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‘Hast thou found honey? Eat only as is sufficient for thee, lest thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.’
Daemon had never understood this proverb in the Seven Pointed Star. Mayhaps it was just in his nature to overindulge, raised as his father’s favorite son, given anything he wanted if only because he reminded his father and grandsire of their lost Alyssa.
Wine, women, entertainment— Daemon consumed them in large quantities and Rhaenyra was more stimulating than all three combined. This is why he had tried to stay away, because he didn’t want this to happen. The Princess had been coiled up in the King’s sheets for days, neither her husband nor his wife were on their minds as they relished in the swollen belly of the Princess.
“It will be a boy, kepa,” she mumbled against his sweat slicked chest after another roll around the sheets. “I will name him Baelon, after my grandsire,” she pauses. “And his too!” Targaryen’s were a queer bunch after all.
“Funny,” he quips, stroking over what he hopes is his son. “Baelon.” He rolls the name over his tongue as if he hadn’t said that name a million times. “Prince Baelon.”
“Would you name him your heir?”
His answer is without hesitation, “Yes.” A son of his blood? He didn’t care what the boy's surname was, didn’t care if he looked at Laenor like he hung the stars in the sky— his son would love him and he would honor his mother. “I would do anything for you, Rhaenyra. Anything at all.”
How hadn’t she come to understand that? He was being berated by Viserys or Laena everytime he turned around. They called him a heathen and a fornicator, but what were words to being embraced by Rhaenyra? He would get so much pushback if he named her son his heir, he knew that. He just didn’t care.
His Queen, his Hand, his Master of Laws— they would try and dissuade them, try to have him install Rhaena instead. But he would stand firm, because their ire was worth Rhaenyra’s favor. He would burn whole Kingdoms if she willed him to. She was the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms.
“Your wife will be irate.”
He chuckles, “‘Tis true, and still, I intend on making our son my heir. He may not have our surname, but he will have my seat. That is enough for me.” He hoped.
“He will know, Daemon, everyone will when he is born of your coloring,” she prayed to the goddess of love and fertility to bless her child with the eyes of the man she loved. “Your wife seems to already know.”
“And whose fault is that? I know you taunted her,” he ran his hand through her hair before his hand gravitated back to her stomach. “You shouldn’t do that, Rhaenyra.”
Her eyes rolls, “It was harmless.”
“What we are doing is frowned upon for a reason. Bast—,”
“Do not ever refer to my child as such. My son will be a Targaryen, of blood and of the skies.” She shrugged his hand off of her and grabbed her robe, brushing off his grasping fingers.
“Rhae… where are you going?” She doesn’t say anything, huffing and puffing. “Your King asked you a question.”
“Back to my rooms, of course. I wouldn’t want to dishonor you, my King, with the presence of a bastard.” She angrily tied the strings around her distended belly, unaware that he had moved until his hand was covering hers.
“Stop, please, okay? I am sorry. That was a mistake said in very poor taste, but it was just that— a mistake. Do not punish me with you absence because I misspoke. You have never been cruel, darling.” A beat passes. “Well, not to me.”
Her laugh is small, “You would jest about this,” she says in disbelief. That slur would follow their children for the rest of their lives, they didn’t need their father calling them that too.
“I apologized,” he said sternly, turning her to face him. She looks beautiful in the sunlight, her hair shining like liquid silver. “It won’t happen again,” he promises.
She believes him. “You would do well to remember that.”
“Come back to bed, Rhaenyra, hm?” His fingers don’t wait for her answer, stripping her bare before him, her pert breasts bouncing slightly with force of the removal of the robe. “I’ll apologize properly.” He’s coaxing her to the side, and laying her down to his liking and for once, she doesn’t fight him.
He slots himself over her, pressing small kisses all over her cheeks and face, moving down her body and over her stomach. “I am sorry, son. Your father is a King, but I am still a man. A man who makes mistakes.” He can smell his niece’s wet cunt from there, and he is dying for a taste.
What was more beautiful than her cunt, spread out and open for the supping? Nothing and Daemon was a weak man, an addicted man. The taste of her was more intoxicating than the most potent of wines, the sound of her moans more enticing than the song of sirens.
Her moans are unrestrained as he licks her open, his hand stuck to her stomach. They’ve been in this position at least twice today, the man was unhinged, drinking her arousal like it was ambrosia. Peak after peak, he pulled the pleasure from her bone marrow, that is how deep it felt.
Whether he was suckling on her clit like a babe on the teat or stuffing her full of his fingers, her pretty cunt was so sensitive, so responsive to his touch he couldn’t get enough. He both looks forward to and rues the day he will no longer be able to see her eyes look down at him as he ravages her.
He slid his tongue through her folds, collecting all of the slick he could before gulping it down, more than pleased with the chorus of squeals. The babe had made her insatiable lately, craving and clawing at Daemon to feast on her. Thankfully, the King did not mind.
