Were the men of the court so easy to entertain? She could feel Daemon preening a bit against her, always a lover of adulation, either in the lists or apparently during this. Hearing cheers and encouragement, little surprise he doesn't have a number of wives. Her father said that Daemon was doomed to be a second Maegor. He shouldn't have suggested such a thing, out of Maegor's many wives, the first was a Hightower.
She gives a sudden hiss, only realizing as his tongue traced her neck that some of his bites had broken the skin. It was such a familiar feeling, like when cold water splashed on her fingers, telling her how much damage she had done. This wasn't so different, but one was born from anxiety, the other from pleasure. Someone's pleasure, at least.
In this position, giving moans and cries, one might naturally wonder what it was like if there was genuine love, but the idea seemed even more ridiculous than performing for this crowd. It was possible love could be a dull thing. Without the push and pull between she and Daemon, would she learn so quickly how to react to his changes of mood? Of course, he had his own love before, as much as he's capable of.
A strange thing that he was expected to be her world's center, but when this night was over, she would soon cease to be his. There was something pitiful about that.
His teeth find a new spot on her neck and it manages to make her cry out again, having not expected the switch from tongue to teeth. There was another cheer, a few hoots and whistles as well.
It only speeds him on. His control is breaking, but as his movements become more frenzied, he doesn't forget her request. The dagger has imbued itself into his mind, a sharpness he'll never forget. Would she like to cut him, in bed? A question for later, when she's had more experience.
There is so much to cultivate, in this woman. Her cunning, her ambition, and apparently her ardor.
He works his hand between her thighs in rhythm with his cock, the stuttering of his hips. "I want to hear you," he pants into her skin, "say my name."
And, if those on the other side of the door hear it, well, so much the better for both their reputations.
As his movements become harsher and more quick, one of her hands trails back to her pillow, touching the hilt of the dagger with her finger tips. The quicker he moved, the more she responded and the more she touched the dagger. There was comfort in it, not for protection, but how easily she wielded it. It might well be the same power he felt holding Dark Sister. Had he considered that in gifting this to her? She would like to imagine so, but it was never wise to do more than guess at Daemon's intentions.
Performance began ease away as his hand kept rhythm with his hips. She was able to thick less clearly as his speed increased and his control was lost. Still, he kept touching her, moving her along with him. Between wine and his efforts, there wasn't much shame or inhibition to think of. The sounds of the other men ebbed away as her ears started to ring. Only on occasion did she notice a pounding on the door, but that could well be the sound of her blood rushing.
She craned her head, pressing her lips to his ear and murmured: "Daemon. Targaryen." She enunciated each word.
Her breath is shaky, but she will oblige him further, gives another cry and his name is quick to follow. "Daemon!"
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."
For all the todo the men outside of the door made, one would think that he'd killed a giant. She wouldn't think Daemon's request pathetic, but she did have to wonder about these other men. They acted as if they were the one deflowering a maiden. Tomorrow, she would be left to her own devices, as often happens to newly married women, while the men would drink and recount their experiences during the night.
Alicent shifted a little under his weight, feeling the sore state he'd left her neck in. She released the hilt of the dagger, reaching over to run her fingers against the lenth of her neck. Only a bit of pierced flesh, but the constant worrying by his teeth would see she was turned black and blue by the morning. Unless Rhaenyra came by, no one else would really see it outside of the servants.
Gently, she eases her legs back down to the mattress from his hips, wincing a little at her aching body. Now at least they could sleep more easily. Nothing had stopped the marriage from being consummated.
"They won't stand outside the doors all night, will they?"
She moves away; he draws her back into his arms. He likes the smallness of her, this little woman, the contrast between their bodies. "They'll leave," he murmurs, dreamily. "I can send someone to collect them, if it bothers you."
He yawns before settling his head down on her wounded shoulder, adding insult to injury. "I'll need a few hours, anyway."
