THE PRINCESS
The next few days are rife with the gossip of courtiers, tongues wagging at the display you and Daemon had made at the feast marking the end of your wedding celebrations. While your uncle weathers the whispers and stares with his usual roguish swagger and unapologetic bravado, you elect to retreat into the comfort of familiar routine.
Visiting with your family and taking tea with Ser Lysan in your brand new solar has become your pastime during waking hours. It is far easier to converse with Ser Lysan than it is with the King and Queen, however, for your father has taken to an odd pattern of observing you strangely and then glancing away when you seek eye contact, while Alicent merely stares with a look of mild disapproval. You almost wish they would just address their discomfort directly instead of hedging in this bizarre manner.
Yes, it is much easier to spend the morning with Ser Lysan, you think to yourself happily, taking in your surroundings with pleasure.
Your solar, while being dim from a lack of natural light, is spacious and filled with many of your favourite commodities: plenty of books lining sturdy shelving, thick and dusty and overflowing with knowledge; scrolls of parchment, maps, a delightfully plush pair of armchairs stationed near the fireplace; and a set of two matching desks, one for you and the other for your husband. Daemon had claimed that the allocation of a private solar for his own purposes would be a useless endeavour—"I'll never use it, little girl"—and so you had gladly welcomed the addition of a second writing surface in your own.
"Ser Lysan," you say to the elderly man bent over parchment across from you, startling him from scrawling across the page in his spidery hand. "It may be unnecessary, but what do you think of conceptualising a new symbol for the 'tth' sound, as in 'atthirar'? Otherwise, we shall be forced to use three letters to describe one sound."
"Hm." He pores over his notes
You look fondly at him. Since his arrival some five summers ago, he had been a steadfast friend and paternal guide to you, a welcome smile and genial demeanour inviting you to spend hours poring over the latest tomes sourced from all over the continent and beyond.
He coughs; you frown. He had been doing that a lot as of late. "I suppose... we could, yes. What are your thoughts on the design?"
You pass the parchment with your idea inscribed upon it across the table. But, just as your tutor lifts the page to examine it with age-weakened eyes, the door bursts open. Ser Criston jerks to the side, armour clanging in the first audible sound from him in what may well have been hours. He had been dedicatedly surveying the wall at the opposite side of the room the entire time, ramrod spine and as blank-featured as he had been since the night he stood watch while you and Daemon had... well . It is fairly safe to say that your interactions with your own husband have perturbed more than just your father and his wife.
Daemon exclaims your name jubilantly, striding into the room with hair mussed and eyes bright with excitement. He leans down to press his mouth to yours, hand pressed against your jaw. You beam into the kiss, laughing lightly as his upbeat mood lifts your own.
His fingers fall to your neck to stroke along the necklace he had gifted you. You shiver lightly as the digits brush against your skin. "Sweetling. Your Athfiezar has been sighted flying towards the Dragonpit." It warms you to hear him pronounce your dragon's name correctly; he has worked hard to learn it. "If you wish to enact your little plan, now is the time."
Your eyes widen with excitement as you process the news. It has been some days since Athfiezar had made his way to you, choosing instead to roam the skies and hunt along the coast as he is wont to do. You glance to Ser Lysan apologetically. He is already peering at you mischievously from over the top of the scroll he holds aloft.
"I am terribly sorry, Ser," you say, "but I fear I must cut our meeting short again, for I have promised my husband that we shall go riding upon our mounts together when Athfiezar returns—and he has done so, or will shortly."
He waves the parchment in the air. "You'd best be off then, Princess! Do not concern yourself for this old man. I have plenty to preoccupy myself with, after all."
You smile gratefully at him, turning to face your guard. "Ser Criston? Could I trouble you to arrange for Ser Lysan's safe return to his own chambers, if and when he has decided to depart my solar? I take little issue should he choose to stay for a while yet."
It is clear that Ser Criston has not been enjoying your company as of late, and while you are saddened at the prospect of your marriage breaking down an acquaintanceship that had grown comfortable to you, there is little else you can do other than to assign him special tasks such as this whenever possible. He nods politely, when once he would have protested at the idea of separating from you.
You slide from your seat, taking Daemon's hand and allowing him to lead you out of the room, towards your final destination. Of course, this does not occur until he has obligingly helped you dress in your riding habit, taking every opportunity to fondle bare skin and derail your attempts to fasten your clothing.
Since your first meeting after ten years, you and your husband had been taking every possible opportunity to familiarise yourselves with the other's mount so that you might introduce the dragons to the possibility of riding together. While Athfiezar has managed to muster a lukewarm tolerance for Daemon—a significant milestone of progress considering his general disposition to others, no matter your uncle's disappointment—you have made fast friends with Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm having memories of you as a child and, according to Daemon, finding you 'impossible to resist'.
