On their wedding, a sizable dowry is secreted into the coffers of House Hightower. Daemon barely thinks about it. Since the king is credited with the wedding's grander successes, he-- or rather, his people-- handle the transaction.
A new bed is bought and assembled in the prince's wing, to much tittering and gossip from the servants. The thing is massive: a new fashion from across the sea, Daemon says, but really, he wants it to be so noticeable in its placement and construction that Otto Hightower cannot miss it. If it is also very comfortable, very spacious, to sleep and fuck in, all the better.
The rumors, as they currently stand, include no whispers of the girl's maidenhead being taken the night of the engagement fete. Coincidentally, Rondra the laundress is promoted to Alicent's personal laundress, overseeing only the cleaning and mending of one lady's clothes, instead of half the castles. Daemon enjoys tests, and Rondra passed hers.
Much thought is put into what to give a bride. He wants to accomplish several things at once-- to give an image of devotion to his wife, to give her the proper respect her position demands in this moment, and to amuse himself. He consults his own little council of advisors on this matter-- a maid in his employ, a jeweler, and Mysaria.
Since the agreement was made, to set aside his mistress, he has only had her once in parting. They no longer see each other face to face. But Alicent never said he could never speak to the woman again, and her mind is an invaluable asset. Mysaria writes encoded missives detailing rumors and reports, but also fashions and fancies ladies are known to have. She also gives advice for how best to treat a woman on her wedding night, which Daemon finds quite comical; the woman has never had a wedding, and likely never will. Out of affection, or maybe respect, he does not chide her.
On the morning of her wedding, Alicent is presented with finely tailored kidskin gloves that fit perfectly to her hand. They reach up to the elbow in a fashion that is somewhat outmoded, but Daemon suspects wearing them smartly, with the right outfit, may bring the fashion back again. She has also given a heavy necklace made from polished green dragonglass, the pieces interlocking together in the shape of dragons, one head eating the next. A small dagger is also presented to her, made with the same dragonglass, gleaming in emerald. It is small enough to be hidden beneath petticoats and whittled sharply down to a fine and subtle point. A wax seal is presented, in the shape of the Hightower crest, except the tower is a dragon's head, mouth open, fire spitting out. Last, two keys are presented in a small paper box, clearly well-worn things that have seen real use.
No note is included. Alicent will know who the gifts are from. If not all of their meanings are obvious, she will gather them in time.
The ceremony is lavish. It is also very long. Daemon is deadly bored through most of it. But it is a Targaryen wedding, so it is outdoors, so Caraxes may attend. He sits lazily behind the officiant, an aged septon drones on about faith and love and duty and reconciliation. Daemon's major amusement, through the ceremony, is to grin at the bride's brothers, who stand by, waiting for their father to appear and give the girl away.
He does. In the end, Ser Otto Hightower walks down the line of spectators, and takes the Hightower cloak off Alicent's back. Daemon replaces it with a Targaryen one, finely embroidered in blood-red thread. He does not break eye contact with Otto as he does it.
But then his attentions are on Alicent. The Septon speaks a little more, but this is a Targaryen wedding, and those are special affairs. The King takes over, and pronounces them wed, their houses joined, under blood and fire.
A pin is used to prick a bit of blood from the lips of both participants, and Daemon, bloody-mouthed, whispers dracarys. He kisses is bride with flame just feet above their heads, blood on his tongue.
The days heading towards the wedding, Alicent had been left in a daze. As she suspected, her father had torn through her room, searching for anything that Daemon Targaryen might have used to seduce his daughter. The letters had been burned, no evidence of his early attentions would be found. He saw the emerald but thought nothing of it. After all, Otto Hightower had more important matters to think over than his daughter's jewels.
There were threats, discussions about possibly sending her back to Old Town in secret or even induct her as a Silent Sister. He'd be more than willing to lose a valuable pawn than to let Daemon Targaryen debauch her. Alicent kept her silence, allowing herself to be pushed about, wary of the waves that sought to pull her into an undertow.
Perhaps there was some level of guilt. She had avoided Rhaenyra of late, remembering that her dear friend had shown a level of interest in her uncle. They had their secrets and it was clear she was a bit enamored with them. Now Alicent was set to marry him and it made matters awkward between them. Beyond that, what happened that night at the fete pushed against her deeply ingrained sense of duty and propriety, the strict morals and behaviors she had followed since young.
She loved what they did, but now the guilt was as heavy as a cloak. She reread the Pointed Star, she spoke to her Maester several times about proper behavior. At night though, her fingers teased between her legs, thinking of all they did.
The night before the wedding, she was nearly hurried secretly into a carriage, though the destination was not told to her. It was only when one of Otto's spies raced to his side and whispered in his ear that Otto relented. There was some reason that he could not follow through.
That he even gave her a way was remarkable. He muttered under his breath the whole time, reminding her to tell her all she learned about the prince before handing her over. The dragon leaves her nervous, the fire dangerous but inviting. Once the kiss is done, she licks her lips, tasting the blood left there.
The look on Daemon's face is carefully calculated, all smug lust. Otto sees it, and that vein starts bulging in his forehead. Wonderful.
As they make their procession back to the castle for the wedding feast, the smallfolk cheer. Daemon throws gold and flowers from side of the carriage. The coins are all stamped with the sigil on Alicent's new seal: the dragon's head, pointing upward, breathing Hightower flames. The meaning, he hopes, is obvious to her.
It's too loud, too public, for them to talk of anything meaningful. He encourages her to throw coins as well, to point and cheer, to make herself known. Daemon steals kisses from her at certain points, and they are patently all for show. The crowd begins to cheer each time; he trusts, at this point, that she can see what he's doing.
And if he pauses, struck still, when they pass one woman gazing at him through the crowd, dark eyes full of longing, well. Does Alicent even know what Myseria looks like? It doesn't matter, if one smile out of a hundred, is genuine.
