[ Daemon rumbles a sound that's as much enjoyment as it is need, and he keeps his weight on one elbow so that he can squeeze Aemond's hand, and reach between them to tuck his cock firmer between his cheeks and tease his hole, thumbing it, nuzzling the tip of his cock there against it. Not pushing in - no matter how well he's eaten him out, he'll need something slippery - but angling to make them both a little crazy. ]
Here I am, sweet thing, [ he murmurs with his forehead pressed to his nephew's temple (respecting a potential desire not to kiss him after that for now, but Daemon is nasty, might not bother in a moment if he keeps teasing it, be warned). ] Burning within you, as you are within me.
[ Still too bad, about the blood. If he was that desperate, Viserys should have sent for one of Saera's bastards (or their aunt herself) to use as a donor before marrying so far afield, especially to a fucking Hightower, who have wanted the ruin of House Targaryen since the Conquest. Bitterly funny, that Otto is so fond of invoking Maegor, when the man's rule only came about due to constant interference from the Hightowers via the High Septon in the first place. These people hate them. They hate Aemond and all of his siblings as much as they hate Daemon and Rhaenyra, and only find them useful for now.
Aemond has such potential, he favors this fire so significantly. Daemon could protect them. All of them. They could rebuild after the decimation of Baelon and Aemon's generation. (The mother would have to go, but who the fuck cares about Alicent? Not Viserys.)
[ Gods, if he comes before getting fucked he's going to turn bright red and have to ride Vhagar into a cliff ALA Daemon's old story. A whine rolls free as he feels Daemon nudging at him, never sinking in, a constant tease. Aemond grips the hand in his and turns his head to capture a kiss, uncaring of where that nasty mouth has been (he bathed extensively to put it one way, he figures they're all good) as he arches back against his uncle in an encouraging wave. A moan pours into the kiss, needy on a level Aemond can never give voice to anywhere else than the cage of his uncle's body in a bed.
His free hand roots under the pillows for the vial there, bringing it to Daemon's hand. It's half-empty, doesn't smell of anything. Gets a lot of use, apparently. ]
Make it count, [ he nips at Daemon's lower lip, ] I want to be in your lap too before morning.
[ Daemon hums into those slick, biting kisses, and squeezes Aemond's hand. How optimistic, round two— but his blood sings with it already; it's so much better and easier with someone he feels this way for. Another Targaryen, another dragon. If that's what Aemond wants of him, he's sure he'll answer.
He leaves their linked hands where they are, deft enough to get the vial open with just one of his own, and he kisses his nephew's ear and back of his neck as he lets it drip into the cleft of his ass. A stroke over his cock and then he nudges the container back up to Aemond (better keep that from spilling or getting knocked off the bed it if he wants to get fucked again later), then his fingers are delving into him, massaging at his hole and pushing fingertips in, making sure he's still primed from all that attention from his mouth. Daemon pushes a long finger in and rubs him from the inside, getting him as wet as can be with oil, steady and dedicated as he opens him the rest of the way.
Once Aemond is stuffed with fingers and Daemon can tell he's not in danger of flinching from anything, he holds him open with a hand spread on one cheek and his thumb tugging at his hole. He slides his cock against him and ruts there, letting the crown catch on that slick ring of muscle, testing his own control near to the point of pain. ]
[ Aemond thinks he would do anything to feel Daemon's long fingers inside him, anytime or anywhere. The low moan that pours out of him as he turns his head into the kisses on his neck and ear fills the four-poster bed, utterly relaxed as he spreads his legs and rocks down on Daemon's hand to help open him up, flushed and wanting; fuck, he loves this. Wants it always. It's almost (aaalmost) better than actual sex to have his uncle's attention trained on bringing him so close to coming, more than half-dizzy with need by the time a cockhead is teasing his stretched hole and Daemon has him whimpering in High Valyrian, tongue thick and stupid in his skull. Tell me, he hears, so he tells him everything. ]
My nights are yours, uncle, I n-need you fucking me. Need you now, need you tomorrow. Gods. Please.
[ He can't roll his hips back at the right angle to take him, held prisoner. Aemond makes a sound between a sob and a growl, trying to writhe back and fit him in. ]
I'm yours, yours. Fuck, you can ... can have me, I won't take anyone else. I only want your cock, please. Don't you want me?
[ It's heady, he feels fucking drunk— Aemond sounds unbelievable, and it's fortunate his nephew can't see his face, caught in a near-pained expression around a repressed moan. Embarrassing. He'll be able to feel Daemon squeeze his hand tighter, though, like something is seizing him from the inside. It is. He is, fuck.
You're mine, you're mine, even though it's madness.
Daemon pushes in, savoring the clench around the tip of his cock at the first breach and feeling his vision near swim with it. Relieved he spent so much time opening him, because he's so tight and hot and perfect that he's not sure he'd have been able to stop and wait too long if Aemond wasn't so well prepared. He stills to give him shallow, rocking thrusts, just loosening him up before pressing on, sinking in him all the way. He leans down, weight on both forearms bracketed around him, pushing in deeper, flush against the younger man.
Impossible. His moan is forced out of him, into the muffle of Aemond's hair, his shoulder. Daemon drags in a rough breath and rocks his hips down, not pulling out, just grinding into him. The pleasure and the feeling of rightness is shattering. ]
Aemond, [ a low gasp at his ear. Still grinding down, slow and deep. ] My perfect boy, my dragon.
