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Daemon marched through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, scaring off two footservants and making one maid cry out in surprise. He snorted at their irrational fear of him. He wasn’t even angry, in truth, he was rather amused.
He knocked on the door, but didn’t wait for an answer before he entered the antechamber and strode to the next door. Perhaps he could shock one of the maids into fainting when she saw him appear in the princess’ bedroom. When he turned around he realized he wasn’t about to scare anyone. The room was empty. Not only had the little brat had the nerve to summon him, but now she wasn’t even here. "Zaldrītsos?" he called out, drawing out the syllables of the petname. "Skoriot issi ao?"
Her voice drifted to him from behind her dressing screen. “Iksan kesīr!”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against one of the bedposts. “I didn’t know you were in the business of summoning men to your chambers these days.”
“Only you, Uncle,” she called back. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“You wished to speak to me in private?” he asked when she remained quiet after that.
"Could you come and help me with something first?"
He hesitated for a moment before walking around the screen to see Rhaenyra standing with her face turned away from him, the back of her gown hanging open, exposing her creamy shoulders and translucent shift to him.
"Lace me up, please?" she asked, twisting her elegant neck to look at him. "My maid appears to have abandoned me, and the lacings on this gown are too difficult to do by myself," she explained when he didn't respond, collecting her hair over one shoulder.
His nostrils flared as the corners of his mouth curled up of their own accord. The little minx! He nodded, mostly to himself, as she had turned around and couldn’t see him anymore. All right, he could play along with this little game of hers.
“Is this the new position your father has found for me?” he asked as he took a step forward, tentatively setting to work as he tried to avoid touching her bare skin, “Princess Rhaenyra’s lady’s maid?” He was close enough to smell the lavender scent of her hair and the rose oil and hint of dragon on her skin. He’d seen, touched and fucked beautiful women all over the world, but standing here in the presence of his little vixen of a niece trying her innocent’s stab at seduction set his blood ablaze in a way he’d rarely known before.
Rhaenyra sighed. "You’d make a poor maid, Uncle, the laces aren’t nearly tight enough. I’m not made of glass!”
He barked out a laugh, putting a hand on her shoulder, pressing his thumb to her nape, and splaying his fingers on her throat, necklace and collarbone. Even to him, her silky skin felt almost hot to the touch. “Don’t worry, byka ajomemēys, I’m well aware,” he answered, his voice not as smooth as he would have liked.
He started again, trying to follow Rhaenyra’s instructions. After a while, she clicked her tongue and commanded, "Harder, Uncle!"
He would have laughed again, if he hadn’t felt so taut inside his own skin, if his groin hadn’t been coiling with heat, if his tongue hadn’t felt thick and clumsy inside his mouth. He stood there, hands frozen on her back, until she turned around to glare at him.
"What's the matter with you? Do you want this gown to fall off me?"
He couldn't help it, his eyes travelled down to where her chest was heaving in fake annoyance and evident arousal, barely concealed by her silver hair. Her dress was still hanging loose around her upper body, revealing too much skin.
Seven hells, but that gown falling to the floor, baring every inch of her until she was wearing nothing but the necklace he had given her was a sight he'd love to behold. His fingers twitched and his cock stirred at the thought alone.
Rhaenyra’s lips had parted and her eyes had grown wide. A deep blush was creeping up her cheeks. She averted her eyes, biting her lip. He looked down at her, and it only took him a moment to guess at the cause of her sudden discomfort. She misunderstood. She must fear she had embarrassed herself, that her innocent little attempt had failed. He thought she knew him better than that, that she knew she could never be a failure or an embarrassment in his eyes, but it must be her inexperience in these matters.
“Turn around, Rhaenyra,” he told her, and she obeyed at once. He took a deep breath to steady himself before he could change his mind, and closed the distance they unconsciously created earlier and started pulling at the gown’s lacings, making sure they were tight enough.
It couldn’t have lasted that long, but it felt like an eternity, and it was torture to lace her up, to cover up her body, to close the gown when all he wanted was to rip it off her and worship every inch of her body, to finally find out what she tasted like, and how she would feel around his cock.
When he had finished lacing her up, he snuck an arm around her waist and tugged her against his chest, curling himself around her and pressing his body into her, grabbing her by the hip so she could feel his hardness, revelling in her little yelp and gasp.
He inclined his head and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, dragging his nose up the slope of her shoulder, breathing her in, nuzzling her neck, his lips almost catching on the cold Valyrian steel. Her small hands curled around the arm that kept her locked against his body.
He kissed her skin and trapped her earlobe between his lips, before releasing it again. He exhaled, hot and heavy. “See what you are doing to me, zaldrītsos?”
She gulped, but leaned back into his touch. “I can feel it,” she breathed, her voice rough.
“You drive me mad,” he growled. He brushed his lips over her pulsepoint, pressing the tip of his tongue to her skin, groaning at the sweet yet salty taste of her.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want—
He sighed, the delightful tension in his body deflating as he loosened his grip. “But we can’t do this.” Not now, he added mentally. “Your betrothal feast starts in half an hour.”
The betrothal was a mockery, and the marriage was a scam. Everyone knew Laenor Velaryon preferred the company of men. But the Small Council had convinced his brother this marriage was the best way to appease Corlys Velaryon.
Rhaenyra turned around in his arms to look up at him. “I can be a little late,” she pouted, her lilac eyes pleading.
“Not that late. Patience, kēlītsos,” he soothed her, brushing her hair back from her face. “I want to take my time with you.” If only he could get rid of the bronze bitch he had to call wife, he would take Rhaenyra far away from here and marry her in the way of the old gods of Valyria, to put an end to this mummer's farce.
She rested her hands on his chest, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she seemed to study her own fingers. “When…?” She let the question trail off.
He covered her hands with his own. “We should wait until after the wedding.”
He almost laughed when her eyebrows furrowed and her lips curled into a pout again. He could almost hear her lamenting that it was still too far off.
She tilted her chin up. “After the wedding,” she agreed.
He curled his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her closer to press a kiss to her forehead. “Soon, ñuha kirimves, soon.”