#daemon Targaryen x reader

[chibsandchill]

Fire and blood and ... love?

Summary: Daemon finds himself… yearning for who he believes is twin flame. Part 1 (?)

Fandom: House of the dragon (HOTD)

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x AFAB!reader (can be read as belonging to any house)

Masterlist

AN: I’m extremely out of practice, but yeah, here’s a bit of Daemon ig.

Warnings: Including but not limited to: Daemon, Daemon, Daemon, metaphorical sh, allusions to metaphorical sui***e, janky dialogue at times, unreliable narrator, obsession, stalking, thoughts of violence, Daemon monologues for a fair bit of the fic, brief (very) allusions to what could be interpreted as "self-exploration", Daemon is manipulative, Daemon is his own warning (again), grammatical errors  (english is not my first language).

Happy reading!

-:-.-:-.-:-

Daemon was a stranger to peace,

as was you, he imagined. 

Until, 

him. 

He saw in you a twin flame. One that would challenge and be challenged, to comfort and in turn be comforted. 

Though he reveled in the bond, coveted it even, you had not yet realized what he was to you and you to him. But he heard your heart’s calling. Perhaps he always has, just as he always will. Now that he had found you there was not a man nor force nor god that could tear him from you. It is a belonging that transcends earthly flesh and desires, it is as vast and ineffable as the gods themselves, as chaotic as a dragon’s soul and as warming as a roaring hearth. It is a thing beyond any words known to him and anyone else, and even if he had the words he would not share them. To share would be to give way, to rip a piece of you and give to another. Not even a word would he part with, even the idea of you was one he kept and cherished.  

He wonders if you too felt the longing. If you ached as he did, hurt as he did. It oozed through the cracks of his facade like pus from an infected wound. It festered and blackened and split ever more with each second that he went ignored. Each time your eyes flickered past him was pain unimaginable. For this pain he too lacked the words. How does one even begin to describe the sheer size of the hole in his soul, the crippling agony that your absence caused him. The visceral reactions to others laying claim to that which is destined to be his. In all possibilities, in every life, on every plane of existence and even beyond that, it was always you, and across it all his pain and envy and longing echoed. It was enough to make even the gods cower under the weight of it all. 

He would not be ignored any longer. 

He would feel your eyes on him. 

Finding you is child’s play. Even without eyes he would know you. The sound of your breaths is as familiar to him as his own, perhaps even more so. Indeed, to say that he found you would be a lie, for you were never lost to him. Though his eyes may be torn from you, you are two souls torn apart, the calling of your own is deafening. It calls like a wounded animal. 

It’s all semantics in the end. Clever word plays and the copying of others declarations of devotion; all of which falls short of this. Whatever this is. All Daemon knows is that you are two parts of a whole, as crude and lackluster a description as that was. Perhaps even that is not true and the nature of this connection is beyond him. Maybe this body, this life is one where not even he can truly understand the bond and even were the gods to provide the words to put to paper, he could not. He is left stumbling in the dark with the memory of a light. He remembers the sun, he knows of it and can feel hints of its caress on his skin but he cannot bring forth the memories. 

He was born in the dark, 

but he would live in it no longer. 

Today, Daemon would step out of the cave and he would see the sun and the sun would see him. 

You linger among the flowers in the royal gardens even as the others have long since left. The floral scent clings to you. It becomes you. 

“I was not aware that the prince cared for flowers.” 

His heart skips several beats. Daemon is unsure how to proceed. What does he say? What should he not say? 

“It’s a recent development.” He says. 

You do not turn around to face him, even as manners dictate that you should. He’s glad for it. He finds himself overwhelmed, at a loss. Daemon came to find the sun but instead found himself drowning. Every sense set alight with you. It is a new sort of pain, this bonding. Different. Strange, even. It is water a touch too hot, like wine that stings as you swallow. 

The splitting of your souls did not leave a clean scar. The edges of you are jagged and sharp and cut ever so deeply when he presses against it. He cares not. He welcomes it. Craves it. Daemon would gladly press himself against you until there was naught of him left if only to feel the shadow of you.

“Indeed.” You say. You smile. He can feel it. A string in that odd bundle of nerves is tugged, and he feels it as though it is his own. “It is an interest well-timed. The garden is in full bloom.”

“How fortunate.” 

Daemon couldn’t give less fucks about the garden. But you did and so in a round-about-way, he did too. Viserys spared much expenses concerning the upkeep of their home, the garden but one of many that suffered because of it. You are deserving of more than this. He would have you surrounded by only the most fragrant and beautiful of flowers. This would not do. It is an insult to you. 

“I find myself curious as to the origins of this… newfound interest in botany. Forgive me, but I was under the impression that the prince was drawn to the battlefield.”

“There is more than one kind of battle. I found myself in need of a change. Variety is good for the soul, is it not?” 

“Quite.” You say. 

Your steps are light as you move around the garden. Daemon’s eyes follow you. He would not miss even the most minute of movement in you; a slight change in your posture, a passing glance to a maid scurrying past. 

“And you?”

You finally turn to him. Your eyes meet his, and all else disappears. If you answered his question, he could not say. He is not there to hear it. He is elsewhere. Wildfire courses through his veins and he feels both lighter and heavier all at once. It is confusing and frightening. It is raw pleasure and unimaginable pain. He is both hollow and full. Too full and yet not full enough. From beyond his body he looks at you and thoughts rush through his head at an alarming speed but still words evade him. Perhaps by design. His desire for you had no end, not even with himself would he share you. 

“Is everything alright?” Your voice cuts through him and he is back. 

He smiles. “It will be.” 

Daemon is awestruck. He is rendered speechless. To see you, for you to see him, is overwhelming. 

“That is good.” You say before excusing yourself to attend to your mother. She is with child again, you say. 

Daemon is tempted to deny your leaving, to demand you to stay and instead attend to your prince. But he does not. Even in the midst of this… growing bond, he will be patient. It pains him, but to cut you off from your kin would be cruel. Daemon will be many things to you, but never cruel. He would allow you this time, and then less time. He requires all of you, and he would have all of you. 

#

At first he thought he had fallen ill. 

But now he knows that to be without you is sickness. Your absence leaves him shivering, unable to think. It is not unlike a fever, he thinks. To burn and be burned in return is the way of dragons. He wonders if this is not how Vermithor feels when Silverwing is away. 

Your bond was not a thing of man, of Andals or the First men. It is a living being; unconditional love and devotion itself acting as a link. It is a concept beyond the mind’s of humans made palpable. He can feel it just as he can feel the ground under his feet or the fabric of his tunic on his skin. It cannot be denied, or ignored. It is not a thing created or formed, rather it has always been there. There are steps to it, Daemon reckons. And a line has been crossed. Surely the bond is screaming at you as it is roaring at him. It has waited for so long, as has he. 

And they will wait no longer. 

A day has passed, or so said the household staff. It might as well have been an age as far as he was concerned. Time passes remarkably slowly when you spend them hiding in walls and scouring down dank passages. You looked lovely as ever, like pure perfection sprawled out across silk sheets. 

It was tempting to breach the line he forced himself behind. To behold you not from behind the cover of darkness but by your side. It is ever so tempting to just step into the light and have you again. That should be him warming you in the night, undressing and dressing you again come morning. But it is not, because the gods are cruel. 

But Daemon, 

Daemon is crueler. 

He would steal you from under the Gods’ eyes, denying them the pleasure of his suffering. With you, he would have his justice. He would tear them from the sky, extinguish the flames and leave them shivering in the lands they themselves had sent his people into exile to. They would live a half life and he would leer at them from his throne. 

Thoughts of revenge fed his control. He didn’t step into your chamber as you slept, even if his bleeding heart tried to demand he do. Daemon would have you willing. He’s had far longer than you to understand, so he would be patient. 

For now. 

“You sent for me, my prince?” 

He shivers. 

“Yes.” Daemon says. “I thought we might walk in the garden. I would like to know more about botany. It will no doubt come in handy someday.”

It takes all he has to speak and for his voice to not falter under the waves of you. Daemon’s words are lacking, empty, choppy and almost incoherent. Charm evaded them. He feels unsteady on his feet and the idea of walking is as appealing as drowning. You seem unaffected by him, your voice is clear and strong, your posture straight and unwavering. Not even under the influence of ancient gods do you fall short of perfection. Mayhaps that is why he is so lacking, the split between souls was uneven, for such was the traumatic tear. He wonders what he has taken in return. He would, will, give it all back. When you are whole again. One. 

It is a thought that digs through him straight to his heart where it makes a home. Every drop of blood carries that single-minded desire of becoming one, of returning what was taken. All that he is, will be yours. Like that thought, he would burrow into your side, he would make a home in your heart and spend the rest of time keeping you alive. 

“My prince is deep in thought,” you say. An observation more than a question. “I’ve been told I have a talent for listening.”

He didn’t doubt it. But to tell would be to open the gates and let it all out. There would be no stopping it, and he was not finished. Daemon would not taint you with his darkness. No, he would keep his thoughts until such a time that he had made himself again. His life was constantly repairing and rebuilding himself when others would knock him down, and when he himself would tear down the very foundations of his being so that he could build himself anew. With each cycle, with each sacrifice, he lost a piece of him, one that was replaced by rot. This, this, he would save you from. Until he tears the infection out at the root he would not be a dragon whole.  

“I’m sure you are.” He says, though not unkindly. It’s half a battle already to try and tame his face. A grin would be fitting, expected even. But could he stop at a grin? Probably not. “But my troubles would bore you to death. I would much rather hear you speak.” 

You dip your head, a faint redness creeping up your neck. “As the prince wishes.”

“He does wish it.” Daemon says. 

“Where would you like to begin? Perhaps with the herbs, my prince? Most are commonly found across the whole continent and have been proven to help the suffering of others and oneself.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” 

“Yes.” 

You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask. Soon enough all of your secrets will be his, all those lovely thoughts shared. He would have it all.

“Then it seems I picked the right teacher.” 

You clear your throat. Are you nervous? He watches frozen as you turn. Will you deny him this simple pleasure? With ease, it seems, for you step away from him rather briskly. 

“This way, my prince.” You say. 

You guide him around the garden like a well-seasoned guide. You know the location of each and every one of the flower beds containing whatever herb you wanted to introduce him to. That you carry great knowledge becomes ever clearer. Words spill from you with great abandon, a constant stream of tricks and instructions on how to craft everything from potions and poultices to bandages and various concoctions. It is almost concerning, to Daemon, how much you know. You are not yet protected, not fully, and to know too much in a place such as King’s Landing was dangerous. You are not a man, and thus you cannot be made into a pawn. 

Daemon knows not how long he followed you around the garden for he was lost in your words. Time lost all meaning around you, it seemed. You spoke and he responded. He could hear himself answering, prodding, charming, but he knows not the words he spoke, nor the ones you sent back. He feels as though he has been split apart again, that part of him has ascended beyond petty mortal things. Words held no meaning for he would know your soul. Words are not honest. Not true. He is a Targaryen, and that word alone carries power, respect. You will not speak your mind, not freely. 

He does not blame you for this. 

There is the vessel, and there is Daemon. Your vessel is chained, restrained. Shackled. But you… you are unbound. Your core does not bend, does not sway in the gentle wind. It remains steady and strong; like a guiding light; a beacon. Daemon wonders if you too have split yourself apart. Perhaps, you too, are observing him in his entirety. There are no lies here, no secrets. There is only the truth for there are no words, no voices. It is and it isn’t. 

Your soul shines brightly, almost blindingly so. But it is fragmented. Cracked, even. He can see the edges of it. The parts bleeding and weeping, 

weeping for him. 

The Starks carry the legacy of Wargs; great Northerners with the ability to enter an animal’s mind. But they pale in comparison to the legacy of Dragons, and of their riders. For what is seeing the world through hogs and rats compared to soaring the skies as a dragon. To breathe and live as fire and fury made flesh. This, whatever this is, feels like that. An out-of-body experience. Daemon scours through the vast nothingness to find the only thing that matters. He is not himself here; or maybe he is? Maybe this is the truest Daemon he can be. Is this how dragons perceive the world? Beyond vessels and the meaning of words.  

“I apologize,” you say. “I have not had much practice with teaching.”

Daemon is back. He never left. Perhaps he is still there, gorging himself fat on your light while also conquering you here. 

“Nonsense,” he says, “I have learnt much.” 

Though not of botany. 

You look at him. He is once more struck by your beauty. Under your skin he can see the faint glow of your soul. It cannot quite be contained by this fleshy prison. It seeps out of your pores, gives your eyes that delicious sparkle. Perhaps it is not quite so clear of a split between the two. Maybe like all else, Daemon understands little. 

“I am glad. Though, I would recommend that, should you wish to know more, you seek the help of a Maester. They carry knowledge that I can only dream of possessing. You would learn much from them. Far more than I could ever teach you.” 

Daemon hums in agreement. Your glow dulls ever so slightly at this. A sharp sting of pain echoes through him at the sight. ‘Tis true, the Maesters did carry knowledge beyond your understanding, and his for that matter. But he cared not for that. Their knowledge is flawed; outdated. It is facts and political agendas and fantasy passed down through generations. But your knowledge? It is born, not from ancient tomes, but from experience. 

He doesn’t know how to fix the expression on your face; the slight downturn of your eyebrows, the dejection shown clearly. It is subtle, as all things are with you. You retreat a little, and the light follows. He wonders where you go. How can he follow? 

How does one fit all their emotions into such small words? All Daemon knows is anger and sadness and deceit. His family shows love through scathing remarks and lies to hide the raw truth. They hide, hide and hide, coveting their cores and their true selves. They are hidden but they long to be seen all the same. It is so very confusing. 

“Have you not considered that maybe that is why I chose you? I am a simple man in need of… simple knowledge.” 

You did not seem to know how to respond to that. He’s almost glad for it. You bow your head, but he knows not the intent behind it. Do you see past the words? Daemon is not a simple man, at least not in the way that matters. 

“I meant no insult.” He hurries to add. “It is as you say, I am drawn to the battlefield. Should I get injured there is no time for Maesters. Your simple knowledge may yet save your Prince’s life one day.” 

You gaze at him, guarded. “I hope that day never comes.”

