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mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 01:27 pm
mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 01:27 pm
(hotd) no democracy, chapter eleven
NO DEMOCRACY, CHAPTER ELEVEN
🐉masterpost🐉
The door to the queen’s chamber flies outward and Alicent’s head thrusts through the opening. Daemon, standing guard in the hallway, feels his heart drop to his feet as the pained cries come even louder without a wall to stop them, and as yet no baby’s cry.
“She’s fine,” Alicent says hastily, face tight with stress. “Well, the midwife says nothing is wrong. But she's asking for you, Daemon. I mean, my prince.”
“I suppose you shouldn't be in the birthing chamber,” Rhaenyra had said regretfully several weeks ago, and Daemon had agreed far too quickly that it was probably not politic. There was no conceivable reason for the queen’s uncle to attend her labors. Even his brother had not been present for his wife’s travails unless something had gone badly wrong. But it was simply that Daemon was terrified, and a coward. As the milling attendants part, startled, for their prince to cut through them toward the bed, and as Laena and Laenor and his cousin Rhaenys turn their own worried faces toward him, he is fighting a shameful impulse to flee.
He was a coward, but not entirely worthless. He might wish he was drinking himself insensible somewhere but instead he stood guard at the door, Rhaenyra still seized by a fear he could not say was entirely irrational, that any of the men who longed for what she carried might come to cut it out of her. She had woken screaming from nightmares of her father himself raising the knife as she pleaded with him for mercy: whether it was she or she had become her mother, she could not tell.
Rhaenyra’s thin legs splayed wide, nightgown plastered by sweat to the great dome of her belly above them. The midwife kneels between thighs that are yet white, above sheets that are blessedly unmarked by red. His niece, with a blank, uncomprehending terror that rends him, wails, “I can’t, I can’t, I fucking can’t do it, oh gods, I can’t,” but when she catches sight of him she does not say uncle, kepus, Daemon, but with a heaving sob cries out, “I want my mother, Jaelan ñuha muña,” in both the languages she knows, as if should the Common Tongue fail to summon her Valyrian might better achieve the miracle.
Daemon crosses the remaining distance between them with two final large strides and gathers her into his arms, unbuckling Dark Sister from his belt with one hand and handing it to Laena to put to the side. “I know, rūs riña, I know,” he says in the same tongue, pressing her head to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he has to squeeze his own eyes shut for a moment as he rocks her. He opens them to cast a searching glance at the midwife.
“All is well, my prince,” she answers calmly. “The queen is young and strong. Everything proceeds as it ought. She is just in pain, and frightened.”
He nods and pulls back, cradling Rhaenyra’s head in his hands and stroking her hair, making sure her eyes are locked on his. “Rhaenyra,” he begins, and he watches as the fear she had begun to fight off rises again. He was going to tell her some nonsense about how she was strong, a dragon, a queen, that she could do this. But this is his baby. A baby having a baby, and she is scared.
“Uncle—”
They don’t do this in front of others. She is the queen, and she is his baby, but no one else gets to know it.
“I know, sweet baby. I know it hurts, I know you’re scared.”
He could at least draw down the veil of Valyrian over this—only Rhaenys and the Velaryon siblings would understand them then. For now he does not. Later he might want to provide the comfort of their own language, the one they switch to in private without even thinking, the one she most often cries out in with pleasure, in pain, their heart’s tongue. But for now, Alicent, her husband, good-sister and good-mother and ladies and the nurses and the midwives should know. Their queen is just a baby, and she is scared, and she wants her mother who is dead, who died doing what she is trying to do now, and it is obscene they’ve all asked her to do this, that she believed she must, that Daemon had rejoiced to know she would for him, that he still does even through the sick dread. She is brave, bold, beautiful, a very brave fucking baby, an infinitely strong little girl who is hurting.
“Kepus,” she whimpers, nails digging hard into his arm. “I can’t, I can’t—”
“You can.” He presses kisses to her forehead, her cheeks. He slips his fingers in her mouth and she sucks as he speaks nonsense to her, lies and tells her the truth. “You’re okay, baby, you’re alright. My baby is going to give me a sweet baby now, that’s what you wanted.”
“I can’t,” she says, caught on it, her body blindly rejecting the immensity that is being asked of it, but less frantic now, a little less stiff with terror in his embrace.
“You don’t have a choice,” he reminds her. “I’m sorry. This baby is in you and it’s going to have to come out. A Targaryen baby, very soon now, another Targaryen princess, another dragon. Don’t you want that?”
“Yes,” she sobs, “I want her, I want her, but I don’t know if I can, I want to meet her, I don't want to die.”
“My prince,” the midwife interrupts, “another pang is coming, and if you do not want the queen to bite your fingers through, I would remove them from her mouth for the interval. Will you be ready to push for me this time when I tell you to, Your Grace?”
Rhaenyra looks at him desperately, face scarlet, cheeks slick with sweat, lip snotty, and Daemon answers, “She will. You're going to be a good girl for me and do as she says and then you’ll have a pretty baby to meet at the end of it, alright?”
She nods and shudders in relief, head dropping onto his shoulder, but she doesn't stop shaking, so hard her teeth chatter.
“I shook all over too like this,” Alicent says, smoothing her hand over Rhaenyra’s back. “They said it’s normal.”
Animal grunts fill the air as the convulsions wrack her. Squeamish little Elinda Massey gasps in shock and she has a better view of whatever is happening between Rhaneyra's legs and his pulse spikes but the first blood of the day is actually Daemon’s own, rushing forth from her nails have gouged holes in his palms. He doesn't notice before the moment where the silly thing sways in place woozily and attention is diverted from the queen as she swoons and Rhaenyra howls in disgust at such weakness and shouts, “I want all you cunts out, why are so many fucking people here?”
This thins the ranks considerably, only family and Alicent and the unflappable midwife Daemon has decided he likes and is going to give a very nice tip to and Maester Geradys and Daemon, Rhaenyra is very clear on that, clinging to him and saying, “Don’t leave, uncle, please, stay, even if it means you never want to have sex with me a-again—”
“I’m not leaving. And what the fuck are you talking about?” A very, very nice tip. The midwife peers between Rhaenyra’s legs with a placid expression and acts as if she has not heard.
“When Laenor said he'd be there for the birth Lady Beesbury told me that was unwise because seeing such awful things kills all carnal desire for a woman in a man forever—”
“Alas,” Laenor says dolefully.
“I wouldn't worry about that, Rhaenyra—” Alicent soothes.
“Shut up,” Rhaenyra says. “You’re such a bitch sometimes! Gwenys shot out of you as if she was greased! I hate you! Harwin didn't even make it back to the Keep!”