Past her clit and through her folds does he find the place he really wants to stick his tongue. Using his hands, he spreads her open as if she were made of the most delicate lace. “Princess,” he groans, entranced with the sight of her hole clenching around nothing. “Empty? Inside?”
She whimpers and nods and gods. Where did this girl come from? Daemon had been there the day of her birth, had heard Aemma’s screams of agony and then her cries of happiness as Rhaenyra made her way into their lives and still he could make the case that she was dropped off by angels. “Please?” What was she asking for? Daemon had no idea so he would give her anything.
This is why they were a dangerous mix. She was overindulgent and so was he, it was in their blood. Overindulgent, callous, cruel. They had both been called that (by Viserys) and it is what they loved most in each other. They saw each other, could be themselves with each other.
He certainly saw himself in the young, wanton Princess. He just thanked the gods he had been the one to capture her eye and heart, he would have never clipped her wings, even if she had rejected the King. She was a dragon, wild and willful— that isn’t someone you chain down.
You open the hatch to the world and watch as they make it their own. In another world where her father had been named their father’s and then grandsire’s heir, Rhaenyra could have been the first ruling Queen of their Kingdoms. She was capable enough, sharp and quick witted was the Princess and he loved it.
Loved her refusal to suffer these fucking fools.
Taking a quick side glance at the hourglass that would demand him away for at least two or three hours as he tried to focus on the small council room instead of the beauty lounging in his sheets had him recommitted to making his niece soar once more. His tongue pokes into her cunt, soaking his chin and throat in arousal, straight from the source.
“Yes, so good,” she babbles, one hand on her breast, the other gripping the King’s short, white-gold locks. “Gods above, kepa,” she giggles.
His tongue slinks up to her clit, the suckling distracting her so much she doesn’t feel the press of two of his fingers until they are deep inside of her, stroking along that patch of nerves Daemon had showed her lived deep inside of her. Her initial yelp is so cute an involuntary smile causes him to release her little pearl.
She yelped and squealed and sobbed as his fingers gained pace, his eyes looking directly into hers as he feasts on her like this was their last time together. He couldn’t help it, was driven to the edge of madness with how badly he wanted the Princess. So soft and silky around his fingers was she, even as her hips bucked wildly into his face.
“Princess,” he pulls off of her cunt reluctantly, his fingers still moving. “Do you hear how wet you are? Hm? I did that, little one, so be good and sweet for me and let uncle take care of you, yes?” He latched back onto her, his hot tongue slipping through her hot cunt. “So sticky around my fingers,” he says into her cunt.
Her orgasm is as fierce as her, a scream rips through her, the Kingsguard posted outside of his door certainly hearing it. “Daemon!” His Grace had grown indolent when it came to stifling her sounds of pleasure, too engrossed in her perfect cunt to care for mundane things such as decency.
King Daemon Targaryen was a man of many things… restraint is not one of them and women had always been a vice the King couldn’t shake and there had never been a woman like Rhaenyra before. From Lys to Myr to Pentos, the King had sampled the finest of whores, the purest of maidens and they had all fallen from his thoughts after one evening with Rhaenyra.
Mysaria, the White Worm as she was known, had grown angry at the drop in business, for the Crown made up five and forty percent of her overall business and it had just… ceased one day. With no notice, no reasoning the King had abandoned her and all for some little girl of less than seven and ten. It was mind boggling, but she bid her time.
Rumors of the King’s mistress had run rampant throughout the Kingdoms and if his former paramour knew one thing about her King it was this: Daemon Targaryen would never be for one woman, even Princess Rhaenyra. Sooner or later his attraction or attention shall fade and he will be looking for the next maiden to deflower for three golden coins with his profile on them.
Oh, how wrong she was, for Rhaenyra was no average woman, no. As he looks over her panting, sweat slicked body— her heady taste still clung to his tastebuds, he can only think one thing.
‘Thy hast found honey, and no amount shall ever be sufficient for thee.’
•
Even with her birthing chambers on the opposite wing of the Red Keep, Daemon can still hear the horrid screams she let out as she brought their child into the world. She was so brave, promising him a son by the end of the night even as the pain ripped through her. He’d had to leave then, the sight of her sweaty and pained enough for the bile to raise in his throat. He told Laenor to call for him when the pushing was over but it had been hours. Hours of staring out of the window as Syrax wailed and cried as she felt her rider's pain. Caraxes called out for her, after too having felt the upheavals in the King’s moods.
He can hear the patter of feet running down the corridor and recognizes him as one of the Grand Maester’s apprentices once he comes through the doors of the King’s apartments. The King is questioning him before he can open his mouth, his breath coming out in pants. “Well?!” He’s towering over the poor boy, his eyes wild. “Speak plainly!”
