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RHAENYRA

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I am already coming to your door.

[ Rhaenyra's first instinct is to respond to Daemon's message with something equally haughty and teasing — the first, as befitting a queen, and the second, as befitting a wife — but a stronger emotion drives her to set her device down, on the closest table, and uncurl herself from the chair she's been perched in, closer to the fireplace in the room.

With anyone else, she might linger, wait for them to reach the door and discover it already unlocked. It's a potentially unwise choice in the aftermath of the attacks, but Rhaenyra will not barricade herself behind a locked door or risk appearing afraid — or worse, weak. She has already conquered life after death, but the certainty that Daemon is on his way to her is what drives her steps, across the room and to the door that leads out into the main corridor.

When her hand closes around the knob, her expression initially shifts into one of surprise and expectation before dissolving into fondness — and she reaches out to secure a grasp around Daemon's upper arm, leading him into both the room and the place where she stands. ]

I would be well within my rights to order you to remain in this room. [ Stern, even as she takes his face gently between both her hands, lifting her chin to press a kiss to the center of his forehead. ] Forbid you from venturing anywhere else.

[ Led into the room, Daemon does not protest. There are few people in his life that have ever been able to muster the power to chain him, to mould him, and even then he had fought back against their hands, more wild animal, a hound, a dragon, frothing at the mouth as he tries to free himself from their chains. Viserys had tried and failed; Laena had found more success, and now Rhaenyra is capable of softening him more than any other might.

He goes with her, because there is nowhere else he would wish to be.

The door shuts behind them, his foot kicking it shut even as he leans down, brushing their foreheads, nudging his nose against hers and seeking out her mouth, breathing out a soft noise. It's filled with want, sadness, warmth, adoration - all the depth of his feelings for her, even in the wake of his own death. He had died for a good cause, died for their family, and he would do it again. They both know he would. ]

Would you have me leashed, wife? [ A grin, dangerous and deadly as he takes her hand, brings her fingers to his mouth to kiss. ] Keep me chained so that I do not go too far from you?

[ Some of Rhaenyra's initial imperiousness dissolves in the wake of that kiss — tender, but searing, and conjuring a whimper from her in kind. For so long, she'd only ever attempted to meet Daemon with defiance, even when he draped her in his gifts and looked at her far longer than an uncle should consider his niece. Yet she's learned, in the wake of their reconciliation, that it is not a sign of weakness for him to discover that she can soften in his arms. She would much rather they not be queen and king consort behind closed doors, but much closer to wife and husband. ]

I would. [ She says it insistently, but her voice loses some of its resolve with a subtle hitch of breath, the consequence of relief at having him by her side again. While she could not have begrudged him his desire to avenge the deaths their family has endured, she had dreaded the outcome, and mourned his loss as deeply as any other their line had sustained over the previous fortnight.

Her fingers curl in his, reflexively, as he brushes that kiss over them, but then she intentionally slips free of his grasp. ] I'm going to tie you to our bed so that your every moment, whether it be waking or sleeping, is dedicated to my service.

[ Based on the slow, intentional arch of her eyebrow, it's clear that this is a threat — or promise — she intends to deliver on, at least for the length of this night between them. ]

Is it not already? [ Daemon is dedicated to her, there is truth in that. He has bent the knee to her, has offered his sword, his army, his words to her, his sworn queen and dearest of women. When he looks upon her now, there is adoration in his eyes, in the way that he looks at her. Perhaps once, she had been right: he had lusted for her because he lusted for the throne, because he had wished for the title of king to be his, as he had often felt it had ought to be.

Things had changed.

Being offered the throne, seeing his brother's heartbreaking, seeing the possible future unravel before them, and knowing that the child of their blood is in line to the throne in the future, that Daenerys will become queen after a long fight? It soothes the rattled parts of him. The fact that he might fight for her now also soothes his lust for war and violence, to let loose his hands to strike down anyone who might stand before them and claim another as the true ruler of their lands.

