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. some forbidden paradise .
He knew better than to get attached.
He had seen so many die. His favorite brother. His wife. His parents.
And so many others, his own brothers and sisters, dead by his own hand.
He had wanted to die, too, but—
He knew the depths of hell were all that waited for him in the afterlife, and he would rather suffer on earth than give up the memories he had of her and of the life they had shared for centuries.
It was better to have loved and lost than to forget you ever loved at all.
But—he was determined he would not love again, and he had succeeded in this for decades.
Until he met her.
.
Her mother was a courtesan, or she had been once—a high-born lady who had the misfortune of losing her family and wealth in a single swoop. When cast out of the home she was born in, she was forced to sell her body, though her good breeding meant she could demand a good price and treatment when doing so.
It was little wonder that she caught the eye of someone important, too important for her to abort the bastard child that grew in her womb.
Yet the child had doomed her to the life of a whore, unable to travel and wine and dine as she had before her.
The child had doomed herself, too, to being a whore’s daughter, which was far from a kind fate.
But fate was rarely kind.
.
The bastard child was a girl, a girl named Rhaenyra.
.
He hadn’t noticed the second heartbeat until after his lust was sated, the taste of blood was sweet on his tongue and his cock left soft against his thigh after spilling into the woman’s cunt.
He had overindulged—the woman would be well by morning but was unlikely to wake before then. He frowned down at her, feeling guilt fester as he looked over her ghostly skin and the marks he had left on her hips.
He was a kinder bedmate than most, perhaps, but at times like this, he never felt more monstrous.
He realized just a moment later that he could, in fact, feel even more monstrous.
.
The slip of the girl peered out from the armoire, her eyes so wide and so damned innocent.
The eyes of an angel.
It felt like a new sort of evil, having such a creature look at him. Surely it should burn his flesh the way sunshine did, for there was little brighter than the gaze of a child.
And yet—he did not feel pain under her scrutiny, but rather a sense of her curiosity.
Where on earth had she come from?
How had he gone so long without noticing her?
He could hear her heartbeat now, quick but not worryingly so, and her thoughts too. With children, they were never so clear, rather flashes of emotion and idle wonder. This girl was no exception, though he was cautious when entering her mind, expecting to find nothing but her own fear which would only intensify his own self-hatred.
But no, instead he found surprise and hunger in her inquisitive gaze.
Who is he?
He is handsome.
I thought mother would be done by now, it was so quiet, that he would be gone…
I hope she is alright…
I hope she wakes before supper…
She squeaked when he focused in on her hiding place, the door slamming shut behind her in a way that was the opposite of subtle.
Damn!
So loud! So careless!
Mother shall be so angry!
“Please don’t tell! Mother will be mad!” Her voice called from the cupboard.
“I thought you had left, I’m sorry! It is supper time and I hoped—I’m sorry!”
He swallowed, “I won’t tell—but—your mother is sleeping, she may not wake for several hours now.”
The door opened a sliver, and he could tell from her mind alone that she was pouting.
But I’m hungry now!
Several hours is a long time…it has been so long already…
Is she okay?
He cleared his throat, “She is fine—just tired, I can—I can bring you up something to eat, if you like?”
The door opened another inch, enough for him to see her nodding, “Okay.”
“What would you like?” He asked her.
She blinked.
What would I like?
I don’t get to eat what I like for supper.
If I did, I would get cake!
But he asked—
“I would like cake, please, of the lemon variety.”
He bit back a laugh, “Is that what your mother would approve of?”
She frowned, “You did not ask that, you asked what I liked.”
“I’m asking now.”
Her nose scrunched up, “She would…after I ate supper,” she admitted, slowly.
He nodded, straightening his trousers and shirt, then reaching for his jacket before promising the girl he would return.
He had paid for the night, after all.
.
Her eyes lit up when she saw the full tray.
Between bites, she told him that she wasn’t allowed to dine with others downstairs—but the women were not allowed to eat elsewhere and by the time her mother had eaten, what she returned with was cold, “I eat well in the mornings,” she said, a bit defensively, “But mother cannot very well go out to fetch things for me when she is working and I—” she frowned, “I’m too young.”
Yes. Yes, she was. Perhaps eight, if his estimate was correct.
He knew better than to ask why she was here. Even if her mother made good money, few safe and clean residences would rent or sell to a single woman of ill repute who had a child. The madam may have forbidden it, even, removing their protection or ability to work if they moved out, or negotiating with others in the business of real estate to keep them from selling to her girls.
