What would be pathetic in other men is surely admirable in Daemon Targaryen. His pace quickens, until the feel of her near is almost unbearable. When she moans it, when the cheers mount, he's left gasping into the hallow of her neck. The world goes hot white for a moment, pleasure mounting, before he comes with a drawn out groan.

He's left there, listless and lingering atop her, lazily kissing at her throat, kneading her breast. "Good girl."