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Daemon is not even out of his armor yet, still occupied in cleaning Dark Sister, when Rhaenyra slips into his tent on the tourney grounds.
“Leave us. I will attend to my husband myself,” she dismisses his squire, who sketches a startled bow to his princess and dashes out.
As she draws near, Daemon sheathes the freshly oiled sword and rises to greet her. His eyes rake slowly over her form, drinking in the sight she makes. Fuck, but she’s a vision.
Rhaenyra is resplendent in the colors of their house, well-versed in displaying herself to best advantage. Her silver-gilt hair is bound up in a coronet braid, the style regal but devoid of her usual adornments: all the better to draw the eye to the wreath of blood-red roses now nestled atop it. Her Valyrian steel choker has its usual pride of place at her throat, and though he knows these days she favors it as much for its sturdiness against small grasping fingers as any other consideration, seeing her in his gift never fails to evoke a surge of possessive pride. Her gown of black samite and crimson brocade clings to the lush curves of her form that motherhood has only amplified, the low square neckline accentuating her full bust and the skirts cut with the split in the dark overlayer cleverly positioned to frame the newly apparent curve of her stomach as it swells with their second child.
The smile she bestows upon him does much to banish the aches of the day. “Nicely fought, Uncle,” she congratulates.
He raises a hand to stroke her cheek, and further upward to brush his fingers over the blossoms in her hair. “With such inspiration, I could hardly fail.”
“Yes, I’m glad to see you’ve finally learned sense in your choice of favors,” she teases.
Daemon grimaces at the reminder of the ill-fated Heir’s Tourney – while he’s never asked for any favor but his niece’s since that day, he doubts she’ll ever stop giving him grief over it. As she reaches for his vambraces to begin the tedious process of stripping off his armor, he changes the subject before she can needle him further.
“Was there a great deal of fuss among the court?” he inquires. He cannot bring himself to sound any kind of apologetic, or even particularly concerned. He does hope he’s not caused her too much difficulty to smooth over, but however much upset it may have caused, the death was a necessary one. To protect his family, he’d do much worse without regret.
(As far as Daemon is concerned, the faithless knight was long overdue a meeting with the Stranger. His initial low opinion had only been solidified when the upstart had dared entreat Rhaenyra to run away with him after her betrothal was announced, had presumed to suggest that the princess required saving from Daemon. Though she’d dismissed the knight from her personal service for that overstep, still some lingering loyalty to her former protector led her to plead mercy on his behalf even as he turned his cloak and became an instrument of the Hightower queen’s sedition. Too tender-hearted by half sometimes, his princess. But where Rhaenyra could forgive slights against herself, her dragon’s rage was roused when his cruelty spread to threaten her babe, and Ser Crispin’s vitriol had at last signed his own death warrant.)
In response, her lips curve in a pleased little smirk. “Not so very much. Her Grace is wroth at the loss of her loyal dog, of course, but to little effect. Even my father dismissed her protestations as baseless.”
“Sheep bleat.”
“Indeed,” she agrees. “I doubt he’ll be much mourned.”
Her tone of vicious satisfaction is such that he can’t resist pulling her close and kissing her soundly. She moans into his mouth, and her hands come up to clutch at his face, drawing him closer in turn as she deepens the kiss.
Rhaenyra’s pale skin is streaked with crimson when they part. It takes him a minute to understand why, but heat surges through him once he does.
Cole’s blood had sprayed messily (and quite satisfyingly) when he fell. Daemon’s armor is wet with it, little though the stain shows against the blacked plate, and now her hands are as well. When she grabbed at him, she’d smeared it across both their faces.
After they’d spoken their vows in the Valyrian tradition, he’d taken her beneath the stars on Dragonstone’s shore, their lips and hands still bloodied. She looks no less enticing adorned with the blood of their foe. The sight is enough to make his cock stir.
He suspects her thoughts run on similar lines, for she gazes back at him with eyes darkened and breaths shallow. Delicately he grasps her wrist, bringing her hand to his lips and licking off her fingers. She shivers.
When he releases her, Rhaenyra stands unmoving for a moment, a little dazed – then makes haste to finish removing his armor, pushing him into a seat so that she might more easily reach his pauldrons.