Daemon has no qualms about giving in to her urges. He longs to worship his queen, and if this is her desires... He might be able to permit the lack of control in his own hands, just for a little while.

Eyes closing, head tilting into her, he hums softly. ]

A true Targaryen Queen, to command a dragon so. [ But his lips curl, smug, pleased. ] Claim me, then.

Perhaps. [ Rhaenyra's mouth purses, tellingly, with the effort to hide a broader grin; she has no reason to doubt where Daemon's loyalties lie now, even if such a surety had not always been present between them. She certainly has not forgotten the display of strength and fealty that he'd given her at Harrenhal, swearing the armies he had assembled to fight under her banners.

But this, now, between them has more to do with extending a suggestion and determining how he'll respond to it — whether he'd even permit her to restrain him for the benefit of symbolism. She can hear his hum of consideration where their heads are tucked close together, and she can practically hear his smirk along with it, which is what leads her to slide a hand over his front before tucking two fingers underneath his belt, establishing a snagging grip. ]

Māzīs, Daemon.

[ If he is to be her dragon, and ridden as such, she will command him like one, maneuvering him over to the bed and then gently shoving him back onto the mattress before climbing atop him. His shirt, she makes quick work of, stripping it away, and then reaches for his belt again. The reason for acquiring it will become clear when she orders him to give her his right hand, then his left, crossing his arms at the wrists up above his head. Her gaze frequently darts down to his face as she begins to loop the belt around his joined wrists, securing them to the headboard. It's not the tightest knot — he could easily free himself, if he attempted escape — but the purpose is for him to stay bound, body invitingly stretched taut, so she can use him to her liking.

Once he's been restrained, Rhaenyra pauses, sitting back in a straddle across his hips, and reaches for the ties keeping the bodice of her dress closed, slowly drawing them out one at a time. ]

I do hope your thirst for vengeance has been sated now. For if you get yourself killed again, I will ensure you're brought back to life so I can make you regret it.

[ To watch her smile again, to be able to see the warmth of her, to know that she has returned to him after death - it inspires a sweetness in Daemon that might once be foreign to him. She is someone that he cannot help to adore, cannot help but wish to love and cherish, and yes, to fuck, to press her to the bed and claim her, but there is more, too. She is his wife, lawful and wedded and taken, in the tradition he had wanted for so long.

Does she know, that he would've traded his crown for her, once? That he had begged it of her father, knife to his throat and head throbbing from his cups, wanting nothing more than her hand and her mouth and all that she had to offer? Would she care, if she did?

He had bent the knee to her. She must know where his loyalties lie, now.

Moving with her, allowing her the power to shift his body, to command him, Daemon feels a sharp little thrill inside of him. He is accustomed to being in control, he is accustomed to being the master in the bedroom, the bringer of pleasure, but there's no denying the fact that he enjoys the way she clings to her power here, too. She is his queen, and he had given her his loyalty, so to have her wish for this as well, to chain him to her beside and take from him what she wishes...

There would be pleasure to be found there, too, even if his instinct is to rebel against the notion of being so trapped.

His fingers flex as he watches her, eyes dark, waiting to see what she might do, what she might offer him. ]

Would another death not be regret enough? [ Daemon's lips curl a little, dangerous. ] Iksan aōhon, prūmia.

[ In the years that they had been apart from one another, whether divided by time, war, marriage, or some combination of the three, Rhaenyra's thoughts had occasionally wandered to the notion of how Daemon preferred to bed and who he preferred to indulge in it with. As a prince, a second son, and a man certainly not bound to the loyalties of marriage, she'd been quite aware of the women he'd strayed to before his first wife had died. The specifics of his proclivities had been unknown to her, but she hadn't been so naive or sequestered a princess that rumor of Daemon's rakish reputation hadn't made it back to her ears in the Red Keep.

