Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 9: Homecoming

THE ROGUE

"Ah—ah—ah—my Prince!"

Daemon ignores the wailing of the whore below him as he pounds viciously into her, grinding his teeth at the sound of her high-pitched mewls. Pathetic, he thinks, slapping her across the rear hard to see if he can make her cry a little. He smiles, an unpleasant, savage thing, as he's rewarded with the very thing he wants. She buries her face in the sheets so that all he can see of her is her arsecheeks, her arched, too-thin back, the silver hair spilling from her head.

The wrong shade, he muses, but close enough in the dark.

The thought angers him. He pulls out of the girl and drags her off the bed, drops her to her knees before him. Her tearstained face renews his flagging arousal, and he tugs frantically at himself at the sight of her wide, overwhelmed eyes.

"Finish me," he snarls.

He throws his head back with a moan as the girl takes him in her mouth, choking him down eagerly. Grasping onto her hair, he pulls her further along his shaft, revelling in the frantic spasms of her muscles and the muffled cries that send such delicious vibrations down his cock.

"Fuck—that's it, girl," he says, holding her by the scalp and using her with little care. He grunts when he comes, pulsing down her throat and making her swallow him down. When he lets her go, she pulls off him quickly, sputtering and retching.

Still throbbing from the unsatisfying climax, he ignores her, choosing instead to cross the room and take a swig of wine directly from the jug. He mumbles a vague response when she thanks him with scratchy tones. Turning around, he's amused to see she's already arranged herself back on the bed, stroking at herself between the thighs with an expression of sultry enthusiasm upon her face as she sells her performance.

In any other circumstance, he'd be perfectly happy to let her continue, let her play with herself until he had hardened again, until he could fuck her into the mattress, or on the chair, or perhaps even pressed over the balcony overhanging the bright city. But tonight, the sight annoys him.

"Get out."

He tosses a robe over his naked form, enjoying the fear that crosses her face as she takes in his words but making no move to allay her. "You heard me."

The whore gathers herself off the sheets, tugging on her threadbare dress.

"W-what of my payment, my Prince?" she asks timidly, and he'd like to be impressed by her boldness—but the whore is boring him, and a bored Targaryen is a dangerous one.

"Add it to the Prince of Pentos's tab," He take. another swig of wine. When he observes her still there, making no move to leave, he barks at her. "Well, girl? Are you deaf? Get out!"

She shrieks and runs as he tosses the half-empty jug her way, already mourning the wine as it splatters against the table, across the wall and over the bed. Luckily, the outburst got the girl to leave. The door hangs ajar as he strides over to the balcony and leans against it, staring pensively out at the city.

Pentos is a lively metropolis. Even at night, the sounds of laughter, drunken fighting, exotic merchants selling exotic wares and the chatter of foreign tongues fills his ears. The scent of rich spices from the marketplace lingers in his nose, a perpetually heady musk that pulses in his skull and sends shivers of half-hearted desire trickling through his blood. A warm breeze rustles from far-off, ruffling the hairs on his arms and legs softer than a highborn girl's tits.

And somehow, it's not enough. He wants to scream with the monotony of it all. It should excite him—but it only makes him feel flat, hollow. He's bored.