She pulls away his breastplate, and he hisses a sharp breath, unable to keep from wincing. The plate has been dented in on one side by a particularly vicious blow of the morningstar, and jostling the flesh beneath causes his all-over feeling of battered soreness to concentrate into a sharp pain radiating from a fist-size section of his ribcage.
Carefully he feels at the afflicted area. Bruised, not broken, he decides. He’s had worse.
Rhaenyra has frozen, seeing his grimace, and her brow furrows in concern. “You’re hurt.”
“No more than bruises,” he assures her. “Don’t fret, Princess, it takes more than that to hinder me.”
Not content to take his word for it, she continues stripping him after the last piece of plate is set aside, undoing the ties of his gambeson and then peeling off his undershirt as well so she can inspect his skin for signs of damage.
Once satisfied with her examination, she trails her lips over his chest, lavishing kisses on every tender and purpling spot. And then she sinks to her knees, skirts pooling gracefully around her, and works open the lacing of his breeches with clear intent.
“My champion has done me a great service today,” she purrs. “I would reward such leal service.”
“By all means.” Daemon tries for an air of diffident allowance, but in truth it’s all he can do to maintain an even tone, his body all too eager for her touch.
Her hot breath ghosts over his exposed shaft before she leans in and licks a stripe from root to tip. She laps at his head, soft and tantalizing. Her clever fingers follow, lightly encircling him and tugging back his foreskin while she licks into the hollow beneath the ridge of his cockhead.
Lightning arcs through his veins at the touch of her tongue, and a moan spills unbidden from his lips. His arms are halfway to reaching for her before he has the presence of mind to pull them back.
He wants to bury his hands in her hair, to twist the silken strands around his fingers and tug her closer, to press her head to his groin and maneuver her to his liking. But he is loath to disrupt the careful arrangement of her braids or the delicate circlet of blossoms that sits atop them, and thus obliged to keep his hands to himself.
A forbearance that’s easier said than done when she’s taking him in slowly, so slowly, the wet heat of her mouth gradually enveloping his shaft. Barely an inch she wraps her lips around at first before drawing back, and then twice that on the next pass, and so on deeper until he’s all the way in her throat.
She holds him there for a long minute, hums around him with her nose pressed into the short hairs at the base of his cock, and he makes a noise that’s barely human.
And then without warning she pulls away until she is barely touching him. Swirls her tongue lightly around his tip, suckles at the slit where he has begun to leak, and glances up to catch his gaze, lavender eyes dancing with mischief.
He curses viciously, hands clenching into fists at his sides.
His reaction provokes a smug little giggle from his minx of a wife before she takes him in deep again.
Her lips tighten around him, creating a ring of firm pressure that massages his shaft as her head bobs and her cheeks hollow. She settles into a steady pace, quick and even, and he thinks at last she’s through with teasing. But just as the heat coiling within him begins to build towards release, she slips him from her lips once more.
Daemon can control himself no longer. Not being able to touch her is going to drive him mad.
His hands grasp her shoulders and haul her off of him. “Get up here,” he commands. His voice comes out a ragged growl, harsh and urgent, as he tugs her up and onto his lap. He ignores the flare of fire in his chest that the motion provokes, for it’s not half so strong as the fire of his need for her.
He holds her close, greedily groping at the lush curves now in easy reach of his seeking hands, presses his forehead to hers, licks the taste of copper from a lingering smear across her mouth.
Rhaenyra draws back to pout at him. “I was in the middle of something,” she protests, so adorably indignant at the interruption that he has to kiss the expression from her swollen lips.
“Mmm. I’m aware,” he murmurs acknowledgment in between kisses. “And I’ll gladly let you return to it … just as soon … as I’ve had my fill of your sweet lips.”
He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her weight more firmly against him as he bucks up beneath her, rutting into the space between her spread thighs. She rocks into the contact in turn, moaning into his mouth.
“That is, if that’s really what you want,” he goes on.
“Of course it is!” she protests. “Why should you doubt it?”
