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Chapter Text

At one point in time, Daemon had felt something other than hatred for his younger sister. As a babe she did not look so cruel — she looked innocent, and her wails were pathetic. He felt sympathy for her weak form, and an odd desire to protect it. 

When he spoke of this to their mother, she kissed the top of his head and said, “My son, that’s love.” 

He huffed, love was for girls, and lovers, and she was neither. 

(One day, he’d see Rhaenyra as both.) 

When his mother disappeared the following year, he still wasn’t sure what love was, but now he knew loss. 

Any fondness for the girl faded as she grew, and she grew at a truly alarming pace. Perhaps not in height, for her form remained small, but her personality was… explosive, and her bending was too. The masters called her a prodigy, with nothing but praise for the promise she showed even at a remarkably young age. 

They thought it accidental, at first, the way flames would engulf her fingertips near the maids she disliked or against the heavy robes she hated. Even then they thought it a sign of her strength, and her natural aptitude. 

But then she admitted during her first lesson that she always meant to, that the threat of flame was an easy method of getting her way. This didn’t fade, even as she learned better control — if anything she was prompted to use it more often, to summon bigger flames. Whenever she would play with other children, it was their fear that brought the most joy to her. 

She was her fathers favorite, in a way Daemon longed for. She was the master's favorite, too. All their tutors spoke of her skill, how quickly she learned language and strategy. Daemon had been sixteen before he was allowed in the council chambers, where Rhaenyra became cupbearer at the age of eight.

Daemon still wasn’t allowed to speak in meetings, not without earning glares from his father and the others. But Rhaenyra seemed to even charm them, sharing her thoughts freely and rarely facing consequences. It was like everywhere she went, people fell over to please her. More than they did for him, even though he would one day be King. 

They both lived lives of luxury — allowed all the privileges of royalty. But it felt uneven, when his mother left and his father only paid attention to her. He hated the constant comparison, hated it even more when she caught on to such things. 

She became his sparring partner when she was ten, half his age, and oh that chafed. Because she could keep up with him. She could predict his movements before he made them, for all they hated each other, they knew each other. 

And sometimes she would win. 

By the time she was fourteen, she would always win. Leaving him breathless while she bounced on her toes asking for more. It was infuriating, and it made his temper rage. Their fights would turn explosive, battles ending in flames and giggles as Rhaenyra declared herself the winner. 

He told her once, that none of it mattered — it was he who would be King. 

And she had laughed, resting her chin on her fingers as she told him that it was she, who would be queen. 

(One day, both of these things would be true.) 

As a girl on the cusp of womanhood, she grew in other ways, and he hated himself for noticing. 

He hated himself for realizing she held herself like a Queen, that she might make a good one. For all that she acted like a maniac in the training room, she was poised as could be in front of company. 

He hated himself for wondering which she would be in bed. 

There was a duality, between her cunning side and her charming one. He knew which side always faced him, for kindness always slipped away in his presence, the competitiveness too strong for any other emotion but anger to find a way through. 

He hated himself for thinking of her when he was inside a whore. This part of life had always been private from each other, an escape from studies and training. But now she was taunting him, even in this, making him wonder how the cunt he’d never seen would feel. 

It made him wonder how deep she could take him. Made him wonder if they would be competitive, even in this. If perhaps she would see if there was one thing he didn’t disappoint at, it was this. 

She’d ruined this for him, he thought, pulling from the whore and letting out a curse. She’d ruined everything for him. 

And now he wanted to ruin her. 

(One day, he would.)

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had always loved her brother.

She just loved annoying him, too. 

Because when she wasn’t, he ignored her, and she hated being ignored.

She thought even if she wasn’t a bender, she would have learned the art of acquiring attention. Of pulling people's gaze to her, just like she pulled the flames. Her maids called her manipulative, but she called them foolish. After all, she had been bending for nearly two years before they brought her to the master. 

