"Prince Daemon was a character of paradoxical nature, being well-known for his brutality on and off the battlefield, his callous disregard of the rule of his brother the King, his dearth of courtly propriety and his lustiness for women of all stations, heedless of decorum or tact. However, the author cannot dispute the curious, almost obsessive, regard he bore for his young bride and the degree to which he maintained uncharacteristic fidelity to her. For all the Prince's flaws, it is this that lends the most credence to the more favourable descriptors of his person that persist across the Realm."
- 'The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After' by Septon Eustace
* * * * * * * *
THE ROGUE
Ah, the evening, he thinks. The best time for training.
It is a cold, misty afternoon on his island homeland—though if he is being honest, all the days in this place are cold and misty, for the weather never fucking changes—as Daemon barks orders at the Second Company of the garrison stationed on Dragonstone. Farmers, shepherds, docker's sons and stonemason's boys, the grouping isn't much; most of them had never even seen a weapon before being employed by the Crown to defend the royal Keep. Each day brings a new set of challenges with it.
Like today. Daemon sighs in consternation. "For fuck's sake, Rodrick! Are you deaf, or just stupid?"
He strides forward to snatch the training sword from a pimple-faced boy of a mere sixteen years, anxious and bumbling. The son of a local fisherman, the boy had been raised with hooks and spears, and was doing his level best to enact his father's teachings upon his sparring partner's person.
"It's not a fucking needle, it's a sword," Daemon says, cuffing the boy across the back of the head. "Strike, not poke. Where are the forms I've taught you?"
He drags the lad upright and returns the blade to him hilt-first, tugging him into the correct position and nudging his leg back with a foot. Better. Still a lot left to be desired, but an improvement for sure. The juvenile shifts imperceptibly, nervous swallowing as he watches the Rogue Prince from the corner of his eye.
"Now," he says firmly, "again. And do it right this time, else I'll make you spar with me."
The other men snicker and jeer softly. Daemon casts a forbidding look over them. He can jape at Rodrick as his commander; these fuckwits certainly cannot. They are barely adequate as it is.
"Back to it!" he shouts, lip curling with satisfaction as the company jolts, standing to attention and dutifully returning to their drills.
"My Prince! My Prince!"
Daemon jerks, eyeing the runner stumbling down the steps into the courtyard. Why the fuck are there so many spotty youths on this isle? A harsh, dismal place, he twitches imperceptibly as he considers the fact that—in the absence of other things to do—procreation is likely the primary pastime of the residents here.
"What? I'm busy," he snaps, arms folded.
Breakbones snorts from across the courtyard, in the process of correcting forms, walking down the line to examine the efforts of the men and boys gathered.
Fuck off, he thinks irritably. Just because he's standing here and watching doesn't mean he is idle.
"It—It's the Princess," the messenger stammers, catching his breath. He zeroes in on the boy's face sharply at the words. "Your lady wife—there's been an incident. She's in your rooms—"
Daemon does not wait to hear more. Pushing the boy aside, he barks a hasty order at Strong, a directive to take over, marching out of the courtyard and back up the steps. His feet pound against the stone to the rhythm of his heart, loud and fast in his chest.
The memory of Driftmark flashes across his mind as he moves, the night you stepped between the Hightower whore and your sister, a silly little girl trying to head off a conflict years in the making. He remembers the impotent fury that had possessed him at the sight of you, precious and small and trapped between the two older women. While you had been caught up in a battle that was never yours to fight, he could do naught but watch as the Kingsguard held him back. It had not been so long since that evening—since that bitch of a Queen had sliced his wife's arm open—that the taste doesn't still linger in his mouth, bitter and stinging and terror-tinged.
When he arrives to your shared chambers, storming through the door in a huff, you are seated upon the mattress and sniffling, nose red and eyes wet, the austere form of Maester Gerardys bent over your exposed leg.
"What the fuck happened?" he asks.
Rhaenyra is standing beside the bed, calm of disposition, which eases him somewhat. If it were life-threatening, she would look far more concerned. Laenor is prattling on in a futile attempt to distract you, though from the way you watch the physician with miserable eyes and a grimace, he can tell your goodbrother is utterly useless in this endeavour. He ignores all of this, white noise that is irrelevant in the face of his panic.
"She tripped down a few steps while carrying a stack of books," Rhaenyra says, sympathetic gaze fixed on you.
At the sight of you, lower lip quivering and expression vulnerable, an exposed chink in titanium armour, he seats himself upon the bed next to you, heedless of the dirt and sweat and muck he is sure to be trudging in. He pulls you comfortably to him, stroking your spine gently and hushing you, glancing down at the reason for the Maester's visit.