Alicent just rolls her eyes. “—because I don't imagine Lady Beesbury ever filled anyone with carnal desire to begin with, so how would she know?”
“You're such a bitch sometimes,” Rhaenyra says, laughing despite herself. “You're such a bitch and I love you and I don't want to die—”
“You're not going to die,” Daemon says firmly, glad the incapacitating fright seems to have abated a bit, easing her back against the pillows to rest for a moment in between her contractions. “And I will still want to have sex with you,” he assures her, switching pointedly to High Valyrian.
The pains come again and again Rhaenyra says, “I can’t, kostan daor—”
“I’ve never heard that before,” Daemon says. “About anything, but especially about your body. The opposite, really. Didn’t I get you ready?”
Rhaenys has moved back from the bed to whisper to the maester, but Daemon will just have to live with polluting her children’s ears.
Rhaenyra laughs a little, panting. “That was just—that was just for sex, I haven’t been able to get anything more than a finger up there in months.”
Fuck-fevered, Rhaenyra’s mind had refused to let go of the idea that she wanted Daemon to put his fist inside her. She’d said she didn’t want him to fuck her cunt while pregnant, but she’d framed this differently: Daemon was going to get her nice and stretched so she could have his baby easily. Her labor would surely be only a half-hour in duration if she took his whole hand!
He’d finally agreed to try it one of those occasional nights where Rhaenyra, as her pregnancy progressed and she looked more and more the luminous, tender image of the young, fecund wife and gentle mother, only grew more insatiable and would sometimes go to bed with both uncle and lover at once. Absurd, but he’d felt the need of Mysaria’s supervision. He didn’t want to damage her and it wasn’t only that his hand was so much larger than his cock—much, much larger, Rhaenyra, stop saying I can, I can, you aren’t that parrot the Summer Islands sent, maybe you can’t, yes I am, I am ‘doubting’ you—but his cock had never killed anyone, at least not yet, and please gods, never, let her survive this, and his hands had, she’d been small enough to fit in them once and those hands that had held her had crushed the life from men’s throats. He’d felt nervous as a virgin, when, after hours and hours of devoted attention to the Queen of Seven Kingdom’s priceless hungry cunt, taking turns eating her out, swapping when their jaws grew sore, gradually stretching her with fingers and progressively more daunting cocks, he watched her spine shiver and kissed the buttocks thrust up off the bed as she prepared to let his fist take her from behind like a bitch and he’d finally tucked his thumb in and looked for assurance to Mysaria who observed Rhaenyra’s hole strain around him, feeling the taut skin of her entrance with her fingers, massaging at her taint to make sure she was taking it well and nodded as he slowly bloomed his hand into a fist inside her. All the while Rhaenyra, who felt such resistance at her cunt claimed for her child, had said dreamily, sounding drunk even though Mysaria had forbade her from drinking any wine, You’re stretching me so good for your baby, my cunt is never going to be the same, it can’t possibly, it’s so full, and moaning loud when Mysaria stroked the bulge of the child and affirmed, Only decent of him, what a big baby he’s put in such a little queen, a moan of fear and arousal both as she pulsed around him and sobbed, Yes, thank you uncle, and she seemed to like the idea that this was achieving something, that he was carefully attending to the cunt that had to work so hard, that he was remaking it for it’s next purpose, lovingly, painstakingly fistfucking her to get it ready for what she must do.
It probably didn’t do anything, just sex, that’s enough, very good sex, because it was true that in the last few months she hadn’t been able to bear having anything inside her, in her cunt or her ass, the growing weight of the babe crowding her so even her own finger had her in overwhelmed tears. Instead she’d gotten in Daemon, her belly above the cock strapped to her hips meaning she had to thrust slowly into him, a bit cumbersome, as she pressed her hand to his own flat stomach and told him how good he was doing for his brother, he just had to lie back and let him fuck his pretty pussy, so good, fuck a baby into him, and his eyes were riveted on that swell and imagining it, Rhaenyra giving him a baby, and he’d known why she’d cried with the force of her want for it, as he gave up and demeaned himself totally—but it was fine, he was a sister getting fucked so good, he couldn’t help whatever silly things came into his head, yes, I’m going to give you a baby, you’re going to give me a baby, fuck, aiming his weeping cock so when her fucking him up into the slick grip of his own fist made him spend it splattered over the baby he’s giving her, she’s giving him, and it’s odd to bring that night with Mysaria up here, bring sex up here, even if sex is of course the reason it’s happening it’s also far away from the room, where Rhaenyra vomits once from the pain as Daemon holds her hair back and Alicent wipes her mouth, but it’s like he wants her to remember her body could be for something other than this as she had reminded Daemon, or maybe really taught him for the first time, it was a thing to be used and yet for more than use, reintroduced him to the joy of use, he’d been nearly used up in the Stepstones, skin aflame, vomiting from sheer agony, as with his fist inside her, unable to even move, just inside her, while she rubbed at her clit and then couldn’t even come, he was too big in her, it’d hurt to come, but she said she just liked it, and the oil gushed out of her down his wrist as he didn’t even dare move, and the thought of this future moment spilled from her lips, I’m going to bear down and it will hurt but then I’ll have this baby, our girl, burying that pain in every delicious pinprick of pleasure, so he reminds her: “Remember how open you were, just think of that, I opened you right up.”
It couldn’t literally help—the pain, after all, as the midwife said, was the very entrance of her womb opening so the babe could pass through it, and it grips her hard, shakes her like a ragdoll in its grasp. But she stops saying I can’t. Eventually in Valyrian she says to Laena, “Bring it to me,” and Daemon realizes that Rhaenyra has ordered the egg brought up from the warming chamber in the Dragonpit. It shouldn’t surprise him. Just three days ago there had been a moment of mild panic when the queen could not be located very early one morning before it was discovered, even at this advanced stage, so large and uncomfortable she couldn’t even bear the feeling of clothes on her skin half the time, she had gone to the Dragonpit with her lady cousin and there was more panic at the thought that the queen might actually intend to fly in this state, but when Daemon went to find her he’d opened the door of the warming chamber to discover the girls in that dark other womb, stripped down to their shifts, slicked in sweat, Rhaenyra’s head in Laena’s lap as Laena said irately, I don’t see why we can’t lay eggs, very small ones, and then they grow larger outside of us, his niece curled protectively around the egg she’d chosen five years ago now. The one she’d chosen for the brother who died, the egg Daemon had stolen, that she’d come to Dragonstone to retrieve. They’d gone to pick out the babe’s egg together and she’d wondered if it was bad luck for her to choose this one again and not one of the several clutches Syrax had laid—only since Caraxes return in the last year, the dragonkeepers reported—but she’d been drawn to it, and Daemon said he didn’t think so, he had been prepared to give it to a child of his, and he had, he’d chosen it to taunt her and also he’d wanted it very badly, and Rhaenyra gave him a sidelong smile and said, yes, exactly, the egg he’d chosen for his first child’s cradle and here that child was, she’d taken it and kept it safe for him, that’s all.