The feast is another lavish affair, stuffed with food and dancers, all manner of entertainment. Daemon and Alicent sit at the head, and Daemon continues to steal kisses, though these are longer, more languid and far less proper. Now is the time for it; some level of lust is expected. That it is once again in full view of Ser Otto is grand, but more importantly, it sells the story that this is a love match, or at least one of lust, as much as it is strategic. From Rhea, Daemon has gotten the reputation that he was cold toward a wife; he will not make the same mistake twice.
The truth is in what can't be easily seen. Beneath the table, Daemon's hand rarely leaves Alicent's knee, her hip.
It was the strange hinderance to her father's attempt to send her away that occupied Alicent's thoughts. She did as Daemon instructed, only realizing that the smallfolk were watching when he put the coins in her hands. 'What stopped father?' She tossed the coins into the crowd, hearing a few women call her name, but it seemed the cheers were more directed at their beloved prince. Their love for him was likely another sticking point for her father, making him unable to full remove Daemon from King's Landing. If he meant to exact revenge, it would be done out of sight.
During the feast, Alicent takes it upon herself to keep wine from her glass and Daemon's, quickly putting her hand over the rim. It might seem as if she were controlling him, doing her best to keep his lusts free from influence, but the color and smell, it left her feeling queasy. The others nearby drank heartily, but they had their own servers, not sharing the same wine as the couple.
All of this heightened anxiety keeps her from behaving as amorously as she would like. If her father was thwarted, he'd find another way to remove Alicent from Daemon's side. She couldn't pick at her fingers as she wanted, the gloves concealing the work she had done earlier that day. There was no outlet for her fear and she could only pray to the Seven that the feast would pass quickly without incident.
She feels his hand at her knee and sometimes at her hip. She shivers, feeling the heat of him even through her gown. She wished she could be more attentive and yielding, but each time a servant approached Daemon, that bolt of fear returned.
"Have one of your men check our room." Were the sheets new? Had they been out of anyone's sight? Servants and men came and went, leaving the possibility open that somewhere, there might be some trace of poison waiting for them.
His brows twitch, lazy interest refocused into a sharp thing. The beloved rogue is replaced effortlessly with the planner and plotter Alicent has come to know. He turns his head, makes a motion with his hands, and in an instant Cirdyc is by his side, nodding. The man disappears into the crowd, and Daemon turns back, pulling his wife into a kiss.
He breaks it with a turn of his head, pretending to whisper sweetness into her ear. "What do you expect him to find? And laugh when we break away."
She couldn't exactly say with certainty that there would be something, but that it was possible was enough to make her wish to investigate. "I don't know." She whispered back to him. It wasn't as if her father let her hear any of his plans or her brothers spent time with her. It was only when she was near shipped away, when that servant arrived and her father stopped that something occurred to her.
Her ability to plot and scheme were still showing her to be a novice. She was unfamiliar with poisons, the sort used and the most deadly. She was left to try and defend against what might be a possibility. There were stories about poisoned sheets, scorpions in the bed, Tears of Lys in the wine or food. But those had only been stories.
Rondra had washed her clothes twice and locked her nightdress and other silks in her chest, keeping the key on her person. It was the only comfort Alicent had for the coming night. All else, she had no defense but to try and guess ahead of what might be done.
She did as he said and laughed lightly, touching her neckline as though she were flustered by his lusts. There was fear in her eyes, at least cast away from the crowd so they couldn't see.
He pulls her in again, like a bridegroom who can't get enough of his bride. "What happened?"
Though his eyes follow her when they break away, curiosity mingles with concern. What is Otto planning? What a lovely thought, to catch the man in the act, have him strung up for it and still take his daughter. At this point, he'd have to; he's staked too much on the alliance, and grown too fond of the girl.
Even if they don't catch him, he'll still have to see his daughter grow fat at court with a dragon in her belly. He has so much to look forward to.
There are eyes on them and that does nothing to abate Alicent's fears. She wished to excuse herself, to search their rooms thoroughly, to harshly question some of her father's men, it would at least be acting on her anxiety. There was always temporary relief for that. Unfortunately, the bride needed to remain, eventually being carried off for the bedding ceremony.
Alicent turned her eyes downcast, assuming a demure demeanor. It would look as though she were shyly conversing with her husband, coyly anticipating the coming night. Her voice was strained though, tightened by emotion. "I was near sent away. When I was to be put in the carriage, a servant appeared and whispered in my father's ear. He stopped the plans and sent me back to my room." It might appear to be innocuous to others, but certainly Daemon could recognize why she was afraid? Why she believed something might happen.
He turns his head, pretending to kiss her neck as he speaks. He'd do it in earnest, but after their last meeting, it seems likely to distract her too much. This is a woman itching to be in the wedding bed, Daemon thinks. Best to keep her focused.
"If there is trouble, Cerdyc will find it," he says. The man is technically his cousin, some generations removed.
Daemon finally pulls away, gesturing for another servant. Their food is replaced, and one of the court fools-- Daemon's favorite, a dancing girl named Shandy who would be effortlessly beautiful if not for her face-- begins a play of tasting their food before they eat it, drinking their wine before they partake. She swoons and pretends to get drunk, picks at the food like a crow, and it gets a laugh from everyone, including Daemon.
But he doesn't touch anything until well after Shandy has already tried it.
Only when the food is changed and a taster is added does Alicent give in to her thirst. Having abstained all day, both as a sign to the Maiden, and out of looming dread, her throat felt dry. Her first cup is drained quickly, which many would like interpret as a maid, preparing herself for the night ahead. She saw a few titters behind hands and whispered conversation. As there was no baby bump clearly on display, the gossip would shift to something else. There might even be new bets taken, whether or not Daemon Targaryen would lose interest after one night with such a fragile creature. At least Rhea Royce was a woman of the Vale, they weren't so wilting or innocent as Reach women.
