I've wanted to write a HOTD/Daemyra fic ever since the show first started airing but I've been so busy with work and life, and writing other things - and I've also been terrified that I would write them out of character. But after the finale… yeah, I wasn't happy. I frankly was not pleased with the finale just brushing over Daemon mourning his brother AND his daughter so here we are, sorry in advance for any OOC-ness! I really hope I did them some justice though, but again I apologize in advance for my rusty writing as it's been a while since I last wrote anything properly.
(At this point the writers should just let Matt Smith write his own character because he's the only one on that damn show who understands his own character lmfao)
It's Daemon and Rhaenyra, so of course there's some High Valyrian, but I'm still quite early in the Duolingo course so it may not be 100% accurate! Some of the words/phrases are actually from David J Peterson's own AO3 where he's written the High Valyrian and translations used in season 1 of the show, including the song sung to Vermithor in the finale. Translations from the fic will be in the notes at the end for anyone interested!
Title taken from the song "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil (highly recommend their music!)
Finally, shoutout to the Daemyra discord for being amazing and inspiring me to write this fic! I hope I did the ship and Daemon justice!
The moment his wife announced that the baby was coming, he knew the truth - they would not survive. It was too early, far too early, and there was nothing to be done: the child would be born dead, without a shadow of a doubt, too weak to survive the world of war and fire and blood. And as Rhaenyra's screams echoed on the walls of the Dragonstone keep, he could only force himself to stay away: he had been present for their births of their sons, just as he had for the daughters he had shared with Laena, but now-
He could still remember watching as Laena struggled and screamed her way through the delivery of a child that never came, one that would result in her death one way or the other - it was a memory that haunted him, a constant fear every time Rhaenyra had laboured only to bring forwards their two healthy and indisputably Targaryen boys. It was a fear he kept to himself, not allowing anyone to see this weakness of him, not even her; the thought of losing her the way he had lost Laena, having to watch as history repeated itself in the cruelest of the ways, was perhaps one of the only things that might bring him to his knees.
At best, the child would be born dead while Rhaenyra mourned; at worst, he would be mourning the loss of two more in addition to his brother.
Not Rhaenyra, he forced himself to think desperately even as he talked of war plans and alliances, do not take Rhaenyra from me. Not her-
Losing his brother was difficult enough but in truth not the most shocking of news; Viserys had clearly been ill for years, anyone could have seen it, and it had no doubt been exacerbated by that green bitch and her whelps. It had been clear on their last visit just days previously that he had not been given long left before the Stranger came to take to him, though the news of his death still managed to cut him like a knife. For all of their differences, he had loved his brother and remained ever loyal to him, even in self imposed exile.
But Rhaenyra… she was his niece, his wife, his queen. She was fire and blood, of his blood, a dragon as fierce and untameable as he himself was. He had adored her from the day she was born, an adoration that blossomed into something more as she did into womanhood, into lust and - naturally, dizzyingly, almost frighteningly - love. She was both his strength and his weakness, just as capable of breaking him as she was of igniting him, a fact that was as terrifying as it was exciting. To lose her, her of all people, would be to kill whatever happiness and light existed inside of him, akin to running him through with his own sword.
Do not take her from me, he thought almost desperately, please do not take her away from me.
Rhaenyra was not taken from him - but the Stranger visited and collected nonetheless.
When the pained screaming finally stopped, Daemon made his way to their quarters almost cautiously; the fact that no maids had come sobbing that the princess was dead, that he'd heard nothing, did little in the way of assuring him that all was well - he was no fool. All was not well. When he entered the room, the maids were crying to themselves, but not over the body of a dead woman; none of them met his eye, huddling together as he turned his attention from them.
His wife was sitting on the floor against one of the bedposts, her shift soaked in sweat and blood, pale blonde hair a mess around her shoulders. He knew even before he neared her, before he knelt down to her, before he saw for himself the bloody bundle that she cradled in her arms so preciously, what he would see.
He knew death well enough by now, and the room reeked of it.
His hand was gentle on her shoulder as he looked down at the child she had laboured so painfully to bring into this world; after five healthy sons, it had been expected that this child would be no different, be they boy or girl - but it had been early, too early. The face that peeked out of the sodden mess of blankets and fluids was tiny, too tiny, a face that was barely formed and misshapen; it was still, eerily still and pale, the face of death.
"Gevie ," He murmured, forcing away the lump in his throat. "Gevie issa."
