Hotd Daemon - Tumblr Posts

Re-watching HOTD 1x10 has made me realize just how incredibly OOC Daemon choking Rhaenyra is. Like wow! I remember it being bad but not THIS bad. Do I think Daemon is a saint? No, absolutly not, but he would never harm Rhaenyra. The writers just hate him and are trying to get the audience to hate him to, a problem that only gets worse in season 2. Again, Daemon is by no means a good person, but he is certainly not an abusive husband, and, despite what the hotd writers want you to believe, he would never betray Rhaenyra.

We'd still worship this love

False God//Taylor Swift

Not sure if this is common knowledge or not but I just realized that the reason Daemon was looking for eggs in the first place was so that he would have one ready when Rhaenyra gave birth.

I love that they still won’t sleep on each others side of the bed. The pining is real.

So Ryan Condal said that Daemon might think Dany is his future daughter with Rhaenyra, right? (Spoilers for Fire and Blood under the image)

So it's possible that Rhaenyra will become pregnant in season 3, but won't tell anyone, which would explain why it's never mentioned in Fire and Blood. If they do this they will probably have her miscarry, or (more likely,) they will have her be pregnant when she dies.

This would not only make Rhaenyra's death more tragic, but would also make Daemon's death more tragic. In Fire and Blood, Daemon dies killing Aemond and Vhagar in what is obviously a suicide mission, but he's able to eliminate Rhaenyra's greatest threat, and protect her and their sons. (Unfortunatly it doesn't work as well he hoped; Rhaenyra and Joffrey still die and Aegon iii is at the mercy of Aegon ii.) If Rhaenyra was pregnant, it would (in theory,) give Daemon some inclination to not commit heroic suicide, but since show!Daemon probably suspects that he won't survive the war (because of Alys's prediction,) he might have already accepted that he'll never meet his daughter. This could influence his descision to fight Aemond and Vhagar alone, because if he's going to die, then he might as well take the greatest threat to his son, wife, and unborn child with him. But with Rhaenyra dying five months after him, it would mean that even sacrificing his life wasn't enough go protect her and the baby, and it would add an extra layer of tragedy to both their deaths.

Alternatively, they could have her miscarry after hearing about Daemon's death, as a parallel to Visenya's birth after she heard about her fathers death.

I would just like to take a moment to remind everyone that despite the HOTD writers best efforts, Daemon and Rhaenyra are still completely, catastrophically, in love with each other.

Dreams Didn’t Make Us Kings, Dragons Did

A rewrite of that Daemyra scene in 1x10. This will use some dialogue from the original scene, because it had potential, but it will be (hopefully) more in character.

“The enemy have declared war! What are you going to do about it?” The room fell silent. Rhaenyra looked up, meeting her husband’s eyes. She could feel her Small Council watching her, waiting to see what she would do with such defiance. Daemon held her gaze, the rage in his beautiful lilac eyes fading slightly. She could have sworn she even saw a flash of regret, buried as quickly as it came. “Clear the room.” She did not look to see that the command was obeyed, her tone had left no room for argument. Daemon paced near the hearth. Rhaenyra could feel his frustration, it filled the room like smoke from a funeral pyre. Rhaenyra crossed the room, drawing closer to him. “Does the promise of war excite you?” Daemon turned to face her, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers. They stole your birthright.” His voice was softer than before, but it still carried the edge of his anger. But it is not me he is angry at, she thought. He believes the Hightowers had my father killed, and he blames them for Visenya’s death. He seeks revenge, and he wishes for me to do the same. She had hoped he would be able to put aside his bloodlust, at least until they could be sure peace was not possible, but Daemon had never been one to deny himself vengeance. “If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” He responded with a question of his own, “Are you not angry?” The sharpness had returned to his voice, but with it came confusion, as though he genuinely believed her to hold no resentment over the taking of her throne. “So I should declare war because I’m angry?” She let an edge creep into her voice, a reminder that she was a dragon as well, and his Queen. “No. Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.” At that Rhaenyra felt her patience ebb. Yes, it was her duty to crush rebellion, but was it not also hers to hold the realm together? Her husband seemed to have, rather conveniently, forgotten that particular obligation. “You know that my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Daemon said nothing. He simply looked at her, a question in his eyes. “A Song of Ice and Fire,” she clarified. The understanding she had expected did not dawn on his face. Instead, he went completely still, fire beginning to kindle in his eyes. “What?” He moved so that he was behind her. “The coming war against the darkness in the North,” Rhaenyra turned, forcing him to look at her, “The Conquerer’s Dream.” Still there was no recognition in his face, no sign that he knew what she spoke of. “Viserys shared it with me when he named me heir,” she added. The flames in his eyes flared at that. For a moment, Rhaenyra thought he would shout, or break something, but then the rage in his gaze flickered out, like a torch in the winds. All the energy seemed to leave him at once, and he stalked to the nearest chair, throwing himself into it with an angry scoff. Rhaenyra said nothing, but she was beginning to suspect the reason for such a reaction. She watched as Daemon took a pitcher of wine from the table, waiting until he had drained a glass. “He never told you, did he?” The silence that followed was answer enough.

