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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 6 months

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Semper Eadem (iv, ao3)

Chapter four: In the aftermath of the jousting match, Elizabeth and her court go hunting, where Cassian has conspired to get Nesta alone.

(chapter one // chapter two // chapter three)

Nesta wasn’t thinking of the joust.

As the morning after dawned bright and clear, full of promise and expectation, she swore to God and all the old saints above that her mind would not stray to yesterday. She willed resolution in her chest, begged for strength, and as the sky lightened beyond the lead-paned windows of the Queen’s chamber, she focused instead on dressing her mistress. She refused to remember the tiltyard beyond those stone walls— kept her thoughts far from that bastard-born son of a nobleman who had so decidedly won command of her heart, like it were just another treasure he had plundered.

Obstinate, she clenched her jaw.

No.

By almighty God, she was not thinking about it.

Around her, the ladies of the royal household tittered and laughed, the soft sounds of shifting fabric filling the chamber as Nesta tied the ribbons on the Queen’s kirtle. A steady thrum of excitement hung heavy in the air, so thick it was palpable, and beyond the glass, not a single cloud marred the blue of the August sky.

There was to be a hunt, today.

A column of bright golden sunlight blazed through the chamber as the Queen angled a small Venetian mirror, its gilded frame heavy in one lithe hand as she tilted the glass to better glimpse her reflection. Her Tudor-red hair was afire in the morning light, her painted skin as pale as chalk, and glimmering she stood in the centre of her rooms, bedecked in so much wealth it was nigh on incalculable. Assessing, the sovereign let out a single contented hum.

What she saw pleased her.

And Nesta did not disagree— the dress alone could rival the work of the great Italian masters.

The fabric was light in colour, a pale cream with embroidered roses and vines picked out in such detail it was almost enough to stun. A threaded thistle sat above the Queen’s ribs, and on her left sleeve a large needlework snake was coiled, studded with pearls and gems, and from its mouth dangled a small ruby charm— heart shaped, and surrounded by golden thread, silver cloth, and shining, opalescent pearls.

The snake was Nesta’s favourite part of this particular dress.

An emerald no bigger than a fingernail served as the serpent’s eye, and its tongue was rendered in a line of golden thread darting from between embroidered silver teeth to hold that small ruby heart. A symbol of wisdom and cunning, the snake was everything that Elizabeth represented, everything she valued, and the message wasn’t lost on Nesta as she circled the Queen and brushed a hand over the jewels that made up the serpent’s curled and curving tail.

Her sovereign was as slippery and as dangerous as an adder, one that had used the sharp edges of her diamonds to carve a space of her own in a world shaped for the pleasures of men.

And that ought to have been distraction enough, but no matter how many times Nesta hauled herself back to the present…

Her dastardly eyes wandered to the window, and despite the promises she’d made to the Lord above, she damned her soul when she caught sight of the tiltyard beyond the glass, where a privateer had competed for her honourand—

“Are you looking forward to the hunt, your majesty?”

Nesta tried to not startle as Blanche, the Keeper of Her Majesty’s Jewels, stepped forward and voiced her question, bearing in her hands an oak jewellery box with the lid lifted open. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay a staggering number of pearls and jewels and gems, shining in every colour.

Elizabeth was silent a moment, handing off her mirror to another of her ladies as her fingers trailed idle over the priceless objects before her, hovering above diamonds and sapphires and emeralds and rubies. Before she answered, she plucked up a ring set with a large ruby and extended it out, holding it towards Nesta in one smooth movement.

“Ah,” she said breezily, waving her hand, and as the sunlight refracted off the myriad jewels scattered across the fabric of her dress, shards of red and silver light danced across the floorboards, “you know that I do so love to hunt.”

The Queen extended a hand as she spoke, and Nesta slid the ring the sovereign had chosen onto her waiting finger. Another of her ladies draped a necklace of pearls around her neck, and if for one brief moment they reminded Nesta of the pearl that hung customarily from Cassian’s ear…

She forced the thought away, and focused on straightening the Queen’s sleeve, her eyes returning to the snake.

But it’s spine was a line of more pearls— to symbolise wealth and purity, virginity, and it shouldn’t have reminded her of Cassian, of the one set in gold that shone amidst his dark curls. After all, Cassian could lay claim to neither wealth nor virginity, and yet the one he wore was a symbol nonetheless. Nesta brushed her hand over the Queen’s sleeve, and thought that perhaps his pearl was instead a symbol of something precious, something rare. Something plucked from the ocean and brought home to treasure.

Oh, the joust had softened her.

That was for certain.

Her conviction had already been wavering when she’d read Cassian’s letters, and seeing him race down the tiltyard yesterday had all but secured his forgiveness. The flames of her anger had burned away to nothing, and now when she thought of him—

She heard his laugh, saw his rakish smile, and felt her heart beat a little faster inside her chest. Like she were a witless maiden, borne of nothing but dreams and naïveté; like she hadn’t spent years at the royal court, growing as used to politicking as she was breathing. Cassian had made her yearn for real romance again, the way she had once as a girl, when her father had told her of Arthur and Guinevere, of Tristan and Isolde, and all those famous tales that made her heart swell. Oh, after years of ruthless pragmatism and the endless facade of courtly love, she thought her desire for the real thing had been stifled, strangled, but it had resurfaced now, more fervent than ever before. And when he’d bowed before her in the tiltyard, his helm cast aside and his face aglow with triumph…

Her hand fell away from the serpent on the Queen’s arm.