You had laughed at that first reintroduction when the cantankerous crimson dragon butted you playfully with his snout. He had done so when you had taken your very first flight with him as a child, too.
Your uncle had been teasingly annoyed at the sight. "Must you charm absolutely everyone, niece?" he had asked, rolling his eyes.
Introducing the beasts to each other had been an entirely different issue. You were initially terrified that Athfiezar would take immediate dislike to Caraxes—as he is generally predisposed to do when sighting another dragon—and slaughter him, the pile of bones marking his nest on the craggy hills of Dragonstone a testament to the predictability of this assessment. You had fervently hoped throughout the slow process that you would not ultimately be responsible for the death of your uncle's dragon, one of the older and more experienced dragons claimed by House Targaryen. It would be a significant political blow, not to mention the profound personal loss Daemon would be sure to feel.
Thankfully, the pair seem to have negotiated a reluctant truce of sorts. The mingling scents of their two riders upon you and Daemon, and upon each other, have made it clear that violence waged against each other would be in poor form, muddying the line between friend and foe and allowing you to cautiously build a functional bond between them. They still snap at each other whenever food is supplied, and Athfiezar strongly dislikes Caraxes making any sudden movements; but overall, your efforts have not been wasted.
The ride to the Dragonpit is mercifully quick, and you resist the urge to bounce in your seat like a child. Today will be the first trial of flight. Until now, you had deemed it unsafe to take to the skies atop Athfiezar with Caraxes and Daemon, fearing that the change of scenery would trigger aggression. But Athfiezar is always a little more mellow after a period of time away. The best time to try is now.
Much to the Keepers' consternation, it has become Athfiezar's custom to land atop the dome of the Dragonpit, scaling down the structure to meet you at the entrance. For all that you regret causing issues with the Dragonkeepers, you cannot help but be pleased at the convenience of this change, for it no longer requires you to meet him atop Visenya's Hill across the city.
Instead, you are able to wait with Athfiezar outside the Dragonpit for Daemon to have Caraxes brought out. The two dragons hiss lowly at each other, their usual lacklustre greeting. Their mutual unenthusiasm always amuses you.
"Shall we wait for you to saddle him?" Daemon calls across the courtyard.
You wrinkle your nose in confusion. "No," you yell back, eyeing the Dragonkeepers behind their obsidian shields. You are disheartened that your dragon necessitates such measures, though you are grateful to the Keepers for their assurances that they will continue to use them for protection. "I have no need of a saddle!"
At that, your uncle strides over, frowning chidingly at your dragon as he growls at the speedy approach. Daemon has become accustomed to the hostile posturing of your mount, paying little attention to the histrionics. Luckily for him, it seems to work, for Athfiezar will promptly quiet down at his lack of reaction.
He pulls you back as you attempt to climb up Athfiezar's extended leg. "What do you mean you have 'no need for a saddle'?"
You glance at him dubiously.
"He is a wild dragon, kepus," you say slowly. "He refuses the saddle. I have never used one with him, though you are welcome to try it. I suppose Jason Lannister would make for a decent-enough second husband." You cannot help but to infuse your tone with impertinence.
Daemon narrows his eyes, grabbing at your hips and jerking you to him. "Cheeky brat. I'd better not see you falling off, or I'll be forced to punish you after I catch you."
You laugh as he bends his head down to kiss you, cutting off the sound. Athfiezar puffs behind you, prompting you to break away from your husband and push him good-naturedly.
"Do not worry, uncle," you say. "Go mount Caraxes—I shall see you in the sky!"
I will never find an exhilaration quite like the freedom on dragonback, you think to yourself as Athfiezar takes to the air.
You are wedged firmly between two blunted spikes atop his spine, settled between the joints of his shoulders. They serve as thorough support during your flight, providing you with stability to grab hold of should Athfiezar choose to engage in more adventurous moves. You lean with your dragon as he makes a right turn, heading for the forms of Daemon and Caraxes.
As the wind whips through your hair and stings your eyes, you are momentarily wary that Athfiezar intends to attack your husband and his mount; however, as your dragon's speed only increases, it dawns on you what he is attempting. You laugh excitedly as Athfiezar bowls past them, speeding ahead in an obvious show of superior strength and pace. Looking back, you glimpse Daemon with his arms outstretched, a daring display of faith in Caraxes. You roll your eyes. He knows that, without a saddle, you cannot match his gesticulation.
