees his timid, tremoring, little daughter that he had to leave a moon's length for work. He sees her frail body that shook on her tiny bed and found no comfort in the way he held her tiny hand when he returned.

As the septon begins this damning rite, all he could hear was the voice of the maester that promised the new medicine he procured would heal his girl. As tears rolled down your eyes, he remembers how he nearly killed the maester for feeding you herbs that caused you to retch the little food you had eaten.

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

Daemon turns to the pew beside the Hightowers' and finds his brother's face. Viserys seemed pleased to witness this wretched affair, as did Aemma, who clutched her pregnant belly. Rhaenyra beside her seemed more interested in you however, or at least the dress that she and Alicent helped dressed you in.

The septon blabbers and tells you both to speak your vows. You do, one as reluctant as the other. Then, as instructed, Daemon cloaks you and presses a kiss on your salty lips.

Twas bittersweet. On one hand, as he takes your clammy one, the image of Otto's face when Daemon told the King that he wanted to marry you comes to mind.

Oh, how excited he was to see the old fool look as though he was a breath away from lunging at him across the table, and how utterly horrendous that he hadn't. He would have simply, and justifiably, killed him. Then all this bother would not have ensued. The look upon the said man's face this moment, now that he's sullied what he so dearly protected, made his stomach giddy.

As the same time, as he held that same clammy hand of yours and felt it tremble, he remembers that you and he were bound. Though not in the manner of his house, he knew he could escape only so much of his wretched duties. Otto's vexation would only last so long, and deep down the cunt must enjoy that his daughter was now a princess. He knew soon Viserys would also begin nagging him again.

But then out of nowhere, he laughs. It was so abrupt that a few guests looked at him in confusion.

How could he forget? There was the matter of your... affliction. Perhaps he can frighten you to death on your wedding bed.

He chuckles once more.

The idea is so delicious, he is in good spirits the whole wedding feast. He does nothing but embarrass and shame you by entertaining literally every other lady save yourself.

What makes matters worse, at least on your end, is that your father refuses to go to your side and forbids not only your brother but as well as your sister from leaving their spots to come to your aid. There was no need to make the matter bigger than it was. You are left alone at your seat at the table, looking nothing but pathetic and weepy.

You sustain such temperament until you're in your marriage chambers, but then you do a funny thing and down two glasses of wine. Daemon laughs at how it spills from your lips, down your neck.

He, who had already much more than a measly two cups, comes behind you and takes the one you loudly prop on the table. You squeak and bolt away when Daemon's arm sneaks up from underneath your own; it only further amuses him.

"V'you a change of heart?" he pours himself a glass, "ready for debauchery, yes?"

You turn unbelievably pale, and it merits the fondest of laughs from your sadistic groom. Daemon drinks and licks the wine off his lips.

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

He raises a brow at it. Suddenly, he's annoyed— twice was much because he has absolutely no idea what the gesture means.

That is, until you speak, "may I have some more?"

One of his faint silver brows raises. Suddenly, he is greedy with the wine he thought tasted too sour on his tongue. However, a curiosity within him urged to hand over the cheap drink, for why did his shivering wife have the nerve for this to be her first words to him?

He watched you throw your head back as you down the wine just as quick as you did the previous ones. He chuckles and crosses his arms. When you turn to Daemon, he tilts his head, "thirsty?"

You inhale deeply, though it is strangled, "for my anxiousness."

It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean, and when he does, his nostrils flare. Had he breathed fire, surely smoke would have come out his nose at this moment. Daemon releases an airy, unamused chuckle and averts his gaze, "eager to bed me, harlot?"

Your throat tightens, for that was not what you meant at all.

You forcibly swallow a lump that forms when he comes to your side. Your throat only further constricts when he grabs and yanks you into his chest. You whimper as he presses his nose against your ear. Goosebumps form when his hot breath hits your ear, "on the bed then."

Your heart thunders as he shoves you towards the bed. You nearly miss it. Actually, only your head and arms touch the cushion, and the rest of your body collides with the floor and the hard bed frame. Your tailbone throbs at the impact, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your chest that tightened, and tightened, and tightened and—

You barely manage to gasp. You are hard of breathing when Daemon crouches and grabs your thighs, pulling your skirts up. He feels your flesh tremble beneath his palm. His fingers touch your skin, and it brings him to hiss; you are ice against his burning hands.

He looks up at you. A line forms between his brows. You gasped for air that seemed unwilling to enter your lungs. Not only was your face stained with tears, but as well as your neck now

He mutters, "nyke pendagon jaelā naejot sagon ipradāri," I thought you wanted to get eaten, "I do so find fear delectable."

