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The wind whips her hair around, a bright and ethereal halo surrounding her head, her skin as pale and smooth as the clouds above, begging to be touched. Her expression hardens as she brings the dragonglass to my lips, the determination in her gaze making my blood sing its dragon song for her, only ever for her. The shard slices clean, not even a pinch of pain amidst the longing and lust and love I feel staring at my wife. My wife, my wife, my wife, my queen until the end of my days, I bow to her. I will honor her in life, worship her in our bed, comfort her in any trials that may come our way. For we are the blood of the dragon, forged in the Fourteen Flames, and our fire is infinite.

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He threads his fingers through my hair, fisting the strands and pulling hard to further expose my neck, running his teeth over my skin. I’m breathless and panting as he reaches to roughly grip my ass, lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. Needing friction, I squeeze my knees and grind against him. The moan that he lets out sets my soul on fire.

“You’ll pay for that,” he growls, sitting us down on the couch by the office door, thrusting up against me. I cry out as I see stars, the ache between my legs unbearable. He reaches and clamps his hand around my jaw, fingertips digging into my neck as he keeps grinding up against me, his other hand working to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Fuck,” I manage to gasp as his length rubs against me through my jeans again and again, my core writhing for release. Too many layers, I think, tears springing to my eyes at the absolute carnal need to feel him inside of me. I’m wetter than I have ever been, my heartbeat pounding excruciatingly between my legs. He frees his shirt from his pants and I rake my nails down his chest, leaving behind long red trails that make him groan. Gripping my neck tighter, he brings my face down to his, running his tongue along my jawline, pressing open-mouthed kisses below my ear, all the while still snapping his hips against mine. He runs two fingers across my lips and I take them in my mouth, sucking them, my tongue running over the tips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, his breath raspy as he watches me work his fingers, taking them in far enough to feel the coolness of his silver ring against my lips. “So desperate for me to fuck your mouth.”

“Jesus, Daemon, please. Please,” I finally beg, caving, not giving a shit anymore about the bet we made earlier on who would cave first.

“What was that, Nyra?” He grins wickedly at me, his eyes dilated to pure black, as he finally starts undoing my jeans. “I didn’t quite catch what—“

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” I snap, silencing him with my mouth, reaching a hand down and sliding it into his pants, gripping him and twisting my wrist the way I’ve learned he likes it most. He moans against my mouth, biting down on my bottom lip, his tongue soothing over the same spot.

Suddenly, a fire drill shrills throughout the building and startled, I quickly scamper off of him, fear of being caught lodged in my throat as I zip up my jeans and look frantically around for my shirt. The alarm keeps buzzing as we hear students shuffling by the closed office door in droves, heading towards the nearest exit.

“Go,” He says quietly, motioning to the door while securing the top button of his shirt.

“Are you—“

He gestures to where he’s still obviously hard, smirking. “No way I’m going anywhere at the moment.”

I laugh and briefly pause by the door, thinking. “Do professors get fire drill notifications?”

“I knew The Keep was going to have one this week, just didn’t know when,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the top of the couch in exasperation.

“The door has been closed,” I say, looking over at him, biting my lip. “No one knows you were in here.” The implication hangs heavy in the air as my body starts throbbing again. His breath quickens as his eyes flicker hungrily over my body.

He stands up and in two long strides pins me against the wall, thumbs hooking into the top of my jeans to yank them down. The siren keeps blaring and I cry out as he slips not one but two fingers inside of me, starting to pump them at an unforgiving pace. Groaning against my mouth, he looks down between us where my hands are making quick work of his fly, finally freeing him from the confines of his pants.

“Desk now,” he demands harshly, spinning us around with his free hand, his fingertips bruising my hip. I groan as he removes his fingers, the pleasure ebbing uncomfortably as he lifts me up, sitting me atop numerous papers scattered across the wood. He splays his hand across my chest to push me down and I don’t need to be told twice.

