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mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-11 10:36 pm
mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-11 10:36 pm
(hotd) good-father, chapter one
GOOD-FATHER, CHAPTER ONE
🐉masterpost🐉
“Good girl,” Daemon murmurs into Alicent’s ear just as Rhaenyra’s mouth and fingers at her cunt rip her orgasm from her, and suddenly, she is sobbing.
She cries, often. More often than not she tastes salt on her lips when she bites them at her climax. Alicent is apparently a woman who cries with pleasure, and this is a delight to dragons.
This is different. Heaving, wracking, ugly wails, and Rhaenyra is not laughing, a little meanly, a little fondly, and is not saying, “Making the prettiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms cry, I never knew it could become such an addiction.” She is withdrawing her fingers and repeating Alicent’s name in a worried voice and moving up her body to hold her, and Alicent is turning in Rhaenyra’s husband’s arms and burying her face in his chest.
Daemon calls her good girl, often. When she comes, when she makes Rhaenyra come. It made her tremble. It made her face hot. It made her entire body go lax and limp and warm.
Good girl, what a good girl you are, as she shamelessly ground her cunt into Rhaenyra’s face, as her wanton moans echoed humiliatingly over the sound of the wet squelch of Rhaenyra fucking her, such a good little girl, have you ever seen such a sweet little girl, Rhaenyra as Alicent let her mouth wander down and back from Rhaenyra’s cunt to her asshole.
Further mortification awaits when Alicent realizes what she’s doing. Daemon’s chest is warm and strong beneath her cheek, and his hand is gentle on her hair. She chokes and twists in his arms to hide her flowing eyes against Rhaenyra’s soft breasts instead, and that’s no better, and she wants to turn away from it too but there’s nowhere to turn, no way to escape except to flee, and she will not do that. She knows she will not do that. She has not seriously considered it for a long, long time.
-
Rhaenyra is at a meeting of the Small Council and Alicent is playing with baby Aegon in the princess’ chambers when Daemon walks in.
“Leave us,” he says to the attendants. “And take my son to his grandmother.”
Daemon is not one to waste time on pleasantries. When the room is empty and he and Alicent have achieved a rare solitude, he goes to the window and, propping his hip against the sill and crossing his arms over his chest so he can better condescendingly look down at her, he launches right in.
“You like it when I call you a good girl. Don’t you, Lady Hightower?”
Her face heats. She picks up the embroidery she’d abandoned and fiddles with it. “Is that what you got from all the weeping?”
“I think you like it. I think you like it so much it makes you feel wretched.”
Alicent stands abruptly, the wooden hoop clattering on the floor as a nervous energy propels her from her chair. A mistake, as it brings her very close to him.
What to even say to that? It’s true. She likes it. She likes it so much she can hardly stand it.
“And you derive pleasure from making people feel wretched,” Alicent says. “Oh, wipe that smirk off your face.”
“Such language for your prince! You would never have said that if dear old dad was still with us.”
“There are a great many things that would not have been allowed to happen if my father was still here.”
“Hm. Perhaps. Otto Hightower’s good little girl. You see, I have a theory as to why you like it so much.”
“Any theory as to why you like it so much?”
“We’ll get to that. It’s not a very groundbreaking one, I’m afraid. Almost boringly straightforward. You were a very good little girl, and now you think you aren’t, and you’re just desperate for someone to tell you you are.”
“I don’t think, I know. This is not what my father wanted for his daughter. It’s not what any father would want. It would sicken any right-thinking man. So you’re hardly the one to pronounce upon it. Your ideas of good—”
“Are quite different. Of course that’s the other thing you crave—your father to rise up from his grave and tell you what a bad, bad girl you’ve been. I’ve been slacking on that one, but that can change.”
“Slacking—”
“I observed you as a child,” Daemon pushes on. “Well, I observed Rhaenyra, and there you were. I observed your father and there you were. You were such a neat, pretty, docile little thing. So dull. But now, having contemplated you…”
Daemon reaches out and rolls one of her curls in his fingers.
“You do not have to contemplate me, if I so bore you,” Alicent says.
“I kept looking because Rhaenyra found you so compelling, and if she found you worthy, you must be, even if I couldn’t see it. But now I realize what Rhaenyra knew all along. It isn’t natural.”
“What isn’t?”
“You. Do you notice you don’t bite your nails as much anymore?” he muses, capturing her fingers in his.
“I suppose you think it’s all your doing,” she snaps. “The two of you have turned me into your whore and of course I must be much happier.”
“Aren’t you? So, as I said, I observed Rhaenyra. She was allowed great latitude as the only child, the only princess. And I observed your father. He was quite stern with you. I remember thinking that only a man as miserable as Otto Hightower could find any fault with such a quiet, insipid little thing as that.”