She bit back a wince. Daemon had spent most of his life attempting to earn his brother’s trust, only to lose it with stupid jokes and moments of drunken foolishness. Rhaenyra knew better than anyone how much each banishment had hurt him. Learning that her father had never trusted him with this crucial piece of information had to be salt in the already painful wound his death had caused. She drew closer to where he sat, glaring at the fire, and took his hand in hers. “Daemon-” “No,” he cut her off, “He never told me.” He laughed bitterly. Rhaenyra ran her thumb over the back of his hand. His grip on her fingers tightened. “He was often…wary of you,” she said softly, “but he loved you. Every time he banished you, he was desperate to have you back within a moon.” Daemon laughed again, the sound full of grief and pain. Rhaenyra felt her heart clench. “He loved me, but he did not trust me. Do not try to deny it, Rhaenyra. His whole court knew it. Those fucking Hightower cunts knew it.” He stood suddenly, one hand going to her waist, the other coming up to cup her face. “My brother,” he said softly, “was a slave to his omens and portents. Anything to make his feckless reign appear to have purpose.” Rhaenyra frowned slightly. “I do not think-” “You saw it for yourself, Rhaenyra. He killed your mother, or do you not remember?” She flinched at his words, and regret flashed in his eyes. “Iksan vaoreznuni, ñuha prūmia,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. She felt herself relax at the familiar touch, and the High Valyrian from his lips. “Nyke gīmigon, ñuha jorrāelagon.” She whispered back. He drew back slightly, so that he could look her in the eye. “But you cannot deny that prophecies did your father no good. He tore our house apart, left us divided.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Yes he did.” The admission took something out of her. She sighed again, leaning into her husband’s touch every so slightly. Daemon looked at her, a sudden intensity it his eyes. “I will not allow the same to happen to our family,” he vowed. “Kirimvose,” she whispered. Daemon pulled her close, the hand that had been holding her face moved to cradle her head. Rhaenyra buried her face in the crook of his neck, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Dreams didn’t make us kings,” he murmured against the silvery-gold strands, “dragons did.”

High Valyrian translations

Iksan vaoreznuni, ñuha prūmia: I am sorry, my heart.

Nyke gīmigon, ñuha jorrāelagon: I know, my love.

Kirimvose: Thank you.

Ok so this may be slightly insane, but I feel like Wildest Dreams could totally be a Daemyra song. Like in the aftermath of Daemon’s death and even just while he’s in the Riverlands and Rhaenyra thinks he betrayed her. Honestly it could probably work for their ten year seperation to.

He's so tall, and handsome as hell

He's so bad, but he does it so well

Need I explain this one?

Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your wildest dreams

This feels like it what I imagine the vibe was when Daemon was leaving for the Riverlands to go find Aemond, especially since it seems like Daemon knows he'll die at Harrenhal. I could imagine this being Rhaenyra's thoughts while he's leaving, but I honestly like it better as Daemon's, cause then it can be leaving, knowing he likely won't return, wanting to know that the love of his life will remember him when he's gone. It also kinda feels like Rhaenyra during their ten year seperation.

And his voice is a familiar sound

Again, need I explain this?

And when we've had our very last kiss

My last request is

This can also apply to Daemon leaving for the Riverlands and Rhaenyra during the ten years. I think if they had been given a chance to say proper goodbyes after her wedding, it could have looked something like this.

You'll see me in hindsight

Tangled up with you all night

Burning it down

Someday when you leave me

I bet these memories

Follow you around

This is 100% Rhaenyra when she thinks Daemon is cheating on her with Nettles.

