Being Strong

by AmazingAngie

Summary:

He nodded, “You know, it’s a shame that I don’t go after married women.”

It was her turn to smile, “It’s a shame that I don’t go after men who kill their wives.”

Something turned hard in his expression, and then hot.

“Could I convince you to make an exception?” He asked.

or: a cheating fic.

Notes:

I woke up at 6am to a message from Serendipity (jenjaemrens) being like "I want a fic where Rhaenyra is married to Harwin and cheating on him" and I was like:

"I could simply never write such a thing."

And then an hour later I was like:

"Hold my coffee, I have an idea."

Chapter 1: prologue

† One †

Rhaenyra Velaryon had always known there were things expected of her. 

They had loomed over her for as long as she could remember.

Because her name, the name Valeryon, was one that came with obligations. 

So, she wasn’t surprised when two months after her graduation and two days after her twenty-first birthday, she was sat down and told what was expected of her now. 

She was to be married, that year, to a suitable man.

Her father was being kind and accommodating by giving her options. 

She was lucky, her mother said. Her voice was thin as she spoke, but her point was clear:

She was not given options.
She was simply given to Viserys.
She was a way to unite the lands of Vale with King’s Landing, solidifying an alliance through marriage. 

Through marriage and blood, Rhaenyra thought, as memories of her mother's many miscarriages flashed through her mind. 

 

†

Option 1. 

 

Laenor was charming, outgoing, and likable. 

And in love with his boyfriend. 

Sigh. 

 

Option 2. 

 

Criston was tall, handsome, and seemed utterly besotted with her. 

And he was also weirdly interested in her purity. 

That ship had sailed – no, sunk, when she was fourteen, and she informed him of this with a smile.

Then she threw her drink in his face and left. 

Sigh. 

 

Option 3.

 

Harwin was a combination of the two — he had an easy smile, the sort that had the power to make her feel at ease, too. He wasn’t as outgoing as Laenor, nor as handsome as Criston, but he was a good man. She could tell that immediately. 

He would treat her well, she thought. 

But, he wouldn’t treat her how she wanted to be treated, some part of her whispered, even then. 

The connection with Harrenhal would be good for the Velaryons, who were big fish — but not the biggest in the pond that was King’s Landing. 

They were always trying to strengthen themselves and had been ever since the Targaryens rose to power. Her Great-grandfather had been the King’ but he had thirteen children, causing branches of the family tree to shoot off in every direction. 

He held his title for decades, but when he died, succession became a concern, and…

Well, Daemon beat Rhaenys nearly to death for the title. 

She knew her family's history. Knew what they did. Knew that violence was common. But as a woman, she was protected from it.

As Viserys daughter she was protected from it. Because Viserys worked in an office and worked on the books. He was part of the family business in name, but not in action. 

Viserys wasn’t like Daemon or Harwin. Though to be fair, she had never met the former, and only met Harwin that day.

But her father wasn’t part of the inner circle. He hadn’t earned a nickname like Breakbones for his brutality. Or been called the Lord of Flea Bottom by the age of sixteen for how much respect he commanded over the streets. 

Out of the three options, Harwin was closest to the King. In some ways, that made him the most dangerous option. In others, it made him the best option. He ruled the Gold Cloaks, making him practically the boss of the operation in role if not in name. 

She didn’t think that would matter to her. 

She didn’t realize how ambitious she was. 

†

At twenty-one Rhaenyra Velaryon was a beautiful bride.

At twenty-two Rhaenyra Strong was a good wife.

At twenty-three, Rhaenyra was bored. 

 

And Daemon Targaryen was the least boring thing she had ever seen.

 

†

Notes:

minor edits made on 8/31/2024

Chapter 2: prelude

† Two †

They met at a fundraiser.

It was an event where everyone was supposed to be on their best behavior and Daemon was playing benefactor instead of boss.

Still, that did little to hide the fact he was very much in charge, but then, she wasn't sure he was capable of hiding that. He radiated a sort of commanding energy that kept everyone around him on edge. Unable to relax and looking towards him for approval with a desperation that spoke to the fact they would rather die than displease him.