Private clients were not so reliable, either. Or at least not reliable enough for a woman to move away with no plans to work again.
The girl—Rhaenyra she said her name was—licked the last bit of icing from her fingertips before falling back and sighing happily.
“Thank you for the supper.”
She had good manners for a whore’s daughter, and he told her so.
The compliment made her smile, “Thank you—you have good manners, too! Mother says I should not talk to men but you—you have kind eyes.”
He swallowed, “Do I, now?”
She nodded, “You’re different than the others, I can just tell.”
Well. He thought she was different, too.
.
.
.
He bought out her mother's contract.
He bought her a flat. Or rather, he bought a building and installed her in the flat.
He promised her an allowance.
“What do you want from me?” She had asked, her voice shaky as he slid the deed and key across the table.
“I want you to give your daughter a good life.”
My daughter? How did he—why—
“I do not want the girl to go hungry or cold or hide in a cupboard, dissociating until she can no longer hear the sounds of sin or abuse forced upon you in this establishment.”
I don’t want that, either, I never wanted this—
“How can I thank you?” She whispered, eyes wet.
“You can buy your daughter a piece of lemon cake—tell her it is from me.”
.
.
.
The expenditure was nothing to him and the woman meant nothing to him, truly. She was a good fuck, a feast for his taste buds and cock, but not exceptional in any particular way. He did not forget things, not really, but what did not matter tended to find a home in the recesses of his mind, unremarkable enough that he did not think upon them unless reminded.
Aemma Arryn certainly fell into this category.
But he remembered her daughter, the girl. Rhaenyra.
And, it seemed she remembered him.
.
.
.
"You are the man with the kind eyes!” She grinned at him, seeming both pleased to see him and to have remembered him.
He swallowed, “So you claimed.”
She nodded, “Of course I did! Not many men are kind, so it is of note, and worth remarking upon.”
He felt his spine stiffen, “Have men been treating you unkindly?”
“Men do not treat me as anything as all—for a girl is as useless in their eyes. We only become worth looking at when we are old enough to be worth bedding.” She said this plainly, still smiling, “So I shall treasure being nothing to them, for one day I will no longer have the luxury of being ignored.”
Her thoughts said otherwise, though.
It is not kindness to be seen as lacking value.
What lacks value lacks a place in the home or heart, it is simply discarded.
I know it is better than being desired but—
I would quite like to be seen as something.
To be appreciated….
To be loved…
Perhaps it is worth cruelty to know such a thing. But then, some know cruelty and are still deprived of love, like mother…at least I do not suffer the bruises and blood that comes with such attentions…not yet…
“I do hope you find someone to treasure you,” he offered, “For it is what all girls—all women—deserve, especially ones as sweet as you.”
She was sweet. Or at least she smelled sweet. Almost saccharine, like honey. He wondered if her blood would be as thick as the substance or as watery as that of any human.
He could find ou—no.
“Someone like you?” She asked.
Gods, no.
“Someone your own age, I think.”
Someone human.
“Oh.” She frowned, “No one my age has eyes like yours.”
Good. It would be worrying if they did, for such features were rarely found outside of what remained of Valyria.
.
.
.
Two years later, he found her working in a bake shop. She was still young though she had grown in obvious ways. What was she now, twelve? He did not know for certain, and he knew it would be rude to ask.
He frowned at her flour-covered apron and the crease in her brow.
This was rude, too, but he had to know why she was working—and why she was so worried.
“Mother is sick,” she admitted sadly, “She could not keep her position at the haberdashery and so…”
Fuck.
How could he raise her allowance without her raising questions? He did not want them to struggle, but—
“Do not frown, sir, it is not so terrible—I must wake early but I sneak sweet breads for lunch!” She said with a smile.
Hm.
“The best girls make the best of their situations,” she said, sounding almost confident despite the obvious sadness she felt a moment ago.
“And you are the best of girls?” He asked.
She nodded, “Of course! You must be able to tell so by looking at me, and if that did not convince you, my charm must have.”
“Charm? Or cockiness?”
She blinked, “I must assure you, I know little of matters involving cocks.”
He laughed, gods, she was funny, too.
Yes, the best seemed an accurate descriptor of her.
.
.
.
He made a habit of visiting the bakery. Not that it offered anything for him beyond her company, that was all he needed—so perhaps it was more accurate to say he made a habit of visiting her.