God— she needed to focus.

She pulled her awareness back in time to hear Blanche ask of Elizabeth,

“Will the Earl of Leicester be your hunting partner?”

Nesta paused.

It was a bold question— so bold that if anybody but the most favoured of her ladies had asked it, the Queen might have found reason to divorce a head from some shoulders. After all, they had all of them heard the rumours. Leicester and the Queen had been close friends since childhood— and there were whispers that perhaps it was once more than friendship, and might someday be something more again, if Leicester got his way. He had organised this entire pageant in the Queen’s honour, a gesture far grander than any he could reasonably have been expected to lay at his Queen’s feet. But as Nesta looked up, half expecting to find fury in the lines of the Queen’s face, instead she found her monarch’s mouth pulling into a coy smile, one that said Elizabeth would allow the question.

“I think perhaps he shall,” she answered.

Nesta remained silent, only rounded the Queen to stand before her. She assessed the dress, the jewels, straightening the pearl necklace that twice circled her throat before hanging down to her navel. Elizabeth merely tilted her head in the wake of Nesta’s ministrations, causing the lace of her ruff to tremble.

“And what of you, Mistress Archeron?” she asked. “Who shall be your partner?”

Nesta did not blink, did not pause, did not hesitate.

“Who should you like it to be, your majesty?” she asked, tilting her head in an echo of the monarch’s stance. Approval glimmered in Elizabeth’s eyes, a rare jewel of its own.

“Northumberland, perhaps?” the Queen ventured. “Master Vanserra seemed most determined to compete for your honour yesterday.”

Nesta’s mind flicked back once more to the joust - her soul be damned - and to the way Cassian had almost killed Eris in the tiltyard. As if the Queen could read her mind, Elizabeth snorted and said, smoothly,

“Or Master Cassian?” She tapped Nesta on the wrist with one long, thin finger. “My handsome Bat seems to have an eye on you, dove.”

Nesta forced herself to shrug.

“Perhaps he does, majesty.”

She fought a smile, and Elizabeth hummed. Mirth danced at the corners of her lips, and even though she didn’t approve of her ladies marrying, something about the joust yesterday had humoured her. Perhaps it was the way Cassian had bowed to his Queen, or the way he had cast off his helm and looked up to the stands in such a perfect display of chivalry that Nesta half thought he might have plucked it from the pages of some Arthurian romance. Either way, something had snared the Queen’s attention, but Nesta was not fool enough to say anything more. She merely took a single step back and bowed her head as the Queen smoothed a hand down her skirts one final time.

“Well,” she said, her tone one of musing. “Perhaps we shall see.”

A moment later the Queen clapped her hands, the sound sharp and cutting in the silence of her chambers. As the rest of her ladies waited for instruction, Elizabeth looked the window and allowed another serpentine smile to grace her lips. Her eyes were lit with purpose as she lifted her chin and said, with all the authority and determination only a monarch could muster,

“Let us hunt.”

***

It seemed, Nesta thought from atop her horse a half hour later, that all of England had descended upon Warwickshire to bask in the majesty of the Queen.

Riding two or three abreast in a great train behind Elizabeth, the hunting party stretched across the grounds all the way back towards the castle— all noblemen and horses, ladies and squires and hunting dogs. Trumpeters and drummers followed too, and a host of staff from the kitchens carried the baskets containing the food they would lay out at noon for dinner. Sheaths of arrows were slung across backs, crossbows stowed in saddlebags, and the drumming mirrored the footfalls of the horses as beyond the castle walls, Kenilworth’s expansive lawns began to slope before eventually giving way to lush woodland.

Grand— it was all so immeasurably grand.

Ahead, the Queen’s standard fluttered in the breeze, held aloft by a standard bearer, the embroidered lion shining golden beneath the morning sun. All the trappings of royalty gleamed— the richness of the Queen’s dress, the pearls that had been threaded through her hair; a glimmering vanguard as the trees of the forest grew closer. And at Elizabeth’s right, just as Blanche had suspected, rode the earl of Leicester.

As casually and as easily as if it were the only place in the world that suited him, Robert Dudley filled the space at the sovereign’s side, and their heads were inclined towards one another as they spoke, their horses so close their flanks almost touched. The breeze carried behind them the sound of Elizabeth’s laughter, and as Leicester glanced sideways at his Queen, Nesta saw a flash of teeth, a wide smile beneath the brim of his hat, and she knew with unerring certainty that the earl was in love— so desperately and madly in love that it warranted all of this display, all of this pageantry.

And the reminder that all of this grandeur was on the behalf of a man simply trying to turn a woman’s head…

Well, it was foolish perhaps, and more than a touch sentimental, but… charming, too.

And after all, hadn’t Cassian done something similar yesterday— something just as foolish? When he’d all but declared war on Eris, one of the richest dukes in England, because he had dared to ask her for her favour?

She shook her head, pushed the thought away, and kept her gaze straight ahead.