They probably would.


He had a reputation and death would be kinder than the torture he dealt out with a supposedly disturbing amount of glee. 

Still, people flocked around him – acting like dogs. Begging for scraps and desperately wanting to prove how good they could be. Even her husband Harwin — nicknamed ‘Breakbones’ was reduced to a slobbering golden retriever around the man. 

That was a good description for Harwin all the time, though. 

Rhaenyra was, regrettably, more of a cat person.

Harwin tried.

He tried so hard.

He tried too hard.


He was so eager to please that he had no real desires of his own and it left him with little to no substance. He wasn’t stupid exactly, he was just so…bland. He liked his work, and he liked working out, and not much else. 

Well, he also liked her...


Her first impression wasn’t wrong, he was a good man. He treated her well. He would worship the ground she walked on if she let him, but she just didn’t care. 

How could she, when she was pretty sure she had houseplants with more personality?

Houseplants could probably give better orgasms, she thought with a huff.

Harwin may have had a job that labeled murder as mundane, but she was pretty sure the greatest crime he committed was looking that good yet being that bad with his hands. 

†

Harwin had introduced them, stars in his eyes as he spoke of her — “This is my lovely wife, Rhaenyra.”

Daemon had extended a hand to her, squeezing her fingers in a way that better resembled a caress than a handshake. 

That was how she knew that he would be good with his hands. 

She sipped her wine and watched her husband suck up to the man.

She wondered if he would drop to his knees and suck him off if he asked.

Probably.

God forbid he displease the man.

Then again, he didn’t have much talent with his mouth either, so he probably would.

She hid her giggle behind her glass, but Daemon caught her eyes and smirked at her, like they shared a secret. 

He definitely wasn’t a good man, she thought. 

But, she already had a good man. 

She was hardly in need of another. 

 

†

 

She found him at the bar later in the evening, just… leaning, looking unfairly relaxed and attractive given the importance of the event. But she supposed he had spent his entire life attending these things, to the point where they were a regular occurrence. 

As Harwin’s wife, would she eventually reach that point?

Was the only future she could look forward to even more monotonous?

Fuck. She needed another drink. 

She ordered “Something strong.” Then giggled to herself, “I’m someone Strong," she said to the bartender, who just looked confused.

Daemon got the joke though, letting out a huff that almost resembled a chuckle. 

He leaned closer to her, “You’re much too pretty to truly be a Strong,” she snorted at that, “The existence of my husband says otherwise. Surely even you can admit that one of them is pretty, his sisters however…”

He laughed at that, “I don’t make a habit of calling my men pretty.” 

“And I don’t make a habit of calling my in-laws ugly.” 

He grinned, “Then you probably haven’t met them all, yet,” his grin tilted, turning into something different when he next spoke, “How have we not met before?” 

“Well, I don’t travel to the Silk Streets often, so I suppose we wouldn’t have much chance to bump into each other.” 

He seemed to lean in even closer, “How did Harwin get such a sassy wife?” 

She stood tall in her heels, though not as tall as him...

“How do any of us get anyone? Our parents arranged it.” She said simply, knowing that it had been the truth, even for him. 

He nodded, “You know, it’s a shame that I don’t go after married women.” 

It was her turn to smile, “It’s a shame that I don’t go after men who kill their wives.”

Something turned hard in his expression, and then hot. 

“Could I convince you to make an exception?” He asked. 

She shrugged, fingers circling the rim of the drink that had finally arrived. “I could probably be persuaded.” She said, and she meant it. 

She felt a little giddy from their banter, like getting high for the first time where you feel powerful but somehow lighter than air. Like you’re floating above yourself and your actions, so they don’t really count. There was that fear of getting caught looming, but no real fear of consequences. 

She wasn’t high now. She wasn’t even drunk. She didn’t have any excuse for the warmth that his confession and inquiry made her feel. 