Alicent tries to snatch her hand back. His warm grip tightens.
“That was what you saw,” Alicent says. “My father was not so harsh. It is just what parents do, what they ought to do.”
“Are you criticizing my brother’s parenting skills?” Daemon asks with relish.
“No. Rhaenyra’s parents did try to enforce some decorum on her, but you quite undid it. You spoiled her rotten.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Daemon agrees gleefully. “Just rotten. It was very enjoyable work too, ruining her like that. It’s a full time job, being Rhaenyra Targaryen’s beloved uncle. Exhausting work. I couldn’t very well split my attention between two little girls. I am sorry for that, Alicent. But what fun we’ll have now. Funner, even. You’re all grown up, so I won’t have to rely on jewels and trinkets and toys and candies to get you in a sweet mood on my lap. Although I won’t neglect those either. I have to be fair. I’ll make it up to you. Would you like that? Would you like me to spoil you rotten?”
An old, absurd jealousy surges up. Daemon had doted on Rhaenyra. When she ran up to greet him with a torn skirt and dirt on her face, she knew this was one place where no chastisement awaited. She could do no wrong in her uncle’s eyes, she was always exactly just right, his fierce clever girl, his brave little dragon—Alicent did not know High Valyrian, but she learned the endearments. Ñuha prūmia. Zaldrītsos.
“I don’t know if Rhaenyra would care for that,” Alicent protests. “Sharing her uncle.”
Of course that is exactly what Rhaenyra wanted to do—share her husband. But not her uncle. Alicent knows that trespassing so far on the one thing that heathen held sacred—uncle—would surely earn her the wrath of a dragon with its hoard disturbed.
“No, she wouldn’t. I only have one niece. But I don’t have a daughter. And funny thing—you don’t have a father.”
“You are perverse,” Alicent hisses, cheeks purpling with outrage. “And I had a father.”
“Yes, I am perverse. As I think we’ve established.” Daemon pushes away from the wall and pulls his shirt over his head—he has risen late after an evening in the city and wears nothing but it and some loose pants. “And this is my perverse prescription for what ails you, from a man who wants to ruin everything your father held dear, including you: a daddy to spoil you rotten.”
“And what would you do, to spoil me?” Alicent asks, hands wound tight in her skirts.
Daemon begins to unlace his pants, smiling at her. He strolls over to the bed and when he is naked he lies back upon it.
“I told you, I don’t need to waste my money on gifts to get a cuddly little girl in my lap,” he says, stroking his stiffening cock.
Alicent didn’t think of herself as cuddly, and certainly not with Daemon Targaryen.
“I—”
“Now, now, what’s this? Insolence for father? I won’t have it. You are going to be the good girl I know you are and come squirm on my cock until you’re feeling very nice, and let me give you some kisses.”
“You aren’t my father,” she says again, low, rolling her eyes at his ridiculousness but also almost in tears once more, and yet her feet move across the room without her willing it, her hands untie the laces at the neck of the loose gown she wears while in the private apartments with the baby as if in a dream.
She stands beside the bed and he pushes it and the shift under it off her shoulders until they pool around her ankles.
“Come on,” he commands, patting his own thigh.
Alicent has not fucked Daemon before. She has been fucked, thoroughly, by Rhaenyra, with her fingers and fists and tongue and the cock Daemon had somehow managed to make time to commission and bring back when he returned from the Stepstones right before Rhaenyra was brought to the childbed with Aegon.
“It’s no man that gets your maidenhead, Alicent. It’s me,” she’d declared. And Alicent had been so grateful as Rhaenyra pushed into her—not doing Alicent the kindness of taking her from behind to make it easier as Daemon had done on her own wedding night, because she had wanted to look into Alicent’s face, to watch every twitch of discomfort and kiss every grimace of pain, and Alicent had been grateful for it, aghast as somehow the most perverse thing she’d done yet—feeling that plug of flesh that was her purity, her chastity, her holy bond, about to give way not to the flesh-and-blood cock of her husband in the marriage bed, not bearing it in order to bring forth children, not even to comfort her man with her body and the pleasure it could give, but to this inanimate thing that felt no slippery, clutching warmth, that pushed and pushed so Rhaenyra could claim her, have her entire, could carve that space within Alicent that did not want to be made. She was tense with that awareness of wrongness and she was no dragon princess, a poor and infrequent horsewoman, and her body resisted with a clench of conscience until she tore, she bled, and then she couldn’t stop it anymore, there was no resisting, her cunt was an open passage, undefended, slick from the blood of that breaking, and it was moving within her deeper and deeper and Rhaenyra had not cared about making her come, not right away, instead shifting back to watch Alicent’s body open at last to her and when she finally did, when gasping she bent forward and kissed Alicent’s breasts and said, “Oh, my lovely girl, you've been so brave for me, I know it hurt, but I’m going to make you come now,” Alicent had jerked Rhaenyra’s hand from her clit and said in a strained voice, “Don’t, you don’t care, you just want my cunt, and it’s yours,” and hearing the words aloud had made her tighten up so hard on the cock plundering her that Rhaenyra could barely move again until with a cry Rhaenyra gripped her hips hard slammed them back onto her cock, heedless of Alicent’s pained whimpers, driving the base of the thing against her until selfish, cruel, wasteful, perverse, foul, beautiful girl, she came, except Alicent—she had cried in frustration—had come first, as she was pushed and pushed in some deep secret spot, even her innermost hidden flesh not safe from them, containing yet another unforseen way to betray her to them.