On the Queen’s left was Rhysand, riding silent and all but ignored. His heavy chain of office was draped over his shoulders, and the gold was bright against the deep black of his doublet. He wore a cap with a raven feather at the top too, and though from her position behind him she could not see his face, she could see his hands gripping the reins of his horse— could see, too, his velvet gloves, and the three rings he wore atop his gloves on each hand. His shoulders were stiff, and Nesta smirked.

If there was one thing Lord Rhysand did not appreciate, it was being overlooked, and with Leicester by her side, the Queen had no attention to spare for her dark-haired councillor.

The sight should not have made Nesta as smug as it did.

On Nesta’s own left rode Madge, another of the Queen’s ladies. At their backs was the Duke of Northumberland and one of his many brothers, and Nesta did not think it a coincidence that he had managed to secure such a spot in the procession trailing behind the Queen. Indeed, as she had stood in the courtyard and mounted her horse, Eris had offered her his hand, and though Nesta had not accepted his assistance, he had bowed his head anyway, before taking her own hand and placing a fleeting kiss to the back of her fingers.

She had never been so thankful to have been wearing riding gloves.

Beside her Madge was silent, as if she could tell that her riding partner was entirely preoccupied with her own thoughts. A frown almost creased Nesta’s brow, and she almost considered striking up conversation, but then her eyes fell to her gloved hands tight on her reins, and all she could think was—

I hope Cassian did not bear witness to that ridiculous kiss.

It was a thought as ridiculous in itself as the kiss Eris that had dropped on her hand, but one that persisted nonetheless. So consumed was she by it that the world and all its noise seemed to fade away, until—

“Mistress Radcliffe,” a smooth and all too familiar voice said easily from the empty space at Nesta’s right. Her heart kicked in answer as Madge turned her head, eyebrows rising as she beheld who addressed her. “My lord Azriel asks for you. He wishes to give you news of your brother in Ireland before the hunt begins.”

Cassian did not let his eyes stray to Nesta as he bowed his head; a vision of courtesy.

Madge smiled wide. It was no secret that she missed her brother, sent over to Ireland on the Queen’s orders. A lady from the north, she missed her family greatly, and it was no surprise to Nesta when she nodded her head and gave her thanks before turning around and leading her horse back along the procession that trailed them, to the space about four riders back, where the Queen’s spy had been riding beside the privateer and now sat alone.

Nesta looked behind as Cassian’s horse fell into step behind her. Quietly, she thought she heard Northumberland curse.

“Lady Nesta,” Cassian said in greeting, his voice light and airy as if this were the most ordinary of meetings.

But— merciful God, have pity on her soul.

Would she ever tire of the way her name sounded on his lips? Or the way he imbued it with something that felt like intimacy somehow? Lady Nesta, not Mistress Archeron. She thought back to his letters, how he’d penned her name with such an elaborate flourish. Even on a rocking ship, when ink and time were short for him, he’d written her name like it meant something. She glanced sidelong at him, trying to focus on the rhythm of the horse beneath her, the gentle trot of the hooves. But one look and she was at sea all over again, her sentimentality like a storm that threatened to send her under.

His doublet was the deep red of Burgundian wine, shot through with silver buttons in the centre of his broad chest, and for one foolish and ill-advised moment Nesta let her eyes wander, following that path of silver to where his doublet met his breeches.

God have pity, indeed.

Seated atop his horse, the privateer beside her cleared his throat and Nesta hauled her gaze back up— to a level far more befitting a lady of the Queen’s household. She took in, instead, the slashed sleeves of his doublet that split to reveal a crisp white shirt sitting beneath, and the dark cloak draped effortlessly over his shoulders. A delicate ruff rose from his collar and just barely grazed the edge of his jaw, and oh, lord— this man was beautiful. A velvet bonnet was balanced at a damn near rakish angle atop his curls, and as he brought his stallion into a trot beside her, the feather adorning it shivered in the breeze.

Beneath his unflinching gaze, and despite the heat, Nesta felt herself shiver too.

“Feeling cold, my lady?”

Damn him.

She cleared her throat, and refused to take note of the way several of those curls escaped his bonnet and lay tangled above his ruff, right against the bare skin of his neck.

“Master Cassian,” she said mildly, looking decidedly straight ahead to where the Queen and Leicester still spoke together in low murmurs. “Can I help you?”

He grinned. “Back to Master, are we?”

“Would you have me call you something else?”

“Oh sweetheart,” he said, dropping his voice so low it was almost sinful, “I’d have you call me several things.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and tried to force down the blood that rose to her cheeks.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Indeed,” he said brightly, tipping his head back and inhaling deeply, drawing the summer air deep into his lungs. He tightened his grip on the reins, his gloved hands pulling as the riders ahead of them began to slow— as the line of trees at the forest edge grew nearer still.

And Nesta thought she must have lost her mind, because when she looked at those gloves, for a moment she found herself mourning the fact that she could not see the bare skin of his hands as his fist tightened.

“Tell me— did my lord Azriel really wish to speak with Madge?”

Sidelong, Cassian smirked.

“In truth, no,” he said with an easy shrug. “But it is no lie that he received reports from Ireland this morning. It is entirely possible there was something about Mistress Radcliffe’s brother in there.” He shot her a grin, before adding brightly, “I merely thought to join your hunting party, if you’ll have me.”

