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    Summary

    “Daemon,” Rhaenyra manages, pressing her forehead to the crook of his bare shoulder. “Daemon, I—“

    “What is it, sweetling?” he asks, tracing gentle fingers up her arching spine. His voice is looser, more relaxed, than Rhaenyra thinks she has ever heard it.

    “You know,” she grits out. Rhaenyra fights herself, trying, trying to keep her hips still the way Daemon had instructed her, but—it is an impossible thing. She lets them nudge forward, just the tiniest bit, and then rock back again. “I need you to move.”

    She is seated in Daemon’s lap in a chair by the open balcony, her legs spread on either side of his. He is holding her to his chest like a child, her head tucked beneath his, her cheek resting on his shoulder. It would be a perfectly sweet position for uncle and niece—were Rhaenyra about ten years younger.

    And were his thick, weeping cock not buried to the hilt inside her.

    --------------------------

    Dialogue in italics is in High Valyrian.

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