And even then, it was only at her own confession that she admitted the acts were intentional. The flames came naturally, almost as if an extension of her fingertips. It was easy to command, far easier to control than her own emotions. 

She was quick to anger, with a temper as fierce as her fire. But she was a Princess, and so people doted on her — called her pretty, talented, wonderful, spectacular. And she preened under the praise. She liked being loved the most, liked being the best. 

It was unfortunate that by being the best, she lost her brother's love. 

She was greedy and selfish, she wanted that too. 

And she was determined to get it, no matter what it took. 

She wouldn’t stop taunting him though, that was too fun to give up . 

She had been delighted when they became sparring partners. When the master’s said they taught her all they could, that now she simply needed practice. And Daemon, he could use the practice too. It didn’t take her long to learn the way his body moved — to figure out when he would doge, the way he fought. It didn’t take her long to beat him.

Once she started winning, her losses became few and far between. And when they did occur, they infuriated her. She would demand to go again and again, until she was exhausted and Daemon was on the floor beneath her. 

He may not have loved her, but he humored her in this.

Some part of him — however small, admired her determination. Their relationship was not one entirely made of jealousy, she knew there was something more buried deep down. Something warm, like her inner flame but lower — and it didn’t burn for her but for him. 

She stroked that flame in the privacy of her rooms, the image of Daemon and his shirtless heaving chest fresh in her mind while she worked fingers inside. The slide was easy, flesh slick with sweat from training and anticipation of release.

She always came biting down on her fist, otherwise it was his name that would pass her lips.

The first time she had done this, all the candles in her rooms grew tall — the maids came running, alarmed at the smell of smoke. Rhaenyra hadn’t noticed until they entered her rooms and she screamed for them to leave. They were lucky that was all she had done, given her temper. But she had been caught off guard — still panting with the taste of Daemon’s name on her tongue. 

She wanted to taste him, lick his sweaty flesh. Lick what was hidden beneath his training trousers. 

She fantasized about pulling them down and learning what to do with a cock. She knew she’d excel at that like she did all else — she would approach it with a single minded focus until she was a master. She’d practice until it came to her as easily as the flames did. 

She wondered if he would humor her in that, too. 

She thought — head tilted as she watched him train with his swords, that he had a streak of cruelty too. He was better at hiding it, better at controlling it. He took it out against targets, not against people, but it was the same rage. The same overwhelming violence that needed to be worked off through exertion before it exploded. 

She thought it was the control that made him inferior in bending. He was so focused on being practiced and precise, he didn’t fight with feelings, didn’t realize they were the strongest advantage he had. He didn’t realize that you could channel it, that rage into fire and lightning until it left only smoke in its path. 

She saw it in the council room, too, how stiff his jaw would become. How he fought saying something, since he didn’t know how to say it. He was charming with women, but not in politics. He butted heads with other people, bashed into them when you gained more ground by kissing them. Not that she would know. Though many girls at the Academy spoke of their kisses, she was saving hers. She had a teacher in mind. He had learned amongst the best of Silk Street, surely he could teach her. And she would teach him about politics.

For she liked being the best, but she wanted him to be better. 

Because she deserved the best, too, and she wanted that to be her brother.

Chapter Text

The next three years served her well. 

First, her fire turned blue. 

Then white. 

Then she had the ability to make lightning strike. 

She thought it fitting, that the color of her flame matched her hair. Daemon’s was white, too, but he’d had an extra decade of practice — and even if he could wield it, it did not come so naturally to him. He had to work hard to acquire the brighter flame, where it sprung from her like the sun from the sky. 

She smiled up at the sun, leaning back against the tiles of her balcony and enjoying the rays against her flesh. She would never tire of the heat of the Fire Nation, her temper seeming to cool on the hottest days, as if the closer she was to fire the more free she was from its heat. 

