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.
"You're not?" She could poke fun now at least, since the danger had passed. Having him rub at her sex, press his fingers into her, she knew that feeling from before. It was easier to relax against him and move her hips at his encouragement. The more he offered her attention, the more she was able to breathe and sigh, granting him the sounds that he had asked of her. She wouldn't scream (yet), but she was gasping and small little mewls of pleasure escaped her lips.
Her breasts rose and fell as he started to bring that pressure to life. She only needed to close her eyes and she was back in that secret chamber, where the candlelight from the council room created lattice artwork against her skin.
Arms wrapped about his shoulders, trembling from nerves were replaced by building desire. "It does," she granted him, her voice quavering. If it was a constant game of dominance between them, he took that dominance in a much preferred way. What horse didn't love gentle touches before it was tamed?
More bitemarks, claiming the place between throat and jaw. She would start a fashion for high collars and gloves, at this point. "Yes," he murmurs into her skin, "be loud."
Some part of him, the part that is always calculating and logical, is sure he ought to wait longer before moving forward. The rest of him is too inflamed by want. He begins-- slower than last time-- to move himself into her. His hand doesn't move, still massaging his entry, trying to make it as sweet as he can with his blood rushing in his ears, more, more.
'Be loud', frankly, how could she not take the opportunity? Where before they had to cover their mouths to keep from being heard, now everyone was craning their ears to hear the moment that she was no longer a maid. If she were more wicked, she'd keep quiet, if only to see what sort of gossip that created. She wasn't above demonstrations of loyalty, and she supposed she felt a bit competitive to prove this surpassed expectations.
There wasn't resistance to him as he slowly slipped inside of her. Instead, there was a gasp and a little cry of noise, followed by the accompanying shouts from the men outside the room. It was a bit ridiculous, honestly, but she could well perform as needed. Now at least word could circulate before sunrise that she was bedded.
Given his care towards her, his attempt at making this less painful, the actual moment was less discomforting than she imagined earlier. Pain was something she was used to and apparently sought again and again in her anxiety, if her nails were any indication. He managed to find the means to make this fall within that spectrum for her.
The shouts from the other side of the door resume, where they'd once gone quiet. Some bang on the door. Some chant and cheer. One man can be heard to shout, finally!
Daemon, a lover of attention, is only more sped on. It is some work, doing this slowly, but the results so far have been better than expected. His tongue lavishes attention on her neck, and he begins to taste copper. Has he broken the skin? If she minds, she'll let him know.
His hips move slowly, but he begins to quaver as well, grunting into the ruin of her neck. "Good," he says, "good girl."
His hand claws and pinches at her breast, while the other holds her hips in place in an iron grip. He can feel her around him, soft and small and venomous besides. She is a little viper, and he adores that, just as much as he adores breeching what vulnerability remains. It's all him, isn't it? The center of her world, in this moment, her lord husband, the attention of the men outside. All of that on him, and what he's done to Otto Hightower's daughter.
With that thought, teeth find her neck in earnest. His hips jerk despite himself. "More."
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."
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Date: 2022-08-26 03:02 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 03:18 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 03:47 pm (UTC)"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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Date: 2022-08-26 04:00 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 04:07 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 04:21 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 04:34 pm (UTC)"What else," he says, voice thin with want, "do you wish to be taught?"
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Date: 2022-08-26 04:43 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 04:55 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 05:12 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 05:29 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 05:41 pm (UTC)Her breasts rose and fell as he started to bring that pressure to life. She only needed to close her eyes and she was back in that secret chamber, where the candlelight from the council room created lattice artwork against her skin.
Arms wrapped about his shoulders, trembling from nerves were replaced by building desire. "It does," she granted him, her voice quavering. If it was a constant game of dominance between them, he took that dominance in a much preferred way. What horse didn't love gentle touches before it was tamed?
"Do you find these noises more to your liking?"
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Date: 2022-08-26 05:56 pm (UTC)Some part of him, the part that is always calculating and logical, is sure he ought to wait longer before moving forward. The rest of him is too inflamed by want. He begins-- slower than last time-- to move himself into her. His hand doesn't move, still massaging his entry, trying to make it as sweet as he can with his blood rushing in his ears, more, more.
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Date: 2022-08-26 06:16 pm (UTC)There wasn't resistance to him as he slowly slipped inside of her. Instead, there was a gasp and a little cry of noise, followed by the accompanying shouts from the men outside the room. It was a bit ridiculous, honestly, but she could well perform as needed. Now at least word could circulate before sunrise that she was bedded.
Given his care towards her, his attempt at making this less painful, the actual moment was less discomforting than she imagined earlier. Pain was something she was used to and apparently sought again and again in her anxiety, if her nails were any indication. He managed to find the means to make this fall within that spectrum for her.
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Date: 2022-08-26 06:25 pm (UTC)Daemon, a lover of attention, is only more sped on. It is some work, doing this slowly, but the results so far have been better than expected. His tongue lavishes attention on her neck, and he begins to taste copper. Has he broken the skin? If she minds, she'll let him know.
His hips move slowly, but he begins to quaver as well, grunting into the ruin of her neck. "Good," he says, "good girl."
His hand claws and pinches at her breast, while the other holds her hips in place in an iron grip. He can feel her around him, soft and small and venomous besides. She is a little viper, and he adores that, just as much as he adores breeching what vulnerability remains. It's all him, isn't it? The center of her world, in this moment, her lord husband, the attention of the men outside. All of that on him, and what he's done to Otto Hightower's daughter.
With that thought, teeth find her neck in earnest. His hips jerk despite himself. "More."
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Date: 2022-08-26 06:38 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 08:05 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 08:32 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 08:47 pm (UTC)He's left there, listless and lingering atop her, lazily kissing at her throat, kneading her breast. "Good girl."
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Date: 2022-08-26 09:06 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 09:12 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-26 09:57 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-27 12:44 am (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-27 12:52 am (UTC)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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Date: 2022-08-27 01:15 am (UTC)"Driftmark? You'll have your own rooms, of course. Ones befitting a... queen."
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