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The river lords fell into line, more or less, once Blackwood's blood soaked into the earth of Harenhal's weirwood. All except for one, anyway.
With increasing vexation, Daemon found himself at the perplexing mercy of one Oscar Tully. The green boy whose acquaintance he had briefly made shortly after arriving at Harenhal seemed to have sprouted a pair of balls overnight―even if they were utterly hairless. In fact, the transformation of useless boy to vital young man put Daemon in mind of his nephew, Aemond, and the event that had shaped him.
That, of course, was a dangerous train of thought...for Daemon and Aemond had formed a complex relationship at Driftmark that crossed countless lines and continued to evolve unchecked in the fraught sexual and martial dance that threatened to tear them both apart. But Aemond Targaryen was a true dragon. Oscar Tully... Oscar Tully was just... Just nothing. Damn it all, but Daemon had begun to like the little lord―possibly even respect him.
He would not have expected desire to follow, for Daemon had a type and Oscar Tully was far too ginger to fit the bill. However, the dreams didn't seem to care what his type was.
Thus, when Daemon rose from burning Rhaenyra's latest letter to answer the usual banging that heralded his nightly ethereal visitations, he was more shocked to find Oscar Tully at his door than even the specter of his late wife who had appeared to him on several occasions in the midst of dinner. Right away, however, he knew that the encounter would quickly turn sexual. There was a crackling of tension in the air that had been building between Daemon's waking self and the little lord coming into his power.
Without a word of greeting, Daemon surrendered to the dream, taking a step back and beginning on his tunic vest. Another step and he shed it, casting it aside. Oscar stepped forward in syncopation with his retreat, closing the doors at his back.
"You'll never have the love of the river lords," Oscar warned, mimicking Daemon's actions down to his breeches.
"We've established that I don't need it," Daemon said lightly, baring himself and watching the boy's expression bleed admiration and desire.
"Nor mine," Oscar breathed, shedding his boots and peeling down his breeches. He stepped out neatly, dangling them from a finger.
Allowing his own assessment of the surprising development of figure under all the outerwear to show on his face, Daemon shrugged and sat at the edge of the cursed weirwood bed. "Love is over-rated," Daemon agreed amiably, crooking his finger.
Oscar dropped the legwear and approached confidently. When he lifted one hand to Daemon's chest, the older man strengthened his core, meaning to school his prey some. To his shock, the precise tap to the center of his chest toppled him backwards. He landed flat on the mattress with a huff.
Wasting no time, Oscar straddled him, naked teenaged cock near vertical with anticipation. He clenched his thighs, grinding his backside and balls against Daemon's pelvis.
"Is this what it's like to ride a dragon?" he asked, breathless with high arousal.
"For that, you're going to need some Targaryen in you," Daemon said, smirking. "Why don't we start with my tongue?"
In short order, Oscar Tully, Lord Paramount and Commander of the Riverlands, lay belly up down Daemon's length with the king's tongue writhing in his virgin hole. He took the explorative addition of a finger in stride, his hair tickling Daemon's balls as his head thrashed. Two fingers, and Daemon was webbing the boy's hair with pre-cum for the enthusiasm that bounced in his face.
"Sure you haven't done this before?" Daemon asked casually, thrusting three fingers deep and crooking them.
Oscar shook his head wildly, and Daemon accepted the denial. It was a dream. Of course the boy's ass was as pliable as an old whore's.
"Well, then. I'd say you're ready for your first ride." Extracting his fingers, Daemon easily lifted Oscar and propped him up, just shy of his saluting cock. "Don't tell me you need a lesson in mounting."
"I think I can grasp the basics," Oscar retorted, regaining some of that cheeky applomb he had developed. He capped off the banter by grasping Daemon by the base and shifting them both until cock and hole came together with magnetic precision.
"Go on, then," Daemon encouraged, surprisingly hoarse. "Fly," he added in High Valyrian.
With a sadistic thrill, Daemon thrust up hard, sending the specter's eyes rolling in an open-mouthed, silent cry. Emulating the undulating motion of a dragon in flight, Daemon took a deep satisfaction in bouncing and jostling the boy on his cock, and secretly wished that Oscar Tully would wake the next morning with an inexplicably bruised posterior. But this was Daemon's dream, and they had a way of getting away from him.
Panting and redfaced, Oscar righted himself from a drastic backwards arch, coming down heavily with his hands beside Daemon's head. The king stilled, waiting to see what was coming next.
"Has anyone ever told you, you're a piece of fucking work?" Oscar gasped angrily.
Daemon raised a brow, rather pointedly.
"Fine. Has anyone ever told you, you're a sick and twisted old man without a single redeemable quality in the entirety of your miserable existence?"
A small shrug accompanied a grunt. "Perhaps not in those exact words..." He frowned as it occurred to him that something about Oscar's manner was off... "Look, where is this going exactly? Am I supposed to learn from you that I have a kink for bossy little boys? What's the point of you?"
A sharp, ringing slap cracked across Daemon's cheek. He didn't even have a heartbeat to be stunned by the definitive reality of that sensation before Oscar's mouth sealed his, the boy dining ferociously on his tongue.
The boy. Not the vision, specter, or dream. Oscar Tully, the insolent and disturbingly young river lord was grinding himself on Daemon's cock in a furor of passion and loathing.
"Maegor's saggy fucking teats!" Daemon exclaimed once he tore free to heave a breath. "This is actually... You little... Well, fuck me."
While he laughed, half-mad with the absurdity of it all, Oscar Tully's pride surged, and he rose up over Daemon, working his hips and innards in a very successful effort to push Daemon towards the same edge he was straddling. Teeth bared, glare heated, he ground out several last words.
"I'll fuck you to death if that's what it takes."
Jaw dropping in a sudden onset of orgasmic overkill, Daemon threw his head back and groaned out his abundant spend. Though the dreams had been plaguing him with a morbid combination of constant self-loathing and interminable arousal, he hadn't actually been with anyone since he'd taken Aemond―the night Viserys passed.
"I might just take you up on that," he wheezed, eyes wide as the blood continued to sing through his veins. Finally, he sagged, vision curtained by lethargic lids. Making a final effort, he grabbed Oscar's elbow and dragged the boy to his side, feeling for the evidence that the epitome of the exercise hadn't been entirely onesided.
Sticky and somewhat deflated, Oscar's prick confirmed his first ride had satisfied, as well it should. But hearing the boy draw breath, Daemon forstalled him.
"If you want a hope of ever doing that again, shut the fuck up and let me enjoy the afterglow," he hissed.
Oscar was commendably silent. Gradually, he moved to rest against Daemon's shoulder...and was long gone by the first light of morning. That night was the only night Daemon spent in Harenhal dreaming the inane and bizarre dreams of the peaceful.