[ He does sob then as Daemon sinks in, little by little until it's as if all the sound is knocked free of Aemond's lungs and all that remains are gasps for air. His head hangs down, caged in his hair, and he takes Daemon with no small amount of shivering and flexing, wanting it to be as good for his uncle as it already is to feel a hard cock spitting him open (at last, at last). He shudders as Daemon presses in, stars bursting behind Aemond's eye as he screws it shut and hisses out, YesYesYes, Right there, Oh fuck, cock throbbing where it lies trapped and weeping against the bed.
My perfect boy, my dragon.
He finally tips his head back to drag down breaths, temple resting by Daemon's jaw for a moment to bask in how connected he feels on myriad levels. Mine, is all he thinks. You're mine too.
Using what strength he has, he starts rocking under Daemon to fuck himself back on that hard length and take the difficult choice away, purring out a happy moan. He'll do all the work, he can spoil his uncle just as much as Daemon does so for him. Slow, long ruts, sweat slicking Aemond's skin as he drives his hips back in rolling waves; if he is Daemon's dragon then he ought to be trusted to know what's best for him. ]
[ Delirious animals just pressing together, until Aemond begins to move beneath him. It makes Daemon's breath hitch, and he groans quietly and stays where he is, flexing his hips into the way his nephew ruts back. It's decadent and feels exquisite, and he rewards him by nuzzling into him and whispering about how beautiful he is, how good he feels, how crazy he's driving his uncle.
For a while it's just this, holding himself still, letting Aemond work them both, seeing sparks and fire. It's good, but not enough— maybe nothing will ever be enough.
Daemon gives him heated kisses as he gently untangles their hands and he begins to push himself up to hands and knees; he pets Aemond's hair back and to one side, squeezes his shoulders by the base of his neck, drags his hands from the top of his spine to the small of his back. The shift in angle presses his cock in differently, and he grunts with it as he grabs his nephew's hipbones and tugs him back onto it firmly. Pulling further out, pushing back in, giving him long strokes, letting him feel every inch of his cock, and he can't help but fuck in just a bit harder whenever he's buried to the hilt.
He reaches down to gather Aemond's hair again, holding it away from his face and at a knot at the back of his head, squeezing. ]
I can feel your heartbeat, [ he tells him, breathless. His other hand slips between them to feel his cock press in and out, rubbing the stretched rim of Aemond's wet hole. ] I can feel your fire.
[ It must be terrible for commonfolk, he will think later, that they can never experience anything like belonging to a person so fiercely it pulls them by their very blood. How sad and pathetic, that they can never know of the surety behind sweet words, Beautiful and Good making him as hard as the act of being fucked. Poor nobodies.
But Aemond doesn't shed them a single thought now, too busy making love (how feminine, how maddeningly emotional not to debate it with himself) to Daemon who has him feeling like he might never have actually had sex properly before. When his uncle veers back and changes the angle, Aemond has moments to miss the weight of him on his back before he's muffling a cry into the pillows as he's fucked harder, the new shift sending stars bursting behind his screwed-up eye, head twisting to the side so he can't even hide when his hair is pulled. ]
One flesh.
[ The thumb dragging over where they connect has him heady with power when mixed with Daemon's reverent words so he boldly reaches back to hold his own cheek spread, inviting him to do whatever he wants.
Never mind the least offensive selection of Targaryen vows, letting Daemon choose any others he wants. Or doesn't. ]
[ Targaryens do not answer to gods nor men— others think it means because they control dragons, and that's part of it, but there is also this. The magic in their blood is not only for monsters, but for each other (what's the difference?). Peasants and wildlings and other lords alike may wed cousin to cousin, brother to sister, but they are tepid pantomimes. The blood of the dragon is something else entirely, not-quite-human. Ordinary mortals will never feel it, and Targaryens who deny themselves or who are somehow passed over by the compulsion will live half-lives, shuttered away from the full brilliant heat of their own existence.
Daemon is lucky, despite his years of frustration. So is Aemond, even without any half-sisters waiting for marriage. They are here, now, satisfying it and stoking it higher at once, right where they should be.
Such a pretty, wanton display. Daemon rubs over where they're joined and then gives Aemond's presented cheek a sharp smack, gripping it after and squeezing while he leans forward again, grinding his cock in deep, holding his nephew's hair tight. He kisses his jaw, nuzzles at him, so sweet in contrast. ]
Blood, [ he whispers, and the hold in his hair shifts to gather it and pet it to one side, making sure it's tucked away over his blind side, ] fire.
[ Targaryens can take as many wives as they like—
Well, close enough.