Ok thats all I have for now. Let me know if there's any lines you think I missed, or if there are other songs you'd like me to do this for.

I hope in season 3, we get a scene of Daemyra braiding each others’ hair before the sacking of King’s Landing

YES!!!!!!

Rhaenyra will be horrified by how much Daemon has neglected his hair in Harrenhal. Daemon is just happy he finally gets to touch her hair. They probably won’t do anything too complicated since hair is usually handled by maids, but I think they’re both capable of doing some simple hairstyles. I would love to see the return of Daemon’s war braids from the Stepstones, and Rhaenyra will definitely want something Visenya-like. Bonus points if they match each other.

I have a feeling they’re saving the return of Rhaenyra’s necklace from Daemon to after he dies. I know I’ll be heartbroken whenever she finds/wears the necklace again 💔

oh…

Rhaenyra getting a raven with news of Daemon’s death and opening a long forgotten drawer with the necklace inside. Rhaenyra holding on to the last piece of her husband while she cries. Rhaenyra wearing it when she faces Sunfyre for the last time, and it being the only thing that survives since Valyrian Steel doesn’t melt. Aegon finding it after and holding on to that last piece of his parents.

oh…

Guys I miss Daemyra

Am I hallucinating or is that the same dress? And if it is the same dress, what do we think it means?

My Pain Fits in the Palm of Your Freezing Hand

The deleted/missing scene of Daemon and Rhaenyra after they lose Visenya, and Rhaenyra’s POV of the funeral. Title is from Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was no stranger to pain. Six childbirths, the death of her mother, her closet friend’s betrayal, and ten years trapped in a loveless marriage had served to make her well acquainted with all manner of pain. She had thought herself hardened. Not invulnerable to pain, but acclimatized enough that she could bear it with little struggle. But as she cradled the twisted, scaly body of her first and only daughter, Rhaenyra knew all the pain in the world could not have prepared her for this.

Daemon was about to lose another child. He knew it. Had known it since Rhaenyra had revealed her bloody hand, and memories of her siblings bleeding out of Aemma’s womb moons before their time had hit him like arrows. He should have stayed with Rhaenyra. Should have followed her to their bedchamber, and held her hand as she labored. And yet he hadn’t. He could not bear to watch her scream and suffer for a child unlikely to survive while he did nothing. He could not be helpless. But neither could he be idle. And so, as his wife labored alone, he had called together her Small Council and set about preparing for the coming war. They were uneasy about it, Daemon could tell. They believed he was making a power grab, seeking to undermine Rhaenyra and establish himself as the true authority. Daemon didn't care. How they perceived him mattered little, so long as they followed his orders. Rhaenyra's scream echoed through the Castle. Daemon tightened his grip on Dark Sister's hilt. You do not want me there. He wanted to scream. I cannot help you there. Let me remain here where I may be of use to you. He forced his attention back to the Painted Table. He could not actually call any banners, that would be tantamount to treason. He could, however, see to Dragonstone’s defenses and send ravens to their allies. “We’ll send ravens to our nearest allies,” another scream rent the air, and Daemon forced himself to keep talking “Lords Darklyn, Massey, and Bar Emmon.” “Daemon!” It took every ounce of control he had to keep up his unbothered facade. But he managed. Even as guilt and grief were sawing him apart from the inside. The Small Council glanced at him anxiously. Perhaps he didn’t appear as unconcerned as he’d hoped. “Do you want to speak to the maester, my Prince?” The inquiry had come from one of the Kingsguard (no, Queensguard,) but all of the Small Council nodded along encouragingly. Daemon glared at them all. No, he did not want to speak to the maester. At best he would hear what he already knew: it was too early. The babe was unlikely to survive, and he should prepare himself. And at worst…Daemon didn’t want to consider to worst. “I will fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.” “You will do no such thing.” Rhaenyra’s eldest son strode into the council chamber. “My mother has decreed no action be taken while she’s abed.” Daemon glanced at Jacaerys, then looked away. “It’s good you’re here, young Prince. You’re needed to patrol the skies on Vermax.” “Did you hear what I said?” The distraction might have worked on another boy, but not Jace. He was far too focused. Daemon felt a flicker of pride. Rhaenyra screamed again, and the feeling guttered out. He could not continue his preparations here, Jace had made that clear, but he could not bring himself to face Rhaenyra, especially not now that he had left her for so long. He looked up. “The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” he said. The other man hesitated for a moment before giving in. “I shall see it done.” Daemom grabbed Dark Sister, and turned away from the table. “Summon Ser Steffon,” he said as he walked away, “our Kingsguard are needed on the Dragonmont.” Queensguard. He should have said Queensguard. “Come with me,” he said as he passed Jace, “I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.