It was why she took such warm baths, too, steaming, if not nearly boiling, so hot that any maid who dared touch it would yelp, much to Rhaenyra’s amusement. She liked this better, adding the oils to the water herself. The ones the maids favored were too pungent, tried too hard to cover the smell of sweat. It seemed wrong, to cover the scent of her vigor. She wanted to smell like her , if not a bit spicier — and a bit sweeter. 

Daemon didn’t use any oils at all, he always smelled purely of himself. And Rhaenyra…she couldn’t imagine something better. 

They were to spar soon. She couldn’t wait. She would never tell him, but it was always the highlight of her day.

She might even let him win today, for she had met her bending goals, she had nothing left to prove. 

Well. Nothing left to prove to the masters. Nor to father, either, she easily had his favor.

Perhaps now it was time to focus on becoming Daemon’s favorite, too. 

First, she simply focused on him. 

She didn’t think he viewed her as only a little sister. He looked at her too fiercely, too passionately. He looked at her with feeling, and even if that feeling was hatred, she would take it. She suspected it was more than he looked at whores with, and she wanted to be more than a whore to him. 

More than a sister, too. 

Perhaps even more than a rival. 

She wanted to be his queen. 

She huffed, it had hurt, for her to come to this realization. Life would be more simple, if she could just kill him and be done with her brother. Her father would happily give the crown to her, that she knew, and if he didn’t…well, that could be dealt with too. 

But she didn’t just want the crown. She didn’t just want to be queen. She wanted to be the queen to Daemon’s king.

She could never imagine another man by her side. She had tried. She had been given flowers before, once by a handsome boy named Cristin. But she had been unable to fight the instinct to burn them and laugh, as if she would consider his feelings or him as a suitor. 

She passed him back the flaming flowers, stifled a giggle, and said politely, “ No thank you.”

She had tried again, the knight was named Harwin and he was handsome and nice, but he was too nice. He looked at her with awe, but that wasn’t enough. He treated her like a princess and that wasn’t right, either. She didn’t want someone gentle and kind. She wanted someone who could match her in a fight, be her match in life. 

There was no one for her, other than her brother, she just had to make him see that too. 

He did not seem to struggle as she did, with taking others into his arms. He had a reputation in the Streets of Silks, and outside it too. He had often flirted with her friends from the academy, done more than that even. Laena still had the scars that showed Rhaenyra’s rage when she caught them that day. 

It was frustrating how easily he seemed to find satisfaction in others. 

She was used to being the best. 

Surely it wouldn’t take much for him to see she was the best choice in this, too. 

Her brother was easily swayed by swathes of flesh. 

And so, she requested new training clothing. She told the seamstress to make it tighter, the tunic shorter.   She raised the straps on her underclothes too, lifting breasts higher — making cleavage more visible beneath her formal robes. 

She was on her worst behavior in the training room, bratty and eager in a way she knew Daemon found infuriating. She would pull whatever emotion she could from him, and use them to her advantage just like she used her own when bending. 

But at dinners…by her fathers side, and in the council rooms, she was proper. Poised with her chin held high, perhaps a little haughty, but her manners were impeccable. She knew she looked and acted the part of the queen. She didn’t remember much of her mother in the role, but her tutors in the palace and at the academy had made it so she could succeed in it nonetheless. 

One had dared tell her she would live a life of nobility, not royalty once she was wed. She had burned men for less. She burned this one, too. His hand turned pink, and then red, and then black in her grip as flesh singed, smoked, and peeled away from the bones. 

The screams served as a good reminder that the princess was to be taught, not questioned. 

“ Who wishes to go next?” She had asked, standing from the table where the man's limp form was draped over. “Or shall one of you teach me how to be queen?” The remaining tutors had nodded eagerly. 

Viserys didn’t question the curriculum change, he only praised her high marks. The violence — the loss of her tutor, due to unfortunate injury, did not phase him either. Rhaenyra easily explained it away — the tutor was clumsy, tripped and fell with a hand in the fireplace. 

