#Daemon x fem!reader

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[queers-gambit]

Not All That Glitters is Gold

prompt: during your engagement dinner, you learn from your fiancé's niece that he holds choice words about you. or finding out he calls you clingy behind your back.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 3.1k+

warnings: cursing, draaaama, mild angst, AU timeline technically, hurt and comfort (reader don't play those games i guess), relationship angst, half edited.

His cloak was a shimmering beacon of golden glimmer even in the dark of night. It promoted an air of confidence and swagger, something independent from his usual cockiness. No, with that gold cloak, he walked as if the very air you all breathed was produced by him; being silent and domineering in his presence. It had been something you were initially attracted to, his alluring mystery and overwhelming stoic self-awareness.

He moved around the Throne Room like wings were gifted to his feet, carrying him with lithe movements to look as if gliding. All eyes were on him, whether out of admiration, jealousy, confusion, or lust - eyes followed him no matter where he went, no matter what he did, who he interacted with. You lifted the heavy gold goblet to your lips, taking a careful mouthful of wine before setting it down, swallowing, and standing from your seat at the banquet table.

You wanted your lover, so, you got up to satisfy your craving.

You approached him as he spoke to a pair of noblemen, slowing your gait to ease your arrival and not cause a surprise. Your dress was something a little more alluring, more revealing than you'd usually wear, and as you approached the men, the eyes not belonging to your new fiancé nearly bulged from their skulls.

Daemon turned his head and saw you, smirking as his arm opened and he welcomed you into his side. "I was beginning to wonder where you got off to," you told him softly, one arm around his hips as the other planted your hand against his chest. "The Aunties have descended and are becoming insufferable, I fear I needed reprieve."

Daemon grinned, sounding amused, "It was a matter of time before they found you. Stick with us, darling, the Aunties will stay away."

"They're about to serve dinner," you told him, "perhaps we should find our seats?"

He nodded, looking at the men he had been speaking to before you showed up. Daemon bid politely, offering no other explanation besides, "Excuse us, gentlemen."

They bowed out of their Prince's way, letting Daemon lead you toward the head banquet table (again) where his brother, King Viserys, was sitting with other prominent members of court. The night had been pleasant, everyone rejoicing in the upcoming nuptials between you and the Rogue Prince. For years, he'd been something chaotic and shunned; and after the passing of his first wife, Rhea Royce, he was like a kite cut from string. Loose and set adrift. Wild and out-of-reach. And then you came back into Daemon's life after not seeing one another since you were ten-and-six, and all of a sudden, the Rogue Prince was something more domesticated.

It was a refreshing change, albeit totally uncharacteristic for Daemon.

Viserys was the most shocked of them all, constantly praising you for whatever you had done to his brother to reel him into a controllable pace. He thought you and Daemon were perfect for one another, likened you two to fit-together puzzle pieces. The King had been more than happy to host the celebrations, starting with tonight, an engagement party! You had to play part of dutiful fiancé and upstanding citizen since you were to inherit a royal title; being poised and collected at all times with either a calm, passive expression or one of bright entertainment.

"Here, love," Daemon whispered, pulling your chair out for you. He waited until you were sat before taking his own seat, sighing when he glanced around the table only to settle his gaze on you.

"What's wrong, my Dragon?" You asked softly, leaning in to place your hand over his on his lap; pressed into his side despite the wooden chair arms between you.

"Just amusing," he mused, "most of these Lords and Ladies had much to say about my first marriage, and now, they break our bread to celebrate us."

"Cannot be the first time someone's tried to suck up to you," you chuckled, moving your conjoined hands in your lap. "The dragon does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheep," you advised smartly, "they only tolerate the sheep because one day, the dragon will need to feast - hmm?"

Daemon smirked, "When did you become so insightful, darling?"

"I've always been, you're just pussy-whipped now that I make a lot more sense."

He laughed, letting a servant pour your wine. In your ear, he mused, "Jest all you want, but you were meant to be a Targaryen. Once we are wed, I will plant my seed, and bind us together for eternity."

"Our marriage wouldn't doing exactly that already?"

"A child is more tangible - it's a bloodline."

You shrugged as a plate of blood-red lobster was set in front of you. Viserys truly went all out - giving a wide variety of foods to taste. "A marriage is for life, though," you countered.

"So is a child."

"Until they are married off."

Conversation continued, flowing easily between the family members and patrons of court. Viserys looked pleased, enjoying the celebration as his ailment often caused him grave pain and he could not attend events. He hardly had reason to smile, but when he watched you feed a bite to Daemon, he let his lips spread without thought. Queen Alicent clocked the King's expression, glancing at you and Daemon, then smiled fondly before reaching for her husband's hand.

Throughout the dinner, Rhaenyra watched you and Daemon with a bitter glare on her face; jaw locked and lips pursed. You ignored her obvious displeasure in favor of your husband, both too enraptured with one another to ever pay attention to the Princess' distain. When the meal was over, the dancing, mingling, drinking, and musical portion of the evening commenced.

And cake. Cake was to be served.

Daemon's golden cloak swept around guests as you both played dutiful host for your party, and mingled with those who arrived tonight to celebrate your upcoming nuptials. You did your best to keep up with the plethora of Lords and Ladies, like Daemon did so effortlessly, but it was a lot. You still held your own, but by Gods, there was a lot of people in attendance tonight and there was noway you could remember any names.

Thankfully, while Daemon was caught in a conversation with Ser Gerold Royce, you eventually made it to a small group of familiar faces: Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin Strong, his brother, Larys, Lady Laena Velaryon, and her twin, Ser Laenor.

You graciously received the compliments, well-wishes, and joyful greetings of them all, but acutely noted the Princess did not offer even so much as a polite greeting. "This dress was made for you, it's just darling," Laena complimented, petting the bodice. "It must've cost a fortune."

"It was a gift from Daemon," you told her with a soft smile. "And the necklace, too! See?" You showed her, "He had it custom made, it's Valyrian Steel with embedded jewels."

"The perfect combination of your Houses, and a gorgeous piece of art to hang on such a gorgeous neck," she praised, but it was Princess Rhaenyra's scoff of annoyance that peaked your interest.

You thanked Laena Velaryon before eyeing Rhaenyra. "Princess?" You questioned. "If I may ask you something, plainly?"

"By all means."

"Have I... Upset you in anyway?"

"You mean beside my uncle spending the Crown's coin to buy you something exquisitely made; being a fleeting, lady interest of the Princes'? No, no, nothing's wrong," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"What is this distain you hold towards me - towards my relationship with Daemon?" You demanded, the alcohol in your system spurring you on despite knowing the looming consequences of offering a member of the Royal family sharpened words.

"Truly? You wish to know why I do not fawn over you as others?"

"They do not fawn, oh - " You stopped yourself, sighing deeply and correcting yourself, "Of course I wish to know what the issue at hand here is, Princess, I do not wish for ill-will between us. I wish to resolve this."

"In truth, I simply do not understand it, this - this sham of a wedding," she snapped. "Daemon might buy you pretty things, but it's only out of guilt."

"What guilt could he possibly - "

"He finds you overwhelming, overbearing, suffocatingly clingy. So, with his distain, he, too, felt fleeting guilt - being why he showers you with gifts, it's for his own conscious. But if you ask me why I host such distain towards this union, it is because I know my uncle is not happy with your overwhelmingly clingy behavior. He's voiced his displeasure many-a-time. Not just to me, but to the King and Queen, as well."

You felt shell-shocked, acutely aware of the lingering eyes of the audience around you. You worried: how many of them had heard this rumor, how many secretly pitied you? Finding your voice, you managed to squeak out, "I beg your pardon?"

Rhaenyra only shrugged, "You asked, I answered."

"I see," you cleared your throat. "And your answer is that my betrothed has, what, started to slander my name behind my back?"

"Indeed. His chief complaint is how you seem to cling to him more and more, and he doesn't have the heart to push you away more than he already has. You're the one daft enough to not take a hint."

"And where do you get your information from?"

"Daemon, himself."

Your mind raced with all the little things: how Daemon would release your person during public events, avoid physical touch, ignore you sometimes, shut down your woes (call that gaslighting), how he stiffened at times you took his arm, how he seemed to shut down and only offer bored 'mmhms' when you spoke to him about your life. Your heart sank to your feet as you realized there were some truths to Rhaenyra's words.

You nodded slowly as Daemon chose that moment to approach your awkward group. His arm slithered around your waist, but you were silent as the grave and stiff as the corpse in said grave. Your mind raced with the idea that Rhaenyra could just be fucking with you, but the also with the idea that all she said was true.

"I'm going to retire for the evening, I've a headache," you told Daemon, finding an easy way out of his grip, "but you stay, enjoy the celebration. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am just tired."

He agreed and gently kissed you - sure to remain modest but still affectionate. "I'll visit you tonight," he muttered in your ear.

"No, I am truly tired," you told him softly but sternly. "We'll see each other tomorrow."

He hummed, "Then I shall walk you out - "

"No, you're needed here to save face. Go, mingle, play nice," you dismissed him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You bid whoever you came across a good and safe night; thanking them for their attendance tonight. After thanking the King for hosting the party, you disappeared, taking a few secret passages to avoid the main hustle-and-bustle of the feast. When you arrived in your room, you slammed the door, bolted it, and leaned against it for a good long moment. Your mind was reeling with all kinds of thoughts regarding your intended, his niece, all of it suddenly feeling very overwhelming.

You were exhausted, so, you swiftly stripped, unpinned your hair, refused your maid's help, and soaked in a long, hot bath. After, you settled into bed with a book, and tried not to overwhelm yourself with the anxiety tomorrow would bring.

About an hour later, you heard Daemon knocking at your passage door. You paused, not making a sound, hearing his muffled voice, "Love? My love, are you awake?"

You didn't answer.

"Please, sweet girl, let me in," he begged quietly.

When you wrenched the door open, you seethed, "NO!"

"What - ?"

"I heard plenty tonight from your niece. In your moments of frustration, you know what? Sure, complain about your woes - but to find out you call me clingy when in regard to my affection - that's not something I'm going to be happy hearing, Daemon!"

"I know, but let me explain - "

"What? What will you say? That you just needed someone to talk to? To vent your feelings? I get that - I really do. But you fully offered slander to my name, to our relationship; to who I am as a partner. Your poisoned words of your irritation is soaked into your family, in the courts. And now, I must endure the pity those will offer knowing my husband truly holds distain for me!"

"No, you've got it wrong, I don't - "

"Then why!?" You demanded, voice cracking. "Why say those things? Why not come to me and communicate you're not comfortable with this and that behavior!? I won't know unless you tell me, so, instead of talking your shit to the courts and your family, why not just speak to me!?"

"I should have!" He admitted quickly. "I should have, I know that, and it was my mistake, my love. But I regret it, I regret feeling so, so - I don't know! Sure, let's call it frustrated, irritated, I don't care, I just needed it off my chest!"

"I understand that fully, but being as we're to marry one another, I should be the one listening to you when you need something off your chest. You should talk to me. And if I'm the one you need to speak about, choose more trustworthy confidants that do not need further reason to despise me!"

"What're you...? What? What does that mean?"

"Rhaenyra, Daemon! Your niece, Rhaenyra! Every-fucking-thing you've said to her, she remembers, and holds it against me! You forget, when you speak to family about the woes of your relationship, that's all they remember. You get to make up with me, we get to move on, but because you needed t'vent to them, that's what they can hold against me. Do you even wish to marry me, still!?"

"Of course, I do!"

"Then something needs to change," you deadpanned, exhausted by this. "I refuse to be belittled, spat on, and disrespected by your niece any longer."

"I will speak to her."

"Yes, you will! This is far too out of hand! She has weaponized your frustration to drive a wedge between us, and she chose a public event with an audience to lob it all at me!"

"What truly happened with Rhaenyra? What was so bad?"

"Daemon, she called me out for 'being clingy' in front of an audience! At our engagement celebration! Do you know how humiliating that was!? I'm more embarrassed than angry!"

He nodded, "I'll handle this. I swear, my darling, this will be resolved."

"You know what?" You breathed. "Do whatever you please because I've realized something. Not only did Rhaenyra spew our business to others, but you... You said it in the first place. You said those words..."

"Out of anger - "

"But you still spoke them!"

"I was foolish to do so!"

"You are a fool for many reasons, Daemon, but this is one act I am not willing to forgive so blindly. Wear your jester hat all you'd like, but it will take more than pretty words to make this up to me."

"I'll do what it takes to fix this." He tried to step into the room with you, but you held your ground in the doorway. "My love, please, how can I make it up to you if you do not let me in?"

"You must find any other way to do this because there's no chance in any of the Seven Hells that you share my bed again - married or not." You offered him a look of distain, musing, "You know what, I've decided: I simply don't care what you or your family thinks. I am extremely proud of who I am, and there's not a soul alive that can make me feel lesser than. Your words hurt, they cut deeper hearing it from the Princess, but that's simply your opinion," you eased. "I refuse to modify myself, but it's good to know you don't like my affection - I can always reserve it for whoever I choose to warm my bed. What was it you said?" You quipped venomously, "Marriages are political arrangements?"

"Not ours," he snapped.

"Oh? We're so different, are we?" You laughed.

"Of course we are, there's nothing I'd change. Hear me? Nothing," he sounded angry. "I was a fool to speak out of term, but you're right, I should talk to you about it - I am simply unequipped to having a wife I've chosen."

"Oh, spare me - "

"It's true," he insisted, "what woman in my life has loved me as you do? Has encouraged me to be so - so - loving and safe?"

"Apparently, I've been clingy and not as encouraging as I thought."

"I spoke out of turn," he insisted. "You're right - I can't go and take back what I've said. But I will do all I can to ensure I change their opinions on you, to mop up whatever verbal mess I've made."

You laughed without humor.

"And I will set Rhaenyra straight about all of this, I will ensure she knows that there's no room for such tension, jealousy, hatred."

"You swear to clean up all your messes?" You wondered earnestly.

"I swear."

"Good," you mused, "after that, how do you intend on rebuilding my trust?"

Daemon blinked, "You do not trust me anymore?"

"Of course not," you assured, "not since finding out how you speak of me so hatefully without my knowledge. That's where trust comes in, Daemon, but you proved me wrong, and now, that trust is gone."

Daemon looked confused, mouth opening and closing rapidly, shaking his head, "No, no, no, love, don't do this. We're okay, all right? We're fine, things with us - we're fine. We're okay."

"Saying it doesn't make it true."

"Do not tell me," He snapped. "H-Have I lost you?"

"Mhm. Not saying you can't fix things between us, but as of now, there's nothing about you I can trust."

"And if you cannot trust me, can you love me?"

You paused, considering his words. Honestly, his betrayal was something that hurt worse than anything you've endured before. "I'll have to think about that one," you whispered. With a saddened look, you hugged the door, sighing, and bid, "Goodnight, my Prince."

"My sweet - don't shut me out. Don't do this."

"Find a way to make this all up to me," you demanded, "because I'd hate for either of us to eventually resent this marriage, too."

He tried to argue but you shut the door on him forcefully; loudly locking it from the inside to prevent him from following you. You felt yourself brimming with anger, but nothing was like the betrayal coursing through your heart and veins. There was no sleep that night, there was a lot of tears, a lot of pacing, and a lot of grumbling to yourself.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

Clingy Baby collection

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Will Never Leave You (Daemon x Reader)

I think this more a love letter to Rhaenyra than anything but I’m really proud of this one cause I adore writing characters like this, I hope you guys enjoy it

Rhaenyra adored her mother since she drew her first breath, yet the woman she admired the most and desperately seemed her nod of approval was her beloved aunt (y/n) Targaryen, the middle child of prince Baelon and princess Alyssa, the seat between the brothers suited her, (y/n) had the good heart and the bright mind of her older brother that went hand in hand with the wild spirit and the constant need to protect the ones she called her own that she passed down to Daemon.