#

It is under the cover of darkness that he plots. Daemon finds himself spending most of his nights in old Maegor’s hidden passages. The stench of it clogs his nose. It’s musty and dank, filled with spiderwebs and dead rats. As a child he stepped on many a servant’s old bones, but he has long since memorized their locations. 

From there, he watches over you. He knows the kind of people that are drawn to the Keep, to his family. Daemon is not the only one who lurks in the dark, but his purpose is far nobler, far more important. Far more than rats scuttle around the tunnels, but Daemon, Daemon would slaughter them all the same should they scurry too close. 

He rather enjoys these nights with you. Granted, he would enjoy it far more were he in your chambers with you. Faint traces of your fragrance linger on the cold stone. Daemon imagines that by the end of the night he, too, will smell of it. The fantasy is far warmer than the walls he’s pressed up against, but a mere flicker of a flame compared to the other fantasies he carried. Perhaps this night will inspire more of those delicious, toe-curling dreams to carry him through the days until he can be with you like this again. 

Surely, the way you move on the bed is to inspire him. 

Surely you feel his keen eyes watching you through the cracks. 

Surely, the light you keep by your bedside is so he can watch over you in the dark. 

Flowing satin sheets allow the contours of your body to be known to him. It clings to you in a way that has him swallowing; be it from desire or envy, it matters not. It is all the same in the end. 

Would your fingers wander, he wonders. Down, down, down, until even breaths stutter into a soft gasp. The pads of your fingers moving down your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Caressing, softly tracing soft skin. It is sweet torture to imagine these things, but when your fingers never take the journey his mind mapped out, he doesn’t find himself disappointed. 

Why would he be?

When you, ever so sweetly, surrender your pleasure to him. 

No, this is but a sweet prelude to what is to come, when Daemon can shed this skin and be yours. 

#

Daemon can no longer summon you under the excuse of learning about ‘botany’. His brother grows suspicious of it all and instead of having you waiting for him in the gardens, it is desecrated by a gray rat. 

Ever oblivious, his brother, the king. 

But he cannot say the real reason why he lingers there, why he no longer scours the streets of King’s Landing from dusk to dawn. This, you, any of you, he will not share. This place, this garden, is far more than that. Your… spirit lingers among the plants. When the sun shines just right he can even see it. You. Tending to them with a steady hand. You are faint, and you shiver in tune to his breaths, but you are there all the same. 

Perhaps you are indeed divided. Are you aware of it? Can you feel the disconnect? The separation of vessel and soul? It remains a comfort all the same to have you there. It is warming in a way wholly unfamiliar to Daemon that someone would go to such lengths (any lengths) for him. To tear yourself away from your vessel to watch over him, it is an honor he did not foresee. Perhaps you are more similar than he first thought. You stand guard over him just as he does you at night. You shroud yourself in the cover of the unleashed. 

Daemon resigns himself to find you instead. 

It is hardly difficult to. You are connected, after all. You are known to him. Always. 

He finds you hidden away under one of the alcoves, but you are not alone. 

“Prince Daemon!” The intruder exclaims, dropping down into a curtsy. 

Daemon nods. 

“My prince,” you greet him from your seat. 

He speaks your name and it feels heavenly on his tongue. 

A beat of silence. 

“Would you like some tea?” You ask. “I gathered the herbs myself.”

You make a sweeping gesture to the table. The three cups on the table makes him pause. Steam rises from two of them but the third is untouched, but placed with the same care as the other two. Your… visitor is seated on the opposite side of the small table, but the third cup, his cup, sits next to you.  Along with the tea the table is set with humble servings of desserts. 

Accepting the invitation would be breaching even further court etiquettes. Your honor could come into question should anyone wander upon the group, even should the unwanted visitor remain. Him being there was already bordering on inappropriate, but he was a prince, and commenting on his actions would be far more inappropriate than whatever mischief Daemon had gotten himself into.

Such a shame, though, that Daemon has never cared much for etiquette, and so he promptly sits down in his seat with a barely audible huff.  The corner of your mouth twitches as though you’re trying to hide a smile. 

You pour a healthy serving of fragrant tea in his cup. It’s dark and murky, like the puddles he jumped in by the stables as a child. The smell is distinctly floral, but not like any flower he knows. It smells nice, and as you add a spoon of honey to it, it almost looks appealing. He wonders then how you knew of his love for honey. The healthy dollop you scooped up for him was anything but the norm, as his mother kept telling him during their afternoon teas. But then again, was it so odd that you knew? Many things about you were known to him before he had ever set his eyes on you. Perhaps you had even expected him today. 

“Thank you.” He says, but he doesn’t move to grab the cup. You’re still stirring. 

Your visitor fidgets in their seat. 

“I… we apologize for the meager selection, my prince,” they say, “had I.. we known that you would join us, we would have asked the kitchens for things more… suitable.” 

“This third cup, who was it for?” He asks. 

“My sister. She usually joins us but she’s fallen ill.” They say, though he asked you. 

Daemon glances at you. The sun is high in the sky and there’s a glint in your eye. He knows, then. You clever thing, he thinks. 

“I am honored to take her place.”  

For the first time since he arrived, you look away from his eyes. He cares not for the feeling that washes over him. The stark coldness that crawls up his fingers. Surely it will reach his heart and turn him to stone. Luckily the tea provides some warming comfort. It is a piece of you, a product of your labor; a sliver of ground up love for him to have. It is bitter, but the honey smooths it and so he has another mouthful of it. 

“Is it to your liking?” You ask. “I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste.”

Daemon meets your eyes once more. 

“Quite.” He says with a smirk that’s almost hidden behind the rim of the cup. 

A faint blush spreads across your cheekbones, and you look away from him. He wonders if you know that he wasn’t talking about the tea. 

#

Before long he’s back in the corridors of the Keep. Not long after meeting you he was called away to attend to his… duties. He had no choice but to leave then, even if his entire being screamed to stay. He could not yet afford such carelessness. Not with you. Not with all the snakes still poised around him to strike. 

The King needed something done, and Daemon was the one who needed to see it done. But Daemon would have it no other way, for who else could his brother trust in this world. Otto Hightower? Surely not. 

But it came with a price. The moon was high in the sky by the time he finally lumbered up to the hidden door leading into your chambers. Your candles were unlit and there was a distinctively you-shaped form under the covers. Tonight there would be no teasing glimpses of smooth skin, or shy, tentative brushes of curious fingers against yourself. No choked down gasps of surprise when those fingers inevitably traced against something that made you feel oh-so-good. 

He could pluck you from your bed, if he wished. And he does wish it. He could take you now and before dawn you could be married in the ways of his people. No one would even know. 

That night, Daemon breaches the boundaries of your room. His mind is racing with ideas, with different plots and scenes and thousands of endings and consequences to every single scenario he had playing before his eyes. Though they all ended the same way – united. 

Several nights he’s stood posted outside your door, suffering in silence among the dust and whispers of whores and drunkards. But here? There is none of the harshness of the world. Your room is soft, in a way he could not explain. The air is not heavy, nor tainted with deceit. It is honest, pure. And it smells like you; alive and thriving. 

Apart from the elaborate murals, the decor is rather minimalistic in style. Everything serves a purpose. It is so very unlike his own chambers. Daemon has plenty of fine possessions which he displays on shelves spanning one end of the walls to the other. Great pieces of history polished until they shone like the sun itself. Much of it is the remains of his family’s life before Westeros. But to call his chambers simplistic would be a lie. Indeed to say that the only grandeur is his impressive collection of history would be a far greater lie. Daemon enjoys both simple and lavish pleasures, and he is not one to deny himself of earthly pleasures. He’s spent many a golden dragon on hand-crafted furniture and woven tapestries, but they are all picked with the greatest of care and his chambers are a point of pride for him. 

Alas, Daemon struggles to find you in the room. The smells and the feelings of it are all you, undeniably so considering how he shivers as he inhales, but the rest? Uncharacteristically bland. You are of life in a way that is not reflected in your chambers. There is none of you to be found; no memories to steal from a hidden chest of childhood toys, or clothing slung over the modesty covering in the back of the room. No books placed on the stool next to the bed, no flowers or herbs growing on the windowsill, not even a scratch or a smudge on the floor from a step just a tad bit too harsh. 

If he could not see you sleeping in the bed, he would think this to be an empty chamber. 

But he does see you, and so he knows it is yours. Perhaps you have hidden it away, 

for him. 

You know, just as he, that all that is you belongs to him. You have hidden yourself from the greedy eyes of your maids so that all you have, you can give. Just as he will give all that is he and all that he has ever been or ever will be. 

Your bond demands as much. 

Daemon looks over at you and he knows that he will no longer be satisfied by watching you from the hidden tunnels. 

#

He keeps one of your handkerchiefs in one of his pockets. It smells like you. 

He hopes it never fades, for surely the torture of being away from you will be unbearable then. This small reminder of you, this anchor to guide him in this sea of longing and deep pain, is all that keeps him from being swept away by the darkness within him. How can he bear being away from you if there is not even the slightest guarantee that he can return to you? 

It is only as he is crossing the threshold into his own chambers that he realizes that, though you have gifted this to him, he has left nothing in return. This gift … this lifeline … was it a silent request for something of his? A need that you did not yet have the words for beyond the near-on stomach curling want? It is almost enough to make him return to your side. 

Almost. 

He would not disturb your rest, not when he knows the struggles of sleep. For a brief moment he allows himself a pause in chiding himself for neglecting you, to admire your strength. With each day he finds an ever increasing difficulty in truly resting without you. The act of falling asleep is unfathomable. It is as far removed a concept as can be. Those moments in the hidden passages are the only moments when his shoulders can finally relax, when his thoughts do not race to the point of blinding pain. How much of your suffering has he been ignorant to? Has his responsibilities led to him missing this, this shared struggle? 

Are you yourself privy to this? Or have those grey rats convinced even you that your suffering is because of some arbitrary godly laws that you have broken by existing, by simply being in this bonded state that you are. They can sense this, Daemon is sure of it. They know what you are and they hate it. 

A piece of his resolve is broken then. A man can only take so much, and he finds himself, with each passing hour, less inclined to restrain himself. 

Yes, things would have to change, or Daemon fears that you both shall be driven mad. It is with that thought in his mind that Daemon returns to his chamber with a near on maddenly drive to set his plans in motion so that you can finally be whole again. 

[desigal-26]

Omg, I loved "red wings", it was better than I expected! and that part "He enjoyed it—the power he had gained over her in this moment. The feeling of her completely at his mercy. The authority that had him stiffening in his breeches, moving his hips against the swell of her ass and had her choking on to her breath. The sounds that she made were music to his ears, and gods, did he want to take her right then and there. But he won’t. Not when he can have her to himself once she is lawfully his in only a few matter of days—wrapped in white silk and lace, dolled up for him to take her, bed her and fill her up with his child." OMG it really made me feel things 😏😏😏 Thank you so much for fulfilling my request. That said, can I get part 3, with their wedding and wedding night? And maybe Daemon will use her dagger for something? (In a consensual way, that the reader also likes — and only if you write nsfw, otherwise, just ignore it). Please?

Glad to know I served well. This is my first smut, please be gentle in criticising.

Also Request are Open and Well-Appreciated.

“Husband” “Wife”

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

Read Part One here and Part Two here

He was fire and she was the sun—both bound in eternity to burn together

The day the realm waited for had arrived at last—the Rogue Prince being bound into another marriage by his brother. Only this time she was his wife; his equal.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ Content, Hair pulling, Dagger play, Implied Breeding Kink, Implied Masturbation (once), Fingering, PiV intercourse, Loss of Virginity, Dirty Talking. Creampie (I guess?). My writing (because i know this deserves a warning this time). Also, do let me know if i should just stop writing smut 😅 and also if i forgot to add something in the warnings

Word Count: 3.2k

The wedding was everything every nobleman and noblewoman had anticipated it to be. Targaryen royalty met the Dornish luxury in a dangerous yet elegant dance of grandeur and sensuality. The Rogue Prince, for once, hadn’t been drunk beyond senses—but rather, he stood straight and proud at the end of the aisle, watching the dangerously dressed Princess of Martell walking beside her brother Prince Qoren.

She had forgone the traditional skills for a more Dornish approach. The deep velvety dress had dangerously revealed the most of the skin of her back while the neckline dipped low enough to seduce any man—and woman too. The jewellery added to adorn her even more had been the end of had she not smirked at her now-husband when her brother placed her smaller but no less hand in Daemon’s larger ones.

The air around them had pulsed with a sensual desire that had the High Sept blushing and stumbling over his words while he proclaimed them man and wife. The stolen glance and the lingering touches and the whispered words hidden behind smirks weren’t lost in the eyes of the court and they knew that this was only the beginning.

And true to their thoughts, it had only just begun.

The first kiss wasn’t soft or brief. Daemon’s hands had pulled her closer by her waist, lips clashing against hers with tongue and teeth and bites that weren’t made for the eyes of anyone but them. Her fingers had slithered up from his chest and had tugged on his hair, once—and the groan that had followed was anything but innocent. No. It was the call of a dragon waking, hungry and dying to sink his teeth into fresh meat.

The reception was spent with polite formalities of thanking the nobles for their attendance on their special day and the gifts that they brought with them—all just a cheap attempt at trying to impress the newlyweds and possibly—hopefully—step into the good graces of either the Targaryens or the Martells or perhaps, if the gods and luck provided it, both.

But even then, the questionable proximity of the two raised a few eyebrows. Hand around her waist, possessive and territorial. The kiss that lasted longer than appropriate or the bite of her lip that followed it until the Prince let go with a smirk. The first dance spent whispering into each other’s ears—and by the smirks and winks and flusters, the court could only say that they weren’t even meant to be spoken in front of them, especially when they could be heard by anyone.

And so, when the King Viserys had announced that the feast was over and the bedding was to start, only a brave—and heinously drunk—men had moved to approach the Dornish Princess who sat with a smug smirk and a single glance at her husband, whose hand had collided with the top of the table in front of him.

“Touch her and you shall pay the price with your cock,” the warning had brought everyone to a standstill while a few drunk and old men tried to explain to Daemon that it was tradition. And not following it is not an option, especially with how he hadn’t consummated his last marriage despite a thousand efforts of the council and every noble born involved except for Daemon himself and Rhea, who continued to spend her life undisturbed in Runestone.

