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A bird with a broken wing.
A dragon, whose fire no longer curled around itself in protection but instead flared out, marring all in its path with the pain of a distant memory. A fantasy which once used to be reality, held so tightly it chafed in her grip.
Hands touched at his calves, fixing upon them metal casings that slotted like second skin to his body, and in many ways he felt more comfort within the clashing of steel than he ever did the tangling of words. As charismatic as the Rogue Prince had been, the reconciliation between facade and body had long since waned in his age. No longer did eager motion bring femininity to heel, did his hands draw against that of strangers with empty honeyed compliments spilling from his lips. There was little and less time for such things. And his heart no longer held the capacity for such things, believed in such things, aside from her. Flicking his hand, the servants moved around him like ants, lesser than him, smaller than him, tightening leather straps across his shins. Eyes roaming up the extent of his armour, he gazed into the empty face, hollow, a cavity of loss and yet the only thing that stood between the soft bosom of the woman he loved and the thousands of arrows ready to sling into her. Hand coming up to cup the darkened metal, thumb scoring across the lip of the jaw, he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection.
Of what he fought for.
Of what he was fighting for.
Remembrance was an emotion Daemon had come to loathe. To quash below the surface and not acknowledge for fear of it unearthing a tender ugliness that defied the hardness of the scales upon his reputation. The faces of those young boys he had come to know as sons, and the familiar features of the babies he had sent across the narrow sea hung behind a thin veil of compartmentalism, while war raged the compassion of his soul was swallowed. The fragment of family that dug into his heart was confined to a single soul, a single person. The very person who burst into his room.
“He is risen.” Gasped that wretched voice, hand clutching her chest, fingers splayed like a grasping, breathless thing, while those wild eyes whaled at him – an animal made out of womanly parts. Such had desperation altered her, Rhaenyra was less the wife he had made of her, and more the frightened young girl he had known. Turning to her, placing that memory behind him, absorbed by the very presence of mourning.
“Who?”
“Aegon.” The Queen stuttered for breath, her body heaved, breath pouring in and out of constricted lungs, hand splayed across her breasts in pointed agony as she brought herself to his side. “Sunfyre is alive.” It was only a matter of time, Aegon had not truly been slain, for his body would have been displayed, painted crimson like the usurper he was and left to rot out the front of the gates along with the flags of black and red licking him in the afternoon wind. Left to hang like the ratcatchers he had not spared. Beheaded like the dragon he had maimed.
“Out.” Barked Daemon, eyes dark, slitted, with draconian focus as he watched them scurry from beneath him, the lesser creations fluttering around under the shadow of the dragon. The beaten silver of true Valyrian heritage thrummed between them, his wife unable to consolidate a single breath in the face of such viciousness. “Sunfyre is dead, rotting in a wasteland.” The Rogue Prince did not move, his features sharper than Dark Sister singing at them from the wall, for she would come to him, seeking some meager comfort from the man who had betrayed her not hours prior. Gesturing to the nearby chair, he brought her to it, settling her as much as he could to garner the truth of the matter beyond fickle emotion and pointed humilations. This was an embarrassment more than it was an inconvenience. An allowance for religious ceremony when in actuality, it was a leverage built upon a lie. There was no resurrection here, no rising, more so an ugly undoing of a thousand misleadings which had tangled into a tapestry of illusion.
And now it was unravelling at her feet.
“Aegon burned the Mooton host at Rook’s Rest and then flew.. I do not know where.” Rhaenyra’s voice was distraught, caught between the fear of what was to come and the memory of what had been, her heart thrumming like a hummingbird in her chest. “His supporters have already sent ravens throughout the realm.” Pausing, her eyes flirted from the tiled floor, up the metal entrapment of armour which blessed Daemon’s skin; and higher, to his face. That face which remained stoic beyond expectation. Beyond circumstance. A rock in a time of tumultity.
“Announcing the King’s return.” The word ‘King’ spat from between her lips like some fetid phrase that to linger on her tongue would poison her before long. King… King, King of naught but what had been handed to him as a blessing for the cock between his thighs and the Targaryen in his blood. Blood that he had not willed to spill a drop of for his supposed inheritance, but instead whisked like some rat into the nighttime pastures of Westeros and subdued into hiding.
Until today.
Now the mangled Usurper and his corpse of a dragon hung like omens over her reign, strung up on the crucifix, baring down on all had been arranged — decided — years before.
