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It felt as if Aemond was wading through tar as he walked to their chambers.
Their chambers. Aemond no longer had his own room in. Now he’s in the Red Keep. Sharing a chamber. With his…husband. With Daemon Targaryen.
He flexed his right hand carefully, testing the bandages. He’d let Daemon get under his skin and he cut too deeply during the wedding ceremony.
As soon as the ceremony was over and they were indoors, Aemond had made a beeline to the infirmary. He told himself that it was to make sure the cut didn’t get infected, but if he was honest, it was to buy time before he had to see Daemon.
He knew the expectations. He knew the duty he needed to fulfill and he had every intention to fulfill his duties because that’s who Aemond was. He always did what was expected of him and that wasn’t going to change now.
That’s why he was so…scared. His duties had never included being a husband before.
Or sleeping with Daemon.
Aemond wasn’t a virgin by any stretch of the imagination, nor had he confined himself to the company of women, but he'd heard the rumors about his uncle. He frequented brothels and was said to be as fiery as his dragon, Caraxes, in the bed.
He was not looking forward to being subjected to such treatment.
But alas, consummation was expected. No matter how untraditional their marriage was, some traditions held fast.
As Aemond got close to his destination, he passed by a group of women, five of them. Two were middle aged and the other three were young ladies, maybe a few years above Aemond. They were dressed in simple but elegant crimson red dresses.
These were the women who’d be outside his, no, their, bed chambers, listening for proof of the consummation. They’d be responsible for the report back to the small council as well as the juiciest piece of gossip in the Red Keep.
At least they have the decency to not greet me at the door.
The women who were tasked with this role would also change the bedding the next day, to confirm the activities of the wedding night.
They expect me to bleed as a virgin whore.
Another thought crossed his mind.
Or maybe they expect Daemon to be just that rough.
He swallowed hard, shoulders slumping ever so slightly as he finally stood in front of the chambers.
His hand rested on the bronze ring pull, fingers curling around the cool metal.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath.
Make him happy. Get it over with. Fulfil your duty.
Deep breaths didn’t loosen the tightness in his chest or put his nerves to rest. The moment he crossed the threshold, his life as he knew it would be over.
Gods help me.
The heavy oak door thudded shut behind him, and the iron latch fell into place with a sound that echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber like the sealing of a tomb.
Aemond stood just inside the entry, his single eye adjusting to the dim lamplight. The apartment was opulent by any standard—Targaryen crimson and black draped every surface and a vanity of polished ebony stood opposite, its mirror vast enough to reflect the entire room in its silvered depths. Candles had been lit. A flagon of wine waited on a side table. The servants had prepared everything.
They had been thorough.
A wave of nausea hit as he saw the massive bed with twisted dragon-headed posts dominating the far wall. It wouldn’t be much longer before he’d be in it with Daemon atop him.
Speak of the devil.
Daemon sat in front of the fireplace, where two large chairs were placed around a small round table. He had a glass of wine in hand. He didn’t spare Aemond even one glance.
Aemond could only see him from the side but he could tell that Daemon had mostly undressed. Near the vanity, he saw Daemon’s robes pooled on the floor. Aemond had less time than he hoped for.
“Are you planning to stand there all night, nephew?” Daemon’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk. He didn’t look away from the fire.
“I’m considering it.” The words came out flatter than Aemond intended. He crossed to the side table, his boots silent on the Myrish carpet, and poured himself a glass. He drank until he could see the bottom before he remembered to breathe. After taking a short breath, he proceeded to finish the cup.
Pour another.
He took the chair in front of the vanity, the ebony seat cool even through his robes. The mirror showed him his own face: the eyepatch, the set jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. Behind him, the bed loomed.
It didn’t take too long for him to empty the glass again and he contemplated getting another.
Maybe I won’t remember anything if I’m drunk.
His contemplation was cut short when Daemon stood up. The muscles of his back shifted as he stretched and Aemond watched the play of fire light across his skin before catching himself and looking away.
Aemond felt like a deer caught in a trap, waiting for the hunter to come and put him out of his misery as Daemon’s reflection moved through the room, unhurried.
A lump formed as Daemon came into the reflection. He was wearing only his smallclothes. His body was a map of old violence. Scars laddered his ribs. A pale knot of tissue sat high on his left shoulder. What stood out most was the pale red burn marks that covered the right side of his chest, reaching down to his torso, and coming back to cover his shoulder and neck.