Daemon sits up again and takes Aemond's hips in hand, settling him up higher, forcing him to spread his knees wider around his own posture between his thighs. He leans his weight back a little, getting the younger man splayed practically in his lap, getting his cock in flush to his body. He fucks him slow at first, steady and hard but controlled, pulling him back, on a razor's edge of controlling himself. He tells himself he'll wait until Aemond begs for it, but the fit of his body is so good around his cock that it becomes increasingly unlikely; he snaps forward into him, quicker, his attention demanding and affectionate at once, seeking his own pleasure, seeking the gland in Aemond that'll make him lose his mind. ]
[ There might be something to the rumours of madness that circulate throughout the other noble Houses but Aemond would rather be a little mad and have this than a half-life, a half-lie. He's better than submitting to the expectations of normal men, as is Daemon who has proved it since long before Aemond was born, leaving them both to fit incredibly well ... to coin a phrase. Fire and blood. It's all they are made of, in the end. Flame feeding their bodies from some kernel inside, lodged where the hunger and craving for like-to-like can't be explained away.
Steadying himself when pulled up onto his knees, he tips his weight to rest back-to-chest and sinks his fingers behind into Daemon's hair for both grip and because he wants to as his uncle sinks in flush, eliciting a throaty, guileless Fuck. Aemond's other hand barely encircles his own cock, helping his uncle edge him over and over so that when Aemond tips his head back and blonde hair spills everywhere he can't control his volume, calling for Daemon in High Valyrian, rolling hips controlling the long line of his body until he starts tensing up, bucking against his own wishes, abdomen taut and his voice thinning to desperate gasps, a whine escaping of Yours —!
He comes around Daemon quaking inside and out as he cleaves to him as best he can, spilling messily over his fist and chest in long ribbons, the whole effect of it rippling through him on show as he rides the hard cock driving in relentlessly, strong saddle-fond thighs keeping him spread exactly where he wants to be. ]
Daemon keeps one hand holding him by the hip to steady him and keep him in place while he fucks him, and he uses the other to roam over his chest, landing with the cage of his fingers around one pectoral muscle, giving him pressure on a tender nipple where he'd spent all that time chewing and sucking. Cock driving in and out of him, the sound of their flesh slapping together punctuating Aemond's cries and Daemon's rough breathing where he presses in against his nephew's shoulder.
Sitting back on his heels, letting the younger man be fully, deeply impaled, he ruts in, holding him, feeling him seize and flinch around him, and he sees red behind his eyes - a brilliant spill of flame instead of sparks - as he's flung into orgasm, everything about it sharp and shattering. When he bites down at the base of his neck, he gets mostly hair. For the best. Aemond doesn't need the telltale mark.
Dazed, he strokes from chest downward, feeling Aemond's spend and the ragged heave of his chest, his belly, to his cock that he touches gently, before he cradles him in arms to help them both float down comfortably. ]
[ His mouth hangs open on a thready cry when Daemon comes inside and burns his raw, soft body, branding him with it on a sentimental level that has Aemond swearing under his breath with a blend of common and their mothertongue. His arms drop to wrap over Daemon's as he drifts somewhere back to where he was mentally before the world became just the two of them. He shivers all over, sensitive but unwilling to part for a while, and he turns his head to drag a lazy kiss over his uncle's cheek, panting there. It hits him with great clarity, then: he can't bear the thought of being away from him for long, that's not going to work unless Aemond intends to drive himself crazy.
Filled with hot, sticky seed that has him dreamy with the rightness of belonging, reclining on Daemon, he opens his eye to the canopy of his bed and sighs. They will .. figure something out with his family, and Aegon will follow him since he has no desire to be king. His grip on an arm squeezes and he ducks his nose by a jaw, neck sore with a bite that could have been much worse. The softness of his long hair brushes against his uncle like a fond nuzzle as he rests there, waiting until he can form words around his heavy tongue, bodies still connected. ]
I will go to Dragonstone with you, if you will have me.
[ If only they were a little less compatible, or if things were less intense; if it was only the part that wants for a rivalry, and not for affection. But blood wants what it wants, and it's tugged the rest of them along. Daemon holds him close and savors every little twitch and shift of their bodies as they endure the euphoric wind-down, and sees Dragonstone in his mind, Aemond lit in deep contrasting light within the volcano.
The last heart of their people. So far away from Valyria, but still burning. ]
You know that I will. That I already do.
[ He'll petition Viserys himself. He'll talk Rhaenyra into it— as a mother she won't like it, but in her way, she's too much like her father; she will understand the value of it to try and bury wounds. Aemond has forgiven Aegon because they are brothers. The rest of them need the same opportunity, and that comes with exposure, and learning. Jacaerys at least is level-headed and steady enough to keep the peace, which is good for a future king, no matter his lineage.
What a foolish fantasy. Queen Rhaenyra and her vicious husband as her hand, followed by her son and her half-brother, keeping balance, keeping blood where it should be.
Fate hates this sort of thing. And it loves making a fool of people who don't believe in it.
Daemon kisses the side of his jaw, his shoulder, and coaxes him to part so that they can get comfortable and clean up. He lets Aemond lay uselessly during that, seeking water warmed by the fireplace and inevitably using his mouth too much to get things tidied away. ]
[ Everything will surely, with enough reason applied, be fine. Aegon has no desire to fight for a crown despite the very real legitimacy of his birthright and that will be enough of a statement to get lots of other people on board ...
It isn't the time to be thinking of all the ways they will mend rifts in the family while Daemon is licking him clean, gods above.
Once he can't handle any more of that, he twists his throbbing body (everywhere is sensitive, everywhere is shivering) onto his side and tugs at Daemon to pull him down, distracted by the scar patterning a shoulder and chest. Barely visible in the low-light but mottled all the same, healed all too well for such a gross wound. ]
What was this from ... ?