In the warming chamber that morning it had been an odd, elemental sight, ancient, almost unsettling—Daemon had waved away his companions quickly and closed the door, so it was just he and the girls and one candle, their eyes gleaming sharp and old in the dark, and Laena said to Daemon softly, She said she wanted to be near it, and look, she’s actually slept, and Rhaenyra was already waking up by the time he knelt beside her in his armor, sweating, but it was good she had slept, she’d been having trouble getting any at all. She wants out, Rhaenyra murmured as Daemon helped her to her feet, and he’d known the her that had led Rhaenyra hence was the daughter she’d convinced him she was carrying, I want her out and she wants out, she’s ready, she wants to meet her dragon, and indeed the maester had confirmed when he visited that afternoon that the babe had dropped and it would not be long now.
Now the egg is brought to the bed and with groans of agony that make Daemon himself nauseous she cuddles it to her breasts with heaving breaths, but nearly the moment the curve of it rests against the curve of her stomach, her eyes go wide and she says to the midwife, “Oh, oh, I feel it—”
“Yes, the babe is in the birthing passage, just a few more pushes for me and you will meet your child, Your Grace.”
Although Rhaenyra still cries out harshly, bearing down as instructed, something in her has gone still, easy, confident, she whispers to Daemon, “She wants out, she’s coming, I just have to help her,” and with one final grunt and a great ejection of blood and fluid another Targaryen is shot out into the sheets howling.
The midwife holds the baby in her arms, bloody, yelling, waving her fists because, yes, “A daughter, Your Grace, a fine healthy daughter, hear those lungs!”
And somehow Daemon has taken his daughter from the midwife’s palms. A soft exhalation from everyone watching, the tiny, gory girl cradled in his hands, still warm and grisly from Rhaenyra’s insides, still attached to them by the cord. When—her mother—had been laid in his arms for the first time she had been sleeping, peaceful, lovely, clean-smelling, pretty petal-like lips pursed softly. His daughter screams furiously at him; she bats him with windmilling fists. Daemon laughs aloud. The midwife gently pries her from him but then hands him a small, clean blade and walks him through freeing her of that remaining physical tie, through that irreversible severance.
The nurse takes her, about to whisk their girl away to clean her off but Rhaenyra insists she wants her now, and before they bring her to lay her, red and alive, against Rhaenyra’s breast he turns to her and chokes out, “Thank you.”
“What?” Rhaenyra says, confused. “For the baby?”
“Yes,” he says, kneeling at her side kissing forehead, cheek, and, heedless of the onlookers, lips. “Thank you, sweetling, for the baby. Thank you.”
“Oh,” she breathes quietly, reaching up to smooth his hair back, tucks it behind his ear. “Oh, uncle. You’re welcome. You’re very, very welcome,” she says very politely. “I did it for you, you know. No matter what I like to say or think. I did it for you, I would never have been able to do it, if you didn’t want her.”
Then Alyssa—Rhaenyra said very early on she knew exactly what name she’d chosen, but refused to tell—is laid in her mother’s arms and she names her with a mischievous smile twitching the lips he has to kiss again, “The babe’s name is Alyssa, for her grandmother, of course, and of course in honor of my husband’s house, for it was a traditional Velaryon name brought into the Targaryen line through our honored ancestress, Aenys’ brave queen, the Princess Alyssa, my first child, the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
-
“Are you sure?” Daemon asks two months later, when he puts the head of his cock to Rhaenyra’s cunt, watches her bite her lip.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Rhaenyra insists. “Really. It’s just that I remember how badly it hurt, and I can’t believe it could never not hurt again.”
“Poor little pussy,” Daemon clucks, moving to lay beside her and stroking it gently, cupping it so the unfurled hothouse petals bloom against his palm.
“Also,” she whispers with a blush, “I’m still so stretched out down there. Alicent says it looks better, and hers has finally gone back to normal, but it took months.”
“While I’m glad you and the Lady Strong have touchingly mutually confirmed the respective tightness of your current—”
“Uncle.”
“—I don’t care about that, Rhaenyra.”
“Oh,” she says. “But you always say…”
(So tight for me, fuck you’re so tight, always so virgin fucking tight. This ass is as tight as my niece’s little virgin cunt, boy, and I’m going to make you come once you realize it was made to be fucked by princes, fucked like a cunt.
That’s what had finally made her come untouched all those months ago, he’d gotten her so wound up fucking her ass as she cried no, no uncle it’s dirty, please, fuck my special place instead, I won’t tell and tried to heave him off of her, saying I’ll leave your maidenhead to your husband but this ass is mine, tighter anyone, gods, you better stop squeaking and relax and take it before I rip your asshole open, princess, clit about to throb clean off her from neglect, but her ass had finally spasmed on his cock—he’d actually had no idea it could really do that, that he could actually make her come that way, he thought they’d have their fun driving her mad until eventually she begged her king to touch her clit—but that had done it, him saying, what is it, boy, tell me, what am I fucking, and the little thief boy Lord Fles Bottom had caught squealing m-my cunt, my cunt, you’re fucking my cunt.)
“Well, I’m lying.”
“Are you saying I’m loose?” she squawks indignantly, propping herself up on her elbows and knocking his hand away from its warm little perch.
“No,” he replies, laughing. “But you've never been as tight as those first few times, obviously. Gods, you aren't loose, it's still an entire production every time to get in you if you also want to walk the next day.”
“That's right,” she mutters. “My pussy was extremely tight. And so it will be again.”
“I liked it loose,” he says, putting his hand to her and stroking the still distended velvety lips until she sighs. “Remember after I got my fist in you, how open you were? I wanted to fuck you so badly. I almost asked, almost said, look how you're gaping from me, you'll hardly feel a thing, like I wasn't fucking you at all—”
The lightest kiss of her swollen, spongy walls on each easy, frictionless pass into her, because he'd opened her right up—
Rhaenyra giggles. “Really? I’m glad you didn't ask. I was so sore and it felt so good I would have said yes, you'd gotten me ready for your baby and you deserved a reward, but I don't think I could have taken it, trying to tighten myself up to make it nice for you to fuck.”