Aemond had seen the marks that peaked over Daemon’s collar before, but he’d never known the full extent to the burns he’d received when he fought the battle for the Stepstones.
Daemon leaned his hip against the vanity, finally looking at Aemond. He was assessing Aemond as if he were checking the saddle on Caraxes, making sure it was ready to be ridden. His gaze trailed down to Aemond’s hand, which were now holding onto the arms of the chair.
“You’re shaking,” he commented.
“I am not,” Aemond retorted. Am I?
He looked down at his hands and mentally kicked himself. His hands were, in fact, shaking. He forced them to still and didn’t dare look up at Daemon or their reflections in the mirror.
Daemon lifted his own glass and held it out in front of Aemond. Aemond hadn’t even noticed it. Maybe the alcohol was already taking effect.
“You’ll want that,” Daemon said. “To loosen up.”
I’m already loosened up.
Aemond glanced at it. Then at him. He took the glass and drained it in one motion.
His throat worked as he swallowed. A bead of wine escaped the corner of his mouth and he wiped it with the back of his hand.
He took the empty glass from Aemond and set it down with a decisive clack.
“The servants will be listening.”
Aemond knew. That was the point. The walls of the Red Keep had ears, and this apartment—newly appointed for the married princes, a gilded cage dressed as a privilege—would be no different. The king’s spies, or Rhaenyra’s, or someone else’s entirely, would be pressed to the other side of the stone alongside the five women, breath held, ears straining. They needed a performance.
His stomach turned.
“Do you intend on giving them something to hear?”
The wine is definitely working. Did he just ask me…?
Daemon watched Aemond’s brow knit together and his eye narrow in suspicion and confusion.
For several heartbeats, he simply stared, waiting for the punchline.
"...You would not?" he asked, voice piqued with surprise.
"You think I would?" Daemon tilted his head. "You truly think I would take you like that?"
"I think you are a man accustomed to getting what he wants, however he wants it," Aemond replied. "And I think you have never been told no by anyone save my father."
Daemon's expression shifted. The amusement drained away, replaced by something harder to read.
"The stories grow taller each year," he scoffed.
Aemond searched Daemon's face for mockery. For cruelty. For the familiar arrogance that seemed to follow the older prince like a shadow.
He found none. Seven hells.
Daemon folded his arms. "Do you know what everyone outside that door believes?"
Aemond let out a humorless breath.
"That you intend to ravish me before the candles burn halfway down."
A quiet chuckle escaped Daemon.
"They expect passion." He lifted one shoulder. "Or violence. The court has never been particularly interested in the difference."
Aemond's stomach tightened.
He had spent the better part of the afternoon preparing himself to endure whatever happened in this room. Every whispered tale of Daemon Targaryen had become another stone laid upon his chest.
"You still intend to..." Aemond gestured vaguely toward the bed, unable to force himself to finish the sentence.
"We are married, Aemond. By sunrise, the Keep will expect proof."
His eyes drifted toward the closed door.
"The women outside are not there because anyone cares about our happiness,” he drawled.
"They're there because kingdoms prefer certainty,” Aemond finished bitterly.
Daemon pushed off the vanity. The room felt smaller. There was nowhere left for Aemond to retreat. Aemond looked toward the bed, then toward the fire.
They both knew what tonight required.
Aemond’s shoulders tensed when Daemon’s hands rested on them. It was gentle but as Aemond looked at their reflection, he couldn’t avoid the nerves that came from the realization that Daemon dwarfed him in every way.
The palm of his hands were nearly big enough to cover the entirety of the top of Aemond’s shoulders.
“I think it prudent we discuss how tonight will go,” Daemon said.
His hands reached down and worked the clasps of Aemond’s ceremonial robe with practiced fingers, each one yielding with a soft snick that Aemond felt in his teeth.
“Do you have any preferences?” he questioned.
Aemond felt his throat dry up despite the three glasses of wine.
He leaned forward to let Daemon help him shrug it off, leaving only a thin, loose white shirt to cover Aemond’s chest.
Daemon’s hands found his shoulders again and his fingers began to play with the white shirt covering Aemond, rubbing the fabric between digits.
“Tell me what you want, husband,” Daemon prompted, his velvety voice lowering as he slipped into High Valyrian.
Aemond hummed lightly and perused his thoughts. He observed himself in the mirror. His eye was becoming heavy lidded and glassy. Perhaps it was the strong wine that loosened his tongue enough for what he said next.