(Y/n) had been by Rhaenyras side when she needed her the most, wrapping her arms around the shaking frame of the young princess burying her face at the crook of (y/n)s neck.

“Dracarys”

Even though the dragon was not (y/n)s, beautiful Syrax complied whilst Rhaenyra broke down at the arms of her aunt, (y/n) ran her fingers through Rhaenyras long hair to offer her comfort as she whispered the lullaby she would sing to her when she was little.

She had also been the one to almost harass her beloved brother and king to name Rhaenyra his heir.

“As much as I love my lord husband, he is not fit to lead, the weight of the realm will crush him until he bursts into flames, we can prevent this, you can prevent this”

“And name Rhaenyra my heir? A queen has not sat the iron throne”

“Why not name the princess your heir? She is the second born”

Otto had questioned, (y/n) side eyed the man before she looked down to collect her thoughts, the wound of her brothers digging their claws on that piece of metal had brought such mental combat between them, turning blood against one another, if she had taken a go at them then all efforts for a harmonious family would have gone to war ages ago.

“I am afraid it is too late for me to claim what could have been or some could argue “should have been” but the time is just right for my niece, Rhaenyra is the result of the love you shared with the late queen Aemma, you have already wronged her, do not turn your back on the only thing you have left of her”

(Y/n) and Daemon had wed a fortnight after Viserys and Aemma, their wedlock’s were as similar as the sun with the moon, Daemon and (y/n) mirrored one another, their fire burned bright and their thick skulls could cause the the strongest storm to lash, still at the end of the day they ended up in each others arms, holding each other tight and whispering words of love and admiration.

(Y/n) was the only one that could keep Daemon on a leash, staying by his side as he raged for the “disrespect” their brother had shown, in a delicate manner (y/n) would always grab his hand and bring it up to her cheek to ground him.

“I love you and your bravery, however I do despise when you let your rage overtake everything that’s good in you, let me fix this for you”

Daemon would always take her in his arms and kiss her lips with all the might he could master. (Y/n) was his life line, her eyes were like a much needed breath after a deep dive, her smile resembled the feeling of the brisk air on the early hours of a summer day, her hair was as soft as a birds feather as it brushed on his skin, and her touch, oh that touch of hers…like a soothing balm on Daemons wounded heart.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“We must fly to kings landing by the morrow”

“Has something happened?”

“Lucerys’s claim is at question by Vaemond, Lord Corlys has not even passed and they are already circling around Rhaenyra like crows”

(Y/n) half mumbled half explained whilst her fingers rubbed circles on her temples, (y/n) had never voiced it still a pang of guilt ate her soul as slow as the carnivores ate their dead prey whenever she exchanged letters with Rhaenyra, she gave up on her, she left her alone to fight against those Hightowers, withering away as the bastards started to tighten the rope around the heiress’s neck.

Daemon puffed out a breath, the conversation had always been the same, (y/n) would often bring up her concerns over Rhaenyras well being, asking Daemon if mayhaps they made a mistake by leaving her, fabricating elaborate scenarios of how things could have been different.

With caution Daemon approached his lady wife and once he reached her he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles on her aching shoulders as she slouched back and a grunt of pleasure left her, the flames from the fireplace licking her face in such a complimenting light, had he not touched her he could assume she was just an extremely accurate portrait from the hands of an exceptionally gifted artist.

“Rhaenyra is strong, she will overcome this”

“Rhaenyra is alone, our brother is barely able to make a sentence, she cannot stand alone at court”

“And what do you think our presence will do? We have been cast away for far too long, no one will pay attention to what we have to say on the matter, besides, driftmark is none of our responsibility”

After the birth of their first born daughter Enora Daemon and (y/n) decided to leave kings landing and reside in Pentos, granting protection with their dragons they were gifted with land and lived like the Targaryens only knew how to live.

“It is under the Targaryen rule, our closests bond to old Valyria”

“Dragons are our bond, which we have our own”

(Y/n) stood up from her chair to face her lord husband, fury that intertwined with confusion painted across her face as her eyebrows furrowed and her lips half open from the shock that his dismiss had caused.

Daemon resented when they fought, he did not enjoy his love being cross with him, though he loved a battle he would hang on dear life on anything and say whatever to make her curl up in his arms with content.

“You do not want to come with me” (y/n) stated

“I do not believe we will change anything”

“You believe that? Out of all I thought you would be the one to get on your dragon the fastest”

“You are with child, our other children are happy here, must we indulge in that mess?”

“That mess? Our brother has been crippled, our niece tortured by the Hightower and now she asks for our aid and you think I will just ignore it”

“You are emotional”

“I am, and proud of it, I will fly to kings landing with my children, you can choose to stay and hide behind our thick and tall walls of this castle. I will not leave our legacy, our blood, to slowly perish. It is your decision at the end of the day”

Daemon puffed out of breath before he reached for (y/n)s arms to which (y/n) stepped back to avoid, her eyes that spewed fire starring right into his soul.

(Y/n) was the diplomat out of the pair, one can imagine the surprise of her stubbornness when it came to this, which also revealed how important this was for (y/n).

“You mustn’t get upset in your condition”

“That is something you should remember, I was fine until I saw that the years turned you into a coward”

(Y/n) spat inches away from his face, with hurried and swift motions she intentionally bumped his shoulder as she made her exit of their chamber, Daemon did not catch a wink of sleep, (y/n) had never slept at another chamber separately since they had wed.

As the sun started to shyly make its descent (y/n) was assisting her three children on their dragons for their journey to kings landing.

“Hold on”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder to find her husband with his dragon walking towards them, she had to admit that leaving without him would have costed her a great deal, she wanted him by her side, to help her, to hold her, to have her.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My astonishing devotion to you and your stubbornness, I won’t leave you alone with the wolves”

Daemon reassured her before he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a smile making its way to (y/n)s lips as she gazed at him with love, that sparkle of joy was what kept Daemon alive, he would risk anything to see her well.

A giggle that came from their youngest children interrupted their sweet moment, Daemon and (y/n) looked up as the twins sat on their dragons, admiring the deep affection that oozed out of their parents, Daemon only winked at his children in response and turned back to his lady wife.

“Allow me dearest”

A shriek was heard when Daemon swiped the princess off her feet and lifted her up at her green dragon Zephyr. The family landed unexpectedly since they had not given any information to their visit, Otto and Alicent were fuming upon their arrival, the pair would stir the pot and cause chaos all in the princesses name, Otto was certain of it.

However no one could expect the ever defiant (y/n) holding Viserys by his right arm and the stoic prince Daemon holding the king by the left.

“King Viserys of house Targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals, and the rhoynar and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, with princess (y/n) Targaryen and Prince Daemon Targaryen”

Time stood still as they entered the throne room, (y/n) had persisted on visiting her brother, encouraging him to stand and back Rhaenyras claim, begging him to find his strength and sit on the iron throne.

“I will sit the throne today”

Viserys was able to say to Otto who only bowed his head and stepped aside. When (y/n) gently assisted her brother to sit comfortably his crown managed to move and fall, Daemon was the one that caught it and placed it back on Viserys head. As the pair took a step back (y/n) was the first to curtsy in front of him.

“My king”

She whispered before she smiled, Viserys managed to get a hold of her hand and bring it up to his deformed lips, as cold and slimy the weird texture of his lips left on her hand (y/n) looked back on that memory until the end of her days, as many times as they fought (y/n) held a spot for Viserys, one of loyalty and respect.

Daemon snaked his arm around her waist as they went down the steps and took their place next to a baffled and ecstatic Rhaenyra, (y/n) subtly nodded and side eyed Rhaenyra letting her know she is her for her.

As Viserys reaffirmed Lucerys claim and Rhaenys announced the betrothal of Baela and Rhaena (y/n) was ready to turn and hug her dear niece when Vaemond stepped in front of the king, interrupting the glorious moment.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir, don’t you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon, No, I will not allow it”

“Allow it? I do not think anyone hear asked for your opinion Ser…. Apologies I haven’t been at court in so long, what is your name?”

(Y/n)s words sliced through Vaemond like Valyrian steel and Rhaenyra struggled to hide her chuckle, Daemon stood proudly by her side though his grip tightened around her waist when Vaemonds eyes fell on her for a brief moment before he pointed to Lucerys.

“THAT! is no true Velaryon and certainly not a nephew of mine”

Rhaenyra as the mother that she is took a step forward to stand closer to Vaemond and in front of Lucerys, what no one had seen was an important question that (y/n) had whispered at her husband.

“Which side is your sword on today?”

“Go to your chambers, you’ve said enough”

“Lucerys is my true born grandson and you are no more than the second son of drift mark”

“You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine, my house survived the doom”

“To which you owe it to much greater men than you Vaemond, men that knew their place and played their part in history, something that you refuse to do”

“And you think that you can tell me what my place is? Your brother skipped over you and gave the name of heir to your niece, the gods know what you have done to make him skip over you and your… husband, my name survived and gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this”

“Say it, say it”

Daemon antagonised the man, (y/n) assumed her position and slipped away from Daemons grip, her hand gliding from his back all the way down to his sword, dark sister, and pulled it out the sound of metal brushing against its scabbard was enough to make (y/n) grind her teeth in annoyance, thankfully no one seemed to pay attention to what she was up to.

Except Daemon whom had already a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he internally thanked whoever blessed him to change his mind and was now going to be a witness on this wonderful event and as he viewed it “important milestone” in his lady wife’s life.

Vaemond was caught in his own fury and sense of entitlement to see his end coming, even if he had seen (y/n) with a sword he would pay her no mind, a man of such ignorance wouldn’t feel threaten by a woman with a swollen belly or any woman for that matter.

“Her children are BASTARDS and she.is.a.whore”

“I will have your tongue for that”

Daemon watched with pride as his wife lifted the sword and with one clean slice Vaemonds head was cut right above his tongue. Enora was taken aback by her mothers acts while her two siblings Alastor and Aelia hid behind their fathers legs to avoid witnessing the gruesome sight of the corpse at such a young age.

(Y/n) stood still as the sword touched the ground to support her, glaring down at the man that had so much to say, a man that thought himself as indestructible and yet he laid on the cold floor as his blood gushed out of him and pooled on the ground.

“He can keep his tongue, to explain his treachery to the gods”

“Disarm her”

Otto commanded as his voice boomed through the throne room like a proper king that would command his kings guards to obviously attack (y/n), though the real king -Viserys- had just opened his mouth to stop this when Daemon took only a step forward.

“Don’t you dare”

Daemon warned them, in a rather surprisingly composed way for the situation Daemon approached her and took the sword from her, wiping it away at his clothes lazily before he placed it back on its original spot, his hand brushed a few strands of hair that had moved and let it glide behind her shoulder, he preferred it when her hair was out of her face, so he can fully take in her beauty.

(Y/n) was seen smiling brightly, basking in her accomplishment that was so grotesque that some reported that a numerous ladies that had been witnesses had fainted or vomited at the sight.

“You must rest, my love”

“Before that”

(Y/n) proclaimed, she left her husbands side momentarily only to stand before Rhaenyra, her hands going up to cup her nieces cheeks and place a kiss on top of the heiress head, a gesture that held such affection and compassion, (y/n) had Rhaenyra in her heart and her mind as her own daughter, images of the princess running careless on the grass and finding refuge in (y/n)s hug flashed before (y/n)s eyes.

“My dear niece”

“(Y/n)” Rhaenyra breathed out

“I will never leave you, ever”

Requests are open!

[vermithorn]

VERMITHORN’S 1K MILESTONE EVENT

DAEMON TARGARYEN + COCKWARMING.

cw: nsfw, cockwarming, targ!reader.

note: first request for the event! thank you for sending this <3 short and kinda sweet? AHAHAHA thank you lana for the help in the pet name <3 enjoy!

Daemon groans, throwing his head back as you accommodate yourself on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside of you. “Stop moving, zaldrītzos.”

You snicker, your ass pressing against his lower belly as you slowly rock your hips, the delicious friction making you two moan.

“Stop,” He repeats, a rough hand flying to your hip to stop the movements, you can feel the grip tightening on your skin, leaving bruises just as he loves. “I told you to stay still, I’m reading.”

You roll your eyes, stopping the ministrations. “I’m bored,” You lean back into him, his chest now glued to your back, he accommodates his other arm so now the book is hovering over your chest, the back of your head resting on his shoulder.

You can’t help but think how in love you are with this man, years of pinning and you’re here now, cunt full of cock while he reads a book? Absolutely fucking absurd if someone asks you.

He grunts, you feel his cock twitch inside of you, “You’re a tease, I don't know why I put up with you."

You tilt your head, meeting the pale skin of his neck, looking at the burn scar that's embeded there. You hum, leaving a kiss on the scarred skin, "Yeah because I was the one begging the King for my own hand."

"Shut it, I like it better when you're quiet." He says lowly, but not in a mean way.

“Yeah quiet and stuffed full of cock.” He finally let’s out a chuckle at your words.

[lady-phasma]

A willing pawn

Daemon Targaryen x fem! Dornish!reader

A huge thank you to @zaldritzosrose for this amazing board. You read my mind and I don't know how you did it! An equal thank you to @black-dread for providing the missing puzzle piece to make this fic work.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, little bit of size kink, use of an infantilizing pet name (because Uncle Daddy Daemon), flimsy plot, creampie (and I truly did not plan what was going to happen there, Daemon just does whatever he wants in my brain, cheeky bastard)

Summary: You had a mission in the Stepstones, but he wasn’t as fearsome, this prince, as you had been led to believe. I’m not sure about my soft!Daemon but here he is. 4k words

The encampment was dark, lit only by dying fires. This night had been chosen because it would be moonless. Your soft-soled shoes were silent on the rocky earth as you crept between tents. You had planned your path at sunset, marking in your memory where the prince’s tent stood. As the orange light had faded from the sky, your stomach had begun to knot and twist with anxiety.

Could you really follow through with this? You knew you were able but were you capable of such a thing. The circumstances didn’t offer you any choice in the matter. Prince Qoren Martell wanted to avoid the costs of war, in gold and lives. His war counsel thought of every possible measure they could take to win this war, including involving House Yronwood. You were a cog in a larger plan and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

You ducked around another tent and tiptoed to the edge of the large royal tent. This is as far as you had gotten in your strategy. From this point forward you could only hope for luck, as stealth wouldn’t matter when faced with the prince’s guards. You were sent here with the barest of plans and what little plan there was, was foolish. You listened for movement inside the tent and heard none. As you neared the front you expected a half-dozen guards but saw only two. You held your breath.

You couldn’t walk right up to the tent and demand to be let in. Sneaking in seemed to be impossible, but if you could, what next. Your heart pounded in your ears. Godsdamn it, you thought. You let out a shaky breath and slunk back into the shadows. When you turned around you almost walked face-first into a giant wall of armor.

The guard almost threw you into the tent but did not relinquish his grip on your elbow. You grunted and jerked your arm away from him as you stumbled into the large room. You caught your balance and stood up straight. The ground was covered in rugs. A table laden with maps and documents stood in the center. Next to it sat the Prince.

“We found this creeping about outside, your highness,” the guard grumbled.

Prince Daemon lounged in his chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He was peeling a pear, paused mid-knife-stroke, and looked up from under his brows. They raised slightly, seemingly amused, but he didn’t bother to lift his head. He resumed his peeling.