“The small folk name it a sign from the Gods, that Aegon is ordained to rule, that he and his dragon have been resurrected to reclaim the throne.” Continued the Queen, her eyes reflective pools of misery as she gazed up at Daemon, and all he could do was watch. Comfort in that silent way only he knew how, in the way their bodies wrapped and heaved around one another like the creaking of ships, forever moulded in the image of the other.
“At this moment, mine own subjects gathered outside the Grand Sept, beseeching the Gods to say who is meant to rule them.” Standing in a flurry of rage, fingers pointing at the shadows and mist of flickering light which poured through the silk covers of Daemon’s window, her husband’s eyes followed, slitted like the draconian beast he was, his jaw clenched in consideration at her words. “After all for which I have fought and suffered—!” Bellowed the Black Queen, hands grasping at her breast yet she might rip her very heart from it and cease its endless beating.
“Rhaenyra.”
Temperance sung in the air as he rounded on her, wet cheeks pouring on her palms, blessing the cuts the had harboured from the throne itself and watering the graves of the boys she had mourned, while her husband took her below his wing. Hands cupped her gently, drawing her to his chest, to a safety she had not taken advantage of these many weeks past. Hushing the outpouring of wounded loss that seeped from her very being, Daemon brought his forefinger below her jaw, raising her head higher than she allowed herself.
Harshly cut amethyst met the sweet lilac of her eyes, searching her face for the woman he remembered, for the girl he had known, and now for the Queen he had suffered by. Their loss was shared, as much as Daemon sought to minimise it, it welled in the deepest parts of him like damp, rotting him from the inside out. Gaze drifting to her lips, he wished to kiss them, taste her sorrow and become stronger for it, but words tumbled forth instead.
“The lesser Gods have no say in what is to come.” The voice was stern, but the legacy strung forth like woven gold, his eyes pinned on her like a predator, pushing her ever closer to the precipice of supremacy. “We are the blood of Old Valyria.” Hissing from his teeth like a snake, a viper to strike, his hands gripped the apex of her waist, thumbs scoring the bottom of her ribs with a pressure that meant only one thing — devotion.
“You have an absolute power within your grasp—“
But before she could meet his gaze again, she peeled away, fickle and broken amongst the shards of their broken stained glass, her eyes reddened and sore, her hands clenched at her hips.
“—You have only to wield it.” He followed her, feet never once lifting but his body turned in tandem, seeking her heat like a very dragon himself, as she raged and spited all that she knew for her sufferings, bringing upon them the blame — the new reason for her misfortunes.
“Fucking Viserys!” Spat Rhaenyra, coiled like a spring, ready to strike upon any which dared to come close. “He put me here! His prophecy has tested me! Again and again!” She beat her curled fist upon her breast, her flame dousing Daemon as he stood to bear it, watching her unfurl her wings finally with the ire she so deserved to feel. A hot pang of recognition curled in his gut at her fury, heart spiking as he gazed upon her in a new light. A familiar arousal. A unique expression.
“And I have met it’s every challenge!” She rounded on Daemon then, bringing herself before him, her will tested by the elements, as he took her hands and wrangled her to motionless, tension broiling between them like a boiling ocean as he lost himself in the intensity of her eyes.
“Bisa iksis aōha run.”
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵.
Daemon’s voice was low, baritone, curdling in his chest and hissing upon her like ash, his fingers intertwined with hers as he implored her. “Sir. Se jēda ao sīmonagon.”
𝘕𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦.
Seeking to clash their mouths together, he leant towards her, the fury of her tongue as it spat rightful rage against him, the sharpness of her teeth as it frayed his very lips to bleeding. But as he sought to close the gap, she turned from him once again.
Speaking after her, he brought his hand to his jaw, stifling his lustful ambitions as he swallowed.
“The only quality the realm understands is strength. You have always known this.” Implored her husband, behind her now, his hands drawing to her waist, his nose nesting in the crux of her shoulder as bathed in the scent of her skin, in the familiarity of her body. There was silence. The sobs had ceased in their intensity, and now only a resolute expression washed across her face, like a mask, some form of resolute facade which kissed her cheeks. Despite the tears that meandered down them like winding rivers, she stood stoic in his arms, her head turning ever so slightly to him, regarding him, before her hands fell to his, squeezing them upon her abdomen where they rested. Where he had once held her, when she was full of him.
Full of their daughter.
Full of their future.
And now he spoke of another, a daughter set to unite the realm, to save the world from frost and the never ending darkness in the North, and while she could not understand, how could she believe one aspect of the prophecy over another? Could they truly bring into the world such power?