[ He wants a closer look, settled under the sheets together if possible. ]
[ Aemond's body is warm and supple and youthful, decadent, how is Daemon supposed to stop indulging himself? He makes a performative sound of protest when his nephew wriggles away, but he relents, settling for getting tucked in with him in a way they hadn't been able to in the Dragonpit. A satisfied sigh, he strokes over the younger prince's hair, and rests his own head on one hand. ]
Mmn? [ Like, oh, this old thing, sure, Daemon. ]
It's from Laenor's dragon, Seasmoke, actually.
[ Boy oh boy that sounds like a story, doesn't it. Daemon lets him touch it; surprisingly soft, the patches of it with glossy ridges of scar tissue are less dense than one would expect despite the texture being decidedly scarring, and the pale pink expanses of warped skin have areas where it feels silky and skinlike alongside the more tense over-healed spots. Still, it's nightmarish, and the patterns of the lines don't look like blade marks. ]
[ Trying to remember what he's read about Daemon while post-coital and fucked out of his mind is a feat he doesn't quite achieve, frowning at the scars that slide smoothly under his fingertips. He traces them up a neck, following the edges all the way down over a chest ... his eyes want to close while his hair is being stroked too, so everything is currently a struggle. Aemond hums, perking up a little when he recalls bits and pieces. ]
The crab ... [ Don't say 'Crab Man'. ] That particular warlord, you were battling him.
[ He turns his head to nuzzle his nose against the unblemished skin of Daemon's other pec, rolling into him and sliding his hand down between them to soak up a beating heart's tempo through a palm. ]
[ A quiet laugh as they arrange themselves. Daemon holds him, continues to pet his hair. ]
Drahar the Crabfeeder, [ he confirms, ] prince-admiral of the very annoying Triarchy. And I did.
[ Decisively, in fact. He draws a line with one finger from Aemond's shoulder to the underside of his opposite ribcage, indicating where he'd bisected the man. ]
Your maesters' scrolls won't have much of the details. Viserys was very annoyed with Corlys and I about the whole affair and we didn't do anything in the way of interviewing.
[ Even though had they not intervened when they did, the shipping lanes would have been fucked, and the cascade of issues would have hit the Seven Kingdoms hard. Sometimes, when Daemon is feeling very petty, he wishes they hadn't done anything, just to force Viserys to deal with a real problem on his own. But it worked out well for his own purposes, in the end. ]
[ Eyes widening at the new information (with a stifled giggle as Aemond squirms under the touch) he finds himself warmly looking up near-proudly of his vicious uncle. He can well believe it's the truth, there isn't a shred of doubt in him after what happened to Vaemond. ]
You gave back a crown, too. I want to know all about these things, [ he's a history nerd, it's galling to live with the fact he has none, not really, ] will you tell me?
[ Not exactly sexy pillow-talk but it's interesting. ]
[ Cute. Daemon gives him a kiss. His vicious little nerd. ]
I'm sure you know the history of piracy in the area and all that, [ he begins. Skipping the boring intro, of the Triarchy starting as something that benefited both Westeros and Essos, before they got greedy and began exploiting their western neighbors. ] Corlys' forces were buckling under their expansion, and Viserys refused to send aid, not in manpower, and not in gold.
[ And so the Sea Snake could neither win a battle nor pay the tolls. Which sounds very much like he's calling his brother and Aemond's father the king a fucking idiot (he sort of is, but only he's allowed to), so he tempers it with— ]
Your father values peace above all, and is immovable about it. He respects the Old King's will for quietude after Maegor, and has no wish to revisit the pain that fighting Dorne and Myr caused our grandfather.
[ That sounds... fine, he supposes. At least it gives Aemond some insight into how well Daemon actually does know his brother, despite their frequent periods of estrangement. ]
Corlys came to me after being denied. He thought I was the only man in King's Landing who could get away with defying Viserys and raising an army anyway, and he was right. So off we went, to a horrible collection of rocks where a prince was crucifying Westerosi sailors on the beach and letting the crabs eat them as the tides came in and out.
[ Storytime. Daemon's ego does like hearing itself talk. Aemond asked for this!! ]
[ Kissed and granted storytime, he settles in his pillow and listens raptly, piecing together the tales from the scrolls that lack a lot of detail. They never came close to criticising his father, never mentioned a lack of funds or reinforcements, only implying the battle had seemed for all intents and purposes lost. No need to make a king look stupid if he is going off the obvious like everyone else, apparently. He doesn't mention how Maegor was one of his favourite historical figures while growing up: there was so much drama during his reign that no maester could dull that man down if they tried.
He snorts at the idea of being eaten by crabs, unable to imagine it. ]
They say you walked into their camp and tricked them all. Is that true? Another book said you made Caraxes swallow the warlord whole ... but that isn't true, given what you did to him. Right?
[ Those maesters play fast and loose with the truth in the library. ]
[ Maegor was backed into a corner, and he knew what he was about. There's plenty to respect, there. Meanwhile, Daemon holds up a hand. Illustrating how big the crabs were. Pinch pinch. ]
I'd have never fed Caraxes that disgusting prick.