“Leave us,” he commanded without looking up. You heard the guard’s armor as he left but didn’t take your eyes from the prince.

“What terrible deed have you been sent to do child?” He didn’t look at you, only sliced a bit of pear and popped it in his mouth. When you didn’t respond he brushed aside papers to make space on the table and laid down the knife and pear. He wiped his hands on a napkin, dropped it next to them, and stood up. Finally, he looked at you. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped one corner of his mouth with his thumb.

He strode toward you, sucking the pear juice off his thumb and assessing you. Much of your face was covered by your hood, stay strands of dark hair were visible but your features were cast in shadow. He dipped his head slightly and looked closely, standing only a few paces in front of you. His silver hair swung loose from his shoulder. The violet of his eyes was unnerving. You squared your shoulders.

“I am no child,” you replied, leaving off the honorific. He was no prince of yours.

“Is that so?” Daemon reached for your hood and flicked it back from your head. The only hint of surprise he allowed to show was a brief widening of his eyes. You were well aware the effect your father’s blue eyes had when set against the sienna skin you got from your mother. You narrowed your icy eyes at him.

“I’m gown enough to make it this far into your camp, am I not?” Daemon chuckled and flipped his hair back over his shoulder. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at you.

“I suppose so… but you did get caught, little one.”

Your cheeks flamed and you wanted to strike him but the smile on his face caught you off guard. Had he just winked at you? You were too frustrated to think and that wink made your blood boil. This was not going at all how you had expected when the guard snatched you up. Daemon didn’t so much as blink when you moved your hands from inside your cloak to push your hood back further. He was amused with you. The handle of your dagger glinted in the candlelight and caught his eye.

“So you were sent here to assassinate me?” He smiled that infernal smile. “Would you say it is going well?”

“Time will tell,” you answered through gritted teeth. Then he laughed at you, actually laughed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

He took a step toward you and you tensed. You hadn’t the faintest idea what this man would do. You had only heard the rumors and propaganda in Dorne. When he reached out, you tried to take a step back from him.

“Uh-uh,” he commanded quietly. Then his hand dipped into your cloak and before you could move to stop him, he snatched your dagger out of your belt. He spun it lazily around, watching it dance in the light.

“This might have done the trick,” he spoke to the blade, not to you. “But I imagine someone with more experience should have been entrusted with it.” His eyes flicked back to your face. “Though, perhaps there were none as fierce as you.”

With absolutely no thought in your mind, you lunged forward and tried to grab the weapon from him. He deftly moved it out of your reach and grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

“As I said: fierce,” he quipped. You tugged your arm against his grasp to no avail.

“But I must!” You almost snarled at him. His expression wasn’t surprise but interest. He let you go and turned to lay your weapon on the table. When he faced you again a small smile was set on his mouth.

“Must you?” He raised an eyebrow. “If a child assassin has been sent to slay me, Dorne must be desperate indeed.”

“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, of 20 years!” You had no idea why this infuriated you but the prince knew that it did. He grinned again.

“Pardon me, my Lady. I should have said a ‘small’ assassin,” he mocked you. It was somehow kind. You were taken aback by his jest, by his demeanor. You hadn’t taken the time to pause and evaluate Prince Daemon. You had only been concerned with the ramifications of your failure.

Now that you looked, you saw a man not much older than yourself. A man who moved with experience in battle, with an ease not unlike your own. Graceful, even. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He extended his hand, offering you to sit in the chair opposite his. You had come here to threaten his life and now he was treating you like a guest! You gawped.

Before you could decide what to make of the situation, Daemon slid down into his chair and stretched his legs out again, completely unwary of you. He glanced at you one more time as he reached for his unfinished pear. You were too shocked to do anything other than sit. You closed your mouth and sat down across from him. You slipped your cloak off of your shoulders as you sat. Your common clothes weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t used to them. You tried to adjust them as you sat but instantly became more frustrated. Daemon’s eyes on you didn’t help to easy your new-found insecurity. You were meant to have been unseen.

“Who sent you?” The blunt nature of his question startled you.

“And why should I tell you?” you retorted. You were behaving as if you were at home entertaining men you had grown up with. This was madness.

“I believe I am owed an explanation as it was my life you were planning to take. Also, what else is there to do?” He popped a slice of pear in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Let’s start with your name, shall we?”

You hesitated, but he was right: what else was there to do. You could sit in silence until he decided to have you executed. You could try to run from the tent only to be caught and executed sooner. So you told him your name and your house name.

“Very good,” he tossed the knife and pear back on the table. “What did Martell threaten? What predicament did he put you in?”

Your eyes widened. Was Prince Martell’s reputation so tainted, so sullied, outside Dorne?

“Not him,” you spoke quietly. “Though I suppose, ultimately, he knows. We are not a political house but we have wealth that is necessary for Dorne to succeed.” Your eyes flicked down from his at the last word. You weren’t sure why but you felt ashamed for being in this position, had all along if you thought about it.

“So if not the prince himself…” Daemon paused, waiting for your answer.

“His war counsel,” you replied. “They have many strategies in play, I’m sure, but one is to ‘motivate’ certain houses to bring the war to an early end. I have no knowledge of the other plans. I only know that my father was threatened. Whatever that threat was, it was powerful enough for him to send his youngest daughter to the Stepstones.”

There it was. You had spilled it out to the enemy in a gush and felt like vomiting or crying or fleeing. You looked up from your lap. Daemon was studying you. Once again he surprised you. Perhaps you expected him to mock you but the kindness on his face somehow made your situation more real. You bit your lip to stop the tears. You would not cry. You were angry and frightened and when the prince had called you a child it made those feelings more real.

“What choice did you have?” He sounded almost compassionate. This couldn’t be the petty tyrant you were warned against, who would rape, or torture, or kill you if you were caught. “You came all this way on an errand not of your choosing and meant to go through with it. That’s more than a little honorable, don’t you agree?”

You had no idea. You were confused and overwhelmed and angry. You had never been a zealot, but you had been more sure of your mission when the target was evil or cruel. Perhaps he was at times, but not now.

“I suppose so,” you muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Well what do I do with you now?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t set you free. Yet I don’t want another prisoner. And you don’t want to return home as a failure. I can see that. I could keep you as a hostage and demand gold for your safe return. Would that keep your honor intact?”

You blushed, not just from his nearness but from the fact that he could see your thoughts so clearly on your face. You and your family would be dishonored if you returned unsuccessful. It would also be unfavorable to the prince to appear compassionate to would-be assassins.

“It would,” you answered. “But I do not think the ransom would be paid.”

“No? Not for a young woman as fierce and cunning as yourself? Not for someone so precious?”

Your eyes flicked up to his at this curious word. You watched him, suspicious, as he slid out of his chair and knelt in front of you.

“I think you’re quite frightened of either choice: being sent home or being held here. I don’t want you to be frightened. Maybe the Crone had a purpose for bringing you here.”

You felt your breath catch. He looked so sincere. He was intoxicating but you believed him. You didn’t want to feel relief at the prospect of no longer sneaking, hiding, being a stowaway, but you did. Almost instantly, you imagined a hot bath, a dress and not these rags, and food that wasn’t brown. Then something else flashed in your mind and the heat returned to your face.

Daemon slowly reached out to you and stroked the side of your face. He skimmed a lock of your hair with his fingers, watching it catch the light. Its deep brown shown with hints of gold. You studied him closely. When he turned his gaze back to you, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes searched yours as he cupped your cheek in his palm.

“Gevie,” he whispered. You thought it was High Valyrian but you weren’t sure. Your lips parted almost involuntarily as you looked up at him. He leaned toward you, silver hair cascading off his shoulders. You felt his lips on yours and closed your eyes.

His hand holding your face felt safe. His lips were warm and tasted of pear. You dared not move. You were overwhelmed and confused. However, there twisted in your belly some need, some desire for him. Your chest ached with the delicious feeling of being safe. You didn’t question how this was possible so far away from home and with your “enemy” no less. So you kissed him back.

Daemon slid his other hand to frame your face. His kiss wasn’t rough, but it was deep. You had kissed men before, you were experienced in the most basic of ways. You realized now that all the men before had not kissed you, they didn’t see you. They saw a Yronwood daughter or practice for their marriage beds. You had made those choices willingly. You weren’t concerned with being married for political reasons and had enjoyed your freedom. Until now. In this moment, you felt… precious.

Tentatively, you raised a hand to him, your fingertips grazed his jaw and neck, and came to rest on his chest. He slid his hands from your cheeks as he broke the kiss. As if waiting for your permission, Daemon rested his hands on your upper arms. You kissed him in answer. His arms swept around you and scooped you up as he stood. Your head spun but you steadied yourself by putting your hands on the back of his neck.

Daemon sat you on his bed and smoothed your hair back from your face. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor as he leaned down to kiss you. You made room for him on the bed, drawing him toward you with your kisses. He knelt between your legs, kissed your neck, and slid a hand under your shirt. You arched your back, pressing into his palm.

He brushed the underside of your breasts with the tips of his fingers and his other hand glided up your ribs. He pushed your shirt up above your breasts, fixated on your hardened nipples. His hair slid over your chest as he took one nipple in his mouth. He propped himself up on one hand and cupped your breast with the other. You moaned and writhed under him. You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair and held him against you. Daemon groaned and the sound vibrated from your chest to your core. When he pulled away you realized you had been grinding against his leg and flushed. He smiled down at you.

Wordlessly, he guided you to raise your arms so he could remove your shirt. Then he began to unlace your breeches. You watched his muscles move as he slid your pants off. You lifted your hips and giggled a little when you plopped back down on the bed as he tugged them off your legs. You weren’t shy but the action was awkward and you were quite exposed now. He tossed the breeches on the floor and smoothed a hand up your thigh. He stared, rapt, at the dark hair between your legs, so different from the silver of his own.

You bit your lip as you looked from his face, down his chest, and to the evidence of his arousal. His breeches looked uncomfortably tight now. His hands absently stroked your legs and your lower belly but paused as you sat up. You held him between your legs. When you kissed his stomach he hissed in air through his teeth. Your hands grazed over his hips and to the laces in the front of his pants. You let your fingertips glide over the shape of his erection before undoing the knot. You kissed seemingly every inch of his stomach then looked up at him as your hand dipped inside. His face was curtained by his hair as he looked down at you. You smiled as you stroked him.

Daemon moved his hands from your legs, smoothed over your hair, and then gently pressed your shoulders back. You laid down, already missing the feeling of him in your hands, but the sight of him between your legs was almost as pleasant. He leaned over you, kissing your forehead gently, then your lips, and pressed his forehead against yours.

You gasped as his fingers slid between the lips of your cunt. He licked his lips and continued to explore your wetness. Stroking, searching, learning. He circled your opening, your clit, and back again. One finger slid in easily and he grinned. You lifted your mouth to his as you lifted your hips to his hand. He slid in a second finger.

“You are so tight, little one,” he grinned down at you. You rocked your hips against his hand and moaned in reply. You placed one hand on his arm, pulling him deeper into you. With the other you smoothed his hair behind his ear and trailed your fingers down his jaw. You drug your fingertips over his lips. His eyes were dark as he watched you pleasure yourself on his hand.

“More, Daemon, please,” you moaned, saying his name for the first time. Hearing his name come from your lips pleased him immensely.

“Say it again,” he breathed as he curled his fingers inside you.

“Daemon, please.”

Slowly and with a tinge of disappointment on his face, he pulled his fingers from you. He was enjoying the sight of you but couldn’t wait any longer. He freed his cock from his breeches. Then he slid his hands up your thighs to your lower back. As he sat back he guided you onto his lap. The transition was clumsy at first, legs bumping and twisting. You both smiled as you held onto his shoulders. When you knelt over him you rubbed your clit against his cock. You rested your lips against his forehead as you rocked your lips. You moved your mouth nearer to his ear and murmured his name.

Daemon lifted your ass and placed you above his cock. With one hand between you, he guided himself into you. You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face. He clenched his jaw tight. You felt his hand move back to your ass. He let you set the pace, let you move against him. You pulled up and then sank down again, taking all of him. The moan that came from your lips was lewd and deep. You clutched at his neck, the back of his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He groaned but did not move to meet your hips. You rocked back, then forward, finding your rhythm.

He kissed your chest and breasts. His hands stroked your ass and lower back, constantly moving. You leaned forward slightly and pressed yourself against him. At this angle he wasn’t as deep in you, but you found friction against his stomach. You ground your hips into him, almost, but not quite able to get what you needed.

“Seven hells,” he panted against you. His hips had begun to move in time with yours. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair and you tried to find that much-needed angle again. When he realized what you needed he slid a hand between you. You threw your head back as his fingers circled your clit. You sped up, fucking him hard. He kept pace with you, circling and pressing his fingers against you. You couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. You felt him brace your lower back with his hand and pull you closer to him, steadying you, supporting you. You felt your climax tug at your core and sank further onto his cock with each stroke.

“Come for me,” Daemon whispered into your neck. You did. You cried his name, clinched your fists in his hair, and buried your face against his head. You sank all the way down onto him, thighs resting on his as you shook. Your cunt spasmed around his cock but he didn’t stop moving his fingers. He pressed into you with his hips, rocking under you, and bringing forth tiny gasps from you. You lips found his and you panted into his mouth. Tiny sounds mingled with his name flew out of your mouth with every movement of his fingers.

When you thought the overstimulation might be too much he moved his hand from between you. He slid his hand under your arm and pulled you down onto him by your shoulder. A new wave of pleasure crashed into you as he spilled into you. His hips stilled, holding his cock deep inside you. He came panting and moaning your name.

You wanted to sink all of your weight onto him. It took too much effort to support yourself on your aching knees. Neither of you wanted to move yet, though both of you needed to. You released your hands from his hair. You kissed him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

You smiled at him as you rose shakily from his lap. He helped you as much as he could, but your legs were numb and your head was empty. You all but fell back onto the pillows. He watched you grind your hips against the air as the last of your climax left you. His eyes were locked on his seed sliding out of you. He leaned forward, his legs shaking as well. You watched him through half-closed eyes and settled yourself on the bed. His fingers slid through his cum and you twitched as he grazed your throbbing clit. He looked into your blue eyes as he gathered more of it on his fingers. You smiled seductively as he leaned over you and raised his fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, your eyes never leaving his, and he painted your tongue with his seed. You closed your lips around his fingers and let him feel you swallow. He slid his fingers out and surprised you by kissing you deeply, tasting himself in your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist. You playfully pulled his weight on top of you. He let you but also guided you both to lay on your sides. Your legs intertwined and you were a tangle of limbs for a moment. Then you buried your face into his chest and breathed in deeply. You sighed as he smoothed your hair and rested his chin on the top of your head. You were quite small in his arms. Daemon breathed deeply as he stroked down your back, your buttocks, and up again. You curled against him, one hand between you, the other resting on his hip.

“I have you now, little one,” he murmured against the top of your head.

Masterlist

[just-some-random-blogger]

hello dear! need some angst with daemon really bad. maybe daemon makes his usually strong-willed wife cry during a fight? screaming too loud/saying smth too harsh/hurting the most vulnerable part or anything you wish.

your works are so gorgeous i'm literally in love. thank u in advance! take care!