You continue to slump into the floor until you're a melted mess. You can do nothing but clutch your chest, not that it helps one bit.

Daemon is satisfied at this point. He stands and dusts his hands off. He looks at the pitiful Hightower, your dark locks spilled on the ground as if blood from a crime scene.

"Is that your affliction then, wife?" he tilts his head, "do you seize up when you're nervous?"

You look at him, but do not respond.

"S'rather inconvenient, no?" he sighs, as though he actually cared.

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

"Mmm, well, I suppose I will have to claim the womanhood owed of me some other time," he said, uninterested. With that, he exits the room with a skip in his step, pleased to know he had such a tremendous effect on you.

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

By the time you peel yourself up from the floor, your body is encased in sweat. You command yourself to calm; you cannot afford to slip into another bout of insanity. Your tears cannot be contained as you struggle to undo the ties of your dress; at least tremendous relief comes after you do. You struggle to your feet and remove the pins in your hair while making for the vanity table.

You sit before yourself; your horrid face reflects on the mirror that was far too clear for your liking. As you free your hair from its bounds, you think, perhaps it was fortunate that your husband did not lay with you. At least not tonight.

But then, comes to mind, the argument you with your father. Your chest threatens to tighten again as the severity of his voice replays in your head.

It was no secret, Otto despised Daemon. How then could he be so shocked at your horror of learning he had approved your marriage to him. His raging voice still rings in your head: "you ungrateful fool!"

You fall apart in your palms and nearly succumb to yourself again. Thankfully, you manage to take deep breaths and pick yourself up before you fall apart.

You always knew you were the spare in your father's eyes, but you thought that merited indifference. You did not think he hated you so deeply. How could anyone hand their child to their enemy? Perhaps this was his way of finally having use of you.

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

You go to bed and wrap yourself tightly under the sheets. You stare at the ceiling, praying the same prayer you've prayed since you were eight: Seven, let this be my final slumber.

You nearly choke when you are awoken by such violent shaking. You jolt up, or at least as much as you can from the blankets you were so tightly bound in.

Daemon grins and brings the hands he had shaken you with behind his back, "I would say good morn, but it is apparently opposite to you, wife."

The name makes your skin crawl. You push yourself out of the sheets and sit up. You wipe your face and tell yourself; you must get used to this, "good morrow, husband."

Your brown curls spill down your shoulder as you sigh to yourself. Daemon thinks you look much more palatable this way, unlike yesterday, when your hair was jailed so tightly. He motions with his head, "ta. We make haste to the dragon pit."

Your eyes are suddenly devoid of any trace of sleepiness as you look at him.

His lips remain curled, "it would only be proper to do so, no?" He does not let you retort, as he is already making his way out, "tis Caraxes' right to know who his master has been shackled to," he opens the door, "at least momentarily."

If he was self-satisfied with how you shook under his grasp last night, one can only imagine his exhilaration over your severe disinterest in meeting his mount this morning. What's more, Caraxes could smell your anxiety, and it made him chuff and snap his jaws.

Of course, Daemon chastised his dragon, telling him to obey, even though he very much did not want him to. He eagerly fantasizes: oh, a shame my bride died the day I introduced him to my ride.

A true shame.

"Calm yourself," Daemon sniggers as he forcefully pushes you towards the blood wyrm, "the harder you make this for yourself, the harder it will be."

You found no encouragement in that, for no part of it meant to encourage. You continue to writhe against him, pushing yourself back, only to be pressed against the prince's chest and urged forward. It didn't help that he shackled his hands on both of your wrists, preventing you from elbowing him away.

Though your hair was braided to the side, you still manage to whip it to Daemon's face in your attempt to free yourself, only causing him to be more impatient. You could not help the harrowing shriek that left you when he ultimately brought you to the beast's maw, and the said creature pressed himself against your chest to sniff you.

Caraxes rips away and shakes his head at your piercing reaction. He shrieks in like, as if disapproving, or showing offence. He must exact appropriate retaliation. He draws a deep breath, readying to set you ablaze. Daemon would have let him, had he not been a direct target of his mount's wrath, "keligon, Caraxes!"

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

He does not enjoy the order, exemplified by the way he licked his teeth, but obeys, nonetheless. He roars one last time, spit sputtering onto your face as he does. It's enough to make you finally lose your resolve.

You cease your wrangling and find yourself going limp in his arms. Daemon is pleased. He can finally drag you on dragon-back and torment you even more mid-air. What he did not know, however, was that your stomach was tingling; it was not that of the usual dread so familiar to you, but twas familiar still.

Daemon takes you by the arm and tries to make you climb up to the saddle, but then he stills when he hears the sound you make. He pulls away just before the acid from your stomach rushes out of your mouth. You retch so much it comes out of your nose, and you feel yourself grow lightheaded.

