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syraxridden · 2 years

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it isn’t always a brutish thing, whispers alicent, ‘nyra’s head resting atop her lap, the two shielded from heat by the curling leaves of the tree in the godswood. you can find pleasure in it too, whether it be from a man or woman. nyra’s brows furrow, eyes sparkling as thoughts seem to race through her head, struggling to piece it all together and make sense of it all. so it isn’t a brutish thing, then ? men don’t take their own pleasure and use us as they see fit ? alicent gives a pretty shake of her head, auburn curls tumbling over a slender shoulder like a waterfall. some men allow us pleasure as well.

her back collides against the wall roughly, breath knocked out of her as daemon targaryen’s fingers slip beneath her shirt. his knuckles brush against her bare skin at the same time as a well placed nip, teeth sinking into a full lower lip, and she keens. the sound is a sweet, pretty thing, desire given sound, a note of music belonging to a symphony. and all around them bodies writhe, women gripping tables as men pound into them, women burying their heads between the thighs of other other women, men groaning loudly as women take them into their mouths. some men allow us pleasure as well, alicent had said that one afternoon in the godswood. and each touch from daemon brings her warmth, awakening some sort of hunger that she’d never felt before, some sort of heat that only dwells in her bully and has her pressing her thighs together. but he doesn’t particularly seem to take into account that she’s pleading for more, that her hips are writhing against his, that she wants him to do to her what the others are doing. he does not seem to care about what she wants. not now. and when she tugs at him, again and again, the hunger in his eyes dims more and more, until it flickers out and he flees into the throng of people in the dimly lit room, leaving her with her pants pooled around her ankles and her entire sex bare. he’d taken his pleasure and left her.

when rhaenyra targaryen pulls criston cole atop her, she marvels at the strength beneath his touch. daemon is more feline, lean and lithe, graceful with each step and not as hulking. criston is more gentle with her, each touch lingering, leaving nothing but heat in his wake. he worships her, lips brushing against every inch of skin, touch so gentle she’s sure he fears that she’s made of burnished glass. so this is the pleasure that alicent had said existed. he feasts on her first, letting her fracture around his tongue over and over again, delighting in each whimper, each moan, smiling against her thighs when she grasps at the sheets. their pairings are always sweet, gentle, kind. but he doesn’t indulge her in other things, doesn’t sate her curiosity. when she asks if she can take him in her mouth he only laughs, shaking his head before standing. it is either his way, with her own pleasure taken into account, or nothing at all. the months they spend are short and fleeting, filled with release and shed clothing and her moans, but there is nothing special. it all begins to feel the same, and rhaenyra begins to feel pity for other women. lovemaking is not all that she had expected. it is not what she wanted.

harwin strong takes her gently at first. he’s far larger than the others, his very hand enough to span over her stomach in entirety, and he shows it in each touch, each thrust. i don’t want to hurt you, he whispers into the crook of her neck, each word uttered after a kiss. but she insists and he listens. he begins to show her new things at her insistence, teaching her how to take a man in her mouth, even telling her a word to utter if he becomes too rough, or if she merely wants a break. she begins to learn what pushes her over the edge faster and what doesn’t, grows to favor certain positions and dislike others, learns how to make him shudder beneath her and how to have him repeating her name endlessly, almost in reverence, as if she’s his very religion. he insists on her pleasure before his, and he finds his own pleasure in hers. she is his equal in every way.

laena is unlike the others, wild and uninhibited. she takes rhaenyra wherever she wants and whenever, often leaving the princess shattering around her fingers and begging for more, reducing her into an insatiable, mumbling mess. she teaches rhaenyra that there is nothing wrong in finding pleasure ; that men seek to control their own hunger for more as a way of maintaining control. the two enjoy each other day and night, sometimes gently and kindly, other times with hair wound around a fist and with punishing and rough ministrations. they burn like a flame, always flickering, never ending.

daemon is punishing, all thrusts and crude words, princess often bent below him as he fills her. he teaches her more things while ensuring that she is always content, that she is comfortable, that she feels safe. he’d apologized for the brothel before ; had begged for her forgiveness, had repented day and night, worshipped her with his skin and teeth and tongue. he reminds rhaenyra that there is nothing wrong in seeking her own pleasure and that women are allowed to yearn for it just as men do. and each time that she nears the edge, he ensures she falls over it, over and over and over again, before finally going with her.

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syraxridden · 2 years

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the first time she mentions fighting, the two are strewn atop her sheets lazily, her head resting atop his chest, his fingertips tracing constellations against her bare back. i want to learn how to lift a sword, criston. and his chest rumbles with laughter, hand stilling and splaying against her skin, eyes fluttering shut for a lengthy pause. something violent awakens in her, rage and something else, something more ; perhaps a decade’s worth of FURY for not being taken seriously as a woman, for being scoffed at, for not being seen as equal despite being HEIR. she doesn’t mention it again, and neither does criston, the two seemingly content with pretending that rhaenyra is what alicent and otto hightower seem intent on saying she is : a harmless, innocent young woman.

she says the very same words a few years after, this time while undoing her braids, her chamber awash in shades of silver and gold and pewter, a canvas painted by the sunrise that claims kings landing. harwin is resting against a pillar, cheekbones and hair glowing in the setting rays of the sun, a deity of old reborn. i want to learn how to lift a sword, harwin. and here there is nothing but contemplative silence, and the eyes of a commander assessing a potential recruit. azure lingering on slender, lean arms and muscle-packed thighs, along with a core made resilient after years spent on dragonback and against the ferocious gusts of wind. he looks at her after that, gazes meeting in the polished glass of her mirror, and his lips curve up into a wry smile, gruff and proud and approving.

the next day she finds a sword, polished and gleaming, with an amethyst embedded in the hilt. it’s no beauty of old valyria, rasps harwin, lifting the weapon as if it weighs nothing. but she’s perfect for you. and so she wraps her fingers around the wrapped hilt and lifts it, loosening a rather loud sigh at the unexpected weight. weakness ; but something that harwin strong has seen from her over the years, something that she has allowed. he peered into her very soul years ago, had looked past the blood stained matted hair of her ancestors and seen who she was, and from that moment everything had clicked into place. he had always been hers, and now she would always be his. teach me, commands rhaenyra, feet spread apart, settling into position. show me what i need to know.

rhaenyra brandishes the weapon as if she’s a warrior of old valyria, silver hair billowing in the breeze that the open windows bring into her chambers, chin held high as daemon regards her, the prince lounging atop their bed. i swore i’d never be weak, she says, almost whispering. i swore i would be able to defend myself, and in doing so, i would be defending my throne. my family. those i love. and there’s another wind that ruffles her locks, lingering against the nape of her neck, the breeze scented of sandalwood and bergamot and man, a scent she’d lost after a fire in harrenhal. my princess, it seems to say, i always knew you could do it. and the breeze leaves the way it entered, leaving only the audible crackling of embers and wood. daemon’s feline, catlike smile never seems to falter as he stands, reaching for dark sister. another lesson for you, ñuha jorrāelagon.

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