Without any noise for a few hours, they would like grow bored anyway and would go off to search for women of their own. She didn't protest being drawn back against him. With only a torn pillow, it would have been another uncomfortable rest, not that she pictured having much sleep tonight to begin with. So long as this wasn't an oft repeated exhibition, she could manage the men outside the room and the destroyed cushion.
When she finally did get her hot bath in the morning, she gladly sinks into the water, her body aching and sore, painted with different bites and bruises. At the very least, Rhondra doesn't seem disconcerted by her appearance, only asking if the night was easy for her with a bit of a smile. Appearing in court with a high collared gown would likely only set people talking, letting them guess what she was hiding, so Alicent remains in the prince's section of the castle. Her own rooms, while not as grand or nice, had at least been decorated comfortably for her with blues and greens, as well as with a seat by the windows so she could read.
It is the place that she likes to return to in the coming months. The early days of their marriage long over, the court shifts their attention from one sort of excitement to another. Hardly a surprise for Alicent, it is announced that Rhaenyra is to marry soon. The council would be locked in debate for awhile over who the bridegroom should be, but there were bets being made almost immediately, with most taking the odds on the Velaryons. Her father's hand is in this, she's certain of it. To offset Daemon's own ambitions, Rhaenyra would be ushered into a marriage bed of her own.
With a household of her own, it doesn't bother Alicent to consider very much what Daemon might be doing or that the days of his promise to her near ending. She's followed his lead, taking that lesson of how to win loyalty to heart. Rhondra has been given a closer position to Alicent, overseeing her staff. She now even has a group of girls to oversee, training them to be laundresses. They had been found among a few starving families in Flea Bottom, granting them an education, regular pay and food. Rhondra's cousin is made Alicent's tailor, making several new styles of gown (all with convenient high necks) for her to wear. She made certain to visit the city often, patronizing local merchants and shops. Whenever she returns home, she has fresh pastry or a new book or silks. Local poets and singers are encouraged to see the Princess Alicent. Those that can please her with music or verse earn a pretty purse, but those that manage to surprise her, they receive a place in her household.
It's an easy existence, suiting her ambitions. The people always cheered the Targaryens, but now a Hightower was earning the same sort of love and esteem. The court as well paid her more mind. From among House Hightower's liege lords, Alicent had collected a number of young women to act as her handmaidens and companions. Brought to court and placed at her side, these women were like to soon become prized matches for the gentry. Their families would now be grateful to her as would their husband's families, when the time came.
Along with these women at her side, Ser Criston Cole often came to visit. There is never a day he doesn't bring her flowers or a book he thought she might like. In suitable company, the pair will sit together in the gardens or in her adjoining rooms and talk. Rumor about the court is that he is far more attentive to the Princess Alicent than to the king, while Mushroom had a far more colorful descriptor of this friendship. It was well known, after all, that she had 'tended' to King Jaehaerys in his final days, that she had 'comforted' King Viserys, and 'seen to the needs' of Prince Daemon. It is a surprise for the dwarf to see the maid move from Dragon to King's Guard, but his opinion of Alicent has never been very high.
There is other talk as well, more interesting than Alicent's life or another wedding. Many whisper that Daemon Targaryen isn't content at court and is planning some other move to fulfill his ambitions. The Hand's daughter can only offer so much, but she can't grant a crown. What has left many surprised is that Corlys Velaryon, who preferred a steadier course than chaos, had idled many late hours in Daemon's company. Whatever they plan, whatever they discuss, it was enough to keep the prince occupied in the Red Keep longer than any thought possible.
Certainly he would be back in Flea Bottom again after his first night with his wife?
Daemon does not spend every day doting on his wife, but he does come to her bed often, nearly nightly, for the first month. He fully intends to get her with child as quickly as possible-- a promise is a little like a challenge, one he means to win. More than that, rumors will blame him, if his second marriage bears no fruit.
He expresses some pleasure, in the time afterward, of his wife's choices, of how she courts the people's interests. "I said you would have to do the same on Dragonstone," he says, still idly pawing at her body. "But we may soon be going elsewhere."