But the Rogue Prince had only smirked and with a flair of his usual swagger and mischievous charm, replied, “you will hear the evidence enough to confirm what you must.” Before anyone could babble out an excuse to it, he had swept his wife off her feet and had carried her bridal style to his chambers with a spark of danger glinting under the candles that illuminated the Maegor’s Keep.

That is how they were here now, sipping on wine transported from Lannisport—a “graciously gift by Lord Jason Lannister for the newlyweds who had yet to share a word since the small commotion in the throne room.

The Princess of Dorne—now, the realm itself—lounged on a chaise, hair out of the thousand pins, flowing down her back in careless waterfall while she gently swirled the wine in the goblet. She was still in her wedding dress that had elicited enough raised eyebrows and gasps to be deemed the most scandalous dress to be worn by a bride. But could anyone blame her? Especially when she had done it only to torture her beloved husband a bit more. After all, the longer the wait, the sweeter the fruit.

Daemon, on the other hand, had already discarded his longsword and dagger on a table and had escaped the clutches of his wedding tunic and lounged in only his breeches and the loose undershirt that revealed a sliver of his toned chest. Perched upon the edge of the table, his sharp gaze followed every dip and curve he could find in his wife, the goblet of wine forgotten on the table that separated the chaise from the armchairs in front of it.

“Husband,” she cooed softly before taking a slow sip and letting a drop of the red substance slip past through the corner of her plump lip, trailing down her chin to chase the bare skin of her neck before disappearing into the tempting valley between her breasts.

“Staring isn’t well-appreciated,” she commented with a mischievous smile, throwing one leg upon another and proceeding to slowly pull back the hem of her dress with her foot, baring her shapely calves for the Lord of Flea Bottom to feast upon from a distance—but not for long.

“And don’t you know, wife,” his voice was nothing but a growl, a warning dipped in danger and desire—a deadly yet attractive combination. “Teasing is a heinous crime.”

The sound of his strides were muffled by the soft carpet that covered every inch of the floor. Good for her knees, he thought while his fingers reached out to caress her hairline before dipping into her long tresses. The feel of her hair wrapped around his long fingers gave him a thrill that had his breath deepening—the casual dominance he hid well underneath brimming up to the surface.

His hand fisted the hair on the bottom of her neck, tugging at it to make her gasp before he pulled her up to stand in front of him, the goblet of wine in her hand trapped in between them—the only object to separate them apart from their own clothes. Her other hand clutched his undershirt, the white cotton soft underneath her fingertips unlike the ruthless grip on her hair.

“You will not disobey me, wife. Ever.” He growled, a rule set in stone, but if Daemon thought that she would obey without fighting back—than perhaps, Daemon has yet to know who exactly he married.

The Dornish princess only smiles, tilting her head while the goblet of wine moved up to trail up to his bare neck, before she tipped it. The wine spilled across the expanse of his neck before trailing down his chest and being soaked up by his undershirt, making the princess smirk while she carelessly dropped the goblet to the side.

The thud of it colliding with the floor coincided with her leaning up to lick a strip up his neck, collecting the drops of wine and making his groan while his hips grounded next to hers. The grip on her hair tightened and Daemon tugged her back, his own face disappearing into the croak of her neck, lips leaving hungry kisses and teasing bites across the sun-kissed skin.

She clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders while she tilted her head back to allow him more access and space, moaning against him in low breathy gasps, his name a chant of prayers upon her lips that had began to swell.

“Don’t you know, wife,” he whispered against her neck, placing a kiss on her pulse point while his fingers trailed up her sides in featherlike touches, teasing the seams where the dress began to bare her skin for a tantalising view for everyone’s eyes.

“It is not holy to have a weapon on yourself for your wedding.”

His fingers were quick, slipping out the expertly concealed blade from underneath the fabric. The familiar hilt of the dagger felt oddly like home in his hands, the metal blade shining underneath the golden glow of the candle, the sharp tip pressed against the base of her neck in an almost threatening yet erotic manner.

She breathed a chuckle, her hands moving down to slowly undo the ties holding the neckline of his undershirt together, her eyes—dark with desire and dilated—watching the deft work of her fingers before looking up at him through her lashes.

“And what is holy about our matrimony, husband?”

He growled, turning her around with her shoulders before the hand that held her dagger snaked around her front, the blade dangerously close to her jawline—much alike the way it had been that sinful night when both of them had returned with unholy thoughts and retorted to the use of their imagination to bring themselves to the throes of pleasure their bodies craved.

Daemon’s other hand made quick works on the ties that held her dress together, tearing through the thin silk fabric with the hunger of a predator toying with his prey—but she was no prey. She was his wife; his equal.

“Eager, Daemon?” She huffed a laughter, rolling her hips against him, the swells of her ass brushing against the centre of his breeches, making him grab hold of her supple hips while the dagger laid flat over her neck. Her breath hitched, eyes widening before closing while shallow breaths transcended into pants as the blade she had yielded at least a hundred times started to travel down her bare skin, making its way to the curve of her bosom.

“Breathless, Princess?” He whispered in her ear before his teeth sunk into the tip of it, making her gasp and her bosom graze the tip of the dagger, creating a small cut in the dress and baring the skin that his hungry gaze hadn’t seen until now.

His lips began to trace the path from behind her ears down to the tempting curve of her collarbone, kissing, licking and biting hungrily while the dagger made its way down and down until it rested against her mid-thigh, the fingers fisting the fabric of her dress and slowly lifting it up to bare more and more of her shapely legs.

His other hand maintained its grip on her hip, but his own now thrusted against the plush of her ass, growling under his breath while his breeches tightened with the need to take her now and own her forever—to claim and to breed her as he saw fit.

“Mine,” he groaned against her, his hand moving up to brush against her covered tits, groping the supple flesh before his thumb grazed across her hardened peak, making her shudder against him—partially melting into him.

“Then take me.” What was supposed to be a challenge came out as a plea, and Daemon would not deny her when she asked so prettily, so breathless for him and him alone.

The reply didn’t come in form of words or sounds, but in actions.

The dagger clattered to the ground while he rushed to turn her around, lips crashing down against hers in a fierce battle for dominance while hands greedily tried to bare every inch of each other’s skin to their touch and gaze and feel, while their legs took them backwards, in the direction of the four canopy bed that awaited them since the moment the two stepped into the room.

His undershirt was discarded, so was her dress, but his breeches—as tight and as restricting as they had become—stayed on while Daemon pushed her back on the bed, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of her bared body and committing the scene to his memory. But then again, he didn’t need his memory anymore when he had her to remind him and serve him the same—and more delicious—scene every night—at his will and hers.

“Look at you, dōna hāedar,” (sweet girl) he cooed, his fingers caressing her calves before trailing up to her knees and moving up towards her core in a slow, almost torturing pace, drawing a whine from the princess whose eyes were almost closed as her body bucked against her husband in desperation.

Wordlessly, Daemon settled between her legs, his eyes trailing over every inch of her burning skin—from her thrown back head to her parted lips, down to her inviting lips and curve of her supple tits to the pebbled nipples that stood out aching for his touch, down to her hips before they finally landed on his final destination—her glistening core.

Two fingers, deft and long and lithe, moved across her inner thigh before they grazed her cunt, collecting her juices before he slipped his fingers into his mouth—head tipping back and a moan slipping past at his tongue lapped on every inch of her taste.

“So wet, all for me, riñitsos?” (Little girl) he asked, smirking down at her withering figure when his fingers dived back in, teasing her opening before slipping in and getting a feel of her plush and tight walls that succumbed his digits like a hungry monster. His wife could only mewl, eyes closed and lips parted open while unfiltered moans and whines and pleas slipped past.

“Daemon, please,” she whimpered, her fingers moving down to thread into his silver hair and pulling him up to crash her lips to his hungrily, as well as desperately. The Rogue Prince, not at all deterred from his actions, continues to drive his fingers in and out of her wet quim while assaulting her lips and moving down to her neck—littering it with love bites and bruises that will last long enough for the court to spin the stories of the hungry prince who devoured his desert snake.

Satisfied with his ministrations to get her wet enough to soften the burn of him, his fingers emerged from her folds, reaching down to untie his breeches and get out of it before they wrapped around his length, lubricating it with her own wetness.

His other hand had moved down to beneath her chin, keeping her gaze locked on his while he placed the mushroom tip of his length on her opening, whispering to her in a quiet voice, “this will hurt only for a while.”

She only nodded, her fingers lacing into his hair while her eyes—softer than he has ever seen them—looked into his with an unwavering trust. A small smile and a squeeze at the base of his neck had him moving, pushing inside her.

She gasped—in pain and in surprise—her eyes closing while her head tipped back as she tried to relax her body as much as she could despite the foreign invasion. But it was Daemon who was truly holding on to his last threads of sanity. Every inch in his body screamed at him to thrust into her completely, to fuck her and to claim her and to make her his in all senses—to make home inside her tight cunt that clutched his length in a warm and intoxicating embrace.

His fingers drew soothing circles on her hips, eyes closed while his forehead grazed her shoulder as he slowly began to push in his entire length, sitting still once completely inside—waiting for her to relax and to tell him to move, to give him her consent to go further—all while he fought against his every instinct.

Kisses were placed on the side of her neck, soft whispered praises meeting the gentle touch of a warrior who knew not to be gentle but still, somehow was being for the sake of his wife—his only equal in the world.

Moments passed before she gently, rolled her hips, making him groan before she whispered breathlessly, “move, please.” He nodded against her, slowly pulling away until only his top remained inside her before driving in slowly, repeating the process until the resistance of her wall broke and it made space for him to pick up pace.

What started out as small moans and gasps transcended into pleas for more and screams while she clung to him, nails scratching his back while he drove into her like a man possessed.

“Gods, riñitsos, iksā sīr sȳz naejot nyke, sīr ȳrda!” (Little girl, you’re so good to me, so tight) he praised through gritted teeth while he thrusted into her, drawing out a choked moan from the Dornish Princess who didn’t understand anything of what he said, but her body reacted to it nonetheless by clinching against him.

“Dae-daemon,” she whined, her eyes rolling back into her skull as the pleasure started to reach at its peak, the knot in her stomach beginning to tighten and threatening to snap at any given moment. Daemon realised it without any words needing to be said, in the way that her body was slowly tensing up and the way her walls had tightened its grip on his length.

His tip grazed a single spongy spot inside her that had her unravelling with a loud moan of his name, but he didn’t stop just yet. Instead, Daemon was chasing his own high desperately while his tip continued to abuse that one spot inside her that had her seeing stars.

He came soon enough after her body reached its second orgasm, groaning her name and filling her up to the brim until he pulled out and their mixed cum leaked out of her tight cunt, offering him a tantalising view that would have had him hardening again had he not been preoccupied by the view of his breathless and flustered wife panting while clutching to him like her life depended on him.

His hand snaked under her waist, and he flipped them both, his back landing against the mattress while she landed on his chest with a surprised gasp, a hand hitting his shoulder that had him laughing deviously down at her.

“Look at you, all spent for me, wife.” He commented, earning an eye roll while her skin flushed even more.

The candles were almost out, flickering with the last of their strength and the room had dimmed—the curtains drawn hid the moonlight that would have otherwise illuminated the most of the room in its silvery glow. He looked down at her features that had softened after her peaks, the shadows contouring the best of them in a dramatic fashion. Her usual sharpness bleeding away to leave a vulnerable sparkle in her eyes, dark hair tousled while her golden skin glowed post-coital, plump lips parted and swollen while her neck and shoulders were littered in the many evidences of their passionate night—a map of desire and passion across the beautiful sun-kissed canvas of her skin—his mark.

“Sleep now, wife.”

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 15 - The Dragon's Bride

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, kidnapping, holding captive, wedding night, rape, non-con/dub-con, sexual abuse, p in v, unprotected sex, virginity loss, abusive behaviour, dirty talk, breeding kink, possessiveness

Masterlist

The great bedchamber of Dragonstone was lit by the flickering glow of a hundred candles. The chamber was warm with firelight, but Maeliora felt none of it. She stood near the hearth, unmoving, still wearing her wedding dress. 

She didn't turn. She didn't have to. She could feel him — Daemon Targaryen — her uncle, her husband, her captor.

He said nothing at first. The silence was worse than words. Then — his voice, soft and deep as smoke.

"You didn't touch your supper."

"I wasn't hungry."

He hummed. 

A hand slid around her waist, not too gently. His body pressed against her back, warm and solid. His voice brushed her ear like the whisper of a knife.

"You are the most exquisite thing the gods ever made, Niece... and now you are all mine."

She clenched her jaw. "This is wrong. You can't—"

"Oh, but I can, sweetling. We are wed, and the realm expects a union to be sealed." His hand drifted lower, over her belly, then her hips. "And what kind of husband would I be if I denied my wife the privilege?"

She shoved at his hand, turning to face him. "Have you no shame, Uncle? Stealing another man's wife and claiming her forcefully!"

"Stealing?" He scoffed, "You were never his to keep — only mine to reclaim."

She met his gaze, fire and storm clashing in her eyes.

"Come now, wife," he murmured, voice a caress wrapped in iron. "Don't make me drag you to our marriage bed. It's unbecoming of a bride."

He stepped forward. She instinctively stepped back. Her breath quickened.

"Will you come willingly, sweet niece?" he asked, silk and steel woven through every word. "Or must I take... other measures?"

"I am not—"

"Lay down on that bed, Maeliora." His voice dropped, low, commanding, edged in heat. "Or I'll tie you to the bed myself."

Her spine stiffened. "You wouldn't—"

He moved so fast she gasped — grabbing her wrist, pinning it above her head. His other hand tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Oh, sweet girl," he murmured, lips brushing her ear, "would you like a demonstration?"

She fought him — teeth bared, heart pounding — but he only laughed, low and dark, the sound curling around her like smoke.

"Or perhaps you need another lesson," he said, his voice molten. "I imagine you're still sore where I last corrected you." A knowing smirk danced across his lips.

Her knees buckled slightly — not only from fear, but also from the heat that bloomed low and traitorous at his words. Her bottom was indeed still sore. She hated how her body remembered the torment he inflicted upon her flesh.