"Zȳhi brōzi…" Her voice, already weak from exhaustion, cracked from what was undoubtedly heartbreak. "Zȳhi brōzi Visenȳs issa."
Visenya. A daughter. Not his first but their first together, his wife's first and only daughter. Even as he steeled himself, forced his emotions away, he could feel something in him break at the sight of their stillborn daughter, so tiny and fragile and innocent, held tightly in his wife's arms.
"Visenya," He repeated softly. "Īlva tala… īlva gevie tala."
Their daughter's face was closer to that of a dragon hatchling than a normal baby, her body too small and twisted, but she was beautiful - she was his, his and Rhaenyra's, their child. He loved her just as he had loved Baela and Rhaena, just as he loved Aegon and Viserys, and yes, just as he loved Rhaenyra's boys as his own.
"They killed her," Rhaenyra said, her voice pained and full of rage. "They killed her, my only daughter…"
"Rhaenyra…"
The treacherous tears glistened as they streaked down her cheeks. "She was my only daughter… and they killed her. They stole my crown and murdered my daughter…"
"And they will answer for it," Daemon promised, voice low so that only she could hear him. "I promise, ñuha prūmia."
First they had taken his brother from him, and now his daughter… they would pay dearly for this.
The days that followed were difficult - more difficult than even he had anticipated.
Daemon was used to planning wars and battles - it was as natural as breathing, even now as he struggled to keep his emotions buried away, and the anger he felt only served to fuel his resolve as their council met and plotted their next moves. He made sure their keep was secure, that their guards were loyal to the rightful queen only, trained with his stepsons to prepare them for battle; he allowed Joffrey a certain degree of leniency, given his age, but trained both Jace and Luke hard - they were running out of time, and he needed them to be able to defend themselves should the time come.
We won't lose them too, we won't, his mind screamed pathetically; the gods have taken enough from me, from Rhaenyra, they will not take her eldest sons too-
Both boys were eager to prove themselves; Daemon did not miss the looks Jacaerys sent him, his face so like his mother, determined and yet seeming to expect more of his stepfather - for him to be more attentive of the grieving queen, he suspected. Lucerys was even more enthusiastic, clearly wanting his stepfather's approval even when he was criticized or harshly spoken to; even when the boy's face fell at being shouted at, even as he nursed bruised limbs and sore appendages, he still seemed to want to prove himself.
Daemon knew he was harsh on both boys, perhaps a little too much so - but he did it out of love, out of a need to protect them. The Greens would come for their family, children or not, and they would not be forgiving or kind.
He made Baela spend more time with Moondancer, who despite not being big enough to ride was still a valuable asset, but he needn't have; his eldest child was just as fearless as he himself was, growing up wrestling squires in the training yard (an act that had many in the castle chastising her - he had just laughed proudly), and she spent every day with her dragon anyway. His second daughter, who while less feisty than her twin was just as intelligent, beautiful and strong, still did not have a dragon of her own despite all of her praying and hoping; he promised Rhaena that she would have her pick of both the unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone and the eggs recently laid by Syrax, swearing by it - in the meantime, she was to continue to serve as cupbearer to Rhaenyra, a position she filled with pride.
This fight was not just for his wife's right to sit on the throne but for Jacaerys too - and by extension Baela, who through her future marriage to Jace would be the rightful queen one day. It was for their entire family's safety, for their children's lives, for the future of their house. He wouldn't - couldn't - lose anyone else, not if he could prevent it, not to the Hightower scum.
Which was why he was dismayed when Rhaenyra appeared to seriously consider the terms offered by Otto Hightower. He wasn't sure what offended him the most: the very idea of his sons serving the usurper - of them being political prisoners to keep the rightful heir at bay - or the fact that his wife was showing that same weakness that his brother had, the weakness that had contributed to this situation in the first place.
He most likely knew Rhaenyra better than anyone else alive, had known her since she was a giggling and smiling baby; he had seen her strength from a young age and seen her grow into a formidable and powerful woman, a true dragon just as he was, full of fire and determination. She was not weak or easily swayed - which was why her reluctance to take any action, the way she even considered the terms of a traitor, infuriated him. This was not the woman he knew and loved, not the queen he knew she was.
Peace was all well and good in theory, but Daemon knew what she apparently was refusing to accept just yet: the Greens would never keep their word, not for long. Their promises were empty words and thinly veiled threats to ensure cooperation and subservience, not genuine solutions or arrangements.