Daemon slides a finger into her. “Go on, tighten up that pussy for me, make it so tight I can’t fuck this finger in this slutty cunt anymore,” and she does in slow pulses, and he toys with her clit to help, but it only does so much, she is looser for now. It sends up a thrill in his gut. Her cunt would never be the same because it gave him their perfect girl: he did this, her uncle did this.
But she's still his baby. She's tight, always so tight for him, because she's his baby, this is his baby’s tight cunt. “That's right. Get that cunt nice and tight for me, good girl.”
He holds himself above her again, cock nestled in her drooling entrance. “You’re going to have to be brave for me,” Daemon says. “I should wait until you’re bigger, but I just can’t. Can you be brave for me? I’ll go slow, I promise,” he vows. “I’ll be so careful with such a tiny baby cunt—”
“Nice and careful,” she says, slipping into that babyish voice, “because I’m so tight, so little—”
She goes easy around him then, no longer worried about anything but feeling good, head drooping back against his encircling arms, eyes closing as she pets her own clit and flutters invitingly about him in soft waves. A grunt drops from Daemon’s lips as he sheathes himself gingerly inside her. She feels so fucking good. She strokes his hair and back, dances her fingers down his spine to his ass and squeezes, and he lets the undignified noises come faster, unashamed, because she had laughed as he came once and as he softened inside her—she loved that too, loved that she could keep his sweet, soft cock in her—she said she liked it, all his little happy male sounds, she liked knowing she made him just go stupid with pleasure, so he lets himself sound as stupid as she could ever wish for, just ridiculous, silly snuffling goodness muffled in her neck as he comes home, as he claims this special place for them again.
A wetness trapped between where their chests press together. Daemon pushes himself off her and puts his hand to his breast and feels again that strange, miraculous effusion leaking from his nipple, slicking his fingers.
(It happened the first time two days after Alyssa was born. The wetnurse had just left and Daemon held her in Rhaenyra’s chambers in the bright afternoon, left alone with his niece and Alicent to count her eyelashes, marvel over her tiny fingers. Rhaenyra sat propped up against the pillows of the couch, only able to move so far but already sick of her bed. “You were right. She does smell nice now she doesn’t smell like insides. Do you like her, uncle?” she’d asked with a smile. “Do you like the baby I gave you?”
“I do,” he answered. “She’s as wonderful anything come of you must be.”
Then Rhaenyra said, “I don’t,” and burst into tears. “I don’t think I love her, I don’t f-feel anything, something’s wrong with me, and she’s so small, and I know I’m going to fuck her up, what will we do when we fuck her up?”
Daemon had laid the baby in her cradle—the bronze-green dragon that had hatched only hours after her birth opening one and curling around Alyssa instantly—and come to where his niece was going into exhausted hysterics that Alicent could not seem to soothe.
“She’ll have the right to hate us then, I suppose,” Daemon said.
“She won’t,” Rhaenyra said, crying harder. “She’ll love us. That’s what’s so awful.”
“I know. Oh, I know. See. You do love her. You wouldn’t care otherwise.”
“No, I don’t, I don’t, oh gods, she’ll know that I just looked at her sometimes and felt nothing—”
“Rhaenyra—”
“I know I love you. I know I love Alicent. They say a mother’s love is supposed to be stronger, stronger than anything, but I don’t love her as much. That’s sick. Do you love her?”
“Yes—”
“More than me??? Someone should love her most. So I shouldn’t resent it. But I do, because there’s something wrong with me.”
“Not more. Different. It’s just different.”
He’d been a boy when he first loved Rhaenyra, and now he wasn’t. Maybe that was the difference. She would always be so young to him, and in some ways, he would always be so young, with her. He was not Rhaenyra’s father, thank gods, he was not their girl's father, not in the same way, thank gods, and yet he was Alyssa’s father and it was different while also it was true that being a father did not feel so new. He knew this fear. They would fuck it up, and she would love them.
“I didn’t, at first.”
They both turn to Alicent.
“What?” Rhaenyra sniffles.
“Love Gwenys. Honestly, I don’t know if I still do. I don’t enjoy her. Not that love's about enjoyment. I know if anything happened to her it would destroy me, but when I hand her off to the nurse I’m relieved. She’s boring.”
“It’s true, Rhaenyra. You greatly improved on acquaintance. Wait at least until she has an annoying personality before you decide to withhold your love.”
“Daemon, I’m sure that isn’t helpful,” Alicent scolds, and then laughs. Rhaenyra had been right. She was fun.
Rhaenyra whimpers a bit, still aching but cried out, and into the silence Alyssa decides it’s her turn to wail, which makes Rhaenyra start to cry again. Alicent picks the baby up to take her to the nursery and submits to letting the hatchling scramble up her arm and settle on her neck to accompany her charge, and when Daemon sits on the couch beside her she says, “They hurt, uncle,” hand hovering over her milk-logged breasts that still had not dried.
“My baby,” he said. “Let me take care of you, alright?”
He freed one heavy globe, nipples swollen dark and oozing, and licked the bead of milk off the red tip as Rhaenyra fell back against the arm of the couch. He sucked, gently, and Rhaenyra says, “I can’t believe I want sex, what’s wrong with me, everything below my belly button even existing makes me want to die—”
Daemon palpitates her breast with his fingers, working her empty onto his waiting tongue. Long, slow pulls of his cheeks. He looks up at her through his lashes: his whole world. Taking care of his achy, exhausted, overwhelmed baby. She’s so damp: breasts leaking, cunt leaking blood, dribbles of urine onto the linen between her legs every time she moved.
“I gave her everything,” Rhaenyra whispered, leaking tears too. “I did, my whole body, I gave everything so she could be here, I would do it again, I know I want to do it again, it’s just—it’s so much, it’s too much to feel—”
“Just feel this. Does it feel good?” He imagined it felt good. There was a hot, knotted point somewhere behind his own breastbone, burning, pulsing, twisting every time he sucked more milk from her engorged, sore breasts onto his tongue, it’s too much, let him have it—
“Y-yes—”
“Good. You don’t have to feel anything else.”
Tight behind his chest, and then flowing. He drew back and hissed, putting trembling fingers to where his own leakings had stuck his shirt to his chest.
Rhaenyra gasped.)
As she does now—this hasn’t happened since her milk dried up a couple of weeks after the birth—saying as she did then, “You know, you know I’m your baby forever, your body knows,” and as she did then she just lays back, she doesn’t even have to suck as he works his nipple between his fingers until he feeds her of himself right out onto her tongue, filling her mouth, filling her cunt that gave everything with his come, filling that belly still slack with its remembered gift right up, giving her as much as she could ever want, as much as she could take.