“Rhaenyra—”
She is not thinking of Rhaenyra’s possessiveness of her uncle, but of her possessiveness of Alicent’s body. Daemon knows immediately.
“You think I would touch your cunt without her express permission? I value my cock more than that.”
Alicent feels herself relaxing at the words. Rhaenyra permits it. Daemon would not lie about that.
Daemon pumps his fingers in her a few times, thumbs her clit so she opens up on them, but it doesn’t take much, now, to have her ready for even his impressive length.
“That’s it,” Daemon says, brushing her hair back from her face as she lowers herself down so the head of his cock breaches her. “A good girl. Always ready for us, aren’t you. So wet.”
She grits her teeth and stares at the wall above Daemon’s head, although she is only confronted with one of those obscene paintings. She rolls her hips down, practiced, knowing, and then back up, and back down, falling into the rhythm without thought, the sound of her breathing almost unbearably loud.
“Gods,” Daemon grunts. “You ride a cock like a Septa.”
An offended squeak spills from her lips that Daemon must attribute to some sense of personal insult. “No, no, it’s oddly enticing. Septa—what was her name, the one that taught me my letters—Septa Violante, that’s right—she would have ridden a cock like this. Back in the day. She was one of the Faith that went about the kingdom preaching the good news of sister-fucking when grandfather and grandmother wed and kicked that hornet’s nest. She must have been ninety if she was a day when I knew her. But back when she wandered the Riverlands singing well, aren’t we all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the gods, this is how she must have bounced in her brother in the Seven’s lap—”
“Oh,” Alicent says primly, although this expression of disgust only makes Daemon snap his hips up and bury himself all the way inside her, and she’s full, so full, and as he pets soothingly at her clit she forgets her affront on Septa Violante’s behalf and feels a vile sense of woundedness at his backhanded compliment. “I’m sorry I’m not a natural-born slut.”
That was how he praised Rhaenyra when she rode him like this. She was born to it, to take his cock, as he was born to fill her. She was his perfect whore, his perfect niece, his perfect wife.
“It’s not your fault,” Daemon laughs. “You’ve had bad teaching. It’s ruined you. But what is a father for, if not to correct their children’s errors and to lead them unto the right path? I’ll make a slut of you yet. Is that what you want?”
And although Alicent shakes her head vigorously she is squirming in his lap, she is feeling—nice. A whine escapes her.
“Do you ever shut up?” she pants.
“That’s right, I promised you some kisses, didn’t I?”
He presses his lips to her cheek, and she shudders. His lips brush her forehead, and then he gives her lips a little nipping peck.
“A slut,” he says, his sneer a cruel contrast to the gentleness of his mouth. “Is that what you want me to call you? A proper slut.”
“Gods—” Alicent moans. “Please—”
“Oh baby,” Daemon coos, peppering her face with kisses. “It’s alright. A good slut. Precious. Daddy’s precious little slut—”
Alicent rocks frantically in his lap, eyes screwed tightly shut, her nails clawing at his chest. She jerks her head back, away from his seeking mouth. “Stop,” she cries out.
“No? I still need to find my tack as a father. What shall I be? Your father was far too rough with you. I’ll have to be indulgent eventually, but structure is important. I can be stern first. Do you need me to tell you what a filthy little whore you are? Do you need me to spank you?”
At that Daemon slaps her ass hard enough she clenches up on him and her eyes fly open. She blinks at him, gasping.
“That’s better,” he says. “Nice and tight for me. That slutty cunt of yours—”
“My father would despise me,” Alicent nearly sobs, she hates that she is thinking of him here, as she lets Daemon Targaryen defile her, defile him, but try as she might to stave off his disapproving shade he looms up behind her eyes, repulsed, turning away from her—
“Oh, no, sweet girl. Don’t think of it that way. Your father would be so proud if he could feel how happy your cunt is right now—”
“Gods!” she shouts as she comes, Daemon pulling her fluttering cunt down onto his cock.