[ Greyscale corpse, no thank you. ]
It was miserable. Their forces were set in deep on the primary island, which is one big cave system. They would retreat whenever they began to take losses, wait us out, trap the entrances. Not even the dragons were making a dent, because the caves were so vast. They'd just back up past where fire could reach.
[ And that was dangerous as fuck anyway. Aemond knows well, he's sure, that the eyes of a dragon are one of its most vulnerable weak spots— encouraging any of them, even Caraxes with his long neck, to stick their heads into holes filled with soldiers and mercenaries, is asking for a dead dragon. So neither he nor Laenor were in a hurry to keep testing it. ]
Laenor came up with the idea of tricking them. Corlys and Vaemond discouraged him from it, not wanting to risk him, and not believing it'd work anyway. A suicide mission to lose their heir. They wanted to wait for Viserys' pity.
[ Which: gross. ]
But if you were a greed-fueled eastern lord, wouldn't you love to accept a surrender from the king's brother, and take his Valyrian steel sword?
[ Crabs don't grow that big ... do they? Moving on, Aemond is laying in place as attentively as if he's back in a lesson, lavender eye trained on Daemon for every scrap of truth. ]
He didn't really try to take Dark Sister, did he?
[ No one is that stupid. They can't be. There's some unintended but genuinely meant flattery in there somewhere, tripped over by his curiosity. ]
Just like that? You walked up to him and he really believed you were surrendering? Did he not seem very bright?
[ Imagine the hilarious indignity of that, tediously rowing over to the blood-soaked, crab-covered beach in a shit boat, negotiating his way out of it, and trudging over cold, wet sand. ]
I waited there on the beach until he sent men out. He wouldn't come himself. And so I became very offended, only wishing to surrender to their commander. I fought. Wild, but not especially well. The furious death throes of a man defeated, left alone to try and scrape together something of honor while his forces limped away. [ Putting his entire ass into the act. Of course Daemon heard about a suicidal, height-of-drama hail mary and said I'm in, forced the rest into the plan. ] He sent more and more out. Didn't want me to get away. I imagine they were meant to strip me and nail me to a board on the beach, too.
He finally emerged. By then I had about a half dozen arrows sticking out of me and was fully surrounded, half a mile dense in every direction. But we had to get the most out from the caves as possible, so Seasmoke could burn them.
When he did, everyone was about this [ Daemon holds up thumb and forefinger an inch apart ] far away from me.
[ Obvious exaggeration, he's being playful on purpose. But he'd done it all: drawn them out, played the part, put himself in the way of collateral damage to secure victory. ]
[ A rowboat gets a chuckle, not having ever placed Daemon in one in all his imaginings. Aemond slides a leg around Daemon's as he talks, absently brushing an ankle down a calf as he listens to his uncle's firsthand account with rapt interest and pictures the scene: foes swarming Daemon as he fought them without relent, the sudden blistering heat of Seasmoke's flames erupting around him as the crowd closed in.
His indulgent smile appreciates the over-exaggeration, fingers laid over the scar on Daemon's chest tracing the edge. He's seen how cleanly his uncle can saw a man in half. To say it excites him wouldn't be an understatement, palming his way up a throat to tangle in Daemon's mussed hair and coax him down, if possible, for a slow, heated kiss around a murmur. ]
[ A kiss, and petting down Aemond's side. Daemon is pleasantly sated, but his nephew remains a very enticing temptation, even in the midst of story time.
He shrugs. Yep. ]
The man wasn't much of a fighter, and neither were the guards protecting him. All that just to get cut in half in the dark of a stinking seaside cave.
[ Anti-climatic. You see why he needed the buildup. ]
I didn't notice until after that my armor had melted into my skin.
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Here I am, sweet thing, [ he murmurs with his forehead pressed to his nephew's temple (respecting a potential desire not to kiss him after that for now, but Daemon is nasty, might not bother in a moment if he keeps teasing it, be warned). ] Burning within you, as you are within me.
[ Still too bad, about the blood. If he was that desperate, Viserys should have sent for one of Saera's bastards (or their aunt herself) to use as a donor before marrying so far afield, especially to a fucking Hightower, who have wanted the ruin of House Targaryen since the Conquest. Bitterly funny, that Otto is so fond of invoking Maegor, when the man's rule only came about due to constant interference from the Hightowers via the High Septon in the first place. These people hate them. They hate Aemond and all of his siblings as much as they hate Daemon and Rhaenyra, and only find them useful for now.
Aemond has such potential, he favors this fire so significantly. Daemon could protect them. All of them. They could rebuild after the decimation of Baelon and Aemon's generation. (The mother would have to go, but who the fuck cares about Alicent? Not Viserys.)
Whispered, now, ] Where do you keep your oil?
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His free hand roots under the pillows for the vial there, bringing it to Daemon's hand. It's half-empty, doesn't smell of anything. Gets a lot of use, apparently. ]
Make it count, [ he nips at Daemon's lower lip, ] I want to be in your lap too before morning.
[ Oh, there will be a round two. ]
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He leaves their linked hands where they are, deft enough to get the vial open with just one of his own, and he kisses his nephew's ear and back of his neck as he lets it drip into the cleft of his ass. A stroke over his cock and then he nudges the container back up to Aemond (better keep that from spilling or getting knocked off the bed it if he wants to get fucked again later), then his fingers are delving into him, massaging at his hole and pushing fingertips in, making sure he's still primed from all that attention from his mouth. Daemon pushes a long finger in and rubs him from the inside, getting him as wet as can be with oil, steady and dedicated as he opens him the rest of the way.