Where she had been near frantic to defend against whatever might have been planned, she missed the subtleties of the night that she was now only growing aware of. Various men visited her father's and brothers at their table, many a low toned conversation happened, but it was hard to say what might be sinister and what was more likely business. Laena Velaryon was placed in the King's presence more than once. Now that one potential marriage candidate was gone, another House seized eagerly on taking Alicent's place. Without a companion by her side, Rhaenyra seemed a bit more lost in thought, though nearing the end of the night, Laena was seated by the princess and the two were happily chatting. Apparently Laena Velaryon would soon be subject to what once was or what might have been Alicent's.
Alicent felt far more languid by the third glass of wine that when the shout came up, 'It's time to put the bride to bed!' she never noticed her brothers and father had long since departed. The sudden convalescing of the men towards her earned laughter and hoots. Her nails went instinctively towards her fingers but found only cloth in its place.
Dark hair leaned closer to her, murmuring near her ear, "I will vouchsafe your modesty, my lady." Alicent glanced up, only half remembering Criston Cole from the tournament, now dressed in the attire of a King's Guard. He looked at her sincerely, perhaps assuming she was afraid what might be done? Or it might well have been kindness? After so long with Daemon, she was looking for secondary motives almost by instinct. "I won't let any take untoward advantages."
It was the earnestness of it that was touching, one of the few genuine kindnesses of the evening, where most had been spent in hurried anticipation for what her father would do.
Corlys Velaryon and Tyland Lannister lifted her over the table and into the waiting hands of the crowd. One shoe fell by the wayside, then a stocking was flung in the air, her glove followed and the laces to the back of her gown. There were japes, ribald comments and a few eager eyes that tried to see as much as they could of her. Ser Criston kept his word though and each time a hand strayed far too close to some intimate part of her or someone tried to pull both dress and shift from her body, he was quick to shove their arm away. By the time she was in the wedding chamber, she was left in a shift, but no other compromising situation.
Alicent slipped beneath the covers of the bed, noticing the smell of lavender and mint beneath the sheets. Her eyes darted towards Rhondra, either she had seen that the coverlets were changed moments ago or Cerdyc had seen to it himself.
Daemon has less need to be careful. He lets girls pick at his clothes like little vultures, but none dare grope or grab; it would damage their reputation. Rhaenyra undoes the buttons on his surcoat, and whispers, be kind to her, uncle, and he assures all that he will, but with that sharp smile that says his version of kind may not be everyone else's.
Rhaenyra just rolls her eyes.
Among the crowd, Cerdyc has time to whisper in his ear, that the Hightowers have all left, and nothing could be found in the bed. Daemon directs him to watch out of sight, and keep a crowd close. If something is to happen, he wants witnesses.
So when Daemon arrives in only his braes, and the doors are closed behind him, many drunken voices can still be heard on the other side of it. All have lewd suggestions, the tamest of which involves the words mount her like a stallion.
Daemon slips into bed next to his bride. "I think I'll save that for tomorrow night," he says, and his aim is to charm. He does not want a fevered, fearful bride, however much there is to fear. He moves close to her, enwrapping her in an embrace he means means her to find comforting, just as another drunken suggestion comes through the door.
"Cerdyc found nothing suspicious, but had the sheets changed anyway. He is watching nearby-- with his back turned, don't worry." He kisses Alicent, soft and comforting, though she can surely feel his cock hardening against her leg. Tonight, it seems, is to be a thing of contrasts. "You can scream, if you like, or moan. It will entertain the crowd."
Now that her gloves were gone, he would find her biting at her fingers again once he arrived. Little surprise he would meet her with a colorful jape of his own, it eases more of her concern away, as she could only smirk and roll her eyes a little. However it might appear to the other guests, the last thing she fears is what might be waiting for her in the bridal bed. Had they not already shared something privately before, perhaps she'd be apprehensive. Though, between brothers, Rhaenyra and court, she would never be as innocent as other highborn ladies kept far from King's Landing.
The embrace is a level of gentleness that she didn't expect from Daemon Targaryen, especially not this night. He was never a brute, but putting her mind at ease seemed as if it would be a boring task. There were other things to look forward to and while he hadn't wanted to plan the wedding, he had enjoyed the night far more than anyone. "If nothing interrupts the night, then we will be able to rest. He doesn't want to risk a dragon in my belly." Which was why she thought poisoned sheets would be the most likely response. Kill him or them both before any act was done.
She does feel him against her and knows well how patient he's been for this. With no mistress or whore and only the memory of that secret room, he was likely more than eager. After so much anxious waiting, she needed to be freed from her tightly coiled state. "I'm not about to scream," she gave him a pointed look. "I'll make you scream first."
He coughs out a laugh, entirely surprised. What a little viper this one is. With all precautions taken, they can at least begin. He nods to Rhonda in the corner of the room, and she comes to draw the curtains on the bed, tying them closed with little ribbons of red and green.
Daemon slips a hand under her shift, drawing it up high enough to palm at her chest, then higher. Soon, he has his mouth at her breast, kissing and biting. "I'll just have to make you moan, then."
One hand finds the small of her back, to keep her in place. The other works, slowly but diligently, between her legs. Yes, Daemon thinks of his pleasure first, and there are times he has used sex to dominate more than pleasure his partner. Alicent Hightower, however, is a highborn lady, and she requires more patience, at least on the first night. More than that, this is an aliance that could easily sour over personal pain. But most of all? He has seen her when she moaned and mewled for him; he wants to see that again.
Precautions were taken, but Alicent had made her own as well. Before he was ushered into the room, she took the dagger he gifted her and placed it under her pillow. Should anything happen during the night, any sign of threat, she would be well guarded. Whether that be from her father or husband, she wasn't going to be left vulnerable and surprised. Rhondra had tried to warn her that the first night was the worst, but all nights would have their share of difficulties. A man like Daemon Targaryen was as much scorpion as he was a dragon. He would never be able to help his nature. No matter how many dragon's heads he put on her new seal, it would never make her a true Targaryen.