"Uncle... no. Please..." she whispered, voice cracking with dread and memory. "Not that... not again..."

Daemon's smile turned savage. He leaned in, brushing his lips along the shell of her ear.

"That's better," he murmured. "That's my good girl."

He drove her back against the bedpost, his mouth crashing into hers — fierce, scorching, unforgiving. She fought him at first, hands pushing, nails scraping, but his fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her closer, devouring her resistance until she couldn't breathe for the kiss.

She kissed him like a curse — full of fury, fire, and all the things she could never say.

Next her gown was torn. Not carefully unlaced — ripped, silk giving way like parchment under flame. Her bare skin met the cool air, and she gasped.

Daemon pulled back just enough to shrug out of his dark tunic, stripping it off with a sharp tug. His hands made quick work of the rest — his boots, his breeches — until he stood before her, gloriously bare and unashamed.

And gods, she saw him.

For the first time, truly saw him.

He was all lean muscle and scars, a man forged by blood and fire — and between his hips, his length stood heavy and thick, flushed dark with need. Fierce, intimidating, beautiful. It made her breath catch in her throat.

Seven years ago, when he'd claimed her maidenhead, he had hidden himself — slipping between her thighs in the dark, shielding her from the sight, perhaps to spare her fear.

But not tonight.

Tonight he let her see the full truth of him.

Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping before she could stop it. Fear and heat tangled within her like fighting serpents.

Daemon saw her reaction and smirked wickedly, stepping closer.

"Like what you see, sweet girl?" he purred, taking another slow step toward her, deliberate in his prowl. "No need to be shy now. You've had me before… and you'll have me again. Every last bit of me."

Before she could form words, he caught her wrists and crowded her backward, forcing her to stumble until the backs of her knees hit the bed.

"You dreamed of this once, didn't you?" he whispered against her throat, kissing and sucking the the soft skin. "You wanted to be my bride."

A flash — She was thirteen again, foolish and full of dreams. How bitter they tasted now.

Daemon had taken her flying on Caraxes that morning — a wild, glorious ride through the clouds. Now they stood in the courtyard of Dragonstone, wind whipping her silver hair as she gazed up at the looming towers.

"It's beautiful," She turned to him, eyes bright. "Can I stay here? With you? I don't want to go back. I want to live here. With you and Caraxes."

Daemon raised a brow, amused. "And what would your father say to that, sweetling? His daughter running off to haunt old volcanic castle with her rouge uncle?"

She hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. Then, all at once—too fast, like she had to get the words out before she lost her nerve.

"Then I'll marry you."

Silence. The sea thundered against the cliffs.

Her face went scarlet, eyes widening as though she couldn't believe what she'd just said. She immediately looked down, flustered and mortified. 

"I mean—I just... if I were your wife, no one could send me away."

Then Daemon chuckled — warm, amused, infuriating. "Wife, is it?" he said, voice rich with teasing. "Planning to tame me, little dragon?"

Her eyes shot up to his, mortified. "Uncle!"

He only laughed harder, "You'd make a bold little bride, sweetling" he said, stepping closer, eyes glinting. "But you'd be mine to tame, wouldn't you?"

The memory vanished like mist as Daemon shoved her down onto the bed now — real, heavy, overwhelming.

She tried to push him away, to cover her body — but he caught her wrists again and pinned them above her head, forcing her to feel his weight, his want, the throbbing bulge pressed against her.

He bit her neck, not gently. Bruising, branding, as if to stake his claim.

"Say it," he murmured, kissing where he'd marked her. "Say you're mine."

"No." She shook her head stubbornly.

He grinned. "I like a good challenge, wife."

His hands roamed, unforgiving and skilled, lips stole pecks from her chest. Every place he touched, he owned. She burned beneath him, torn between fury and need. But she didn't pull away when his hands began to strip her of her underwear. She didn't stop the moan that built in her throat when he kissed his way down to her center. His skilled tongue dancing on her flower, drawing soft circles, making her writhe in sweet pleasure.  

"No... I hate you, Uncle. I don't want this." she breathed, even as her hips lifted to meet his mouth, heat pooling treacherously deep inside her.

"Yes, I can tell how much you don't want this, sweetling," he mocked gently, brushing his thumb across her pearl, making her whimper. "Your precious flower gushing into my mouth definitely proves your point." He smirked making her turn her face in embarrassment and defeat, shame curling in her chest.

"Gods sweetling... You taste so sweet. Even better than I remember." 

His mouth on her now — slow, sinful — dragged her back to that night, seven years ago... when he'd come to her chambers drunk and needy to claim her for himself, to seal her fate and to ruin her for anyone else. 

He laid her down gently on her bed, pushing aside the silks and blankets with barely a glance. His armor was gone, his eyes dark, mouth parted like he'd been starving.

"I won't let him have you," he whispered, voice thick with possessiveness. "You are mine, Maeliora."

He kissed her again — lower this time. Down her neck, across her collarbone. Fingers dragging over her thighs, slow and unhurried, coaxing her legs apart as if he had all the time in the world.

"Uncle, please don't do this. You are drunk, Uncle. You don't know what you are doing, please..."

But he didn't hear her. He had only one thing in mind, he came here with one goal to achieve — to have her, to claim her, to make her his, to bind her to him completely so no one can ever question it... So her pleas fell on deaf ears.

She gasped when his mouth reached her.

Soft lips, warm tongue — reverent, skilled, patient. He worshipped her with every flick, every moan he pulled from her throat, savoring each sound like it was the rarest wine. She writhed under his hands, breath hitching, toes curling.

"Such sweet little cries," he murmured against her, voice husky. "And I'll be the one hearing them every single night." He continued his assault on her body. 

Her hands gripped the sheets. Her body trembled. She was undone by him.

And when he finally rose over her, mouth glistening, eyes half-lidded with desire, "Time to claim your maidenhood now, sweetling," he said.

Her body trembled, caught between the vivid memory and the harsh reality of the present. She gasped, breath ragged, as the remnants of that dark, intoxicating night clung to her like a ghost.

But this time he didn't make her peak and let her see the stars, as if denying her heaven was the price for her defiance, a wordless punishment for the fire in her fight. Instead he entered her, with a force that left her shuddering and breathless — a staking of territory. The pain was sharp, reminding her that in the seven years since, no one had touched her like this. She bit her lip to keep the tears from falling. But the moan that escaped her was soft and unwilling. He drank in the sound, his satisfaction evident in the way he claimed her lips in a kiss.

"You're mine now," he rasped against her skin, kissing the corner of her trembling mouth. "Every inch of you. I'll make sure the whole realm knows who you belong to — when I fill you with my child again."

She stiffened at his words, her breath hitching in her chest. Her heart raced, the weight of his claim pressing on her, even as her body betrayed her. She wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, a shudder ran through her as the reality of his words sank in. She turned her face away, eyes squeezing shut as the anger and shame tangled within her, but still, part of her burned at the thought — the idea of him marking her in such a way.

"You're wrong," she whispered hoarsely, "You'll never own me," her voice trembling with a mix of fury and vulnerability. But even as the words left her lips, she couldn't escape the stirring heat that flickered deep inside, a response she loathed and yet couldn't fully suppress.

"You can deny it all you want, sweet wife," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "But you belong to me now." 

He moved inside her with deliberate power — not just possession, but proclamation. 

"Perhaps next time, I'll invite that pathetic ex-husband of yours into our chambers." He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone. "Let him see what a real man looks like. Let him watch while I take what's mine. Let him watch me take what he never could."

Melly's body tensed at his words, the sharpness of his mockery digging into her like a blade. Her mind recoiled at the thought of her ex-husband witnessing such an intimate violation. Her chest tightened, a mix of anger and shame bubbling up within her, but she couldn't help the heat that flushed through her veins at his dominance. Her lips parted in a mix of protest and something deeper, something she hated herself for feeling.

"Go on, my fierce dragon, roar for me. You know you want to. Let me hear you. Let the whole Dragonestone hear who is claiming you tonight."

Her resolve shattered as his touch consumed her. A soft moan slipped from her lips, her body trembling beneath him. She arched into him, unable to fight the rising tide of desire. "Daemon...no, ah! I, ...hate you, mm... I hate you!" she gasped, surrendering completely to the overwhelming heat.

"That's it," he whispered, dragging his fingers through her hair like she was something precious and breakable. "Let them all hear you. Let them know you burn for me, even when you hate me."

"I'm not yours," she said, though the sounds she made betraying her as much as the way her body did. She couldn't deny it any longer. The fire inside her burned too hot, too fierce to fight.

"You'll learn," he whispered against her lips. "You'll learn to love the chains you wear."

And gods help her — as he moved inside her, dragging moans from her mouth that tasted of shame — part of her already had.

"You dreamed of this," he whispered again. "To be mine. To belong to me completely. To be taken and claimed by your Rouge Uncle."

She didn't answer. Couldn't. She wanted to scream. She wanted to bite him. She wanted to feel everything and nothing all at once.

He kissed her again — not gentle, not cruel. Claiming.

His thrusts slammed into her. She gasped—rage and pleasure coiled into one vicious, burning knot. She writhed beneath him, eyes locked on his, cursing him with every breath.

He worshipped her fury.

"You still burn for me," his mouth hot at her throat. "You think I don't feel it? You think I don't see it?"

"I hate you," she gasped.

"Good," he said. "It'll make loving me all the sweeter."

He moved in her like a conqueror, like a god staking dominion over land and flesh. Her body betrayed her, heat pooling, rising, clenching around him as he swallowed her cries.

"You'll give me another child," he said. "And this time, the world will see whose it is. You'll carry my heir beneath your ribs, swollen and glowing with my seed."

"Daemon—"

He kissed her hard. Cut her off with a groan against her mouth.

"Say my name again," he growled. "Say it when you peak, sweet girl."

Maeliora refused to obey, instead she bit his shoulder. Drew blood. He only laughed.

"That's my girl, my fierce dragon."

Her climax shattered through her like wildfire, cruel and hot. And he followed her into it, growling like a dragon, emptying his very potent seed into her waiting womb as her nails kept digging into his back like anchors.

Daemon collapsed over her with a ragged breath, trapping her beneath the weight of him, their bodies still joined. He didn’t move, save for the shuddering tremor that ran through him. He stayed inside her, buried deep, as if the very act of leaving her would strip him of something vital.

For a long moment, there was only the frantic beating of their hearts and the mingled heat of their bodies.

He pressed his face into her throat, inhaling her, clutching her as if she might slip away if he let her.

Slowly, his hips gave one final, lazy thrust — not to conquer, not to hurt — but to remind her they were still one. Still bound.

"You did so well, sweetling," he murmured against her skin, the words gruff and low, "Gods... Look at you... All wrecked for me," His hand stroked down her side, reverent now, tracing the marks his roughness had left.

She made a soft, broken sound — half sob, half whimper — and he pulled back just enough to look at her face.

Tears clung to her lashes, and something twisted violently in his chest. Not regret — Daemon Targaryen did not regret — but something older and harder to name.

"Shh, little dragon," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It's over now. I've got you, sweet girl."

Still he didn’t pull free. He stayed inside her, claiming, soothing, possessing, his body shielding hers from the chill of the chamber.

As though by remaining within her, he could stitch her soul to his forever.

She shifted weakly beneath him, as if instinct urged her to pull away — but his arms only tightened around her.

"No," Daemon growled against her ear, voice dark and possessive. "Stay right here. Just a little longer, sweetling. Let it take."

She whimpered, her thighs trembling from the effort, from the overwhelming fullness of him still seated so deep.

He nuzzled her hair, pressing lazy kisses into the silver strands, his hand sliding down to splay protectively over her lower belly — over the place where he intended new life to grow.

"You'll carry my seed again," he whispered, a promise and a command all at once. "This time the whole realm will see. No one will doubt who you belong to."

Still moving inside her with slow, shallow rolls of his hips — just enough to make her feel him, not enough to hurt — Daemon kept her trapped against the bed, against his body, against the inevitable.

"You'll give me a strong son," he murmured, his hand flexing against her soft skin. "Or a fierce little girl, just like her mother."

Another soft kiss, this time to the corner of her damp, kiss-swollen mouth.

"You were made to be filled by me, sweetling," he said, voice roughened by tenderness.

And gods help her — despite the pain, the shame, the fury — a part of her thrilled at the claim.

Daemon finally withdrew, making her hiss softly at the loss of his heat, and in the next breath he was gathering her against his chest, wrapping her in his arms.

She was too dazed to answer. Too spent to fight.

He tucked her under the covers like something precious. His fingers brushed her damp hair.

The room smelled of sex and smoke. The storm still raged outside, but inside, the air had thickened, heavy with the aftermath of their union.

Maeliora lay on her side, back to him, the silk sheets tangled around her hips. Her skin bore the marks of his mouth, her wrists faint bruises where he'd held her down. She said nothing. Her chest rose and fell in shaky breaths.

Daemon remained behind her, still naked, his presence undeniable.

He had not dressed. He didn't need to.

He had claimed her, and his touch—slow, deliberate, and possessive—was a constant reminder of that.

But something had changed.

His touch was different now.

His grip softened. Where before his hands had been demanding, they now traced the curve of her spine with a gentleness that was almost unnerving. There was no rush anymore.

She flinched.

He paused. Then, after a beat, continued — slower, more deliberately.

"You fought well, my fierce dragon" he murmured, voice raw from more than just desire. "Almost made me tie you down."

She said nothing.

"Are you crying, little wife?"

Still, silence.

"Don't sulk. You're a dragon. Dragons don't weep after being claimed. They roar."

He leaned over, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"I know you felt it. Every inch of me, inside you. Don't pretend you didn't burn."

At that, she turned—just slightly. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face streaked with the remnants of tears, but there was steel in her voice.

"I hate you."

Daemon's smile was slow, and utterly unbothered.

"No, you don't," he said softly, brushing a lock of silver hair from her cheek. "You hate that you didn't fight harder. You hate that your body betrayed you. That you wanted it."

She struck him — a weak, trembling slap across his bare chest. He didn't stop her. He let her do it again.

And again. And again. He let her take all her anger out on him.