But by then he’s already worked a hand up under her skirts, sliding up her stockinged thigh to find the silk of her smallclothes drenched and shove it aside. Her folds are slick and puffy, coating his fingers in her nectar before he even reaches the source.
It’s no less than he’d expected. Eager little thing that she is, sucking him invariably leaves her wet and wanting.
“Your cunt feels so needy, so empty,” he insinuates. She sucks in a sharp indrawn breath as his fingers circle her slit, and he teasingly traces several times around the mouth of that dripping hole before the pad of one fingertip presses shallowly inside. “I could let you get back on your knees – or I could keep you right here on my lap while I slip inside, fill you up, have you writhing and squirming on my cock.”
“Yes, that,” she pants, breaths coming quick and shallow as he continues petting at her entrance. “I want that.”
“I thought as much,” Daemon smirks. “Your cunny wants some cream, doesn’t it? It’s drooling all over my fingers, the poor hungry little thing. What kind of husband would I be to neglect it when it’s working so hard growing my babe?”
“Are you going to fill it, then, or just talk about it?” she huffs.
Just for that display of impatience, he holds off a little longer, enjoying the way she squirms against his touch. When he removes his hand from between her thighs, he makes a show of licking her juices from his fingers before making any move to shift their positions.
Rhaenyra’s eyes blaze like embers as she watches, and she reaches out to wrap her hand none too gently around his cock and attempt to guide him into her. He grabs hold of her rounded arse in turn, seizing the soft flesh of her cheeks in a two-handed grip, and tugs her forwards. He lets out a low groan as she impales herself on his length, and she swallows it in a hungry kiss.
She wriggles a little, ensuring he’s fully sheathed within her. “Mmm, that’s better.”
“Greedy girl,” he murmurs the fond accusation. “This was what you wanted all along, wasn’t it? You knew when you walked into this tent you wouldn’t be leaving without my seed in you.”
Her lips curve mischievously. “Mayhaps.”
Daemon squeezes her arse affectionately before releasing his hold, and slaps one cheek hard enough that he can see the flesh jiggle through the heavy fabric of her gown. Everything about her is softer, curvier, these days; he can’t get enough of it. Rhaenyra’s smile only widens, and she twists her hips in a way that makes his breath catch.
He tries to thrust up into her, but that proves a mistake, for the movement aggravates the pain in his ribs enough to rob him of breath in a much less pleasant way. Instead he settles for resting one hand at the small of her back to brace her while the other slips beneath her skirts once more, fondling the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs as she rolls her hips atop him.
Truly, his niece needs no help, skilled rider that she is. It’s a treat just to watch her as she chases her pleasure with glorious abandon.
It’s not long before she finds her peak, her eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open in ecstasy. The sweet breathy sounds that spill from her lips are nearly enough to undo him, let alone the way the walls of her cunt contract as if to milk him, and he abandons his attention to her pearl to clamp his hand around the base of his cock because he’s not ready for this to be over yet.
Once he can be confident of his control once more, he lets himself admire the sight she makes as she comes down, flushed and panting. His attention fixes on her chest heaving against the stricture of her stays.
The creamy flesh of her bosom is nearly level with his eyes, and near to spilling over the edge of her bodice. As their firstborn is as yet only partially weaned, her gowns are designed for easy access, and Daemon takes full advantage; it needs but a slight loosening of her laces before he’s lifting the warm weight of her breasts free of their confines, feeling them full and heavy against his hands.
Full, heavy, and wet. Her milk must have let down in the course of her pleasure, for there are damp spots on her chemise and thick droplets rolling down the underside of her breasts.
Her nipples are darkly flushed and stiffened to hard little peaks, begging for attention. Her skin is stretched taut over the plump globes, and though he isn’t intending roughness she winces at his grasp. So overripe as to be oversensitive, they must be.
“A little full?” he murmurs as he bends his head to chase the errant drips with his tongue.
Rhaenyra nods. Bites her lip. “Kepus, please,” she breathes, eagerly acceding to the unspoken suggestion.
It’s an invitation he is only too happy to take up. Her moan when he latches on is pure relief. A sweet stream fills his mouth, and he drinks it down greedily.