Once Aemond is stuffed with fingers and Daemon can tell he's not in danger of flinching from anything, he holds him open with a hand spread on one cheek and his thumb tugging at his hole. He slides his cock against him and ruts there, letting the crown catch on that slick ring of muscle, testing his own control near to the point of pain. ]
Tell me.
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My nights are yours, uncle, I n-need you fucking me. Need you now, need you tomorrow. Gods. Please.
[ He can't roll his hips back at the right angle to take him, held prisoner. Aemond makes a sound between a sob and a growl, trying to writhe back and fit him in. ]
I'm yours, yours. Fuck, you can ... can have me, I won't take anyone else. I only want your cock, please. Don't you want me?
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You're mine, you're mine, even though it's madness.
Daemon pushes in, savoring the clench around the tip of his cock at the first breach and feeling his vision near swim with it. Relieved he spent so much time opening him, because he's so tight and hot and perfect that he's not sure he'd have been able to stop and wait too long if Aemond wasn't so well prepared. He stills to give him shallow, rocking thrusts, just loosening him up before pressing on, sinking in him all the way. He leans down, weight on both forearms bracketed around him, pushing in deeper, flush against the younger man.
Impossible. His moan is forced out of him, into the muffle of Aemond's hair, his shoulder. Daemon drags in a rough breath and rocks his hips down, not pulling out, just grinding into him. The pleasure and the feeling of rightness is shattering. ]
Aemond, [ a low gasp at his ear. Still grinding down, slow and deep. ] My perfect boy, my dragon.
no subject
My perfect boy, my dragon.
He finally tips his head back to drag down breaths, temple resting by Daemon's jaw for a moment to bask in how connected he feels on myriad levels. Mine, is all he thinks. You're mine too.
Using what strength he has, he starts rocking under Daemon to fuck himself back on that hard length and take the difficult choice away, purring out a happy moan. He'll do all the work, he can spoil his uncle just as much as Daemon does so for him. Slow, long ruts, sweat slicking Aemond's skin as he drives his hips back in rolling waves; if he is Daemon's dragon then he ought to be trusted to know what's best for him. ]
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For a while it's just this, holding himself still, letting Aemond work them both, seeing sparks and fire. It's good, but not enough— maybe nothing will ever be enough.
Daemon gives him heated kisses as he gently untangles their hands and he begins to push himself up to hands and knees; he pets Aemond's hair back and to one side, squeezes his shoulders by the base of his neck, drags his hands from the top of his spine to the small of his back. The shift in angle presses his cock in differently, and he grunts with it as he grabs his nephew's hipbones and tugs him back onto it firmly. Pulling further out, pushing back in, giving him long strokes, letting him feel every inch of his cock, and he can't help but fuck in just a bit harder whenever he's buried to the hilt.
He reaches down to gather Aemond's hair again, holding it away from his face and at a knot at the back of his head, squeezing. ]
I can feel your heartbeat, [ he tells him, breathless. His other hand slips between them to feel his cock press in and out, rubbing the stretched rim of Aemond's wet hole. ] I can feel your fire.
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But Aemond doesn't shed them a single thought now, too busy making love (how feminine, how maddeningly emotional not to debate it with himself) to Daemon who has him feeling like he might never have actually had sex properly before. When his uncle veers back and changes the angle, Aemond has moments to miss the weight of him on his back before he's muffling a cry into the pillows as he's fucked harder, the new shift sending stars bursting behind his screwed-up eye, head twisting to the side so he can't even hide when his hair is pulled. ]
One flesh.
[ The thumb dragging over where they connect has him heady with power when mixed with Daemon's reverent words so he boldly reaches back to hold his own cheek spread, inviting him to do whatever he wants.
Never mind the least offensive selection of Targaryen vows, letting Daemon choose any others he wants. Or doesn't. ]
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Daemon is lucky, despite his years of frustration. So is Aemond, even without any half-sisters waiting for marriage. They are here, now, satisfying it and stoking it higher at once, right where they should be.
Such a pretty, wanton display. Daemon rubs over where they're joined and then gives Aemond's presented cheek a sharp smack, gripping it after and squeezing while he leans forward again, grinding his cock in deep, holding his nephew's hair tight. He kisses his jaw, nuzzles at him, so sweet in contrast. ]
Blood, [ he whispers, and the hold in his hair shifts to gather it and pet it to one side, making sure it's tucked away over his blind side, ] fire.
[ Targaryens can take as many wives as they like—
Well, close enough.