It was just so nice to feel something. To have a man look at her like he wanted her, and was willing to take her. She was grateful that Harwin didn’t live up to the nickname Breakbones at home. But he was too soft, overcompensating for the violence of his daily routine by being gentle in every other aspect of life, and love. 

It was impossible to come, when he petted at her like she was a baby bird and he pecked at her like a chicken. He was so afraid of breaking her that he never really felt her, and she never felt anything with him at all. 

He had a pretty face.

He loved her.

He was her husband. 

But when she was talking to this man, none of that seemed to matter. 

She knew he was dangerous. 

But if he was fire…

Well, then she wanted to play with him. 

She didn’t expect that Harwin would be the one to get burned.

†

Notes:

minor edits made on 8/31/2024

Chapter 3: persuade

† Three †

She wondered if she was easy. 

Because all it took to persuade her was a ‘Please’ whispered in her ear and his fingers on her wrist. 

Daemon’s touch had a confidence that her husbands’ lacked — like he wasn’t concerned with pleasing her, because he knew he would.

It wasn’t a harsh touch, but it wasn’t a delicate one either. It was a promise that she would feel his hands on her skin long after they had left. 

And that she simply could not resist. 

 

†

They weren’t subtle when they left together — not that they really left. They would probably go back out there after. She would return to her husband's arm, smiling and looking pretty — pretending she hadn’t had another man inside her a few moments prior. 

Something about that made her feel even hotter, the thrill of him spilling from her while she stood by her husband's side.

Fuck, it made her spill, dampness collecting at her folds collecting from the mere thought. 

It really was no wonder she followed him into what… seemed to be a conference room? 

When he turned the lights on they were bright — too bright, almost clinical. 

But there was nothing clinical about the way he kissed her.

 

†

He was gentle at first, leaning down and cupping her face — pressing their lips together softly, the sort of gentle kiss she was accustomed to with Harwin, but she knew these weren’t all she should expect with Daemon. It felt like a warmup, getting to know the taste of her before he took a bite. 

They both moaned when he did just that, nipping her bottom lip before urging forward, making her jolt in surprise as their teeth clashed.

His hand was on her neck and his tongue was in her mouth and she suddenly felt like she had lost a game she didn't even know she was playing. 

But when his hips jerked against hers and she felt the promise of his still-clothed cock, she thought, maybe we can both be winners. 

 

†

 

It evolved quickly, turning into the kiss of two people who didn’t know each other but were desperate to learn each other. 

 

They were both fast learners. 

 

They found their rhythm quickly, the threat of teeth looming over the soft press of tongues.

It was a filthy kiss, a messy one. The type you see in movies and giggle about with your friends because it looks so gross, but in reality it was perfect.

It was rough and wet and a little demanding and she wanted more of it.

 

More of him.

She wanted to see if he would fuck her with as much vigor as he kissed her with. 

Her hands pushed his jacket off his shoulders and rucked up his shirt until she could feel the smooth planes of muscles beneath it. He had scars, burns, little imperfections that made him shiver when she stroked them. 

 

Whether it was because he was ashamed or simply sensitive, she didn't know. 

 

Fuck, she wanted to know. 

 

She wished they had more time, wished she could lick every single one and ask where they came from.

She bet he would look at her as she did, with that burning hot gaze of his. He'd probably smirk, too, cocky at the way even his skin had fascinated her.

He'd do more than that.

 

He seemed like the type of guy that would push her head down until she went lower, until her lips were hovering above his hard cock. 

She moaned at the mere thought, the movement breaking their kiss and motivating him to push her dress up. She was turned then, set on something — a conference table, maybe? 

Her eyes were squeezed shut, the room was too bright, the lights blinding her when she attempted to look at him — and that was such a fucking shame that was because she wanted to see him.

But she didn't need to see him, not really, not when she could feel the admiration in his gaze.

This was a man who knew he had a beautiful woman beneath him.

 

This was a man who knew what to do with her. 

He pushed her backward, her head landing against the hardened surface of the table with a crack. She hissed at that, and he muttered an apology — but pointedly did not stop his hurried movements. Her hips were pulled forward, and her dress pushed higher — high enough that she could feel the cold air of the room hitting her thighs. 