When the other tutors were questioned, they readily agreed with her statement. They feared what would happen if they dared not to. 

She had smiled at their weak testimonies. Even if they had been honest, no harm would have come to her. Viserys would not believe them, that his sweet daughter could do such a thing. He would still put it up to being an accident, tempers ran high in lessons sometimes. She could not be blamed for what happened. 

Viserys was dim, Rhaenyra thought. He had a habit of seeing what he wanted to. He wanted her to be the perfect princess, who was smart and talented and did all he asked of her. And for some reason, he wanted Daemon to be the unruly prince who fucked around in both life and the sheets. 

He would not believe cruelty from her, when he could assign such acts to his son. The denial worked to her advantage, but she thought it misplaced all the same. 

She wasn’t sure why — perhaps it was because Daemon had been Aemma’s favorite. Perhaps it was because Aemma had loved her son more than she loved her husband. Viserys was keen to punish his son for her sins, by depriving him of his love. 

Which just left all the more for Rhaenyra. 

She would have been a fool, not to entertain her father. Not to take his love and use it for her advantage. And so she had grown close to father because she needed to. Needed his favor to get what she wanted in life.

She knew he would make her queen, if she asked. 

But he frustrated her, because he did not realize she was clever. He did not realize she played a part for him, and for the council, and for the tutors. That she was more than the sides she showed — that she was smart, fierce, and ferocious. That she could lead the military and meetings and act as a queen while doing it. 

He underestimated her, and she hated him for that. 

Everyone underestimated her.

Everyone but her brother. 

Perhaps it was why she loved Daemon so much, he knew exactly who she was.   

He knew what she was doing, with her tight tops and bright smiles. He knew what she was after, when she let him win and she was left panting beneath him. 

She was crueler, leaving burns on him — but kinder too, offering to tend them after. 

He’d hiss as she dabbed cool water on them and healing paste, it was surprising how gentle she could be in this. It was even more surprising, when she pressed a kiss to the bandaged flesh. 

“All better, brother.” She would say, but her eyes showed mirth. 

She was more tactile, greeting him with kisses on the cheek. Brushing lint from his robes. Insisting his hair was ruffled, and she needed to smooth it. She made him familiar with her touch, made him grow used to it. 

Two could play at her game. He went without a shirt whenever they sparred. If she wanted him to see her stomach, the way her muscles rippled — the way her tits bounced, then fuck, she would see his chest too.

He could be cruel too, and he was not so gentle when he cleaned her burns.

He didn’t know what to think, when she moaned as he brushed against the damaged flesh. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his touch or the pain, but whatever it was she liked it. And he…liked it, too. 

He did not kiss her bandaged flesh, he squeezed it. And Rhaenyra…she smiled. 

He knew how to touch a woman. He was not so blatant as to kiss her the way she did him. But he would brush a thumb against her neck, and take her wrist, in a confident grip. At dinner he would whisper to her, lips nearly pressing against the lobe of her ear. 

He wanted to do it more often. But he never wanted her to grow used to it. He liked the way she shivered, the way he could surprise her. 

Viserys commented once, at dinner, on their good behavior. Rhaenyra’s voice was sweet, as she spoke, “Father, aren’t siblings supposed to love each other?” 

Viserys looked puzzled, but agreed. 

(He didn’t know she meant it like this) 

She wasn’t sure who kissed who, that first time. It wasn’t what a first kiss should be — she knew that from her friends from the academy. They had blushed as they spoke of the gentle touch of a man's mouth on theirs. This was far from that. This was a battle of dominance, a sparring session that was between their lips. 

She had never let her inexperience prevent her success, though, and she was determined it wouldn’t in this. She was fierce against his lips, opening her mouth and allowing his tongue entrance — before scraping it with her teeth and threatening to bite it. He retreated, and she pressed forward, until their tongues were fighting for dominance. 