"Fucking gods," Daemon recoils in disgust. He turns to one of the dragon keepers and orders you away.

The dragon keeper, who looked far older than your father, spoke to you in a language you could not make out. You understand the part where he says maester as he leads you out of the pit. You manage to convey you no longer needed his assistance once you were out and walked off by yourself. You flinch and shriek when Daemon takes off on Caraxes.

You do not go to the maester's, instead, you have your servants draw you a warm bath and stay in it until it is cold. Only then do you scrub your skin until it is tender.

Once you were clean, you looked for the only person in the world that did not use your name interchangeably with hysteria: your twin.

"That uliginous blinkard," Gwayne slashes the dummy before him. You watch him pace from the bench you were sat upon. "He is incapable of procuring a morsel of dignity out of his wretched existence."

You clench you jaw when he chucks his sword to the ground.

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

"But then I would be no better than he, would I not?" he seethes as he walks to your side, grabbing the towel beside you.

He wipes his face. You look up at him, a line forming between your brows, "remember you are my confidant, not my vindicator."

"If not I," he chucks his towel back beside you, "then who?" His forehead wrinkles, "an affront to my twin is worse than one to myself."

"Then you would know better than anyone that I share your sentiment," you grab his arm, hoping to calm him down.

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

You sigh, "and you know well that I suffer more in circumstances where you've acted on my behalf."

He clenches his jaw. He draws a deep breath and denies the thought with the shake of his head, "father will not hold it against-"

"Father holds everything against me," your eyes instantly water, "he would not be our father if he did not."

Your twin has never spoken your name any other way but in gentleness, yet it is precisely why it chips you apart. Gwayne continues, "be it as it may, but I do not believe that he gave to the prince— certainly not willingly."

You laugh and lift your countenance to the sky. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes, down your ears and neck, "does it matter?"

"It does," he urges, "he fought for you."

"He does not fight for me," you turn back to him, "allow yourself to come to terms with it as I have. It will hurt you less."

Gwayne does not manage a response as someone else speaks in that moment. The way you both tense at the sound is that of instinct.

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

You turn over your shoulder and shoot up from where you sat. You watch as your father walks towards you. He places a hand on your neck and looks you up and down, "did the prince jostle you so on his ride?"

His touch is like a searing rod against your skin, his eyes, even worse. The raised hairs on your neck remain even as he pulls away. You quietly retort, "I did not even touch his saddle."

"Oh," Otto raises his brows, "then perhaps your affliction is that of you carrying."

Carrying?

Both you and Gwayne are mortified by the idea. You stutter, "s-surely it is not that quick."

"The blood of the dragon runs hot," he sighs, "as he would so boldly proclaim."

Your face burns upon hearing this.

Your father looks past you, "take your sister to the maester at once."

"No, I-"

"Make sure that she is good condition and take note of what will be instructed of her."

"That is not-"

"I am sure she will be required to take further precautions because of her affli-"

"We did not!" you blurt, finally regaining the attention of your father.

Your heart races as Otto looks at you. Suddenly, you are like a deer shot by an arrow, pained and powerless. He is annoyed that you interrupted him, only to say nothing. He presses, "we did not what?"

You take a strangled breath before reply, "we... did not consummate ou-"

"You what?!" he steps forward.

Gwayne immediately takes your arm, eager to get between you two, "father-"

But Otto does the same and pulls you toward him, "you did not consummate, or you did not want to consummate your marriage?"

Gwayne's hold on you falters. Your saliva lumps in your throat, "I-"

"You do understand the consequences if you do not bear your husband heirs, correct?"

You turn to your feet, unable to hold his heated glare, "I-"

"Look at me when I speak to you," he shakes you.

You lift your eyes, and hot tears begin to rush down your face.

"You've proven your point, father," Gwayne blurts, "release her."

"Release her?" Otto redirects his ire. Though he does just that, release you, it feels as though an iron clamp around your neck replaces your father's hold. "Even if I were to release her, boy, your dearest twin sister will not be free of the truth," he turns back to you, "nor my point. Your failure to do what is necessary will lead you straight into the dragon's belly."

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

You nod before you allow yourself to breathe. You blurt, "yes, my lord."

Otto looks you once over before turning and walking away. The moment he is out of sight, you fold like a deck of cards, and Gwayne must keep you upright.

He hushes you and sits you back down. He kneels in front of you, observing if you were about to collapse into another episode. You do not, for he was with you, but you do weep until tears could no longer fall. He leads you to your room after this and urges you to rest.

You repeat the prayer you prayed on your wedding night before you sleep.