Daemon’s steps were slow as he walked back to the castle. To any observers, it would seem as though he were simply taking a leisurely walk from the Dragonmont. In truth, he was doing everything he could to delay his return. It was pathetic and cowardly. He was Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince, Rider of Caraxes, Wielder of Dark Sister, King of the Narrow Sea. And yet, here he was. Wandering about Dragonstone because he was afraid of what awaited him at the castle. But despite the fear, he couldn’t silence the foolish, innocent part of him that whispered that there was still a chance of his daughter living. She was a Targaryen. Targaryens were nothing if not fighters. He ended that line of thought quickly. For all that Targaryens were fighters, his family has also lost its fair share of babes in the cradle. Daemon thought of his little brother. Syrax screeched, and Daemon looked up. He was used to Syrax’s calls, he had lived near the dragon for six year, but something about that one had jolted him. It had seemed almost…familiar. Daemon shook himself. Syrax was probably just hungry. It meant nothing. Still, he couldn’t shake the cold tendrils of fear that had wound their way about his ribs. Syrax let out another shriek, and suddenly Daemon was three years old again, face buried in Queen Alysanne’s skirts while his mother died behind a closed door. He hadn’t understood at first. He and Viserys had been going to visit their lady mother, but when they arrived at her chambers there had been a score of maids and maesters congregating about the door. Daemon could dimly recall glimpsing his father’s boots as the Spring Prince paced within the room. His grandmother had come out then, and upon seeing him and his brother she had gathered them close to her. Perhaps she had been murmuring words of comfort. Daemon could not recall. What he did recall was the terrible, agonized dragoncall that had echoed through the Red Keep. For a moment his young mind had imagined it to be the Doom come again. He would later learn that it was Meleys, mourning the death of her rider. Daemon had no memories of the rest of that day, and only fragments of the funeral, but he remembered that cry. He could hear echoes of it now, in Syrax’s wails. Rhaenyra. He had to get to her. He quickened his pace, heart hammering in his chest. Another cry rent the air. Daemon was running now. What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if she was already gone when he got there. Gods, why had he left her? He had a been a fool and a coward and now he might never see her again. No. She would live. She had to live. If she didn’t he would burn them all. He’d take Caraxes and burn the whole fucking court of vipers, the leech Otto Hightower, his whore of a daughter, and all her half breeds. Kinslaying be dammed, he’d burn them all.

He was at the castle now. The sentries were opening the gates for him and he was speeding past them without an acknowledgment. The way to his chambers was familiar as breathing and in what felt like seconds he was in the hallway and Maester Gerardys was standing in front of him. He looked haggard. Daemon’s pulse beat in his ears. “It’s over, my Prince,” he said, eyes on the floor, fingers twisting together. “And the Queen,” his voice sounded wrong. Strangled and breathy. “She lives? She is well?” “She is alive, my Prince. She does not seem to be in any danger at the moment.” He said something else but Daemon didn’t hear. He already shoving past him, towards Rhaenyra. Although it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, the walk seemed to take hours. Rhaenyra is alive. Thank the gods, she’s alive. And if she’s alive then our girl could… The thought died as Daemon stepped into the room and beheld the scene there. Rhaenyra was sitting slumped against the side of their bed, shift stained red, and bloodied to the wrist. (Why were her hands bloody? Had she drawn the babe out herself?) Her head was bent so he couldn’t see her face, but he could see what she held. Their daughter was in her arms. She had dragon scales. Even bloodied as they were they still gleamed faintly. Rhaenyra held her as though she were alive, head pressed against her breast like she wanted her to drink. Daemon bowed his head. The grief was crushing, all consuming. He was still standing in the doorway. He looked up and Rhaenyra’s eyes met his. She said nothing. She looked so hollow. She rose, unsteady on her feet, and took a few shaky steps towards the balcony where she sat, legs crossed, dead daughter in her arms. Daemon couldn’t move. She rocked the child, the way she had with Aegon and Viserys. Daemon came up behind her, tentative. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Rhaenyra.” “She was my only daughter,” the brokenness in her voice nearly sent him to his knees. “She was my only daughter and they killed her.” The words brought Daemon a confused sense of relief. Vengance was preferable to pain any day. “We shall burn them all,” he whispered. She said nothing. He knelt behind her, arms going around her shoulders. Not quite drawing her to him, but holding her nonetheless. She leaned into him. “We must burn it.” He could only nod.