He seemed to remember where she had liked being touched before. His fingers fell back to the places she had shown him the night of their fete, as though he hadn't forgotten each curve of her and every soft turn of skin. It was no so frenzied or hurried as that night, which could be because of a number of reasons. It would mean questioning Daemon's motives and she wasn't in the frame of mind to truly do that. Instead, she shut her eyes as he kissed and bit at her breasts. Her hips rocked as they could against his attentions. While she wasn't expected to know or do anything, she still offered gestures all the same. A hand tangling in his hair and tugging harshly at the scalp. The other running up and over his lengths, following the path up his back and scratching his skin there in encouragement.
He would earn hearing her moan and mewl, just as she would earn his groans in return.
Daemon had intended to show her how to use that dagger. He'd also intended to take this slow, but Alicent is right in remembering it has been some time, by Daemon's standards. He's used to having his women whenever he wants them, and while the preparations for this alliance have been enough to keep his mind busy, now? In the marriage bed, with a maiden practically begging him on? He interprets her hands in his hair, her nails on his back, as pleading. Who doesn't want to be wanted? Some of Daemon's control finally slips, and he justifies it easily. He is eager, so clearly, she must be.
He pulls back, freeing himself of his braes, practically ripping Alicent's shift off. "So this is what you want?" He bites at her breast, now, intending to give her something to remember later, something to feel as she's stitched into her dress tomorrow.
It wouldn't surprise her to know that he was assuming if he was ready, she was ready. She also didn't doubt that there were women who would be frightened at the sudden force of his desires. Her ultimatum to him would likely be one of the few times that a non Targaryen, even more a non royal, had kept him from satisfying his urges. That fact alone left her more than aware how matters might run.
On the same hand, she didn't exactly feel bothered by it. She had her means of safeguarding her interests and she was proud enough to keep from cowering. It did just occur to her that her father might have been warning her from more than Daemon's ambitions.
The bite makes her flush, but it seems a glimmer pleasure peeks through the pain. Her grip is tight on his hair, ready to act more harshly if he ever slipped out of control. Wouldn't that be what the men outside wanted to hear? The screams of a maid confronted with her husband's sword.
"What I want is to learn how to ride the dragon before being tossed into his bowels."
Fine, then. Daemon has considered himself almost excessively patient in this, and if she does not want to take advantage of that kindness, he'll avail her of it. He bears down on her again, teeth on her throat, his hands moving her legs into place, aligning their hips.
"I think I'll ride you first." Though if his wife is so interested in pleasing him, there are other methods to try at later dates. For now, he'll take his pleasure with this little maiden. It's only logical, that he should decide. It only makes sense.
He slides himself inside her, achingly slow. His hand finds the breast he bit, squeezing it, and his eyes drink her in. Again, he's stopped by curiosity. What will she do? How will she react?
With maidens, he loves this moment, and he fully intends to see it in full.
He was never a surprise to her, even in the times that she hoped to be wearing him down as well. Whether Rhea Royce was faced with this eventuality or not was something that Alicent would have to wonder. It wasn't such an uncommon prospect for a woman to have to sort out her husband's patience and how far it extended. Given that she had spent the night terrorized by one male in her life, she wasn't about to let another do the same. She wished to be eased into things and if Daemon Targaryen needed harsh reminders not to push her too far, she was happy to give it to him.
She fell back against the pillow, almost seeming as if she yielded, her hair spread red and gold behind her. Her hand reached under the cushion and tore out the dagger he gifted her. The pillow ripped in the process, feathers floating down around them like snow from the North. The tip of the blade was pressed to his throat. Her face was rather calm and cold. She was staring in the face of dangerous lessons and she didn't balk. A trickle of blood slid from her cuticles down her finger, mimicking the spots of blood gathering between her thighs.
"No," her voice was soft. Was there a bit of madness in that calm demeanor? It was a dark expression all the same. "You will teach me, not force me." This was a risk, a bit of lunacy. Daemon Targaryen was known to geld rapists and take the hands of thieves. Her she was, pointing a blade at him and could well be dead in a moment.
She learned her lesson in the alcove, that she should never yield so completely but push back with her own desires. Dragons chose their riders and there could never be fear at the approach. Fire had to meet fire and, as she said, she needs thicker scales.
Perhaps predictably, this only furthered his ardor. He took her wrist, bent it harshly back against the pillows. He's glad, in a distant, hungry way, to see she kept the blade. Gladder still to see her make her wishes known. He feels like he's unleashed something in her, luring a creature out from the demure excuses she'd used before. He wants to nurture that, nearly as much as he wants her mewling beneath him.
He can have both. Nothing inspires patience like a blade to the throat.
Daemon moves his hips back, releasing her from that predicament. At least the sheets are blooded. He means to have them displayed-- a cruel practice, but crueler, he believes, to the father.
Still, he moves closer to her. His hand stays on her breast, the other, still on her wrist with the blade in hand, moves the point over his heart. "It's a puncturing blade," he says. "It does not slash. Far more deadly to cut deep."
She's less shocked that she managed this than when she made her first demand of him. Enough time at his side had shown her that the best way to earn his respect was to surprise him and never defer outright. It was something her father would never have tolerated nor would her brothers allow. A finger could only be picked at so often before finally a callous grew beneath. The anxiety of the night, the heightened tensions of the past week and finally the sear of pain he always seemed to bestow pushed her to this point. It was a strange thing for fear and anxiety to disappear so suddenly. It left her chest feeling like a chasm and in its place was a cold gael.
He pulled back and there isn't so much relief on her face as drawn recognition. He still has hold of her. His hand at her wrist could twist it simply and the blade would fall to the bed, but somehow she suspected that he wouldn't. She was proven right as he guided the tip over his heart. Her eyes broke their locked gaze to study the position of the dagger. One singular thrust and she could bloody the bed. Her brothers would near worship her, the people would hate her and her father-
While her grip remained on the hilt, that momentary idea passed out of her mind. Her father wouldn't be moved, even if she killed Daemon. She had already disappointed him and he would make her work daily to even earn a hint of recognition. All of that approval she chased, all of the seeming love, it was gone and it was unlikely to grow from nothing. Her sail was hitched here now.