“I fear I am not much of a hunter,” Nesta answered with a shrug of her own, a slow lift of one shoulder. “My sister was always far better at it than I.”

He shot her a dazzling smile, one edged with mischief. “And yet I am certain we can find some creature for you to bring down.” He glanced behind him, to Eris and his brother. “A fox, perhaps.”

“Perhaps the fox was brought low enough already after yesterday’s joust.”

“The fox remains presumptuous,” Cassian shrugged. His gaze dropped, eyes turning flat as they alighted briefly on her hand, and Nesta’s heart sank a little as she realised that yes, Cassian had indeed witnessed that ridiculous little kiss. “He still thinks to take what is mine.”

“Yours?” Nesta asked incredulously, glancing once over her shoulder, ensuring Eris was still too lost in his own conversation to overhear. Looking ahead, she saw with thanks that the Queen was still too preoccupied to take note, too. “After such a long time away?”

Cassian lifted one hand from the reins and waved it. Like Rhysand, he too had rings decorating his fingers above the velvet, and they gleamed now, the gold bright.

“I thought we’d been over this, sweetheart?”

She blinked, imperious. “You’ve been over this, sir. As far as I recall, I said little on the matter.”

He snorted. “You said much,” he countered simply. “You’ve had me grovelling for days.”

“Grovelling?” she raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t mask the smile that began to spread across her face. “I haven’t seen you on your knees once.”

His eyes darkened. “And is that what it will take, my lady?” He tilted his head, the pearl in his ear brushing the lace of the ruff that peeked from the neck of his doublet. “For my forgiveness, you would have me on my knees?”

She was silent for a moment, and a wicked smirk curved his lips.

“Trust me, love, I am more than willing.”

Her breath caught, her blood raced. His meaning was obvious, and with the way that smirk turned almost devilish, she knew that the blush that rose to her cheeks had amused him— pleased him. Her treacherous heart beat a little faster - a lot faster - and she was about to reproach him for daring to speak so boldly in the presence of a lady of the royal household, but—

The horns sounded, and the dogs began to bark, and the party at last reached the tree line. With a wave of the Queen’s hand, lifted into the air, every one of them fell silent.

Cassian pressed a gloved finger to his lips and winked, and Nesta was so momentarily undone by the gesture that she almost set her horse into a straight gallop. She pulled hard on the reins, knuckles straining above the leather, and when she turned, she saw laughter dancing in those damned eyes.

She tore her gaze away, focusing forwards— on Rhysand and the Queen and Leicester.

Slowly they made their way beneath the cover of the trees, delving farther and father into the woodland. The sound grew muffled, the heavy canopy above cloaking the rest of the world from view, and all around them was birdsong and the snap of breaking branches as the great trail of courtiers and servants began to split into smaller groups.

It would have been impossible for the entire party to have remained unnoticed by their quarry, and so— in groups no larger than a dozen, the entire court slipped away, and as Nesta looked over her shoulder when the initial flurry of activity died down, she found nobody behind them now, only the greenery of the forest and the birds in the trees above.

The Queen’s personal hunting party had narrowed, leaving only Elizabeth and Leicester, flanked by Rhysand and two more ladies-in-waiting. Madge and Azriel had joined them too, along with one more member of the Queen’s council. Nesta and Cassian brought the total to ten.

Leicester retrieved a crossbow from his saddlebag, and handed it across the distance to his Queen. Elizabeth grinned.

A hush had fallen, and ahead Rhysand looked over his shoulder and scanned the members of the small group. Catching Cassian’s eye, he seemed to give an exasperated sigh before rolling his eyes and giving the privateer one brief, sharp, nod. Nesta did not much understand the silent and secret language Cassian seemed to share with his brother in arms, but it did not take a master codebreaker to decipher that particular message.

Alright, that nod seemed to say. I’ll do as you ask.

In answer, Cassian grinned.

And as Azriel manoeuvred his horse around them, leaving Nesta and Cassian at the back of the assembly, Rhysand pointed between the dense copse of trees ahead, where the light above was dim and the forest pressed in on all sides.

“There!” he said loudly, his voice startling the birds nesting in the nearest tree. “Over there, your majesty!”

Elizabeth whipped her head to the side, sharp eyes assessing the direction Rhysand’s finger still pointed. Before Nesta could blink, the Queen’s smile had widened, the hunt upon her, and she kicked in her heels and sent her horse barrelling through the trees— at a speed so reckless her other councillor cursed soundly before setting his horse to follow.

Rhysand’s black stallion charged ahead, but before Nesta could urge her own mare forwards, another hand gripped her reins.

Cassian held tight, and as the rest of the hunting party darted quickly between the trees, Cassian inclined his head to the side, nodding in the other direction. His smile grew as the sound of the racing horses faded, and when he let go of the reins at last, he did not retract his hand. Instead, he extended it further, turned his palm to the sky. A silent offer, unspoken question.

Come with me, that hand said.

And Nesta knew it was a bad idea to follow him through the wood.

Knew it was reckless, to go off with him alone.

Her reputation could end up in tatters. She could lose her position in the Queen’s household.