🐉masterpost🐉
The door to the queen’s chamber flies outward and Alicent’s head thrusts through the opening. Daemon, standing guard in the hallway, feels his heart drop to his feet as the pained cries come even louder without a wall to stop them, and as yet no baby’s cry.
“She’s fine,” Alicent says hastily, face tight with stress. “Well, the midwife says nothing is wrong. But she's asking for you, Daemon. I mean, my prince.”
“I suppose you shouldn't be in the birthing chamber,” Rhaenyra had said regretfully several weeks ago, and Daemon had agreed far too quickly that it was probably not politic. There was no conceivable reason for the queen’s uncle to attend her labors. Even his brother had not been present for his wife’s travails unless something had gone badly wrong. But it was simply that Daemon was terrified, and a coward. As the milling attendants part, startled, for their prince to cut through them toward the bed, and as Laena and Laenor and his cousin Rhaenys turn their own worried faces toward him, he is fighting a shameful impulse to flee.
He was a coward, but not entirely worthless. He might wish he was drinking himself insensible somewhere but instead he stood guard at the door, Rhaenyra still seized by a fear he could not say was entirely irrational, that any of the men who longed for what she carried might come to cut it out of her. She had woken screaming from nightmares of her father himself raising the knife as she pleaded with him for mercy: whether it was she or she had become her mother, she could not tell.
Rhaenyra’s thin legs splayed wide, nightgown plastered by sweat to the great dome of her belly above them. The midwife kneels between thighs that are yet white, above sheets that are blessedly unmarked by red. His niece, with a blank, uncomprehending terror that rends him, wails, “I can’t, I can’t, I fucking can’t do it, oh gods, I can’t,” but when she catches sight of him she does not say uncle, kepus, Daemon, but with a heaving sob cries out, “I want my mother, Jaelan ñuha muña,” in both the languages she knows, as if should the Common Tongue fail to summon her Valyrian might better achieve the miracle.
Daemon crosses the remaining distance between them with two final large strides and gathers her into his arms, unbuckling Dark Sister from his belt with one hand and handing it to Laena to put to the side. “I know, rūs riña, I know,” he says in the same tongue, pressing her head to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he has to squeeze his own eyes shut for a moment as he rocks her. He opens them to cast a searching glance at the midwife.
“All is well, my prince,” she answers calmly. “The queen is young and strong. Everything proceeds as it ought. She is just in pain, and frightened.”
He nods and pulls back, cradling Rhaenyra’s head in his hands and stroking her hair, making sure her eyes are locked on his. “Rhaenyra,” he begins, and he watches as the fear she had begun to fight off rises again. He was going to tell her some nonsense about how she was strong, a dragon, a queen, that she could do this. But this is his baby. A baby having a baby, and she is scared.
“Uncle—”
They don’t do this in front of others. She is the queen, and she is his baby, but no one else gets to know it.
“I know, sweet baby. I know it hurts, I know you’re scared.”
He could at least draw down the veil of Valyrian over this—only Rhaenys and the Velaryon siblings would understand them then. For now he does not. Later he might want to provide the comfort of their own language, the one they switch to in private without even thinking, the one she most often cries out in with pleasure, in pain, their heart’s tongue. But for now, Alicent, her husband, good-sister and good-mother and ladies and the nurses and the midwives should know. Their queen is just a baby, and she is scared, and she wants her mother who is dead, who died doing what she is trying to do now, and it is obscene they’ve all asked her to do this, that she believed she must, that Daemon had rejoiced to know she would for him, that he still does even through the sick dread. She is brave, bold, beautiful, a very brave fucking baby, an infinitely strong little girl who is hurting.
“Kepus,” she whimpers, nails digging hard into his arm. “I can’t, I can’t—”
“You can.” He presses kisses to her forehead, her cheeks. He slips his fingers in her mouth and she sucks as he speaks nonsense to her, lies and tells her the truth. “You’re okay, baby, you’re alright. My baby is going to give me a sweet baby now, that’s what you wanted.”
“I can’t,” she says, caught on it, her body blindly rejecting the immensity that is being asked of it, but less frantic now, a little less stiff with terror in his embrace.
“You don’t have a choice,” he reminds her. “I’m sorry. This baby is in you and it’s going to have to come out. A Targaryen baby, very soon now, another Targaryen princess, another dragon. Don’t you want that?”
“Yes,” she sobs, “I want her, I want her, but I don’t know if I can, I want to meet her, I don't want to die.”
“My prince,” the midwife interrupts, “another pang is coming, and if you do not want the queen to bite your fingers through, I would remove them from her mouth for the interval. Will you be ready to push for me this time when I tell you to, Your Grace?”
Rhaenyra looks at him desperately, face scarlet, cheeks slick with sweat, lip snotty, and Daemon answers, “She will. You're going to be a good girl for me and do as she says and then you’ll have a pretty baby to meet at the end of it, alright?”
She nods and shudders in relief, head dropping onto his shoulder, but she doesn't stop shaking, so hard her teeth chatter.
“I shook all over too like this,” Alicent says, smoothing her hand over Rhaenyra’s back. “They said it’s normal.”
Animal grunts fill the air as the convulsions wrack her. Squeamish little Elinda Massey gasps in shock and she has a better view of whatever is happening between Rhaneyra's legs and his pulse spikes but the first blood of the day is actually Daemon’s own, rushing forth from her nails have gouged holes in his palms. He doesn't notice before the moment where the silly thing sways in place woozily and attention is diverted from the queen as she swoons and Rhaenyra howls in disgust at such weakness and shouts, “I want all you cunts out, why are so many fucking people here?”
This thins the ranks considerably, only family and Alicent and the unflappable midwife Daemon has decided he likes and is going to give a very nice tip to and Maester Geradys and Daemon, Rhaenyra is very clear on that, clinging to him and saying, “Don’t leave, uncle, please, stay, even if it means you never want to have sex with me a-again—”
“I’m not leaving. And what the fuck are you talking about?” A very, very nice tip. The midwife peers between Rhaenyra’s legs with a placid expression and acts as if she has not heard.
“When Laenor said he'd be there for the birth Lady Beesbury told me that was unwise because seeing such awful things kills all carnal desire for a woman in a man forever—”
“Alas,” Laenor says dolefully.
“I wouldn't worry about that, Rhaenyra—” Alicent soothes.
“Shut up,” Rhaenyra says. “You’re such a bitch sometimes! Gwenys shot out of you as if she was greased! I hate you! Harwin didn't even make it back to the Keep!”