I, Unfortunately, Love You Most

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You loved him. He was your husband. You wished nothing but clear skies and laughter for him, but he seemed to make it a point to be contrary, and now you've reached your limit.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: Opens with allusions to sex, depictions of domestic violence, fem!reader, wife!reader, i hate daemon, misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: it really be the one you love that fucks you up the most. thank you for the req nonnie and for the sweet words. I am gorgeous aren't i? 🤩 ugh. why wouldn't you be in love with me? 🙄 Another day another angst. we love it here Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

"Daemon," I pant as I come undone all over him. Our faces were pressed together. My parted mouth was heaving heavily against his neck. For a moment, I relished his warmth, his feel against me, inside me. I felt the tension in my body roll off in more ways then one when I felt his grip on my thighs, underneath my hiked up skirt.

Daemon came back to me. He was finally back to being my-

"Get off," he quips, shoving me off where his hands were, "I have somewhere I have to be."

I barely have enough time get on my feet with his adamant actions to rid me from his lap.

I begin to fume.

He was just inside me, he fucking used me, and now he was so quick to tuck himself in his pants, as though he relieved himself in one of his whores. I scoffed to myself as I watched him tie his breeches.

I mean I clearly was his whore in his head-- except he married me, except I have never had anyone else but him, and so he was the reason why I was defiled at all.

Daemon's eyes dart to me as I stare at him with scorn. He narrows his eyes and steps forward, tilting his head down at my disheveled form. He reaches out for my skirt and flattens it. He presses a kiss on my jaw, "thank you for indulging me, my dear."

"Fuck you," I quip back, staring at him as he pulls away.

"Later," he states but has no humor in his tone.

I growl, as he walks towards the door. I grab a pillow and chuck it at him on his way out, "I HATE YOU!"

He is undeterred when the soft object hits his back. It seems as though it is my loud heaving and sobs that make him halt his actions.

Daemon looks over his shoulder. I rip at my hair as I crash down to the bed. My chest constricts, along with my throat. My tears are blurring my vision. I want to hurl myself out the window when I hear him call my name.

I feel him come up to me, and when he does, I rise to my feet and shove past him.

He grabs my arm, then the other, and forces me in front of him. His expression is tight, angry, and confused. Hatred burns brighter within me when he asks, "what's wrong?"

I let a guttural scream, thrashing in his clutch.

Daemon is obviously too strong for me to fight off. He screams my name back and asks me the same question again, but this time, with more harshness.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT'S WRONG?!" I burst.

"Clearly, I would not be asking you if I knew, bitch!" he rebuts, releasing me with a shove.

I reel back at his words. My breathing grows more taxed when I see that he as well is heaving. I lean into him, shaking my hands by the sides of my head when I scream again.

He tenses at this, face contorting in horror, "have you gone fucking insane?"

"YES!" I step forward and shove him, "BECAUSE OF YOU!" I shove him again.

I keep shoving him, over and over and over again, and he reels back at my violence. Daemon lets me take out my frustrations in him, just as how I let him just moments ago. When this fact dawns upon me, that I have been letting him use me because I wanted to soothe him, and yet here he was, spitting at my bones. My chest rises and falls in anger. It hinders my further movements.

"If you're quite done," Daemon states dryly, straightening himself up, "tell me what's gotten you so rabid."

I cannot believe what his words, his tone. I cannot believe the repulse written on his face. Tears stream down my cheeks as I glare at him, "just because you are devoid of emotion does not mean I do not hurt because of you," I seethe with venom, "husband!"

He narrows his eyes at me, "I hurt you?" he asks in disbelief.

"You just fucking USED ME!"

"You are my wife!" Daemon barks, stepping forward, point a finger to the ground, "I do with you what I see fit."

I pull back at his words, jaw slacked, heart broken. I shake my head rapidly, "so I'm no more than a gaping hole for your cock?"

"YOU ARE MY WIFE!" he steps forward, grabbing my face tightly.

I shove him away, but he does not budge. I hit him, much harder this time, and he squeezes my face forcefully because of it. I let out a pained whine and he pulls away, airing out the rest of his aggressions on the fucking furniture.

I cover my ears at the sound of crashing objects he throws and kicks down. I scream out his name, telling him to stop.

He does not. I don't think he can hear me.

And yet I scream out still, "I WANT TO FUCKING HELP YOU, DAEMON!"

Daemon throws one last vase to the floor, turning to me with a delirious look. I shudder and heave. I am practically vibrating in anger.

"You are so FUCKING insane and withdrawn," I start again, making Daemon's eye twitch. He storms towards me as I continue my rant, "that you don't even realize how your emotions have gotten the best of you lately."

He grabs me by the hair on the back of my head; in turn, I grab his collar. My face is forced up to look at him, but it does not hinder me from finishing, "do you not know that I want to fucking help you, you piece of shit?! That I care for you? That I bleed for you?!"

I pull him close to me as his grip on my hair loosens, "I know you have only ever learned to fuck your worries away, but you could at least have the decency to treat me like a human instead of a piece of flesh you own, purely to relieve yourself."

Daemon's eyes are watery, so much so that they fall down his face; he actually begins to cry.

I feel his arm shake as he pulls away from me.

My heart hurt for him, but I could not bear to make him whole, not today.

Suddenly, a pair of guards burst into the door.

I turn to them, shocked by the sudden appearance, but then quickly realize they were here because of our intense fight.

"Is everything alright, my princess?" the guard asks me, as Daemon did not even spare them a glance.

I shake my head, "we got into an argument," I sniffle and walk over, "it would be wise if you two simply went your way and turned a blind eye to this."

They take in my expression. I offer then a stoic look, "no one was hurt. It's all just the furniture."

A moment passes as they turn to each other. With one prompt nod to themselves and to me, they leave us be.

I decide to let them walk far enough before I leave the room myself.

[dreamlandcreations]

Imagine Daemon treating you like a little brother...

Imagine Daemon treating you like a little brother, teaching you how to ride a dragon, wield a sword and cause chaos. Always defending you when you refused to wear a dress or attend an event, encouraging you to be free the way he wished he was.

He was your uncle, your brother and your best friend. Right until he took you to a brothel...

[two-white-butterflies]

parallel lines | d. targaryen | prologue

Description: An ordinary middle school teacher moves to a desolate town with her fiancee. After suffering episodes of vivid nightmares, she realizes that his uncle looks exactly like the man in her dreams.

Pairings: daemon targaryen/reader, aemond targaryen/reader

Trope: Reincarnation

(A rewrite of 'Waiting for a Bus')

series masterlist |

"Story of a romance torn apart by fate Hundreds of years ago, they fell in love, like we did And I'd die for you in the same way." - Timeless, Taylor Swift.

(New York City, USA. August 23, 2008)

It was a hail mary from the beginning - only few people were reincarnated into a human form and only a small percentage of that was able to remember their past life. It was typically provoked by a traumatic event - and you were unfortunate to experience it so early in your second life. "Where are you going?" a small voice escapes your mouth, there was something dangerous about tonight.

There was a hurricane going on outside - water crashing upon the littered streets of Downtown NYC. "Calm down, I have to check something over there, baby. Can you be a good girl and stay here?" Mother inquired, while patting your head comfortingly.

"Can't I come with you?" your eyebrows merged into each other, she tilted her head. "No, it will be quick." she promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'm scared," you slumped into your seat, seeing lightning bounce off your 18th floor apartment window. "It will be over soon, it's just rain." she mumbled, letting go of your body.

You reached for the headphones that were inside your pocket. There were only two things that comforted you; mother and music. Both things so pleasant that it immediately calmed you down.

"So, you're leaving in the morning. In the early train." you carefully hummed along the song, hiding your face under the enormous pile of blankets on your bed. "Well, I could say everything's alright. And I could pretend and say goodbye." your humming drowned out the noise of the storm.

You breathe a silent sight of relief. Yep! You could take care of yourself. There was no need for mother's help. "Where is she?" you found yourself mumbling out loud. You lift the blanket off your body, feeling your feet touch the cold floor.

"Ma?" your tiny voice bounced off the empty apartment. You were supposed to move out tomorrow - something about not being able to pay taxes after the market crashed. "Ma?" your voice bounced off the apartment again, with no reply. "Can't stop loving you. No, I can't stop loving you." you could hear the music play in your head.

Just as your feet touched the floor of the living room. You see her. Body sprawled on the floor - blood everywhere, and the door wide open. "Ma!" this time your voice is louder than before. Loud enough for your next-door neighbor to hear.

The last thing you could remember was Mrs. Dantes' apartment door opening, before your vision shifts to black once more.

You opened your eyes again - this time you were in a different place. The entire world smelled like grass and ash. "We need to go home," you gritted your teeth - a mere spectator in your own body. The man beside you was of a different beauty - piercing purple eyes and silver locks. He was a thing of the gods. His eyes were round - almost prey-like. You'd almost assume that his smile could enchant any passerby, but his expression was one of anger.

"We are not going anywhere, you know of the reason we are here. I intend to follow through our plans," he responded with gritted teeth. It pained him to speak to you in this manner - but the anger he felt. It could almost burn armies. "I would rather die," you frowned - and only then did his gaze softened.

It was your thirteenth fortnight camped outside of Harrenhall. There was a deep fog that loomed over God's Eye. It was an auspicious day, the shamans tell you that it is perfect for war. The gods will be on the side of the good, but when have the Targaryens been good?

"We will die if my sister's lover ever has the mind to descend upon us." you warned him, in fear of Vhagar. "I will die," he corrected - turning his body in your direction - cupping your chin and moving your face closer to his. "- you will be safe, wife." he pressed a gentle kiss on your lips.

His hands were calloused - eyes filled with so much fury, but he treated you with such tenderness - you couldn't help but love him more. "I will be safer with the thought that you are alive. I beg of you, please do not fight in a war in which your family is destined to lose. Let Aegon take his crown - let Aegon die with it." you begged him.

"The crown is not his. It is Rhaenyra's." he defended, playing with the rivet of his dagger. "It will not benefit us." you whisper and his eyes narrowed. "It does not matter now," he placed you behind him - seeing the figure of his much awaited nephew.

Aemond stands a few hundred feet away from you, beside him was your sister, Alys. "I see that you've finally found the time to honor your dear uncle," Daemon begins with his exposition. He glares at Aemond with his two healthy eyes.

"How could I not? I've heard stories about a knight - how his Dark Sister has defeated armies and armadas. I've heard stories about his beautiful wife too, with vixen eyes that are hooks for the soul. I see his wife - but I do not see him." Aemond antagonized.

"It might have something to do with your missing eye, nephew." your husband responded, and Caraxes prowls behind you. "I see very well, uncle." Aemond corrected and Daemon tilts his head. "And who is the judge of that?" he jested, and there was a moment of silence.

Aemond moves towards Vhagar, boarding his dragon without any other words. You look above - seeing the Prince circle the lake with his noble stead. Daemon places a hand on your cheek. "I will return, and I will honor my promises. This is the last battle, wife. Thank you for your patience," he bridges your lips together.

Sealing his fate with a single kiss.

He walks past you - to the direction of Caraxes, and he boards his dragon too. "Daemon!" you yell after him, but he reluctantly ignores you - following after his nephew to the heavens.

(Dragonview, Canada. January 2, 2023)

"Are you alright?" Aemond places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Your eyelids flutter gently, beads of sweat formed atop your forehead. "Yeah - yeah." you answer much to quickly. "It was just another nightmare." you affirmed, while staring at the digital clock on your bedside table. 3:41 AM.

"Did I wake you?" you scratch the back of your head. "No, I was about to start sleeping." he chuckled nervously. "- I'm really worried about you, angel." he whispers, while laying down beside you. He wraps his strong arms around your body - domineering over your small frame. "The nightmares have been going on since we met." he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

A scoff exits your mouth.

"It's been gone bebè. It only came back because we moved to a new city." you hypothesized, kissing his cheek - smelling the faint scent of aftershave. "It would be better if it was gone ... forever." he retorted, rubbing circles on your thighs. "If it continues, you promise to get it fixed?" he inquired and you laugh.

"You make me sound like a robot." you bit your lower lip. "Elementary teacher goes crazy and needs to get spare parts." he joked. "You make me crazy, you know that?" you giggle. The light of the lampshade illuminated his features perfectly. "I'm glad that you have a new job, there's someone else to blame about your madness." he kissed your jawline.

The digital alarm clock rings. 4:00am.

"Get your hands off me, Mr. Targaryen. I have to get ready for school." you whispered, while lifting his fingers off your waist. "No time for a little quickie?" he winked and you rolled your eyes. "There's time for that when I get home." you answered while lifting the blanket off your body. Strategically walking towards the bathroom before he gets another word in.

The school was a few minutes away from your apartment. The town was small - one of the few islands in the southern part of Canada. "According to the book that you gave me about this place, Dragonview used to be a volcano. Which is weird since we aren't in the Pacific Ring of Fire side of Canada." you opened the conversation.

"You are cruel for having me drive you to school - and listen to you speak about volcanology." he humored, placing his free hand on your thighs. "But is the book really accurate? I mean - I can see the mountain from our apartment window. I'd like to check it out if it used to be a volcano." you turned to look at him.

He nodded his head.

"My family's been living in this island for thousands of years. I think they used to call it Dragonmont - there's no magma left. No traces of the fact that it used to be a Volcano. Lots of people went to study it when I was a child. Not a volcano, they say." he relayed the information. "You know, my father used to tell me that dragons lived in this island." he chuckled in an amused tone.

You flinch. The word 'dragon' made your head spin.

"We should hike it in the weekends. If you're free?" your eyebrows merged into each other and he nods. "I'm always free for you, love." he confirmed, halting in front of the school building. To your surprise, the school was a generous size. Small enough that it couldn't rival the schools in the state, but bigger than the typical schools found in Canadian Provinces.

You lean closer to his body, giving him a soft peck on the cheek. "I'll pick you up at six, you're welcome to be late." he placed a hand on your shoulder.

"I love you," you smiled while opening the door. "I love you too." he answered - and you slam the door shut.

Watching as his Honda Civic rolls away from view.

St. Maria Goretti, the patron saint of purity, young women and sexual assault. She was also the namesake of the section that you were going to teach. 'First year of teaching and I already have an advisory class, god. I'm jealous of myself.' you shook your head while placing your bag on the desk. Teaching grade-school was easy. Especially in a country like Canada - where they had a reputation of being kind.

A woman clears her throat, knocking on the door three times. "Good morning, you must be the new teacher. I'm Rhaenyra, the Senior High School Subject Coordinator for English. My advisory is just across the hall, Grade 4 - Saint Agnes of Rome." she introduced herself, holding out her hand for you to shake.

Silver locks and a familiar pair of purple eyes. "(Your Name), I teach Mathematics - as you can see, I'm the advisor of Grade 6 - Saint Maria Goretti." you smiled at her, shaking her hand. "Oh, you're very lucky to have this section. There's a saying that goes around here, all the advisors of Saint Maria Goretti turn out to be very successful." she winked, a smile is etched upon your features.

She takes another step forward.

"What happened to the last teacher for everyone to think that?" your eyes narrowed and she leaned on the desk. "She ended up marrying a hot-shot lawyer, I heard that she lives in Monaco now. There's a lot of other teachers before you - this position hasn't been held for more than a year. I mean I think there was a teacher that lasted longer but it's been decades. 10-15 years ago? But she moved to New York." Rhaenyra tried to remember the past.

You place a binder on the table.

"It's nice that you remember the school's history. There aren't a lot of teachers who bother to learn all of that." you compliment, sensing that she was staring deep into your face. "I was born and raised here. She was my advisor - she spent her last year in school with us. I hope that you last longer than the others though," she breathed and you could only hum in agreement.

"I'll do my best - plus, my boyfriend was also born and raised here. He wants to make amends with his family. If all goes well, I see myself settling here." you explained, smiling at the thought of Aemond. Her watch beeps, 7:25am.