Her father wouldn't approve, but it seemed Daemon might.
"Then I would have used it properly at your throat," there's a hint of smile, dark like her eyes. "It's dragonglass?"
"Yes," yes, it's dragonglass, yes, it's better to go for the throat. He leans in to kiss hers, biting as he goes. Everything she has done in this bed has heightened his ardor. She can feel that now, pressed against her hip, and he has no shame in it. He releases her wrist so he can feel more of her body, the softness of her chest, the smooth skin of her back.
"What else," he says, voice thin with want, "do you wish to be taught?"
There was a noticeable shift in how he touched her now. There were bites, but she had made clear that she enjoyed that long before. Now he was at least exploring her body, touching and gentling her, as if she was the one needed the whip every now and then. So long as he didn't get ahead of her, he would find her more welcoming than before. She shifted, lifting one of her legs to rest against his hip, letting him press his desire closer.
It was a risk, but she let go of the dagger, letting it fall back against the pillow. Another drift of feathers came at the sudden shift of weight. She would need a new pillow when the night was through.
The question was a simple one, "Teach me where to touch and how to move. Gently." For now, at least. A pony needed to trot before it could gallop.
Daemon feels hot blood in his veins, inflamed to a roiling passion from all this waiting, this stopping and starting. His voice is somewhere between anger and desire, and all rushed, as he breathes it into the nape of her neck. "I ought to have had you in the small councilroom. You wouldn't have made me wait, then."
Does he believe it, is it a threat or an acknowledgement? It doesn't matter. He isn't thinking nearly as tactically as he prefers. So close to something he wants, his patience and control disappears.
He ruts against her leg while he bites at her. Tomorrow, she will be mottled in his bruises, and that brings him another sort of satisfaction.
"No matter what is done, there will be pain," he says. "The first few times, at least." It's what he's always been told, and what he's never been given reason to disbelieve.
His hand finds her thighs again, moving up and into her. It's more gentle now, almost teasing. "I can bring you to the end beforehand. That will hurt less."
But where to touch and how to move? Her duty is to lie back. Surely she knows that. Maybe later... No, he ought to tell her. Clearly, no one else has. "When you've more experience, I'll do more with you. Now, it would only pain you."
"You had your chance in that moment, you chose to waste it." The heightened tension between them made her feel bolder, even if she was dancing near the mouth of the volcano. She had reached the limits of pushing him. Even as he ruts against her leg, she can feel his muscles are coiled, some type of restraint that her dagger had instructed.
Her neck felt sort, but it was a good sore, one that she found herself arching for. It didn't so much matter if there were bruises the next day. It was expected that there be signs of the wedding night, whether on the sheets or otherwise. There would be tittering, comments and a few japes made, but they would subside in time.
No one has told her any of this. After her mother died, there was no one to do act in such a way. Only being at court allowed her exposure to the subject and idea. It wasn't as if she hadn't walked past a couple in the midst of pleasure late during a banquet. It could well have been Daemon, for all that she remembers. After awhile, it was a sight you were bound to come across, like a man urinating against the well.
He's more gentle this time, though and pain pleasure didn't seem to frighten her. It was that she wanted his attention and concern. A man so focused on what he wanted, she wasn't being dismissed during the night. It seemed to at least been settled. He might not teach her what to do, but he didn't laugh at her. He simply explained what she needed to understand about this first time.
"I want my pleasure of it too." She reminded him, shifting her thighs from his hold so they could wrap around his waist.
"I'm not some bore," he says between kisses, between bites, "who doesn't care for that. But more pleasure will come in time."
He massages her cunt, and it's more forceful, focused. He wants to get her blood up as well. She was anticipating this, the last time they were together, when he nearly fucked her against a wall. He'll get her there again, and he reckons she won't be so hasty. He slips fingers in and out of her, presses the heel of he hand against her, letting pressure mount.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tldrrrrrr.
A new bed is bought and assembled in the prince's wing, to much tittering and gossip from the servants. The thing is massive: a new fashion from across the sea, Daemon says, but really, he wants it to be so noticeable in its placement and construction that Otto Hightower cannot miss it. If it is also very comfortable, very spacious, to sleep and fuck in, all the better.
The rumors, as they currently stand, include no whispers of the girl's maidenhead being taken the night of the engagement fete. Coincidentally, Rondra the laundress is promoted to Alicent's personal laundress, overseeing only the cleaning and mending of one lady's clothes, instead of half the castles. Daemon enjoys tests, and Rondra passed hers.
Much thought is put into what to give a bride. He wants to accomplish several things at once-- to give an image of devotion to his wife, to give her the proper respect her position demands in this moment, and to amuse himself. He consults his own little council of advisors on this matter-- a maid in his employ, a jeweler, and Mysaria.
Since the agreement was made, to set aside his mistress, he has only had her once in parting. They no longer see each other face to face. But Alicent never said he could never speak to the woman again, and her mind is an invaluable asset. Mysaria writes encoded missives detailing rumors and reports, but also fashions and fancies ladies are known to have. She also gives advice for how best to treat a woman on her wedding night, which Daemon finds quite comical; the woman has never had a wedding, and likely never will. Out of affection, or maybe respect, he does not chide her.
On the morning of her wedding, Alicent is presented with finely tailored kidskin gloves that fit perfectly to her hand. They reach up to the elbow in a fashion that is somewhat outmoded, but Daemon suspects wearing them smartly, with the right outfit, may bring the fashion back again. She has also given a heavy necklace made from polished green dragonglass, the pieces interlocking together in the shape of dragons, one head eating the next. A small dagger is also presented to her, made with the same dragonglass, gleaming in emerald. It is small enough to be hidden beneath petticoats and whittled sharply down to a fine and subtle point. A wax seal is presented, in the shape of the Hightower crest, except the tower is a dragon's head, mouth open, fire spitting out. Last, two keys are presented in a small paper box, clearly well-worn things that have seen real use.