If the Greens truly cared about keeping peace, they would not have crowned the usurper without even informing Rhaenyra of her father's death; if they had wanted peace and to unite the family, they would have accepted the proposals to betroth Helaena (by far the least unlikeable of Alicent's whelps, Daemon would admit) to Jacaerys long ago… But they had not. Their aim had never been and never would be to keep peace: it was to steal power from the rightful rulers.
They would never allow Rhaenyra nor her children - and, by extension, he and his children - to live because their very existence was a threat to the Green succession. And because of that, Daemon knew that the only way to guarantee his family's safety was to completely eradicate all of the Greens and their supporters.
Rhaenyra might not have seen it yet - but she would, one way of the other.
He knew that she hated him.
The tears stung his eyes even as he lit the torch and lifted it from the brazier so that he could go further into the cave.
The way her eyes had widened when his hand grabbed her throat, her breathing shallow, her gasps, she had to hate him, after what he did to her, she-
"Fuck," He muttered, forcing his tears away angrily.
Daemon hadn't wanted to hurt her, that had never been his intention even in that moment; in all three of his marriages, even that first bitter one, he had never hit or intentionally hurt his wives. Rhea's death had been… he didn't know. Partly an accident, he supposed - an accident he admittedly had helped caused - but even so, during their awful marriage he hadn't threatened or committed violence against her (mostly because she wouldn't have been worth the effort, if he was honest with himself). He had been happy enough with Laena, but even if he hadn't, he could never imagine laying a hand on her - yes, partly because she would have undoubtedly fed him to Vhagar for such a thing, but also because he would never have hurt her in that way. He had never raised a hand to any of his children, believing there were better ways of punishing bad behaviour, and even with the whores he had taken pleasure with so long ago, he had never caused them harm unless they asked him to spank or be rough with them.
But Rhaenyra… their relationship had always been passionate and volatile; they were both dragons, fierce and untameable, and sometimes their intimacy had been decidedly rough. Nothing too extreme, even in their most heated moments; he enjoyed the way she would bite and scratch him, marking him as hers, and she always begged him to return the favour. He would never have harmed her, not in that way: he loved her more than he had loved anyone, more than he had known himself even capable of loving anyone, he always had and always would so long as there was air in his lungs and blood in his veins.
And yet he had still grabbed her by the neck until she was gasping and pulling at him to let go.
He had not meant to hurt her, not even then as he held her like that. He had been so angry, so burningly angry that it was tearing him from the inside: losing his brother, losing his daughter, his wife being usurped by her cunt of a half-brother, Otto fucking Hightower and his offensive propositions, and-
And this prophecy.
He wasn't sure what exactly about it had been the breaking point: the fact that his wife was considering weakness because of this dream, letting it rule her as it had ruled her father - or because his brother, his dear older brother who he had served and protected his entire life, had never trusted him enough to tell him about it.
It didn't matter anymore, because either way it had not been worth hurting her over; she didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of the anger and hurt he had bottled away inside of himself, she deserved so much better.
You defiled her, Viserys had snarled at him all those years ago in the throne room, You have ruined her! What lord will wed her now? In this condition?
His brother had been right, he thought to himself dully as he took a turn in the tunnel.
Your heart is even blacker than I thought.
The Rogue Prince, they called him, and her the Realm's Delight; she was a princess loved by nearly all of the Seven Kingdoms, and he was respected out of fear, not love.
You are a plague... sent to destroy me.
His niece deserved better than him and always had; he had known it from the night he took her to the brothel and nearly claimed her maidenhead. He had known then that she deserved better than to have her virginity taken by him in a dirty brothel basement, than to have her reputation sullied because of him; even back then he had been scarred, battle worn, depraved, with a reputation for whoring and killing - hardly the young white knight of a princess' dreams, or the husband someone like her deserved.
You abandoned me.
I spared you. You were a child.
He had tried, gods help him, he had tried; he had married someone else, started a family, tried for so long to forget the desire that burned him from the inside whenever he thought of her. He had stayed away from her, knowing it would be painful to see her with another man - no matter how much he loved Laena, he knew he would always burn for Rhaenyra and Rhaenyra only. And when he had seen her again all those years later at his wife's funeral on Driftmark, he had tried again so hard to restrain himself despite the fact the fire in his blood roared back to life at the sight of her - she had gotten older, yes, but she was still so beautiful, the kind that might only exist in a goddess.
