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Three weeks after she is wed, Rhaenyra wakes to find her thighs tacky and sheets soiled with blood.
It’s not the first time in her life that her courses have come on suddenly in the night. But it is perhaps the worst, for she’d been sleeping without a scrap of clothing on – having fallen asleep still closely entwined after coupling, as has quickly become habit – and so the mess is entirely uncontained. It’s worse, too, for the fact that it’s caught her wholly unprepared.
In all honesty, she’d not expected having to contend with this any time soon.
Shock, horror, and disbelief vie for dominance in her sleep-muddled mind as she becomes aware of the situation. To her further embarrassment, her rising tide of panic erupts out of her in a most undignified shriek of dismay.
A shriek that startles her husband from drowsing in turn, setting him instantly on edge. Daemon moves almost faster than her eyes can follow, automatically putting himself in front of her and grabbing for a weapon before he processes the absence of apparent danger.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
Rhaenyra fumbles to explain, coming up short on words, and manages only a shameful mumble as she gestures to her lower body. “I’m bleeding.”
He lets out a slow breath, muscles visibly relaxing. Settles back into the mattress and pulls her into his arms. “Is that all?”
His dismissal of the situation only serves to make her feel more small and mortified. “Is that not enough? I’m getting blood all everywhere and I wasn’t expecting and I – I don’t understand….”
Daemon gives her an odd look, dubious with a sardonic edge. “What is there to not understand? I’d always taken you for a smart girl, but if you cannot recognize your monthly courses at eight-and-ten….”
Rhaenyra glares. It should probably be a comfort that he is so unperturbed by the mess; she’s given to understand that most men are considerably more squeamish about a woman’s bleeding. But at the moment she resents his mockery too much to find any consolation.
“I have no difficulty recognizing my courses,” she returns irritably. “But surely they should not be coming now.”
“Whyever not?” Now he looks genuinely confused.
“Should I not have conceived by now?” She’d thought that much would go without saying. Surely it was a natural expectation.
Daemon quirks an eyebrow. “I’d not thought you so anxious for a babe.”
Rhaenyra makes a frustrated noise, unsure how to explain, because she isn’t. It’s only – she’d rather thought it an inevitability. She can scarcely remember a time when her mother wasn’t with child, save when she was recovering from a loss, and Alicent too had increased near immediately after being wed.
She’d braced for it, because as much as she hates it, as much as she doesn’t like to think about it, she knows it needs to happen. Now, her expectations upended, she finds herself adrift. How is she to articulate the mingled relief and shame?
“I didn’t say I wished for it, only that I’d expected it. It’s not as though opportunity has been lacking.” An understatement, honestly. Since their wedding night they have been wholly insatiable for each other – indeed, she suspects the frequency and fervor of their fucking has much to do with why her father has encouraged them to remain on Dragonstone these past weeks in an unexpected reprieve from court duties – and he has taken no small satisfaction in spending within her every time.
Her uncle has the temerity to laugh. “Not that I’m not flattered by your faith in my virility, but you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself. These things often take time.”
“I don’t want it to take time,” Rhaenyra mutters petulantly. “I want to get it over with.” The agony of anticipation might just outweigh the comfort of knowing her body remains her own a while longer. How long need she remain braced, awaiting the blow?
And what if it never comes?
“Oh, zaldrītsos,” Daemon sighs.
Rhaenyra barely hears him, for her thoughts are already running away with her.
What if this is but the first indication of further difficulties, and she cannot fulfill that most basic of expectations upon her as a woman?
How long does she have before the realm begins to whisper that she is a failure like her mother?
“What if it’s not just time?” she frets. “What if there’s something wrong with me?”
“Not likely.” His tone brooks no disagreement, brusque and assured in proclaiming the baselessness of her fears.
It helps, but not enough. “But–”
“Lykirī.” His hands cup her face and he kisses her hard, stopping her spiraling.
When he breaks away, when her anxious mind has quieted and she’s calm and pliant in his embrace, he turns her around to tuck her into the curve of his body. “You worry too much, little wife, it’s not been even a moon yet. Far too soon to trouble yourself over it.”
Comforted, she nestles back against him with a soft sigh. She feels so secure, so cherished in his hold, as though nothing in the world could touch her, and she lets herself settle into enjoyment of it. Daemon rests his cheek against the side of her head. His arms come around her, hands cupping and caressing her breasts.
“I’m certainly not going to complain about having you to myself a while longer,” he adds, and the insinuating heat of his words takes her by surprise, as does the unmistakable sensation of his cock stirring against her back.