Though, she did not always know he was there. Sometimes she was in the kitchens rather than at the counter, but he could still hear her—at least most of the time.
The girl’s thoughts were rampant and random, her imagination and depth of emotion easy to get lost in as she reflected on her daily tasks and pondered what she had read and who she had spoken to that morning.
The mind of a girl on the cusp of womanhood was as disjoined as it was fascinating.
But sometimes, it was as if she simply stopped. When kneading dough, for example, it was as if she disappeared—she disassociated, just as she had on that first night they met.
It was a rare skill, being able to turn one’s mind off to both the good and bad—he wondered if it was a skill her mother taught her.
He hoped she lived a life that did not require her to do this often.
He would make sure of it.
.
.
.
He watched her grow up over the months that passed.
He listened to her heart flutter when the paper hawker her her first kiss.
He watched her brow furrowed when her mother was sickly.
He watched her grit her teeth, cheeks turning pink with anger when a customer was rude.
He listened to her charm, the easy flirtatious she fell into with regular customers—she did so rather shamelessly, and he often had to hide his smiles behind his palm or paper.
.
.
She was tired—her mother had kept her up coughing.
She was worried—her mother’s fever and malaise was worsening.
She was trying not to cry—the doctor had warned her it was consumption.
She was coming to terms with it, or trying to—but how could you come to terms with watching your mother die?
.
.
.
He paid for her headstone, plot, and for the engraving.
In everloving memory of Aemma Arryn
1713–1745
Rhaenyra sniffled into her handkerchief, “Thank you—it comforts me a great deal, you know.”
His brow rose, “It is nothing—simply a hole and carved stone.”
Her laugh was watery and she shook her head while dabbing at her eyes, “Not that—though I appreciate it too. But rather what it proves. I do so enjoy being right, and after today not even you can deny your kindness. It is little wonder is saw it in you, even at such a young age.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m not kind,” he argued.
He was a monster.
“Well—whatever you are, I think you are the best man I have ever known.”
He was hardly a man at all.
“Did you love her? Is that why?” She asked, looking up at him with her wet eyes, “My mother—did you love her?”
Gods, “No.”
Her brow furrowed, “Then why are you here?”
He—he didn’t know.
He simply wanted to be there for her.
He wanted to save her from the world's cruelty, she was too good—too undeserving of the fate most of her class and sex had cast upon them.
She almost smiled, even though he hadn’t answered, “I suppose I should thank you for that too.”
He has given me the gift of being seen, of being appreciated, and of being cared for.
Perhaps it is not love, but it is enough.
One can die satisfied with that knowledge, if nothing else, that is a luxury my mother did not have.
I shall be grateful for it.
He did not like to hear her considering death.
At the time, he did not realize why she was considering it.
.
.
.
Consumption was contagious.
Rhaenyra was her mother’s only companion and nurse for the last months of her life.
He should have realized.
He should have known it was inevitable.
He did, really, he knew humans died, but—she was so young.
She was only fifteen.
He had spent years watching her grow into herself, her height meager but her curves rather luscious. Her mind was sharp, her charm was endless, and her sense of humor was unmatched.
She was beautiful, only becoming more so with each year—and gods—it was a joy to see her become such a thing. She was his joy, really, and she had been for the last decade.
He thought he would have decades more before confronting this—before having to watch her waste away.
.
.
The cough came first.
She brushed it off, blaming the cold weather.
.
.
The weight dropped off of her at an alarming rate.
She blamed her lack of appetite on her grief.
.
.
She didn’t smell sweet anymore, she smelled sick.
Even blood staining her handkerchief held no appeal, the reminder of the disease ravaging her invoked the opposite of desire in him.
.
.
Eventually, she was too ill to work—confined to the flat he bought all those years ago.
He insisted upon staying with her, waving away her concerns over it not being proper.
“Let me take care of you, please,” he begged—he had never asked anything of her before, but he would ask for this.
Slowly, she nodded.
.
.
One day, after a coughing fit, she asked him—
“Will buy me a headstone too? Next to mother? Please?”
Gods, no—how could she—
He looks so upset—oh. no—I wish—if only—
He has given me what he claimed I deserved, he has treasured me, and what have I done for him?
Now I shall never get the chance to repay him.
Not that I ever could…
My dying words will be begging for more from him, as if he has not given enough.
I hope—I hope after I’m gone, someone else will treasure him, for he deserves that.