“Mazilībagon iā urnēbagon syt Aegon’s zaldrīzoti.”
𝘚𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯'𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘴.
Murmured his wayward Queen, her lips turning, brushing his cheek as she stood with him ever at her side, his hotness to her back; the intensity of his muscle rippling across her spine like a restless seabed as she breathlessly composed herself. It had been so long since she had touched him there. Since he had held her in such a way.
Eyes shifting downwards, to where her belly once was swollen, she bit back another rush of tears. Swallowing the urge, she tilted her head back against his shoulder, exposing more vulnerability of her throat to the beast behind her, her pulse quickening like a fragile bird.
“Se emagon Hugh gūrogon iōragon hen paktot se Zaldrīzes Ripo lēda Vermithor.”
𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳.
Each word was another charge to their intensity, each sentence was met with a low approval from Daemon, his fingers splayed across her lower stomach, fingers dusting lower and lower with a hunger he had not shown her since this mess began. Since their times on Dragonstone where he would fuck her in the sea-salted air, her hair like a halo for the moon as she rode him, pregnant or soon to be, a bride and happily bred for years on end. And yet here, when she was wracked with tears and limp with loss, he still scented her, nose running along her neck, kisses peppering her jaw, her throat.
And soon she wasn’t just the Black Queen.
She was Rhaenyra again.
Turning to him now, smaller hand splaying across toned chest, so much broader since the war-efforts, from training in the yard to swinging tonnes of steel into the faces of her enemies, she had been breathless when he stormed the Red Keep at her side. The power in one single arm. The fury in his chest. The violence in his being. Gazing up at him, doe eyes blessing his face with sensitivity, she spoke the very words he wanted to hear.
“Kesā gaomagon se nābēmagon va Tumbleton.”
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘰𝘯.
There was a fear there. Of losing him, perhaps. Or unleashing him, even more. Setting upon her enemy the very creature who had been her undoing and her saviour, the monster of a man she had settled at her side like a protector, and styled as a husband. Daemon’s lips curved into a slick smile, as cocky and enchanted as he could be, his eyes drinking every part of her in, from the softness of her lips to the slight flutter of neediness in her gaze. They were eye-fucking, raking down one another like they hadn’t seen one another naked before, like this admission of violence was the ultimate release they needed, a mental blockage lifted to finally indulge in the grime of aggression.
“Go house-to-house. Root out every Hightower.” Rhaenyra’s breath grew quicker, Daemon’s hands emblazoned with rings groped at her waist, squeezing her pretty words from her lips, unravelling exactly what he wanted to hear from the mouth of the woman he wanted to fuck. “And kill them to the last man.”
It was then that Daemon lifted her, hoisting his Grace upon the table behind them, clearing the scrolls and ink pots alike to the floor with his spare hand, standing now between her legs like a monument to marriage. Like a dog eager to mount his bitch. But she stilled him, hand to his chest, preventing him from pressing down upon her with all the weight of his desperation.
Staring at her, dangerous and yet held tight by her leash, Daemon’s jaw was gently agape, at the roll of her cunt against the hardness of his breeches.
She was teasing him. Fucking herself very lightly against him, grinding their clothed bodies together ever so tantalisingly. As if she was daring him to press onto her Queen. Daemon watched her, his hips still and yet his cock ached between them, throbbing like a steel rod against her cunny.
“Se Realm iksis urnēbagon.”
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
Whispered Rhaenyra, her splayed hand upon his chest slipping higher, thumb pressing against the scar marring his throat, her palm resting against his Adam’s Apple which bobbed ever so lightly at the pressure. And then, leaning in close, her mouth millimetres away from his, she watched him part his lips, eager to accept her touch. Feline eyes grazed across his lips, before travelling back again to his gaze.
“Gaomagon daor mazverdagon iā dyni yno.”
𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦.
And that was all it took, Daemon’s mouth crashing against hers, infiltrating her, repurposing her, his hands feverishly groping at the thighs spread around the expanse of his hips, his teeth scoring her lips with temptation as she licked back with eager fervour, their tongues slicking and curling against one another as if this was a dance they had done their whole lives.
Hissing against her mouth, pulling away, their kiss sloppy and uncouth, months of tension between them rippling out across the once calm waters as he brought his teeth to her throat once more. The Queen’s hands clutched at his back, drawing nails down his spine, scoring his shoulder blades with pink, raised scratches. As if trying to climb inside of his very skin.