“You cannot find me enticing like this,” she protests. “I’m a mess.”
“On the contrary, you are always enticing,” Daemon declares. “Especially when you’re a mess,” he continues after a beat, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.
His hands grasp her hips, holding her in place as he wedges a thigh between hers. He grinds her down against him as his hips buck towards her.
All she can think of is how her blood is smearing over his leg, and a dismayed whimper spills from her lips.
He must take it for pain, for he stills abruptly. “Are you hurting?” he inquires, voice gentling slightly.
Rhaenyra gives a little shake of her head. “Not really.” There’s an intermittent dull ache in her abdomen, but it’s hardly discomfort enough to be a deterrent. “That’s not the poi–”
“‘Not really’ is not a no, Princess,” her uncle chides. Presses a kiss to her temple. Then, almost entreating, “Let me help.”
Without waiting for a response, he pulls her back more securely against him, and one hand leaves her hip to wrap around her front. The heel of his hand presses down on her belly just above her mound, just where the ache is centered, and it’s incredible how much the heat and firm pressure do to ease her cramping.
His fingers cup her, curling down to toy with her sensitive bud and the folds below, and the frisson of pleasure makes what pain remains fade into irrelevance. Her hips move on instinct, bucking into the touch, hungry for more.
But as much as her body appreciates his attentions, her mind still rebels, remaining caught on the repulsive awareness of how she must be bleeding all over his thigh and his fingertips. She tries again to raise the point. “I’m getting you filthy.”
Once again he shrugs off her concern. “It’s only blood. It’s not as if we haven’t sampled enough of each other’s.”
Rhaenyra flushes. Of a certainty, he has a point. They’ve bitten and clawed each other bloody in the course of their passion no few times. She’d eagerly drunk down the cup of blooded wine when they performed the Valyrian marriage rites,
and afterward taken his cock in her cut hand before licking it clean, the taste of copper only feeding her ardor.
Yet this hardly seems comparable. She cannot equate that which flows from clean cuts with the dark clotted ooze now seeping from her core.
Daemon clearly sees it differently. As if to prove his point, he pulls his fingers from between her legs, bringing them to his lips and sucking them clean with every evidence of enjoyment.
She cannot help herself from whining at the loss of his touch. It only makes him laugh, all smug satisfaction as his hand returns to stroking her.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” he murmurs against her ear. “That’s my girl. Take what you need.”
It still does not make sense to her how he could want her in this state. But the insistent press of his cock at her back, hot and pulsing ever harder, makes it abundantly clear that he does nevertheless. The knowledge, the feel of it, warms her through, a hot curl of pleasure in the pit of her stomach. It inspires her to be bolder, grinding back against him as she writhes on his fingers.
Daemon groans. Works his fingers deeper into her folds. Keeps at it until she’s gasping, pleading, coming for him.
His lips are at her ear again. “How do you feel?”
“Good,” Rhaenyra sighs.
“Let me have you.” It’s almost a question.
“Yes,” she breathes.
Daemon lifts her just slightly, angles his hips so he can slide into her from behind and in one smooth move sheathes himself deep within her.
He rocks into her, more gently than she’s accustomed to. She’s still riding the high of her recent peak, drifting in that hazy, floaty place that follows, and the waves of pleasure that accompany each slow thrust buoy her so that she simply doesn’t come back down. His hand is still pressed firm against her lower belly and petting at her bud, and combined with his cock stretching her so sweetly, it feels like she’s enveloped in sensation from every angle, like she’s so full up there’s no room in her body for anything but bliss.
She doesn’t know how long they go on like that, languidly moving together in a timeless haze. After what could be minutes or hours, his thrusts take on greater urgency. The motion of his fingers upon her speeds as well, bringing her back to the edge, so that when at last he reaches his peak and spills deep within her she tumbles over into ecstasy along with him.
She remains wrapped in his arms even after his softening cock slips out of her, too comfortable to move, until at length the feel of blood and seed drying on her thighs becomes too pronounced a distraction to ignore.
Rhaenyra grimaces as she surveys the carnage left in the wake of their lovemaking, but Daemon barely spares it a second glance. “The sheets were already ruined,” he says with a shrug. “Now, I think a bath is in order, don’t you agree?”
(The next moon she bleeds again, back in the Red Keep with all its gossips. She’s sorely tempted to have the bloodied sheets sent to the Queen’s chambers for the small consolation of putting an end to Alicent’s insinuations about whether they should be anticipating an eight-moon babe.
The moon after, her courses do not come, and the fatigue does.)