I think he even needs that. I fear for him without that.
Perhaps he does not have much more to give.
He needs to take—he could take me—I would have offered—but now…
…foolish girl, dreaming of things you cannot have until the very end…
.
.
On her sixteenth birthday, her lungs were too weak to blow out a candle atop the lemon cake. She tried but it ended in a coughing fit, leaving her palms and linens splattered with blood.
“This is the best gift, you know,” she said softly, after the fit passed.
Having him take care of me is the best gift.
I hope he stays.
I hope I see his kindness until the very end.
.
.
People died.
He should let her die.
But gods, he wanted her to live so damned badly.
.
.
Fresh blood pooled on her sheets, dripping down her neck while he fed—the damned blood still sweet, despite the disease, addicting, just as he thought she would be.
It was a miracle—a testament to the tainted flavor of sickness—that he stopped before she was gone, that he remembered to press his bloodied wrist to her lips.
She drank greedily, like a babe latched to a tit, his lifeblood entering hers—joining them together as she joined him in this life. There was no bond stronger than this, than that between a maker and their progeny.
.
.
He had not considered the lust that went beyond blood, nor how strong it was in newborns—after all, he had never been one.
He knew of it, of course, but still—he had not been expecting it.
But then, he had never been expecting her.
.
.
Her thoughts were manic when she woke—desperate—though it was not blood she hungered for but flesh.
She was on him before he could even consider what might come next, her lips mouthing at his neck and leaving behind tingling venom in their wake. The roll of her hips against his own took him by surprise, finally making it clear what she wanted from him.
Fuck.
He could get her someone else, but she would certainly kill them and then—
No, no, no, you, just you, just want you—
Fuck, she could hear his thoughts now, too.
Just want you, inside, please, please, need you inside of me—
Okay.
.
.
.
More blood joined the mess on her sheets, a different sort of innocence taken from her as she sat her self on his cock.
He’d taken her life, taken her virginity, taken—gods, too much, but guilt was absent for his mind in that moment, all he could focus on what how warm and tight and perfect she felt while wrapped around his cock.
She looked it, too, her hair a mess, sharp teeth digging into her bottom lip, breasts freed from her chemise and bouncing with each thrust.
She was the prettiest monster he had ever seen, and one of his own making.
Mm, yours to defile, too…
They were her thoughts not his own, but they all blended together now that he was buried inside of her.
Because I’m yours…
“Yes, fuck, yes you are—”
So fuck me like you want to keep me, please—
He would.
Fuck me like you love me, please—
He did, gods, he did.
.
.
Her tongue tasted like his blood—
Her cunt tasted like the heavens above.
.
.
Her pleasure was sweet.
Her happiness was delightful.
Her smiles were like sunshine—nearly sparkling.
“Like jewels or treasure, hm?” She teased.
“Precisely.”
But—he was the sort of man who wished to share his good fortune with others, and she deserved more than just him—she deserved a mate.
.
.
He tried to find her one. Though it seemed their taste in young men differed.
Or rather, neither had much taste for them—she thought her brothers too young, despite being years her senior in life. Still, they were good additions, Aegon and Jace, both rather besotted with her but just as keen to have each other as lovers when her interest in bedding them waned.
She preferred to be in his bed, even now.
If he was honest, he preferred that, too.
.
.
He told her he was done—he would not change another man for her, she would choose her own.
And she did.
But it did not end well—not the first two times, at least.
“Perhaps it was for the best,” she said with a sigh, “I could have stopped if I wanted to, I think, but—I knew they were not right.”
The flames flicked in her eyes while the bodies burned.
She looked…forlorn, but was hardly mourning the loss, which was proof of their wrongness for her.
Yes, it must have been the best, and she deserved nothing less—as she once told him, she was the best girl.
.
.
Rhaenyra never stayed down for long.
“Third times the charm!” she said with a smile, her sight set on the cocky blonde.
“He’s old enough to be your father,” he grumbled, and she laughed, “And he is young enough to be your son.”
He could not argue with that.
.
.
.
He was happy for her, genuinely, she was radiant and fully enraptured by her love for the boy.
He wasn't jealous, truly, but—well—when one occupies your bed on and off for nearly a century, their absence was noteworthy. His sons tried to fill the void but he had always preferred the fairer sex, just as his cock preferred a cunt.