“Daemon—“ Her voice was lost, turning into breathlessness at the apex of the word, letting her torso fall back against the wooden desk, her skirts hiked up around her hips where the King Consort had exposed her, her small clothes sticking to her puffy lips as she let herself bear it all openly. The Rogue Prince took to the buckles at the front of her dress, deftly undoing them, before growing frustrated at the amount of dainty clasps and beginning to wrench them apart.
The fabric gave way to him with a shifting ripping noise, beadwork hitting the ground like pebbles, her corseted torso becoming exposed, the breasts which had nursed their sons pressed high, the softness of her stomach confined behind rigid boning.
Ravenous, one hand upon her thigh, clawing at the flesh there, his other hand hooking fingers against the cup of her corset’s chest piece, dragging it down enough for a dusky pink nipple to peek over the top. Nosing it with a groan, his teeth scored her teat before he latched onto her, his cock insistent between her thighs, driving her mad.
Fingers tangling in silver, braided hair, Rhaenyra’s body curled and curved off of the wooden surface, her lips agape in soft moans as she encouraged him against her breast like a hungry babe, only to bring her hand between them, cupping the growing hardness in his breeches and biting her lip.
“It has not been long, husband. Weeks at best. How are you so insatiable?” Teased the younger, a glint of debauchery in her eye, as he did not satisfy her with the dignity of an answer, taking ahold of her hips, and hauling her onto her front, so she was bent before him like a whore. Searching for him over her shoulder, she whined until he met her mouth, his tongue slicking inside of her, while both of his hands groped her asscheeks from behind.
“Because I have not been sated, perhaps.” Returned the elder, cockily, his voice rumbled through her like an earthquake, making her shudder, her thighs rubbing together, squirming below him as he finally teased his thumbs against the laces of his breeches. “My Queen has been occupied.” Steadily, he unwove his trappings, his cock heavy in the seat of his pants, until it was freed, the weight of it settling against Rhaenyra’s ass, enough for her to almost sob with need.
“Shh.. shh..” Daemon stroked her hair behind her ear, kissing against her jaw. “Let me serve My Queen.” Nodding wordlessly, Rhaenyra watched him disappear over her shoulder, unable to keep her hips still. She knew not of his plan until capable, calloused fingers drew her small clothes to her mid thigh, his breath tickling her quim as he brought himself to his knees behind her.
In divine worship.
To devour the very thing he stood for.
Hands kneading apart her cheeks like dough, he admired her glistening, slick holes, her lips dusted with silver curls, her tight hole above clenching softly from anticipation. This act was one she had only ever received from her lord husband, the others so quickly resorted to penetration, of fingers, of cock — but never of tongue. Daemon took great pleasure in the chase, insurmountable ecstasy from watching her thighs begin to quiver and her cunt clench around the curl of his tongue. Rhaenyra was but a prey animal, and he liked to flirt with the kill.
Drawing draconian tongue up the pale, puffy, pink folds of his once-princess, Daemon lathered her with praise, the flattened muscle lapping from pearl upwardly, until it eagerly lingered on her rim, hearing her sigh in relief at some form of reprieve from the endless throbbing. Continuing this, the Rogue Prince slathered her cunt with saliva, slurping on her labia, spreading her outer lips with his thumbs before his lips latched on her clitorus, suckling there steadily, hungrily.
Jolting, Rhaenyra’s hand clawed at his desk, her face burying in her forearm as her face contorted in upmost desperation, her other hand urging backwards, tugging aside one of her cheeks, revealing herself more to him.
“Still, gevie riña.”
𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭.
Nose pressed to her rim as she backed herself up on him, gyrating her hips to snag any form of friction on her most sensitive of areas, she used his face as a sex toy, rolling herself back on his Valyrian features while curses died silently on her lips. Eyes rolling back in her skull, she threw her head back, beautiful silver hair snaking down her spine, her eyes lulled as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
Daemon was lost between her legs, lapping, slurping, suckling — drinking her, until his fingers crooked at her sloppy little hole, pressing into her with his wedding band still snug on his finger, the fore and ring digits calloused and thick now stretching her wide. It was as if all had happened was washed away when they were in the throes of one another’s bodies.
Another way to process grief.
Mind flickering to Laena, only for a brief moment, he was brought back to reality as Rhaenyra keened like a cat, whining for more, fucking herself back on his fingers like a natural woman on the Street of Silk, her body a pale image of ecstasy.