No note is included. Alicent will know who the gifts are from. If not all of their meanings are obvious, she will gather them in time.
The ceremony is lavish. It is also very long. Daemon is deadly bored through most of it. But it is a Targaryen wedding, so it is outdoors, so Caraxes may attend. He sits lazily behind the officiant, an aged septon drones on about faith and love and duty and reconciliation. Daemon's major amusement, through the ceremony, is to grin at the bride's brothers, who stand by, waiting for their father to appear and give the girl away.
He does. In the end, Ser Otto Hightower walks down the line of spectators, and takes the Hightower cloak off Alicent's back. Daemon replaces it with a Targaryen one, finely embroidered in blood-red thread. He does not break eye contact with Otto as he does it.
But then his attentions are on Alicent. The Septon speaks a little more, but this is a Targaryen wedding, and those are special affairs. The King takes over, and pronounces them wed, their houses joined, under blood and fire.
A pin is used to prick a bit of blood from the lips of both participants, and Daemon, bloody-mouthed, whispers dracarys. He kisses is bride with flame just feet above their heads, blood on his tongue.
love it
There were threats, discussions about possibly sending her back to Old Town in secret or even induct her as a Silent Sister. He'd be more than willing to lose a valuable pawn than to let Daemon Targaryen debauch her. Alicent kept her silence, allowing herself to be pushed about, wary of the waves that sought to pull her into an undertow.
Perhaps there was some level of guilt. She had avoided Rhaenyra of late, remembering that her dear friend had shown a level of interest in her uncle. They had their secrets and it was clear she was a bit enamored with them. Now Alicent was set to marry him and it made matters awkward between them. Beyond that, what happened that night at the fete pushed against her deeply ingrained sense of duty and propriety, the strict morals and behaviors she had followed since young.
She loved what they did, but now the guilt was as heavy as a cloak. She reread the Pointed Star, she spoke to her Maester several times about proper behavior. At night though, her fingers teased between her legs, thinking of all they did.
The night before the wedding, she was nearly hurried secretly into a carriage, though the destination was not told to her. It was only when one of Otto's spies raced to his side and whispered in his ear that Otto relented. There was some reason that he could not follow through.
That he even gave her a way was remarkable. He muttered under his breath the whole time, reminding her to tell her all she learned about the prince before handing her over. The dragon leaves her nervous, the fire dangerous but inviting. Once the kiss is done, she licks her lips, tasting the blood left there.
"Dracarys," she murmurs back.
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As they make their procession back to the castle for the wedding feast, the smallfolk cheer. Daemon throws gold and flowers from side of the carriage. The coins are all stamped with the sigil on Alicent's new seal: the dragon's head, pointing upward, breathing Hightower flames. The meaning, he hopes, is obvious to her.
It's too loud, too public, for them to talk of anything meaningful. He encourages her to throw coins as well, to point and cheer, to make herself known. Daemon steals kisses from her at certain points, and they are patently all for show. The crowd begins to cheer each time; he trusts, at this point, that she can see what he's doing.
And if he pauses, struck still, when they pass one woman gazing at him through the crowd, dark eyes full of longing, well. Does Alicent even know what Myseria looks like? It doesn't matter, if one smile out of a hundred, is genuine.
The feast is another lavish affair, stuffed with food and dancers, all manner of entertainment. Daemon and Alicent sit at the head, and Daemon continues to steal kisses, though these are longer, more languid and far less proper. Now is the time for it; some level of lust is expected. That it is once again in full view of Ser Otto is grand, but more importantly, it sells the story that this is a love match, or at least one of lust, as much as it is strategic. From Rhea, Daemon has gotten the reputation that he was cold toward a wife; he will not make the same mistake twice.
The truth is in what can't be easily seen. Beneath the table, Daemon's hand rarely leaves Alicent's knee, her hip.
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During the feast, Alicent takes it upon herself to keep wine from her glass and Daemon's, quickly putting her hand over the rim. It might seem as if she were controlling him, doing her best to keep his lusts free from influence, but the color and smell, it left her feeling queasy. The others nearby drank heartily, but they had their own servers, not sharing the same wine as the couple.
All of this heightened anxiety keeps her from behaving as amorously as she would like. If her father was thwarted, he'd find another way to remove Alicent from Daemon's side. She couldn't pick at her fingers as she wanted, the gloves concealing the work she had done earlier that day. There was no outlet for her fear and she could only pray to the Seven that the feast would pass quickly without incident.
She feels his hand at her knee and sometimes at her hip. She shivers, feeling the heat of him even through her gown. She wished she could be more attentive and yielding, but each time a servant approached Daemon, that bolt of fear returned.
"Have one of your men check our room." Were the sheets new? Had they been out of anyone's sight? Servants and men came and went, leaving the possibility open that somewhere, there might be some trace of poison waiting for them.
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He breaks it with a turn of his head, pretending to whisper sweetness into her ear. "What do you expect him to find? And laugh when we break away."
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Her ability to plot and scheme were still showing her to be a novice. She was unfamiliar with poisons, the sort used and the most deadly. She was left to try and defend against what might be a possibility. There were stories about poisoned sheets, scorpions in the bed, Tears of Lys in the wine or food. But those had only been stories.
Rondra had washed her clothes twice and locked her nightdress and other silks in her chest, keeping the key on her person. It was the only comfort Alicent had for the coming night. All else, she had no defense but to try and guess ahead of what might be done.
She did as he said and laughed lightly, touching her neckline as though she were flustered by his lusts. There was fear in her eyes, at least cast away from the crowd so they couldn't see.
"Something happened last night."
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Though his eyes follow her when they break away, curiosity mingles with concern. What is Otto planning? What a lovely thought, to catch the man in the act, have him strung up for it and still take his daughter. At this point, he'd have to; he's staked too much on the alliance, and grown too fond of the girl.
Even if they don't catch him, he'll still have to see his daughter grow fat at court with a dragon in her belly. He has so much to look forward to.