Daemon sits up again and takes Aemond's hips in hand, settling him up higher, forcing him to spread his knees wider around his own posture between his thighs. He leans his weight back a little, getting the younger man splayed practically in his lap, getting his cock in flush to his body. He fucks him slow at first, steady and hard but controlled, pulling him back, on a razor's edge of controlling himself. He tells himself he'll wait until Aemond begs for it, but the fit of his body is so good around his cock that it becomes increasingly unlikely; he snaps forward into him, quicker, his attention demanding and affectionate at once, seeking his own pleasure, seeking the gland in Aemond that'll make him lose his mind. ]
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Steadying himself when pulled up onto his knees, he tips his weight to rest back-to-chest and sinks his fingers behind into Daemon's hair for both grip and because he wants to as his uncle sinks in flush, eliciting a throaty, guileless Fuck. Aemond's other hand barely encircles his own cock, helping his uncle edge him over and over so that when Aemond tips his head back and blonde hair spills everywhere he can't control his volume, calling for Daemon in High Valyrian, rolling hips controlling the long line of his body until he starts tensing up, bucking against his own wishes, abdomen taut and his voice thinning to desperate gasps, a whine escaping of Yours —!
He comes around Daemon quaking inside and out as he cleaves to him as best he can, spilling messily over his fist and chest in long ribbons, the whole effect of it rippling through him on show as he rides the hard cock driving in relentlessly, strong saddle-fond thighs keeping him spread exactly where he wants to be. ]
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Daemon keeps one hand holding him by the hip to steady him and keep him in place while he fucks him, and he uses the other to roam over his chest, landing with the cage of his fingers around one pectoral muscle, giving him pressure on a tender nipple where he'd spent all that time chewing and sucking. Cock driving in and out of him, the sound of their flesh slapping together punctuating Aemond's cries and Daemon's rough breathing where he presses in against his nephew's shoulder.
Sitting back on his heels, letting the younger man be fully, deeply impaled, he ruts in, holding him, feeling him seize and flinch around him, and he sees red behind his eyes - a brilliant spill of flame instead of sparks - as he's flung into orgasm, everything about it sharp and shattering. When he bites down at the base of his neck, he gets mostly hair. For the best. Aemond doesn't need the telltale mark.
Dazed, he strokes from chest downward, feeling Aemond's spend and the ragged heave of his chest, his belly, to his cock that he touches gently, before he cradles him in arms to help them both float down comfortably. ]
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Filled with hot, sticky seed that has him dreamy with the rightness of belonging, reclining on Daemon, he opens his eye to the canopy of his bed and sighs. They will .. figure something out with his family, and Aegon will follow him since he has no desire to be king. His grip on an arm squeezes and he ducks his nose by a jaw, neck sore with a bite that could have been much worse. The softness of his long hair brushes against his uncle like a fond nuzzle as he rests there, waiting until he can form words around his heavy tongue, bodies still connected. ]
I will go to Dragonstone with you, if you will have me.
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The last heart of their people. So far away from Valyria, but still burning. ]
You know that I will. That I already do.
[ He'll petition Viserys himself. He'll talk Rhaenyra into it— as a mother she won't like it, but in her way, she's too much like her father; she will understand the value of it to try and bury wounds. Aemond has forgiven Aegon because they are brothers. The rest of them need the same opportunity, and that comes with exposure, and learning. Jacaerys at least is level-headed and steady enough to keep the peace, which is good for a future king, no matter his lineage.
What a foolish fantasy. Queen Rhaenyra and her vicious husband as her hand, followed by her son and her half-brother, keeping balance, keeping blood where it should be.
Fate hates this sort of thing. And it loves making a fool of people who don't believe in it.
Daemon kisses the side of his jaw, his shoulder, and coaxes him to part so that they can get comfortable and clean up. He lets Aemond lay uselessly during that, seeking water warmed by the fireplace and inevitably using his mouth too much to get things tidied away. ]
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[ Everything will surely, with enough reason applied, be fine. Aegon has no desire to fight for a crown despite the very real legitimacy of his birthright and that will be enough of a statement to get lots of other people on board ...
It isn't the time to be thinking of all the ways they will mend rifts in the family while Daemon is licking him clean, gods above.
Once he can't handle any more of that, he twists his throbbing body (everywhere is sensitive, everywhere is shivering) onto his side and tugs at Daemon to pull him down, distracted by the scar patterning a shoulder and chest. Barely visible in the low-light but mottled all the same, healed all too well for such a gross wound. ]
What was this from ... ?
[ He wants a closer look, settled under the sheets together if possible. ]
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Mmn? [ Like, oh, this old thing, sure, Daemon. ]
It's from Laenor's dragon, Seasmoke, actually.
[ Boy oh boy that sounds like a story, doesn't it. Daemon lets him touch it; surprisingly soft, the patches of it with glossy ridges of scar tissue are less dense than one would expect despite the texture being decidedly scarring, and the pale pink expanses of warped skin have areas where it feels silky and skinlike alongside the more tense over-healed spots. Still, it's nightmarish, and the patterns of the lines don't look like blade marks. ]
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The crab ... [ Don't say 'Crab Man'. ] That particular warlord, you were battling him.
[ He turns his head to nuzzle his nose against the unblemished skin of Daemon's other pec, rolling into him and sliding his hand down between them to soak up a beating heart's tempo through a palm. ]
Mmm, you won.
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Drahar the Crabfeeder, [ he confirms, ] prince-admiral of the very annoying Triarchy. And I did.
[ Decisively, in fact. He draws a line with one finger from Aemond's shoulder to the underside of his opposite ribcage, indicating where he'd bisected the man. ]
Your maesters' scrolls won't have much of the details. Viserys was very annoyed with Corlys and I about the whole affair and we didn't do anything in the way of interviewing.