She hissed, when he bit her lip — the shock made her want to pull away, but he held her chin. And then she bit back, and it was his turn to hiss. They broke apart with a gasp, fingers clawing at each other in an attempt to find bare skin. He was shirtless, he was always shirtless, and she felt the planes of his chest before he hit her hands away. 

His focus was on her, pushing up her cropped tunic and undergarments before groaning at the sight of her breasts. He wasn’t kind when he palmed them, pinching the nipples harshly, but she still arched into his grip. 

The contrast was stark when his hands gently  stroked her stomach, feeling the ridges of scars made by his own flames. The flesh was textured, difficult to look at but sensitive enough the mere touch made her moan. 

Hands roamed lower, pulling at her pants until her cunt was freed. His fingers were harsh as they entered her, but she could take this too. She was wet, in a way she had never been before — she could feel the squelch of his fingers inside her, curling in a way that made them feel thicker, made them feel better. And then there was a third finger, and the stretch hurt but it was so good. 

No one pushed her harder than herself, then perhaps Daemon. 

It was fitting, for him to be the one to train her cunt. 

She never needed much training, though. 

He knew it too — muttering something about her being ‘fucking drenched’ before she felt the press of his length, hands holding tightly to her hips. He folded her, as he fucked himself into her — until her knees were level with her shoulders, leaving her cunt free for him to view — for him to use. 

And he did. 

He didn’t give her any time to adjust, didn’t give any concern to this being her first time. For he was the only one who never treated her like a princess, she was the object of his ire — of his rage, and she could feel it even in this act.

There was no love between them now, not as he fucking her full of him. Not as he thrust so deeply she winced, and that made him grin. But she still found herself thrusting back, body craving his length because  It finally felt like that flame — the one there was being stroked, each thrust brushing against it. Taunting it, like she did him, until it grew and grew. 

Each fierce stab of his cock fed it until she was full of sensation, until she was fucked so hard there was no more room. And that was when she came, and she felt like she was coming apart, because it was so intense. She felt draped in heat, like she was being smothered by her release. It was terrifying, it made her clench — it made her fingers curl, curl into Daemon’s flesh. She didn’t realize she was leaving behind scratches that would scar — not that she would have cared, either. She was just trying to ground herself. Trying not to fly away, like smoke from a flame. 

She was vaguely aware of her body moving — of Daemon continuing to thrust, determined to use her until he was spent. And she let him, loving not just the sensation but the way he looked at her. For his gaze was one of hatred, but beneath it was desire, and she would cling to that even if it killed her. 

He was magnificent, she thought. Sweating with his hair falling into his face. His head tilted back and eyes hardly open. How many times had she dreamed of having him like this? Almost as many as she’d dreamed of having him, him on his back and her riding atop. Taking every inch of his cock until they were both exhausted, but still in want for each other. 

They would always crave each other this way, now, she thought. There was no going back from this. This was the beginning of something. But it was the end of something, too. The end of a rivalry. 

And it felt so good. 

It became a routine between them, just as sparring did. A different sort of training, but one where they exchanged marks and were left panting all the same. 

Their bodies fit together seamlessly but their personalities clashed, it was always a fight for dominance. A battle, both of them desperate to come, and both of them nearly uncaring of the other’s pleasure. They were selfish, even together, more focused on taking than giving pleasure. 

She didn’t want it any other way, though. She didn’t want it sweet. She didn’t want gentle kisses. She wanted bruises on her hips and love marks on her chest. Daemon would not go unmarred, either, her nails like claws drawing lines down his back. Her teeth live knives, dragging against his shoulder. 

She tended to these wounds differently than the burns, she licked at them, dragging her tongue across them until Daemon was worked up enough to have her again. 

He liked her on her stomach, face pressed into the ground as his cock pressed into her. She liked it too, how deep he could thrust, how the bamboo matts scratched her knees. How she’d feel them throb when he throbbed in her mouth later. 