"Well, I will see you in the cafeteria during lunch. I'm afraid that I'll have to say goodbye for now," she waved - retreating back into the hallway. "See ya," you bid goodbye - the room fills with more students.

RHAENYRA STRONG She's here.

DAEMON TARGARYEN Who?

Rhaenyra's phone rings - the caller ID flashes for a moment. "What's up? Is everything alright?" he inquires. She could hear the classical music play in the background. "(Your Name) is here, and she doesn't remember anything." she breathed out in a panicked tone.

INSTAGRAM

yourname_: with the advanced class ✨

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>comments

tatianaVANILLA: The way that idk what those letters are 🤣

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DaemonTargaryen.phd: My lovely and beautiful Caraxes... 👍🏻

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>comments

VexanaNailss: Prof Daemon has the dawg in him

jacejacejacevelaryon: 2 dogs 1 frame 😨 - LucerysGaming: You literally live in his house 💀 - - jacejacejacevelaryon: You also eat his ice cream. Your point is?

LaenorVelaryonLaw08: Sea wants a playdate

DaemonTargaryen.phd: @LaenorVelaryonLaw08 fine since you beg 🤣

next chapter>>

[frost-queen]

My only love (Reader x Daemon Targaryen)

Requested by:@hwangrimi ,Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury,  @imagines-by-her,  @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

The candles lighted up the diner table when you entered the room. Daemon already sitting at the head of the table. He lifted his head up at the sight of you. – “My wife!” – he declared with open arms. You curtsied before him. One of the servants came nearer when you moved closer to the other head of the table. The servant pulling your chair back as you readied yourself to sit down. – “No! no!” – Daemon called out startling you. – “It’s all wrong.” – he said making you look confused.

He tapped his fingers at the side of the table. – “I want you to sit here.” – he proclaimed. With a snap of his finger got the servant in action. Picking up your chair and bringing it around the table near your newly wed husband. – “Come Y/n.” – he called you over with a gesture. Slowly you got in motion not used to it. You were always taught to eat as far as possible away from your husband.

Just so you could never disturb him. Him asking you deliberately over felt a bit out of scene. The servant pulled the chair back as you went to sit. Feeling a bit nervous you kept your hands under the table, fidgeting a bit with your dress.

Daemon reached for your hand underneath the table, taking it in his. He then pulled it upwards in sight. – “I’ve missed you.” – he said making you smile bashful. Your heart fluttered when he kissed your hand. – “Daemon.” – you whispered smiley.

“What can’t a man show his wife how much he loves her?” – he asked rhetorical with a smirk. – “You may.” – you replied leaning in closer to him. He leaned in as well, letting his lips brush against yours. Pulling back he eyed the guard standing by the walls. – “How has your day been Daemon?” – you asked picking up your fork and knife. Daemon set his elbow on the table, smirking your way. – “How was yours ñuha jorrāelagon?” (My love).

You smiled bashful. – “Extremely boring without your presence.” – you replied. Daemon took your hand setting a kiss on it. The two of you began to eat the coarse. A silence falling over the hall. Daemon couldn’t keep his eyes from you. Constantly smiling your way and winking whenever you caught his gaze. It was rather sweet of him. Seeing how full of love he was gazing your way.

Halfway through diner busted the doors open. Daemon quirked his eyebrow up watching one of the guards whisper something to another one standing close by the door. You furrowed your brows seeing him clear his throat and let the guard pass. – “Prince Daemon.” – the guard addressed coming closer to the table. He bowed deep to him. – “Princess Y/n.” – he then said bowing to you. – “Speak. Out with it.” – Daemon answered slightly annoyed.

The guard gestured with his hand at the letter he was holding. Daemon dropped his fork with a loud sigh. Signaling the guard over. The guard walked around the table to him. – “A letter from…” – the guard spoke unable to finish his sentence as Daemon had snatched the letter away. He then waved the guard away. Daemon noticed the seal sighing loud.

He placed the letter aside making you frown. – “Are you not opening it?” – you asked curious. Daemon cut his meat rather aggressively. – “I already know what they ask.” – he muttered out, taking a bite. – “May I?” – you asked. Daemon nodded allowing you to open his letter. You noticed the seal, but not recognizing it immediately. Cracking it open, you unfolded the letter. Reading quickly whilst your husband kept eating.

“You are being summoned to war?” – you stated lowering the letter. Daemon scoffed. – “The bastard’s can’t manage without me.” – he mocked with a taunting chuckle. – “I rather not go…” – he said looking over to you. – “I’d rather stay here with you.” – he took your hand bringing it closer to him over the table. You placed your hand on top of his. Daemon looked briefly up to the ceiling. – “But I have no choice. If those cunts want to win the war, they’ll need me.” – he laughed.

Daemon and you finished your meal, heading to your quarters afterwards. You sat on the bed watching Daemon pack some essentials. – “I hope to burn those bastards quickly so I can return back to you ñuha jorrāelagon.” – he spoke looking over his shoulder to you. You took a deep breath, knowing how long these kind of wars could take. – “Just come back home safely.” – you told him.

It could at least take months, even years for a war to die out. All that time without your husband. It would be a change even for him. – “Daemon…” – you started feeling a bit nervous to out it. He hummed loud continue to pack. You took a deep breath, fidgeting with your fingers.

“If… if in your time away… you… you crave other women I would not blame you. I understand a man has his desires.” – you told him. Growing up you were always told that you were expected to know that your husband would cheat. It was such a common aspect among the royals, you just had to accept it. Daemon stopped, his eyes widening. – “What did you just say?” – he asked slightly in shock.

“That… that I wouldn’t hold it against you if you desire other women. It is what all husbands do… is it not?” – you suddenly questioned your own beliefs from his response. Daemon dropped whatever he was holding, walking over to you. He came standing before you, cupping your cheeks. – “ñuha jorrāelagon iksā ñuha mērī mēre.” – he spoke making you tilt your head confusingly.

Daemon tilted your head forwards to kiss it. – “You are my only one.” – he repeated in a common tongue for you to understand. – “I do not crave any other women. I only crave you!” – he spoke, placing a kiss against your cheek. – “I am quite offended you assumed.” – he went on. You swallowed looking ashamed down.

“It is what everyone around told me. That I should accept cheating from my husband as it is what every man does.” – you told him. – “Not this man… not me… for you are my dying breath. My fire, my desires. Y/n my love I only burn for you.” – You smiled upon hearing those words. He tilted your head back, pressing his lips tenderly on yours.

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Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!  

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia - Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon

The day of the Heir Tournament has finally arrived, and what is a joust without some bloodshed? 

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: TW! Depictions of violence, mentions of blood, Daemon being an asshole, angst, the continuation of my blood feud against HOTD’s costuming department

Word Count: 4.3k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: With all the explicit detailing I included about the character’s dresses, would you guys maybe be interested for me to post some of my fashion designs here, so you guys can get a clearer vision of what I envisioned the characters wearing? Because I find it extremely difficult to translate my designs into words lol, blame my lack of fashion background. And from this chapter on, things are going to start getting serious. 

Also recommended that you listen to ‘There Are Worse Games To Play’ on the Hunger Games soundtrack while you read this chapter, particularly towards the end 💗

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics as always!

The fire crackled merrily in Lady Y/N’s chambers, although the room was filled with a ruminative silence. Night had once again descended on the Red Keep, and after tending to Aemma all day, who was in more discomfort than usual, Y/N was exhausted. 

She was still simmering with displeasure at Daemon’s words from that afternoon. One could argue that Daemon was merely being careless with his words, but Y/N knew better. Just like many other people, he disregarded her based on her gender. She thought maybe Daemon would be different since he cared not for the restraints society has put on him, but it appears she was nothing but a fool to ever think positively of him. 

I sighed, my fingers continuing to weave the bonnet for Aemma’s babe, even though I found no pleasure in the task. Daemon’s words this afternoon had sent me tumbling into an unpleasant spiral of emotions, and I directed my dark gaze towards the roaring fire, where the charred remains of my father’s letter still sat. 

Lord Matthos and Lady Primrose, Lord and Lady of Highgarden, and my parents. With my lady mother dead now, and me being their unfortunate sole surviving child, my father had directed his focus on getting me married off as soon as possible. “You must wed and produce heirs that could inherit Highgarden,” my father had insisted, pleaded, even. “I know with your...reputation, it might be difficult to find a match, but you are no longer young anymore, and you must marry as soon as possible. It is the duty you owe to House Tyrell.” 

“My duty,” I snorted, nearly pricking myself with the needle in the process. It was simply unfair, why must I be expected to marry and pump out babes for my husband while men like Daemon could prance about freely without a care in the world? I wanted to enjoy my youth, as was my right. Why should i care for duty? Even if my father required heirs, House Tyrell was not lacking in any cousins that could inherit if he should pass. 

Indignation coursed through my blood as I began increasing the speed in which I was weaving the bonnet. Even Aemma had reminded me on more than one occasion of the importance of duty, and I was sick of it. There was just some part of me that couldn’t grasp why everyone was so fixated on it. The Seven had granted us one chance at life: one should revel in it by pursuing their own desires. And besides, after witnessing Aemma’s grief and pain over her many miscarriages and stillbirths, I shuddered to think what duty might have in store for me. I was determined that I would not succumb to the notion of the dutiful, heir producing daughter that my father so wished me to be, no matter how much my father pleaded with me. After all, if Daemon could evade it as long as he did, surely I could do the same.

I frowned as I eyed the finished bonnet. Not as pretty as I envisioned, but children grow fast anyway. I went over to the window, gazing at the Dragonpit, dark and imposing against the night sky. It only made me think of a certain princeling, and I huffed, drawing my curtains shut. Rubbing my temples and exhaling heavily. I decided not to waste any more of my thoughts on the Rogue Prince. Clambering into bed, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

I had not expected to be in attendance at the tournament today. Aemma had been experiencing increasing bouts of pain for the past few days, and I wanted to keep her company should the babe be close to making its arrival in this world. Unexpectedly, I had been nearly dragged out of Aemma’s apartments by Rhaenyra and Alicent early in the morrow, with Aemma insisting I go spectate the tourney instead of staying with her like a watchful owl. I had argued, but Aemma specifically called upon Rhaenyra and Alicent as reinforcement, with some explicit threats that I would be quartered, hung and my head placed on a spike should I refuse to attend. 

Thus here I was, in the royal box, my face etched with concern as my mind kept wandering over to Aemma. I prayed fervently to the Seven that she would not go into labour in my absence, and to the Mother that if she did, that her labour would be smooth and painless. 

“What say you, Y/N?” I was pulled out of my reverie, eyes wide as I muttered an unintelligible “Huh?” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes good-naturedly while Alicent struggled to hide her giggles. “I was just discussing with Alicent why you seem to be favouring gowns of Tyrell green as of late. Usually, we noticed you would be in lighter shades.” My gaze shifted downward, surprised at her observation. 

I was dressed in my best, another gown of Tyrell green silk, with fitted sleeves that trailed to a more sheer, but still dark green material that flared out below my elbows. Several gold roses adorned my shoulders, interspersed with tiny rubies. The neckline dipped slightly in the valley of my breasts, but anything that could cause scandal was covered by a layer of Myrish lace. The dress’ skirts clung to my figure, parting at the centre to reveal an underskirt of olive green and gold brocade. It had cost a fortune, and had once belonged to my mother. My signature gold earrings adorned my earlobes, and my hair was pinned into an elegant braided updo. I might dislike the idea of duty to my house, but regardless, I had to represent House Tyrell in the best light possible, especially at such an important event. 

Rhaenyra and Alicent were decked out in their finest for the occasion as well. Rhaenyra was clad in Targaryen colours, and I admired the black corset that looked reminiscent of armour fitted across her upper half of her body. Dragon scales were painstakingly patterned on the corset, and they were held together by laces made of fine golden thread. Underneath the corset, she wore a dark red gown with an intricately pleated skirt. The sleeves were off the shoulder, going down to her wrists. Gold shoulder plates set in a dragonscale pattern with gold fringes protected her bare shoulders from the autumn chill. She wore a heavyset necklace cut with square shaped rubies, hammered into gold, and her hair was let loose in a wild cascade of curls. She looked every inch a Targaryen warrior princess. Alicent was dressed simpler, but still looked beautiful nonetheless. A light blue dress of brocade and silk with a square neckline hugged her soft curves, exposing a little bit of her collarbone, where two strands of pearls were draped across her neck. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, stopping short just before her elbow, while the rest of her sleeves were fitted tightly to her wrists. Small delicate flowers were sewn at the hem of her sleeves. Her skirts parted at the centre to reveal an underlying layer of cream white brocade, and her bodice had crisscrossing geometric diamond patterns sewn on it, dipping at her waist with a point. Her hair was fashioned in a half up, half down hairdo, curls tumbling to the small of her back. Both of them had inquisitive looks in their eyes, though Rhaenyra’s harboured a glimpse of impatience.

I smiled a little awkwardly at the question. Truth be told, I had no idea why. My thoughts had been taking on a darker turn since my encounter with Daemon in the throne room and the raven sent by my lord father, and I supposed my choice of apparel reflected my mood. “Well, at such a celebration, it is only fitting of me to dress in the colours of my house.” I reasoned, tilting my head slightly. “Do the darker gowns not suit me?” 

“All colours suit you well, my lady.” Alicent said gently. I smiled gratefully at her, as Rhaenyra turned to Alicent and asked teasingly if she suited any colour as well. My smile widened as I watched the two bicker playfully. 

We were interrupted however, by the arrival of the King. We all stood up to greet him, bowing politely. He was beaming from ear to ear, as he began addressing the crowd, much to the raucous cheers of the crowd. 

“The day has been made more auspicious, by the news I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!” My eyes widened upon hearing those words, and as soon as the King finished his address, I stood up, ready to excuse myself to go tend to Aemma, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, effectively halting my attempts of a hasty exit. “Viserys-” 

“I know you want to be there for Aemma,” the corner of Viserys’ eyes crinkled as he spoke gently, trying to push me back down to my seat, “But she asked me to relay a message: trust that she will be alright, and enjoy the tourney instead. It will be your only time to relax before you are swept up in your duties to take care of the babe.” 

I bit my lip, a sense of unease washing over me. “But-” “You must stay and enjoy the tourney. Your King commands it. As does your Queen.” I glanced at him, eyes filled with worry, but he only nodded encouragingly. 

“If my king commands…I shall obey,” I said with some reluctance, although it dissipated somewhat when Viserys beamed at me, clapping my shoulder affectionately before sitting back down. I sat back down too, my eyes wandering over to Rhaenyra, who gave me a smile, which I returned. I said a silent prayer to the Seven as the first few contenders were being announced, that both Aemma and her babe would be safe and healthy.

The first of the tilts began, to the boisterous cheers of the crowd. I watched as a jouster carrying a shield with a sigil unknown to me quickly unhorsed a squire of House Tarly. My brows furrowed., I turned to Rhaenyra, “Do you recognise the sigil that the mystery knight was carrying?” She shook her head. Alicent leaned over, eyes fixed on the knight as he steered his horse before the royal box and bowed, “I think he’s from House Cole. Of the Stormlands, I believe.” 

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose, “I’ve never heard of House Cole. This should prove most interesting.” I pursed my lips as Lord Boremund Baratheon asked for Princess Rhaenys’ favour, addressing her as “The Queen Who Never Was”, causing the crowd to stir a little in dissent. “You could have Baratheon’s tongue for that.” “Tongues will not change the succession,” came Viserys’ assured response. “Let them wag.” 

