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

Chapter 39: Celebration

"The Princess grew accustomed to her uncle's exorbitant proclivities, particularly in the case of gift-giving. Daemon became known for bestowing lavish presents upon his young bride, procuring all manner of jewels, books and baubles for her enjoyment. Common legend dictates that many of the Crown's most valuable relics are these very same gifts, stored safely away by the royal House upon her demise."

- 'Dragoness: A History of the Women Who Shaped House Targaryen' by Maester Harewin

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THE ROGUE

It is unhealthy, the extent to which you have consumed his life.

At least, he's sure that there are plenty of others who would not hesitate to say such a thing. The Small Council, the Hightower bitch and her court, and perhaps even the entirety of King's Landing are candidates that spring immediately to mind. Not that they matter overmuch. He's inclined to believe that those he considers closest to him—those of his blood, and the ones deemed precious to them—are more relieved that he has found a pastime that doesn't involve murder or mayhem. For his part, he finds himself more and more comfortable in his fixation as time goes by.

You rouse a flurry of emotion in him. He is not one to typically admit to himself that he even has those. His small niece, his sweet wife, his clever girl and his insolent slut... You surprise him with some new facet of yourself as the hours and days and weeks pass, and sometimes he wonders if he will ever know you in your entirety. It excites him; it galls him, to be so absorbed in a slip of a thing such as you are. The Daemon of a decade ago would probably take one look at him and laugh at how unmanned he had become, chasing after his pretty little wife as though you had tied a leash to his cock. (That's an intriguing thought.) But the Daemon of a decade ago was also a colossal twat, so he finds it hard to care how indulgent he may have become.

You are his now—and let it never be said that he doesn't treasure what is his.

His attention snaps to where you lay in the bed, sighing and shifting in the way that you do when consciousness begins to sink its claws into you. Your wild hair spills like a river of moonlight as you turn from your belly and begin the process of untangling yourself from the sheets, grumbling all the while. You are not easily awakened, and the sight of you grousing to yourself under your breath is—as always—entertaining as it is endearing.

You amble inelegantly over to where he is slouched upon the chaise, yawning and rubbing the crust from your eyes. He sits up, already prepared for the moment that you fold yourself over his knee and fall back into a doze as you do every morning.

But today is no ordinary day.

He runs a hand down your spine as you squirm onto his lap, at first bracketing his thighs with your own and then deciding to twist around so that you are cradled in the crook of his arm, head tucked into his neck and puffing lax little breaths. Changeable, greedy thing.

"Happy name day, sweetling," he murmurs gently, wincing as you wiggle your backside into his crotch to get comfortable. With how often you elicit desire in him, stiffening his member to the point of pain within too-tight breeches, he's surprised his cock hasn't dropped off from overuse.

You mumble in irritation, tucking bared legs against your chest, and he obliges the movement by sliding his arm under your knees, plucking at the hem of the nightgown that has pooled just above the curve of your rear. He snickers at the sound of your displeasure, inhaling the warm little-girl scent of sweet dreams and serene slumber that never fails to pound in his chest like poison, sickening and stimulating. All at once, he is reminded of the day you were born—this very same day, eighteen summers past—and of the downy, butter-soft fragrance of the you that had been brand-new to the world, small and helpless in his hold.