And yet…

His smile was somehow sweet and devilish at the same time, simultaneously the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and the harbinger of her own ruin.

She should have said no.

But God save her…

She didn’t.

Instead, she placed her hand in his, feeling her heart kick as his fingers folded over her own. He drew her closer, until he could lift her hand to his mouth, and without looking away, he kissed the glove above her knuckles. She fought a shiver, and though earlier when Eris had kissed her hand she had thanked the Lord for riding gloves, now she cursed them— abhorred them.

She felt the warmth of his hand sinking through her gloves, and oh, she only wished she could feel his touch against her bare skin, feel the smoothness of his kiss as the trees hid them from view.

At last he blinked, breaking his gaze and flicking his eyes down to the fingers he still had pressed against his lips.

A moment, an age, or a heartbeat later, he let her hand drop. And before Nesta had time to collect herself, Cassian dug in his heels and sent his horse through the trees, looking back over his shoulder, as if unwilling to draw his eyes away.

And when they were alone, with only the two of them riding almost silently, slowly, through the density of the trees, she dared to look at him again as he adjusted the crossbow that now sat across his lap, though neither of them seemed really intent on hunting anything at all.

For a long time, there was silence— as if they were both of them afraid of being overheard. The air between them shifted, growing softer, as if the quiet gave rise to vulnerability. Suddenly, there were a thousand things Nesta wanted to say, a thousand words drifting to her lips, but in truth, she had no real idea of where or how to begin. Instead she watched the forest ahead of her, studied the way the leaves above swallowed the light, and let the silence stretch. And stretch, and stretch, and stretch, until—

At last, the privateer broke it.

“You said you wanted me on my knees,” he began softly. “But what else do I need do to prove myself to you?”

He looked at her imploringly, the rogue cast aside, and Nesta’s heart suddenly began to strain, each beat laboured. Nothing— she knew she ought to tell him nothing, because no matter how much she wanted it, how much desire she carried, how could this ever end well between them?

Cassian studied her face.

“Do I need to sail to a distant land and claim it in your honour? Name a settlement after you? Bring you back a ream of treasure?”

She was silent, and his eyes were lined with a wealth of desperation that gave the lie to his bravado.

“Or shall I cast off my cloak before you and lay it over puddles, so your silk slippers may never touch the ground? Or—“

Nesta shook her head, and when she opened her mouth, his voice died to make way for hers. But her words grew tangled in her throat, and she hesitated— even though she never hesitated. She closed her mouth and sighed once more, and atop his horse Cassian smiled a little sadly, with so much longing her own heart ached, and when she looked at him…

Oh, he was the road her heart begged her to travel, even though it was one she knew in all good sense she wouldn’t be able to see through to its end. What was the point in letting herself fall, only to be hurt again when he left? Or when her father succeeded in tying her to some wealthy duke— if not Northumberland, then some other who came along? What was the point in any of it?

Love, a small and starving part of her whispered. The love the poets write about, the kind the troubadours sing about. The kind that makes you feel the way you do now, ready to cast off the world and find home in the arms of this one man.

As if he could see her battling with herself, Cassian drew his horse closer to hers— so close she could almost feel his warmth.

“You should know,” he said quietly, and whether the whisper in his voice was because of the need to stay hidden or the vulnerability of his words, she wasn’t sure, “that your letters were a greater treasure to me than anything I could take or steal from any ship on the high seas. Greater to me than any ransom any king could demand.”

A heartbeat passed, one where her heart seemed to thud so loudly in her chest that she feared the flock of deer they were pretending to hunt might hear it and flee.

Charming— did he always have to be so damned charming?

And God— would it be so bad, to tell him that he already had her forgiveness? Would it be so terrible, to tell him that despite it all she was his, if not in body but in mind and soul at least?

She was speechless for a moment, and he managed a weak sort of grin at her evident surprise.

And then—

The trees thinned, and a clearing lay spread before them, golden sunlight pooling in the centre like a small slice of Arcadia. Cassian sniffed a little, like the long grass and the wildflowers had irritated his nose, but still— there was beauty in that clearing, unspoiled and harmonious.

And— a doe.

A doe stood frozen in the middle, her ears pinned back as she caught sight of the approaching horses. The sunlight dappled across her white-spotted back, and as she slowly lifted one slim leg, ready to bolt, Nesta’s eyes drifted to the crossbow in Cassian’s lap.

She prayed he wouldn’t shoot.

But Cassian’s hand didn’t so much as twitch towards the weapon, as if he couldn’t find it in himself to hunt the creature either.

Yet on the other side of the clearing— there was the flash of auburn, the glint of an arrow.

Nesta’s heart lurched, and whether by design or divine intervention, beneath the hooves of Cassian’s horse a branch cleaved with a crack.

Readily, the deer bolted.

A curse sounded from the trees, where only a moment ago an arrow had been knocked and drawn, ready to be loosed.

“Privateer.” A snarling voice drifted from the tree line, sharp and cutting, and Nesta recognised it immediately— saw the auburn hair like burnished bronze as Eris came into view. “You just cost me my prize.”