Inserting a third aside the other two, his spare hand brought the pad of his thumb to her tightest entrance, applying pressure to her rim without penetrating, making his Queen arch her back against the table, face so lax it was as if she had been fully unwoven. Fucking her now with three digits, his ring collecting a thin sheen of arousal around it, while his tongue hounded her pearl, leaving her jolting and shaking on the wooden surface.
Peak rising in her abdomen, heart pounding in her chest, Rhaenyra’s torso bolted off of the table, the hand on her cheek lurching back to entangle in his hair, pushing his face between her cheeks more definitively. And he did not fight. Her husband only ate her with more fervour, not taking time to breathe as he slurped her until her his tongue was drenched in her fluids, the Queen shaking with such intensity she might’ve seized as she crashed back to the wooden study, knees giving out below her, so she was lay flat and lifeless against the surface.
Pulling from her, flush-faced and drenched, her husband did not quake from female pleasure, in fact, he himself was strained to such an extent his cock throbbed with pain, his eyes locked on her face as he pulled from behind her, like a stalking wolf.
Rhaenyra did not give him time to strike.
Turning to him, her nails clawed at his jaw as she took to him, her teeth and tongue invading his mouth, forcing herself beyond his lips as she bullied him backwards with her ferocity, until he was sat in the very same chair he had advised her to relax in. Now he would relax. He would feel every pulse of his wife around his cock, sheath his sword inside something warm, wet and wholly his. Hiking her dress around his hips once more, she brought herself atop him, those long, pale legs settling around his hips, her lilac eyes trained on him like a snake ready to strike.
“Ao teptan nyke lanta trēsi.”
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴.
Steadily lowering herself, rocking her hips across his manhood tantalisingly slow, the thick, drooly arousal slicking up and down the underside of his girth, catching the mushroom head with her over sensitive clit with a little swallowed moan before doing it all again. Mouth coming to his ear, teeth scoring his earlobe as he took her hips in those large, capable hands, she gave him his final order.
“Now bring me the head of my father’s first.” Rhaenyra hissed, her head throwing back as Daemon cut her to the chase, his hand between her thighs guiding that weapon to her core, that hot, heady length settling inside of her clenching, quivering hole.
Choking on her noise of pleasure, she looked at Daemon with a sense of betrayal. She had wanted to fuck herself upon him, take control.
Her Prince merely smiled, his balls settling against the curve of her ass as she looked down upon him incredulously.
“Your cunt is a sweeter thing to sink into than your brother’s chest.” Daemon quipped, hand coming to her jaw, gripping her tightly, as he had done all those years ago when she married Laenor, promises on his lips and danger in his form as he gazed, breathlessly at her lips. “You shall have the usurpers head.” Promised her husband, fucking up harshly into her with one, brutal thrust, just to make her cry out, as he closed the space between them.
Mouth hovering against hers, breath exchanging, he bit her lower lip, dragging it towards him, until it bled ever so slightly from his canines.
“And I shall have my wife for one hour. Before the Queen finds out.” Letting Rhaenyra’s hands roam the expanse of his chest, the two of them still mostly dressed, their bodies sweating beneath the pomposity of court attire, Daemon dug his heels into the expensive rug below them, beginning to hammer his hips up into his pretty prize, the niece he had loathed, loved and longed for the majority of his life.
The room filled with the sounds of sex, creaking from the wooden chair, the slapping of skin against skin as Rhaenyra buried her face against his neck, whimpering out broken little whines against the scars that clawed up his skin. Bouncing her hips down to meet him, eventually the pace grew too brutal, his hands stilling her so that he could pummel her to the pace of his own tune. Biting his lip, sweat pooling in his collarbones, he demolished her squelching cunt like it was the first time he ever could or would. Balls hitting her ass again and again, churning with the hot load that would give them their daughter.
The Prince that was Promised.
Grunts of exertion and pleasure gripped the air, her cunny squeezing him so tightly he thought he may simply combust with the extremity of pleasure.
“First Queen to double as a whore.” Spat Daemon, degrading her like she were no more than the sum of her womanly parts. This was their language, the movement of bodies as they fucked and pillaged their own pleasures from one another, again and again. Taking handfuls of her cheeks, flesh spilling between his fingers, Daemon tumbled them both to the floor, Rhaenyra’s chest heaving with each haggard breath as she caught his eyes, her teats peaked a soft pink in the cold air before she was flipped unceremoniously onto her front.