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Alicent turned her eyes downcast, assuming a demure demeanor. It would look as though she were shyly conversing with her husband, coyly anticipating the coming night. Her voice was strained though, tightened by emotion. "I was near sent away. When I was to be put in the carriage, a servant appeared and whispered in my father's ear. He stopped the plans and sent me back to my room." It might appear to be innocuous to others, but certainly Daemon could recognize why she was afraid? Why she believed something might happen.
"He's relented too easily."
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"If there is trouble, Cerdyc will find it," he says. The man is technically his cousin, some generations removed.
Daemon finally pulls away, gesturing for another servant. Their food is replaced, and one of the court fools-- Daemon's favorite, a dancing girl named Shandy who would be effortlessly beautiful if not for her face-- begins a play of tasting their food before they eat it, drinking their wine before they partake. She swoons and pretends to get drunk, picks at the food like a crow, and it gets a laugh from everyone, including Daemon.
But he doesn't touch anything until well after Shandy has already tried it.
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Where she had been near frantic to defend against whatever might have been planned, she missed the subtleties of the night that she was now only growing aware of. Various men visited her father's and brothers at their table, many a low toned conversation happened, but it was hard to say what might be sinister and what was more likely business. Laena Velaryon was placed in the King's presence more than once. Now that one potential marriage candidate was gone, another House seized eagerly on taking Alicent's place. Without a companion by her side, Rhaenyra seemed a bit more lost in thought, though nearing the end of the night, Laena was seated by the princess and the two were happily chatting. Apparently Laena Velaryon would soon be subject to what once was or what might have been Alicent's.
Alicent felt far more languid by the third glass of wine that when the shout came up, 'It's time to put the bride to bed!' she never noticed her brothers and father had long since departed. The sudden convalescing of the men towards her earned laughter and hoots. Her nails went instinctively towards her fingers but found only cloth in its place.
Dark hair leaned closer to her, murmuring near her ear, "I will vouchsafe your modesty, my lady." Alicent glanced up, only half remembering Criston Cole from the tournament, now dressed in the attire of a King's Guard. He looked at her sincerely, perhaps assuming she was afraid what might be done? Or it might well have been kindness? After so long with Daemon, she was looking for secondary motives almost by instinct. "I won't let any take untoward advantages."
It was the earnestness of it that was touching, one of the few genuine kindnesses of the evening, where most had been spent in hurried anticipation for what her father would do.
Corlys Velaryon and Tyland Lannister lifted her over the table and into the waiting hands of the crowd. One shoe fell by the wayside, then a stocking was flung in the air, her glove followed and the laces to the back of her gown. There were japes, ribald comments and a few eager eyes that tried to see as much as they could of her. Ser Criston kept his word though and each time a hand strayed far too close to some intimate part of her or someone tried to pull both dress and shift from her body, he was quick to shove their arm away. By the time she was in the wedding chamber, she was left in a shift, but no other compromising situation.
Alicent slipped beneath the covers of the bed, noticing the smell of lavender and mint beneath the sheets. Her eyes darted towards Rhondra, either she had seen that the coverlets were changed moments ago or Cerdyc had seen to it himself.
'Here comes the bridegroom!' The shout went up.
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Rhaenyra just rolls her eyes.
Among the crowd, Cerdyc has time to whisper in his ear, that the Hightowers have all left, and nothing could be found in the bed. Daemon directs him to watch out of sight, and keep a crowd close. If something is to happen, he wants witnesses.
So when Daemon arrives in only his braes, and the doors are closed behind him, many drunken voices can still be heard on the other side of it. All have lewd suggestions, the tamest of which involves the words mount her like a stallion.
Daemon slips into bed next to his bride. "I think I'll save that for tomorrow night," he says, and his aim is to charm. He does not want a fevered, fearful bride, however much there is to fear. He moves close to her, enwrapping her in an embrace he means means her to find comforting, just as another drunken suggestion comes through the door.
"Cerdyc found nothing suspicious, but had the sheets changed anyway. He is watching nearby-- with his back turned, don't worry." He kisses Alicent, soft and comforting, though she can surely feel his cock hardening against her leg. Tonight, it seems, is to be a thing of contrasts. "You can scream, if you like, or moan. It will entertain the crowd."
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The embrace is a level of gentleness that she didn't expect from Daemon Targaryen, especially not this night. He was never a brute, but putting her mind at ease seemed as if it would be a boring task. There were other things to look forward to and while he hadn't wanted to plan the wedding, he had enjoyed the night far more than anyone. "If nothing interrupts the night, then we will be able to rest. He doesn't want to risk a dragon in my belly." Which was why she thought poisoned sheets would be the most likely response. Kill him or them both before any act was done.
She does feel him against her and knows well how patient he's been for this. With no mistress or whore and only the memory of that secret room, he was likely more than eager. After so much anxious waiting, she needed to be freed from her tightly coiled state. "I'm not about to scream," she gave him a pointed look. "I'll make you scream first."
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Daemon slips a hand under her shift, drawing it up high enough to palm at her chest, then higher. Soon, he has his mouth at her breast, kissing and biting. "I'll just have to make you moan, then."
One hand finds the small of her back, to keep her in place. The other works, slowly but diligently, between her legs. Yes, Daemon thinks of his pleasure first, and there are times he has used sex to dominate more than pleasure his partner. Alicent Hightower, however, is a highborn lady, and she requires more patience, at least on the first night. More than that, this is an aliance that could easily sour over personal pain. But most of all? He has seen her when she moaned and mewled for him; he wants to see that again.
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He seemed to remember where she had liked being touched before. His fingers fell back to the places she had shown him the night of their fete, as though he hadn't forgotten each curve of her and every soft turn of skin. It was no so frenzied or hurried as that night, which could be because of a number of reasons. It would mean questioning Daemon's motives and she wasn't in the frame of mind to truly do that. Instead, she shut her eyes as he kissed and bit at her breasts. Her hips rocked as they could against his attentions. While she wasn't expected to know or do anything, she still offered gestures all the same. A hand tangling in his hair and tugging harshly at the scalp. The other running up and over his lengths, following the path up his back and scratching his skin there in encouragement.