“I w-was told to inform yo-you that the Princess has successfully delivered twin boys, Your Grace.”
“And how fares the Princess?”
“She is well, the Princess awaits you, she thought it best you be there for the naming,” and it is only then does he allow himself to relax and absorb the wondrous news. Twin boys. Twin. Boys. A sense of relief like no other rains over the King, his feet moving in the direction of his beloved Princess and their sons. Fuck, he would never get sick of saying that. Their sons.
A man of four inches and six feet, his stride was long and purposeful, walking past her father and stepmother and even his wife as he rushes to get into the birthing chamber. Sweat, blood and bile are prevalent in the air and it only makes Daemon more desperate to get to her bedside.
Her hair is matted and slicked to her forehead with sweat, there is blood smeared on her face from hugging her son and she is paler than he had ever seen her and she had never looked more beautiful.
“My love,” he cups her slick cheek, more than aware of the watch party behind him. Honestly, they are just surprised he did not immediately cross the room to look into the two cradles. “Are you well?” He reaches blindly for the basin at her bedside, wiping the blood from her lips and chin.
She smiles weakly, “As well as I can be, uncle.”
“Are you positive?” He’s fussing over her and pressing a hand to her forehead to gauge if she has a fever. He couldn’t lose her. “Are you feeling lightheaded?” Her voice was certainly too light.
“Worry not, Gerardys has treated me very well,” she had become more than fond of the man during the past nine moons. He didn’t treat her as the King’s mistress or even a Princess but a person and she loved it. “Thank you, Grand Maester.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Princess,” he grants her a kind smile and moves to check on the babes, one in a black swaddle and the other, red.
“Two sons,” she says proudly as she looks through her Queen who watches the two of them with nothing less than pure animosity. “Baelon and Aemon, named for my husband and I’s grandsires. They shall be as close as their great-grandsires.”
It is only Rhaenyra who sees the tear fall from his eye, but it is only Rhaenyra who had ever proven her undying loyalty to him. She had done a great duty to her House, provided the King his long awaited heir and he was going to shower her in gifts befitting her sacrifice.
Laenor comes to his side, the babe swaddled in black in his arms. “Our firstborn, kepa. Baelon.” A Targaryen princeling if there ever was one, the King was at a loss for words over the beauty of his son. Sweet sons, who looked of their mother. Gods, Daemon didn’t know what he had done to be blessed like this, but he would offer thanks to the Fourteen for the rest of his days.
“Are the twins true?” He asked Gerardys as his son opened his eyes. They were even paler than his own lilac eyes, their hair even fairer.
Gerardys brought Aemon over so the King could see him too. “Yes, Your Grace, though I reckon their hair and eyes will get darker.” Daemon nodded, more confident than ever Rhaenyra was sent from above.
“Thank you,” he says so sweetly to Rhaenyra, her eyes water. He deserved this, this happiness and she was glad to be the one to give it to him. “I want two eggs brought to them. The red ones.” He tried not to think of the stoned egg in Rhaena’s room. He would focus on the good fortune promised to him in the dreams he had on Dragonstone.
“Daemon, have you lost your mind? You will not be giving your… your—” his wife stumbled over her words, more than familiar with his ire but he had denied Rhaena a new egg just to give two to his bastards?
“I will give my heir and the heir to the Driftwood Throne whatever I like. My niece and nephew are both Targaryen, both dragonriders and their children shall be too.”
“You honor us, Your Grace,” Laenor bows to his King with respect, receiving his son back into his arms and a kiss to his cheek from the King.
“Congratulations, little pearl,” he says into the knight’s ear, more than aware of the attraction the boy held in his eyes. “They are beautiful,” he patted the boys cheek affectionaltly. “Your father will be happy now, hm?”
A wider smile breaks out on his face. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Kepa,” Rhaenyra calls and he turns like a dog to its master. “Thank you.” She looks to her son in her husband’s arms. “Two sons now and more to come, a whole army I will have.”
The King laughs, hearty and deeply. This was who Rhaenyra was, insatiable and covetous. “Rest now, Rhaenyra. You are young,” he stand his wife in the heart. “There is plenty of time to think of more babes.”
Her smile is knowing as she says, “Yes, Your Grace.”
It seemed she too, like her dear uncle, had a voracious appetite.
•
The King was proven true when over the next ten years his niece, the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, would give him five more children. Following the Princes Baelon and Aemon came Viserys, Gaemon and Daeron before Rhaenyra got the Princesses she had always wanted in the twins Visenya and Viserra.
Daemon never spoke to how he begged her for each one, rutting into her sticky cunt like a green boy. Many thought her a whore but what did the words of rat matter to a dragon? Five sons she had given the King and she would be rewarded for it in the Fourteen Heavens.
She was a dragon, and to be a dragon was to devour.