Rhaenyra...
I'm no longer a child. I want you.
He had been powerless after that; he was hers and always had been, always would be. He had allowed himself to love her, had allowed himself to be selfish and have her even though he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve her or the happiness that came from being with her. They had been happy, so sickeningly happy; his daughters, her sons, and then their sons.
Their daughter.
He was getting close now to where he needed to be; quietly, softly, he began to sing in the tongue of their ancestors.
Drakari pykiros
Tīkummo jemiros
Yn lantyz bartossa
Saelot vāedis
It was an ancient lullaby; his grandsire, the Old King Jaehaerys, had sung it to him and Viserys from the time they'd been babes, just as he had sung it to all of his children and grandchildren. His voice sounded weak to his own ears as he walked, knowing he was nearing his destination now.
Hen ñuhā elēnī:
Perzyssy vestretis
Se gēlȳn irūdaks
Ānogrose
He had sung it to his girls when they were inside Laena's womb, resting his head against the swollen bump that brought them their twins, and he had continued to sing it to them after they'd been born. They had been curled up in the cradles they shared with their dragon eggs, as their house tradition was; his daughters had kicked and gurgled and slept as he watched over them, lulled by his voice as he sang.
Perzyro udrȳssi
Ezīmptos laehossi
Hārossa letagon
Aōt vāedan
He had sung it to his sons when Rhaenyra had been swollen with each of them too; first Aegon, named for the Conquerer, and then Viserys, named for his brother. Just as there was no doubt that her earlier three sons had not in fact been sired by her first husband, there was no doubt that these two were her second husband's; they were Targaryens through and through, the sons he had always wanted - he loved his daughters dearly, of course, and always would, but he had hoped for sons too. He had sung to his wife's swollen belly on many a night when she was pregnant with each of them, his fingers dancing over the stretched skin and his heart ridiculously full.
And then Visenya… Rhaenyra had not been far along, not as heavy, but he had sung to the baby inside of her every night, rubbing her stomach gently and delighting as their daughter kicked at the sound of his voice. Even now he could imagine himself holding their lost child in his arms, singing his Visenya to sleep so that she would dream of dragons.
Hae mērot gierūli:
Se hāros bartossi
Prūmȳsa sōvīli
Gevī dāerī…
A torrent of flame cut his singing short, the cavern ablaze as the dragon woke.
Daemon stood straight, unafraid even as the dragon let out a curious growl and eyed him; Vermithor would not hurt him, he knew, because unpredictable though unclaimed dragons were, he would recognise the song and remember. This dragon had belonged to his grandfather, to King Jaehaerys, and was more than accustomed to humans - Jaehaerys had taken pride in showing his dragon to his offspring and descendants, even when he'd been too old to ride himself; he had served the Old King well, and when his rider had died, he had made his home here on Dragonstone. He was a huge and fearsome beast, far larger than Caraxes, Syrax or any other dragon currently ridden - except for Vhagar.
As he looked at his reflection in the great eye of the dragon known as the Bronze Fury, Daemon remembered his words as his hand had caused harm to his wife.
"Dreams didn't make us kings. Dragons did."
The way to win this war would be with dragons, not dreams and prophecies - he just hoped Rhaenyra realized it before it was too late.
"My Prince… there's been an incident. At Storm's End."
No, his mind had screamed even as his face remained a mask, no no no, not one of our boys, not now, not ever-
"It's… It's Prince Lucerys."
Luke. Young Luke who had only barely reached his fourteenth nameday, Luke who they had fought for to be named the rightful heir of Driftmark, to inherit what was rightfully his-
"He was killed above Storm's End while riding his dragon Arrax… What remains of his body washed up on our shores this morning . "
He remembered how Luke had wanted desperately to earn his approval; when he and Rhaenyra had first married, the young prince had been somewhat wary of him, afraid from all of the stories he had heard at court no doubt while also mourning not one but two father figures. Unlike Joffrey, he had had memories of both Laenor and Harwin, and so he had clearly been hesitant to have a new stepfather so soon - but then he had lowered his guard and accepted him almost alarmingly quickly. Daemon had grown fond of all of Rhaenyra's sons faster than he cared to admit, but he had had a soft spot of sorts for Luke especially - a second son, he thought, just like he himself was.