It made her all the more aware of how wet she was because now she could feel the dampness cooling on her skin, threatening to congeal — but Daemon's fingers found it first, wiping up what had leaked out of her and thrusting it up inside her. 

She moaned, arching a little at the sensation of finally having something inside of her, and what a wonderful something it was. 

 

One finger, then two, and he had big fingers.

 

But she was aroused enough that they slid in with ease, and she preened under his praise, sultry whispers of, 'fucking hot, how fucking wet you are...'

He pushed her panties aside to see his fingers pressing inside her, the lace was soaked through and barely hid anything to begin with, but clearly, he wanted an unobstructed view. 

And now that he had one, his gaze was fixated on her hungry cunt, and that made her even wetter. 

A third finger pressed into her cunt, and she shifted, her hips rocking slightly against his hand.

His fingers were good, but not good enough. Words were hard though, her mouth incapable of conjuring anything beyond moans. 

So instead, she wrapped one of her legs around his hip, pulling him towards her until she could feel the wool of his slacks against the heat of her cunt.

She had a vague worry about getting damp spots on his pants, but it quickly disappeared when she heard the sound of a belt buckle.

How could she worry about anything now? She was much too focused now on what was to come.
 

Hopefully both of us, she thought with a delirious giggle. 

She opened her eyes, squinting against the lights, eager to see his cock — and fuck. No wonder he wore a smirk like he was the gods gift to earth. He very well might have been, given that he had that in his pants. She groaned at the thought of how it would feel inside her, before falling back to the table and arching her hips in a show of how badly she wanted it. 

He took the invitation, notching the head of his prick against her folds and dragging the tip against her, before seating himself inside of her in a single thrust.


And she...she fucking howled, her back arching and entire body pressing up towards him, hands scrambling for purchase on his chest only for her nails to sink in as soon as she found skin to cling to, because she felt like she had to hold on to him in order to survive this. 

In order to survive him. 

He was so fucking big. 

“You can take it,” he said, hiking one of her legs towards her chest and pressing himself even deeper into her cunt. 

And he was right. She could. She did. She loved it. 

†

She had heard once, a girl in her class complaining about her boyfriend being too big. And Rhaenyra just didn’t understand. She thought that was the best part of sex, the threat of it being too much. The sensation of delicate muscles being forced to relax because they were too stretched to bear down or be of any use at all, leaving her loose for the cock she was lucky enough to fuck herself on that night. 

She had thought it was a joke when she heard some girls didn’t like penetration.

Because she fucking loved having things inside her. She loved being able to thrust down with that little worry that it would go too deep. The possibility of each thrust hurting made the pleasure all the better because she had risked harm while earning it. 

She had always gone for larger-than-average toys...and found most boys — and men — to be a disappointment by comparison. 

Because she liked seating herself as far down as she could, nails gripping the sheets below her, trying to grind herself further down but her body refusing to take it. She’d fantasized so many times — usually after a disappointing date — about having a guy come up behind her and press her down. Force her cunt to contort to the cock below her. To take it to the root, until there was no room for her to even think. 

Gods that is what this is like, she thought, as he rocked their hips together — her dress had ridden up past her waist now, allowing him to press her knees towards her chest, and somehow allowing him to sink even deeper inside of her.

 

Fuck.

 

It didn't take long for the pace to pick up, as did their breath, and soon they were panting and moaning and groaning with each thrust. 

There was a slapping noise she could hear, and she realized it was the sound of them. The sound of him working in and out of her cunt, the sound of how ridiculously wet she was. How she had done such a good job making room for his cock. 

And that was what made her come, not the finger on her clit or the length her body tried to clench down on, but the thought of him enjoying her as much as she was enjoying him.

 

It made her scream. 

She wrapped her legs around him, refusing to give him space to pull out completely. She didn’t want him to leave her yet — even as his thrusts grew shorter, faster, ending with grinding against her as her muscles fluttered around him, trying to wring the come into her. She could feel it, too. 