Daemon stumbled out of the room, head spinning as though he were drunk. He was dimly aware of calling for a funeral pyre to be built and for the inhabitants of the castle to assemble on the Dragonmont. He felt strangely removed, as though he was watching somone else control his movements. Colors and sounds blurred together, and suddenly he was on the beach and his knees were hitting the sand. He had drawn Dark Sister at some point. The sword's point was buried in the sand, and Daemon was leaning on it the way his brother had leaned on his cane. He had known. He had known, he had known, he had known. He had known he was going to lose the child, so why did it still hurt so much? His head was full of memories. Rhaenyra's delight as she told him she was with child again, her surety that she was finally carrying a girl, the first time he had felt his daughter kick, the egg he set aside for her cradle, retrieved the day Baela's letter arrived and everything went to hell. He clung tighter to his sword, trying to drown out Rhaenyra's voice in his ears. I want a girl, Daemon. A daughter

We must burn it

She was my only daughter

My only daughter

She was my only daughter and they killed her

They killed her

They killed her They killed her They killed her And yet, they had done worse than kill her, hadn't they? If he closed his eyes, Daemon could still see the scales that covered her skin, and the hole where her heart would have been. He had heard stories, as a child, about Maegor's children, how they had all been born dead, and with dragon features. He had never expected it would happen to him. Otto Hightower's voice rang in his ears. A second Maegor the Cruel, or worse. Daemon felt a laugh bubble up im his chest, but when it slipped from his lips it was a sob, and then he was weeping. Shoulders shaking, body wracked with agony, Daemon clung to Dark Sister the way he had once clung to the Good Queen's skirts as his mother's body cooled. Caraxes had come at some point. Daemon hadn't needed to look up to know. He had felt his dragon's presence like tug on his soul. He could feel him now, circling the beach, protecting him while he grieved. There, on that beach, with no one but his dragon as a witness, and nothing but a sword for comfort, Daemon wept.

The pyre was tiny. More of an alter than a pyre really. Rhaenyra stood just in front of it. Daemon was at her side, and their children stood a short distance behind them. Her ladies had done their best to neaten her up, but she knew she still looked a sight. They had scrubbed the blood from her skin, tied her hair back in a simple style, given her a fresh dress and cloak to wear (black lined with red,) and even slipped small earrings through her ears. But they could not hide the grief, nor could they take away the pain. The walk from her chambers had been agony. Rhaenyra could not help but recall another walk, just after a birth. For a moment she almost longed for it. At least then she’d had a child to hold. She watched the flames devour her only daughter’s body. Daemon turned to look at her. He wanted to say something. She could feel the words gathering between them like storm clouds. She did not know where he had gone after he left her. Presumably somewhere isolated, where he could grieve without the risk of being seen. She wished he had stayed. She wanted to mourn with him, united by a pain few could understand, but openness had never been Daemon’s strong suit. That was why he had left, and that was why she had labored alone. She was well aware of his need to do, to help her, but she wished he would realize that staying would have helped her more than any war council. He was still looking at her, but he said nothing. She continued to watch the pyre. Someone was approaching behind her. Her Queensguard moved closer, and Daemon turned to face the stranger. Rhaenyra watched the pyre. She heard the drawing of steel. “I mean not harm, brothers.” She knew that voice. Ser Erryk. Twin to her sworn shield. She heard swords slide back into their sheaths. She turned. Erryk knelt. He reached into a leather satchel at his side, and drew out her father’s crown. He held it up to her. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength, and give my blood for hers,” Rhaenyra watched him. It almost felt like a dream. Daemon stepped forward, taking the crown. “I shall take no wife…” Her husband held the crown. Rhaenyra couldn’t see his face. Her father had always said he wanted it, but throughout their marriage he had seemed perfectly content with being her consort. “…hold no lands…” Daemon was still looking at the crown. She remembered the tenderness with which he had placed it upon his brother’s head. Had he ever truly wanted it? Or had he merely wanted trust? “…father no children…” No one moved. “…I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands…” He looked up. The hand holding the crown fell to his side. “…ride at her side and defend her name and honor.” Daemon glanced at the crown in his hand, then turned to face her. She nodded, ever so slightly. He closed the gap between them. She kept her gaze steady, looking into the lilac eyes she had known all her life. Gently, oh so gently, he placed the crown on her brow. The metal was cold, but warm where he had held it. It sat heavy on her head. Daemon knelt. She watched him. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. “My Queen.” His face was open, eyes swimming with love and devotion, but grief shadowed it all. He looked down again. Her eyes went beyond him, to the rest of her court. One by one, they all followed his example. Even her boys, and Daemon’s girls. All knelt, save one. The Queen Who Never Was remained standing. Rhaenys met her eyes, and something passed between them. Rhaenyra looked back at her people, all on their knees. For me. Not for my father, or my husband. For me. They kneel for me. And as her daughter’s pyre burned behind her, Rhaenyra knew, she was a Queen in truth now.