She brushed away his hands lazily, more amused than dismissing his still voracious attentions. The rumors about what he and Lord Corlys had in common were intriguing. Had he asked her, she wouldn't deny that she's listened to a few of the council meetings, trying to see if this friendship that's developed extended that far as well. There was no clear signs nor indication in the council meetings what was in mind.
Much like the rest of the court, she had to wait for Daemon to reveal what was brewing in his mind.
Alicent peered at him with uncertainty. "Elsewhere?" That seemed strange. Dragonstone or court were what she always sensed he enjoyed. It was where his favorite amusements were, particularly needling her father as much as possible. He didn't mean Driftmark? "Were we exiled?"
Again, he drags her closer to him. He likes the feel of her body, has grown accustomed to its shape against his. There isn't often reason for him to rise from her bed into his-- especially if he can manage to have her more than once a night, something he tries as often as possible.
"Driftmark? You'll have your own rooms, of course. Ones befitting a... queen."
She has done her best to try and not grow used to him in her bed or come to enjoy the feel of him next to her. She's tried to keep from sleeping better when he's in the room or becoming amused with how often he pulled her back to him. If she did, she might admit that she preferred being the first in his desires or that she wanted her husband to like her more than an alliance.
Hadn't he told her he wanted to be king?
The tips of her fingers traced over various scars on his skin, knowing well that more would soon be added. No crown was ever won without blood. "Where do you mean to find a crown?"
His hand idly runs up her side, trying to find her chest again. "You'll have rooms at Dragonstone as well, of course, but it's easier to go from one to the other by dragon, and..."
He knows how she feels about riding dragonback, and will indulge her up until it becomes dangerous or unwieldy. But he doesn't think a babe could survive the travel, and- his hand slides lower, to her belly. "How goes your private work? I've heard women can know very early."
She wasn't certain what to make of that boast. It never seemed as if he had much interest in the actual running of a kingdom. Much like her own worries about his interest in her, the kingdom would fall by the wayside the moment his attentions shifted elsewhere. It would eventually bore him to be a king.
Or so she told herself. It was one matter to talk of a thing, but another to make it a reality.
His hand moved to her belly and she knew the question to come. She bit at her finger, tearing the cuticle. "I don't know." It wasn't an answer he'd like. "I've been tired more and Rhondra said that could be a sign, but it might that you never let me sleep." Without a mother, she could only rely on Rhondra and Rhaenyra to help her interpret the signs.
"I will know soon." It was near time for her flower to bloom. That sign she knew.
Where else could there be an opportunity for chaos? Essos was largely self sustaining with their various government systems, all infinitely more complicated than Alicent was prepared for. Much of her history had been focused in Westeros. There were the Stepstones, but she knew very little about that area as well.
"Why leave Westeros?" She asked him directly. "I thought you were satisfied here?"
She gave a huff of laughter. "I don't know how that's possible. You wake me one or two times a night."
"You're thinking too small," he says, but his attention is mostly on her body, not her mind. He moves his hand the way he's learned she likes. "Don't let me distract you."
"You haven't answered my question," she retorted. The Targaryens had a habit of doing that with her, apparently. "You've always seemed to prefer Dragonstone and Flea Bottom." It wasn't only that which had her uneasy. A new crown, seized through conquest in an already conflict prone area seemed unwise. When they did have a son, she had no wish for him to be ushered out of the kingdom hurriedly, afraid he'd be killed if he doesn't take the throne.
He was trying to change the subject, something else he seemed to do quite a bit. "I'm serious."
"Don't you want to figure it out yourself?" He kisses her shoulder, the one purple-green with bruises and bites. "I prefer the places that benefit me. Us."
Benefit him. Daemon never failed to make his priorities known. "I have no desire to see my children fight for their inheritance and seizing a crown means they might have to continually." She at least knew that much from history.