Shit.


She always made Harwin use condoms.

She always made everyone use condoms.


This was so fucking irresponsible but so fucking good, the heat of him emptying himself inside of her like she was merely a husk to be used. 

But he didn’t treat her like that, even if he fucked her like that. His hands palmed her breasts, and brushed the curve of her jaw, making little pinpricks of pleasure rise to the surface of her skin until she was both shivering and overheated. 

He was making her feel a whole mess of contradictions.

Fuck, she could feel the mess of him inside of her, too.

 

†

His fingers found their way into her hair, nails scratching against her scalp and lips back against her own and bruising in their force, all while hs softening cock was still grinding into her, and she swore she came again, just on the feeling of what was left inside her. 

Their kisses were even sloppier now, just mouths clashing and swollen lips pressing against each other. Sometimes they missed, as if they were both too dizzy with pleasure to aim properly. And so their lips wandered, taking turns lapping at the other's pale neck and rosy nipples. 

He liked his nipped at, and she liked that. Liked how his hands stroked her hair before fisting it — pulling on it to the point it hurt. 

It almost made her wish he wasn’t still inside her. Because she was all the more confident now that he was the type of guy to force her down, to thrust his length into her mouth, and to use her as merely a hole for his cock. 

Maybe next time? 

No. 

Maybe in my dreams. 

She thought that was more likely. 

†

They had come together quickly, but they were slow to come apart, almost as if neither of them wanted it to end. 

Kisses grew softer until they tapered off.


Foreheads pressed together.

Fingers stroking her hips apologetically.

Both of them whimpering when he pulled out of her.

Both of them moaning, watching what seeped out of her. 

He made no effort to wipe it up, simply offering her his hand, helping her stand, and tugging her dress back down her thighs. 

In turn, she helped straighten his tie — did up the few buttons she had managed to open, before kneeling to pull up the pants that had fallen to his ankles.

Fuck, even soft he was impressive, and slightly damp from her own fluids — and if that wasn’t enough to make her want to lick him, she wasn’t sure what was. 

So, she did.

 

He cursed, hips jerking and hands cruelly tugging her away. He half growled half whimpered about being sensitive.

Big bad man and a big bad cock felled by a single orgasm. 

Men were a strang breed, truly. 

 

†

There was a mirror on the door that she looked at to make sure her appearance was in order.

Well, she tried to make sure it was in order. It was pretty fucking obvious that she had been ravaged.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes a little wet.

She hadn’t seen herself look so alive in years.


She hadn’t had a fuck like that in...ever. Not in her entire life. 

Daemon’s hair was mussed, but otherwise, he looked annoying unaffected. She huffed at that, wishing they had more time — wishing she could really mess him up. 

 

But...he didn’t go for married women. 

And the ring on her hand was a reminder that she very much was. 

He’s a bad man, she told herself, as he escorted her back to the event, his palm heavy and low on her back.
 

She looked up at him, smirk ever preset and hair in slight disarray from where she had grasped it. 

He's a handsome man, too. 

That wouldn’t make killing his wife a forgivable act, though. She had heard the rumors. Daemon was never implicated, the incident being labeled a firearm accident. But his wife – Rhea had been a weapons specialist and the likelihood of that was slim. 

She looked to where Harwin was standing, a jovial smile present on his face, and arms gesturing wildly as he talked with great enthusiasm. 

Could she really blame Daemon, for wanting out of a loveless marriage?

For doing what it would take to escape it? 

What would she do to escape hers? 

 

†

Daemon passed her off to Harwin with a grin and apology, "Do forgive me, I borrowed her for a bit," Daemon said, "She really is a delight, great company, and so sweet to allow me a taste," The true meaning of it was lost on Harwin.

But he just grinned, shrugging it off, “As if I can blame you.” 

†

She had been right, in her earlier assumption.

She spent the better part of an hour on her husband's arm, trying to ignore the feeling of another man's cum slipping down her inner thighs. 

She was trying to ignore the desire for a different man than the one beside her. A man who would lap it all up and then eat her out for hours after.