“Do not fuck me like a whore in a brothel and we should be fine,” he answered bluntly. His eye flitted up to watch Daemon’s reaction.
A full smirk pulled at his lips and his dusty violet eyes twinkled with amusement.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Do you want me to make love to you, Aemond? Nice and slow?” he teased.
Aemond’s neck and cheeks flushed red.
His breath hitched as Daemon’s fingers slid underneath the neckline and warm hands touched his bare skin.
“I can do that,” he murmured.
Daemon’s fingers began to caress the top of Aemond’s shoulders. The tension in his shoulders had a hard time remaining as muscles were loosened.
Aemond couldn’t pull his eyes away from their reflection but Daemon was the total opposite, his eyes focused on the skin revealed by the neckline he’d just barely moved down. He was watching how his nephew’s shoulders loosened under his touch.
Once Aemond’s shoulders had relaxed to their usual position, Daemon tugged the left side of Aemond’s shirt over and down, exposing the collarbone and shoulder.
For the first time in minutes, he looked up at their reflection. He found Aemond’s eye and held his gaze as he leaned down slowly.
His lips grazed the top of Aemond’s shoulder and out of his peripheral, he saw his hands tighten along the arms of the chair.
He let his lips mesh fully with the skin and Aemond was the first to look away. He took sudden interest in the painting of green meadows littered with pink flowers in the far right corner of the room.
Daemon’s right hand came from under Aemond’s shirt and reached to hold onto his tricep, rubbing up and down the younger’s arm.
Aemond’s eye stayed fixated on the painting, even as open mouth kisses landed all over his shoulder.
For all he’d expected of his brutish uncle, gentle foreplay was not one of those things.
He had expected rough hands grabbing him, not gentle hands caressing him.
Perhaps teeth biting into his skin, but never lips kissing him so softly it felt like pillow cushions touching him.
Part of him was grateful for the kindness but another part wished Daemon would live up to the expectations he’d drawn up for him. That he’d just get it over with, not make it feel…
It doesn’t feel good, Aemond thought. This is torment.
That’s what Aemond told himself. His body told a different story.
His lips parted in a silent gasp when Daemon sucked on his collarbone.
A very different story.
He sucked and kissed along Aemond’s collarbone and shoulder, ravishing the pearly white skin with light pink marks.
Daemon made a low sound of approval and the vibration sent a shiver down Aemond’s spine.
His eyes flicked to Aemond’s reflection and saw Aemond’s distracted gaze.
That simply won’t do.
He pressed another kiss against Aemond but this time, he let his tongue slip past his lips. He licked a line from his collarbone all the way up his neck.
“Gods!” Aemond gasped, squirming.
Once again, his body betrayed him as his head tilted to give Daemon more access. His thighs squeezed together as a warm pressure in his groin introduced itself.
Daemon reached his ear and kissed the spot underneath it.
“Look at me,” he purred.
Aemond blinked but didn’t look away from the painting.
“Look at me,” he repeated, nipping his ear.
“Husband,” Daemon coaxed him.
Why must he make this so difficult?
Aemond looked into the eyes of Daemon’s reflection.
A devious gleam glittered in Daemon’s eye as his lips parted.
Holy fuck.
The most obscene and erotic sound came from Daemon’s mouth and went straight into Aemond’s ears. A low, throaty groan that vibrated with the unmistakable sound of a man who was enjoying himself immensely. It was the sort of sound Aemond had heard filtered through brothel walls.
The pressure in Aemond’s trousers turned to throbbing. Heat pooled in his lower stomach, spreading outward like spilled wine, and his head fell back and landed on Daemon’s shoulder without his permission. His mouth parted. His breathing went ragged, chest heaving against the confines of his shirt.
Daemon’s hand left his arm. Fingers found the buttons of Aemond’s shirt—there were many of them, small pearls sewn into the silk for decoration rather than function—and began working them open one by one.
“Won’t you make pretty sounds for me, Aemond?” Daemon teased, kissing along the shell of his ear.
Aemond’s jaw clenched. He would not. He would endure this in silence, the way he endured everything, and when it was over he would clean himself and sleep and wake tomorrow unchanged.
Daemon found the sweet spot where the neck and jaw met each other and sucked.
The sound that escaped Aemond’s throat was small and utterly involuntary. A moan, barely more than a whimper, high and breathy and nothing like the cold, controlled voice he’d used to state the terms of this encounter.
Damn you, Daemon Targaryen.
“You sound so pretty,” Daemon praised him. He pulled more little sounds of arousal from Aemond as he licked and sucked along his jaw.