Until her fingers curled into his skin and she broke, sobbing into him.

He held her then.

Arms encircling her like chains of velvet and heat, pulling her to him, letting her cry against the monster who had just made her his wife in every way that mattered.

"You'll grow to love me, you know," he whispered into her hair. "All wives do."

"I'm not all wives," she choked.

"No, you aren't" he agreed, kissing the corner of her eye, tasting salt. "But you loved me once... You'll love me again."

She didn't reply. But she didn't pull away either.

Daemon held her until her breathing slowed. Until her fingers unclenched. Until her head rested on his shoulder, not by command... but exhaustion.

The space between them was filled with his presence. He was still a lingering warmth that she could not shake, no matter how many times she told herself she hated him. She could feel him, like an imprint, a reminder of everything she had lost tonight.

When she finally fell asleep, tangled in the arms of her captor-husband, Daemon lay awake beside her, watching.

His hand skimmed lightly over the marks he'd left on her — a silent claim written in flesh and bruises. For a long while he simply looked at her, expression shuttered, thoughts unreadable.

Outside, the storm had begun to fade, but inside the room, the tension lingered — heavy, unspoken, absolute.

Daemon closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to sleep.

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

End Notes:

And there you have it, the long-awaited smut chapter! 😏 I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it 😉

Please, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas. If you’re craving more of their heated scenes, drop a comment or let me know, and I’ll keep the story going 😉

Thank you all for your continuous support! 💖

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

[paulyenvol6]

To Lose Yourself (Chapter 3)

Contains: crossing of boundaries, Daemon not taking no for an answer, angst

Wordcount: 3,317

Masterlist of this story

"Pleeeeease Alicent," she begged close to getting on her knees to show her how important this was to her.

"Sister, you're putting me in a very ugly and uncomfortable position by doing this."

Anissa formed her lips into a pout giving her her best puppy eyes that she just knew Alicent couldn't resist.

"Please. It would be so much fun and father is never going to find out."

"But what if he wants to speak with you and can't find you in the keep? He certainly doesn't need to be a genius to figure out that I might have taken you with me."

Anissa took her hands firmly putting everything in her eyes as she was determined not to give up just yet.

"He won't. He's so busy today that he simply won't have the time to check up on me. And if he can't find me he will surely assume that I went to the gardens or… the library."

Alicent rolled her eyes shaking her head.

"You in the library? He certainly will not look for you there."

"Please sister. I'm just so bored here in the castle and now I have the chance to go into the city for once and you can't deny me."

Alicent threw her head back sighing loudly hinting at the fact that she was about to break which gave her sister new hope.

"Oh seven hells, Anissa! Why do you have to drag me into this every time? You should've just asked father for his permission to go out as well."

"You know that he would've forbid it after what happened last month. And then he obviously would be even more suspicious if he suddenly can't find me. Please Alicent, just this once."

Alicent crossed her arms almost looking like she was sulking. "You're always saying this."

"It will be so much more fun and you know this."

She thoughtfully observed her sister clearly fighting with herself but then eventually dropped her shoulders.

"Fine. Alright. I'm taking you with me but I swear to the gods if father finds out you're going to take fully responsibility which I already know is not going to work because he is going to blame me but at least you will try and tell him that it was all you."

Anissa excitedly nodded restlessly shifting in her chair until Alicent broke out in laughter looking much less strict all of a sudden.

"Stop it already," she chuckled poking her sister in her side.

~~~~~~~~~~

Half an hour later the two sisters strolled around the city Anissa holding Alicent's arm tightly. She knew that at this point her sister was happy about her being with her because the day was lovely, the temperature was just right and both were in a thrilling mood.

"Look over there, Ani! Are those parrots?"

They rushed towards the sellsman watching the birds in awe not being able to keep their mouths shut.

"Woww. Do you think…," Anissa started but Alicent was quick to lift her eyebrows giving her a serious look.

"You're jesting. Father will literally kill me."

Her sister accepted her words shrugging her shoulders and so they watched the parrots a little longer before Alicent pulled her sister with her.

"We're going to the library now because you're only here because of me and you should be grateful and so we're gonna do what I want now."

Anissa commented her words with a roll of her eyes but found she had no choice but to comply and follow her although she would've loved to visit the little shops in the center of the city instead. It turned out to be a draining time for the girl sitting still on a bench between the many bookshelfs while there were all sorts of people sneaking around her. She generally had problems sitting at the same spot for a longer period but additionally being quiet? It was horrible. And yet taken by the prospect of visiting one of the taverns later in case she would be able to persuade her sister Anissa followed Alicent's order and endured the silence until she returned to her seemingly surprised by her wild sister's good behaviour.

"I'm done now. We can go."

"Thank the gods," Anissa spoke a little too loud and rushed to the door as though she couldn't wait to leave. Alicent couldn't surpress a scoff and quickly followed her outside where both exhaled loudly.

"That was exhausting," Anissa sighed closing her eyes and moving her head so the sun could shine on her face.

"You sat on a bench for an hour," Alicent giggled taking hold of her arm once more and led her towards the center of the city which made her sister glance at her full of hope.

"Where are we going?" she carefully asked trying not to make the question sound suggestive in any way.

"To the center," Alicent smirked and now Anissa jumped up and down dugging her nails into her sister's palms.

"Oh Ali, really?"

"Calm yourself," she complained though unable to hide her amusement.

"You deserve it, my dear. I don't think I have ever seen you sit still for so long. Maybe, just maybe you're finally growing up."

Anissa tripped at her words only helplessly clinging to Alicent's arm at the last moment which she commented with a scoff.

"Forget everything I have said."

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day Anissa giggled while trying her best not to stumble over her own feet.

"Shh, sister," Alicent whispered almost dragging her with her. "We really don't want father to catch us the last second."

"Sorry," Anissa spoke equally quiet and concentrated on where she stepped.

"Do you have all your stuff? Your coins and the things you've purchased?"

The girl felt her pockets and nodded. "Yes. I think so."

"Good. Don't show them to father and if he asks you where you got it from you'll say that I bought it for you as a gift, alright?"

Anissa nodded again but disapprovingly shut her eyes. "Do you really think I'm so stupid that I would run to him and show all of this off?"

"I never know with you," Alicent whispered staring ahead of herself but jolted when she felt her sister pinching her arm.

"You idiot," she complained but Alicent slapped the back of her hands.

"Stop it. If you want to prove that you're not stupid then shut up now because we don't want to get caught."

Anissa rolled her eyes but realized that her sister was probably right so she walked by her side in silence until they stood in front of her chambers. Alicent exhaled loudly looking like a big weight had just dropped off her and squeezed her sister's hand twice.

"We did it. You will not speak to anyone about this, am I clear? No servants and no little friends of yours. If you do father will find out and we'll never do something like this again."

"So you plan on doing it again?" Anissa asked with a smug smile.

"Shut up. Maybe. Go to sleep now but first hide your purchases safely."

Her sister nodded and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Goodnight. And thank you."

Alicent finally broke into a smile as well but then was fast to turn around and rush to her own chambers.

~~~~~~~~~~

To anyone who observed Daemon he looked completely relaxed and at peace.

That was probably the case for most of his social interactions. He seemed indifferent and unreachable. Above everyone and everything. And he certainly thought this way in many situations especially when it came to the boring topics discussed in the small council meetings but tonight even the mighty rogue prince had something on his mind. There was this plan that had formed in his head for the last couple of weeks that concerned the youngest sweet daughter of Otto Hightower. He had let it stir for a while solely focussing on watching her but then after his encounter with Anissa's diary the circumstances had changed. His plan had somehow become realer and yet he hadn't been sure if he was supposed to act at first.

He wanted her so badly and he wanted to own her with every part of his body. The thought of her secretly desiring him as well had only worsened it and the past days had been tormenting for him especially when he sat on her opposite during supper. All of this had led him to this very moment because Daemon had planned to act tonight. Why, he didn't know. Perhaps it simply was a deep lust that no whore of the street of silk could satisfy but he needed her in more ways than observing her beauty across the room. He wanted to feel her tremble beneath his touch, see the lust for him in her eyes mixed with her regret and shame about her cravings.

Daemon felt his chest falling and rising quickly and he abruptly stood up. He would act now. He knew about her true feelings and as he would consider himself experienced he would be able to make her want him even more if he started to touch her. Daemon simply had to play into her yearning for him and then he would have her at his mercy, not only enjoying her pretty body but also punishing Otto Hightower for all the times that he had humiliated him.

His emotions had taken over now and blinded by passion Daemon left his room knowing exactly where he wanted to go. Anissa was probably fast asleep right now and there was no better opportunity to catch her alone with him. Fortunately for him the corridor was dark except for a few torches at the wall but no one would make him out with the hood of his cloak covering his silver hair. Nevertheless, he didn't hesitated when he stood in front of her door and quickly sneaked inside to be welcomed by darkness.

At first, he wasn't even sure whether the girl was actually lying in her bed but when he heard steady breathing he smiled to himself and approached her bed. To wake her up Daemon chose to lighten up a few candles as he didn't want the room to be completely dark anyway and once he had ignited three of the candle sticks he heard her turn around in the bed.

He observed her, then saw her blink as it seemed like she needed a moment until she realized that this wasn't a dream. Her face was drawn with surprise and Anissa instantly let out a shriek which Daemon was quick to cover with his hand on her mouth.

"Quiet," he whispered pushing her back on the bed. That was the moment when she seriously panicked and started to fight him by kicking his upper body and squirming in his grip but as he was obviously stronger and more skilled than her he managed to keep her down by her shoulders.

"Stop fighting. You don't stand a chance. Just shut up and stay still," he said and Anissa mumbled that he couldn't understand due to his hand still surpressing any sound leaving her mouth.

"I'm gonna remove my hand from your mouth but if you scream I'll put it back and keep it there for the rest of the night."

He could see her eyes widen in panic at his words but nodded. Daemon watched her precisely for any new attempt to shout for help while slowly lifting his hand from her mouth but Anissa pressed her lips together staring up to him with tears in her eyes. She was incredibly scared and intimidated and quite frankly overwhelmed with what was going on right now. She had just woken up and couldn't comprehend the surreality of the situation. She felt her bottom lip tremble while Daemon seemed content with the way she kept her mouth closed.

"Good. Now you're gonna listen to me."

He couldn't even end the first word before Anissa began to speak but fortunately she did it with a low voice.

"What are you doing, let me go. At once. Get out, you're not supposed to be in here. And let me go, seven hells, you're hurting me."

She was referring to his firm grip around her shoulder but Daemon was sure that she was definitely exaggerating because he had been careful not to squeeze her too tightly.

"Be quiet. I like you better that way."

Anissa furrowed her eyebrows close to tears as she felt his hand holding the side of her face.

"Stop it. I want you to leave now or you're gonna be in such big trouble. My father–"

"Your father is going to find out about this and I will make sure of that, sweetheart."

Anissa writhed and tried to escape from his hands but wasn't able to move an inch.

"Daemon, stop it. I mean it."

"And I mean it when I say I want you to shut up now."

She let out something that sounded like a cry but Daemon ignored it, pressing his hand on her mouth again and pushing her further down on the bed so her head was lying against the cushions.

"Let me tell you a little story, sweet girl. I haven't told it anyone else so it's truly a big honour for you. A couple of days ago I was searching your father's room for a letter I was meant to bring to him like I was his servant or something. Well, in hindsight, I don't mind because I found something very interesting. Can you imagine what it was?"

He seriously seemed to expect an answer because he apprehensively watched her with lifted eyebrows and even loosened his hand pressed on her mouth giving her the chance to speak up.

"N-No," Anissa weakly said panic flooding her system because she really couldn't guess where this story was going.

"Too bad. Well, I'm going to tell you. I found a book. A little scarlet red book that I browsed through by chance but I was very quickly on the hook."

Now the girl anxiously started to have a presumption of what he was talking about and uncomfortably shifted in an attempt to move away from him hoping that he was too busy talking to notice it. Of course he didn't and instead dragged her back.

"Ugh uh. Don't even try it. Anyway, I found this book to be very intriguing and so I spent a little time reading it and I found a very interesting page. Can you imagine what it was?"

Anissa hated him so much. He was humiliating and mocking her and she wished she could close her eyes fall asleep to find out that all of this had just been a nightmare.

"Answer me, little whore," he hissed painfully burying his fingers in her flesh on her cheek.

"N-No," she answered once again but this time Daemon gave her an evil smile.

"Oh I think you do. I think you can pretty well remember those sinful words you wrote down in there. And your shameful thoughts about someone you're supposed to despise. Is it hard, mhm? To hear your father and sister rant about a person you secretly desire? Is it hard to keep a straight face? Is it hard to live with these dark thoughts? Imagining what it would be like to get what you want?"

Anissa wanted nothing more than to get out of this situation and yet she felt her heart pounding faster listening to his husky voice only that she didn't know if it was led back to her fear or the slight warmth she felt creeping up between her legs.

"Have you ever thought about what your father would say if he read those words? If he found out that his precious little girl thinks about me when she is alone? Thinks about my touch and my hands on her body."

Gods, why did he know how to push her buttons so well? Because obviously he was right and she had thought about Daemon more times than was appropriate and in ways that the gods would not approve of. And she had punished herself for this by asking the gods for forgiveness although she had never really had a connection with the great sept of Baelor. But what she had learnt was that desires like these were shameful and so Anissa had tried to get rid of her guilty conscience by praying. Of course it hadn't worked and right now despite her air-cutting fear and anxiety Daemon did nothing to reduce her sinful cravings.

"Let me go. I don't know what you're talking about but I want you to leave."

He chuckled lowly a sound that made the hairs on her arms stand up and put a single finger under her chin adjusting her head so she couldn't avoid his intense gaze.

"I don't think you want me to leave. You know why I'm saying this? Because I saw it all written down, little one. I know that you want me and I know that you feel ashamed about it. I know that all you want is to please your daddy but you can't fight this burning desire inside of you. You want me in ways that are not fit for a noblewoman but no matter how hard you try and surpress it these thoughts come back to haunt and consume you every time."

Anissa gulped loudly very slightly pressing her thighs together feeling both flustered by his eyes that didn't leave her face for a moment and the obscenity of his words.