The duke pointed to where the deer had escaped between the trees, and though the rest of his companions remained in the shadow of the forest, she thought she could make out a handful of their faces, two of them bearing that same auburn hair. His brothers. Eris’ sneer grew wider, more vicious, and as he turned his head to fix Nesta with a stare across the distance, she wondered if his prize hadn’t only been the doe, but her, too.

He brought his horse forwards into the clearing, further into the light, giving her an unrivalled view of the shining bruise that marred his temple.

He hadn’t taken his loss at the joust yesterday well, it seemed, and though he cast his eyes over Nesta once more, it was to Cassian that he returned his gaze, letting out a single, dissatisfied huff. The bruise stretched up to his hairline, a livid purple stark against his pale skin, and in everything else but that, he appeared every inch the nobleman. A ring sat on every finger, and his doublet was unbroken black. Like Rhysand, he too wore a livery collar draped across his chest and shoulders, but where the Queen’s councillor had a Tudor rose dangling from his chain of office, Eris had instead the badge of a dog, its head back, lifted as if howling at the sky.

He had a dagger out, too, presumably for slaying the deer, but the glint of the blade in the sunlight still promised bloodshed, and the way his hand flexed around the hilt said that it didn’t matter the doe had fled.

That dagger was to taste blood today, one way or another.

“Piss off, Northumberland,” Cassian said easily— but his own hand had strayed from his bow to the sword hanging at his hip, his wrist resting purposefully on the pommel.

Eris’ eyes flashed, quietly furious as his lip curled. “I will not stand to be insulted by one of such low standing.”

Cassian barked a laugh, but it was low and rough and dangerous. “You won’t stand for anything, sir, if I knock you from your horse as easily as I did yesterday.” He paused, and then added, “Shall I give you another bruise to decorate the other side of that pretty face?”

The duke sneered, but before he could let loose the insults that Nesta could see were rising to his tongue, there was a cacophony in the distance, and a hundred horns suddenly flaring loud enough to be heard all the way back at the castle.

It was a summoning— a call to arms, to usher Elizabeth’s court back to her as the sun reached its highest point in the sky and dinner was served in the great tents at the edge of the forest.

For the moment, at least, the hunt was at an end.

Eris twisted his head, looking behind him to the direction the horns had sounded. His brothers did not wait for him to make up his mind before they disappeared, following the call for food that was, apparently, of far greater worth to them than any loyalty they had for their brother.

Cassian bowed mockingly in the saddle, but his hand did not stray from easy reach of his blade, and when Eris turned back to them, his lips were a thin line.

“These woods are treacherous,” he said flatly. “It commands great skill as a rider to avoid the pitfalls that litter these grounds. You might have won the match yesterday, sir,” - the duke’s lips pulled back over his teeth - “but how about another match? Here and now?”

Nesta watched as Cassian grinned, almost feral.

“First to the Queen wins,” he said as he moved his horse forwards, drawing level with Eris’.

The duke’s face darkened, and the nod he gave was sharp before flicking his eyes to Nesta once more. As if this were another attempt at winning her, at securing her favour for a second time. Cassian’s smile fell away, leaving behind the same murderous expression that had fuelled him at the joust yesterday.

“For the lady’s honour, then,” Eris declared, every word imbued with venom.

And when Cassian nodded, looking behind him over his shoulder to give Nesta one final wink, Eris clenched his jaw before slamming his heels into his horse’s flank, sending the beast galloping through the trees.

Cassian swore, a curse so filthy she was sure he could only have picked it up at sea, and surged forwards, letting the forest swallow him.

But as Nesta followed, dipping beneath the cover of the trees, she saw that only the thinnest shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy of leaves above, leaving the forest floor just as treacherous as Eris had described. The ground was slick with mud, and even though the August heat ought to have dried it out, the summer sun had never made it to the ground here. Petrichor was thick in the air, and the long limbs of the trees snatched at the skirts of Nesta’s dress as she rode by them, wild and overgrown. Treacherous— this part of the forest was most definitely treacherous.

Indeed, Cassian could not ride as fast as he had yesterday, and neither could Eris, and it allowed Nesta to keep both the duke and the privateer in her sights as she followed behind, watching them weave through the trees in search of stable ground.

As her horse almost stumbled over the gnarled roots of a tree half concealed by fallen leaves, she wondered if stable ground even existed this far into the woodland, and as the wind brushed against her cheeks and another branch snagged on her cloak, she almost called out to stop the madness that had Cassian spurring his horse onwards, regardless of the danger.

The ground began to slope— sharp and steep, and it was madness, utter madness to continue—

Eris noted the slope, and Nesta watched as the duke swiftly studied the way the ground all but dropped away to reveal a small dell below, home to wide a stream that ran slow and idle through the undergrowth. Its banks were coated with mud, turning it slick and dangerous.

Wisely, he veered to the side, directing his horse around— to where the ground sloped more evenly. A longer path, but a safer one, and he looked back only once before disappearing into the trees, avoiding danger altogether.

But Cassian—

Irreverent, he glanced once over his shoulder. Manic, he grinned as he barrelled ahead, shooting Nesta a wink as he urged his horse faster still in Eris’ absence. The creature’s hooves slid in the mud, and Nesta called out his name, but Cassian had turned his face away, and if he heard her, he gave no indication.