The Queen had no time to lift her hips, to arch her back prettily like she always did for him, a perfect doll. Daemon mounted her like an animal, the weight of his torso pressing down on her spine, one large arm snaked around her front, forearm wedged between her breasts, pressed to her sternum, fingers constricting her pretty throat, wedding band emblazoned against her gullet.
The other hand took her hip, those girthy thighs bracketing her fat ass as he piledrove her again, and again — repeatedly with no time for breath or reprieve.
Forcing hot ‘ah, ah, ah!’s from Rhaenyra’s throat, she groaned through bared teeth, her nails clawing at the rug she was pressed upon, balling into fists as her cunt was bullied by this man who she wished had been her first.
“Daemon—“ Squealed the younger, one hand darting to the grip upon her throat, seeking to intertwine their fingers, each thrust sending her forwards, her thighs squeezed together. Kicking her legs apart, his feet hooked around her ankles, he defiled her right on the floor.
“We are the blood of Old Valyria— iksi zaldrīzoti.”
𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘴.
Hissed her lover, cervix getting battered by his cockhead until it was undoubtedly bruised and sore, as if he was sieging her womb.
The fingers once around her throat now sunk upwards, pressing his ring and middle finger past the open parting of her lips, letting her suck and lick them like a desperate bitch, satisfying an oral fixation Rhaenyra was itching for. Muffled moans around his fingers only fuelled him further, her tongue curling between the digits, lapping around them.
“We answer to higher powers than Gods.” Snarled her husband, but she could not listen, could not absorb his words when his balls slapped against her clit, when her cunny spasmed around his cock as her orgasm bubbled closer and closer to the surface. Fingers popping from her mouth, she cried out, a trip of saliva connecting her bottom lip to her husband’s fingers.
“Seven Hells!” Keened Rhaenyra, hand reaching behind to lace her fingers through his hair as he kissed and bit at the junction of her throat and jaw, her pulse racing like prey against the teeth of the wolf. “Just fuck me— Daemon—“ Hissed the matriarch, the tight release coiling in her abdomen before her legs shot straight, her jaw falling agape, a choked noise of pleasure leaving her mouth.
Warmness gushed around Daemon’s cock, her fluids hitting his pubic bone, dripping down his testes as she squirted, her thighs shaking, eyes rolling back in her head as her husband began to also release rope after rope of hot, virile cum directly into her body. Scolding white seed injected directly into her pretty womb while he rocked his hips, gyrating his cock inside of her in circles like a baker stirring up his baby batter.
Shushing her, stroking her hair, he nosed her cheek, causing her to turn to him as he engaged their mouths, kissing her longingly, tongues circling one another, stroking one another, while he defiled her so deeply.
Both flushed, sweaty, and sticky, Daemon pulled himself off of her, eyes scanning up the armour beside them, until he was once again staring into the hollow eyes of his helmet.
That was his crown.
And the battlefield was his domain.
Rhaenyra grunted softly as she turned on her side, cheeks pink, lips plump as she watched her husband, that cock which had left her ruined softened against his thigh, her eyes locked onto the soft, glistening flesh there. Rug soft between her palms, she crawled towards him, those large breasts swinging between her body before she reached him.
“Shall you fuck the Hightowers as you did me?” Rhaenyra was coy, fingers coming around the flaccid length, easing her touch up and down, almost curiously. With a sharp inhale, Daemon groaned low in his chest; reverberating, his eyes shifting down to her. “Tis good to see your vigour in the bedroom remains as strong as on the battlefield.” Breathlessly she challenged him, a cheeky smile on her lips, as she lowered them to the tip of his cock, swirling her little tongue around the velvet tip, lapping up the droplets of cum which had accumulated at the slit.
“I shall fuck none as hard as my wife.” Daemon played along, stroking her cheek as she gazed up at him with those doe eyes, thumb dusting across her lower lip as she suckled the head of his cock, her eyelashes fluttering.
“Did I not command you to?” Rhaenyra poked him, licking a long stripe up the over sensitive length.
“I have never heard of a Queen commanding her liege husband to fuck another, but if you insist—“
Slapping his thigh, she gave him a pointed look.
“Dark Sister shall do the fucking.” The Queen contemplated, squeezing his cock at the base making him groan, spreading his legs somewhat more. “You shall be resigned to watch.”
There was a twinkle in her eye, she knew how her husband was, how watching on the sidelines was his least favourite sport, and yet she played with him. A mouse dancing around the trap as Daemon’s cock soon began to harden ever so steadily in her palm.
It was going to be a long day.