"It's believed that he had an altercation with…with Prince Aemond and his dragon. Shall I tell the Queen ? "
Daemon, he could hear Luke's voice calling excitedly, ringing in his ears, Daemon, can I help to choose an egg for the baby? Daemon, look, Jace and I have been sparring!
"No," Daemon muttered.
Daemon?… Don't tell mother, but I… I had a nightmare. Jace said I shouldn't worry her while she's got the baby inside her, but… but I'm scared.
"My prince?"
I want to learn Valyrian too, Daemon, just like you and mother - Jace says we should honour the traditions of our forebears… will you teach me?
"Go," He ordered the messenger, and his voice cracked before he could stop it. "You may go. I will tell the queen - you will tell no one else."
There was so much blood, Daemon. I didn't mean to take his eye, but he was going to hurt Jace and Rhaena and Baela! He had already hurt all of us, I just wanted to help!
As he walked through to the hall where his wife was conferring with her council, he couldn't stop the sudden and embarrassing tear that rolled down his face; he rubbed it away quickly, heart and head pounding painfully.
Mother, Daemon let me hold Dark Sister during training today! He let Jace have a go first, but then I got to hold it - he even showed me how to wield it properly!
Everyone's eyes were on him as he walked past them silently to the head of the table and to his wife; he had not been present for the entire day, and it was clear by the way he did not speak, by his face, that something was not right. Ignoring them, he lifted his eyes to meet Rhaenyra's.
Sometimes, Daemon, I… I wish I looked more like Ser Laenor than Harwin Strong. Or more like you even. No one would doubt me then. No one would call me bastard or look at me like they do.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and took her hand, gently leading her over to the fire so that only she would hear him.
I will be a good husband to the Lady Rhaena, Daemon, and I will be a good Lord of Driftmark - I will make you and my mother proud, I promise.
Daemon could only watch uselessly as her sorrow and rage blended together, her hands on the empty womb that had already lost one child and now was mourning the loss of another.
That night they shared a bedchamber again for the first time.
Away from the prying and pitying eyes of their council, he held her as she broke down, her sobs filled with burning anger and her curses laced with a heavy grief, the same kind that cast a dark shadow over his own heart but he kept locked away. There was little else he could do in that moment - they would have their revenge when the time was right, he vowed, but not yet, not tonight.
The Greens would pay for this - an eye for an eye, a son for a son. He would make sure that Lucerys was avenged, no matter the cost.
It was dark in their chamber, the candles having long burnt out, when he cleared his throat and held her tighter.
"I'm sorry."
He was not one to apologise - ever. It was almost as if it slipped out before he could stop it, his resolve weakened by their shared grief.
"Daemon…"
He sat up quickly, disentangling himself from her. "I hurt you, ñuhon jorrāelagon." In the dim light from a torch on the wall across the room, he saw her gazing at him and forced himself to look away. "It was… inexcusable."
"Since when have you ever worried about hurting me?" She questioned, her tone difficult to decipher.
"I shouldn't have…" The words didn't come easily - he had always been better at expressing his feelings through training, fighting, violence, and it rang true now. "I should not have put my hands on you in that way. You deserve better than that, Rhaenyra."
Than me, he thought, and he was sure she heard too even though he hadn't said it aloud.
"You didn't hurt me," She told him, voice surprisingly certain and firm.
"I choked you-"
"You didn't even bruise me," She insisted, almost incredulously. "There are no marks."
"That doesn't make it right!" His eyes were swimming and burning as he looked at her, unable to conceal his emotions - she alone had a dangerous habit of making him feel that way. " You don't deserve to be choked and threatened by anyone, especially me!"
A laugh emerged from her mouth, short and dry. "Why? Because I'm the queen?"
"Because you're my wife!" He snapped weakly, and her expression changed completely. "Because you are… You're Rhaenyra. My Rhaenyra."
She laid a hand on his shoulder, searching his face. "But I knew you would not hurt me - I knew it then as I've always known it. You would never do anything to truly hurt me, no matter the reason. I know you, Daemon."
And suddenly he wanted to tell her how much he loved her: that she was the sun and the moon and the stars, the day and the night, that he would do anything for her even if it resulted in his own demise, that he loved her so much that it frightened him sometimes. But the iron walls he had built around himself - around his heart especially - were too strong even for him to overcome, even just to get the right words out.
