Chapter Text
i.
Naelora slipped from the feast hall like a ghost no one had bothered to notice, which, she reflected, was rather fitting. Behind her, the celebration roared on, but no one called her back. No one even seemed to notice the bride had quietly fled her own wedding feast.
Middle child, she thought, invisible by birthright.
There had been no bedding. Her mother had shut that down. Her father had laughed, as if it was a fine jest. And Uncle Maekar had declared it “a stupid, pathetic ceremony,” which rather took the spirit out of it for everyone involved.
Naelora, however, would not have minded it. She desired that little chaos and attention. Lords tugging at her sleeves, ladies shrieking. Perhaps her gown half-ruined and her hair falling loose. At least then, people would have been looking at her. But when she glanced at Daeron across the table – already swaying – she felt a flicker of relief. If anyone pulled him too hard, he might have vomited. Let him not aim at me, she prayed.
ii.
Her handmaiden worked in silence, which Naelora appreciated. Slow fingers unlaced the front of her gown, each tug loosening the weight of the golden silk. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
“Well,” Naelora said lightly, stepping out of it, “I suppose this is the least witnessed wedding night in recent history.”
Her handmaiden gave a small, polite smile. “That may be for the best, my lady.”
Naelora smiled back, lifting her arms as the shift was drawn up and off. The nightdress was soft and simple, and thin enough to not leave her lord husband wondering what was hidden beneath it. Her handmaiden had just settled it properly over her shoulders when the door burst open.
No, not opened. Assaulted.
It slammed against the wall with a crack that made both women turn at once. Daeron stood in the doorway. He had, against all odds, made it. A victory already.
He leaned heavily against the door, then pushed it shut with his entire body. The resulting thud echoed through the chamber like a war drum. Daeron straightened and offered a smile. Or simply attempted to smile. It was the sort of smile that might have been charming… but it was not. Naelora also was not entirely certain he was looking at her.
“Ah…” he started, the word stretching through the sloppy haze of wine. “The blushing bride… waiting for her… dutiful husband.”
“I do try to be accommodating,” she replied, clasping her hands in front of her.
Her handmaiden made a very small choking sound and then turned it into a cough.
Daeron took a step forward. Then another. Each one seemed like a poor dance between his feet and the floor, neither entirely convinced of the other’s moves. He wavered, corrected himself, and continued onwards. Naelora watched him carefully. He did not lunge. Instead, he reached the bed and collapsed onto it with a heavy, undignified whump. Daeron lay there for a moment, staring at the canopy.
“Well,” Naelora whispered, “that went better than expected.”
Her handmaiden, still facing away, whispered, “Shall I… leave, my lady?”
Naelora considered the scene: her husband sprawled like a fallen knight, boots still on, but, mercifully, not vomiting.
“Yes,” she said at last, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. “I believe the most dangerous part of the evening has passed.”
The handmaiden slipped out quietly and Naelora remained where she was, watching.
Daeron had rolled onto his back, with one arm flung wide like said fallen knight in a particularly unimpressive painting. With the other, he fumbled for a flask at his side, found it, and poured its contents into a goblet. A generous amount was missed, of course. Wine trickled down his chin, gurgling as he swallowed, some of it escaping entirely and running down his throat.
“Would you not change?” Naelora asked, wincing, her tone polite and hopeful.
“Change?” he echoed, pushing himself up onto one elbow. His gaze found her and lingered. Ah. There it was. His eyes dipped, taking in the thin fall of her nightrobe. He saw her shape beneath it. “Change, yes. Right. The clothes.”
With his free hand, he began a charge against the buttons of his doublet. It did not go well at first. He tugged. He missed. He cursed under his breath as his fingers slipped. Somewhere in the struggle, more wine found its way onto his chest and lap.
“This–” Daeron muttered, squinting at the offending fastenings, “–these buttons are mocking me.”
“Clearly,” Naelora agreed.
He did not seem to hear her, or merely chose not to. After another moment of battle, he managed a partial victory, wrenching the doublet open and tossing it aside. The tunic followed, though not without further muttering and at least one misplaced curse.
“Seven Hells,” he grumbled. “Traitorous drink. Treacherous shirt.”
Naelora sighed softly and turned away. She moved to the vanity. One by one, she removed her earrings, placing them carefully beside each other. Then her rings. Her wedding ring stuck. She frowned, twisting it slightly. It was too tight. Married and already ill-fitted. She forced it, finally easing it free, and reached for a brush, drawing it slowly through her hair.
“Have you ever lain with someone?” she asked curiously.
“Lain with someone?” Daeron repeated, testing the words. He flopped back again, one arm draped over his face, the other hanging on his side, desperately holding onto his goblet. “Mhm. Perhaps once or twice. If you count the… fuzzy bits that come after too many drinks.”
Naelora turned her head slightly, her hand freezing mid-stroke. “The fuzzy bits?”
“Tavern girls,” he said. “People. Faces that don’t stay still long enough to remember. Warm, though. Always warm. And names… Never kept those.”
Naelora’s fingers tightened around the brush. Behind her, Daeron hummed faintly, shifting again, chasing half-formed memories. In his mind, he saw more than two pairs of tits. Some small, some large enough to feed an army, and some somewhere in between. Red bushed, black, brown, curly, then more straight.
“Yes,” he murmured to himself. “More than two.”
He let out a quiet sigh, then turned his head slightly in her direction, though his eyes still remained closed.
“And you?” he asked. “Were you waiting like a dutiful bride?”
“Mother would kill me if I did not,” Naelora said lightly, putting the brush aside. “She nearly killed Aelor and Aelora once. She caught them in a corridor. A very inconvenient place for such devotion. They were always together. Hands where they ought not be, or perhaps exactly where they wished them to be. In breeches. Under layers of skirts.”