Alicent just rolls her eyes. “—because I don't imagine Lady Beesbury ever filled anyone with carnal desire to begin with, so how would she know?”
“You're such a bitch sometimes,” Rhaenyra says, laughing despite herself. “You're such a bitch and I love you and I don't want to die—”
“You're not going to die,” Daemon says firmly, glad the incapacitating fright seems to have abated a bit, easing her back against the pillows to rest for a moment in between her contractions. “And I will still want to have sex with you,” he assures her, switching pointedly to High Valyrian.
The pains come again and again Rhaenyra says, “I can’t, kostan daor—”
“I’ve never heard that before,” Daemon says. “About anything, but especially about your body. The opposite, really. Didn’t I get you ready?”
Rhaenys has moved back from the bed to whisper to the maester, but Daemon will just have to live with polluting her children’s ears.
Rhaenyra laughs a little, panting. “That was just—that was just for sex, I haven’t been able to get anything more than a finger up there in months.”
Fuck-fevered, Rhaenyra’s mind had refused to let go of the idea that she wanted Daemon to put his fist inside her. She’d said she didn’t want him to fuck her cunt while pregnant, but she’d framed this differently: Daemon was going to get her nice and stretched so she could have his baby easily. Her labor would surely be only a half-hour in duration if she took his whole hand!
He’d finally agreed to try it one of those occasional nights where Rhaenyra, as her pregnancy progressed and she looked more and more the luminous, tender image of the young, fecund wife and gentle mother, only grew more insatiable and would sometimes go to bed with both uncle and lover at once. Absurd, but he’d felt the need of Mysaria’s supervision. He didn’t want to damage her and it wasn’t only that his hand was so much larger than his cock—much, much larger, Rhaenyra, stop saying I can, I can, you aren’t that parrot the Summer Islands sent, maybe you can’t, yes I am, I am ‘doubting’ you—but his cock had never killed anyone, at least not yet, and please gods, never, let her survive this, and his hands had, she’d been small enough to fit in them once and those hands that had held her had crushed the life from men’s throats. He’d felt nervous as a virgin, when, after hours and hours of devoted attention to the Queen of Seven Kingdom’s priceless hungry cunt, taking turns eating her out, swapping when their jaws grew sore, gradually stretching her with fingers and progressively more daunting cocks, he watched her spine shiver and kissed the buttocks thrust up off the bed as she prepared to let his fist take her from behind like a bitch and he’d finally tucked his thumb in and looked for assurance to Mysaria who observed Rhaenyra’s hole strain around him, feeling the taut skin of her entrance with her fingers, massaging at her taint to make sure she was taking it well and nodded as he slowly bloomed his hand into a fist inside her. All the while Rhaenyra, who felt such resistance at her cunt claimed for her child, had said dreamily, sounding drunk even though Mysaria had forbade her from drinking any wine, You’re stretching me so good for your baby, my cunt is never going to be the same, it can’t possibly, it’s so full, and moaning loud when Mysaria stroked the bulge of the child and affirmed, Only decent of him, what a big baby he’s put in such a little queen, a moan of fear and arousal both as she pulsed around him and sobbed, Yes, thank you uncle, and she seemed to like the idea that this was achieving something, that he was carefully attending to the cunt that had to work so hard, that he was remaking it for it’s next purpose, lovingly, painstakingly fistfucking her to get it ready for what she must do.
It probably didn’t do anything, just sex, that’s enough, very good sex, because it was true that in the last few months she hadn’t been able to bear having anything inside her, in her cunt or her ass, the growing weight of the babe crowding her so even her own finger had her in overwhelmed tears. Instead she’d gotten in Daemon, her belly above the cock strapped to her hips meaning she had to thrust slowly into him, a bit cumbersome, as she pressed her hand to his own flat stomach and told him how good he was doing for his brother, he just had to lie back and let him fuck his pretty pussy, so good, fuck a baby into him, and his eyes were riveted on that swell and imagining it, Rhaenyra giving him a baby, and he’d known why she’d cried with the force of her want for it, as he gave up and demeaned himself totally—but it was fine, he was a sister getting fucked so good, he couldn’t help whatever silly things came into his head, yes, I’m going to give you a baby, you’re going to give me a baby, fuck, aiming his weeping cock so when her fucking him up into the slick grip of his own fist made him spend it splattered over the baby he’s giving her, she’s giving him, and it’s odd to bring that night with Mysaria up here, bring sex up here, even if sex is of course the reason it’s happening it’s also far away from the room, where Rhaenyra vomits once from the pain as Daemon holds her hair back and Alicent wipes her mouth, but it’s like he wants her to remember her body could be for something other than this as she had reminded Daemon, or maybe really taught him for the first time, it was a thing to be used and yet for more than use, reintroduced him to the joy of use, he’d been nearly used up in the Stepstones, skin aflame, vomiting from sheer agony, as with his fist inside her, unable to even move, just inside her, while she rubbed at her clit and then couldn’t even come, he was too big in her, it’d hurt to come, but she said she just liked it, and the oil gushed out of her down his wrist as he didn’t even dare move, and the thought of this future moment spilled from her lips, I’m going to bear down and it will hurt but then I’ll have this baby, our girl, burying that pain in every delicious pinprick of pleasure, so he reminds her: “Remember how open you were, just think of that, I opened you right up.”
It couldn’t literally help—the pain, after all, as the midwife said, was the very entrance of her womb opening so the babe could pass through it, and it grips her hard, shakes her like a ragdoll in its grasp. But she stops saying I can’t. Eventually in Valyrian she says to Laena, “Bring it to me,” and Daemon realizes that Rhaenyra has ordered the egg brought up from the warming chamber in the Dragonpit. It shouldn’t surprise him. Just three days ago there had been a moment of mild panic when the queen could not be located very early one morning before it was discovered, even at this advanced stage, so large and uncomfortable she couldn’t even bear the feeling of clothes on her skin half the time, she had gone to the Dragonpit with her lady cousin and there was more panic at the thought that the queen might actually intend to fly in this state, but when Daemon went to find her he’d opened the door of the warming chamber to discover the girls in that dark other womb, stripped down to their shifts, slicked in sweat, Rhaenyra’s head in Laena’s lap as Laena said irately, I don’t see why we can’t lay eggs, very small ones, and then they grow larger outside of us, his niece curled protectively around the egg she’d chosen five years ago now. The one she’d chosen for the brother who died, the egg Daemon had stolen, that she’d come to Dragonstone to retrieve. They’d gone to pick out the babe’s egg together and she’d wondered if it was bad luck for her to choose this one again and not one of the several clutches Syrax had laid—only since Caraxes return in the last year, the dragonkeepers reported—but she’d been drawn to it, and Daemon said he didn’t think so, he had been prepared to give it to a child of his, and he had, he’d chosen it to taunt her and also he’d wanted it very badly, and Rhaenyra gave him a sidelong smile and said, yes, exactly, the egg he’d chosen for his first child’s cradle and here that child was, she’d taken it and kept it safe for him, that’s all.