"Don't fight it," Daemon eventually whispered well-aware that he already had her right where he wanted her. On the verge of breaking and utterly in awe of his presence.

"You and me both know that it's true. And I can make you feel even better than in your mind. I can make you feel things that you can't imagine."

"I want you to leave, you bastard," Anissa spitted in his face eyes so small now that Daemon couldn't see the white in it.

"Now, now…," he soothed her his thumb brushing over her temple but his touch didn't have the wanted effect on her because captured by a new fear she began to fight again pushing against his chest while her legs tried to hit his center. Daemon was caught off guard for a brief moment but quickly pushed her back down enclosing his hands around her upper arms now as she seemed to fight more than he had expected.

"Shh, sweetling. You don't wanna do this. I know you don't like getting told what to do but you're smarter than this. Why don't you listen to your inner voice? Or the throbbing heat between your legs? I bet if rip your undergarments apart I'm going to find you dripping for me. In fact, why don't we find out…"

Anissa was still processing his words when Daemon's hand reached to her hips tucking at the fabric of her nightgown in order to pull it up.

"No, no, Daemon, you can't," she shrieked perhaps now realizing the urgency of the situation.

He couldn't touch her, this was… this was unspeakable, unacceptable and she couldn't allow her dizzy mind to drift off now just because his eyes did things to her.

"Let go, little one," he purred grazing her chin and then leaning down to capture her lips in a soft kiss.

His lips felt good on hers, gently nibbling at her bottom lip but this was wrong on so many levels.

All she could do was think about her father and sister who would probably disinherit and exile her if they knew that she was lying underneath Daemon Targaryen right now who was so much closer than appropriate.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@archerxnn @calmingmelody96 @aleemendoza2425-blog

[winnysplayground]

“he’s so babygirl”

babe he just killed somebody.

[love-at-first-sight-23]

Welcome to the world of “Being in love with a person who doesn’t exist in real life but you pretend they do anyway because you’re obsessed” ✧˖*°࿐

[moonlight-joy]

The Dragon’s Defiance

Fandom: House of Dragon

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

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please support my work with like and comment

[princessbellecerise]

Unlikely Places

Summary ✩ The unusual place your hotd lover likes to fuck you

Warnings ✩ Smut, straight up blasphemy (Aegon), semi-public sex

Jacaerys Velaryon

As the King, it’s not exactly wrong for the two of you to do it, but it does feel taboo every time you ride him on the Iron Throne

Every time you climbed on his lap, mindful of all the sharp points and swords, you couldn’t help but think that you’re breaking some kind of rule that doesn’t exist. After all, Jacaerys is the King and technically it is his seat. As the most powerful man in the realm, there’s no one for you to answer to after doing such an act but it certainly feels like you should

The first time that he asked you to do it, you thought that he was crazy. It was so unlike Jacaerys to do something so…risky, that you genuinely thought it was a prank at first

Only when realized you that your husband was completely serious did you really start to consider it

And you had to admit, the rush of power that you got as you bounced on your husband’s cock, riding the most powerful man in the most powerful seat in the realm was nothing like you’d ever experienced before

It quickly became your guilty pleasure to do so, never minding when Jacaerys summoned you to the throne room at such late hours

For you knew what awaited you when you climbed those steps, and each time you were filled with delicious anticipation to do it all over again

Aemond Targaryen

Ever since he was a child, Aemond had been absolutely fascinated by dragons

His obsession with those beasts was almost unnatural as his mother used to say, and you were quite inclined to agree as one day, Aemond tried to convince you to let him fuck you on top of Vhagar

Of course, the request had been so ridiculous that you genuinely thought your husband to be ill at first, maybe having contracted some disease during his many travels

Only when you saw Aemond’s confident smirk did you realize that it was indeed not a jest, and your husband really did want you to ride him on top of a fucking dragon

So there you were, thousands of feet in the air and praying that you didn’t fall as you straddled Aemond’s lap

You held onto him tight as your cunt sank down, your hips moving with his in the large saddle

Every kiss, every touch was concealed within the clouds, Vhagar flying steady while you rode your husband. The sound of her wings masked the pathetic way you cried for Aemond, filthy praises and words of encouragement being whispered in your ears as you soared across the skies

Aegon Targaryen

Aegon figures that if he’s going to hell anyways, he may as well have a little fun in his mortal life

What’s life without a little risk anyways, he figures. This is why he has no problem fucking you in the Sept of Seven, having you on your knees, naked in front of the statue of the Mother

Instead of praying to her though, you worship him. You praise his cock and the way it makes you feel so good—better than praying, really

The absolute trill of someone coming in and getting caught is like no other. Sometimes, Aegon even hopes that you’ll be discovered—preferably by his mother or that cunt of Septa that’s always preaching about sin and virtue

He imagines their faces as he fucks you from behind, taunting you and making you look directly at the statue when you cum around him

Aegon’s never really believed in the Gods much, but the way your cunt feels wrapped around him is heavenly

And to him, there’s truly no greater tasting sin

Daemon Targaryen

Otto Hightower had once called Daemon brazen, irresponsible, violent, arrogant, reckless and a second Maegor

He supposed that it was true, but still, Otto Hightower was a cunt in Daemon’s mind, and the Prince would do anything to get back at him

…Including fucking in his bed

In Daemon’s very weak defense, he hasn’t meant to, really

When he pulled you in a for a kiss, intending to take you quickly before he had to attend a meeting later in the day, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he pulled you

He just wanted to feel you, to touch you before he had to leave for the day

And what do you know—the place that he ends up brining you to fufill your hurried tryst was the fucking Tower of the Hand

Neither of you realize it at first, too caught up in each other to notice the amount of green, grey and white around you

It isn’t until you stumble onto the actual bed, Daemon fumbling to get your clothing off do you finally look up and you’re greeted by a portrait of Otto fucking Hightower on the walls

Alarmed, you immediately tell Daemon and it takes only a second to realize where you’ve accidentally stumbled

Of course, Daemon thinks it’s hilarious and even if you want to leave, a little creeped out at the thought of being fucked on the same sheets the Hand of the King sleeps on, Daemon is entirely too thrilled to leave

Once the idea is in his brain, it won’t be going any time soon

A mischievous grin grows on your lover’s face, and somehow, Dameon convinces you to let him take on Otto’s clean, perfectly folded sheets, loving the way you mess them up with your messy fucking

Of course, he’ll just blame the servants for all the mess, but now every time he faces Otto there’s always a knowing smirk on Daemon’s face, smug that the Hand will never know the dirty things said and done on the very mattress he sleeps on

Cregan Stark

Cregan was the Lord of Winterfell, and because of that he was allowed to eat where he pleased, train where he pleased…and fuck where he pleased

It was this that he reminded you of as he took you in one of the hot springs the castle had to offer, water splashing as your husband’s hips thrust into yours

He had you on his lap, your tits pressed against his warm wet chest as you bounced on his cock

The both of you were well aware that this was a public place and that anyone could stumble upon you, but that only spurred you on more

Honestly, seeing your honorable and kind husband act so reckless was a turn on in itself, loving the way Cregan grunted and didn’t care who heard him

He was lost in the feel of your cunt and the warm water which only added to the sensations

Add that to the trill of getting caught, and neither of you really lasted long when you fucked in the springs

Still panting and filled with your husband’s seed, you grinned as you ran a hand through his tangled hair

“Another day without being caught,” You said, slightly disappointed

Cregan shrugged. “Well, maybe we’ll succeed next time.”

Benjicot Blackwood

“Ben, not here! Someone could see us!”

“Then let them see. Let those Bracken cunts see how a real man pleases his Lady wife,” Benji whispered, and you couldn’t even deny that fucking right on the Blackwood-Bracken boundary line didn’t bring a kind of fire to your veins that you craved

Your lover had always been more shy and sweet than anything else, but you knew just how deep his hatred for the Brackens ran when he threw all of that away and fucked you so close to their territory

Deep, satisfactory moans left his lips as he rutted into you, the thrill of getting caught edging you both on like no other

You pressed against Benji, panting as his cock drove in out of you and hit your sweet spots over and over

All you could think about, all you craved was cumming around your husband’s cock while his enemies watched; and you did

Benji was beyond proud of himself as you moaned and let the entirety of House Bracken know what was happening. Let them know how good he was making you feel

He felt bad for the wives of those smug cunts as surely they’d never know such pleasure, but at least Benji knew that you couldn’t relate

The Brackens could say whatever they wanted about his family, but at least the Blackwoods knew how to fuck

And who knows, if they were watching, then maybe they’d even learn a thing or two from Benji

tags 🏷️

@alyssa-dayne

[hauntedfictionland]

❝His dear princess❞

☾︎✰❛❀ Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem! Reader!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Jacaerys did not want you, or the vow he was bound to for life. Yet when he makes a big mistake, and potentially loses you for good. He realises just how much you meant to him.

𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Bastardphobia, mentions of death and grief, kissing, marrage of convenience and grumpy X sunshine trope, Jace is down bad, flirty!reader, guilt and anxiety and happy ending;)

🪐𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: This is one of my first house of the dragon fics ever, so I truly hope it's not too bad. Jacaerys is one of my favourite characters in hotd after Alicent so I really wanted to get his characteristics and behaviour right. Also, I didn't like the way they showed his grief after Luke died, as if he just moved on after two or three days. But overall, I enjoyed writing this:)

Jacaerys was infuriated with you.

You—his betrothed, acted like you owned the castle as soon as you strutted in. Speaking with no formality and a sharpness in your tongue that only infuriated him further. And especially when you did not seem to care for his heritage, who he was. The heir to the iron throne. Yet you acted as if he didn't exist to you. As if he meant nothing to you.

A marriage pact with the martells was only one of convenience. You, a princess of dorne, he, the firstborn son of queen Rhaenyra. Yet, they were stuck in dragonstone, and needed support to match the strength of the green armies. His mother needed this arrangement more than the martells did, and you made that very clear by acting carelessly and so freely, like you were in your own home. By taunting him, sitting at the great council table with your legs on them, a coin in your fingertips and a smirk in your lips. He hated it, he hated especially how good you looked.

He hated being betrothed to you already.

Rhaenyra had told him martells were rather, open and modern people. They took part in adultery even after being married, especially with the consent of their own partner. He did not know how anyone could be okay with such acts. He did not know what to expect when he met you, but it certainly wasn't how you commented on his face, calling him one of a beauty. It was inappropriate, calling a prince by such bold remarks on the first meeting, yet you did not seem to care.

But what edged him to his limit was the day you called him a bastard.

Jacaerys had been worried, he couldn't find you anywhere. Not that he cared, he was just stressed you would create another ruckus. He looked around everywhere, the garden, the great council, the dining hall, your room, even his room, but you were nowhere to be found. His chest tightened, a restlessness growing in his stomach. It seemed he always felt that way without being with you for too long. Not because he missed you—of course, but because he wanted to ensure everything was going smoothly.

He was going around circles, head spinning with a feeling that made him uncomfortable. Where were you? did you flee the castle? or were so bored of him you went to the city to a brothel in search of another man to keep you company. Anger and jealousy filled in his chest at the mere thought of that.

Jacaerys did not seem where he was going, many thoughts inside his head, before he harshly opened a door to the library. And to his surprise, there you were, a book in your hand. ‘Adventures of Aegon the conqueror’, he could read the name of the book by how you were holding it. He felt he could breathe again. By the loud sound of the door opening your head flitted towards him. Your usual smirk growing up your lips. Something that made his heart flutter in a way he didn't want it to. He clenched his jaw, holding his fists in a tight ball.

“Where have you been?” he asks, desperate tone in his voice.

“Ah, Prince Jacaerys.” you smile, closing the book and turning your attention towards him. He hated how your eye lashes fluttered, your hair falling down in just the perfect way. “I've been gaining some Targaryen knowledge, as you can see. Since we are to be married, I thought I should know my husband's family. Don't you think?”

Husband.

That word rose heat to his cheeks, quickly clearing his throat.

“I'm not your husband.” he spoke, in a tone harsher than he intended, “At least not yet anyway.”

You smile wider, making his heart race. He was always a bit stubborn, and uptight. Yet you were always so carefree and light, always so kind with his demise. He didn't know what to make of it all. A curious look grazed upon your face, eyebrows furrowing. You sat up, walking onwards another shelf of books, lips pursued. Before looking at him.

“I have always wondered, hmm,” you say, your finger coming up to your lips, “do tell me prince Jacaerys, is it true that you were born out of wedlock?”

His eyes widened, “What did you say to me?”

You either did not notice the offend and defensiveness in his tone, or simply pretend not to. Turning to look at him, “I mean, all Targaryen children have white hair. Do they not? Even if they did not, none of your formal parents have black, dark hair like yours.”

His breath hitches, all of the insecurities he had contained in a jar of fireflies fled out the second you brought out his hair. A wall rising inside him. You were acting as if you just did not ask the most dangerous question ever. As if it did not matter to you.

“How dare you insinuate such filthy claims?!” his voice rises, almost shouting. Your eyes flicker surprise for a moment, before turning back to the usual stoic look.

“Ah, you are offended.” you state, as if he shouldn't be, “I meant no harm, my prince. I have no problem with you being a bastard. In fact, it only makes you more interesting. The thing I don't like is your distaste for the truth. One should own up to who they are.”

Bastard.

You, called him a bastard. He isn't able to speak for a moment, too tongue—tied. You....think of him this way too? you? he can't hear as you speak further, a ringing in his head. It only intensifies. Only when you start talking about dorne is when he snaps back from his haze.

“And I have thousands of brothers and sisters back in dorne, no one cares ther—”

“I don't care, what you dornish do back there, but here you don't speak to me with filths of a claim.” he grits, his voice cold, “I am the queen's son. And if I hear you say one word about that again, I will see you hanged.” his words held so much malice in them, one would believe it to be true.

Of course, he could never actually do that, the blacks needed martells armies more than ever. His mother couldn't afford them raging war at her and joining the green's side. And, he could never harm you either. It was just a baseless threat, one he said out of anger and insecurity. He immediately regretted it when he saw the look on your face; hurt. But even worse, fear. Before he could even begin to take them back, it was too late. Your spot, where you stood, was already empty.

