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

Chapter 36: Full

"Being a man characteristic for, as Septon Eustace put it, 'his dearth of courtly propriety and his lustiness for women of all stations, heedless of decorum or tact', it would thus be logical to assume that Prince Daemon continued in this manner throughout his second marriage. But—to all records and knowledge—this is not the case. Many accounts suggest that the pair settled quickly into convivial domesticity, sharing a bedchamber, breaking their fasts in the morn and retiring in the evenings together. Never before had the Realm seen the like of the Rogue Prince's attachment to the Princess, being at all times beholden to her wishes and indulging her gentle nature."

- 'The Rogue Prince: Heir, Exile, Consort' by Raymon Tarly

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THE PRINCESS

Sometimes, you wonder how Daemon gets by on so little rest. He is always awake when you lift your sleep-fuzzed and disoriented head from the pillow in the light of the sun, sweat-sheened from his early morning sparring and reading a book or attending to his reports.

You have established a routine in this new phase of your life. Whenever you have roused, you need only cast around briefly before your eyes will alight on your husband, watching you softly from the chaise or the desk as you stir and snuffle. There are no need for words. You will pull yourself from the bed, toeing on your slippers before shuffling over to where he sits and slumping drowsily on his lap, allowing the scent of salt and smoke and leather and home to wash over you as you bury your face in his neck. You'll doze for a time, clingy and snug, his head propped against yours and his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back, the occasional grunt or chuckle vibrating through your chest and the soft rustle of parchment interspersing with the silence.

For a time, this is where you will remain, until the servants arrive to deliver the morning meal to your table and perform their daily tasks. From then on, the remainder of the day will be a stream of activity—getting dressed, attending Rhaenyra, tutoring the children (one session for the boys, another for the girls), working with Ser Lysan, holding court in the Great Hall—and, before you know it, the evening meal will have arrived. Most days, the period of time in which you wake is the only peaceful part of your day.

But not this morning.

The first thing you become half-aware of is the absence of pressure. The quilt is heavy and warm, so the gentle breeze that wafts over your skin is enough to lift you from the fog of heavy slumber into a far lighter drowse. The next thing you notice is the unnatural position in which you lie, flat on your back and legs canted at awkward angles, slightly uncomfortable and detrimental to continued repose. The third—and most important—are the patches of warmth upon your inner thighs, the damp delicate tickling between your legs, the indolent heat licking through your blood. You sigh, tossing your head gently at the confusing sensations roiling within your belly.

It is as though you are dreaming when those touches retreat, when you are rolled to your front atop a thick pillow, legs pushed up and to the sides with tender, barely perceptible movements. Your lower back is stretched out, and it feels pleasant. You sniff contentedly against the pillow under your head, relaxing back into the welcoming haze that awaits you. It is soft and quiet and utterly peaceful, even with a weight atop your rump and brushing your back, the stroking of hair from your cheek and the trail of balmy impressions caressing lushly against your neck.