He would earn hearing her moan and mewl, just as she would earn his groans in return.
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He pulls back, freeing himself of his braes, practically ripping Alicent's shift off. "So this is what you want?" He bites at her breast, now, intending to give her something to remember later, something to feel as she's stitched into her dress tomorrow.
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On the same hand, she didn't exactly feel bothered by it. She had her means of safeguarding her interests and she was proud enough to keep from cowering. It did just occur to her that her father might have been warning her from more than Daemon's ambitions.
The bite makes her flush, but it seems a glimmer pleasure peeks through the pain. Her grip is tight on his hair, ready to act more harshly if he ever slipped out of control. Wouldn't that be what the men outside wanted to hear? The screams of a maid confronted with her husband's sword.
"What I want is to learn how to ride the dragon before being tossed into his bowels."
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"I think I'll ride you first." Though if his wife is so interested in pleasing him, there are other methods to try at later dates. For now, he'll take his pleasure with this little maiden. It's only logical, that he should decide. It only makes sense.
He slides himself inside her, achingly slow. His hand finds the breast he bit, squeezing it, and his eyes drink her in. Again, he's stopped by curiosity. What will she do? How will she react?
With maidens, he loves this moment, and he fully intends to see it in full.
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She fell back against the pillow, almost seeming as if she yielded, her hair spread red and gold behind her. Her hand reached under the cushion and tore out the dagger he gifted her. The pillow ripped in the process, feathers floating down around them like snow from the North. The tip of the blade was pressed to his throat. Her face was rather calm and cold. She was staring in the face of dangerous lessons and she didn't balk. A trickle of blood slid from her cuticles down her finger, mimicking the spots of blood gathering between her thighs.
"No," her voice was soft. Was there a bit of madness in that calm demeanor? It was a dark expression all the same. "You will teach me, not force me." This was a risk, a bit of lunacy. Daemon Targaryen was known to geld rapists and take the hands of thieves. Her she was, pointing a blade at him and could well be dead in a moment.
She learned her lesson in the alcove, that she should never yield so completely but push back with her own desires. Dragons chose their riders and there could never be fear at the approach. Fire had to meet fire and, as she said, she needs thicker scales.
"Do you hear me?"
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He can have both. Nothing inspires patience like a blade to the throat.
Daemon moves his hips back, releasing her from that predicament. At least the sheets are blooded. He means to have them displayed-- a cruel practice, but crueler, he believes, to the father.
Still, he moves closer to her. His hand stays on her breast, the other, still on her wrist with the blade in hand, moves the point over his heart. "It's a puncturing blade," he says. "It does not slash. Far more deadly to cut deep."
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He pulled back and there isn't so much relief on her face as drawn recognition. He still has hold of her. His hand at her wrist could twist it simply and the blade would fall to the bed, but somehow she suspected that he wouldn't. She was proven right as he guided the tip over his heart. Her eyes broke their locked gaze to study the position of the dagger. One singular thrust and she could bloody the bed. Her brothers would near worship her, the people would hate her and her father-
While her grip remained on the hilt, that momentary idea passed out of her mind. Her father wouldn't be moved, even if she killed Daemon. She had already disappointed him and he would make her work daily to even earn a hint of recognition. All of that approval she chased, all of the seeming love, it was gone and it was unlikely to grow from nothing. Her sail was hitched here now.
Her father wouldn't approve, but it seemed Daemon might.
"Then I would have used it properly at your throat," there's a hint of smile, dark like her eyes. "It's dragonglass?"
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"What else," he says, voice thin with want, "do you wish to be taught?"
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It was a risk, but she let go of the dagger, letting it fall back against the pillow. Another drift of feathers came at the sudden shift of weight. She would need a new pillow when the night was through.
The question was a simple one, "Teach me where to touch and how to move. Gently." For now, at least. A pony needed to trot before it could gallop.
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Does he believe it, is it a threat or an acknowledgement? It doesn't matter. He isn't thinking nearly as tactically as he prefers. So close to something he wants, his patience and control disappears.
He ruts against her leg while he bites at her. Tomorrow, she will be mottled in his bruises, and that brings him another sort of satisfaction.
"No matter what is done, there will be pain," he says. "The first few times, at least." It's what he's always been told, and what he's never been given reason to disbelieve.
His hand finds her thighs again, moving up and into her. It's more gentle now, almost teasing. "I can bring you to the end beforehand. That will hurt less."
But where to touch and how to move? Her duty is to lie back. Surely she knows that. Maybe later... No, he ought to tell her. Clearly, no one else has. "When you've more experience, I'll do more with you. Now, it would only pain you."
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Her neck felt sort, but it was a good sore, one that she found herself arching for. It didn't so much matter if there were bruises the next day. It was expected that there be signs of the wedding night, whether on the sheets or otherwise. There would be tittering, comments and a few japes made, but they would subside in time.
No one has told her any of this. After her mother died, there was no one to do act in such a way. Only being at court allowed her exposure to the subject and idea. It wasn't as if she hadn't walked past a couple in the midst of pleasure late during a banquet. It could well have been Daemon, for all that she remembers. After awhile, it was a sight you were bound to come across, like a man urinating against the well.
He's more gentle this time, though and pain pleasure didn't seem to frighten her. It was that she wanted his attention and concern. A man so focused on what he wanted, she wasn't being dismissed during the night. It seemed to at least been settled. He might not teach her what to do, but he didn't laugh at her. He simply explained what she needed to understand about this first time.
"I want my pleasure of it too." She reminded him, shifting her thighs from his hold so they could wrap around his waist.
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He massages her cunt, and it's more forceful, focused. He wants to get her blood up as well. She was anticipating this, the last time they were together, when he nearly fucked her against a wall. He'll get her there again, and he reckons she won't be so hasty. He slips fingers in and out of her, presses the heel of he hand against her, letting pressure mount.
"Does this make it better?"
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