You had seen him less and less after that. Of course, you were your usual self. Taunting and teasing him, but something was off. Something distant. He hated it. He hated how much he missed it. Your remarks, your witty replies, your cockiness. He wanted it back. He wanted you back.

Next time he sees you, it's in a completely unexpected place. Dragon—pit. He was about to ride on Vermax to patrol the skies, when he stops. There you were, sat on the hard rock, legs swinging at the edge of it and his dragon's head in your hands. You..you were feeding him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?!” he shouts, eye wide.

You turn your head to him, a smirk on your lips grows. You enjoyed the fact he was on his nerves, furious.

“What does it look like? I'm feeding this cute little angel right here.” you coo, talking to his dragon in a baby voice. Vermax was known for her temper, yet with you it magically dis—appears? a little bit inside him was flustered, heart beating faster than ever that you and his dragon, a very important part of his life, bonded flawlessly. But he shrugs it off, he has to. Flushing over you isn't his duty.

Protecting you is.

As much as he would like to deny it, you're his now. Lawfully so. And he wouldn't let anything happen to you. Especially Vermax. He wouldn't know how to live with himself if his own dragon were to be the cause of, of.. your demise. His throat burns, even the mere thought of harm coming to you feels as if he's being drowned to death. After Luke, he cannot lose anyone. Jacaerys cannot lose you. Even if that was the first thing he tried to do after meeting you. You were the most part of his frustrations yet the only thought when he's in his bed at night.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asks, his voice harsh, as if you were his child and he was scolding you for doing something childish.

“Have you had no fear? you could have died what were you even thinking?!” you falter for a moment, upon seeing the trembling of his hands and the tightness in his voice.

“Jacaerys—”

“No!” he interrupts you, “You, you could have been...do you even realise..”

Your eyes widened as he struggled to even breath, huffing for air anxiously. You quickly get up, walking towards him. He's so much inside his head that he doesn't notice your hands coming up his face, slinging through his dark curly hair. An act that slowed and claimed his beating heart down. Your soft palms make contact with both his cheeks, a peaceful shush in your voice and he finally breathes. Properly. He sighed, eyes closing as his hands came up to hold yours.

This, you, him? this felt oddly peaceful. This felt like home. Vermax watches the whole interaction with a quiet huff, turning away back to the pits. You nudge closer towards him, resting your forehead against his. Love. This felt like love. “Promise me” he starts out, his voice low and timid, “promise you will never do that again.” Instead of putting on a fight like you usually do, you nod, gently caressing his cheek. His head leaned further into your touch, putty in your hands.

“I promise.”

That, gives him great relief. “Good.”

Time seems to slow down, Jacaerys could count every freckle on your nose to cheeks, every small cut in between your knuckles or lips, every curve of smile you put on. And all the scents coming from your body that drove him crazy. You notice his lips still trembling, and above your judgement, you decide to kiss it better. He inhales a sharp breath as your lips touch his, but makes no movement to push you away. It's gentle, barely brushing against his. Jacaerys realised how they fit perfectly amidst his, and how much he was craving it all these months until he finally tasted them.

You slowly pull away, hesitantly. His eyes are still closed. Hands crawling up your waist. He speaks again, a whisper almost.

“I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

He's talking about the library, and you smiled softly, shaking your head.

“It's okay. You can't get rid of me that easily, Jace. Should have known that when you got betrothed to a dornish princess.”

You had already forgiven him. But he didn't want you to. He didn't want to be at your mercy this easily, not when he wasn't able to forgive himself. You, you had crept your way into his heart when he didn't want you to, and now he never wanted to let you go. It was all your fault.

“No I...” he shakes his head, “I never should have said that. Not only because it was so wrong but also because it was completely untrue.” Jacaerys swallows his breath, every bit of him wanted to turn away and never look back, but he couldn't do that. “I have been called names, about my heritage. Ever since I was a child. About my parenting and what not. And it's very...when anyone talks about it, it's like a bandage ripping off a new and fresh wound. No matter how many years pass by, it's still like that for me.”

You nod your head slowly, in understanding. This was raw. He had finally told you one of his darkest parts, his worst fears, and you hadn't run away.

“I understand. I should have never said that. I did not know it was like this for you.” He feels relief in your words.

But there was still something he needed to let out.

“But I...” he didn't know how hard this was for him until he started to actually say it, “I really could never mean it. What I said. Even if you have committed the worst treason or crime, even if you had taken my heart and carved it out, I still wouldn't be able to do one thing that might be even close to harming you. Believe me I have tried. And I have failed.”

He looks away from you, cheeks closing red. Jacaerys had just poured his heart out and gave it to you. But the chances of you, and feeling the same? were very dim. He sees stars when he sees you, what do you see? just him? or even worse? a filth in the name of a true born prince. A gasp leaves his lips as your fingers trace the outlines of his jaw, trailing down to his neck to his chest. You stopped at the red and black three dragons symbol made on the polish cloth he wore.

“Why do you think I agreed to this marriage? not because of this.” you point to the very symbol engraved on his chest, of the house targaryen, “If it was just for this, I certainly would have never.”

He turns his head back to you, confusion in his face. He also feels a bit of guilt in him. At first, he only agreed to this pact because his mother had no choice. Because of your house. Nothing else. And you're saying that his house didn't even matter to you when you agreed to this betrothal? then why? you did not even know what he looked like, and you simply agreed?

“Why then?”

That's the question that's now left in him. Why, if his house and title didn't matter?

“Well,” your lips curl up, a glint in your eyes, as a blush arose your cheeks, “From years I had heard stories of Targaryen princes. How arrogant and unkind they were, your cousins, Aegon and Aemond, well I certainly didn't hear anything good about them. And then you came. The velaryon prince, the son of the realm's delight, born with a kind heart and a fierceness to protect. I knew I had to marry someday, but I only agreed to marry you because I knew—you wouldn't mistreat me. Because I fell in love with the stories of the dark haired prince who had the most beautiful brown eyes ever, who protected his brother when he was a child himself, who stole my heart before he even claimed it.”

Jacaerys doesn't know what to say, his throat falls dry. It doesn't feel real, when he's wanted something so dearly and someone just gives it to him freely; it does not feel real. You do not feel real. But you are. He knows you are when your hands tug at his collar, his face close to you as you pull him towards you and your breath fanning on his cheeks. He knows this is real, and it's better than any dream he's ever had.

“I do not want our marriage to be an unhappy one.”

You say, a plea in your voice.

He smiles, wide. And he doesn't even have to make an effort this time, “For me, the words unhappy and you? well they don't go in the same sentence.”

That seals it for you, he can see that. As you kiss his words, an unspoken understanding and passion in it. Jacaerys realises he could get used to this. Kisses, hugs, reading each other books, waking by the warmth of your body besides his; in fact, there's no one else he'd rather do it by. And nothing he would want more.

𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑚:) 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛! 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

[salemwasnteverhere]

Reading fanfiction isn't enough anymore I need to crawl into my TV and fuck him

[multific]

By Fire, By Love

Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

Summary: Daemon Targaryen has known many lovers, but none have ever cracked him the way you do.

The court is watching him.

Daemon can feel it in the weight of their stares.

The hushed speculation follow him wherever he goes.

They think him reckless. Dangerous. Uncontrollable.

And they are right.

But for the first time in his life, it is not war or ambition that consumes him.

It is you.

You, with your sweet laughter and careful words, with the softness in your eyes and the warmth in your touch. You, who should be untouchable to a man like him. Untainted by the fire and blood that runs through his veins.

But the gods have never been kind.

And Daemon Targaryen has never been one to resist temptation.

"You watch me too much."

Your voice is quiet, filled with amusement.

Daemon smirks, tilting his goblet toward you from across the table. Unapologetic. 

"And if I do?"

You meet his stare, unflinching. Bold. 

It is that quiet defiance that has caught him from the start, the way you never shrink beneath his gaze, never recoil despite knowing exactly what he is.

"Then you might give people the wrong idea."

Daemon hums, setting his cup down. His voice drops, the words meant for you alone. "And what idea would that be, Sweet thing?"

You swallow. 

He watches the movement of your throat, the way your fingers curl slightly against the table’s edge. You feel it too. 

The pull between you, the silent dance you have been doing for weeks, months.

But you shake your head and look away. You always look away.

Daemon’s jaw tightens. 

He has spent a lifetime taking what he wants, indulging in every carnal pleasure, never denied. And yet you, the one thing he wants above all else, refuse to let him have you.

It happens when the halls are empty when the night is dark, when there are no watching eyes to stop him from doing what he has longed for since the moment he first laid eyes upon you.

Daemon finds you in the gardens in the silver moonlight, staring out at the stars.

"Beautiful."

You startle slightly, turning to find him there, standing too close. His voice was low and framed with something dangerous. 

Your breath catches when he reaches out, fingers brushing the bare skin of your wrist.

"Daemon-" you begin but he cuts you off.

"Why do you deny me?"

The words are whispered, there is something vulnerable in his voice.

You stare at him, at this man who is both feared and adored, who should not need to beg for anything.

But here he was, begging for you.

"You do not know what you ask of me," you murmur, though your voice is trembling now. "You could have any woman in this court, Daemon."

"I do not want any woman." His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel the weight of his need. "I want you."

Silence. 

The air is heavy and thick with something unspoken.

Daemon searches your face, waiting, pleading in a way he never would for anyone else. And then, you do the one thing he has been waiting for.

You stop running.

You reach for him, curling your fingers into the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer and closer until there is no space left at all. You can feel his breath against your lips, warm, expectant.

"Say it," he murmurs, he needs to hear it.

You exhale, trembling, before whispering the words that ruin him.

"I want you too."

Daemon breaks.

His mouth crashes against yours, stealing the words from your lips, swallowing your breath, your gasp, the small sound that makes something in his chest tighten.

You melt into him as his hands move to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. He kisses you deeply, hungrily, with all the fire he has been forced to restrain for so long.

And when he pulls away, just enough to look at you his lips curl into something wicked.

"Too late to run now, Sweet thing," he murmurs against your skin.

You smile. You do not want to run anymore.

Daemon does not let you go.

Not that night, not the next day, not ever.

The court talks, whispers of stolen moments and burning gazes, of the way Daemon Targaryen now walks the halls like a man possessed, like a dragon who has found his diamond and dares anyone to take it from him.

But you do not care for their words.

Because at night, when his arms are around you and his lips trace the curve of your shoulder, Daemon whispers something only for you.

"Mine," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "You were always meant to be mine."

And when you turn in his arms and kiss him again, soft and slow, you know it to be true.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Perfect Size

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

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

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

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

My masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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House of the Dragon Incorrect Quotes

Aemond: If we don’t get out of this alive… If we’re both about to die… I love you, y/n! *Neither of you die* You: … Aemond: … You: So do you wanna talk about somethi- Aemond: No thank you.

Aegon: Why should I make my bed, when I'm just gonna unmake it to sleep in it anyways? Alicent: Why should I feed you if you're just gonna die anyways? Aegon: Aegon: I'll go make my bed-

You: Aegon won’t wake up, what do I do? Aemond: Did you try kicking him? You: Yes. Aemond: I’m out of ideas.

You: Your Honor, I hereby submit the following to the court: You: Aegon, what the actual FUCK?

Aemond: Y/n, I am nothing if not a man of principle. Aemond: Now let’s break into this apartment.

Daemon: I'm a reverse necromancer. You: Isn't that just killing people? Daemon: Ah, technicality.

Aegon: I was arrested for being too cool. Aemond: The charges were dropped due to a lack of supporting evidence.

You: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives Aemond: I wake up at 4:30 AM You: You: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives

Aegon: Change is inedible. Aemond: Don't you mean inevitable? Aegon, spitting out coins: No, I did not.

Aemond: What the fuck is wrong with you?! Aegon: Wow, you could start with a 'good morning'. Aemond: Good morning. What the fuck is wrong with you?!

You: We’re getting married, bitches! Daemon: And we're about to make it everybody else's problem.

Aegon, struggling to keep upright in his 1 inch heels: Yeah, I-I don’t really think heels are for me Rhaenyra, pointing at them and walking flawlessly in sparkly golden 6 inch heels: WEAK.

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 14 - The Dragon's Victory

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest, kidnapping, holding captive

Masterlist

Morning broke over Dragonstone in a veil of mist and silence. The sky was pale, the sea beyond the cliffs an endless expanse of grey. Maeliora watched it blankly, arms folded around herself as if to keep her thoughts from unraveling. Today was meant to be a dream — once, long ago. But dreams curdle easily in the mouths of dragons.

The door creaked open with a hesitant knock, and Lyra slipped in, arms full and eyes wide.

"Princess?" came Lyra's soft voice.

Maeliora didn't answer. She stood motionless, hands clenched at her sides, eyes fixed on the sky beyond the balcony.

She held the wedding gown carefully, as though it might burn her fingers. "P-Prince Daemon sent this, Princess," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said... you're to wear it."

Maeliora looked at the gown—and then at Lyra—and her fury erupted. "I won't wear it!" she snapped, pushing away from the table so fast her chair clattered. "I am not marrying him like some lamb led to slaughter!"

Lyra flinched, clutching the gown to her chest. "Please, Princess" she whispered, trembling. "Please don't make this any harder, I'm beggin you... If you refuse, the Prince will be angry. And I... I will be the one punished."

Maeliora's breath caught.

Lyra was on her knees now, eyes brimming with tears. "He said you're not to cause trouble. Not again. He... he didn't forget what happened before. If he finds out I let you disobey, he might send me away. Or worse."

Maeliora stared at her. Guilt twisted in her chest. After all she was an innocent here and Maeliora didn't wish to cause her harm. 

She had used Lyra before. Manipulated her kindness, her naïveté, to sneak out. The girl had nearly lost her place at Dragonstone over it.

Now here she was again, caught in Maeliora's storm, utterly at her mercy. 

The anger in her veins cooled, leaving only a bitter ache behind. "Get up," Maeliora murmured, voice quiet now. "Stop kneeling. I'll wear it."

Lyra blinked up, stunned, then stood with the gown in her trembling hands. 

"Thank you, Princess. Truly... I won't forget your kindness." 

Lyra set the dress gently down across the bed. "Then... please, allow me to help you, Princess."