Idiot.

She had no choice but to follow, and when he reached the banks of the stream, he did not stop. Instead he pressed in his heels, riding even faster, compelling the stallion to jump—

And Nesta watched as the horse made the jump, but its hooves slipped on the bank on the other side, its landing far from smooth.

And just as Eris had been thrown from his horse yesterday, now Cassian was thrown from his— but it was a fall that was far more treacherous, far more dangerous, and Nesta swore her heart stopped dead as she watched him land roughly, heard the muffled groan as the ground came up to meet him. Forgetting all notions of her own safety, she urged her horse faster, willing it to cross the stream his stallion had just jumped.

“You fool,” she hissed, feeling her horse whicker beneath her as she pushed the mare onwards. Cassian was lying on his back, a hand cast over his ribs as he looked up at the sky. “You could have broken your damned neck.”

Cassian twisted his head to look up at her as she pulled her horse to a halt.

“Got your attention though,” he muttered. “So I’d say it was worth it.”

“This was a bid for my attention?” Nesta echoed, dismounting roughly as he continued to lie there in the earth churned by his horse’s hooves. The mud was seeping through his breeches already, and the white sleeves of his fine cambric shirt were, she feared, irreparably stained.

“Well,” Cassian said lightly, as though he hadn’t just been thrown from a stallion. “You started it, sweetheart.”

“Started what?”

He looked up at her again, turning his head in the dirt. “You gave Eris your favour.”

Nesta blinked. “You had your horse make a jump like that, risking your own bloody neck, because I gave the duke of Northumberland my ribbon? Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” he countered evenly. “My heart, perhaps. But my mind is still wonderfully intact.”

“Up,” Nesta said sharply. “Let me look at you.”

He grinned, as though vindicated, but as he made to raise himself, he hissed sharply, sucking in a breath as he pressed a hand to his ribs. His brow furrowed with pain, eyes darkening, and Nesta sighed heavily as she pulled off her gloves, held out her hand, and helped him to his feet.

“Take off your doublet,” she said flatly, looking at the expanse of muddied velvet.

Cassian’s brow quirked. “Well, that’s not how I imagined you asking me to undress but—“

“How else can I check to see if you’ve shattered your ribcage?” she interrupted, but Cassian only grinned again and began loosening his ties. Soon enough his doublet was parted entirely, and as he slipped it from his shoulders, he winced. He let it fall to the floor, and Nesta was about to chide him for dirtying it so, but then she caught sight of his sculpted chest showing through the thin fabric of his cambric shirt. She swallowed, letting her gaze wander across his collarbone, at the tanned skin there that had been masked by his doublet’s high neck.

“And this?” Cassian said lowly, nodding to his undershirt. “Does this need to go too?”

“I… suppose it does,” Nesta said with a sniff, trying to affect nonchalance when all she could focus on was the curve of his shoulder, the muscles lining every inch of him. “How else can I check that no ribs are broken?”

“How else indeed,” Cassian hummed, and wasted no time in pulling the shirt over his head.

And good Lord have mercy, Nesta knew that Cassian was sculpted like Italian marble but nothing could have prepared her for the bare skin of his chest, hardened with muscle. Those months on a ship definitely suited him, and as she looked, she forced herself to focus on his ribs, on the task at hand.

Innocent, she thought as she tentatively traced a finger across his ribcage, where a thin scar marred his skin. It’s all entirely proper, completely innocent. Just a lady checking a friend for injury.

He was warm beneath her, so warm, his skin softer than it had any right to be. He’d spent eight months in the sun and salt air, and he’d come back looking finer than ever. Hers— this man could be hers, and as her fingers splayed across his chest, Cassian reached up with one hand and caged her touch right above his heart.

She felt it beat— sure and steadfast.

“Will I live?” he asked softly. “Or am I doomed?”

Nesta swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his hazel ones, boring down into her with an intensity that had her feeling slightly stunned. Her lips parted, she tried to speak, but all she could feel was his heart beating beneath her fingers, his smooth skin and the warm heat of him that had her feeling breathless.

“You’ll live,” she said at last.

He nodded, his hair falling idly over his forehead. In the sunlight, the pearl that dangled from his ear winked, the gold setting glimmering.

Nesta blinked, and somehow found the strength to drag her eyes away, dropping her gaze to the floor. Where his shirt lay in a crumpled pile next to his doublet, there was a hint of pale-blue, a small flash of colour against the white. She frowned, tilting her head, unable to understand even as she knew what it was, what it must be.

“Is that— my ribbon?”

Cassian pulled back, a somewhat sheepish smile on his face as he cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“Perhaps.”

“How did you even get it?” she asked, bending to retrieve it from the pile of his clothes.

He shrugged. “I wasn’t about to let Eris have it.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the noise of the forest and the sounds of the horns, distant.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he asked quietly. “About the betrothal.”

Nesta shrugged. “Because I’m trying to get out of it,” she said easily. “It was foolish of you to think I’d still be here, unwed, when you got back. You know my father—“

“Fuck your father,” he muttered. And then he softened, his eyes turning wide with something akin to pleading. “I’m here now, sweetheart. And I’m not going away again.”