He winces; it is a nasty, bloody abrasion, peeling away several layers of flesh and leaving the gummy soft underlayer of unprepared dermis, oozing and sore. Gerardys glances up at him, nodding his head in brief greeting, before returning to his oils and potions and powders, blending together the necessary remedy from the stock in his knapsack.
"They weren't just books," you say miserably, "they were Ser Lysan's life works—and I ruined them!"
No wonder you're so upset, Daemon thinks. Your kindly old tutor had amassed a considerable collection of tomes he'd written with his own hand, accumulating his knowledge absorbed from a lifetime of dedicated learning. From languages old and new across Essos, obscure histories and treatises on cultures unknowable to the rest of the known world, to dissertations on philosophies so obscure that to peruse the pages was to incite a migraine of epic proportions, the man is a formidable talent. You take slavish care of these volumes, dusting and carrying them from room to room, not trusting any hands but yours or the frail scholar himself to lay fingers upon their bindings.
"You dropped them, sister," Laenor says. "It is not so bad as all that."
Your eyes narrow in on your goodbrother. "I knocked into a maid!"
Daemon glares at the Velaryon scion. Fucking Laenor, always making things worse.
"She spilled a carafe of wine," you wail, "and I dropped the books in it! They are ruined!"
"Come now, darling," Rhaenyra says. "Ser Lysan wasn't angry at all. In fact, he even says he should be able to salvage most of the pages."
"Most—"
At that, you cut off, your soft sniffles devolving into shuddering hitches of breath as you burst into uncontrolled tears. Daemon strokes your hair back, and you press your face into his chest, hiccupping into his jerkin.
"Right," he says, tossing furious glances at his eldest niece and her moron of a husband. "Get out."
"Excuse me?" Rhaenyra asks, hands on her hips.
"You're not helping, just upsetting her more. I'll take it from here." He isn't about to put up with any more of this nonsense. He is a bear protecting his injured cub, his lovely little bride, all fragile and wounded and in need of him. It is clear that your sister and goodbrother are nothing but useless in allaying your heightened state, and so there is no further need for their presence.
"I don't think so—"
"Actually, Your Highness," the Maester says, halfway through bandaging your grazed skin. "Perhaps it would be best if the Princess is left to rest and recuperate. Some milk of the poppy, I think, to relieve the pain and calm the nerves—she will be quite indisposed."
Rhaenyra hums dubiously; you protest.
"I do not want milk of the poppy," you insist, frowning and infantile. "It gives me awful nightmares."
"You'll do what the Maester says, sweetling." Daemon taps you on the nose to get your attention.
You look up, scowling sulkily, tear-stained and shiny-eyed and utterly darling. Clutching tight to him, your soft little fingers twist into his sleeve. "Will you stay with me? I do not wish to be alone."
My poor girl.
You had been alone far too often in your short life, neglected by your father and his bitch of a wife, your sister with her new children, your half-siblings and the sycophants at court who sought to curry favour with either Rhaenyra or Aegon, rival heirs to Viserys's throne. He had vowed to himself after wedding you that you would never again be in want of the attentions you craved.
"Of course, riñītsos," he says, the sight of your relieved little face soothing something savage and proprietary within him, the beast that craves your dependence and your worship.
You wrinkle your nose in disgust after tipping back the cup proffered to you, the honeyed wine doing little to disguise the bitter taste of the medicine. While Rhaenyra helps you undress to your shift, Laenor having made a swift farewell and exit at the notion of seeing his goodsister so unclothed, Daemon steps aside to speak with Maester Gerardys of your condition.
"I have rinsed the wound with wine and vinegar in solution, and applied myrrh and olive oils to prevent infection and keep the abrasion from sticking to the bandage, which will cause unnecessary discomfort. It is not so serious," the physician advises, "though it is likely quite painful at present. It is important that the Princess stays calm and still, to allow for the flesh to begin healing."
"If it isn't serious, why bother with milk of the poppy, then?" he asks irritably. While the Maester of Dragonstone was perhaps the least offensive healer he had encountered—and as a warrior, he had encountered many—a healthy distrust of all those who trained at the Citadel remains.
Hightower cunts.
"Your lady wife is in quite a state, my Prince," Gerardys says. "It is in her best interest to be kept settled and relaxed, which the soporific qualities of the potion shall assist with."
"And the nightmares?"
"I have given her a moderate dose, Your Highness. She is like not to rouse completely until the concoction wears off, but her dreams should be easily interrupted through physical contact. A light shake will do the trick."
"Hm."
He turns back to the bed. Rhaenyra has helped you under the covers, taking care not to jostle your leg too harshly as she tucks the sheet in. You are already slow and blinking, dazed and drowsy, laying on your side and sighing. His eldest niece is muttering a parting platitude to you, casting a hand over your crown as a mother does to her child, nodding her own goodbye to him and departing with the Maester.