Those nights that she'd considered what it would be like if she were the one to be his wife, she'd also lingered on thoughts of how it would be in bed between them — if he would seek to control her, dominate her in every sense, ask her to bend to his whims, or if he would allow her to seize authority every now and then. While the years of their marriage had not been so clearly defined as to force them into specific roles, she'd never once dared to suggest an act of this nature, but judging by the telling gleam in his gaze, perhaps she should have been this impulsive long before now. ]

Iksā ñuhon. Ñuha zaldrīzes.

[ Ties on her bodice unfastened, her fingers slowly part the loosened fabric, revealing the swells of her breasts to him, the points of her nipples already tight and aching for his mouth. Would that she were carrying another of his children now, she thinks; she could feed him in the same manner, guide him into taking sustenance from her body, drawing another part of her into himself. She will give him another heir, perhaps even while they are here, but for now, she is determined to bask in this night above all others. ]

Se kesan kipagon ao hae mēre. [ No wonder, then, that her fingers descend to make quick work of opening his trousers, freeing his cock while his own hands are captured. Her gaze lingers on his, breath gradually quickening, as she rewards him with a series of slow, purposeful strokes. ]

[ Daemon had been cruel to her, in the past, that he is aware of. When he had taken her to the pleasure houses he had hoped to do something - frighten her, perhaps, or to torment his brother, cause friction between them in the wake of his return and his ire. When she had responded so well to him, so wanton and ready for his touch, he had been afraid, slighted; he had expected her fear, not her blatant and easy need for him.

It had consumed him, after, when he had begged for her hand, when he had fled, leaving his first wife to rot, when King's Landing was behind him and his new life settled around him. Coming back to her, claiming her for wife, bonding himself to her in the tradition of their houses, to claim one another in blood and breathless vow was akin to coming home, welcoming him to a place where he had always imagined he had belonged.

Daemon itches to reach out for her, to drag his fingers along his skin, to twist against her nipple and take what he pleases; he would take her in his mouth, squeeze her, drink from her, breast and cunt, claim her with all that she has. He would worship and then take his pleasure. He has always enjoyed their coupling, has loved the way that the sparks between them are like dragonfire itself, and being bound and at her mercy is a strange, exciting turn of events.

Groaning, low in his throat, head tilted back, Daemon sighs, eyes flickering closed. ]

Ñuha jorrāelagon. Gūrogon hen nyke hae kesā. Iksan aōha zaldrīzes, aōha steed, aōhon. Iksan aōha dārilaros

[ For now, returned to life to her, to stay at her side, as guard and consort both, he will permit her to take what she wishes from him. ]

[ 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. ]

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. ]

[ There is no denying the fact that, at times, his loyalty can be a fragile, dangerous thing - hard to earn and hard to keep, especially twinned with his own needs and own desires to find something stronger in himself, to try and take and take until he gets what he wanted. It had taken a great deal of reflection (and, it seems, hallucination) for Daemon to finally settle into his role, into his position, to recognise that he is finally where he needs to be.

At her side, loving her, giving her all that he might have to give her.

Rhaenyra moves, climbs atop him where she belongs and makes herself comfortable, mounts him as a dragon might, and it fills him with glee and warmth, fills him with that familiar, aching desire that thrums through him and makes him want to grip her and devour her. Chained as he is, bound by her touch, tongue and tie, all he can do is take whatever she gives him; his mouth leans forward, to scrape his teeth over her nipple, to suck there gently, to bring her whatever pleasure he can.

He groans against her when she speaks, groans against her more as she rocks her body over his, riding and claiming him. This is his wife, his queen, a true Targaryen, a dragonrider and master, and it makes him shiver, his hips rocking up to meet her, to chase the pleasure of her. Perhaps it would be better for him to give into her entirely, but he is her dragon - and dragons are rarely well behaved. ]

[ There is a hunger in Rhaenyra now that yawns, and stretches, and seeks to be sated; she has not known hunger like this since before their children were born, when she felt like little more than a broodmare intended to bring heirs into the world, a vessel meant to assure more of their line. When was the last time that she readily sought pleasure for pleasure's sake, the way men so often do? When was the last time she allowed herself to ride her husband's cock for the pure enjoyment of it, rather than trying to ensure that new life would take root inside her?