“Oh, I can feel it. It’s happy, because it’s doing what cunts do, what they’re for, it’s being used exactly as it should be used, and that means it’s happy.” Daemon strokes her hair and gives her a kiss on the nose, streaming with her tears. “That’s it, breathe through it, that’s just the first one, rest a moment.”
His hips still. His cock feels enormous inside her, like she needs to push it out, or piss, like she’s so full her bladder is too. She winds her arm around his neck and rubs her cheek against his shoulder, a cuddly little girl in his lap, yes, split open on him.
She can’t stop wriggling until he grips her hip to hold her as still as him, a warrior’s masterful control. “Shush. You’re a good girl, hm? You’re going to keep Daddy’s cock happy? Keep it nice and warm, there’s a love.”
Alicent goes slack. She does. She wants to make her father happy. That’s all she’s ever wanted and she can’t, because he is dead, and because—
“You’ve ruined me. I’m ruined.”
“No, not quite,” Daemon whispers, kissing the words right into her ear. “Almost. Rhaenyra waking you up with her mouth on your cunt this morning, to make you come so she could get through convincing Lord Beesbury to retire with the strength of the memory and your sweetness still on her tongue—that’s almost ruin, for Otto’s obedient girl. I would never have been so cruel as to stop you from doing something as natural as playing with each other’s pretty little pussies all those years ago like your parents did—”
“We never—”
“Ah, only kisses. How far you’ve come past that. But you’ve redeemed yourself. You’re fulfilling your destiny, a cunt stuffed full of Targaryen cock.”
“No,” she resists passionately. “He wouldn’t, he’d hate it—”
“Isn’t this why he brought his only daughter to court? Made sure she was meek and chaste until she was delectable, ripe? He wanted you to be some powerful lord’s wife. But ambitious, was our Otto. How well I knew it! There was really only one destiny good enough for a maiden Hightower of Oldtown. He would have aimed at the highest prize. He would want his blood on the throne. Targaryens were thin on the ground and so inconveniently married. He was willing to wait a while to see if my brother killed his wife but if he hadn’t died when you he did, he would eventually decide that mistress was no Queen but it was better to be a Targaryen’s whore than a Lannister’s wife. He might have sent you to my rooms if it failed with Viserys, let me fuck a pretty little silver-haired baby into you.”
“He wouldn’t. He wanted me to be a wife, a good wife.”
“He wanted you to serve the family. And aren’t you? Isn’t Gwayne in the Watch? Doesn’t Rhaenyra bear your uncle’s overreaching for love of you? Now,” he detours briskly, “Enough of that. I’ll let you take your pick. He’s either rolling in his grave or his worm-filled skull is just beaming, as you prefer. I still need to spoil you. You need to make Daddy happy, and that makes me happy. Option one, you get your chance to make one father proud. Option two, two birds one stone.”
Alicent barely hears his nonsense. Save for one thing. She does want to make her father happy—(when Daemon says, “bounce in my lap, there’s a good girl,” she does, when he flicks her clit and says, “now I’ll have another,” her eyes obligingly roll back into her skull as she convulses)—and this is the only father she has, because Daemon is wrong, surely if her father saw her now he would declare she was no daughter of his, for something that was not her fault, that she couldn’t help, that turned duty to dust and delusion, her parents had been right to frighten her off from those sweet, innocent, giggly kisses, she might have been saved, there had been a chance for her then—
Daemon flips them over so Alicent is beneath him. His face is twisted in a snarl as he staves off his own release.
“One more, one more,” he mutters as he drives himself home, touching and touching that deep hidden place that is not actually hidden at all, that open and vulnerable to the assault of the precise, brutal thrusts of his cock.
She comes, legs cramping, and he is about to withdraw so he does not come inside her, to waste his Targaryen seed on her belly or thighs instead of the unfit home of her womb, to save it for his wife, the wife she will never be, and she clasps her legs tight around his thighs and scratches at his back to draw him closer.
“Please,” she begs. “Please, give me—”
She nearly bites through her lip snapping her mouth shut.
“Oh, my good girl. I gave Rhaenyra a perfect baby, didn't I? Do you want a pretty baby too? I'll give you one, she’s wanted me to give you one. First you have to say it. First you have to call me by what you want to make me.”
“Daddy,” she sobs as she shoves at his chest and tries to push him off her, because yes, she wants it, she wants that, but Rhaenyra needs to be here, Rhaenyra needs to give her a pretty silver-haired baby, don’t worry about a husband, Alicent, I’ll take care of everything, your father wanted you to seduce mine, filthy, he wanted to send Daemon back to the Vale, and we took care of that, didn't we, and there's something tearing through her that she thinks she may not survive as the cock pounding her breaks something, again, more, some prophetic water of the womb gushing out and painting her cunt, some spend from inside herself reversing course and bursting forth to make up for the gift—”yes, yes, we will, we’ll give you that, but we’ll wait, you're such a good girl”—they would see fit to give her in their own time.