There's little that interests him about staring blankly at the pages of a book or reading letters while you sleep. Besides, you are needy and squalling, his desperate girl urgently seeking his warmth for reassurance. He disrobes quickly as you fuss for him, whinging his name anxiously. From this angle, he is out of your direct line of sight, and his seeming absence is making you fearful and restless. When he has stripped out of his dirtied clothing—they're all unclean, I'll have to go nude—he rounds the bed and slots onto the mattress behind you, dragging you closer to him.
You beep lightly at the motion, sluggishly turning to face him. "S-sorry I took you 'way from training." Your voice is slurred as you speak into his bared shoulder, smacking your lips sleepily.
"Sh, precious." His heart twists fondly at the vision of your pretty-girl pucker, your tiring lids, fluttering eyelashes against your dewy-soft cheek, the picture of wholesome virtue. He knows better. "They were boring me. You're much more interesting."
"Tha's nice," you mumble, half-gone to the allure of fatigue. "I—will you—I feel so empty."
"That's just the milk of the poppy," Daemon says, patting you on the rear, the easiest way to soothe you when you are restless. "Go to sleep."
"Take care of me, kepus?" you ask, faint and lethargic. "So—so 'm not empty?"
"Always," he whispers, but your eyes have dropped shut, mouth relaxed and puffing slow, even breaths.
With nothing else to do, he dozes for a time, caught in the state between rest and wakefulness, listening to your soft, slow exhales, the occasional movement. You are fidgety in his hold, the twitching motions and restless tossing keeping him from slipping into slumber—a good thing, as he has been charged with your care. He cannot do such a thing if he's dead to the fucking world. He naps lightly as you wiggle around, tossing the blankets off you in your repose.
It is an indeterminate time later that your sleep changes, your breaths panting and rapid, your head tossing lightly as you moan. He leans up to check on you, seeing your eyes spasming beneath closed lids, brow furrowed and limbs jerking abortively.
Nightmare.
"Sh, dōnus riñus." Daemon brushes his knuckles against your cheek. Even in your unconscious state, you are drawn to him, face turning up to his hand. You lip wetly against his fingers, self-soothing, an act that he knows is insensible and innocent in nature—but he cannot help the way it makes him throb. "I'm here."
You roll away from him onto your belly, kicking your legs gently. He automatically grabs hold of your limbs, forcing you to quiet lest you disturb the bandage carefully wrapped around your injury. It is the worst mistake. Glancing down, he realises your shift has bunched up just at your backside, exposing the merest hint of pale curved flesh and the promise of that sweet little cunt, the barest suggestion of plush pouting folds between thighs splayed akimbo.
His fingers have trailed up to brush against that plump peek of you, warm and soft, before he is fully aware of his own actions. The faint moan you release—the subtle shift of your hips against his touch—has him stroking harder, toying with the lips of your cunt as they begin to swell with stimulation.
"Take care of me," you'd said. As he plays with you, greedily absorbs the light mumbles and soft sighs you emit in the throes of sleep, it becomes more and more obvious that this is what you need: a nice distraction from your poppy-induced bad dreams, a pretty treat to make you feel full and keep you safe and cosy as you rest. Caressing your dry slit—so deep under as you are, you may not even be capable of easing the way for an intrusion— he looks up, casting around for something that he could use to slick you up, to rub you to a gentle slumbering peak.
He spies the vials and bandages left by the Maester on the bedside table, and it is easy to lean over you, grasp at the ampoule containing the yellow oil—myrrh being far browner in colour, and he isn't about to put that pungent liquid anywhere near your tender cunny—and uncork the bottle with his teeth, holding the stopper in his mouth. After a quick sniff—good, the right one—he tips the phial toward your exposed cunt, watching raptly as the golden slick trickles over your folds, between your legs, on the sheets, collecting in the divot where your entrance lay flexing in response to the sensation of gathering fluid. He swipes his fingers through the mess, lubricating the digits before lightly massaging the fluttery wink of your opening, coaxing you to part for him.
He exhales sharply as the oil eases the press of his index inside, smearing along your walls and luring forth wetness of your own, a slip slide that allows him to feel along all the ridges and bumps that make this pretty cunt your own. You grunt softly, legs parting further, and if that isn't permission then he doesn't know what is.
Sweet little slut, he thinks as he rolls his thumb along your pearl to see you shudder, desperate even when she's sedated from milk of the poppy.
He cannot banish the sudden thought of squeezing himself into you as you lay slack-mouthed and oblivious, a hollow girl earnestly pleading for fulfilment, his darling little niece all supple and pliant under him.
"I'm so empty," you'd said. He can make you full.