Her fingers scramble for purchase in the short strands of his hair, clasping his head to her breast, not that he’d had the slightest inclination to move away. His hands settle at her sides, thumbs stroking featherlight over the bottom curve of her breasts, and she arches her back, strains closer into his touch, as her moans rise in volume.
He suckles at her until the flow of milk slows and her flesh softens enough that she welcomes his hand cupping and kneading her tit where she’d recently been too swollen to abide such ministrations. He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip in a parting caress before shifting his attentions to her other side.
Beneath the combined ministrations of his mouth and hand, she grows frantic, writhing and grinding down on his length with increasing urgency. The walls of her cunt seem to pulse in time with his pulls at her breast. Feeling her closing in on another peak, he brings his other hand down to toy with her bud once more, and is rewarded with the sweet sensation of Rhaenyra coming apart.
As she shudders atop him, he releases her breast with a wet pop. “So fucking delectable,” he growls, before lifting his head to claim her mouth in a sloppy kiss. Gods, she’s irresistible, every inch of her ripe and welcoming, tempting him to lose his senses in the delights of her flesh. How he burns for her.
When she breaks away from his lips, he affixes his mouth to the column of her throat, sucking a red mark into her skin just above where the chain of his necklace sits and making her whine.
Breathless and blissed out, still she manages a siren’s smile. “Spill for me, Kepus,” she urges. Her voice is little more than a husky murmur, but it sears through him, stoking the fire of his lust to a raging inferno. “Such an attentive husband, draining my breasts, now let me return the favor and drain your cock. Know you’re aching for it.”
“Fuck,” he grunts. He wants nothing more, doesn’t even know why he’s still holding out. “Gonna fill you to the brim. Pump my seed deep inside you where it belongs, and you’re going to take every drop.”
“Yes.” Her cunt clenches at his words. Her eyes burn, pupils blown. Her nails bite into his shoulders, pinpricks of pleasure-pain, and the fire takes him.
Daemon surrenders to the ecstasy she inspires, spilling forth into the sweet, hot sheath that is always so eager to swallow his seed. So intense is his release that he swears, were she not already with child, he would be putting one in her this day.
He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, after. Both reluctant to move, luxuriating in the sensations: bodies still joined, the weight of her draped over him warm and pliant in his arms. Her fingers card through his hair, making him want to purr when she scratches at his scalp. He lavishes kisses over her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, caresses the subtle swell of her belly, and murmurs words of adoration such that he’d probably have to kill anyone who overheard for risk to his reputation.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, Rhaenyra climbs off his lap. “We’d best clean up if we don’t want to be late to our own festivities.” She crosses the tent to retrieve a soft cloth, dipping it in a basin of water prepared for just such a purpose.
He rises as well, wincing with the movement while her back is to him. (Fuck but he aches. Fuck but it was worth it.)
She returns to his side to run the damp cloth over his skin, cleansing him of sweat and blood and intimate fluids. Gentle and thorough, she wipes down his chest, his arms, his back. At the last she encircles his spent cock with her cloth-covered hand, making it twitch weakly, before tucking him back into his breeches.
When she is through, he tends to her in turn. But before long he gets sidetracked from his efforts, distracted by the way the water droplets roll across the contours of her breasts and compelled to trace their path with eyes and then hands.
“You’re not helping,” she chides amusedly, snatching back the washcloth.
Daemon blows cool air over her skin, watching her nipples tighten and fine gooseflesh rise. “I’m very helpful,” he insists, inanely.
She wrenches herself from his grasp, tossing the wet rag at his face, and dances back a few steps beyond his reach. She makes a show of smoothing out her skirts and adjusting the circlet of roses atop her head. “Kindly cease molesting me, husband, and make yourself presentable – if such a thing is possible,” she says, though there’s too much laughter in her voice for the attempt at hauteur to land. “We’ve a feast in our honor to attend.”
He declines to shift his focus away from her as yet, but he does behave (mostly) and make himself useful. He steps behind her so that he might properly cinch and retie the lacing of her bodice, pressing a light kiss to the nape of her neck while he’s at it.
“And here I thought I’d just enjoyed one,” he returns with a smirk.