“Lord Stokeworth’s daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire.” “Lord Massey’s son?” Alicent inquired, a little surprised. Rhaenyra nodded, “They’re to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.” I snorted, remembering some of the unsavoury rumours I had heard swirling around the court as of late. “Best get on with it,” my voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.” Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief, and Alicent clapped a hand over her mouth as if reeling from the sheer impropriety of it, while I merely shrugged, a smirk tugging at my lips and turned my gaze back to the proceedings. 

I leaned forward in my seat, intrigued when the mystery knight of House Cole unhorsed Lord Boremund in a single tilt, much to the crowd’s delight and mocking laughs. Rhaenyra let out a small “oof” sound, while Alicent looked  dumbstruck. Mayhaps the tourney would be of some excitement after all. 

“Prince Daemon, of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!” The smile that was forming at my lips dropped in an instant, and I pursed my lips as Daemon, clad in his black armour, raced past the audience astride his black steed, much to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. I rolled my eyes: show off. 

I was unsurprised and somewhat amused when Daemon chose Ser Gwayne Hightower as his first jousting opponent. Of course, Daemon chose today to be even more of a little shit than usual. Oftentimes, I wondered if he gained his life essence from pissing Otto Hightower off. I craned my neck backwards to catch a glimpse of the Hand’s expression, my lips curving upwards in a smirk when I took note of his irked expression. 

Suddenly, I felt a heavy stare upon me, and I turned back to the spectacle to see Daemon’s violet eyes fixed on me. When he met my gaze, that little shit had the audacity to smirk and tilt his lance at me. I huffed and turned away, fixing my eyes on Ser Gwayne instead.  

I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh as Daemon’s lance was nearly knocked out of his hand by a well angled tilt by Ser Gwayne. Mayhaps that smug bastard will get some comeuppance today, I thought with glee. 

That glee was short lived as Ser Gwayne was thrown from his horse in an unsightly scene, when Daemon aimed for his horse’s legs, causing the animal to neigh with agony as it slid forward and bucked Ser Gwayne off into the dirt. I heard Alicent gasp with fright next to me, and I reached out to pat her hand reassuringly. That cheating bastard really had no scruples when it came to dealing with Otto Hightower, even to his kin. 

I frowned as I watched Daemon parade around on his horse, looking all too pleased with himself. I was caught off guard however, when Daemon came to a stop in front of the royal box, prompting Rhaenyra to get out of her seat, tugging me and Alicent with her. I was screaming internally for Rhaenyra not to drag me into this, but I begrudgingly followed Rhaenyra as she leaned over the railing, grinning at Daemon. “Nicely done, uncle,” Rhaenyra complimented him, causing Daemon to tilt his chin upwards arrogantly. “Thank you, Princess.” 

He smirked as he zeroed in on me, lingering behind Alicent. “Lady Y/N,” he called, a certain mischief in his voice. Oh no. 

“You look rather radiant today, dressed in your house colours.” I narrowed my eyes, aware of his attempts to bait me, by first paying me a compliment, so that if I rejected him, I would seem ill-mannered. But with so many eyes on us, I could only respond through gritted teeth, “Thank you, my prince.” 

“With such a beautiful lady as the one before me, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask for her favour.” Murmurs echoed throughout the crowd, as I attempted to minimise the lethality of my death glare. This brazen little punk. To ask for my favour after what he had said yesterday-

I leaned forward, whispering harshly, “What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” Daemon merely raised an eyebrow. “You know I am certain I can win these little games. Having your favour would all but assure it. You won’t rebuff me with so many eyes watching us, won’t you, byka zaldrizes?” 

Grinding my teeth, I did my best to keep my expression neutral. He was right, the crowd was getting restless. I could hear some murmuring from the lords behind me, and even Rhaenyra was nudging me subtly. The gods have chosen to curse me on this very day. I sighed, before moving to retrieve my favour, a small wreath of orange and purple flowers. Sliding it down the lance Daemon offered up, I forced a smile on my face. “I wish you good luck in the jousts, my prince.” 

Daemon smirked, having gotten under her skin like he wanted. “With your favour, I’m sure I don’t need it.” Daemon rode away as I rolled my eyes and took my seat once more, Rhaenyra and Alicent following suit. “It appears the Prince Daemon is attempting to play nice today, Lady Y/N,” Alicent smiled at me. Rhaenyra nodded earnestly, “Mayhaps he is starting to be civil to you, Y/N.” I had to refrain from snorting and saying something very derogatory about the Prince, instead letting my surly expression do all the talking. 

As Lady Y/N was distracted by the frenzy of the tourney, a maester sidled up to the Hand of the King to relay a message. The Hand’s eyes turned grim, and he turned towards Viserys, whose expression was still filled with mirth after witnessing his brother ask Y/N for her favour. Upon hearing the news, the King’s face visibly blanched, and he got out of his seat swiftly, followed closely by the Hand. 

Y/N, Alicent and Rhaenyra were engaged in fervent conversation, completely absorbed in the proceedings. But soon enough, the tourney had given way to violence and bloodshed. Y/N winced and averted her gaze as one after the other, the jousters who chose to continue their battle in arms caved in each other’s heads, fighting each other like feral beasts. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she did her best to block out the sound of agonised grunts and screams from the bludgeoned competitors. Looking over, she saw Alicent picking at her own fingernails till it was bloody. Frowning, she quickly nudged Alicent, who immediately stopped with a sheepish expression. Covering Alicent’s hand with hers to provide some reassurance, Y/N turned her head backward to take in Viserys’ expression, startled when she realised both the King and the Hand were missing. Cursing herself for her lack of awareness, she quickly moved to get up, but Alicent pulled her down to her seat. “Y/N, you must not leave now!” Alicent insisted, “Prince Daemon is about to tilt against Ser Criston!” 

I tried to shake off Alicent’s hand, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “I couldn’t give two damns about Daemon, the Queen needs me-” “It would be rude to leave before you’ve seen the jouster whom you’ve bestowed your favour to compete,” Rhaenyra chimed in, her purple eyes alight with excitement. “Father is there with Mother, she will be alright. They commanded you to enjoy the tourney with us, and as your princess, I order you to stay.” My face fell as I chewed my lip while glancing at the exit of the royal box. Alicent tugged on my hand, and I found myself relenting at the determined looks both of them were levelling at me. After all, there was no harm in staying for just a while. And I might even see Daemon get bested for the first time in his life. 

Reluctantly, I relayed my attention back to the tourney, just as both the competitors began charging at each other. Putting a hand over my mouth, I watched as Ser Criston and Daemon both failed to knock each other off their horses in the first tilt. With my heart in my mouth, my eyes nearly boggled out of my head when I watched Daemon being knocked off his saddle and into the dirt. 

Daemon had lost. 

Mouth agape, I stayed rooted in my seat, even as the crowd all stood to rain thunderous applause and cheers on Ser Criston. I felt a smug smile slowly spreading across my lips. Daemon had lost! At long last, someone had humbled that egotistical bastard, and I had been here to witness it. I sighed happily, savouring the prospect of being able to mock him for this for the rest of his life. “Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!” 

I raised my eyebrows as Daemon approached Ser Criston, wielding Dark Sister with a dangerous expression on his face. He is nothing better than a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum, I thought to myself, snickering. My eyebrows shot to my forehead when I noticed Ser Criston carrying a morningstar. A most unusual weapon. 

The crowd followed the ensuing sparring match with enthralled eyes, myself included. Rhaenyra was nearly falling out of her seat from the way she was leaning forward, and Alicent had a hand over her mouth. When Ser Criston splintered Daemon’s shield, it was like something feral had awoken in Daemon. He began doling out more impulsive blows as anger overtook him, slashing at Ser Criston like a madman and deftly manoeuvring out of the range of his blows. 

I clasped Alicent’s hand tightly in mine as Daemon kicked Ser Criston to the ground, pouncing on him with brutal force. When Daemon blocked Ser Criston’s attack by lodging Dark Sister with the morningstar’s chains, Rhaenyra reached over to take Alicent’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Finally, Daemon delivered the final blow, hurling the remains of his shield at Ser Criston, striking him squarely in the face and causing him to flounder on the ground. 

I shook my head in disbelief as Daemon raised both his arms up, hollering and revelling in his triumph. But that victory was soon short lived as Daemon felt a slash on his behind, knocking him to the dirt, face first. I felt Alicent reel back in surprise next to me. Daemon tried to lurch for his sword, but was forced to submission by a few well aimed kicks from Ser Criston, breathing heavily as he dangled the morningstar threateningly in Daemon’s face. 

“Yield.” Daemon could scarce believe what was happening right now. He had lost. To some unknown commonborn knight. Him, the Rogue Prince. The finest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. Tasting bile in his mouth, he gritted his teeth. “Yield.” Ser Criston’s voice made it clear that he would not ask again. Daemon chuckled humorlessly, refusing to say a word, but begrudgingly surrendered. He knocked away the arm that the knight offered, rising to his feet before stalking off. While leaving the jousting field, he took note of Y/N running off from the royal box. His ire now increased by tenfold, he swiftly made his way to the exit of the royal box, where he spotted his lady emerging from the shadows. Snarling, he grabbed her wrist, spinning her around to face him. “Daemon, let me go right now. I do not have time for your tantrums-” 

“It was you,” he hissed, twisting her arm, causing her to grimace. His rage was blinding him, the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears making his blood boil. “Your favour cursed me. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have won. And instead, I was humiliated-” Y/N scoffed, trying to break away, but Daemon only tightened her grip. “You lost because you were a cocky, arrogant bastard. Do not attempt to blame your failings on me. Now let go!” 

Daemon’s vision was nearly red by now, and he pulled her closer to him as he spat out, “You’re not going anywhere, byka zaldrizes.” “Let. Go.” her voice was laced with contempt. “I will not ask a second time. Go reflect and accept your loss, maybe this will teach you some humility.” 

Daemon opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by the arrival of that cunt, Otto Hightower. He wanted to spit at him to fuck right off, but the look on his face made him think twice. Y/N’s hand went slack, causing Daemon to release her, worried that he had hurt her. He looked between the both of them, confused, but quickly caught on when he saw the Hand bow his head grimly. 

Daemon had experienced a lot of things he would never forget that day, but nothing could compare to the pure look of devastation on Y/N’s face at that moment. The Hand inclined his head, lips pressed together, before he moved past them to the entrance to the royal box, no doubt to inform the other lords. 

His anger dissipating, an unsure look appeared on his face as he scrutinised Y/N’s face. She nearly stumbled over, eyes mad with grief, and Daemon unconsciously caught her arm with his left hand, steadying her. She didn’t seem to register his touch however, mumbling in a daze, “Aemma…I need to find Viserys. Viserys…” Daemon followed her movements with his eyes silently, as she mounted a horse reserved for the nobility nearby, spurring it towards the Red Keep. He watched her disappear into the distance, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his purple eyes swimming with a dozen complicated emotions. He needed to get out of his armour, it suddenly felt all too stifling to be in it. 

Y/N raced into the Red Keep, taking the steps two at a time as she rushed past startled servants. Barging into Aemma’s apartments, she stopped short when she reached Aemma’s bedchambers, her hand going to her mouth when she took in the gruesome sight before her, praying fervently that it was just some sick nightmare. 

Queen Aemma, no, her friend, her dearly beloved friend, Aemma, was sprawled out on the bed, the coppery stench of blood permeating through the room. Trickles of blood still oozed out of the incisions the maesters had made around her abdomen, and Y/N felt bile creeping up her throat as she realised what had been done.

No. 

No. 

 Y/N bypassed Viserys - still hunched over in grief, staring at Baelon’s small, wiggling frame with a broken expression - and went straight to Aemma. Her footsteps felt leaden and unsteady, as she crouched down to hold Aemma’s lifeless hand. She squeezed it desperately, willing her to wake up, to be alive. But it was in vain. 

Y/N went still, before she gently reached over and slid Aemma’s wide blue eyes shut. Trembling as tears began to cloud her vision, Y/N noticed the sun’s rays glinting off a small object tucked between Aemma’s sweat covered neck. It was Rhaenyra’s present to Aemma, that necklace with the ruby falcon pendant, its red shining brilliantly in the sun as Y/N and Viserys mourned for their good Aemma. 

rip aemma :( and also f*ck viserys, he deserves to be burnt alive, roasted and fed to balerion. 

Fic Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18​ @llovinjoonie​

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy​

Those who are bolded are those who could not be tagged! Let me know in the comments or through this form if you want to be tagged for future updates on this fic :) 

If you liked this fic, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! Thank you for reading this far! 

[the-desilittle-bird]

Hey dear! I saw that your requests are open and I was wondering if I could get a imagine/oneshot Daemon x wife!poc fem Reader (dornish maybe?) inspired by "jhute ilzaam" by Umrao jaan, please? (with happy ending) feel free to ignore.

AN- I loved it! Thanks for the ask sweetie. Hope you find it as per your liking.

Thank you and Enjoy your reading

False Accusations

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

Summary- And sometimes false accusations end with a beautiful evening...

Tag List- @minaxcarter, @eliseline, @blackhoodlea, @little-moonbeam-666, @neenieweenie, @omgsuperstarg, @avalyaaa, @shopping, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @krokietinio, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @thekayarlene, @narcy, @helloitsshitzulover, @muushwrites, @daringboba, @bi2simps, @issybee0611, @yariany02, @agathe, @5moremin, @candypurplebutterfly, @saraelizabeth26, @moon-light1415, @targaryenmoony, @stargaryenx, @instabul, @shine101, @hyacinthus007, @mcam623, @eudximoniakr, @carissa_griffin7777, @marvelescvpe, @severewobblerlightdragon, @deltamoon666, @thatgirlthatreadswattpad, @ultrav0lence, @savagemickey03, @sunmoon-01, @literishdegree99, @watercolorskyy, @Lady-Juliettes, @cherryaemond, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @nats-whore

Warnings- Tooth-rooting fluff and it gets steamy at a point. Implied smut.

GIF Credits to @thelekhikawrites

Kaun kisko yaha bhala samajha

Humne kya samajha tumne kya samajha

"Do what I hear is right?" The Dornish princess asked, her fingers combing through her dark tresses. Her dark eyes gazed accusingly at her husband who seemed not fazed by her statement, casual as always.

Instead, the Rogue Prince drew closer to her, like a moth to burning fire. His long fingers caressed the dusky skin of her shoulder; the thread of her heavy necklace sat sternly on the bare skin, barely grazing the rough padding of his digits.

"And what do you hear, my little sun?" He called dearly, fingers running down to the thread which held her translucent nightwear together. "Now, that you are here, make some work on the threads of the necklace."

With a roll of his eyes, Daemon started to carefully undo the knots holding one of the symbolic representation of the riches of House Martell of Dorne. But whilst his pursues, he observed the little frown shadowing over her face.

"What has stolen the smile of your face, beloved?" He asked, once all the knots were undone and the jewelry was placed carefully on her vanity. His fingers massaging the muscles of her tensed shoulder.

"Queen Alicent had decided to enlighten me upon a particular... interest of yours," she said, her teeth sinking into her lower lip while her hands slapped his hands off.

"Which one?" Daemon asked with a frown tugging over his eyebrows. His hands crossed over his chest; eyes skimming over his lady wife; his little sun; his Dornish princess.

"Were you in an intimate relation with Rhaenyra?"

The prince was left in a deep silence; his eyes boring deep into her brown irises which resembled the drenched soil after the arrival of first rain; the earthen warmth they held were lost as tears welled up in them.

"Were you, Daemon?"

Of course he was. How could the prince forget it. But that was before (Y/N) came in his life; dancing and singing like one of the angels from the heaven, with hair so dark that they could challenge the Maiden herself.