Still, her joy was infectious—and her mate was capable of keeping up with her appetites in ways he could not. He had never appreciated her fondness for playing with her food and making meals out of innocent men, and though he never stopped her, she was aware of his disapproval.
He made no effort to hide his disgust when she returned stained with blood, evidence of the mess she made, and the misery she inflicted covering her clothes and skin.
He did not begrudge her for it—but he did not like it.
Daemon, however, took equal delight in such things. He seemed to enjoy sounds of pleasure and sounds of terror in equal measures and was well-matched with Rhaenyra in ways beyond their bed chamber.
.
.
One night, she joined him in his bed chamber—his newest son by her side, willing to share with her sire, so long as they were both inside of her.
.
.
The clench of her cunt, the pressure of another man's cock against his own as Daemon thrust himself into her arse, gods.
He knew she had done such things with his other sons, but he had neve been part of it, and what a pity that was for this was—he could not even formulate words to describe the sensation.
Rhaenyra thoughts were, as scattered as his own, caught between begging for mercy for she was too full and it was too much and begging for and more.
They gave her all they could.
How could they not, when she wanted it so badly?
.
.
.
When they had recovered, it was his son between them—Rhaenyra on her back, his cock pressed into her cunt, while Baelon worked himself into the boy’s arse.
“Fucking hell, now I can see why you missed this,” the younger man said with a groan and Baelon couldn’t help but laugh.
I told you I was not biased by him simply being my sire—he simply has an excellent length, I am eager to see you enjoy it as I have.
Gods help him, Baelon was eager to enjoy him, too.
.
.
.
Daemon fought against him in a way his other sons had not.
They had all wanted it, and Daemon did too, but where Aegon and Jace were somewhat submissive to him, Daemon was different.
Perhaps it was the fact he had not sired him, or maybe it was simply a difference in preference.
The reason did not really matter, and it did not change the fact that the boy was responsive and rough in the way his daughter had been from the day she was turned.
She must have seen this in him, must have changed him because of it. She had claimed the man reminded her of him but the truth was, he thought, that the man reminded her of herself.
He could scarcely blame her, it was what had drawn him to his mate.
Perhaps it was what drew me to you, too, he thought, his eyes locked with Rhaenyra’s as his cock sunk deeper into the rear of her love.
She simply smiled.
.
.
.
Later, she was screaming and clawing at them both as both of their cocks sunk into her cunt at once, stretching her poor snatch in a way that seemed impossible. She felt tighter than a firm fist, and the sensation of a pulsing length against his own, while they both slotted themselves into the head of her warped hole…
The intensity of pleasure was indescribable.
Take us both like a good girl.
“It hurts,” she sobbed, but her body was pleading for more, though perhaps the desire was not her own. The pleasure poured out of both her companions and left her drunk on such sensations even if she felt no pleasure from her own involvement.
You’re a good mate to me and a better daughter to him, aren’t you? Prove it, let us in, let us fuck you, let us hurt you.
She did.
.
.
He had never seen her closer to death than now, in the hours following that, not since the night he changed her.
One hundred and one years ago.
Her lashes fluttered, too tried to keep them open, even if she was incapable of sleep.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
She smiled, “For everything—for him—for this life and what came before it—and for tonight, too.”
“A good birthday, then?”
She nodded, “Mhm, and you two had me stuffed far too full to miss the taste of lemon cake!”
“Oh? Perhaps we will have to do this every year.”
Perhaps, her mind echoed.
Daemon laughed, nipping at her neck, “Have we given you something new to crave?”
“No—nothing new—I have all I’ve ever wanted,” she said, her lips meeting Daemon’s in a sweet kiss.
I want for nothing more than this—to be loved, to be with those I love, to have a womb full of come and a belly full of blood.
It was hardly a surprise when their sweet kiss turned into something more, their legs becoming as intertwined as their tongues.
.
.
The ache he felt towards his lost love would never fade, but this—well—what more could a father wish for, beyond his children having all they wanted in life?
There was a satisfaction in that which made him carry on. It made this life far more appealing than death, and he had Rhaenyra to thank for that.
It was funny to think that she once thought she could not repay him. She knew better now, though, he was certain of it.
Of course I do, after a hundred years with you, I know my worth.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” Daemon snarled.
“Mm, you should try to fuck it out of me. Get out of my head and into my cunt.”
Baelon snorted, “Good luck with that.”
They both growled, deciding to be possessive now, while still in his bed.
Children could be so temperamental.
But gods, he could not help but love them.
.