"I…" The lump in his throat made it difficult to force the words out. "Rhaenyra… Avy jorrāelan."
And he knew that she understood; it was easier for him to say it in their ancestors' tongue, a language that had always made their relationship feel more intimate, more special, just them.
"Avy jorrāelan," He repeated, more desperately this time as he reached for her and buried his face into her shoulder. "Avy jorrāelan , ñuhys ābrazȳrys..."
Her hand was gentle in his hair as she leaned into him, stroking the strands between her fingers. "Se avy jorrāelan, Daemon… ñuhys valzȳrys, ñuhon jorrāelagon, ñuha prūmia."
She had seen him cry only twice during their marriage; the first time they had made love following their wedding and then the birth of their first son. No one else had ever seen him cry, not even his brother - she was the only one he felt safe enough to do such a thing in front of, the only one who could draw such a reaction from him.
It was as if something broke inside of him; she held him as he cried, shaking in her arms as the tears led to gentle sobs and he allowed her to see that vulnerable side of himself - only her, only ever her.
She listened as he cried for the daughter they had lost, apologizing for not being with her as she had laboured alone, cursing himself; he cried for the loss of his brother, the brother he would never see again, wishing he had done more to protect him, more to mend their relationship and prove the love he'd had for him despite all their differences. He cried for the pain he had caused his wife, not just now but throughout the years, for not being shining white knight or husband that she deserved; he cried for the daughters he had not spent nearly enough time with, for making them feel like he had loved them any less than they deserved, for not showing them how much he loved them. And he cried for Luke, mourning the son who he loved as his own, wishing he had done more to protect him - wishing he had done more to show how much he cared for his stepsons, how he would have fought for them just as he did their mother, until his last breath.
Afterwards, as his tears faded and his emotions were spent, she pressed a kiss to his forehead, then to his nose, his cheekbones, his mouth. For a moment he hesitated - another thing only she could make him do, it seemed.
"Rhaenyra…"
"Daemon."
"We do not need to," He murmured, though the mere feel of her mouth was enough to wake the dragon that resided in him. "You're still recovering after…" He didn't couldn't say it - it still felt too raw. He knew that she understood anyway.
"I want to," She insisted huskily, taking his face in her hands. "I want my husband, Daemon."
He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "I don't want to hurt you… not like that, not again."
"You won't," She promised, and before he could argue back she had pressed her mouth back to his; he felt a sharp sting on his lip, and as she pulled back once more he felt the tang of blood on his lip. "I am not some weak child, Daemon… I am as much a dragon as you are."
The fire in his blood was alive and roaring, erupting right through him and flowing straight to his cock. He wanted her - he always wanted her, he had always wanted her and he knew he always would want her until the day he died.
"Good," He murmured, taking her face in his hands now and holding her tightly. "I thought you had forgotten."
"Never."
They undressed each other in a hazy sort of fever, throwing aside each garment carelessly so that their mouths and hands could map each expanse of skin; the scars on his shoulders and torso, the lines on her stomach from where it had stretched to grow their children, the blemishes and marks of each other that they knew so well by now but still delighted in feeling. She gasped when he pushed her backwards onto the bed, not altogether displeased as he proceeded to worship every inch of her body; the words he whispered in their ancestral tongue were lost into her skin as he kissed every part of her he could, his cock swelling ridiculously quickly at the utterly depraved noises she let out.
"Fuck… Daemon…"
Her fingers pulled at his hair harshly as reached the apex between her legs; she was still bleeding somewhat, not heavily but enough to give him pause. At her pleads for him to continue, he pressed kisses to the insides of her thighs as close to her centre as he dared: he did not care if she was bleeding, not if she didn't - something as trivial as blood was not enough to disgust him, especially when it came to her.
Suddenly she was flipping them over, putting herself on top, and he moaned as she immediately began to stroke his cock - he would not last long, he thought, not like this.
"Nyra…"
She merely smirked to herself, positioning herself above him; as she sunk down onto him, he threw back his head and groaned at the sensation. She was so hot and tight around him, so-
"Fuck."
Daemon immediately reopened his eyes and sat up as much as he was able to with her still seated on his lap. "It hurts."
"A little," She gritted out. "I'm still sore."
His fingers drifted to her cheek as he searched her face, then down to her neck where he had grabbed her so roughly just days previously, touch as gentle as could be. "I don't want you to hurt when we do this."