In the warming chamber that morning it had been an odd, elemental sight, ancient, almost unsettling—Daemon had waved away his companions quickly and closed the door, so it was just he and the girls and one candle, their eyes gleaming sharp and old in the dark, and Laena said to Daemon softly, She said she wanted to be near it, and look, she’s actually slept, and Rhaenyra was already waking up by the time he knelt beside her in his armor, sweating, but it was good she had slept, she’d been having trouble getting any at all. She wants out, Rhaenyra murmured as Daemon helped her to her feet, and he’d known the her that had led Rhaenyra hence was the daughter she’d convinced him she was carrying, I want her out and she wants out, she’s ready, she wants to meet her dragon, and indeed the maester had confirmed when he visited that afternoon that the babe had dropped and it would not be long now.
Now the egg is brought to the bed and with groans of agony that make Daemon himself nauseous she cuddles it to her breasts with heaving breaths, but nearly the moment the curve of it rests against the curve of her stomach, her eyes go wide and she says to the midwife, “Oh, oh, I feel it—”
“Yes, the babe is in the birthing passage, just a few more pushes for me and you will meet your child, Your Grace.”
Although Rhaenyra still cries out harshly, bearing down as instructed, something in her has gone still, easy, confident, she whispers to Daemon, “She wants out, she’s coming, I just have to help her,” and with one final grunt and a great ejection of blood and fluid another Targaryen is shot out into the sheets howling.
The midwife holds the baby in her arms, bloody, yelling, waving her fists because, yes, “A daughter, Your Grace, a fine healthy daughter, hear those lungs!”
And somehow Daemon has taken his daughter from the midwife’s palms. A soft exhalation from everyone watching, the tiny, gory girl cradled in his hands, still warm and grisly from Rhaenyra’s insides, still attached to them by the cord. When—her mother—had been laid in his arms for the first time she had been sleeping, peaceful, lovely, clean-smelling, pretty petal-like lips pursed softly. His daughter screams furiously at him; she bats him with windmilling fists. Daemon laughs aloud. The midwife gently pries her from him but then hands him a small, clean blade and walks him through freeing her of that remaining physical tie, through that irreversible severance.
The nurse takes her, about to whisk their girl away to clean her off but Rhaenyra insists she wants her now, and before they bring her to lay her, red and alive, against Rhaenyra’s breast he turns to her and chokes out, “Thank you.”
“What?” Rhaenyra says, confused. “For the baby?”
“Yes,” he says, kneeling at her side kissing forehead, cheek, and, heedless of the onlookers, lips. “Thank you, sweetling, for the baby. Thank you.”
“Oh,” she breathes quietly, reaching up to smooth his hair back, tucks it behind his ear. “Oh, uncle. You’re welcome. You’re very, very welcome,” she says very politely. “I did it for you, you know. No matter what I like to say or think. I did it for you, I would never have been able to do it, if you didn’t want her.”
Then Alyssa—Rhaenyra said very early on she knew exactly what name she’d chosen, but refused to tell—is laid in her mother’s arms and she names her with a mischievous smile twitching the lips he has to kiss again, “The babe’s name is Alyssa, for her grandmother, of course, and of course in honor of my husband’s house, for it was a traditional Velaryon name brought into the Targaryen line through our honored ancestress, Aenys’ brave queen, the Princess Alyssa, my first child, the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
-
“Are you sure?” Daemon asks two months later, when he puts the head of his cock to Rhaenyra’s cunt, watches her bite her lip.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Rhaenyra insists. “Really. It’s just that I remember how badly it hurt, and I can’t believe it could never not hurt again.”
“Poor little pussy,” Daemon clucks, moving to lay beside her and stroking it gently, cupping it so the unfurled hothouse petals bloom against his palm.
“Also,” she whispers with a blush, “I’m still so stretched out down there. Alicent says it looks better, and hers has finally gone back to normal, but it took months.”
“While I’m glad you and the Lady Strong have touchingly mutually confirmed the respective tightness of your current—”
“Uncle.”
“—I don’t care about that, Rhaenyra.”
“Oh,” she says. “But you always say…”
(So tight for me, fuck you’re so tight, always so virgin fucking tight. This ass is as tight as my niece’s little virgin cunt, boy, and I’m going to make you come once you realize it was made to be fucked by princes, fucked like a cunt.
That’s what had finally made her come untouched all those months ago, he’d gotten her so wound up fucking her ass as she cried no, no uncle it’s dirty, please, fuck my special place instead, I won’t tell and tried to heave him off of her, saying I’ll leave your maidenhead to your husband but this ass is mine, tighter anyone, gods, you better stop squeaking and relax and take it before I rip your asshole open, princess, clit about to throb clean off her from neglect, but her ass had finally spasmed on his cock—he’d actually had no idea it could really do that, that he could actually make her come that way, he thought they’d have their fun driving her mad until eventually she begged her king to touch her clit—but that had done it, him saying, what is it, boy, tell me, what am I fucking, and the little thief boy Lord Fles Bottom had caught squealing m-my cunt, my cunt, you’re fucking my cunt.)
“Well, I’m lying.”
“Are you saying I’m loose?” she squawks indignantly, propping herself up on her elbows and knocking his hand away from its warm little perch.
“No,” he replies, laughing. “But you've never been as tight as those first few times, obviously. Gods, you aren't loose, it's still an entire production every time to get in you if you also want to walk the next day.”
“That's right,” she mutters. “My pussy was extremely tight. And so it will be again.”
“I liked it loose,” he says, putting his hand to her and stroking the still distended velvety lips until she sighs. “Remember after I got my fist in you, how open you were? I wanted to fuck you so badly. I almost asked, almost said, look how you're gaping from me, you'll hardly feel a thing, like I wasn't fucking you at all—”
The lightest kiss of her swollen, spongy walls on each easy, frictionless pass into her, because he'd opened her right up—
Rhaenyra giggles. “Really? I’m glad you didn't ask. I was so sore and it felt so good I would have said yes, you'd gotten me ready for your baby and you deserved a reward, but I don't think I could have taken it, trying to tighten myself up to make it nice for you to fuck.”