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We make eye contact, the familiar violet oceans threatening to break me like waves upon the shore. How I craved them, to look into them, to see the mischievous glint within them, the last ten years. Even after a decade apart, I can read him so easily, untouchable sadness painted on his face. And yet, there is also regret in his gaze, a longing so palpable as he looks at me. Existing without him had felt like living with only a fragment of my soul, an exquisite torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Does he feel it too? The rendering of embers in a heart long gone cold and brittle? He must, as we’ve always been twin flames of the same fire. Where I had helped him quell his ferocity, he always stoked my soul, setting it ablaze, and it’s finally time for us to burn together once more.

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He roughly grips my chin, tilting my face up to look at him, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. I take it in my mouth with a moan, feeling the cool metal of his ring on my tongue. His body tenses as he hisses, “What a sinful, desperate little slut you are.” He steps closer and I look up at him, his eyes black with revulsion but swirling with unbridled desire. “Say it,” he commands, his grip on my jaw tightening.

“Yes, I’m desperate,” I whimper, squeezing my thighs together to appease the ache between them.

“I’m desperate, father.”

“Yes, father,” I cry out as he moves his hand to my hair, roughly fisting the strands. With his other hand he quickly undoes his belt, freeing himself, hard and long, my mouth betraying me by watering at the sight of him.

“Now show me exactly what a desperate little slut can do,” he demands, and I all too readily oblige, seeking atonement with fervor, his moans echoing loudly in the sanctuary.

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The wine tastes sour on my tongue, bitter and still unfamiliar after all these years, yet a comfort I cling to when I think of her. The dragon fire in her eyes that matches my own, her lips hungrily pressed against mine in the dark—faded memories that I grasp and hold close to me, stoking the remaining embers of flames once as great as the Black Dread himself, now almost completely ash. Does she think of me? Does she also have a gaping hole in her heart, ragged around its edges? Mine pierces my soul every time I dare to imagine her smile. Sometimes I wake up gasping from a nightmare, unable to save her from some cruel fate. But then I realize the nightmare is real, remembering how I abandoned her to a future she had always feared, my hand still burning with the imprint of her skin. On nights such as this, when I can’t stop thinking of her, how she smelled of dragon smoke and the wild flowers that perfumed her bath, how she smelled like home, I chase oblivion, drowning in my cups, hoping for a respite. But none ever comes.

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The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the rug where Joffrey and Luke currently play with wooden dice. Rhaena sits curled up on the chaise to my right, nose buried in a book. Even if the Dragonmont erupted, she would remain oblivious, chasing adventure in make believe worlds with ink-stained fingers. I smile at the thought, glancing over to where Daemon is attempting—and failing—to explain the rules of Cyvasse to Baela and Jace. Baela listens intently while Jace fiddles with the carved game pieces, turning them into makeshift building blocks as Daemon describes the difference between the dragon and the elephant. Baela suddenly reaches out and stills Jace’s hand, glaring at him in annoyance. He huffs in response, rolling his eyes but immediately sitting up straighter, the youthful devotion in his eyes unmistakeable.

Suddenly, I feel an all-too familiar flutter in my stomach, followed by another. “Daemon,” I gasp in delight as the babe tumbles again. He hurries over in concern, an unruly lock of silver hair falling into his face. I grin, quickly pressing his hand against my stomach, watching as he’s overcome with pride and unbridled joy, a rather rare sight that makes me choke back tears that spill over anyway. He reaches up and presses a gentle kiss on my brow, touching his forehead to mine as he wipes at my tears with his thumb.

And then the children surround us, eager and curious to feel the babe kick, everyone climbing onto the pile of furs where I had been lounging. Luke laughs as he feels a rumble beneath his small hand, my heart heavy with happiness as I look around at the family we’ve built in such a short time. “Avy jorrāelan,” Daemon whispers in my ear, caressing my stomach once more. I love you.