The sight of the clear sky ahead of you inspires you suddenly. You grin at no one as you lean forward, gripping the spike in front of you tightly and yelling two of the few Valyrian phrases you had managed to successfully teach your wild mount.
"Pālēs! Drakarys!" Spin! Dragonfire!
You clench your thighs and clutch the spike as Athfiezar rolls, giggling madly at the swooping sensation of blood rushing to and from your head at the dizzying manoeuvre. An echoing rumble bellows from below you as Athfiezar warms, jettisoning a blast of golden-red flame into the sky. You whoop when you soar through it, the whip of the wind and the flap of wings dispelling the fire before it can harm you, though you look back to see that Daemon has flown straight into the airborne blaze. You know that he will also be unharmed.
"Paeres!" You yell out. Slow!
Athfiezar obliges, decelerating to allow Caraxes to catch up to you. You look to the right to see Daemon atop his mount, his head thrown back in laughter. He is glorious in the sunlight—silver hair glistening, smile beaming and bright, the lines of his form every bit as princely as he had always been.
He is mine, you think to yourself gleefully, and I am his.
When you return to the Red Keep in the late afternoon, hand in hand, you are surprised by the bustle of activity in the halls. For once, the courtiers are barely staring, instead muttering amongst themselves apprehensively.
You examine them curiously as you head upstairs, making your way to the King's solar for the evening meal. Thankfully, your father had scaled back the family gatherings to once a week in the evenings, reducing the time you were required to spend in Aegon's company.
The occupants of the chamber are surprisingly subdued as you enter, slipping into your seat beside Rhaenyra. Daemon pushes you in before taking his own next to you, placing himself beside Viserys at the head of the table.
"Hello, everyone," you say, scanning the downtrodden visages around the room. You flick your eyes to your father. The lines of his face are pronounced with stress, mouth downturned and gazing absently at the plate before him. "...What is wrong?"
Alicent exhales, turning slightly to face you. "Lord Lyonel, darling... the King has received word of his death."
"What?" Daemon asks.
You have gone silent in your shock. Lord Lyonel had returned briefly to his seat of Harrenhal to settle a dispute between the castellan and the Maester in residence. It was a journey that should have taken comparatively little time. For all that you are unfamiliar with the man personally, you have grown accustomed to seeing him around the Keep for a great deal of your life. His death saddens you immensely.
"How is this possible?" Daemon adds, jolting you back into the present.
"They say it was a fire, an accident." Rhaenyra is tense beside you. You know that she is likely to be thinking of Ser Harwin.
Hold on—Ser Harwin—
"What of Ser Harwin?" you ask, worry colouring your tone. "Is he alright?"
Ser Harwin had accompanied his father to Harrenhal, you know, though it seems unlikely that he has perished; Rhaenyra is far too composed for such a thing. You do not know how it is possible that he has escaped the Hand's fate.
"The Lord Hand had sent him back to King's Landing some hours prior. Apparently, his presence was not necessary," Rhaenyra says, and the relief in her voice is evident to you, though you hope from the calculating expression on Alicent's face that it is evident only to you. "He was here when the fire started, according to reports."
"That's debatable, Princess. Alicent's eyes glint meanly in the light of the candles. "It does seem... odd, doesn't it? For the heir to a great keep to escape the lord's fate mere hours before fire claims him... An interesting coincidence."
You cannot believe what she is implying. Ser Harwin loves his father, and this has always been clear even to you, though you had known neither too well.
"Alicent," your father says. "That is enough."
You cannot help but feel sympathy for her as she grits her teeth and looks down, thoroughly humbled before the occupants at the table.
When Daemon snorts, you pinch his thigh lightly. His nose flares as he side-eyes you, mouth twisting into a smirk. "It seems as though you have a vacancy on your Small Council, brother. Any thoughts as to who might fill it?"
You are unsure if he means to encourage your father to consider him, or if he is merely asking a question. Either way, it is necessary. The Hand of the King wields immeasurable influence, and the wrong candidate could spell trouble in King's Landing.
You are immediately worried about the possibility of the Queen's father returning to court. Otto Hightower had thoroughly disconcerted you as a young girl, always staring at you assessingly, as though you were goods to be sold at market rather than a person. He is a significant boost to Aegon's claim to the throne, and you loathe the thought of your repulsive little brother as King of the Seven Kingdoms. He had frequently been critical of Rhaenyra, and—perhaps most notably—your husband despises him. You have little desire to field the conflict that would be sure to ensue should Lord Hightower return to his post.
The King grunts. "Some."
It is all he says in reply, and Daemon wisely chooses not to press further.