Daemon slides a finger into her. “Go on, tighten up that pussy for me, make it so tight I can’t fuck this finger in this slutty cunt anymore,” and she does in slow pulses, and he toys with her clit to help, but it only does so much, she is looser for now. It sends up a thrill in his gut. Her cunt would never be the same because it gave him their perfect girl: he did this, her uncle did this.
But she's still his baby. She's tight, always so tight for him, because she's his baby, this is his baby’s tight cunt. “That's right. Get that cunt nice and tight for me, good girl.”
He holds himself above her again, cock nestled in her drooling entrance. “You’re going to have to be brave for me,” Daemon says. “I should wait until you’re bigger, but I just can’t. Can you be brave for me? I’ll go slow, I promise,” he vows. “I’ll be so careful with such a tiny baby cunt—”
“Nice and careful,” she says, slipping into that babyish voice, “because I’m so tight, so little—”
She goes easy around him then, no longer worried about anything but feeling good, head drooping back against his encircling arms, eyes closing as she pets her own clit and flutters invitingly about him in soft waves. A grunt drops from Daemon’s lips as he sheathes himself gingerly inside her. She feels so fucking good. She strokes his hair and back, dances her fingers down his spine to his ass and squeezes, and he lets the undignified noises come faster, unashamed, because she had laughed as he came once and as he softened inside her—she loved that too, loved that she could keep his sweet, soft cock in her—she said she liked it, all his little happy male sounds, she liked knowing she made him just go stupid with pleasure, so he lets himself sound as stupid as she could ever wish for, just ridiculous, silly snuffling goodness muffled in her neck as he comes home, as he claims this special place for them again.
A wetness trapped between where their chests press together. Daemon pushes himself off her and puts his hand to his breast and feels again that strange, miraculous effusion leaking from his nipple, slicking his fingers.
(It happened the first time two days after Alyssa was born. The wetnurse had just left and Daemon held her in Rhaenyra’s chambers in the bright afternoon, left alone with his niece and Alicent to count her eyelashes, marvel over her tiny fingers. Rhaenyra sat propped up against the pillows of the couch, only able to move so far but already sick of her bed. “You were right. She does smell nice now she doesn’t smell like insides. Do you like her, uncle?” she’d asked with a smile. “Do you like the baby I gave you?”
“I do,” he answered. “She’s as wonderful anything come of you must be.”
Then Rhaenyra said, “I don’t,” and burst into tears. “I don’t think I love her, I don’t f-feel anything, something’s wrong with me, and she’s so small, and I know I’m going to fuck her up, what will we do when we fuck her up?”
Daemon had laid the baby in her cradle—the bronze-green dragon that had hatched only hours after her birth opening one and curling around Alyssa instantly—and come to where his niece was going into exhausted hysterics that Alicent could not seem to soothe.
“She’ll have the right to hate us then, I suppose,” Daemon said.
“She won’t,” Rhaenyra said, crying harder. “She’ll love us. That’s what’s so awful.”
“I know. Oh, I know. See. You do love her. You wouldn’t care otherwise.”
“No, I don’t, I don’t, oh gods, she’ll know that I just looked at her sometimes and felt nothing—”
“Rhaenyra—”
“I know I love you. I know I love Alicent. They say a mother’s love is supposed to be stronger, stronger than anything, but I don’t love her as much. That’s sick. Do you love her?”
“Yes—”
“More than me??? Someone should love her most. So I shouldn’t resent it. But I do, because there’s something wrong with me.”
“Not more. Different. It’s just different.”
He’d been a boy when he first loved Rhaenyra, and now he wasn’t. Maybe that was the difference. She would always be so young to him, and in some ways, he would always be so young, with her. He was not Rhaenyra’s father, thank gods, he was not their girl's father, not in the same way, thank gods, and yet he was Alyssa’s father and it was different while also it was true that being a father did not feel so new. He knew this fear. They would fuck it up, and she would love them.
“I didn’t, at first.”
They both turn to Alicent.
“What?” Rhaenyra sniffles.
“Love Gwenys. Honestly, I don’t know if I still do. I don’t enjoy her. Not that love's about enjoyment. I know if anything happened to her it would destroy me, but when I hand her off to the nurse I’m relieved. She’s boring.”
“It’s true, Rhaenyra. You greatly improved on acquaintance. Wait at least until she has an annoying personality before you decide to withhold your love.”
“Daemon, I’m sure that isn’t helpful,” Alicent scolds, and then laughs. Rhaenyra had been right. She was fun.
Rhaenyra whimpers a bit, still aching but cried out, and into the silence Alyssa decides it’s her turn to wail, which makes Rhaenyra start to cry again. Alicent picks the baby up to take her to the nursery and submits to letting the hatchling scramble up her arm and settle on her neck to accompany her charge, and when Daemon sits on the couch beside her she says, “They hurt, uncle,” hand hovering over her milk-logged breasts that still had not dried.
“My baby,” he said. “Let me take care of you, alright?”
He freed one heavy globe, nipples swollen dark and oozing, and licked the bead of milk off the red tip as Rhaenyra fell back against the arm of the couch. He sucked, gently, and Rhaenyra says, “I can’t believe I want sex, what’s wrong with me, everything below my belly button even existing makes me want to die—”
Daemon palpitates her breast with his fingers, working her empty onto his waiting tongue. Long, slow pulls of his cheeks. He looks up at her through his lashes: his whole world. Taking care of his achy, exhausted, overwhelmed baby. She’s so damp: breasts leaking, cunt leaking blood, dribbles of urine onto the linen between her legs every time she moved.
“I gave her everything,” Rhaenyra whispered, leaking tears too. “I did, my whole body, I gave everything so she could be here, I would do it again, I know I want to do it again, it’s just—it’s so much, it’s too much to feel—”
“Just feel this. Does it feel good?” He imagined it felt good. There was a hot, knotted point somewhere behind his own breastbone, burning, pulsing, twisting every time he sucked more milk from her engorged, sore breasts onto his tongue, it’s too much, let him have it—
“Y-yes—”
“Good. You don’t have to feel anything else.”
Tight behind his chest, and then flowing. He drew back and hissed, putting trembling fingers to where his own leakings had stuck his shirt to his chest.
Rhaenyra gasped.)
As she does now—this hasn’t happened since her milk dried up a couple of weeks after the birth—saying as she did then, “You know, you know I’m your baby forever, your body knows,” and as she did then she just lays back, she doesn’t even have to suck as he works his nipple between his fingers until he feeds her of himself right out onto her tongue, filling her mouth, filling her cunt that gave everything with his come, filling that belly still slack with its remembered gift right up, giving her as much as she could ever want, as much as she could take.