[ Rhaenyra won't deny it now: there had been a time when Daemon's loyalty to her had been in question, when she had doubted that his readiness to wed her had been rooted in genuine feeling rather than an effort to remain close to power. Their conversation before his departure for Harrenhal had only furthered that doubt, caused it to firm and grow into something hardened. Yet how easily her walls had crumbled, later, in the face of his unrelenting faith, in the evidence that he finally understood everything Viserys had once confided in her, everything he had sneered at the first time.
She had always craved Daemon's attention; when he had departed King's Landing for years, for his first marriage, for fighting in the Stepstones, after tensions with his brother, she had pretended not to lend a second thought to his whereabouts, even while she'd openly sought out his company upon each and every return to the Red Keep. Now, she realizes it is not his attention she wants, or even to be the fixed point by which he makes every strategic decision — she only desires his devotion to her as a husband, his love for her as his wife and equal, his want carried heavy in his gaze and in his loins. She wants him to burn for her, as intensely as she burns for him.
She is not fully prepared to accommodate him, not yet, even as she shifts forward, the drape of her skirts shielding their lower halves from view, to carefully and deliberately guide him inside her — there is a stuttering drag as she slowly envelops his cock, a lack of ease in mounting him, that forces a hiss out of her, through her teeth. And yet she welcomes the discomfort, the evidence that she is alive enough, present enough to feel such things; she idly considers freeing his hands so that he might be able to arouse her further, but instead she leans forward over him, her bared breasts hovering above his mouth in clear offering. ]
[ She doesn't wait before she begins to move over him, the rhythm easing somewhat once more arousal is provoked, and she establishes a slow rocking of hips, gazing down at him with unbridled affection. It takes a moment for her to be fully seated, but then she grinds harder, rubbing herself against the hilt of his length, the sensation eliciting soft, gasping moans. ]
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She had always craved Daemon's attention; when he had departed King's Landing for years, for his first marriage, for fighting in the Stepstones, after tensions with his brother, she had pretended not to lend a second thought to his whereabouts, even while she'd openly sought out his company upon each and every return to the Red Keep. Now, she realizes it is not his attention she wants, or even to be the fixed point by which he makes every strategic decision — she only desires his devotion to her as a husband, his love for her as his wife and equal, his want carried heavy in his gaze and in his loins. She wants him to burn for her, as intensely as she burns for him.
She is not fully prepared to accommodate him, not yet, even as she shifts forward, the drape of her skirts shielding their lower halves from view, to carefully and deliberately guide him inside her — there is a stuttering drag as she slowly envelops his cock, a lack of ease in mounting him, that forces a hiss out of her, through her teeth. And yet she welcomes the discomfort, the evidence that she is alive enough, present enough to feel such things; she idly considers freeing his hands so that he might be able to arouse her further, but instead she leans forward over him, her bared breasts hovering above his mouth in clear offering. ]
Gūrogon hen nyke. Ñuha zaldrīzes, ñuha dārilaros, ñuha valzȳrys, ñuha ānogar.
[ She doesn't wait before she begins to move over him, the rhythm easing somewhat once more arousal is provoked, and she establishes a slow rocking of hips, gazing down at him with unbridled affection. It takes a moment for her to be fully seated, but then she grinds harder, rubbing herself against the hilt of his length, the sensation eliciting soft, gasping moans. ]