If Daemon bucks beneath her now, hips seizing upward as she works herself over him faster, she doesn't immediately chide him for being so daring, but her lips part for a smirk, her brow arching in subtle challenge. She has half a mind to lift herself off of him now, crawl up the length of his body and smother him with her cunt, ride his face the same way until he sees her pleasure assured — and then, and only then, finish him off properly. Would he enjoy it, she wonders? Would he willingly submit to anything she chose to do to him, surrender to becoming her throne in a manner more befitting of a whore on the Street of Silk, rather than a dragon queen?

She drifts down to him, slowing the pace of her hips in order that she might meet his lips more easily, licking over his mouth before slanting them together in a deep, devouring kiss. Let him feel the effect he has on her, how she slicks him more readily now, her arousal building as her breath quickens. She moans, soft and approving, when he thrusts into her from beneath, lets him take over the pace of things as she tightens her thighs at his hips. ]

There's no need to be gentle. [ Her whisper across his mouth is harsh and hurried, breathless; she has never loved him more, she thinks, than she does in this moment. ] True dragons never are.

[ There are few delights in this world that could come close to the joy of the pleasure of a wife sated, of a lover come to completion, spilling in hand or mouth or elsewhere. Daemon has found great enjoyment between his wife’s legs over the years they have been together, and has longed for her further than that - how many of the whores in King’s Landing had been his for an evening because they had her nose, the glint of her eye, the dimple of her smile?

Too many, and perhaps that lacks the flattery that it might offer to some, but there is no denying the truth.

Daemon is hers, and has been so for too many years, under the pained and watchful eye of Viserys, with other marriages between them. He had fondness for Laena, that he would never deny, but the whole world had known where his oath and devotion had lied. They’ll know it again now, with his knee bent to her at Harrenhall, his promise made before their banners and their kin.

He is her dragon, her sword, her monster in the night, her own to command and cast where she sees fit.

It is so easy, then, to kiss her, to lean into the familiar dance, to leave soft noises against her skin. There is no duty in this, nothing beyond the joy and pleasure of coming together once more, of adoration and love and trust branded upon them. There need be no heir from this, no replacement for what was lost - only love.

Breathless, he grins up at her, their noses nudging even as he rocks himself into her cunt, using the angle to push in as hard as he can, to take what is given to him so freely. ]

Whatever my grace wishes, she will have. Let us not resist our urges.

[ There had been doubt fostered between them, in the past — recent events had led Rhaenyra to question Daemon's true intentions, his deeper motivations regarding her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. Whatever had transpired for him at Harrenhal, whatever ghosts he may have been forced to confront there within its haunted walls, seems to have given him a new perspective — not merely in regard to her father's insistence of the Song of Ice and Fire and its importance, but that she can serve as the best ruler to lead the Seven Kingdoms when it inevitably comes to pass.

How long, she thinks, had she been his — a piece of her belonging to him even as he had taken other wives, as she had been promised to another husband? That night on the Streets of Silk had been illuminating for her in more than one sense, but he had refrained then, denying himself, denying them. Years later, the encounter on the beach between them had been hers to initiate, asserting her desire for him as a woman rather than a girl.

Here, her desire lies not in mere womanhood, and not even necessarily that of a queen; she aches for him as wife for husband, as her dragon, and her pace quickens as her need does, as they start to move more frantically, with an accompanying slap of skin against skin. ]

Daemon. [ A plea, nearly a whine despite their earlier play, she wants no other name on his lips but hers, as she edges closer to her peaking. ]

Finish inside me. [ She craves every drop of his seed now — perhaps it will not take root this time, but that doesn't mean she wants it left anywhere else. It's evident she's holding herself back, though, trying to withstand him, so that she saves her own release for his tongue, so that he can lick his leavings out of her. ]

Edited 2024-12-16 16:33 (UTC)

[ The truth is that she would not be wrong to have doubted him, to have been unsure of his intentions - because he would have taken the mantle for himself, even if he realises now that it is not what he truly desires. If his brother had offered him the throne he would have taken it, but hindsight is a gift indeed - he would not have enjoyed kingship as much as his mind might have thought, once.