🐉masterpost🐉
“Good girl,” Daemon murmurs into Alicent’s ear just as Rhaenyra’s mouth and fingers at her cunt rip her orgasm from her, and suddenly, she is sobbing.
She cries, often. More often than not she tastes salt on her lips when she bites them at her climax. Alicent is apparently a woman who cries with pleasure, and this is a delight to dragons.
This is different. Heaving, wracking, ugly wails, and Rhaenyra is not laughing, a little meanly, a little fondly, and is not saying, “Making the prettiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms cry, I never knew it could become such an addiction.” She is withdrawing her fingers and repeating Alicent’s name in a worried voice and moving up her body to hold her, and Alicent is turning in Rhaenyra’s husband’s arms and burying her face in his chest.
Daemon calls her good girl, often. When she comes, when she makes Rhaenyra come. It made her tremble. It made her face hot. It made her entire body go lax and limp and warm.
Good girl, what a good girl you are, as she shamelessly ground her cunt into Rhaenyra’s face, as her wanton moans echoed humiliatingly over the sound of the wet squelch of Rhaenyra fucking her, such a good little girl, have you ever seen such a sweet little girl, Rhaenyra as Alicent let her mouth wander down and back from Rhaenyra’s cunt to her asshole.
Further mortification awaits when Alicent realizes what she’s doing. Daemon’s chest is warm and strong beneath her cheek, and his hand is gentle on her hair. She chokes and twists in his arms to hide her flowing eyes against Rhaenyra’s soft breasts instead, and that’s no better, and she wants to turn away from it too but there’s nowhere to turn, no way to escape except to flee, and she will not do that. She knows she will not do that. She has not seriously considered it for a long, long time.
-
Rhaenyra is at a meeting of the Small Council and Alicent is playing with baby Aegon in the princess’ chambers when Daemon walks in.
“Leave us,” he says to the attendants. “And take my son to his grandmother.”
Daemon is not one to waste time on pleasantries. When the room is empty and he and Alicent have achieved a rare solitude, he goes to the window and, propping his hip against the sill and crossing his arms over his chest so he can better condescendingly look down at her, he launches right in.
“You like it when I call you a good girl. Don’t you, Lady Hightower?”
Her face heats. She picks up the embroidery she’d abandoned and fiddles with it. “Is that what you got from all the weeping?”
“I think you like it. I think you like it so much it makes you feel wretched.”
Alicent stands abruptly, the wooden hoop clattering on the floor as a nervous energy propels her from her chair. A mistake, as it brings her very close to him.
What to even say to that? It’s true. She likes it. She likes it so much she can hardly stand it.
“And you derive pleasure from making people feel wretched,” Alicent says. “Oh, wipe that smirk off your face.”
“Such language for your prince! You would never have said that if dear old dad was still with us.”
“There are a great many things that would not have been allowed to happen if my father was still here.”
“Hm. Perhaps. Otto Hightower’s good little girl. You see, I have a theory as to why you like it so much.”
“Any theory as to why you like it so much?”
“We’ll get to that. It’s not a very groundbreaking one, I’m afraid. Almost boringly straightforward. You were a very good little girl, and now you think you aren’t, and you’re just desperate for someone to tell you you are.”
“I don’t think, I know. This is not what my father wanted for his daughter. It’s not what any father would want. It would sicken any right-thinking man. So you’re hardly the one to pronounce upon it. Your ideas of good—”
“Are quite different. Of course that’s the other thing you crave—your father to rise up from his grave and tell you what a bad, bad girl you’ve been. I’ve been slacking on that one, but that can change.”
“Slacking—”
“I observed you as a child,” Daemon pushes on. “Well, I observed Rhaenyra, and there you were. I observed your father and there you were. You were such a neat, pretty, docile little thing. So dull. But now, having contemplated you…”
Daemon reaches out and rolls one of her curls in his fingers.
“You do not have to contemplate me, if I so bore you,” Alicent says.
“I kept looking because Rhaenyra found you so compelling, and if she found you worthy, you must be, even if I couldn’t see it. But now I realize what Rhaenyra knew all along. It isn’t natural.”
“What isn’t?”
“You. Do you notice you don’t bite your nails as much anymore?” he muses, capturing her fingers in his.
“I suppose you think it’s all your doing,” she snaps. “The two of you have turned me into your whore and of course I must be much happier.”
“Aren’t you? So, as I said, I observed Rhaenyra. She was allowed great latitude as the only child, the only princess. And I observed your father. He was quite stern with you. I remember thinking that only a man as miserable as Otto Hightower could find any fault with such a quiet, insipid little thing as that.”
Alicent tries to snatch her hand back. His warm grip tightens.