Daemons "Getting eggs for my baby" outfit.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

Daemon Targaryen x little sister!Reader

It's 105 AC. Your brother, King Viserys, wants to throw a feast in honor to announce his wife's pregnancy. You want to attend—if it weren't for the rising doubts about your changing body. But it's good your husband knows a way to ease your worries.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), mirror sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, female and pregnant reader, lactation, lactation kink, nipple play

WORDS: 2.5 K

NOTES: Thank you for betaing this sweet thing, @happilyhertale! 🤍

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Frustration brings you to the point you stand completely bare in front of the large mirror that’s been brought into your chambers by the servants, looking at your reflection. To the right hangs a black gown, and to the left a more reddish one. And neither of the two will fit over your swollen curves, you just know by looking at it.

You’ve scared off your ladies-in-waiting a few minutes ago, usually soft-spoken you experiencing an emotional outburst that just called for you to be left alone.

Nearing the six moon mark of your first pregnancy has left your body with scars and marks around your rounded belly and swollen breasts, some even teetering down the insides of your thighs. And yet, when you look at your husband strolling into your martial chambers with not more than a large cloth hanging around his hips, his scarred chest on full display, you can only admire him for wearing them with so much confidence.

But not even your own doubts can stop your eyes from stealing glances, his toned physique managing to put your mind at ease for once. Trailing your eyes over the expanse of his scarred chest down to the dark trail of hair that ends deep below the cloth that conceals most of it. However, it only poorly hides the way his half-hard member prods against the linen with each step he makes towards you.

He makes no secret out of the way his lilac eyes all but devour your body and its curves, although your belly is not yet as swollen as Aemma’s was when she was with Rhaenyra. The pregnancy has made you even more of a woman, and knowing he’s the one responsible for it makes him feel proud but also quite possessive.

“What is it?” he asks, his gravelly voice sending a chill down your spine.

Daemon eventually comes to a stop with his tall frame looming over yours from behind, fingers trailing over your side in an uncharacteristically tender and gentle manner. Every inch of your reflection is devoured by his greedy eyes. “We do not have to attend the feast, you know,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving myself of the pleasure of spending time with my wife.”

As he bows his head forward to press his lips to your shoulder, the soft strands of his silver hair tickle your skin, making you lean into his embrace and him reaching around you to splay a hand over your swollen belly.

“But I want to go. It’s the feast in honor of the queen announcing her pregnancy, and our brother will be cross with us if we do not attend,” you pout at him. “I just… I just don’t know which dress to choose.”

Daemon, however, knows full well that you’re being less than honest with him about your reluctance to go to the feast, becoming obvious when he starts to trace his fingers over the marks running across the underside of your bump. “That truly is a conundrum,” he says.

Sighing loudly, you try to escape his fingers by leaning further against him. But the friction your rear causes against the cloth is enough to loosen its tie, allowing it to fall to the ground.

The both of you are completely bare now, and he wastes no time in pressing his hard cock snugly into the crevice of your arse, making his desire for you more than clear.

“Let us forget the dresses for now. You know you’ll look ravishing no matter what you wear,” Daemon drawls, running a hand along your side. “Besides, why not allow me to appreciate every inch of you… no dresses involved.”