You spend the rest of the meal in relative silence, interspersed infrequently by the idle chatter of the children and the muttered complaints of 'dragon-stink' from Laenor. That night, you toss and turn for what feels like hours, your mind swirling with questions and concerns.
How did the fire start? What does this mean for Ser Harwin? Who will Papa appoint as his Hand now?
You cannot sleep, the worry and ever-encroaching sense of foreboding making you feel suddenly unsafe, the feeble shadows cast by the moonlight appearing macabre and monstrous in your fear. You reach out a hand to feel for Daemon, but he is absent, the mattress cold where his form should lay.
Sitting up, you rub your eyes and scan around the room. There is no sign of him. However, a faint reddish glow emanates from under the connecting door to the solar, and so you slip out from under the covers to pad across your bedchamber, cracking open the entry and peering through.
Your uncle is seated in one of the armchairs by the blazing fire, hair loose and sleep shirt rumpled as he peruses one of his own books. At the creak of the door, he glances up. His look of quiet contemplation melts into warmth as he takes in your mussed hair, your sleepy countenance, your befuddled expression. Encouraged, you step into the room, sealing the darkness away with a gentle thud.
"What's wrong, gevivys?" he asks, examining you from head to toe. "You ought to be abed at this hour."
You choose not to return his last statement; you are not the only one who should be resting soundly at this time.
You tread lightly over to him. "I cannot sleep."
A muted lick of humiliation tingles in the apples of your cheeks at the sulkiness that colours your tone, doing little to refute what is surely already an aura of juvenile guilelessness surrounding you. Nonetheless, it seems to charm him, for he grins dotingly and stretches out a palm in suggestion.
You take it and allow him to draw you closer. "I've taken some mulled wine and laid still for what seems like hours—and nothing."
"My poor girl. Would you like some help with that, riñītsos?" You flush at the sweet degradation that laces his cadence.
You sense his solution likely has to do with laying together, though it is clear from his posture that he is thoroughly unwilling to relocate to your marital bed. Intrigue and a twinge of desire that rustles gently along your nether regions elicits a bashful nod. You always end up liking what he does to you, even if you are uncertain at first.
He smirks and his eyes darken, glowing the colour of rich wine in the firelight as he tugs you around the arm of the chair to stand before him. He leans forward to grasp the backs of your thighs.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you into his lap.
You gasp when you fall forward, bracing against his chest for balance as he spreads your folded legs either side of his hips. Your nightgown has bundled up from the position he has placed you in, and you squirm lightly on top of him.
"Sh, sh—that's it." He draws up the remainder of your shift, tugging it over your head and pressing your exposed womanhood to his breeches with a hand firmly cupping your exposed rear. When he rolls you unhurriedly against him, you swallow at the sensation of his hardened length settling into the split of your folds, stroking along the dampening skin as he moves you to his liking. "Isn't this nice, sweetling?"
You emit a breathy agreement, and he chuckles as he presses his mouth to yours, coaxing your lips to part with a swipe of tongue. His hand on your backside lifts you gently as the slick slip of kissing accompanies the crackling of the flame in the hearth, and you can feel his other hand pass beneath you to free himself from his breeches. He is otherwise still fully clothed, while you are splayed naked above him. It makes you feel small, owned, wanted.
You mewl softly and your leg kicks out as his shaft presses unyieldingly into you. Despite the wetness that has seeped from your entrance and stained the crotch of his pants, it is still a tight fit, burning hot as he scores you open and muscles himself to the very end of you. Undeterred by your whining complaints, he holds you down in his lap, tipping your hips back so that he may shove the rest of the way in. He pulls you flush together and tosses his head up against the backrest of the chair with a grunt.
He sighs. "Mm. Back where I belong."
You bury your face into the crook of his neck, huffing faintly as you ripple around him and brace yourself for his next action. He is throbbing within you, a steel rod cleaving you open and sparking instinctive clenching. You find that when you rock forward slightly, you can rub your bud against the hard bone of his pelvis, sending shuddery sparks of sensation radiating through your cunt, prickling at your nipples, plucking at your pleasure—
"Ah-ah." He grabs hold of your waist, slowing your rhythm to a halt. "That's not what's happening, niece."
You try to wiggle against his grip to no avail. He is far too strong, his grasp like iron, and you are forced to accept defeat. "But—I thought—"
"I know," he says, thumbs brushing appeasingly at the flesh of your belly. He folds you against him securely, chest to chest and groin to groin, running his hand comfortingly down your spine and patting your rear. "But all we're doing is sitting here. I have some reading to do, so your tight little cunt is going to keep my cock warm. Isn't it?"