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I’m lounging on the pile of quilts when Daemon finally enters the tent, armor clanking with each step as his exposed skin glistens with sweat. Already deeply aroused by his performance during the melee, my body tightens further as I imagine how salty and delicious he probably tastes. His eyes briefly widen in surprise when he sees me waiting for him, but his expression quickly turns molten, the bloodlust still singing within him.

“Husband,” I call to him, my voice husk and gravel. He nods and sheds his weapons, reaching to undo his breastplate, hungry eyes never leaving mine. He removes the pieces adorning his arms, my breath quickening as he reveals himself little by little while devouring me with his gaze. He goes to take his helmet off and I demand he leave it on with a sly smile.

He stalks over to me, Caraxes on the prowl, roughly fisting my skirts above my waist. He groans as he impatiently brings his mouth down between my legs and I cry out as the flat of his tongue laps at the wetness he finds there. The cold metal from his helm soothes the hot skin of my inner thighs and I gasp for breath as he presses his tongue more harshly against me, running it back and forth and side to side, grunting against my aching core. I grip the iron-forged dragon wings, grinding myself against his mouth, mewling and unable to remain still as he feasts relentlessly upon me.

Suddenly, he gets up and takes his helmet off, quickly working to free himself from the confines of his pants, borderline frantic as he tosses his thigh guards onto the floor. Before he has a chance to grab at my hips, I’m there in front of him on all fours, my mouth watering at the sight of his arousal.

“Fuck,” he gasps, throwing his head back as I take him roughly in my mouth, the sensitive head of his length hitting the back of my throat, making my eyes water. I moan as I taste the tang of him, all salt and smoke and battle musk. He curls a fist into my hair, pulling it hard and making me whimper, the pain sending fire straight between my legs.

Someone clears their throat outside the tent. “Prince Daemon—“

“Leave before I fucking make you!” he shouts, panting as he continues to thrust into my mouth.

I look up as I swallow more of him, his eyes are pure black while glaring down at me, violence and desire and lust swirling in the pools. He notices as I clench my legs together, a wolfish grin spreading across his face as he clamps his hands around my arms, pulling me up to him.

His kiss is damning, mouth hotter than the Dragonmont as we taste each other on our tongues, our lips barely connecting as we pant and breathe into one another. I thread my fingers through his sweat-soaked locks, pulling the strands hard to make him groan. He yanks on my hair, exposing my throat for his teeth and he growls as he mouths his way across the skin there, still hard as steel against my stomach.

“Daemon, please,” I gasp as he pulls down the top of my dress, hooking it under my breasts, his teeth grazing a nipple. “I need you.” He moans at my words, hooking his hands under my thighs and I squeal as he throws me back down on the quilts. He gestures and my body is set ablaze, knowing what he wants. I turn to lay on my stomach and he hooks his fingers into my hips, pulling my waist up to him as he slams into me without delay. We both cry out in unison as he starts moving, harsh and needy thrusts that cause the sounds of our coupling to echo off the tent walls.

“Do you know how good you looked out there?” I gasp as he pounds into me, gripping my shoulders for more leverage.

He pulls me up against his chest, reaching around to press his fingers between my thighs. “Did it make my queen wet?” He rasps in my ear, “seeing my armor splattered with blood? Man after man made to forfeit?” He punctuates his words with his movements, the hand not between my thighs running up my chest to clutch my throat. “I could feel the heat of your gaze from the royal box,” he chuckles, then groans as I arch my back to take him deeper. “I couldn’t wait to get you on your knees.”

And then I’m coming, my release shattering through me as I cry out, not caring who can hear me, not caring that we’re in the middle of a tourney pavilion filled with hundreds of people. I continue to clench intensely around his length, sending him over the edge moments later as he utters a string of curses in High Valyrian, his teeth digging into my neck, leaving marks I’ll have to cover up for weeks.

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Daemon climbs the steps of the Stone Drum, knees cracking occasionally from overuse in the training yard with Jace the last several weeks. He hardly ever gives his age a thought, something to just measure time by, but he certainly feels all of his 45 years as he approaches Rhaenyra’s chambers, muscles aching in his upper back and thighs, longing for a hot bath and a warm bed, his wife wrapped in his arms.