She could tell from what little she had of him, that Daemon was a man with a big appetite. 

She wanted to fill it by having him fill her. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Harwin asked, voice interrupting her thoughts. “You look flushed.” 

She smiled, shaking her head — “I’m fine. Better than I have been in a long time, truly," she promised.  

“But I should probably go soon," she said, thinking of the mess between her legs, “You should stay, it would give me the opportunity to take a long bath and light the candles you hate," she teased when he protested.

"I’ll see you at home." She promised. 

He kissed her goodbye, and she tried not to cringe away. 

She tried even harder to avoid Daemon’s gaze as she left. 

He may be fun to play with, but she had toys at home.

 

†

Notes:

minor edits made on 8/31/2024

Chapter 4: potential

† Four  †

The bouquet came a week later, less than twenty-four hours before the flames.

A mixture of white lilies — for the funeral, and fire lilies.

Fitting, given what would take her home and husband, though she didn't know that yet. 

There was a card, too, one that read—


 

I’m sorry for your loss, I hope you manage to save what you love most.

 

It wasn’t signed.

Not like she had signed her husband's death certificate the night she touched Daemon’s lips. 

 

Even without a signature, she knew who it was from.

She knew it was expensive, too. Lilies might be cheap but the card was made out of a thick paper that felt luxurious in her palm, sharp corners that weren't quite sharp enough to hurt.

No, what hurt was the fact she wasn’t sure there was anything she felt like saving.  

Was there really anything she loved in this world? Other than perhaps herself? 

Maybe if she saved Harwin she would save herself from an afterlife in the seventh circle? 

She wasn’t a godly person. If the Faith was real, she was probably already going to the darkest depths of its hell, because she didn't believe in the Faith at all.

She definitely believed in a living hell though. But her life wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t bad at all, really. It was fine. 

Harwin was fine. 

There was no guarantee Daemon would be better. 

Well, there was no guarantee that Daemon would be a better husband. 

She was fairly confident, given how good he was on a table, that he would be better in bed. 

 

†

The next words he spoke to her were, “You look good in black, but I think you would look better in nothing at all.” 

It didn’t seem the appropriate way to greet a woman whose husband he had just murdered. But when she said as much he just laughed, “I don’t commit murders myself. I have people for that.”

He said it so casually. The same way her mother said,  'I have people for that,’  when she got a stain on her silk blouse or wanted to decorate the house for a holiday. 

And god, how fucked up was it that she found that kind of hot? That he had that much power. That what he’d done had probably only taken a phone call. That he could end a life, with the snap of his fingers. 

To be fair, if she recalled correctly, which she was pretty sure she did, that he had really good fingers. 

†

She wasn’t proud of the fact that those fingers were inside her an hour later. Or that Harwin’s mother's tears were still drying on her blouse as Daemon’s come dried on her leg. 

She didn’t feel that guilty, either. It was inevitable that he would end up back inside her. Whether Harwin lived or died this was the only possible outcome. He was too good, good in a way she craved. Good in a way Harwin wasn’t. 

The difference was all too clear later that evening when everyone had left but him. Her parents had to be around somewhere, serving as hosts for the reception since her own home was now a pile of ashes, but she wasn’t sure where. 

She wasn’t sure she cared, not when she was bent over the kitchen counter his cock buried deeper inside of her than she thought physically possible.

It wasn’t fair for him to look the way he did and have this beast hiding in his pants. 

She had heard him called a monster before, and a delirious part of her thought the only monstrous thing about him was his cock, and wasn’t that a stupid thought, given that he had burned down her house and her husband with it. 

Though, to be fair, Daemon was very sympathetic to her situation. He even offered her a place to stay. A place in his bed, to be more specific. 

But she was homeless now, wasn’t she?

She had to take what she could get. 

 

†

 

She definitely didn’t have to take the engagement ring he offered, though.

†

He had driven her to his house before his phone rang and he complained about duty calling.

He tossed her the box before he left.