Aemond’s mouth parted as he began to breathe heavily as Daemon’s mouth moved along his jaw, licking and sucking and kissing.
Aemond’s head leaned back against Daemon’s shoulder when the shirt fell open, cool air hitting his chest, his stomach, the trail of silver hair that led downward from his navel. His nipples tightened into hard peaks, and when Daemon’s knuckle brushed against one accidentally—or perhaps not accidentally, because nothing Daemon did was accidental—Aemond’s hips jerked forward against empty air.
“There,” Daemon murmured against his jaw. “That’s better.”
The shirt hung from Aemond’s shoulders like a vestment, open down the front, exposing the lean architecture of his torso. In the mirror, he looked wanton. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, his eye clouded with arousal.
I look like a whore.
He looked nothing like himself.
Daemon’s hands slid inside the open shirt, palms flat against Aemond’s stomach, and Aemond’s abdominal muscles contracted under the touch. His stomach was flat, ridged with muscle, the product of daily training and obsessive discipline. Daemon’s fingers traced the lines of his abs like a man reading a map, following each contour down, down, stopping just above the waistband of Aemond’s trousers.
The pause stretched, taut as a bowstring, and in the mirror Aemond watched the older prince’s expression shift—as if he’d changed his mind about something. It made the heat in Aemond’s stomach curl tighter.
Then Daemon’s hand moved upward, cupping Aemond’s jaw, and turned his face.
The kiss came before Aemond could brace for it.
Not bruising. Not the claiming he’d steeled himself for. Daemon’s mouth met his with a heat that was almost patient, lips parting against his own in a slow press that asked rather than demanded. Wine and something smokier—embers, perhaps, from Daemon sitting close to the hearth—flooded Aemond’s senses.
A small sound escaped him. Swallowed by Daemon’s mouth.
The kiss deepened by fractions, Daemon’s tongue sliding along the seam of his lips, and Aemond’s toes curled inside his boots.
He broke away. His chest heaved.
“The bed,” he managed. His voice came out hoarse, stripped of its usual smoothness. “If we’re going to—the bed.”
Daemon’s hand lingered on his jaw for one heartbeat. Two. Then he withdrew, stepping backward with a grace that seemed to mock the trembling in Aemond’s knees.
Aemond rose from the chair.
His legs held. Barely. The open shirt fluttered around his torso as he moved, a ghost of silk that he shrugged off with a roll of his shoulders. It pooled on the floor behind him, a white stain against the dark Myrish carpet.
His boots came first. He hooked his heel against the toe of each and worked them off without ceremony.
His fingers found the laces of his trousers. He cursed under his breath, fumbling with the knot until it yielded.
The trousers slid down his thighs, catching briefly on his knees before he shoved them to his ankles and stepped free. His smallclothes followed. The air in the chamber touched him everywhere—cool against his arousal, against the overheated skin of his thighs, against the backs of his knees.
He straightened. Naked. Exposed.
The eyepatch stayed.
Daemon hadn’t moved from his position near the vanity. His gaze tracked Aemond’s progress toward the bed with the stillness of a predator who had already decided his prey was worth the wait.
Aemond climbed onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against his skin, smooth as water, and he positioned himself in the center of the bed with his head on the pillows and his legs pressed together. The dragon-headed posts loomed above him, carved eyes watching.
He stared at the canopy overhead. Black silk embroidered with the three-headed dragon of their house glared back at him.
Aemond listened to the sounds behind him. The soft pad of Daemon’s bare feet. The clink of a glass stopper being removed. The viscous glug-glug of oil being poured.
The mattress dipped.
Aemond’s throat clicked as he swallowed.
Daemon settled between his legs, kneeling, and Aemond felt the heat of him before any touch came. The older prince’s thighs bracketed his own, and when Aemond risked a glance downward, he saw Daemon’s fingers glistening with oil in the candlelight.
“Spread your legs,” Daemon instructed.
Aemond’s mouth opened before his brain caught up. “I’m already loose,” Aemond blurted out. The word came out smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat. “I prepared myself. Before the ceremony.”
Daemon’s eyebrow lifted and his hand paused above the oil vial. His head tilted and something flickered across his features. Surprise or reassessment, Aemond could not tell.
“Did you now?”
Aemond smoothed his voice out, a soft lilt slipping into it. “I wanted to please my husband.”