It sounds far too tempting… if you were in the mood. But with you struggling with your changing body for quite some time now, the thought of unraveling for him discourages you even more. “We do not have time,” you try to protest.

Much to your surprise, your usually insolent husband listens to your words.

“I think you’ll find that we have plenty of time, my love,” he mumbles, taking a step back with his hands raised in defeat. “The time we spend together would be much better than the time spent amongst a bunch of prudes at a feast.”

Not paying a mind to his words, you just nod appreciatively, and bring your attention back to the two gowns still hanging next to the mirror. Perhaps you can make the black one work with the laces tied extra loosely, and you only present at the feast for no longer than two hours.

Daemon stalks around you to stand next to the mirror, shamelessly dragging his eyes over your naked form and watching you inspect one of the dresses.

“Do you not have to dress yourself, husband?” you ask, pinching the fabric of the black dress between your fingers, trying not to pay too much attention to him. But his gaze is intense, burning straight through your skin, and making your body heat up.

You meet his eyes, cocking an eyebrow.

“There is a more important matter for me to tend to,” he objects.

“What are you–” you’re interrupted when your husband grabs the sides of the mirror and hoists it up, bringing it closer to your marital bed.

Turning on your heels, you watch him adjust it and eventually sit down on the bed with both feet planted firmly on the ground. The confusion must be evident on your features, because without a question uttered, Daemon pats his sturdy thigh and parts his legs, silently beckoning you over with a come-hither motion of his fingers.

The sight alone is alluring, his thick cock resting hard and heavy between his thighs, covered in an angry red and aching to be buried inside of you. But wanting to find out what he’s in mind is what brings you closer to him.

You move to climb his lap, wanting to sit astride him like you sit on Silverwing, but Daemon beats you to it. He scoots back slightly and brings his paws to your hips, turning you around. He pulls you back to sit down in the space between his parted legs.

When his hands hook beneath your knees to drape them over his thighs, inevitably exposing yourself to him, you instinctively lean back against him to adjust to the position.

You want to squeeze your thighs together, to hide from him, but his legs stop you from doing so. He brings a hand up to cup your full breast, squeezing lightly and testing the weight and shape of it. They’re full of milk by now, providing for your unborn child, and hard and heavy to the touch.

Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, you tilt your head to the side, not daring to watch your fully exposed reflection in the mirror. You’ve been bare around him the whole time, and he’s fucked you in ways that would bring a blush to certain people’s faces, but something in the current position and your growing insecurities makes you more vulnerable right now.

Daemon adjusts his fingers so that your taut bud pops up between them, and just a bit of pressure is already enough to coax droplets of your milk to spill from it. Your breathing grows heavy, more so because it’s already enough friction to ease some of the tormenting tension.

“I want to see you full and lovely and large, swollen with my seed and carrying my child,” he mutters against your skin. His other hand comes up to cup your chin, pushing your head forwards to all but force you to look at yourself. “And I want you to watch as I worship that precious body of yours.”

The hand on your chin settles at your throat, not squeezing it but tight enough for it to be a warning for you not to move. The other hand releases your breast and trails down to the apex of your legs. It all happens agonizingly slowly, tracing and following every scar that runs along the curve of your bump, until it finally finds your cunt.

As his fingers drag through it, even your husband can’t seem to stop himself from moaning. “You’re weeping for me, my love,” he rasps, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “So beautiful.” Withdrawing his fingers, they’re glistening with your arousal, connected by faint strings of it as he spreads his fingers.

You whimper, and dip your head back far enough for him to capture your lips. The kiss is sloppy, matching the rhythm he sets up as his fingers trace your cunt.

Daemon hums in approval as you pull away from him to look into the mirror, watching the exact moment his deft fingers ease into you. You gasp at the motion, and put all your weight back against him, melting into his embrace with his muscular arms around you.

There’s a pout on your lips when the pressure of his fingers leaves you again, used to spread apart your folds instead. In the reflection you see his dark blown eyes fixed on nothing else than what lies between your legs, his hard cock throbbing against your lower back as you clench around nothing. “Look how beautiful you look all spread out and ready for me, my love.”

Trying to squeeze your thighs shut, his hand comes from your throat to clasp around one, keeping you spread open for him. “Oh, don’t you dare,” he warns, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

With the heel of his hand pressing snugly against your pearl now, you can’t help but whimper as his fingers enter you again. The pace is slow and languid, making clear that neither of you is in a hurry tonight. It’s all about you.