Or he would, and his dreams were wrong. Daemon cannot be sure.

None of that matters, especially in this place. None of this matters, because they are here together, they have been welcomed to this realm twinned together, as if the world itself could not part them. The possessive part of Daemon knows it is because she is his, but in the same vein he is hers; her husband, her lover, hers for so long time has lost the meaning of it.

Sighing into the kiss, he nudges their noses, he rocks into her, and he feels the utter bliss of it all. ]

Rhaenyra.

[ It only takes him a flicker of time longer, hands bound and hips chasing her, giving her what she wants. He leans back as he groans, baring his neck as a wild animal might, cheeks heated and warm as he allows himself to come and fill her, all that she might want, ever giving in to her demands. ]

[ It is torturous, holding herself back at the sensation of Daemon's cock pulsing, throbbing within her as he spills himself at her urging, her demand — but Rhaenyra has eternally been nothing if not determined, resolute, and once she sets her mind to something it can be difficult to sway her in any other direction. When she was younger, her rebelliousness had certainly gotten her in trouble, but she had an increasing suspicion that her more resistant tendencies were exactly the sort of thing that Daemon enjoyed about her — her impulse to challenge, despite being viewed as lesser because of her sex, had often matched his own defiance, even if she had not gone to the lengths he had.

But as he lies beneath her, the column of his throat a straining arch, she bends down to bite at it, more of an absent grazing of teeth than something that leaves a more puncturing mark — and in the moment, her hands are more focused on reaching up to unfasten the belt keeping his wrists tied so that freedom is afforded back to him again. She doesn't need to keep him leashed for this next part, but she doesn't suspect that he'll object once he realizes what her next decision involves. ]

Catch your breath. You'll need it.

[ Her mouth slants upward in a crooked smirk, even as she lifts her hips to let his cock slip from her with an accompanying hiss through gritted teeth. She can feel his seed left inside her, threatening to escape, and instinctively clenches in an attempt to keep it all within, but climbing up the length of his body is a somewhat more difficult task when she has to account for her own skirts. ]

Kesā sagon ñuha dēmalion, valzȳrys. [ Words that take on wholly new meaning when she's making efforts to straddle his face, knees sinking into the pillow on either side of his head, her gaze hungry as it traverses his expression. ] Sir, rijībagon aōha dāria.

[ Daemon does enjoy this, does enjoy the fact that his wife is taking what she wants. When he had done it when they were younger, when he had pushed her into a wall and kissed her, hard and harsh, he had wanted to see her submission, wanted to see her give into him. When she had returned his intensity it had shaken him, then, but now? Now he feels nothing short of adoration, nothing short of something wonderful, and he wants to devour her.

He wants this. He wants her mark, as he wears her ring, as he wears her banner, his devotion for her clear and obvious. He wants to be claimed by her in the way dragons do, in the way that Caraxes and Syrax dance around each other and roar to the skies. He is her husband, her consort, her king, and it burns inside him like dragonfire.

Breathing in, sharp and harsh, he watches as she moves and makes herself comfortable. He is still bound, still entirely at her mercy, but there's no hiding the delight in his eyes as she settles herself over him, thighs either side of his face and the promise of her pleasure there for the taking. ]

ñuha jorrāelagon.