Black, square, and velvet. The contents were obvious, even before he told her, “ I bet it’s bigger than Harwin’s was.” 

She would think he was overcompensating for something if she hadn’t seen his cock.

If she hadn’t felt it.

If she couldn't still feel it, even though it had been hours.

She groaned, looking back at the box before giving in and opening it. 

It really was very pretty. 

It would look great on her hand, she thought. 

 

†

 

She was right, it did look good on her hand.

And he felt good in her hand, the next day, as she stroked his cock. 

He was impatient for her in a way that made her giddy, and she was impatient too. Even though it made her a little sad to separate her lips and palm from his length, it was so worth it when she got to slide onto it.

Fuck, it had only been a day, but she had already missed this. 

He felt even bigger from this angle, her perched above him. Gravity wasn’t enough to bring them together, she had to clutch onto his shoulders and work herself down. He wasn’t helpful, his grip on her hips remaining gentle — though it didn't stay that way for long. 

His eyes were focused on where their bodies met, fascinated by the way she opened up for him. Fascinated by how her body just took until there was none of his cock left — only hips meeting, and mouths moaning. 

She let out a sigh, when she took him to the root. Content to just sit there enjoying the weight and heat that the length of him was inside of her.

The way the curve of it hit all the right spots, and the way the stretch bordered on too much but was somehow just right.

His grip tightened then, clearly not content to sit with her merely warming his cock. But she was not concerned, confident she could teach him to like this. She wasn’t going to be a passive wife again, not with him. Harwin hadn’t been what she wanted, and wasn’t worth the effort of shaping into what she needed. 

But Daemon…he had so much potential. 

She wanted to see him on his knees for her. Wanted to make him worship her. Wanted to earn his feelings for her, in a way she hadn’t had to with Harwin because they came so easily. 

Something about him…It made her crave him, his come, his cock, but also everything else. She felt obsessed, out of control in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. And she wanted this man to feel that for her, too. 

Obsession. Lust. Love. 

She knew he lusted after her. 

He was probably already a bit obsessed, if he had killed for her. 

Surely it wouldn’t be such a challenge to make him love her too? 

As he fucked up into her, she thought that maybe she didn’t even need love.

Maybe this was enough. She certainly didn’t feel bored in his arms, no, quite the opposite, it had only been a minute on his cock and she already felt close to coming. 

Her hips shifted as if to get away before she forced their bodies back together, grinding down on him, desperate to feel him even deeper. 

This wasn’t a dance, this wasn't beautiful, this was a battle, their bodies fighting for dominance and for a place within each other. 

They were sweating and cursing and moaning, and she thought she tasted blood when they kissed — she wasn’t sure from where, from what, and wasn’t sure she cared. Once again, she found she wasn’t capable of caring about anything other than the stretch of him inside her. 

How could she care about him being a bad person, when he could make her feel so good? 

Maybe that made her a bad person.

Maybe that was why they were meant for each other. 

We were certainly meant for this, she thought, as they crashed together — breathing heavily into each other's mouths as they both came down from their release. He was still hot inside her, soft but large enough to keep his seed from escaping. 

She traced the indentations her nails had left on his shoulders, then leaned down to press a kiss to them.

He arched into her lips, like he was addicted to them.

 

Good, because she was addicted to his skin.

Addicted to him. 

†

She wondered if she was going to get pregnant from this.

She found she liked the idea of having a piece of him inside her.

She liked the idea of creating something with him. 

He was the King after all, he needed sons. She supposed soon, she would be the Queen so she would simply have to give him some. They were certainly compatible enough to make them, she thought.

And then some…

It did seem a little wrong, to fantasize about such things before her husband was in the ground. He was dead now, though, she could hardly make it up to him. 

Well…

She wondered what Daemon thought of Harwin as a middle name. 

After all, if it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be together.

In a way, they owed a lot to him. 

 

†

 

At twenty-one Rhaenyra Velaryon was a beautiful bride.

At twenty-two Rhaenyra Strong was a good wife.

At twenty-three, Rhaenyra was a widow.