“Seven hells, just look at you,” he coos against the side of your face, tip of his nose nudging your cheek. He clearly enjoys the confidence you slowly start to muster as his praises go straight to your head, coaxing you to rock your hips against his hand. “You truly have no idea of how much I desire you. Always.”

His words bring another wave of crimson to your cheeks, running down your neck and chest. It’s heaving with all the heavy breaths you inhale, and your taut buds have not softened since he touched them. If everything, his words and gestures have coaxed a few beads of milk to ooze from both, running down the curve of your breasts.

Reaching behind you, your hand rests at the back of his head, entangling into his long, silver hair. “Daemon–” you whimper, but he’s quick to silence you.

“Shush now,” he rasps. “Just enjoy and observe.”

And you certainly do, watching his fingers pump in and out of you as if it’s the most enthralling thing you’ve ever seen.

When he’s sure you’ll keep your legs spread for him, he brings his hand to your full breast again, groping and squeezing it, pinching the little bud to tease even more milk to spill from it.

It’s so much coming together at once. His praise goes straight to your head, making it hazy and longing for more, while liquid fire courses through your veins, ignited by the skilled ministrations of his fingers.

Daemon seems to sense your impending peak, and is determined to work you toward the sweet relief you so desperately crave.

The pace of his fingers increases now, fingers repeatedly brushing the sweet spot inside of you that makes your vision blurry. Pleasure soars through your body, and eventually is enough to snap the familiar knot inside of your belly. And that’s also the moment you can’t watch yourself any longer. The pleasure grows to the point you have to close your eyes to be able to thoroughly enjoy it. But your husband doesn’t seem to mind.

“There you go,” he coos, not slowing down the pace of his hands. “Such a good girl.”

Your walls convulse all over Daemon’s fingers, and with you releasing the sweetest and most desperate sounds your husband has heard in a while, he’s sure he could’ve peaked on spot, more so with the vice-like grip you have on his long hair.

His hand works you through the waves of euphoria, just slightly slowing down, and while your mind doesn’t process some of the praises he mumbles against your skin, your body does; with a renewed wave of arousal dripping out of your cunt.

It’s surprising that the pleasure doesn’t get replaced by overstimulation, especially with just how little time he gives you to recover until he starts pumping his fingers in and out of you at a harsher pace again.

“Gods be good,” you whimper, tipping your head back against his shoulder. Your hand releases his hair and instead you grab his forearm with both, clinging onto it for dear life.

“One more for me, you’re doing so good.”

You have barely time to process the first peak and its repercussions when the second washes over you in an ambush, striking you like lightning. It’s not as intense as the first, but prolonged with his other hand now frantically rubbing your pearl.

“Shh, just let it happen,” he purrs, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheek as you struggle against him.

It takes just a few more pumps of his hand until the pleasure subsides, only leaving a wave of bliss in its wake. Daemon’s hands both stop their ministrations, and you finally feel as though you’re able to breathe again.

As you open your eyes, you see him lick the remnants of your arousal off his fingers, before they tease your buds again, gathering some of your milk to lick off of them as well.

Whimpering and whining at the touch, you just slowly catch your breath. He soothes you by snaking both arms around your form, cupping your swollen belly, and presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.

“You’re an absolute vision in this state, and I do not wish for you to ever doubt that,” he mutters against your skin. “You look more desirable carrying my child, than any other woman does in their most provocative dress.”

Releasing a soft chuckle, you turn your head and capture his lips with yours. A chaste peck is not what he has anticipated, but he’s still happy that he was able to lift your spirits.

“Kirimvose, ñuha jorrāelagon,” you whisper. “Care to help me with the black dress?” Thank you, my love.

“Oh, I will,” Daemon says with a teasing lilt in his voice. He grabs you by the waist and carefully hoists you up, but when he lies you down on your back, you know you won’t be getting into the dress so soon. “But I think I need just a little more time to get fully into the spirit of the occasion.”

The moment he climbs on the bed to kiss his way over your marks and curves, you squeal and squirm, entangling your hands into his hair again.

Viserys can never be angry with you two for long anyway.

Daemon Targaryen | Matt Smith

House of the Dragon Season 2

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