The words hung in the air between them, and Aemond watched Daemon’s expression shift from surprise to something far more dangerous: delight. A slow smile spread across his face, wolfish and warm all at once.
“So eager,” Daemon murmured, and the tease in his voice made Aemond’s flush deepen from his cheeks down to his chest. “My dutiful nephew. Thinking ahead.”
“Someone had to.”
Daemon laughed. An actual laugh, low and genuine, and the sound of it vibrated through the mattress and settled into Aemond’s bones.
Then his expression sobered. His gaze traveled from Aemond’s face to the strip of black leather that still covered his left eye.
“Take it off.”
Aemond’s blood went cold.
His hand flew to the eyepatch instinctively, pressing it against his face as if Daemon might rip it away.
“For what?” The words came out sharp, serrated. “So you can mock me? So you can see what that boy did to your husband?”
Daemon didn’t flinch.
He didn’t reach for the eyepatch or press the issue with words. Instead, he straightened, still kneeling between Aemond’s legs, and gestured at his own chest. At the burn scars that covered the right side of his torso, creeping up his neck, mapping his skin in ridges of pale crimson.
“You’ve seen this,” Daemon said. Simply. Without self-pity. Without pride. As if he were pointing out the color of the drapes.
Aemond’s eye traced the scars. He’d noticed them earlier, of course—impossible not to—but he hadn’t let himself linger. Now he looked. The burns were old, years old, but they still held the faint memory of violence in their texture. The skin was smooth in some places, puckered in others, a geography of survival.
“I want to see you,” Daemon said.
The words landed somewhere deep in Aemond’s chest.
His fingers trembled against the leather. No one had ever asked. No one had ever wanted to see—they only wanted to stare, to whisper, to pity or to mock. But Daemon’s gaze held none of those things. Only patience.
Too late to turn back now.
Slowly, Aemond’s hand moved to the back of his head. His fingers found the clasp. The leather gave way with a soft shuffle, and the eyepatch fell into his palm.
He turned his head immediately. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t bear to see the reaction in Daemon’s face, in the mirror, anywhere. The cool air touched the blue sapphire where his left eye had once been, and he felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothing.
The mattress shifted.
Daemon moved forward, knees sliding along the sheets, until he was positioned between Aemond’s thighs. His weight settled, warm and solid, and then his hand was on Aemond’s chin, gentle but insistent, turning his face back.
Aemond squeezed his eyes shut.
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t.
“Aemond.”
The sound of his name, spoken without mockery, without disgust, pulled at something in his chest. He opened his eyes.
Daemon was looking at him. All of him. His gaze moved over the intense scare that stretched over his face, the marred skin around the socket, and the sapphire itself.
“When you are in our chambers,” Daemon said, his voice low and even, “I expect this to stay off.”
Aemond blinked. Confusion knitted his brow. “I don’t—”
“Understood?”
The word left no room for argument. Aemond’s mouth closed.
“Words,” Daemon prompted. His thumb stroked along Aemond’s jawline, a brief touch that was gone before Aemond could lean into it.
“Yes,” Aemond breathed. The word felt insufficient. He tried again. “Yes, husband.”
Daemon leaned back and reached for the oil.
His fingers dipped into the vial, emerging slick and gleaming, and Aemond watched with as Daemon stroked the oil onto himself.
Aemond had seen cocks before. He had lived his entire life surrounded by men—knights and squires and lords who thought nothing of urinating against stable walls or bathing in the communal springs near the dragonpit.
He had seen his brother Aegon's cock more times than he would’ve preferred, usually when his drunken sibling was stumbling through the halls with his breeches around his ankles.
But seeing Daemon's cock was different.
It hung heavy between his uncle's thighs, even at rest. Thick. Substantial in a way that made Aemond's stomach clench with something between apprehension and…he was unwilling to name the second feeling.
The shaft was pale, nearly the same cream color as the rest of Daemon's skin, with a faint network of veins visible beneath the surface. A thatch of silver-gold hair surrounded the base, slightly darker than the hair on Daemon's head.
The head was partially visible beneath the foreskin, a dusky pink that deepened as Aemond watched.
He realized he had been staring and looked away.
"You can look," Daemon said. There was smug satisfaction in his voice. "It's your right. We're married."
"I was not—" Aemond started, then stopped. There was no point in denying the obvious.
He’s big. Of course he is.
Daemon positioned himself at Aemond’s entrance. The blunt pressure made Aemond’s breath catch.
“Ready?”
Aemond nodded. Then, remembering: “Yes.”