[ Even though had they not intervened when they did, the shipping lanes would have been fucked, and the cascade of issues would have hit the Seven Kingdoms hard. Sometimes, when Daemon is feeling very petty, he wishes they hadn't done anything, just to force Viserys to deal with a real problem on his own. But it worked out well for his own purposes, in the end. ]
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You gave back a crown, too. I want to know all about these things, [ he's a history nerd, it's galling to live with the fact he has none, not really, ] will you tell me?
[ Not exactly sexy pillow-talk but it's interesting. ]
I won't write them down.
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I'm sure you know the history of piracy in the area and all that, [ he begins. Skipping the boring intro, of the Triarchy starting as something that benefited both Westeros and Essos, before they got greedy and began exploiting their western neighbors. ] Corlys' forces were buckling under their expansion, and Viserys refused to send aid, not in manpower, and not in gold.
[ And so the Sea Snake could neither win a battle nor pay the tolls. Which sounds very much like he's calling his brother and Aemond's father the king a fucking idiot (he sort of is, but only he's allowed to), so he tempers it with— ]
Your father values peace above all, and is immovable about it. He respects the Old King's will for quietude after Maegor, and has no wish to revisit the pain that fighting Dorne and Myr caused our grandfather.
[ That sounds... fine, he supposes. At least it gives Aemond some insight into how well Daemon actually does know his brother, despite their frequent periods of estrangement. ]
Corlys came to me after being denied. He thought I was the only man in King's Landing who could get away with defying Viserys and raising an army anyway, and he was right. So off we went, to a horrible collection of rocks where a prince was crucifying Westerosi sailors on the beach and letting the crabs eat them as the tides came in and out.
[ Storytime. Daemon's ego does like hearing itself talk. Aemond asked for this!! ]
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He snorts at the idea of being eaten by crabs, unable to imagine it. ]
They say you walked into their camp and tricked them all. Is that true? Another book said you made Caraxes swallow the warlord whole ... but that isn't true, given what you did to him. Right?
[ Those maesters play fast and loose with the truth in the library. ]
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I'd have never fed Caraxes that disgusting prick.
[ Greyscale corpse, no thank you. ]
It was miserable. Their forces were set in deep on the primary island, which is one big cave system. They would retreat whenever they began to take losses, wait us out, trap the entrances. Not even the dragons were making a dent, because the caves were so vast. They'd just back up past where fire could reach.
[ And that was dangerous as fuck anyway. Aemond knows well, he's sure, that the eyes of a dragon are one of its most vulnerable weak spots— encouraging any of them, even Caraxes with his long neck, to stick their heads into holes filled with soldiers and mercenaries, is asking for a dead dragon. So neither he nor Laenor were in a hurry to keep testing it. ]
Laenor came up with the idea of tricking them. Corlys and Vaemond discouraged him from it, not wanting to risk him, and not believing it'd work anyway. A suicide mission to lose their heir. They wanted to wait for Viserys' pity.
[ Which: gross. ]
But if you were a greed-fueled eastern lord, wouldn't you love to accept a surrender from the king's brother, and take his Valyrian steel sword?
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He didn't really try to take Dark Sister, did he?
[ No one is that stupid. They can't be. There's some unintended but genuinely meant flattery in there somewhere, tripped over by his curiosity. ]
Just like that? You walked up to him and he really believed you were surrendering? Did he not seem very bright?
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I had to take a rowboat.
[ Imagine the hilarious indignity of that, tediously rowing over to the blood-soaked, crab-covered beach in a shit boat, negotiating his way out of it, and trudging over cold, wet sand. ]
I waited there on the beach until he sent men out. He wouldn't come himself. And so I became very offended, only wishing to surrender to their commander. I fought. Wild, but not especially well. The furious death throes of a man defeated, left alone to try and scrape together something of honor while his forces limped away. [ Putting his entire ass into the act. Of course Daemon heard about a suicidal, height-of-drama hail mary and said I'm in, forced the rest into the plan. ] He sent more and more out. Didn't want me to get away. I imagine they were meant to strip me and nail me to a board on the beach, too.
He finally emerged. By then I had about a half dozen arrows sticking out of me and was fully surrounded, half a mile dense in every direction. But we had to get the most out from the caves as possible, so Seasmoke could burn them.
When he did, everyone was about this [ Daemon holds up thumb and forefinger an inch apart ] far away from me.
[ Obvious exaggeration, he's being playful on purpose. But he'd done it all: drawn them out, played the part, put himself in the way of collateral damage to secure victory. ]
And then that cunt ran back in a cave.
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His indulgent smile appreciates the over-exaggeration, fingers laid over the scar on Daemon's chest tracing the edge. He's seen how cleanly his uncle can saw a man in half. To say it excites him wouldn't be an understatement, palming his way up a throat to tangle in Daemon's mussed hair and coax him down, if possible, for a slow, heated kiss around a murmur. ]
And then you gave chase and cut him down?
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He shrugs. Yep. ]
The man wasn't much of a fighter, and neither were the guards protecting him. All that just to get cut in half in the dark of a stinking seaside cave.
[ Anti-climatic. You see why he needed the buildup. ]
I didn't notice until after that my armor had melted into my skin.
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