At twenty-three and a half, Rhaenyra was a Targaryen.

At twenty-four, Rhaenyra was a mother.

And for the rest of her life, Rhaenyra was Queen.

 

†

Notes:

Idk about you, but I love a happy ending.

Happy for everyone but Harwin, at least.

Poor guy didn't see what was coming. Never saw his wife come, either. Smh.

Comments = <3

They might even motivate me to write a Daemon POV.

Chapter 5: position

Notes:

Daemon POV, anyone?

† Five †

Daemon Targaryen wasn’t a good man. 

You didn’t get to his position in life by being good. You didn’t get to rule King’s Landing unless you were willing to break bones and bash skulls. Not that he did much of either these days, he had men for that. 

Still.

 

What he commanded of said men resulted in blood being spilled, even if it wasn’t technically on his hands.

Not anymore, at least.

It had been, once, when he was young, for he had shot his first gun as a child, and taken his first life as a teen. 

It was his family’s business and it had been taught to him by his mother and father — a dashing duo, as thirsty as blood as they were for each other. Even after he had been born there were jokes about the pair. Bets were placed on whether they were torturing someone in their rooms, or merely fucking each other. For when the doors were closed, the muffled screams made it hard to follow. 

The answer was usually both.

He didn’t get enough time with them, and they didn’t get enough time with each other.

When they died he was still a teen, but they left their impact on him.

He had learned about life from them and learned about love from them too. 

They loved him, and they were good parents to him. But the way they loved each other was something else entirely. It was fierce, obsessive, and probably unhealthy, but he envied it. They were meant for each other, and fit so perfectly that every second together was a blessing and every second apart was a curse.

He had asked his father once, what it was like to love someone that much.

“It’s painful but it’s beautiful. I’d burn the world for your mother. I burn for her.” 

Daemon didn’t understand. But he wanted to. 

It was why when he realized he couldn’t love his wife, he thought her death was a kindness to them both.

He wouldn’t insult the boundaries of marriage by staying married to her, not for a second longer than he had to. It was why two weeks after the death of his Grandfather, the bride he picked out for his grandson followed him to the ground. 

He had never regretted it. Not for a second. She wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t even close. 

He had whores for company — and girls who were something similar. Ones who sought him out for power, or wealth, or good looks. He didn’t really care what their motives were, so long as they were a good lay. And perhaps he had a type — perhaps everyone knew he had a type, young — but not too young — blondes with little waists and big chests. 

And so, he thought it intentional that one of his best men had married such a woman and kept it from him.

He held his tongue as they were introduced, the girl's name was Rhaenyra.

He would be polite because it wasn’t her fault, but it chafed, that one of his men went off and got wed to this enticing creature and didn’t tell him. 

And fuck was she ever enticing. 

She was so prim, her chin tipped up to him — not to look up at him, but because she thought herself superior. And there was something about that confidence that made him want to know more. Made him want to know if it carried over, or if she would crumple and wail like most did on his cock. 

Later that night they flirted over the bar — over drinks.

And she had the nerve to say he killed his wife.

He had killed people for making assumptions like that before. And she knew enough to know that. But she didn’t care. It was fascinating. 

 

She was fascinating. 

 

It was enough for him to break his rule — the one about staying away from married women. He was a murderer, not an adulterer, there were lines his parents had told him to never cross. But his parents had never met Rhaenyra S—No, Strong sounded wrong. 

She had the spirit and the smirk of a Targaryen. 

He wanted to fuck that smirk off her face. 

Gods, he just wanted to fuck her. 

So he did. And she took him so well. And she knew that too, and so, her smirk stayed. 


And so did his fascination with her. 

He thought, perhaps, he smelled smoke in the air. Perhaps this was what it was like to burn. 

He knew then that he had to have her again. And it wouldn’t be cheating if her husband was dead. 

 

†

He bought the engagement ring first. 

Then he sent the flowers. 

He paid for the fire and the funeral on the same night. 

He slept well that night.

 

†

 

 

He slept even better the following night, with Rhaenyra in his arms.

 

†