Despite her irritation, she still turned her head for more of his bites.
A dark laugh, pressed into her skin. "Alicent, you married a second son. They were always going to have to fight. Better when they're too young to pick up the sword."
"I was born to a second son, I know the struggle, but I hoped that at least having some royal blood would guarantee them a place. If Rhaenyra has a daughter and we a son, our son could be on the throne of Westeros?" It's a small hope, one born from a girl not yet seasoned to warfare and not yet a mother. Idealistic dreams were the task of young girls, even those who grew up at court.
"Does this mean I will be left on Dragonstone or Driftmark while you sail off to win your empire?"
Daemon groans and turns away from her on the bed. It's rather similar to the sound a child makes when he is asked to explain before he can play with his toys. Anyone making the comparison would lose a hand.
"I save you from having to bed a man over thrice your age, give you a wing of a royal palace to do whatever you wish, come to you nightly with interest, set aside a decades long alliance, all for your sake, and you think- what?" He sits up in bed, staring daggers at her. "I did not marry Otto Hightower, I married his daughter."
The childish expression and reaction is not lost on her. There are moments where she wondered if she needed to give him a son. He was child enough for her already. She sat up, pulling the sheets over her body. Since he pulled away, there was a large absence of warmth. His dragon fire was difficult to navigate but comforting to have in bed.
"You save me?" He's glaring at her and she's toeing the line by even retorting at him. "Your highness," it was always better to show him some level of respect before asserting herself. "You speak as if you did not gain a great deal. You 'saving' me has taken away the chance of the king having another child with a young, fertile woman. You were able to humiliate the Hand several times and were allowed to break an unhappy union." Pick, pick, pick. Fresh blood appeared on her cuticle.
She frowned at him, "I'm not Otto Hightower's daughter now, I'm Daemon Targaryen's wife. Forgive me, your highness, if I've displeased you because I worry about the safety of our children."
His words go low, now, hissed out. He doesn't like the thought of being overheard. "You said you were ambitious, but you seem to want it without risk. If you prefer, I can leave you while I carve out a kingdom. Those are your choices, and you should be glad to have any."
She frowned at him, finally climbing out of bed. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you with my concern for my children's lives." But she was ambitious, she knew deep in her heart that she wanted to be the first lady of the realm, that she wanted to reside on Dragonstone and perhaps someday see her child on the throne.
Facing the actual conquest, it was terrifying. It was the cliff she had not yet jumped.
"I'm not Rhea Royce, your highness. You would not be satisfied to have me out of sight. Your kingdom needs me, as you do."
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She gives a sudden hiss, only realizing as his tongue traced her neck that some of his bites had broken the skin. It was such a familiar feeling, like when cold water splashed on her fingers, telling her how much damage she had done. This wasn't so different, but one was born from anxiety, the other from pleasure. Someone's pleasure, at least.
In this position, giving moans and cries, one might naturally wonder what it was like if there was genuine love, but the idea seemed even more ridiculous than performing for this crowd. It was possible love could be a dull thing. Without the push and pull between she and Daemon, would she learn so quickly how to react to his changes of mood? Of course, he had his own love before, as much as he's capable of.
A strange thing that he was expected to be her world's center, but when this night was over, she would soon cease to be his. There was something pitiful about that.
His teeth find a new spot on her neck and it manages to make her cry out again, having not expected the switch from tongue to teeth. There was another cheer, a few hoots and whistles as well.
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There is so much to cultivate, in this woman. Her cunning, her ambition, and apparently her ardor.
He works his hand between her thighs in rhythm with his cock, the stuttering of his hips. "I want to hear you," he pants into her skin, "say my name."
And, if those on the other side of the door hear it, well, so much the better for both their reputations.
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Performance began ease away as his hand kept rhythm with his hips. She was able to thick less clearly as his speed increased and his control was lost. Still, he kept touching her, moving her along with him. Between wine and his efforts, there wasn't much shame or inhibition to think of. The sounds of the other men ebbed away as her ears started to ring. Only on occasion did she notice a pounding on the door, but that could well be the sound of her blood rushing.