“That was what you saw,” Alicent says. “My father was not so harsh. It is just what parents do, what they ought to do.”
“Are you criticizing my brother’s parenting skills?” Daemon asks with relish.
“No. Rhaenyra’s parents did try to enforce some decorum on her, but you quite undid it. You spoiled her rotten.”
“She is, isn’t she?” Daemon agrees gleefully. “Just rotten. It was very enjoyable work too, ruining her like that. It’s a full time job, being Rhaenyra Targaryen’s beloved uncle. Exhausting work. I couldn’t very well split my attention between two little girls. I am sorry for that, Alicent. But what fun we’ll have now. Funner, even. You’re all grown up, so I won’t have to rely on jewels and trinkets and toys and candies to get you in a sweet mood on my lap. Although I won’t neglect those either. I have to be fair. I’ll make it up to you. Would you like that? Would you like me to spoil you rotten?”
An old, absurd jealousy surges up. Daemon had doted on Rhaenyra. When she ran up to greet him with a torn skirt and dirt on her face, she knew this was one place where no chastisement awaited. She could do no wrong in her uncle’s eyes, she was always exactly just right, his fierce clever girl, his brave little dragon—Alicent did not know High Valyrian, but she learned the endearments. Ñuha prūmia. Zaldrītsos.
“I don’t know if Rhaenyra would care for that,” Alicent protests. “Sharing her uncle.”
Of course that is exactly what Rhaenyra wanted to do—share her husband. But not her uncle. Alicent knows that trespassing so far on the one thing that heathen held sacred—uncle—would surely earn her the wrath of a dragon with its hoard disturbed.
“No, she wouldn’t. I only have one niece. But I don’t have a daughter. And funny thing—you don’t have a father.”
“You are perverse,” Alicent hisses, cheeks purpling with outrage. “And I had a father.”
“Yes, I am perverse. As I think we’ve established.” Daemon pushes away from the wall and pulls his shirt over his head—he has risen late after an evening in the city and wears nothing but it and some loose pants. “And this is my perverse prescription for what ails you, from a man who wants to ruin everything your father held dear, including you: a daddy to spoil you rotten.”
“And what would you do, to spoil me?” Alicent asks, hands wound tight in her skirts.
Daemon begins to unlace his pants, smiling at her. He strolls over to the bed and when he is naked he lies back upon it.
“I told you, I don’t need to waste my money on gifts to get a cuddly little girl in my lap,” he says, stroking his stiffening cock.
Alicent didn’t think of herself as cuddly, and certainly not with Daemon Targaryen.
“I—”
“Now, now, what’s this? Insolence for father? I won’t have it. You are going to be the good girl I know you are and come squirm on my cock until you’re feeling very nice, and let me give you some kisses.”
“You aren’t my father,” she says again, low, rolling her eyes at his ridiculousness but also almost in tears once more, and yet her feet move across the room without her willing it, her hands untie the laces at the neck of the loose gown she wears while in the private apartments with the baby as if in a dream.
She stands beside the bed and he pushes it and the shift under it off her shoulders until they pool around her ankles.
“Come on,” he commands, patting his own thigh.
Alicent has not fucked Daemon before. She has been fucked, thoroughly, by Rhaenyra, with her fingers and fists and tongue and the cock Daemon had somehow managed to make time to commission and bring back when he returned from the Stepstones right before Rhaenyra was brought to the childbed with Aegon.
“It’s no man that gets your maidenhead, Alicent. It’s me,” she’d declared. And Alicent had been so grateful as Rhaenyra pushed into her—not doing Alicent the kindness of taking her from behind to make it easier as Daemon had done on her own wedding night, because she had wanted to look into Alicent’s face, to watch every twitch of discomfort and kiss every grimace of pain, and Alicent had been grateful for it, aghast as somehow the most perverse thing she’d done yet—feeling that plug of flesh that was her purity, her chastity, her holy bond, about to give way not to the flesh-and-blood cock of her husband in the marriage bed, not bearing it in order to bring forth children, not even to comfort her man with her body and the pleasure it could give, but to this inanimate thing that felt no slippery, clutching warmth, that pushed and pushed so Rhaenyra could claim her, have her entire, could carve that space within Alicent that did not want to be made. She was tense with that awareness of wrongness and she was no dragon princess, a poor and infrequent horsewoman, and her body resisted with a clench of conscience until she tore, she bled, and then she couldn’t stop it anymore, there was no resisting, her cunt was an open passage, undefended, slick from the blood of that breaking, and it was moving within her deeper and deeper and Rhaenyra had not cared about making her come, not right away, instead shifting back to watch Alicent’s body open at last to her and when she finally did, when gasping she bent forward and kissed Alicent’s breasts and said, “Oh, my lovely girl, you've been so brave for me, I know it hurt, but I’m going to make you come now,” Alicent had jerked Rhaenyra’s hand from her clit and said in a strained voice, “Don’t, you don’t care, you just want my cunt, and it’s yours,” and hearing the words aloud had made her tighten up so hard on the cock plundering her that Rhaenyra could barely move again until with a cry Rhaenyra gripped her hips hard slammed them back onto her cock, heedless of Alicent’s pained whimpers, driving the base of the thing against her until selfish, cruel, wasteful, perverse, foul, beautiful girl, she came, except Alicent—she had cried in frustration—had come first, as she was pushed and pushed in some deep secret spot, even her innermost hidden flesh not safe from them, containing yet another unforseen way to betray her to them.