He enters the room, eyes flitting over to where Elinda unravels Rhaenyra’s braids, the moonlight curls starting to hang free and wild to her waist, the way he loves her hair most. “Leave us,” he says, undoing his weapons belt, propping Dark Sister against the wall by the door. The lady-in-waiting bows to each of them and quickly scurries from the room. Rhaenyra glances at him in the mirror, smiling as she rubs lavender oil over her arms.

“Jacaerys certainly didn’t stop talking about you on our night ride with Syrax,” she comments, taking her jewelry off to place on the vanity. He chuckles, thinking of how eager the boy had been to train with daggers that afternoon.

“He definitely reminds me of myself at that age,” he sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots.

“I’m not sure if I like the sound of that,” she teases as she walks towards him, kneeling down and slapping his hand away as she takes over. Her nightshift is made of silk, leaving very little to the imagination, his pants a bit tighter as a result as he watches her remove one boot and then the other. He goes to stand up but she presses her hand against his chest to stop him, wedging herself further between his legs.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her violet eyes shining as she looks up at him. He runs the back of his fingers along her neck and jaw, threading them through her hair and pulls her up for a kiss.

“He’s not just your son,” he murmurs against her lips before kissing her again, deepening it, licking into her mouth. She moans when he pulls at her hair, exposing her neck to his teeth, the sound going straight to his cock.

She pulls away, eyes aflame with mischief and lust as she starts undoing his trousers. “Even so, perhaps a different type of thank you is in order.” She smirks up at him and he grunts as she frees and starts to stroke him, eyes never leaving his, the look on her face making him want to bend her over the nearest surface and take her roughly.

Before he gets the chance to do just that, she leans forward and takes him in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head the way she knows drives him wild.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching as she hollows her cheeks to take more of him, drool and pre-come already sticky on her lips and chin. He fists the strands of hair still in his hand, wrapping them tightly around his palm as she mewls, the vibrations from her sounds almost making him come on the spot.

He throws his head back, groaning and panting when she finally takes him to the back of her throat, the warmth and tightness sending spirals of pleasure throughout his body. She flattens her tongue against the underside of his head as he starts moving his hips to meet her, fucking her mouth with abandon as he pushes her head down to take more of him with each thrust.

His body is set ablaze when he sees her reach between her own legs to relieve herself, rubbing roughly at her clit while she continues her ministrations like a woman starved.

“Fuck, Rhaenyra, I can hear how wet you are,” he grunts as she gasps around him, removing her fingers and bringing them up to his lips where he sucks at them greedily.

She pauses to look up at him, her swollen lips forming a wicked grin as she says, “It’s because you taste so fucking good, Uncle.” Her words send him over the edge and he comes with a groan, his grip on her neck forceful as he thrusts down her throat, his body taught with ripples of intense pleasure. She keeps going until he lifts her chin, too sensitive for more. She runs the tip of her tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip one last time and he almost whimpers.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he sighs, leaning forward to touch his forehead against hers. She laughs, standing up to straddle him on the bed.

“That’s the plan,” she hums against his mouth, his insatiable little dragon.

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The foyer is almost pitch black when she stumbles through the front door, the subtle light flickering along the walls coming from the television ahead. She sighs when she notices Daemon sitting on the sofa, game controller in hand, dragons dancing on the screen. He runs a hand through his hair and glances back, smirking at her as she tries to ignore the heat traitorously blooming in her stomach at the sight of him.

“Back so soon, Princess?” He asks, turning back to the game but not before she notices his eyes dip to her rather exposed chest hungrily. His dragon tattoo peaks out from the black undershirt he’s wearing, the scarlet neck descending down to wrap around his bicep and all Rhaenyra can think of at the moment is outlining it with her tongue.