That was her favorite, having his member in her mouth. He may have hated her, but this was a sign of trust. He knew she was cruel but she would not bite his length, not when it brought her so much pleasure. No, she would kneel and just take as he pounded into her mouth as if it was a cunt. He liked the spit that dribbled, the way her eyes rolled back in her head. It was brutal, choking on his cock like that. Chin held in place so she was forced to swallow his come. 

He said she never looked closer to death, then after he’d had her. 

She had never felt more alive . 

She asked him once, what this meant to him. 

He had shrugged, “It’s just a different type of sparring.” 

She traced the scars on his back, “Hmm, sex means so little to you?” 

He shot her a smirk, “Only with you.” 

She huffed, rolling to her back and folding her hands on her stomach. “Would marriage mean so little to you, too?” She asked. 

“Are you getting married soon?” He asked, a non answer. She hummed in response. 

He didn’t know about the betrothal contracts. The stack was so thick in her desk it had taken her days to read them all. A gift for her seventeenth birthday, Viserys had said.

The gift was having a choice, but Viserys didn’t realize she had already chosen long ago. 

Daemon didn’t realize it, either. 

She brought the stack with her to the next council meeting. Daemon was there, looking handsome as ever. She loved him, but she hated how her mind took to admiring him. It was a waste of time, thinking of his fine jaw, the slope of his cheekbone. The way his light lashes looked brushed against his pale skin. 

The way his hair slipped from its style and into his face when he thrusted, the way the tips dragged across her shoulders making her stifle giggles for it tickled. She was never laughing when he entered her, though, too lost in the pleasure. She shivered at the thought. 

Was it any wonder she had fallen for him? They were made for each other. 

Even so, Rhaenyra’s voice was clear when she spoke, “Father I think the alliance with the Velaryon’s is in our best interest, and Laenor is of a good age.” 

She raised her head, at Daemon’s confused expression. He was clever enough to catch on, and she wanted him too. 

Her gaze fell on her father, who looked pleased. “It shall be political of course, a grand wedding, improved trades through the north and south, but I shall stay here.” She said, and he nodded eagerly. “I would never want my daughter to be anywhere else.” He said, and she grinned. 

They wanted to marry her to a Velaryon, Daemon realized. It made his throat dry as they spoke of the treaty — unable to find words on the matter. 

He grabbed her arm after, “What was that?” He asked her, in Valyrian so the council members wouldn’t understand. She grinned, “Does it matter, when I mean so little to you?” 

His grip tightened on her arm. 

“I’m not through with you, yet.” He said, and he meant it — he meant to ruin her. He hadn’t yet, had thought he needed to rush, he thought have a lifetime too… 

“You’ll never be Queen, with a water tribe consort.” He said, even though she knew that. He realized belatedly that this implied he assumed she would be queen. When had he started thinking of her as one? 

Her hand brushed his chin, “Well then brother, whatever shall we do?” 

He realized then, that perhaps she wanted to be ruined too. 

Chapter Text

There was no question that they worked well together, even if they disliked each other. The plan materialized quickly, a display in the Silk Streets would put her virtue into question. No honorable water tribe prince would marry her, then. No — the only one would offer for her was her dear brother.

It was a rare thing, in their line, for siblings to marry. It was usually only done under pressures of war, to keep the crown within the family when their numbers were small. Now it was not strictly necessary, but it would solve two problems at once — the heir and Crown Prince would be married off, and the King’s daughter’s reputation would be saved. 

It was a perfect plan. 

And a fun one to execute, too. 

Not as much fun as a true execution of course, but that could come later. 

They dressed as common folk, in rags that itched her skin — but for her plan she would not have to wear them long. 

The ride to the Silk Street was filled with jabs — mainly from her, towards her brother.

“You know the way well, I assume.” She teased, but he was quick — “Jealous?” 

She hissed, she was and he knew that and she hated that. 

“I am surprised, brother, that your bed frame is not mere splinters from all its notches.” 