“Rhaenyra—”
She is not thinking of Rhaenyra’s possessiveness of her uncle, but of her possessiveness of Alicent’s body. Daemon knows immediately.
“You think I would touch your cunt without her express permission? I value my cock more than that.”
Alicent feels herself relaxing at the words. Rhaenyra permits it. Daemon would not lie about that.
Daemon pumps his fingers in her a few times, thumbs her clit so she opens up on them, but it doesn’t take much, now, to have her ready for even his impressive length.
“That’s it,” Daemon says, brushing her hair back from her face as she lowers herself down so the head of his cock breaches her. “A good girl. Always ready for us, aren’t you. So wet.”
She grits her teeth and stares at the wall above Daemon’s head, although she is only confronted with one of those obscene paintings. She rolls her hips down, practiced, knowing, and then back up, and back down, falling into the rhythm without thought, the sound of her breathing almost unbearably loud.
“Gods,” Daemon grunts. “You ride a cock like a Septa.”
An offended squeak spills from her lips that Daemon must attribute to some sense of personal insult. “No, no, it’s oddly enticing. Septa—what was her name, the one that taught me my letters—Septa Violante, that’s right—she would have ridden a cock like this. Back in the day. She was one of the Faith that went about the kingdom preaching the good news of sister-fucking when grandfather and grandmother wed and kicked that hornet’s nest. She must have been ninety if she was a day when I knew her. But back when she wandered the Riverlands singing well, aren’t we all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the gods, this is how she must have bounced in her brother in the Seven’s lap—”
“Oh,” Alicent says primly, although this expression of disgust only makes Daemon snap his hips up and bury himself all the way inside her, and she’s full, so full, and as he pets soothingly at her clit she forgets her affront on Septa Violante’s behalf and feels a vile sense of woundedness at his backhanded compliment. “I’m sorry I’m not a natural-born slut.”
That was how he praised Rhaenyra when she rode him like this. She was born to it, to take his cock, as he was born to fill her. She was his perfect whore, his perfect niece, his perfect wife.
“It’s not your fault,” Daemon laughs. “You’ve had bad teaching. It’s ruined you. But what is a father for, if not to correct their children’s errors and to lead them unto the right path? I’ll make a slut of you yet. Is that what you want?”
And although Alicent shakes her head vigorously she is squirming in his lap, she is feeling—nice. A whine escapes her.
“Do you ever shut up?” she pants.
“That’s right, I promised you some kisses, didn’t I?”
He presses his lips to her cheek, and she shudders. His lips brush her forehead, and then he gives her lips a little nipping peck.
“A slut,” he says, his sneer a cruel contrast to the gentleness of his mouth. “Is that what you want me to call you? A proper slut.”
“Gods—” Alicent moans. “Please—”
“Oh baby,” Daemon coos, peppering her face with kisses. “It’s alright. A good slut. Precious. Daddy’s precious little slut—”
Alicent rocks frantically in his lap, eyes screwed tightly shut, her nails clawing at his chest. She jerks her head back, away from his seeking mouth. “Stop,” she cries out.
“No? I still need to find my tack as a father. What shall I be? Your father was far too rough with you. I’ll have to be indulgent eventually, but structure is important. I can be stern first. Do you need me to tell you what a filthy little whore you are? Do you need me to spank you?”
At that Daemon slaps her ass hard enough she clenches up on him and her eyes fly open. She blinks at him, gasping.
“That’s better,” he says. “Nice and tight for me. That slutty cunt of yours—”
“My father would despise me,” Alicent nearly sobs, she hates that she is thinking of him here, as she lets Daemon Targaryen defile her, defile him, but try as she might to stave off his disapproving shade he looms up behind her eyes, repulsed, turning away from her—
“Oh, no, sweet girl. Don’t think of it that way. Your father would be so proud if he could feel how happy your cunt is right now—”
“Gods!” she shouts as she comes, Daemon pulling her fluttering cunt down onto his cock.
“Oh, I can feel it. It’s happy, because it’s doing what cunts do, what they’re for, it’s being used exactly as it should be used, and that means it’s happy.” Daemon strokes her hair and gives her a kiss on the nose, streaming with her tears. “That’s it, breathe through it, that’s just the first one, rest a moment.”