“Fuck off, Daemon, I’m not in the mood,” she snaps, kicking off her heels, her head spinning from too much drink. The night had been a disaster and she couldn’t muster the energy for another fight with him on top of it.

“Ooo, she’s feisty tonight,” he says over his shoulder. She rolls her eyes but they land back on his exposed arms, her breath hitching slightly as she stares at the toned muscles. She’s not sure if it’s the alcohol in her system that makes her do it but she suddenly finds herself right behind him, reaching out to trace a finger along the skin of his neck.

His entire body visibly tenses at her touch, satisfaction washing over her when he’s unable to keep focusing on the game. He clears his throat but her name still comes out raspy, a question. “Rhaenyra?”

She bends down, whispering, “Stop talking,” and licks a stripe up his neck. He hisses, breathing harder as the tip of her tongue flicks circles below his ear, her fingernails running up and down his arms. The controller falls to the floor as he leans back into her touch.

“What are—“ his words trail off as she walks around to the front of the couch to stand in front of him. His eyes are completely dark with desire, his gaze raking over her body like a predator that’s been denied its meal too long.

The ache between her legs is almost unbearable but she still slaps his hand away when he reaches out to touch her thigh. “Don’t touch me.”

He glares up at her. “I’m—“ She doesn’t let him finish before pushing him back on the couch to straddle him. They both groan as she rolls against him once.

“I said to stop talking,” she says, reaching to hike her skirt up around her hips, gasping as he thrusts up against her, his sweatpants leaving nothing to the imagination. His hands grab at her hips but she quickly pulls them off, pinning his wrists to the back of the sofa.

“I said don’t fucking touch me,” she pants, starting to move against him, taking what she wants, what she’s been craving for weeks. She’s well aware that he’s stronger than her and could easily take control but judging how hard he was against her clit, he didn’t seem to mind.

She moans as he snaps his hips harder, the friction delicious and all-consuming. She knows she’ll want him even more after this, that the torturous dynamic between them will grow to catastrophic levels, but she can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop.

Their mouths meet, open, not quite kissing so much as breathing each other in, a tangle of warm breaths and gasps and sometimes lips. “Fuck,” she groans, throwing her head back, picking up speed as she grows close. He grunts in response, moving to suck a bruise at her collarbone. His teeth sink into her neck and she comes, mouth open in a silent scream, the release of tension almost painful as the pleasure starts to dissipate.

They both don’t move, his face nestled into the crook of her neck, her cheek against his forehead, both of them trying to catch their breath. Finally, she stands up, pulling her skirt back into place, glancing down at the wet spot she left on his pants which were very much still tented.

They make eye contact and desire ripples through her again at the blatant need she finds there. With a smug grin, she reaches down and hooks her thumbs into her underwear, the soaked lace cool against her skin as she pulls them down her legs. She drops the garment into his lap and he licks his lips as he stares down at it. He reaches to run a finger along the pink cotton and then sucks it into his mouth, groaning as he tastes her.

Her body reignites into flame at the action and she knows she has to get out of there before she lets him fuck her senseless on the couch. She starts to walk away and is halfway to the stairs before he calls out to her. Sighing, she turns around, gasping as she watches him fist himself, pink lace wrapped around his hand. He doesn’t look away from her as he comes hard, grunting and eyelids fluttering. “Fuck,” she mutters, mouth watering at the sight. She shakes her head, trying to snap herself out of it as she runs up the stairs to her room.

“This isn’t over, Princess!” Daemon shouts from below as she slams her door. I’m fucked, she thinks.

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She bares her teeth at him as he approaches, the dragon within her snarling, shackles already raised. Even now, pride courses through him at her fiery display, heat gathering in his chest, argument be damned. He can’t help but smirk as he watches her eyes flit to his mouth.

“Do not touch me,” she hisses as he does just that, hand on her throat, thumb caressing her face.

“A command from my queen perhaps,” he murmurs, sliding his arm around her waist, eliciting a gasp as he presses closer, “but I do think my wife is saying otherwise.”