[ Rhaenyra settles down over him, and his hands tug at his bindings in the desire to grasp her, to squeeze at her and take. Instead, he uses his mouth, tilting his head up to immediately slide his tongue along her cunt. He is chasing the taste of himself mingled with her own desire, and he groans softly, pushing himself as close as he can get to her to start to devour her properly. ]

[ The fact that Daemon had been willing to submit himself into her hands, to give over control of this coupling to her, only arouses Rhaenyra further, but there is something about the idea of using him as her throne in the most illicit, depraved sense that makes her unmistakably wet, all but dripping as she finally settles herself over his face and he lifts his chin to meet her with the initial slide of his tongue over her cunt.

She's sensitive, already, from riding him, but in a way that renders every further lick and stroke that much more enjoyable. Still, something's missing even in this, and Rhaenyra quickly realizes what it is; Daemon's wrists are still tied to the headboard, when she wants his hands on her waist, her hips, her thighs, steadying her, creating one more point of direct contact between them.

She reaches up with a sudden franticness, digging her fingernails into the admittedly loose knot she'd created so she can tug the belt loose, away from his skin with an audible whisper of the leather, punctuated by the thud of the buckle when it slips from her grasp over the edge of the mattress to hit the floor. ]

Daemon. [ She needs him, desperately, fingers of one hand sliding through his hair, cradling the back of his head — tender as a mother's embrace, but with the urgency of a lover. When she rounds her hips down over his mouth again, it's more gently than when she'd sheathed his cock in her heat, since she isn't aiming to smother him, but she's still more heedless in how she seeks out his tongue, her other hand curving over the top of the headboard for further purchase. ]

[ There are few people alive that Daemon would willingly bend to, that he would offer himself to without pause, and there is a strange twist of fate in the imagining that it is father and daughter both. Blood calls to blood, and the two of them have the blood of the dragon burning inside of them - it's what calls to him, makes him yearn for her all the more. Her beauty, her strength, her wisdom and her mind, but her blood, too, her connection to the dragons that pulse inside them.

He enjoys this, he thinks; giving her what she wants, seeking her pleasure, curling his tongue in her cunt and making a pleased noised as she rocks over him. Daemon does not see this as true submission, perhaps, as others do - in this he is giving his wife pleasure, giving her what she desires, all that she wants, and there is no hesitation in him. There is nothing that would stop him from bringing her the release she deserves.

This is his wife. He will do well by her, as he always shall.

Without hesitation, he closes his eyes and continues to worship her, to do everything that he can to please her, groaning against her cunt with content abandon. ]

[ Would Rhaenyra have ever been this bold, even on the night she'd finally confronted him about her feelings — offered up the truth between them, knowing she was finally giving voice to what had always simmered beneath the surface of their conversations? As they'd undressed one another with sure hands, made love beneath the shelter of that abandoned boat, she'd cleaved to Daemon as a wife would — on her back, spread to accept the weight of him between her thighs, the press of his cock inside her — even before they'd uttered the vows that would bind them to each other in blood.

Now, she's confident enough to seize her own pleasure and to let him play a part in delivering it to her, aware of what she wants him to do in their bed — put his face between her legs, devour her cunt as he plunges his fingers deep, readying her for thicker. They're not wholly selfish lovers with each other, not anymore; she derives just as much enjoyment from making him shudder and spill as she does when he makes her crest from his tongue, his cock.

The rumble of his groan against her tender flesh prompts another shiver, another quaking, and then a moan, as he licks at her, tasting his own seed and the tartness of her arousal merged together, and the grip she's established on the headboard enables her to rub herself over his mouth with clear intention, chasing release rather than prolonging it that much more.

It doesn't require much more effort from him when she's been close to her finish since riding him; her body tightens, movements dissolving into shuddering hips and a sharp indraw of breath, and then she stills over him, swaying through the immediate sensations.

When she finally regains feeling in her lower half, she moves, gingerly easing off of him and then curling up along his side, one arm draped across his middle as she nuzzles into his shoulder, making no effort to redress or cover herself right away. She'd much rather bask in this with him, the warmth that lingers behind, as she slowly lifts her chin to initiate a kiss she can taste both of them in. ]

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inbox for saltburnt;

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cw: breastfeeding kink tbh

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