Her smile which brightened up his entire life; making him forget about the misery of his life and drown in the rain of love she showered over him.

"I was."

"And does the relationship still exist?"

The hope in her eyes resembled the flame of a burning candle; little but bright. Her pink lips resembled the petals of the softest rose. Her skin like gold; or the beautiful colour of tea she makes when he couldn't sleep.

"No."

"And how shall I accept that it isn't a lie?"

Daemon chuckled, his hands guiding her to stand up. Forcing her to face him, to look into his violet eyes with her dark ones. In her eyes, he saw in them the childlike stubbornness and with them was love.

"What can I do to make you believe it?"

Meri aankho me jo achhe nahi lagte aansu

Toh jalaya na karo mujhko sataya na karo

"I hate it when you cry," he whispers, cupping her cheek as his fingertip massaged the muscles beneath her eyes, softly with great care. "Then don't make me cry then," she replied in an equally low voice, the stubbornness leaking through her voice.

"Apologies, my love," he says, leaning down to place a soft kiss on the corner of her lips. The sharp intake of breath pleased the prince as he retracted his face only a few inches.

"Apologize better," (Y/N) argued, turning around with her arms folded in front of her. Her eyes focused over the reflection of herself and her now smirking husband, who only stepped closer to her, towering over her petite stature.

"I. Hate. Tears. In. Your. Beautiful. And. Erotic. Eyes."

Each word was accentuated by a kiss, starting from her shoulder to her neck. The shiver which ran down her spine excited him.

"Stop the seduction," she hissed, eyes widening as she took a few steps away from her prideful husband, unconsciously moving towards the bed she shared with her lord husband.

Daemon only huffed a laugh, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he stepped closer to her; like a predator hunting it's prey in the quiet of a dense forest.

"Those are just another false accusations, ñuha byka vēzos," (My little sun) Daemon said, his fingers slowly crawling over the expanse of his broad chest, undoing the ties which hold the black tunic together, slow as a turtle.

"It hurts me, Daemon," she whispers with a bite on her lower lip, blinking her lashes to prevent the fall of her tears.

Jhute iljaam meri jaan lagaya na karo

Dil hai najuk ise tum aise dukhaya na karo

"These false accusations hurts my weak heart as well, my lady love," Daemon admits, exposing his lean chest to the hungry eyes of his wife. His tunic was left abandoned on the floor, while his finger grazed the covered skin of her side, just below her bossom.

"My lord, I was just... scared to lose you."

"You would never lose me, my sunshine."

His lips touched the smooth skin of her collarbone, a small hum of pleasure leaving the throat of the exotic beauty he was fortunate enough to marry. The little moan had him growling; his teeth biting the skin below her ear softly.

"Daemon, please."

The smirk on his face grew, his fingers finding home on her waist. Her dark brown locks touching his rough fingers, a soft touch like a mother's to her little child.

"Lets remove the false accusations from your mind."

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

​the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

​the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

​extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

​a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

[cluelessteam]

Hi! Could I request this for Daemon? I've been really interested in the whole haunting for Damon

in the latest season and just wanted charmed and thought Daemon might come across the spirit of his late ex-lover at Harrenhal. She was Otto's eldest daughter who passed away before they could wed. There's a chance that Otto mistakenly poisoned her instead of Daemon, in an attempt to stop their marriage. She confides in Daemon about the specifics of her death, and he finds closure by being able to embrace her, kiss her, and be intimate with her. Alys Rivers was someone she adored and cared for, perhaps as a motherly figure. Alys might continue to trigger visions of his former lover in Daemon, but not with harmful intentions; it could be rooted in her affection for her maternal figure. This could serve as the first part of a two-part series, and the suspenseful conclusion could be Alys' revelation that she intends to bring her back to life, potentially leading to Damon's unexpected shift in allegiance in the series 😏💚❤️‍🔥

{~Shadows of Harrenhal~}

A/N: First of all I just want to say thank you for requesting this!!! I am sooo sorry that it took me to song for me to write this for you! I really hope you enjoy this and I'm really sorry if it's not entirely what you wanted but I tried! 😭

Summary: Daemon Targaryen encounters the spirit of his lost love, Otto Hightower’s eldest daughter, who died before they could wed. Alys Rivers offers Daemon a way to bring her back, binding their souls but at a high cost. As he’s consumed by their supernatural connection, Daemon faces a painful choice: keep her and lose himself, or release her and find peace.

Characters: Daemon & Alys

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1983

Tag List:

Part 1 ---

Daemon Targaryen never considered himself a man bound by ghosts. He took what he wanted, feared little, and answered to no one. But there was one shadow that followed him, one face that haunted his dreams in the depths of the night—a woman he loved fiercely, his intended bride, taken from him before they could wed. She was Otto Hightower’s eldest daughter, his love, his match, and a memory that clawed at his heart like iron scraping bone.

And now, they say, she wanders Harrenhal.

The torches cast jagged shadows across the cracked walls as Daemon strode through the desolate corridors of the ancient castle. Alys Rivers, dark-eyed and silent, led the way, her steps so light she seemed to glide. Daemon had come here on a whim, drawn by rumors of Alys’s talents. They spoke of her sight, her ability to reach beyond the veil, of a power that could evoke spirits, and conjure memories from the other side. Daemon had scoffed at such tales, but here he was, heart pounding with a hope he would not admit, even to himself.

They reached an old, nearly forgotten hall where the light seemed thinner, barely touching the cold stone. Alys turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “She is near,” she murmured.

Daemon’s throat tightened. “Bring her to me, then.”

Alys did not respond immediately; instead, she stepped back, her dark eyes meeting him with an expression that seemed both compassionate and haunting. With a few whispered words that faded into the stillness, she raised her hands, her fingers moving through the air as though drawing open a curtain unseen.

And then, Daemon felt it—a stirring, a ripple in the atmosphere. The air grew colder, tingling with a sensation he couldn’t quite place as if something forgotten was being called to life once more.

Then he saw her.

She stood in the shadows, her form translucent yet unmistakable. She looked exactly as he remembered—elegant and poised, with a softness that made his heart twist with longing. Her eyes, deep and expressive, locked onto his, and he took a step closer, not daring to blink, terrified she might vanish like all the memories he’d clung to for so long.

“Daemon,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the chill around them.

His breath left him in a shudder. “Gods… I thought I’d lost you forever.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, filled with a rawness he’d never shown to another soul.

She smiled, though it was a sad, broken thing. “You did lose me, Daemon. And not by fate or sickness, but by the hand of my blood.” Her voice trembled, anger mingling with sorrow. “I did not die by chance. My father took me from you.”

Daemon’s expression hardened. He had suspected Otto’s hand in her untimely death, but hearing it from her lips was a dagger to his heart. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded, his voice rough, desperate.

She paused, looking down at her hands, then back at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He planned to poison you, Daemon. To ensure I would never stand beside you as your wife, to keep our marriage from bringing you closer to the throne. But he miscalculated…” Her voice broke, and she looked away, pain flickering across her face. “The cup he brought me that night was meant for you. I drank it, thinking it a gesture of his blessing, of forgiveness. And as I lay there, gasping, as I felt the life draining from my body… he looked at me with horror.”

Daemon’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white as rage surged within him. “He killed you to stop me. That insufferable snake took you from me.”

She nodded, her form flickering faintly in the cold light. “In his eyes, I was a casualty… a necessary one to prevent what he feared most.” Her voice softened, eyes searching his face. “I only wish I could have said goodbye.”

They were silent for a moment, the weight of her words heavy in the air. Daemon’s gaze softened as he took a step closer to her, his hand reaching out, though he stopped just short of touching her. “I would have burned the realm to keep you safe,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “I would have done anything.”

She stepped closer, her presence faint but solid enough that he could feel a sliver of warmth, a remnant of the life they had once hoped to share. “And I would have walked through fire for you,” she replied, a fierce glimmer in her eyes. “I would have given up anything to be by your side, Daemon.”

He reached out again, his fingers trembling, unsure if he would feel her touch or if his hand would pass through. To his surprise, he felt her—a chill against his skin, yet grounding, familiar. Her hands found his, delicate and weightless.

They stood in silence, foreheads touching, a thousand unspoken words exchanged in that moment. The years melted away, and for a fleeting heartbeat, it felt as if they were the same two souls they had once been—wild, passionate, and bound by a love that defied the very gods.

Daemon’s hand moved up, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin as if memorizing her once more. “I swore you’d be mine,” he whispered, voice trembling with both rage and longing. “And now… I don’t know how to let you go again.”

She placed a ghostly hand over his heart, her touch soft but resonant. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips met his.

The kiss was electric, a union of fire and ice. His heart thundered as he held her, feeling her presence consume him, grounding him as if she were still alive, warm, and vibrant. Time slowed

each kiss, each caress an echo of the life they’d never had the chance to share. His arms tightened around her as if holding her would anchor her to him, to the world of the living.

When their kiss finally broke, she looked at him, full of sorrow and love. “Daemon,” she whispered, “you must let me rest. But promise me… promise me you will never let him win. Do not let my death be in vain.”

He nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. “I’ll avenge you and make him pay for what he took from us.”

Daemon’s hand slipped from hers as her form began to wane, her eyes glistening with the silent plea she had left him with: Do not let my death be in vain. He watched helplessly as her spirit faded, leaving behind an unbearable emptiness that seemed to deepen the shadows of Harrenhal.

Before the silence could swallow him whole, Alys Rivers stepped closer, her gaze steady and enigmatic. She observed him with the measured patience of one who’d seen such grief many times before, her expression a strange blend of compassion and steel. She placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention to her, breaking the spell of despair that had settled over him.

“You truly loved her,” Alys said softly, a question and a statement all at once.

Daemon’s eyes blazed as he turned to her. “She was everything.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, stripped bare of his usual pride. “But that is why I will never forgive that serpent, her father. I would see the world burn to have her back.”

Alys gave a slow, deliberate nod, seeming to weigh his words. She stepped around him, the hem of her dark gown whispering over the cold stone. “I can bring her back,” she murmured, each word a tantalizing promise that hung in the air. Her gaze held his, unflinching. “But such magic is costly, Daemon Targaryen. Some forces bind the dead to the afterlife, threads that, once severed, cannot be mended without consequence.”

Daemon’s fists clenched as he took in her words, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Name the price.”

She studied him for a long moment, and Daemon could feel her searching, reaching into the parts of him that he kept hidden. “You would risk your very soul, your bloodline… even your crown, to bring her back. Once life is restored, it can’t be undone again. She will come back to the world of the living, but such magic leaves scars.” Her voice softened. “And the price would not only be yours to bear. Those who defy death are never left unmarked.”

Daemon let her words sink in, the fire in him dimming with a slow, mounting horror. He could bring her back, but at what cost? Would she return whole, or would she bear some shadow, a remnant of the darkness she’d been drawn from? And yet, could he walk away, knowing this chance existed?

He turned away, his gaze dark as he looked over the desolate hall. “What must I sacrifice, exactly?”

Alys tilted her head, her dark eyes shadowed and knowing. “Your life as you know it, Daemon. Your heart will belong to her… entirely, without room for another. And if you defy the magic or the price of it, her soul will suffer the consequences. The magic demands loyalty, and as such, it would demand yours.”

Daemon’s mind raced, visions of their past together flooding his thoughts. She had been his match in every way—her laughter, her fire, her unyielding spirit, and the fierce, defiant way she’d loved him. He couldn’t count the times he’d dreamt of her, only to wake and remember that she was gone, lost to him by the hand of the one man he’d trusted least.

Alys’s voice was soft as she continued. “You know she saw me as a mother, as a friend. I would never harm her. But bringing her back… it will bind us all together in ways that none of us can predict. The magic is as old as these stones. It cannot be controlled once it begins.”

He met her gaze, his eyes intense, a silent question in them. “You would do this for her?” His voice was softer, guarded. “Even knowing the risk?”

Alys stepped closer, her expression softening with a trace of vulnerability. “For her, yes. She was dear to me, and her loss… it felt as though I’d lost a part of myself.” She hesitated, her gaze drifting as if looking into another world. “But Daemon, you must understand—this will change you. The Daemon Targaryen you know now will not survive unscathed. You might find yourself in conflict with those you once held dear, bound by forces that even you cannot defy.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened. His mind flickered to those he might be forced to forsake: his family, the throne… perhaps even the very kingdom he had once sought to rule. The sacrifices twisted at his mind, a hollow ache forming in his chest. Could he do this, knowing he might become unrecognizable to himself, bound to a fate he couldn’t undo?

And yet, her face lingered in his mind, a flickering light in the shadows.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he let his heart answer before his mind could. When he looked back at Alys, his resolve was clear. “I accept. She was my life—whatever is left of me now is hers.”

Alys regarded him, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. “Very well,” she murmured, a flicker of satisfaction in her gaze. “But remember Daemon, once this path is set in motion, it cannot be reversed. And if the cost becomes too great, the only way to save her will be to destroy yourself.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with fierce determination. “If that is what’s required, then so be it.”

Alys gave a slight nod, her expression unreadable as she extended her hand toward him. “Then come, Prince Daemon. The ritual begins tonight.”

[vermithorn]

VERMITHORN’S 1K MILESTONE EVENT

DAEMON TARGARYEN + BREEDING.

cw: nsfw, p in v, breeding, biting, pregnancy mention, dirty talk i guess.

note: ARGHHASEGH WOOF WOOF WOOF i want this man carnally i hope i mafe him a little justice here!

Daemon grunted, his lips glued to the side of your neck as his thrusts quickened, his cock buried to the hilt inside of you. One of his hands had a tight hold on your waist, driving his hips into you feeling like going home, his other hand had your hair gripped so tightly as he devoured your neck.

You whimpered, holding to his back tightly as he pounded against you. “Daemon, please,” You gasped, your thighs shaking.

“Dōnus riñus,” He growled into your ear, “What are you pleading for? Tell me.”

You let out a particular sharp cry as he changed the angle, his hips thrusting into your sweet spot, “Your seed, I want it all, I want to breed me and make me have your little dragons, please, love, please.”

He felt his breath caught on his throat, biting down on your neck as his thrusts faltered, his hand moving downwards to your pearl, wanting to make you come as soon as possible because he couldn’t hold his release any longer.

He whispered harshly, his hips faltering as he approached his orgasm, “I’ll fill you up, my beloved, I’ll fill you up so fucking deep you will feel it for days, then I’ll fuck you again when you’re with child, again and again, I will never not be tired of seeing your cunt drip with my seed,” He moaned, with a hard thrust filling your pussy with his seed.

You quickly convulsed under him, his hand skillfully flicking your pearl, combining your cunt full of him made you see stars.

Panting heavily, you met his gaze, a shy smile glued on your face, “I’ll have your little dragons, don’t worry.”

He fought a smile that was threatening to come out.

[lady-phasma]

Caught - Daemon x fem reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, praise k!nk, kinda rough sex, graphic language, cockwarming, unprotected p in v sex, Daddy!Daemon

Summary: PWP literally just 3.1k of smut. Daddy!Daemon caught you up to no good and has to remind you of the rules. a/n: this is technically modern au Daemon. Short hair, modern setting, and modern language, the language gave me a bit more freedom than usual.

You froze as Daemon entered the room. His eyes flew from your surprised face to your hands between your thighs. You started to giggle with embarrassment until you saw his brow furrow. The smile fell from your lips. You weren’t sure if you should pull your fingers out of your dripping cunt or not so you lay still as he walked to the bed.