Daemon pushed inside. The world tilted.
Aemond’s eye rolled back in his skull—a full, involuntary roll that left him staring at the inside of his own eyelid. His spine arched off the mattress. A sound tore from his throat, high and breathy, utterly beyond his control.
The stretch was immense. Even with the preparation, even with the oil, Daemon filled him completely, splitting him open with a pressure that bordered on too much. Aemond’s hands flew to Daemon’s shoulders, fingers digging into the scarred skin, feeling the ridges and valleys of old burns beneath his palms.
Every hope of staying silent evaporated.
“Oh, gods, oh! Fuck, Daemon!”
The words spilled out of him in a stream, wet and breathless, and he couldn’t stop them any more than he could stop the way his hips rolled up to meet Daemon’s thrust. The sound of their joining was obscene—a slick, wet sound as Daemon seated himself fully, the oil squelching between them.
Daemon paused. Buried to the hilt. Letting Aemond adjust.
Aemond’s chest heaved. His mouth hung open. His legs had wrapped around Daemon’s waist without his permission, ankles locking at the small of Daemon’s back, and his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the scarred landscape of his husband’s shoulders.
“Breathe,” Daemon murmured.
Aemond sucked in a lungful of air he hadn’t realized he’d been withholding. The exhale came out as a moan.
“Good,” Daemon praised. His voice was strained, the first crack in his composure Aemond had witnessed all night.
He pulled out in a slow drag that made Aemond keen and pushed back in.
The dance began.
Slow at first. Deep. Daemon’s hips rolled with a deliberation that felt like torture, each thrust measured and precise. The head of his cock dragged against something inside Aemond that made sparks burst behind his eye, and every time it happened Aemond’s voice climbed higher.
I can’t believe this.
The sounds he was making were mortifying. He sounded like the women in the brothels he’d visited, the ones who performed their pleasure for coin. High, breathy moans that pitched into whimpers. Gasping. The wet squelch of Daemon’s cock moving inside him filled the chamber like music.
“Pretty,” Daemon breathed. His hips never faltered. “You sound so pretty, husband.”
Husband. The word should have been wrong. Instead, it sent a bolt of heat straight to Aemond’s groin, and his cock, which had been leaking steadily against his stomach, twitched and spurted a thin stream of fluid.
Daemon noticed. Of course he noticed.
His pace increased. It still wasn’t the brutal rutting Aemond had feared, but it was steady and relentless, a rhythm that built like a tide coming in.
Aemond’s nails raked down Daemon’s back, catching on the edge of a burn scar, and Daemon hissed through his teeth. Not in pain—or not only in pain. His hips snapped forward harder, burying himself to the root, and Aemond wailed.
A wet, guttural sound. He would be mortified later. Now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Daemon’s hand found his cock.
“Gods!” Aemond cried.
The touch was electric. Fingers wrapping around him, slick with oil and the fluid leaking from his tip, stroking in counterpoint to the thrusts. Aemond’s vision whited out. His hips bucked wildly, caught between Daemon’s hand and Daemon’s cock, and the dual sensations blurred into something that shorted out every rational circuit in his brain.
“Close,” he gasped. His voice cracked. “I’m—I’m close, I’m going to—”
“Then come,” Daemon grunted. His voice was rough now, control fraying at the edges. “Come for me, husband.”
Aemond’s orgasm hit like a physical blow. His back arched off the mattress, his mouth opened wide, and a sound like a sob tore from his throat as his cock pulsed in Daemon’s grip. Thick ropes of seed splattered across his own stomach, his chest, one stripe reaching as high as his collarbone.
“Aaah! Fuck, fuck, ffff—”
Daemon stroked him through it. Milked every pulse from him until Aemond was trembling and overstimulated, whimpering into the quiet room.
Only then did Daemon’s rhythm falter. He pulled out. The sudden emptiness made Aemond flinch. Daemon’s hand moved to his own cock, slick with oil, stroking hard and fast. His eyes were fixed on Aemond’s face.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Aemond forced his eye open. Forced himself to meet Daemon’s gaze.
Daemon’s mouth parted. His hips jerked once, twice. His hand worked furiously and then he was coming—a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his seed spurted onto the sheets beside Aemond’s hip. He aimed deliberately, away from Aemond’s body, painting the pristine linens with streaks of white.
The evidence, Aemond thought hazily. He’s leaving evidence.