His hips still. His cock feels enormous inside her, like she needs to push it out, or piss, like she’s so full her bladder is too. She winds her arm around his neck and rubs her cheek against his shoulder, a cuddly little girl in his lap, yes, split open on him.
She can’t stop wriggling until he grips her hip to hold her as still as him, a warrior’s masterful control. “Shush. You’re a good girl, hm? You’re going to keep Daddy’s cock happy? Keep it nice and warm, there’s a love.”
Alicent goes slack. She does. She wants to make her father happy. That’s all she’s ever wanted and she can’t, because he is dead, and because—
“You’ve ruined me. I’m ruined.”
“No, not quite,” Daemon whispers, kissing the words right into her ear. “Almost. Rhaenyra waking you up with her mouth on your cunt this morning, to make you come so she could get through convincing Lord Beesbury to retire with the strength of the memory and your sweetness still on her tongue—that’s almost ruin, for Otto’s obedient girl. I would never have been so cruel as to stop you from doing something as natural as playing with each other’s pretty little pussies all those years ago like your parents did—”
“We never—”
“Ah, only kisses. How far you’ve come past that. But you’ve redeemed yourself. You’re fulfilling your destiny, a cunt stuffed full of Targaryen cock.”
“No,” she resists passionately. “He wouldn’t, he’d hate it—”
“Isn’t this why he brought his only daughter to court? Made sure she was meek and chaste until she was delectable, ripe? He wanted you to be some powerful lord’s wife. But ambitious, was our Otto. How well I knew it! There was really only one destiny good enough for a maiden Hightower of Oldtown. He would have aimed at the highest prize. He would want his blood on the throne. Targaryens were thin on the ground and so inconveniently married. He was willing to wait a while to see if my brother killed his wife but if he hadn’t died when you he did, he would eventually decide that mistress was no Queen but it was better to be a Targaryen’s whore than a Lannister’s wife. He might have sent you to my rooms if it failed with Viserys, let me fuck a pretty little silver-haired baby into you.”
“He wouldn’t. He wanted me to be a wife, a good wife.”
“He wanted you to serve the family. And aren’t you? Isn’t Gwayne in the Watch? Doesn’t Rhaenyra bear your uncle’s overreaching for love of you? Now,” he detours briskly, “Enough of that. I’ll let you take your pick. He’s either rolling in his grave or his worm-filled skull is just beaming, as you prefer. I still need to spoil you. You need to make Daddy happy, and that makes me happy. Option one, you get your chance to make one father proud. Option two, two birds one stone.”
Alicent barely hears his nonsense. Save for one thing. She does want to make her father happy—(when Daemon says, “bounce in my lap, there’s a good girl,” she does, when he flicks her clit and says, “now I’ll have another,” her eyes obligingly roll back into her skull as she convulses)—and this is the only father she has, because Daemon is wrong, surely if her father saw her now he would declare she was no daughter of his, for something that was not her fault, that she couldn’t help, that turned duty to dust and delusion, her parents had been right to frighten her off from those sweet, innocent, giggly kisses, she might have been saved, there had been a chance for her then—
Daemon flips them over so Alicent is beneath him. His face is twisted in a snarl as he staves off his own release.
“One more, one more,” he mutters as he drives himself home, touching and touching that deep hidden place that is not actually hidden at all, that open and vulnerable to the assault of the precise, brutal thrusts of his cock.
She comes, legs cramping, and he is about to withdraw so he does not come inside her, to waste his Targaryen seed on her belly or thighs instead of the unfit home of her womb, to save it for his wife, the wife she will never be, and she clasps her legs tight around his thighs and scratches at his back to draw him closer.
“Please,” she begs. “Please, give me—”
She nearly bites through her lip snapping her mouth shut.
“Oh, my good girl. I gave Rhaenyra a perfect baby, didn't I? Do you want a pretty baby too? I'll give you one, she’s wanted me to give you one. First you have to say it. First you have to call me by what you want to make me.”
“Daddy,” she sobs as she shoves at his chest and tries to push him off her, because yes, she wants it, she wants that, but Rhaenyra needs to be here, Rhaenyra needs to give her a pretty silver-haired baby, don’t worry about a husband, Alicent, I’ll take care of everything, your father wanted you to seduce mine, filthy, he wanted to send Daemon back to the Vale, and we took care of that, didn't we, and there's something tearing through her that she thinks she may not survive as the cock pounding her breaks something, again, more, some prophetic water of the womb gushing out and painting her cunt, some spend from inside herself reversing course and bursting forth to make up for the gift—”yes, yes, we will, we’ll give you that, but we’ll wait, you're such a good girl”—they would see fit to give her in their own time.