It is so easy to withdraw from you, nose flaring as you grizzle your complaint, a wanton baby princess all primed and ready, slicking up his cock with another drizzle of the vial, stoppering it and tossing it somewhere toward the foot of the bed and running his free hand along his length. He is aching, pulsing and impatient, bucking into his fist after having neglected his own pleasure for yours. The sight of his hand flying over his cock, glossy in the dimming light, your shiny folds and glittering opening an exquisite backdrop to the movement of his wrist, makes him light-headed with lust.
Daemon does not want to hurt you, to force himself in and bruise your tender peach cunt when you are already so sore and aggrieved from your fall. He will have to be oh-so-careful.
"Just the tip, little girl," he huffs, slotting his oil-slick cock against your glistening entrance. "Just the—"
I really am a bad, awful man, Daemon thinks, gritting his teeth as he pushes into your tight little cunt, unstretched and tense from your dreaming state. Inside, you are wet and warm, greased with the oil and the burgeoning of your own arousal, and it is so, so easy to plunge just that tiny bit further into such a welcome clutch.
He almost wishes he feels guilty as he slides home, knocking at your womb and forcing a little squeak from you. You shift back, instinctively arching your back and pressing yourself onto him, shaking your head.
You still, unroused.
"Good girl." He pulls his hips away only to glide back in, a relaxed surge that hitches your breath and elicits a squeezing of your inner muscles. "Fuck. Sh." You whine, eyes darting under your lids. "Be good."
Your mouth drops open as he begins to thrust in and out, rocking you as gently and steadily as he had when holding you as a babe, snuffling and grumbling as you sway to the rhythm he has set. "Kep—kep—"
"That's right, sweetling," he says, purring and delighted. Even in sleep, you are thinking of him, his pretty baby bride. "Kepa's here, making you feel good."
"Oh." A single peeping sound of almost-awareness, no more, one that quickly abates as the medicine drags you back into oblivion. Your forehead smooths as unconsciousness takes you again.
Daemon tugs you back onto his cock. You have slicked up fully now, dribbling arousal that trickles down his stones and between your thighs, slapping damply with his every return, constricting and releasing around him in dizzying flexion.
You emit soft little kitten mewls as he swings into you, involuntarily leaning into the drive of his hips, mouthing against the pillow under your head. He pushes your leg up slightly to expose your centre fully, freeing up space for his fingers and thumb to knead firmly at your swollen bud. Your undulations increase in fever-pitch, your neck craning and a soft 'uh' passing your lips as you tense around him, belly concaving with your climax and releasing a wave of fluid that ramps up his pace, a lack of friction making the advance impossibly wet.
He groans, urging you through to the other side of your peak with a light pinch that makes you shake and pant, eyelids fluttering frantically, clench hot and tight and wet—
He stares down at you, his wife, his porcelain doll who takes his marks and cock and seed the best, driving a gentle lullaby for his pretty princess as you settle through your orgasm and open the way for his own.
When he spills, it is a gradual, cresting thing, nothing like the sharp climaxes your tight cunt has wrung from him in the past. He rumbles as the wave arcs and ebbs slowly, grinding his spend into the very end of you, stoppering up and hilting you to completion.
My lovely girl wants a babe, after all, he thinks, and what sweeter time to breed her full?
Daemon collapses next to you, pulling you close and keeping himself buried inside, filling the empty space inside you and breathing heavily.
"Fuck," he whispers to himself, dazed and tired from his exertions, nuzzling into the warmth of your hair and caressing the swell of your tits, the barely-there rounding of your belly all filled with him, his cock and seed and love. He presses his lips to the top of your head as he drifts off, passion slaked and heart bursting.
He has no idea how long it is he sleeps for. The next thing he is aware of is the sensation of you stirring against him, more coordinated and active than your movements previous. He lifts his head with eyes half-open, glancing down at you to see you blink confusedly, brow furrowing.
"Daemon?" you ask, half-awake. You turn your face, peering muzzily at him. Your cunt squeezes around him, and he hisses at the realisation that he has remained inside you for however long he had fallen asleep for, that he had hardened within you as you roused. "Did—did we lay together?"
"Mm," he breathes, bending down to kiss you, a soft touch of lips and tongue that sets his pulse alight again.
I've not fucked so frequently since I was a young man. What is she doing to me?
"You were having a nightmare," he says, engulfing your jaw in his hand. "I made it better."
You pause, brow twitching considerably. "I... did have nice dreams."
A flush creeps up your neck and he leers, knowing now exactly what your dreams had consisted of, pride flooding his veins.
Even when she sleeps, she cannot escape me.
His eyes roll reflexively as you tighten down on him, little tart.
Your gaze flicks up, shy and mischievous in equal measure. "Show—show me again? I feel quite tired still... I would not wish your efforts to have gone to waste."
He laughs.