Daemon collapsed onto his hands, hovering over Aemond, arms trembling. His breath came in harsh pants, chest heaving. The burns on his torso gleamed in the candlelight, slick with sweat.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Aemond expected him to roll away. To climb off the bed and retreat to his side of the mattress, to clean himself and sleep and pretend none of this had happened until morning.
Instead, Daemon lowered himself carefully onto Aemond’s body.
The weight was immense. Solid. Daemon’s chest pressed against Aemond’s, skin to skin, and the stickiness of Aemond’s own release smeared between them. Daemon’s softening cock rested against Aemond’s thigh, still slick with oil. The burn scars on Daemon’s chest were rough against Aemond’s smooth skin.
Aemond’s breath caught.
He should push him off. Should insist on cleaning up, on maintaining some scrap of dignity, on retreating to opposite sides of this massive bed before the closeness became unbearable.
His arms wrapped around Daemon’s back instead.
His fingers traced the edges of the burn scars, slow and tentative. Learning the shape of them. The texture shifted beneath his touch.
Smooth here, ridged there.
He found a knot of tissue at the shoulder that must have been where the fire bit deepest.
Daemon made a low sound against his throat. Not a word. Just a rumble, a vibration that Aemond felt in his sternum.
The moment stretched.
Aemond became aware of every point of contact between them. Daemon’s breath on his neck. Daemon’s thighs tangled with his own. The slow seep of oil and seed and sweat between their bodies. The weight of Daemon’s head on his shoulder.
It was too much. It was not enough.
I should hate this.
He had spent years hating Daemon Targaryen, hating everything he represented, hating the smug arrogance and the unchecked privilege and the way everyone at court whispered his name like a prayer or a curse. He should hate this marriage, this duty, this body pressed against his.
Instead, his fingers kept tracing the scars.
Daemon stirred. Lifted his head enough to look at Aemond’s face.
“You’re still here,” Daemon murmured.
Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Where else would I be?”
Daemon chuckled. “I half expected you to bolt the moment I finished.”
“I don’t bolt.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. His thumb traced Aemond’s cheekbone, over the scar. “You don’t, do you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Aemond’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to do with this—the tenderness, the weight, the way Daemon looked at him like he was something worth looking at. He didn’t know what to do with the way his body was still humming, still sensitive, still wanting despite the exhaustion seeping into his bones.
Daemon shifted.
The movement was subtle—a roll of his hips, barely there—but it pressed his softening cock against Aemond’s thigh with renewed pressure. Aemond’s breath stuttered.
“Daemon?”
“Shh.”
Daemon’s hand slid down Aemond’s side. Over his ribs. Over his hip. Between his legs.
Aemond’s thighs fell open without his permission.
He was still slick. Still loose. Three of Daemon’s fingers pushed inside him without resistance and Aemond’s head fell back against the pillows.
“What are you—”
“The women outside,” Daemon murmured against his throat. “They’ll expect more than one round from a man of my reputation.”
Aemond’s laugh came out breathless and half-mad. “Your reputation.”
“Mm.” Daemon’s fingers curled inside him, and Aemond’s hips bucked. “Can’t have them thinking I’ve gone soft.”
The arrogance should have been infuriating. Instead, it made Aemond’s spent cock twitch valiantly against his thigh.
Daemon’s fingers worked inside him with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Slow circles. Gentle pressure.
“I can’t,” Aemond gasped. “I just—I can’t again, not so soon—”
“Can’t?” Daemon’s teeth grazed his collarbone. “Or won’t?”
Aemond knew he should push Daemon away. Attempt to reclaim some fragment of control. His body was oversensitive, trembling, wrung out from the first orgasm.
He can’t possibly expect to–
Daemon’s thumb found a spot that made his vision spark.
“Fuck you!” Aemond gasped.
“There you go,” Daemon purred. His fingers kept moving. “One more. Give me one more, husband.”
Aemond shook his head. His hands pushed weakly at Daemon’s shoulders. “I can’t—it’s too—I—”
“You can.” Daemon’s voice was velvet and steel. “You will.”
The words sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with cold. This was what he’d expected—Daemon’s control, Daemon’s demands—but it wasn’t frightening the way he’d thought it would be. It was something else entirely. Something that made his treacherous body relax into the mattress and his thighs spread wider.
Daemon’s fingers withdrew. The loss made Aemond whimper.
Then Daemon was shifting again, positioning himself, and Aemond realized what he intended a moment before the blunt pressure returned.
“Wait!”
“I have you,” Daemon murmured. “I have you, Aemond.”
He pushed inside.