“I’m surprised you sleep in a bed at all, instead of hanging from the rafters like a vampire.” 

“Do you like the idea of me sucking your blood so much, Daemon?” 

He laughed, “No, that is not what I like the idea of you sucking.” 

She dipped her head, hiding a smile. Soon. 

She had snuck out amongst the city before, even walked the streets with whores and the men who desired them. But she had never wandered into the buildings that they resided in. She hadn’t craved sex the way her brother did, she had always just craved him. She had little desire to see the act between strangers, or worse, between her brother and one of them. 

The building — the whore, they would not have survived her rage. She had told her brother as much once, whispered words between gasps. 

“ If you want this, you come to me.”

A sharp thrust had made her hiss, the rest of the words spoken between clenched teeth because he was too deep. 

“If you come to anyone else, I’ll kill them.” 

He came, then.

She hid her smile. Hid how much she liked it. He didn’t need to know that she wanted to be a home for his cock. The place it liked best. The place it came to every night. The space it chose to fill. The walls it chose to paint. 

He’d torn down her wall, she thought with a delirious giggle, claiming the space inside her for himself. She remembered the blood on his cock after that first time, the way he groaned when he saw it. The joy she had felt then, at having it be her brother to do this.

She felt joy now, too, for she liked the atmosphere of the brothel, liked the stares she was getting. She had removed her cap, leaving locks long and gleaming in the low lighting. Candles were everywhere, but the ceilings were high — so the lighting remained dim, and the moans, they echoed. 

It made her shiver, made her want to contribute. She would, soon, It was part of the plan. 

They needed to be seen first, though, and she enjoyed how much she saw in the process. So many nude forms, so much thrusting and sucking. It was a raw energy she could feel around her, the desire so heavy it was blanketing her.

She trailed after her brother, as he wove through the people. Greeting girls and men, who clearly knew his face and name. He would pull her to his side, ensuring people saw her. “Rhaenyra Targaryen,” she would say with a sweet smile. She knew what they were wondering, she heard the muttering, “Why was the princess here?”. 

She thrived off this too, people's confusion. Unsure if they could — should, look at her. 

Looks changing, becoming even less certain after they stopped and Daemon kissed her. It was a sweet kiss, for them, his knuckles tipping her face up, lips slowly drawing to hers. There were tongues, but it was refined, far away from the mouth fucking they preferred. 

But when he pulled away, his thumb entered her mouth — pressed down, forcing her jaw with it. She was good, she was always so good for him, resisting the urge to bite down. She manipulated everyone, she liked letting him manipulate her in this. Even liked the bored look he gave her, before spitting in her mouth and ordering her to swallow. 

She did. 

“So It was your spit you wanted me to swallow, brother?” She whispered in his ear, thinking back to their earlier conversation. That was enough of a push, and he pushed back — or rather, pushed her down. She grinned as she fiddled with the ties of his pants, quickly undoing them for she would rather fiddle with his cock. 

She knew it was large, knew people would stare at the length for more than simply the Prince it was attached to. It was a beautiful cock, and it was hers. She was quick to press her lips down the length of it. To take it to the root, and swallow what was in her throat, she liked the way that hurt. 

Liked the way his eyes closed, and he shivered a little, letting her know it was good. Sometimes they would stay like this after fucking when she was not yet tired of it. She’d hold the soft member in her mouth, sucking on it for hours until it was hard once more — sometimes even falling asleep like that. 

God, she loved that too, when she was asleep and she’d wake to the pinch of too much, wake to the press of a cock in her quim or a finger in her ass. He said someday she would be ready to be woken like that, too, the length of him buried in that forbidden puckered hole. She couldn’t wait. 