You clamp down hard at his words. He hisses and slaps you lightly on the backside. It is no more than a startling flare of almost-hurt, but it makes you cry out regardless.
"None of that. Be a good girl and close your eyes now, while Uncle goes back to his business."
You tremble with the shock of twisted arousal his command evokes.
With that, he draws your head into his shoulder once more, carding his fingers through your hair and dragging down to rest on your rear again. His other hand disappears from your waist, and you can hear the rustle of parchment as he turns the page of his book rested upon the arm of the chair, resuming his reading.
The solar is utterly quiet save for the snapping of the blaze warming your back, the snick of paper, your puffing breaths and his slow, deep exhales, the rise and fall of his chest swaying you gently above him. You inhale his scent of smoke and steel and leather and wine, your nose crushed against his neck and your lips mouthing absently against the warmth of his skin. He appears not to notice this, resolutely continuing his task. He is hot and hard inside you, and it is only slightly uncomfortable as your slick gathers around his cock and pools between your joined bodies, a sticky puddle of denied gratification. You swear you can feel him pulsing, and it takes effort to control the urge to tense your inner muscles on his length.
I am just keeping him warm, I am just keeping him warm, I am just keeping him warm...
You do not know if it is sinful of you to enjoy this—the notion of your husband having such complete ownership of your body, the feeling of being useful, of giving him something he needs.
It is likely not a question I can ask of Septa Marlow, you think muzzily.
The heat of the room and the comfort of having Daemon pressed so close to you, within you, keeping you full and lulling you with measured pats to the rear, gradually slows your breathing, quiets your mind, releases your lingering tension. You sink further into him as drowsiness claims you, and you wryly concede as you drift off that perhaps his wicked plan had some merit after all.
You do not know how long Daemon lets you sleep.
Dimly, you become aware of soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, the arch of your throat, and you wonder if you are dreaming it. You are cosy and full, pulsating and thrumming at the place between your legs, and you confusedly register the fact that you are moving, lifting up and dropping down, sending sparks fizzing and skittering inside you, across your pearl—
You whine sleepily as your uncle rocks you on his lap, fucking you slowly and steadily on the chair by the fire. You are gradually coming to the awareness that his length is making gentle nudges within you, grinding into your sweet spot and driving insistently at the very back wall of your cunt, and you lift your head from his shoulder.
He leads you back down, smoothing the crown of your head.
"Sh, little girl—go back to sleep," he whispers, jostling you up slightly and clasping you against him tighter. He uses the chair as leverage to begin pistoning his hips into you, holding you still, thudding insistently against your bud and sending frissons of molten heat juddering up your spine. You are still half-asleep, ruled by sensation and barely-comprehensible words. "Let Uncle fuck you, hm?"
"Uh." You moan into his throat, suckling at the exposed skin and tasting the salty tang of sweat and smoke and Daemon.
You sag into his embrace, letting the allure of fatigue wash over you again. You slip into a waking dream, partly aware of the stream of commentary running from his mouth.
"... You don't need to be awake for this... sweet little princess, letting Uncle Daemon in her cunt, aren't you... pretty girl, so tight and all mine..."
When you peak, it is a soft, devastating rush, entangling so completely with your dozing consciousness that you cannot tell fantasy from reality. You whimper faintly as you tense, resisting the urge to rouse. A gentle thump sounds as his book falls off the arm of the chair onto the rug, and Daemon growls under his breath as your walls undulate around him, jabbing sharply into you once—twice—
"There we go."
He grunts, spilling in you with choked gasps, a blooming liquid warmth spreading and joining the accumulation of fluids escaping your filled cunt. He kisses your slack mouth tenderly, relaxing his grip on you and brushing sweaty strands off your face.
You fuss as his movements inadvertently wake you, nuzzling stubbornly into his neck to stave off the rush of awareness. He chuckles lightly, smoothing his hands up your waist to flick idly at your breasts, thumbs pressing in to circle your nipples.
"Will you walk, gevivys, or shall I carry you to our bed?" he asks, wedging his palms between thigh and calf in a makeshift hold. He already knows what your response will be, it seems.
"Carry," you mumble into his flesh, muffled and irritable. "Wanna sleep."
"Alright." He groans as he propels you both upright from the chair.
You wind your legs around his waist for security, wincing lightly as his softened cock slips from you and allows the mingled slip and seed to dribble out, soaking the fabric of his breeches.
"Take the pants off before you get in bed," you say sluggishly. "They're all wet."
He laughs again, nudging the door open and conveying you to the safety of soft pillows, cool sheets and a warm embrace.