She craned her head, pressing her lips to his ear and murmured: "Daemon. Targaryen." She enunciated each word.
Her breath is shaky, but she will oblige him further, gives another cry and his name is quick to follow. "Daemon!"
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He's left there, listless and lingering atop her, lazily kissing at her throat, kneading her breast. "Good girl."
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Alicent shifted a little under his weight, feeling the sore state he'd left her neck in. She released the hilt of the dagger, reaching over to run her fingers against the lenth of her neck. Only a bit of pierced flesh, but the constant worrying by his teeth would see she was turned black and blue by the morning. Unless Rhaenyra came by, no one else would really see it outside of the servants.
Gently, she eases her legs back down to the mattress from his hips, wincing a little at her aching body. Now at least they could sleep more easily. Nothing had stopped the marriage from being consummated.
"They won't stand outside the doors all night, will they?"
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He yawns before settling his head down on her wounded shoulder, adding insult to injury. "I'll need a few hours, anyway."
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When she finally did get her hot bath in the morning, she gladly sinks into the water, her body aching and sore, painted with different bites and bruises. At the very least, Rhondra doesn't seem disconcerted by her appearance, only asking if the night was easy for her with a bit of a smile. Appearing in court with a high collared gown would likely only set people talking, letting them guess what she was hiding, so Alicent remains in the prince's section of the castle. Her own rooms, while not as grand or nice, had at least been decorated comfortably for her with blues and greens, as well as with a seat by the windows so she could read.
It is the place that she likes to return to in the coming months. The early days of their marriage long over, the court shifts their attention from one sort of excitement to another. Hardly a surprise for Alicent, it is announced that Rhaenyra is to marry soon. The council would be locked in debate for awhile over who the bridegroom should be, but there were bets being made almost immediately, with most taking the odds on the Velaryons. Her father's hand is in this, she's certain of it. To offset Daemon's own ambitions, Rhaenyra would be ushered into a marriage bed of her own.
With a household of her own, it doesn't bother Alicent to consider very much what Daemon might be doing or that the days of his promise to her near ending. She's followed his lead, taking that lesson of how to win loyalty to heart. Rhondra has been given a closer position to Alicent, overseeing her staff. She now even has a group of girls to oversee, training them to be laundresses. They had been found among a few starving families in Flea Bottom, granting them an education, regular pay and food. Rhondra's cousin is made Alicent's tailor, making several new styles of gown (all with convenient high necks) for her to wear. She made certain to visit the city often, patronizing local merchants and shops. Whenever she returns home, she has fresh pastry or a new book or silks. Local poets and singers are encouraged to see the Princess Alicent. Those that can please her with music or verse earn a pretty purse, but those that manage to surprise her, they receive a place in her household.
It's an easy existence, suiting her ambitions. The people always cheered the Targaryens, but now a Hightower was earning the same sort of love and esteem. The court as well paid her more mind. From among House Hightower's liege lords, Alicent had collected a number of young women to act as her handmaidens and companions. Brought to court and placed at her side, these women were like to soon become prized matches for the gentry. Their families would now be grateful to her as would their husband's families, when the time came.
Along with these women at her side, Ser Criston Cole often came to visit. There is never a day he doesn't bring her flowers or a book he thought she might like. In suitable company, the pair will sit together in the gardens or in her adjoining rooms and talk. Rumor about the court is that he is far more attentive to the Princess Alicent than to the king, while Mushroom had a far more colorful descriptor of this friendship. It was well known, after all, that she had 'tended' to King Jaehaerys in his final days, that she had 'comforted' King Viserys, and 'seen to the needs' of Prince Daemon. It is a surprise for the dwarf to see the maid move from Dragon to King's Guard, but his opinion of Alicent has never been very high.
