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

Chapter 20: Bedding

"Ābrazȳrys." He all but purrs the word into your ear, the rolling consonants of your Valyrian mother tongue voiced gently. Wife.

He stands in front of you, partially blocking the fire. You suppress the urge to shiver—with fear or something else, you do not know. Ceryse and Senna murmur something—it remains unheard—they depart.

"Valzȳrys," you breathe, your voice quieter and weaker than you had hoped. Husband.

"Elēdrar issa." It is time. His hand rests on your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him.

His features are sharp in the light of the flames behind him, emphasising the cut of his jaw, the edge of his nose, the darkness blotting out the lilac of his eyes. Your Uncle has always been handsome, and he seems almost unearthly in the play of light and shadow. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your mouth parts instinctively. He makes an aborted press between your parted lips and swallows, glancing up in question. You know what this means. You nod.

His hand shifts to cup your neck as his lips descend onto yours. You press your mouth awkwardly against his, hands hesitantly coming to rest on his clothed chest for leverage. You can feel him smile against you as he tilts your head softly, and you know your cheeks burn as he coaxes you to mimic the press and glide of lips in an art unfamiliar to you. Slowly, you feel the tension in your arms, your spine, your shoulders loosen, and you unconsciously shift and relax against him as you kiss. He huffs gently as his free hand comes to rest on the small of your back, pressing you further into him.

Ahem.

You feel him stiffen at the unsubtle noise from the gallery. You had forgotten about your audience, and your head automatically begins to turn to—

"Daor," he whispers—no—pulling your eyes back to him. "Fuck off," he says louder, and though he has not ceased eye contact with you, it is obviously directed at your interrupter.

A weak grumble of protest is all that can be heard as your mouth upturns weakly in spite of your own nervousness. You could always trust your uncle to openly confront opposition. Daemon smiles at you and takes your hand.

"Māzīs, riñītsos." Come, little girl.

You swallow anxiously at the old pet-name as he leads you to the bed, pushing aside the sheer fabric drapes to expose the sheets clearly. For all that it is your wedding night, you had never felt so small or so vulnerable since you were a child.

He looks down at you, the twist of his mouth gentle, already working the strings that tie the neck of his bedshirt closed. "Mīsītsori aōhe nādīnagon bēvilō daor."You do not have to remove your clothes.

You bite your lip, willing away the tears threatening to well in your eyes. You want to cry at his kindness.

A reedy voice pipes up suddenly, loudly, interrupting again. "Your Highnesses, if you could procee—"

Daemon exclaims sharply at the interruption. He has to talk even louder from here if he wishes to be heard by your company. "Brother. If you cannot shut that old cunt up, I'll gladly do it for you. You'll likely need a new Grand Maester, though, as I don't see Mellos performing all that well without a head."

You can hear your father reprimanding the Maester, though it sounds low and far off from your position before the bed, and your cheeks flush again at the reminder that there are people here watching you. Impatiently, from the sounds of it. For a moment, rage suffuses you.

How dare they treat me so disrespectfully?

You are a Princess of the Realm, not a whore at a pleasure show. For all your mild-mannered temper usually, you are not wholly without the pride and fire of House Targaryen.