"It's fine," Rhaenyra brushed aside quickly, gripping his shoulders for support; when he didn't look completely convinced, she shifted against his hips, making his breath catch in his throat. "I have already ridden my she-dragon Syrax since what happened - and now I want to ride the dragon that is my husband."
Only a dragon could ride a dragon - and ride she did.
It was all he could do to clutch her closer to himself as she thrust down against him, first slowly and then gathering speed; she was beautiful in the moonlight, he thought, her hair falling down her back and over her shoulders, face twisted with both pleasure and pain. She was a goddess of Old Valyria, and he wanted to consume her and be consumed by her, to be bound to her forever like this, limbs and souls intertwined in this dance they had long began enjoying.
"Ñuhus gevie mandus," He whispered reverently, panting as he rocked his hips up into hers. "Drējī gevie iksā."
"Ñuhys kepus," She gasped needily, her nails digging into his skin like claws, sharp enough to draw blood. "Ñuhys dārilaros."
He was barely holding himself together, breathing heavily laboured; he wanted to bury himself inside of her, not just now but forever, to never leave her side or be apart from her. The lust coursing through his veins was hot and fast, and he could feel himself nearly at a peak - he could not last much longer.
"Rhaenyra," He murmured desperately, one of his hands trailing downwards to that spot he knew would bring her ecstasy. "I'm going to… I need…"
"Yes," She exhaled, and she was clenching tightly around him as his cock slid in and out of her walls, his fingers rough on her clit - she was clearly near the edge too. "Yes, Daemon, please… I want you to fill me up."
"Fuck."
His thrusts grew erratic as he hungrily reached for that edge; he felt his wife spasm around him, her cries loud in his ears and echoing in the room around them - and she took him straight with her. It was with a guttural groan that he finished, spilling himself into her until he had nothing left to give, clinging to her desperately like a man shipwrecked would to driftwood.
When Daemon came back to himself, still panting heavily, he realized she was stroking his sweat slicked hair, holding him close to herself. He kissed her then, lazily almost, pulling her down on top of him so they could lie together; she was sweating, hair sticking to her face and her entire body trembling from the peak they had reached together - she had never been so beautiful than like this, after being brought to orgasm on his cock.
He was just shifting, attempting to pull out of her, when to his surprise she locked a firm leg around his waist to stop him. "No," Rhaenyra ordered firmly, and the confusion must have been evident on his face because she smiled, tracing her fingers over the lines of his face, the sharp angles of his jaw. "I wanted you to fill me - I don't intend to lose any of it or any part of you."
It was enough to make him smile too, to cause a breathless chuckle to escape his lips as he moved to kiss her once more. Their grief had not disappeared by any means - it still raged and swept over both of them, fueling their resolve, the war that now resided in not just him but his queen too - but he felt it assuage somewhat as they lay together, connected to each other in a way that felt both physical and spiritual, just as they had been on the day they married in the traditional ceremony that tied them not only to each other but to their ancestors too.
They were not only made of fire and blood, the words that defined their house, but bound together by it too: they were meant to burn together and always had been, for they were not just a part of the house of the dragon - they were the house of the dragon, the present and the future of it.
Rhaenyra would be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daemon vowed, and he would be at her side loyally as she ruled - and the Greens would be dead, all of them slain, for what they had done to their children.
Fun Fact: I don't know how to end fics! I'm sorry! :')
Valyrian Translations:
"Gevie, Gevie issa." - "Beautiful. She is beautiful."
"Zȳhi brōzi…Zȳhi brōzi Visenȳs issa." - "Her name... Her name is Visenya."
"Īlva tala… īlva gevie tala." - "Our daughter... Our beautiful daughter."
"ñuha prūmia." - "my heart"
"ñuhon jorrāelagon." - "My love"
"Avy jorrāelan." - "I love you."
"Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan, ñuhys ābrazȳrys…" - "I love you. I love you, my wife..."
"Se avy jorrāelan, Daemon… ñuhys valzȳrys, ñuhon jorrāelagon, ñuha prūmia." - "And I love you, Daemon... my husband, my love, my heart"
"Ñuhus gevie mandus. Drējī gevie iksā." - "My beautiful niece. Truly you are beautiful."
"Ñuhys kepus. Ñuhys dārilaros." - "My uncle. My prince"
Tumblr: alwaysahiccupandastrid
Twitter: jaskiersbard
Reviews are greatly appreciated! :)