Maeliora didn't respond right away. But when Lyra began unfastening the laces of her gown, she didn't stop her.

Piece by piece, the old layers fell away.

She stood still, bare to the firelight and memory, while Lyra dressed her in white and silver — a princess in chains disguised as a bride. Each ribbon tied felt like a promise she hadn't made. Each pin, a reminder of her powerlessness.

When the final clasp was in place, Maeliora turned to face the mirror, she stared at her reflection.

The gown was beautiful — cruelly so. Of course it was. Fitting for the bride of a prince. For a queen, even. The kind of dress she might have once dreamed of wearing, long ago, when she was a girl who thought love was simple and Daemon Targaryen was a legend wrapped in silver.

She looked like a woman carved from a dream. Or a nightmare.

She had once imagined this moment very differently.

A laugh echoed in her mind — high, girlish, and unmistakably her sister's.

"You can't marry Uncle Daemon, Maeliora" Rhaenyra had giggled, swinging her feet off the edge of the chaise. "He's far too old for you!"

Maeliora had only puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms. "So? He's handsome, strong, and fearless. And he has a magnificent dragon too. Besides," she'd added with a defiant grin, "he's not that much older, Nyra."

They had both dissolved into laughter, the kind of laughter only little girls knew — innocent, unburdened by politics or shame. Back then, everything had felt possible. She'd dreamed of silk gowns and dragonflame, of standing by his side as a queen.

And now, here she was. Wearing the dress. Becoming the bride.

But not the way she'd imagined.

You got your wish, the mirror whispered.

Her fingers curled into the fabric at her waist.

I dreamed of being his bride... but never of becoming his prisoner.

The silence of Dragonstone was as thick as fog, broken only by the echo of Daemon's boots against the cold, unfeeling stone. The castle loomed around them, its halls carved from shadow and smoke, as if it too bore witness to what was unfolding.

Maeliora staggered, her feet slipping against the uneven floor, but Daemon's grip on her wrist was unrelenting—iron wrapped in flesh. He didn't glance at her, didn't speak at first. He only marched forward, dragging her behind him like a prisoner bound for execution.

Her voice cracked through the hush, sharp and defiant. "Let go of me, you brute."

But he didn't. He squeezed tighter, and the pain forced a gasp from her lips.

"You can fight all you like, sweet niece," he murmured, the words laced with amusement and menace, "but this will happen. Whether you walk or crawl. There's nothing left to save you from this fate."

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, every step toward the altar a nail in the coffin of her freedom. She twisted her arm, trying to jerk away, but his grip only hardened, bruising now.

"I won't marry you," she hissed, though fear threaded through her voice. "I won't."

Daemon finally turned his head, eyes glinting with that familiar, terrible satisfaction. "Won't?" he echoed, savoring the word. "Who exactly will stop me, sweetling?"

Her breath quickened as she realized the truth of his words. There was no escape. Not now. He wasn't letting her go. She wasn't going to be saved.

There was no one to stop him.

Still, she tried. She dragged her feet, a futile resistance, but Daemon's steps never faltered. He was relentless. Inevitable.

"Please," she breathed, not even sure if it was meant for him or the gods or herself. "This isn't what I—"

Daemon stopped, so abruptly she nearly crashed into him. He turned fully this time, looming over her like a shadow come to life.

"You think you have a choice in this?" he asked, his voice no louder than a whisper, but colder than any winter. "You're not Realm's first unwilling bride, Maeliora. And you certainly won't be the last. But I'll give you a choice."

He leaned in, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the sharp contrast to the chill of the castle walls.

"Walk beside me," he said softly, "or I'll bind your wrists with rope and drag you to that altar myself, like the petulant little thing you are."

Her throat tightened. The fury in her eyes dimmed, clouded now by helplessness, by the ache of betrayal and the bitter weight of inevitability. She was a Targaryen—dragon's blood in her veins—and yet here she was, led like a lamb to slaughter.

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, Daemon yanked her forward, forcing her steps to match his. She stumbled again, catching herself against the stone wall, but he didn't pause. He didn't care.

"You will cooperate," he hissed, his voice now dangerously low, "Or you'll regret it."

She glared up at him, her eyes burning with defiance, even as tears threatened to spill. The weight of it—the humiliation, the anger—made her feel smaller than she ever had. And yet, it was the bitterest truth of all: she couldn't stop it.

"I'll never forgive you for this," she spat, but Daemon just laughed, a low, harsh sound that made her stomach twist.

"You'll learn to accept it," he replied, his grip never loosening, "In time."

They reached the altar at last—and as the heavy doors swung open, Maeliora found herself facing her future. One that she had never asked for, but which Daemon was determined to force upon her. And with each step he led her to the altar, she felt her soul cracking, breaking in pieces she didn't know she had.

Daemon released her wrist—only to curl his fingers around her hand, possessive, claiming. Maeliora felt her breath catch in her throat as he guided her toward the altar.

She could feel it happening. Her future dissolving. Her soul fraying at the seams.

She looked up at him one last time, her eyes still burning with rage, with sorrow, with everything she would never be allowed to say.

Daemon's grip tightened on her hand as they reached the altar, the final steps heavy and purposeful, like an executioner leading his condemned. Maeliora's chest tightened, a mixture of panic and disbelief rushing through her. She was here—at the heart of this nightmare—and there was no escaping it. The cold stone of the hall beneath her feet felt like it was pressing against her soul, grinding down every last shred of resistance.

Daemon's fingers tightened on her hand, as though to remind her of her place, as though she were nothing but a possession to be claimed.

Her breath hitched as she stared at the altar ahead, the reality of it settling in like lead in her chest. She wanted to scream. To run. But every instinct she had screamed at her that it was hopeless. His words were carved into her mind. You can fight all you like... But this will happen. Whether you walk or crawl.

She couldn't shake the feeling of being a lamb led to slaughter, but no matter how hard she fought it, there was no escape. Not from him. Not from this.

Daemon turned her sharply, positioning her in front of the altar, his breath hot against her ear as he leaned in, his voice soft but laced with a cruel mockery.

"Be a good girl now, Maeliora," he whispered, "And I will reward you later for it."

"You're mine now, Melly. My lawful wife." he whispered, brushing his lips against her knuckles with mock tenderness. "And make no mistake — I will consummate this marriage."

The long hall of Dragonstone had never looked so alive, yet so cruel. The flickering candles threw shadows against the stone walls, dancing like the dragons that once roamed the skies. The great table was laden with meats and wines, and the air was thick with laughter and conversation. But all that seemed to fade into the background for Maeliora.

Her thoughts were distant, like the sea she could hear crashing against the cliffs below. The weight of her wedding gown still clung to her, heavy with the realization that this moment was real — that she had just married Daemon, the man who held so many pieces of her life in his grasp.

He turned his head lazily toward her, his voice low and rich with mockery. "Is the feast to your liking, niece?" he asked, sipping his wine. "I made sure it was lavish. Roasted swan, Dornish grapes, Arbor gold... no expense spared." He leaned in slightly, lips near her ear, his smirk pressing against the air like a kiss. "Even made sure that incompetent ex-husband of yours would hear about it. Not just the feast... but the marriage. I do hope the news ruins his appetite."

Maeliora flinched ever so slightly — not from the words, but the pleasure he took in them. She turned her gaze forward again, fixing it on the golden wine in her goblet as though it could offer her escape. But all she could taste was the ash of everything she had once hoped for.

Daemon chuckled under his breath, catching the shift in her expression. His fingers slipped around the back of her chair, possessive even now, even here. "Don't pout, sweetling. It's your wedding night. You should smile. Laugh. Kiss your charming husband and thank him for rescuing you from such mediocrity."

His smile was all teeth and danger.

And Maeliora — Maeliora did not smile.

She sat still, cold behind the eyes, her fingers curled around the stem of her goblet like it was the only weapon she had left.

Inside, a voice whispered again: I dreamed of being his bride... but never of becoming his prisoner.

She sat at the table, surrounded by lords and ladies offering their hollow congratulations, their eyes lingering too long, their smiles just a shade too polite. The clink of silver against porcelain and the hum of conversation blurred into background noise. She barely touched her food. Her gaze kept drifting to the doors, heart twisting with each passing moment.

Daemon had promised.

Cruel, possessive, and merciless though he was — he always kept his promises. He had said she would see her son properly this time, after the vows were spoken, after she bore his name. And now she waited.

Waited for the only face that might make this nightmare bearable.

Waited for Daeron.

And then, like a breath of fresh air, he appeared.

Daeron. Her son.

He strode into the hall, eyes wide with wonder, looking as though nothing in the world could shatter his joy. The weight of the night seemed to lift from her shoulders as he approached her, his small, youthful face lit up like the stars.

"Mother!" he exclaimed, his voice bright and clear, like a song carried on the wind. He ran to her without hesitation, climbed into her lap, and threw his arms around her neck. "I missed you so much!"

"Daeron, my son!" Maeliora clutched him tightly, her breath trembling as the reality settled in. He was here. He was safe. The ache that had hollowed her out for weeks began to ease, if only slightly.

"Look what I can say now! Ao jurnegon gevie, muña!" he said proudly, his High Valyrian clumsy but earnest.

She blinked at him, stunned. "Wait—what? You've started learning High Valyrian?" Her voice cracked with disbelief.

He nodded, his small face radiant. "Uh-huh!"

She ran her fingers through his silken hair, as if to reassure herself he was real. "I was so worried, my love," she whispered. 

"You don't have to worry anymore, Mother," Daeron said, puffing up his chest. "I know how to wield a sword now. I'll protect you from bad people!"

Maeliora smiled, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "Of course you will, my brave boy. Mommy is so proud of you."

"And soon," he added, bouncing excitedly in her lap, "I'll ride a dragon too! Once my egg hatches!"

Her heart stuttered. "Your egg?" she asked softly.

Daeron nodded with enthusiasm, his violet eyes gleaming. "Father said it's mine. He picked it just for me."

Father... Before she could respond, a shadow fell across the table.

Daemon.

The Rouge Prince.

He stood a few feet away, silent and composed, watching them. His sharp eyes gleamed, though his expression was unreadable, as always. Maeliora tensed, and Daeron immediately spotted him.

"Father!" Daeron beamed. He leapt from her lap and ran to Daemon, who knelt and caught him effortlessly, lifting him high into the air before pulling him close.

"Little man," Daemon murmured, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Daeron hugged him tightly. "I told Mother everything I learnt! She was proud of me."

Daemon smiled, a rare moment of true affection breaking through his usual cool demeanor. He looked at Daeron, holding him as if he was the most precious thing in the world.

Daemon's gaze flicked toward Maeliora.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"He's a fast learner, isn't he, sweeling?" Daemon said, brushing Daeron's hair back tenderly. "Already holding conversations in High Valyrian."

The words echoed in Maeliora's mind, and suddenly, there it was again — that strange, unsettling feeling deep within her chest. Watching Daemon with her son, seeing him smile, seeing them together — something stirred inside her. It was complicated, tangled, the way her emotions always were around Daemon.

Daemon set Daeron down gently, and the boy returned to Maeliora's side. 

Daemon lingered for just a moment longer, his eyes locked on hers. She wanted to say something... She wanted to ask why he hadn't told her — about the lessons, about the egg, about how much time he'd spent with Daeron. But the words wouldn't come. And Daemon was already turning away, his cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of a dragon's wing.

Maeliora looked down at her son, still holding his small, warm hands in hers. He was hers — but not entirely. Not anymore.

Because Daemon hadn't just claimed her hand today.

Somehow, without her realizing, he had claimed her heart's last untouched corner — through the one person she loved more than life itself.

Her son wasn't the only one bound to the Rogue Prince now.

She was too.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter erupting from the guests, and she glanced around the room to see that the celebration was in full swing. Yet, in her heart, there was no joy. Only a dull ache.

The only source of her happiness — her son wasn't there anymore either. He had gone to bed since it was already his bedtime, his maid had escorted the little prince to his chambers. He had kissed both of his parents good night before leaving, his happiness and excitement evident in his mood.

Now she felt utterly alone in the company of so many people. As she was lost in her thoughts, Daemon caught her eye, and his lips curled into a small, knowing smile. He leaned closer, his voice low and steady, but with that edge of authority she had come to know so well.

"It is time, sweetling," he said softly, his tone almost teasing.

Maeliora stiffened, the reality of what was to come crashing down on her. She had been dreading this moment since the vows had been spoken, and Daemon had claimed her as his wife. Consummation — the final, undeniable confirmation of their marriage.

She could feel the eyes of the room on her, could sense the growing anticipation in the air. All the lords and ladies were watching, waiting for the spectacle that was soon to unfold.

Daemon stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor, and extended his hand to her. His gaze, intense and unreadable, fixed on her as though there was no other person in the world.

"Come, my beautiful bride," he said, his voice rich with amusement and something else — something darker, like the shadow of a promise. "Let us make this official," Daemon murmured, his voice rich with intent.

For a moment, Maeliora hesitated. Her chest tightened, and her breath caught in her throat. She glanced around the hall once more, her eyes finding the faces of those who had witnessed her wedding, their expressions a blur of curiosity and judgment. Then, slowly, she placed her trembling hand in Daemon's, allowing him to lead her toward the grand doors at the far end of the hall.

As they passed through the crowd, the room erupted in applause, and a few of the guests even cheered, their voices joining in the celebration. But Maeliora felt nothing but a cold emptiness settle in her chest.

It was reality.

And there was no turning back.

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

End Notes: That's it for now — but stay tuned, because next chapter is finally smut 👀 I know some of you have been very patient, and it's time to reward that 😉

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @claud012

[awakenedevildays]

am I the only one who doesn't find attractive when dicks in smuts are super long? I just read a fic where the male character's dick was 11 inches (which is around 30 cm)… like- how is that even possible and how on earth am I supposed to even DEAL with something like that? do I use it as a baseball bat?

"Don't worry baby, I'll make it fit" THE HELL YOU WILL?! STAY AWAY

(I'm not trying to offend any author here, I think we all have the right to write every kink and preferences we have so don't take this too seriously, you're doing great 🩷🙏🏻)

[winnysplayground]

“i can fix her, i can fix him, i can fix them”

i think we need to work on you first.