Aemond screamed.
The sensation was too much and not enough and exactly right and completely overwhelming all at once. His already-sensitive body clenched around Daemon’s cock, and the wet squelch of seed and oil being pushed deeper made his cheeks burn.
Daemon didn’t move. He stayed buried, fully seated, his forehead pressed against Aemond’s.
“Breathe.”
Aemond sobbed a laugh. The audacity. “You keep…telling me to breathe.”
“Because you keep forgetting.”
The rhythm, when it started, was nothing like before. Slower. Deeper. Daemon’s hips rolled in long, languid thrusts that ground against that spot inside him with every stroke. There was no urgency. Only the slow, inexorable pressure of a tide that refused to retreat.
The sounds were different too. Wetter. The oil and Aemond’s body’s own responses had created a slickness that made every movement audible and Aemond’s voice had softened from screams to high pitched whimpers and sobs. The left side of his face was streaked with tears.
His cock was half-hard again. Weeping against his stomach.
Aemond’s hands found Daemon’s back again. Even though he was half out of his mind, his fingers traced the burns with a reverence he didn’t understand. The scar tissue was warm under his touch, warmer than the rest of Daemon’s skin, and he wondered if the burns still hurt. If they pulled when Daemon moved like this. If Daemon thought about the fire every time someone touched them.
“Stop thinking,” Daemon murmured. His hips rolled deeper. “I can hear you thinking.”
“You can’t hear—ah”
“I can.” A kiss. Soft. Contradicting the relentless pressure inside him. “Your eye goes distant. Come back to me.”
Aemond’s eye—his only eye—snapped to Daemon’s face.
Daemon was watching him. Had been watching him. His expression was intent, focused, as if Aemond were a puzzle he was determined to solve.
“There’s my husband,” he said again.
The rhythm built.
Slowly. Inexorably. Daemon’s thrusts deepened until Aemond could feel him in his throat, or so it seemed, and the wet schlorp-schlorp-schlorp of their joining filled the chamber like a heartbeat. The bed creaked. The candles flickered. Outside, beyond the heavy oak door, the women in crimson dresses were listening.
Let them listen, Aemond thought wildly. Let them hear.
His second orgasm was built differently than the first. No sharp peak—instead, a slow, rolling pressure that spread outward from his core and reached his fingertips and toes and the roots of his hair. His mouth fell open. His eye unfocused.
“Daemon!” he called his name, as if saying it could lessen the intensity.
“I know.” Daemon’s hand found his cock again. Stroked. “I know. Let it happen.”
The pressure crested. Broke.
Aemond’s vision whited out. His body seized, clenching around Daemon’s cock, and a thin stream of fluid pulsed from his cock—less than before, barely a dribble, but the sensation was somehow more intense. His mouth opened but nothing came out.
Daemon fucked him through it. His thrusts continued, steady and deep, drawing out every pulse, every spasm, until Aemond was limp and trembling beneath him.
Then he pulled out.
Daemon’s hand moved on his own cock. Fast. Desperate. His seed spurting across the sheets, adding to the evidence already there, a fresh layer of white on the rumpled linens.
The man is a beast.
Daemon collapsed. Not on Aemond this time. He had the presence of mind to roll to the side, landing on the mattress with a grunt. His chest heaved. Sweat gleamed on his brow and across the mottled landscape of his burns.
Aemond stared at the canopy overhead. His body was still humming, still twitching with aftershocks. The stickiness between his thighs was mortifying. The sounds he’d made were already catching up to him.
I sounded like a wanton whore.
Daemon’s hand found his. Their fingers tangled together on the rumpled sheets.
Aemond turned his head. Daemon was watching him again, those cold violet eyes half-lidded and unreadable.
Silence. The candles burned lower. Outside the door, Aemond imagined he could hear whispers, the rustle of crimson dresses, the scratch of mental notes being taken. By morning, the entire Keep would know that Daemon Targaryen had thoroughly bedded his new husband. That Aemond had screamed and moaned and begged.
The Red Keep would have every morsel of the bountiful gossip they had hoped for.
His cheeks burned. But beneath the shame, something else stirred. He was… pleased to know it.
Daemon’s thumb stroked over his knuckles.
“Sleep,” Daemon said. “Dawn comes early, and the small council will want their report.”
Aemond’s eye drifted shut despite himself.
The last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was the squeeze of Daemon’s fingers around his own. The last thing he heard was a single whispered word, so soft he might have imagined it.
Mine.