He always pressed her down when entering her at night, making sure she couldn’t struggle as she woke. He said it was best because she was off guard, the closest she ever came to relaxed. He claimed she was looser in sleep than in life, but the lack of preparation made it ache. Made each thrust feel like metal branding her until the pain turned to pleasure and her body compensated for it. She could feel it for days after, and sometimes he didn’t care — fucking her again and again, anyway, licking at her tears and enjoying their saltiness on his tongue. 

She called him a bad big brother, for liking to see her cry. 

He called her a bad little sister, for crying at all.

She was crying now, she thought. As he thrust in and out of her mouth. But she wouldn’t make this easy for him, she’d let her teeth graze the length— threaten him between thrusts and making him hiss. She would hum, the vibrations making him moan. He may control the tempo, but she had his cock in her mouth. She was not lacking power in this exchange, she wanted him to remember that. 

She wanted more than this. With a huff, she pulled off — or tried to, fighting the hand in her hair by digging her fingers into his hips. He always gave into the pain first, eventually untangling his hands and pressing on her shoulders to get her to stop sharp nails pressing into soft skin. 

She smiled up at him, springing up and crashing their lips together. His hands wandered, tugging at ties of her tunic before growing frustrated and tearing it down the center — fibers fraying as they revealed her breasts. 

His hands were greedy against them, fingers pinching at her nipples and threatening to twist, not that she would mind. She leaned into the hurt, she always had, it was how she survived in court. How she thrived. She would return any cruelty, until people feared her too much to doubt her. And then she would carry on, refusing to change her behavior even when they altered her own. 

Her reputation was that of legends. Of horrors. 

She giggled, after tonight she would have a different reputation. She would thrive off of it, too, though, she was sure of it. 

So she felt no shame — having her breasts bare in a place like this one. Felt no shame at being pressed against a wall, her brother pressing his cock inside of her. She bit her lip, the stretch was glorious. She was ready at the mere thought of this plan, so wet slickness dripped down her thighs. But even still, it pinched at first, without any preparation. Going from nothing to him inside of her in a quick thrust would always hurt — at least she hoped it would. 

She wrapped her legs around his muscled hips, arching her back when his lips nipped at her nipples. People must have been staring at the pair, how could they now? The two were being loud and shameless and gorgeous. Though they were no stranger to seeing their Prince fucking, they had never seen him fuck her. 

She grinned into his shoulder, they would never see him fuck another now, of that she was sure. 

It was delicious, leaving the brothel — womb heavy from Daemon’s come, but her shoulders high from success. Dozens of people had watched them with wide eyes as they left. Their show did not go unnoticed. Word would swirl to everyone, soon make it to her father. 

She didn’t expect it to happen so soon, though, did not expect to be dragged to the throne room with her breasts still unconfined from the torn tunic. Daemon was not much better, hair mussed and lips swollen. It was obvious what they had done, even if Viserys would not be keen to believe it. 

It seemed he did, though, his hand had heard of their exploits and reported them immediately. Leading them to being cornered when they reached the palace walls. 

She hadn’t expected her father to threaten to banish Daemon. 

She hadn’t expected the words from her that followed. 

“If you banish him, I’m going too.” 

“Rhaenyra!” Her father shouted before shaking his head.

Daemon looked surprised too, and to him she simply raised her chin, “Perhaps you’re just my best chance at being Queen.” He grinned, “If it was that simple, you’d just kill me.”

No, she wouldn’t kill him. 

“Daemon will pay for his sins in an Agni Kai.” Her father announced. 

Rhaenyra sighed, “I’d rather you didn’t mar the skin of my betrothed, father.” She doubted he would be able to get a hit on Daemon, when he had become accustomed to sparing with her, but she would not risk what could easily be dealt with. 

Not when she could just kill the King.

His screams were a sweet sound to her ears. A fitting goodbye, from her dear father. 

The flames rose and the life flickered out from him. 

She grew bored. 

She wondered if Daemon was ready to fuck her again.

Maybe they should show the palace guards that they fit together. 

Show them that they would always be together. 

For they were meant to burn together.