There is other talk as well, more interesting than Alicent's life or another wedding. Many whisper that Daemon Targaryen isn't content at court and is planning some other move to fulfill his ambitions. The Hand's daughter can only offer so much, but she can't grant a crown. What has left many surprised is that Corlys Velaryon, who preferred a steadier course than chaos, had idled many late hours in Daemon's company. Whatever they plan, whatever they discuss, it was enough to keep the prince occupied in the Red Keep longer than any thought possible.
Certainly he would be back in Flea Bottom again after his first night with his wife?
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He expresses some pleasure, in the time afterward, of his wife's choices, of how she courts the people's interests. "I said you would have to do the same on Dragonstone," he says, still idly pawing at her body. "But we may soon be going elsewhere."
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Much like the rest of the court, she had to wait for Daemon to reveal what was brewing in his mind.
Alicent peered at him with uncertainty. "Elsewhere?" That seemed strange. Dragonstone or court were what she always sensed he enjoyed. It was where his favorite amusements were, particularly needling her father as much as possible. He didn't mean Driftmark? "Were we exiled?"
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"Driftmark? You'll have your own rooms, of course. Ones befitting a... queen."
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Hadn't he told her he wanted to be king?
The tips of her fingers traced over various scars on his skin, knowing well that more would soon be added. No crown was ever won without blood. "Where do you mean to find a crown?"
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His hand idly runs up her side, trying to find her chest again. "You'll have rooms at Dragonstone as well, of course, but it's easier to go from one to the other by dragon, and..."
He knows how she feels about riding dragonback, and will indulge her up until it becomes dangerous or unwieldy. But he doesn't think a babe could survive the travel, and- his hand slides lower, to her belly. "How goes your private work? I've heard women can know very early."
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She wasn't certain what to make of that boast. It never seemed as if he had much interest in the actual running of a kingdom. Much like her own worries about his interest in her, the kingdom would fall by the wayside the moment his attentions shifted elsewhere. It would eventually bore him to be a king.
Or so she told herself. It was one matter to talk of a thing, but another to make it a reality.
His hand moved to her belly and she knew the question to come. She bit at her finger, tearing the cuticle. "I don't know." It wasn't an answer he'd like. "I've been tired more and Rhondra said that could be a sign, but it might that you never let me sleep." Without a mother, she could only rely on Rhondra and Rhaenyra to help her interpret the signs.
"I will know soon." It was near time for her flower to bloom. That sign she knew.
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His hand moves further down, then. "If that's the case, I'll have to keep tiring you."
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"Why leave Westeros?" She asked him directly. "I thought you were satisfied here?"
She gave a huff of laughter. "I don't know how that's possible. You wake me one or two times a night."
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He was trying to change the subject, something else he seemed to do quite a bit. "I'm serious."
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Despite her irritation, she still turned her head for more of his bites.
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"Does this mean I will be left on Dragonstone or Driftmark while you sail off to win your empire?"
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"I save you from having to bed a man over thrice your age, give you a wing of a royal palace to do whatever you wish, come to you nightly with interest, set aside a decades long alliance, all for your sake, and you think- what?" He sits up in bed, staring daggers at her. "I did not marry Otto Hightower, I married his daughter."
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"You save me?" He's glaring at her and she's toeing the line by even retorting at him. "Your highness," it was always better to show him some level of respect before asserting herself. "You speak as if you did not gain a great deal. You 'saving' me has taken away the chance of the king having another child with a young, fertile woman. You were able to humiliate the Hand several times and were allowed to break an unhappy union." Pick, pick, pick. Fresh blood appeared on her cuticle.
She frowned at him, "I'm not Otto Hightower's daughter now, I'm Daemon Targaryen's wife. Forgive me, your highness, if I've displeased you because I worry about the safety of our children."
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Facing the actual conquest, it was terrifying. It was the cliff she had not yet jumped.
"I'm not Rhea Royce, your highness. You would not be satisfied to have me out of sight. Your kingdom needs me, as you do."
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