Daeron nodded, though it was unclear how much he followed.
“I do wonder when he first took her maidenhood,” she added, tilting her head. “But Father was glad. He said they were born together, so they may as well wed and fill the nursery together too.”
“Do you… want to lie with me now?” Daeron asked, squinting.
Naelora glanced back back over her shoulder, her expression awfully serious.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like you to take my virtue. And put a babe in me.”
In fact, it was something Naelora had been looking forward to. For years, perhaps. Her lord husband’s touch. His hands, his mouth, his cock. His all.
“That is–” he coughed, pushing himself upright, “that is very… direct.”
He nearly choked on it again, then reached for a flask of water to thin his wine. He poured it, missed the goblet slightly, corrected his hold, then nodded to himself. “I shall… attempt to sober enough to remember it tomorrow. Would not want to disappoint you.”
Naelora smiled and turned back to the mirror.
“I am glad you have had your experiences,” she said, opening a small jar of rouge and dabbing a touch onto her cheeks, then her lips. “I have had none, but I have spoken with Lady Shiera. She was very helpful. Brought me a woman to instruct me.”
“In… theory?” he asked, blinking at the canopy.
“In practice as well,” Naelora replied, uncorking a small bottle of perfumed oil, dabbing it behind her ears. “She said it is important to know how to please a husband and how to ensure he returns the favour. I have also heard Aelora. My chambers are quite close. Gods, there were nights I could not sleep at all."
She rose then and let the nightdress fall away. There was no audience for it, just a quiet prince. A touch of more oil and final adjustment. She even used her rouge on her nipples. They were already pink but why not make them more red? At least that was what the woman Lady Shiera had brought her had told her.
“I do hope it will be a good night,” she said, almost to herself. "And do I not care for pain, so–"
Naelora turned and stopped. Daeron was asleep. She watched him, eyes widening. That… was not quite what she had imagined.
“Daeron?” she asked.
Nothing.
“Daeron,” she said again, a little louder this time.
He did not so much as stir.
She moved closer, climbing onto the mattress. Sitting beside him, she studied his face, utterly unbothered by her existence. She took the goblet from his hand before it could spill and set it aside. Then, hesitating only a second, she took his hand and guided it to her breast, her breath catching just slightly.
“I am ready for you,” she whispered. "I am soaked."
Naelora was not actually soaked. Slick, perhaps, but he did not have to know that.
For a fleeting second, his eyes fluttered open. Hope sparked in her chest, and died just as quickly when they slid shut again and he answered her with a snore.
Naelora stared at him, then slowly let go of his hand.
“…Right,” she murmured.
She slipped off the bed and reached for her nightdress, pulling it back over herself. This could not be how her wedding night was meant to go. Alone, cold, and dry in places that were not meant to be dry. She poured herself a goblet of wine and drank it in one go, as if that could salvage something of the evening.
It did not.
When she returned to the bed, she lay on her side, adjusting her hair, her posture, still, somehow, trying to look desirable. As if he could wake and see her, and something might begin, but sleep took her, too.
iii.
Morning came far too clearly. Naelora blinked awake and turned. Daeron was still there. Still asleep. Rolling closer, she studied him again, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his chin, then his cheek. His eyes cracked open.
“You’re… still here,” he mumbled.
Naelora pulled back, sighing. “Where else would I be? I am your wife and you promised me something, remember?”
Daeron squinted at her. The memory was hiding somewhere, but he found it.
“Promised…?” he asked. “Ah. Right. That.” He sifted then. “Suppose I did. You are very insistent about collecting.”
“I am,” Naelora agreed. “I want you.”
They leaned towards each other. The kiss was slow, uncertain at first, but not entirely without warmth. Her hand moved down and found its way to his breeches. She found his cock there. Her fingers moved along his entire length, then stones. She moved back to wrap her hand around his base, squeezing it softly. She had never had a cock in her hand. It felt… strange. Soft but firm. Like a raw sausage.
Daeron sighed, then groaned. His hand caught her wrist gently.
“If my body had any say in the matter, we would not be having this problem,” he muttered. “Wine has never aided my… performance.”
Naelora rolled onto her back with a long, quiet sigh.
“Give me some time,” he added after a moment. “An afternoon. Or – better yet – a barrel of water. Or an entire river.”
“Our marriage is not consummated,” she said flatly, staring at the canopy. “So technically, we are not married.”
“No one needs to know that,” he replied quickly. “I will sober by nightfall. I will… take care of it. Thoroughly,” he added. “Just… let me sleep off the wine first.”
“My handmaiden will know," she said. “My father will expect blood on the sheets.”
Daeron sighed again, dragging a hand through his already ruined hair before glancing towards the floor. He leaned down to retrieve his dagger.
“There are other ways,” he offered. “A small cut. A scratch. No one will question it.”
He turned the blade, offering her the handle. Naelora looked at the dagger, then at him.
“You may spill your own blood,” she huffed.
Daeron sighed. “That seems fair.”
He shifted his grip, then made a quick, shallow cut across his palm. He winced, more annoyed with himself than pained, and pressed his hand to the sheets, smearing the red across the white fabric.
“There,” he said, examining his work. “Proof of my… remarkable prowess.”
He leaned back, letting his injured hand rest and not stain more of the bed sheet.
"Are you happy now?" he asked.
Naelora tilted her head, frowning.
"Do I look happy?" she asked quietly.
That might have earned a crooked smile from him earlier, but now it did not.
“…No,” he said quietly. “No, you don’t.”