He watched you closely as he walked across the room. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Already his cock had begun to ache seeing you naked on the bed, pleasuring yourself. However, there was an underlying emotion that amplified that ache. He needed to correct you. Your inability to keep your hands off yourself was sexy, but it made him almost seethe with envy. He had told you before and you had agreed, you would always wait for him.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he sat down on the side of the bed, one eyebrow cocked. You didn’t move your hands but squeezed your thighs closed. Daemon slowly reached one hand to press against your knee, opening your legs. You let him. When he slid his hand down the inside of your thigh you whimpered. Gently, he pulled first one of your hands, then the other away from your cunt. The sound your fingers made sliding out of you was almost embarrassing.

“Gods you are so wet, little one.” Daemon frowned. “Were you close?” His eyes flicked up to yours.

You nodded silently.

“Hmmm,” he mused. Then he gently clasped your wrist and raised your hand to his face. He breathed in deeply before sucking your fingers clean. You moaned and bit your bottom lip to quiet yourself.

“We talked about this,” he began. He laid your hand on the bed and stroked your thigh. “We talked about what would happen if you did this without Daddy?”

“Yes, but,” you started to explain.

“No,” he stated flatly. You tried not to grin. You loved it when he got this look in his eye. He looked possessive, jealous even, but not angry. His eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. So how do I teach you this lesson so you will remember, hmm?” You knew it was a rhetorical question. Daemon stood up, slid his tie out of his collar, and walked to his desk. You watched, motionless, as he shuffled papers and books, silenced his phone, tossed his tie over the back of the chair, and finally sat down.

You subconsciously licked your lips as Daemon’s hands went to his zipper. He unfastened his pants and freed his cock. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but every part of your body tingled when you saw it. It was thick and gorgeous and you thought you could see the faintest pearl of precum leaking from the tip. He stroked slowly, watching himself, ignoring you. It felt as if minutes turned into hours before he looked up at you. He almost grinned at the lascivious expression on your face. He paused and you couldn’t help but stare at his twitching cock.

“Come here,” Daemon said. You rose form the bed, legs shaking, and you felt heat rush to your core. Walking toward him naked was exhilarating. Daemon patted his thighs as you approached. It was patronizing, but it made you smile nonetheless. You eyed his lap briefly and tried to guess the position he wanted you in. You began to move forward, but he saw the perplexed look on your face and caught your hips in his hands. He positioned you where he wanted you. His strong hands gently guided you through the awkward motion of sitting on his lap with your back to his chest. His hold on your hips made you feel a bit more stable during the wobbly affair. Then, very quietly, he whispered in your ear.

“You’re going to keep my cock warm, little one. You’re going to be as still as a statue and as quiet as a mouse. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you answered and swallowed dryly.

“Now, lift that lovely ass,” he said with a smile in his voice. Pressing down on the arms of the chair, your feet pressed on top of his shoes for leverage, you raised up as far as you could. His hand slipped under your ass and through your wetness. You gasped and your thighs shook. His fingers were gone almost immediately. You heard him stroke his cock and then you felt him at your entrance. Slowly you began to lower yourself, with his hands guiding you again. Your body felt like it had been struck by lightening and your head spun with excitement. This was a punishment? You exhaled as you settled into Daemon’s lap, his cock fully buried inside you.

“Comfortable?” he asked. You nodded trying to move only your head. Your arms and legs felt stiff. Frankly, you were still concerned with falling off. You giggled before you realized you were going to. Your hand flew to your mouth and you did wobble. Daemon held you steady and laughed under his breath.

Finally, he pulled you toward him, your back pressed against his chest and you felt yourself begin to relax. Your hands fell from the arms of the chair to rest on your thighs. You let your feet slide off his shoes, allowing him to support you completely. This also made his cock go the slightest bit deeper. You whimpered and tried to adjust your hips. His fingers dug into them, stopping you. You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, leaning back against Daemon’s chest. Every breath, every movement was bliss. As he settled, his cock moved inside you. As he breathed, you moved up and down with his chest. Each small movement echoed in your cunt. You thought if being this connected to him were punishment you could get into “trouble” more often.

“Hand those to me.” Daemon startled you when he spoke. You blinked and failed to understand for a moment. Then you leaned forward for the papers and gasped. Gingerly you handed them to Daemon. You shifted to the side slightly and tried to rest against him again. But the movement caused you to clench and Daemon hissed air through his teeth. You grimaced a little as you began to understand… a bit like trying to balance on one foot and not fall, you weren’t sure how long you could do this. To your amazement, however, Daemon began to read as if you weren’t there. You clenched around his cock involuntarily. He was distracting himself and you were what? Not supposed to think about how good it felt to be so deeply connected to him? Every time you thought of it you twitched or tensed up. You crossed your arms across your breasts and huffed. You couldn’t lay your head on his shoulder, you couldn’t wiggle, you could only sit.

“Yes?” Daemon asked.

“Well,” you thought for a moment. “What am I supposed to do?” You heard the whine in your voice and cringed. You tightened your arms across your chest.

“Think about your actions,” Daemon chuckled as he spoke and resumed reading. His laugh was infuriating. You could have screamed, but more than that you wanted to rock your hips. You needed to hear him moan and say your name. Instead you pouted. Trying not to think about your wetness dripping down around his cock, soaking his pants, you exhaled. When you turned your head to look at Daemon he was actually reading! You smirked as you wiggled your ass slightly and he didn’t even glance up. You turned your attention to the room, looking for anything to distract you. But the harder you tried to not think about his cock the larger it seemed to grow in your thoughts. You shifted a few times, tried to alleviate the constant, aching need but nothing worked. The next ten minutes were agonizing. It could have been 30 minutes for all you knew. This frustrating pleasure made it impossible for you to judge.

When Daemon finally lowered his papers, your head felt foggy with arousal. You blinked trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. He slowly began to lean forward and you steadied yourself by gripping his thighs. He snaked one hand around your side to your belly to hold you still and tossed the the documents onto the desk. They slid and nearly scattered, but Daemon didn’t seem to care. He ran his hand along the top of your thigh. His fingertips came precariously close to your lips and you jumped. He chuckled that low, infuriating laugh again.

“How do you feel, baby girl? Do you think you can remember our rules now?” His hand continued traveling up your body until he was cupping your breast. He languidly passed his thumb over your nipple. The new sensation felt so good that it was almost painful. It jolted you out of your haze.

“Yes, Sir,” you mumbled. “I will remember. But please, Daemon.” You didn’t expect to beg. “Please.” Your cunt tightened around him as you spoke.

“Soon,” he whispered. “Soon.” There was a slight tone of pride in his voice. You weren’t sure how you knew that from one word but you couldn't think about it for long. His hand on your belly began to slide down. Two of his fingers brushed the top of your cleft and you bucked your hips. You tried, at least. His hand held you quite still. But your movement had elicited a small hmm from him. That sound produced a fresh wave of wetness to flood your aching cunt.

“You did so well,” he spoke near your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “You kept my cock perfectly warm. Do you want your reward?”

“Yes, please,” you whined again. You fisted your hands into the fabric of his pants. Simultaneously impatient and anxious, you had rarely been this overstimulated.

“Are you going to be a good girl from now on?” Daemon smirked. He was dragging it out, still enjoying your blissful distress.

“Oh yes, god yes!” You tried to move your hips again and this time he let you. Only he followed the movement with his hand and slid two fingers over your clit. You let out a groan that sounded as if it came from someone else. You clamped your teeth down on the sound as Daemon circled your clit with his fingertips.

“Damn,” he mumbled under his breath. “That’s it, baby girl.” You were moving your hips slightly, clutching and unclutching his pants with the same rhythm. It was slow and almost imperceptible. Daemon kissed your shoulder, squeezed your breast, then rested his forehead in the curve of your neck, never stopping the motion of his fingers. You felt the familiar coiling in your core, the signal of the beginning of your orgasm, and reached your hand behind you to slide your fingers into Daemon’s hair. You riffled through his short hair and pressed him harder against you. He groaned and nuzzled deeper into your neck. His cock seemed to throb inside you. The sensations were overwhelming. You raked your nails across his scalp and breathed out his name. Without warning, he stopped and pulled his fingers away. You arched your back trying to chase them. He straightened and shook your hand from his head.

He moved both hands to your hips and dug his fingers into your flesh. He began to guide you to lift your hips but you shook your head “no.” He ignored this protest and start to move you himself. You felt dizzy, off balance, and you wanted nothing more than for his cock to stay exactly where it was. But you realized this would be easier and faster if you worked with him. Begrudgingly and gingerly, you placed your hands on the arms of the chair once more. The feeling of separation was immediate and intense. You squeezed your eyes shut. Daemon, thankfully, still held your hips as you tried to stand on legs that should not have been so shaky.

As Daemon began to lean forward you swayed and reached out to steady yourself on the desk. You felt him shift behind you and his legs pressed yours wider. He still held you by your hips but he leaned forward and kissed your lower back. He trailed kisses down to the top of your ass. You let out a small moan as he kissed the dimples at the base of your spine and then he sighed. His breath on your ass made you squirm. Every sensation was like a shock to your brain.

In one swift movement, Daemon stood behind you. He pressed you forward slightly but didn’t let go of you until your hands were firmly planted on the desk. You were almost bent over completely, arms laying on the desktop. Daemon smoothed a hand up your back, signaling you to lean further forward. You did so, forehead nearly resting on the surface. You heard him unbuckling his belt and sliding fabric against skin. Your cunt clenched on nothing purely from anticipation. He nudged your feet further apart with the toe of his shoe. You gasped as he slid his fingers through your slick, messy cunt. He drug them slowly back over your clit, all the way back to your ass and then pulled his hand away. You pressed your hips back toward him, begging without words.

“You want my cock back in that needy little hole?” He growled the question as he stroked his cock once, twice, then positioned himself between your thighs. “Well?”

“Yes,” you tried to answer but it came out in a croak. You mouth was a desert. You cleared your throat. “Yes, Daddy.”

He hummed a short approval as he rested his hands on your ass. His cock began to slide inside you so slowly that you could barely breathe. You resisted the urge to push back toward him with every ounce of your will power. Daemon moved forward slightly but also used his thumbs to hold your ass cheeks apart. The thought of him watching his cock slide into you, imagining the way his bottom lip would be caught between his teeth, forced you to finally collapse onto the desk.

“Please,” you started. “Fuck, Daemon, please, I can’t.” Your pleading sped him up, but only slightly. The only thing that stopped you from doing it yourself, pressing your hips back into his, was the delicious sound he was making. It was a throaty hum mixed with a sucking of air through his teeth. When he was finally balls deep inside you again, he moved his hands forward, onto your hips again.

“You feel so good,” he said under his breath. The words made you squirm against him and clench around him. He began long, slow strokes that drove you crazy, gradually picking up speed. Each thrust pushed you forward until your breasts were pressed against the papers on the desk. You barely held yourself upright, your legs felt as if they would give up at any moment. You were unsure if there were words in the incoherent moaning coming from your mouth as Daemon seemed to drag out each stroke.

“That’s my girl,” he said with a hard thrust. Then he started to move faster, his strokes growing shorter. You felt one of his hands slide forward and tensed around him in anticipation. He let out a breathy fuck as he pushed through the tightening of your muscles. When his fingers grazed your clit you bucked away from his hand. His fingers found you regardless.

“You can take it. You have to if you want to come,” he said icily. You whimpered as he stroked your clit in time with the thrusts of his cock. “I want you to cum on my cock like the good slut I know you are.”

His voice, his words, flipped a switch inside you. The coiled, aching tightness in your core released. Waves of pleasure emanated from your cunt. Your limbs felt cold and heavy but you barely noticed.

“Fuck.” You panted and moaned, pressing the side of your face onto the desk. “Yes, Daddy. Oh fuck yes.” You words trailed off into mumbled pleading and sounds of agreement. His fingers continued their movement and your hips jerked with each pass. You were too cock drunk to beg him to stop. Your orgasm didn’t crest and break but stayed in this tight, hot moment until you thought you might pass out.

“You can have your reward now, baby girl,” Daemon punctuated each word with a thrust as he began to pound into you. You no longer moaned, no longer made any sound. Your breathing was shallow and harsh. You reached your hands out to find purchase, to brace yourself and only succeeded in knocking things off the desk. Daemon increased the pressure on your clit and you came undone. You closed your eyes and cried out his name. Begging, pleading, but not for him to stop. You begged for his cum and he gave you what you needed. He moved his hand from between your legs. He grabbed the back of your neck and pressed into you one final time. His cum was a warm rush between you. He ground his hips against your ass. He groaned and relaxed his grip on your neck.

Daemon leaned forward, out of breath, and kissed your shoulder. He stroked your shoulder blade, your side, and slid his hand under your stomach. You were barely able to follow his lead. The pressure of his hand guided you to prop yourself up on the desk. You huffed out a small chuckle at your predicament. Before you were entirely prepared, he pulled back slowly. Your eyelids fluttered when his cock left you. The feeling of what he left behind was divine. You tried to catch your breath.

You felt his hand on you, resting on your side. You straightened up as he began to turn you toward him. He caught your mouth with his before you could face him. He petted and stroked, one hand on your side, pressing you into him, one hand on your stomach and hips. He pulled back and looked into your eyes. The corner of his mouth turned up and the pride you saw in his face made your chest feel as if it would burst. He barely took his hands off of you as he sat down, keeping you on your feet. Then he helped you onto his lap once more. Sitting across his lap, you curled into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. You inhaled the smell of his shirt and became dimly aware that he had somehow not taken it off. You smiled and closed your eyes as he kissed the top of your head.

Masterlist Daemon masterlist

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Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader 1

She rolled her eyes as her aunt scolded her. “Why…why..can’t you act like a lady? You are to be queen. You cannot be seen acting like a fool.”

She gritted her teeth, tapping her fingers on the table. “Mhmm…” She said, sitting back in the chair.

“Esmeray, are you even listening to me.” Her aunt scolded, slamming her hands on the table.

“Enough! I understand. I get it. I know my duty.” She angrily stood up, the chair made a screeching sound from how quickly she got up.

Her aunt pursued her lips. She shook her head. “If your mother were to see you now, she would be disappointed.”

Esmeray scoffed, staring down at the aunt. “Tell me something I don’t know.” She walked off.

“I’m not done.” “But I am. Go focus on other things. I don’t need you hovering over me. I’m not your concern.” She angrily existed the chambers.

“Easy there. Who’s angered my queen?” Daemon put his hands on her shoulders. Esmeray shook her head. She was too angry to speak. Too angry to even think.

“Esmeray!! You’ll listen to me, girl!” Daemon stared at Esmeray with a gentle look. “Why did I even bother to ask?” He smiled at her before turning around to face her aunt. “What is it?” He coldly stared at her. “Ugh…this is between me and her. Now, run along.” She waved him off.

Daemon tilted his head. “It seems that you forgotten your place. I’ll remind you. Now, listen and listen good because I’m bit repeating myself.” He pointed at Esmeray. “You’re staying in my home. She is soon to be queen. And my wife.” He looked at her up and down. “You are an outsider. You hold no title…no power.” Her aunt was shaking. Her face red from the anger that was boiling within her.

“Y-you..” Daemon cut her off. “Shh…I don’t want to hear it.” He took a step closer to her. “Let’s this be the last time I hear you speak to my betrothal that way unless you want to suffer an early death.” He told her, tapping his sword. He step away from her.

Esmeray shook her head in disbelief. Only Daemon could shut her aunt up. “Let’s go, my love. This conversation is finished.”

Esmeray nodded, letting him put his arm around her to lead her away. Her aunt gripped her dress. She’ll pay for this humiliation. She’ll play.