“But you will,” she countered, turning her face away. He always would— he could not be tied to the court as she was, had too restless a spirit to spend his life idling away on an estate somewhere. “And I’ll be left behind, waiting for you, again.”

“You could come with me,” he offered instead, even though the both of them knew it was madness.

Elain had moved to Spain with Lucien— but that was because his place was in the Spanish court, somewhere settled. It was bad luck to have a woman aboard a ship, everyone knew that. No, Cassian could not take her with him, but she adored him a little for even offering in the first place.

“Or you could promise not to stay away so long,” she said instead, her voice quiet. “Come home, Cassian, as often as you are able. Don’t sail so far away from me.”

“Never again,” he said, holding a hand over his heart. “How could I ever stray so far, when I love you too much to stand the distance?”

Her breath caught.

I love you.

Oh, the words were said so often at court. She’d had countless dukes and earls call her their dearest love during dances and revels, and she couldn’t even begin to fathom how many had written her poems or bowed deep and told her she held their hearts in her hands. It was part of the game they played at Elizabeth’s court— part of the realpolitik that made up their world.

But it was different when he said it.

So different Nesta might have sworn the earth beneath her shifted, that standing beneath that canopy of trees, all the riches in the world lost their value.

She blinked, and he waited— waited for her to say something, to acknowledge his declaration.

And in the end, Nesta found the strength to dip her head, to smile a little demurely before stepping forward and pressing the softest, the chastest, of kisses to his cheek. Then, she turned back to her horse and mounted, leaving him standing there, looking up at her, one hand pressed to the cheek she had just kissed.

“I suppose, then,” she said, “that you can be forgiven for ignoring my letters.”

And as she began to ride off into the forest, she looked back once— and waited for him to follow.

Taglist: @c-e-d-dreamer @andrigyn @beansidhebumbling @burningsnowleopard @asnowfern @xstarlightsupremex

#nessian #nessian fic #semper eadem #extra long authors note on ao3 as per usual this time featuring:#Elizabeth's actual surviving dress; the real Madge Ratcliffe; and a little bit about the relationship between Elizabeth and Leicester

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misguidedasgardian · 2 years

Text

The White Dragon (2)

2. Collateral Damage

MASTERLIST

Summary: Your wedding with Ser Harwin Strong

Pairings: main Harwin Strong x Fem!Targaryen reader

Warnings: *There might be spoilers in warnings*

Cursing, violence, smut, medieval and A song of ice and Fire AU customs, a wedding ceremony, A BEDDING CEREMONY (yeah one of the most rude but funny ceremonies in westeros, let’s recreate it why not) Harwin is older than the reader. 10 years older to be exact. Harwin is hairy and impresses the reader 😂

+ 18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 5.1k

Notes: I changed the name of the Dragon slightly, I feel like sounds a LOT like Vhagar, haden't noticed, she is now Vhaelar.... a liiiiitle different 😂

Today was a day for celebration…

Today is your wedding day

What was supposed to be a fortnight, turned into 4 months waiting for your impending wedding.

At first you thought it was a sign that you shouldn’t marry Ser Harwin, but the odds were just playing you.

The first delay was that you received the news that your sister was with child, and that, according to your father, deserved at least a week of celebrations and jousts

Secondly your father’s own name day

Then it was Prince Aegon’s

Then it was another thing you couldn’t quite remember. You felt like they were playing with you.

But as the fifth anniversary of your father’s marriage to Queen Alicent was approaching, your father felt like we could finally celebrate your wedding, a month of love, he called it.

With Rhaenyra 12 fortnights in her pregnancy, and your father’s endless smiles, with three young babies of his own… Today was the day you will bond with Harwin

You had decided for a small ceremony at the Royal Sept. It was way smaller than the one in the city, but the details of the pillars and ceiling took your breath away everytime, it was way more beautiful. Your father had invited important families like he did in Rhaenyra’s wedding, but this, to your liking, was becoming a much smaller affair.

Harwin had been so gentle with you, he insisted on taking walks along the walls from where you could see the sunsets, he had gifted you flowers and kind smiles. He behaved dreamly, like a Knight from the stories would. You never saw him again around Maegor’s holdfast, his room was in the apartments near the tower of the hand. You saw he was trying hard to make you see that he wasn’t even in contact with Rhaenyra anymore. And that did make you feel better.

You were willing to give him a chance.

You were going to marry the man, you were going to share his bed and have his children, you needed to give him a real chance. Besides, those feelings you always had for him since two years ago that were dormant, resurfaced in full force. Every time you saw him you felt tingles in your lower belly

So as you looked at yourself in the mirror for one last time, you smiled softly. Your handmaidens had done a truly beautiful job, they had arranged your hair in a beautiful way, with braids decorated with emeralds, rubies and sapphires, its colors resembling the shield of House Strong. Your father had commissioned a beautiful white dress with long sleeves that had a pattern that looked like scales from a dragon, the white started to fade into red for the bottom of the dress, it looked like it was dipped in blood, with a pattern of orange leaves, like the ones from the Old Oak. It was simple, but the fabric was so delicate it danced around you when you moved.

As you left your room you found Steffon, with a bright smile on his face. You smiled brightly at him, showing him all your teeth and taking a spin so he could see your dress

“Your grace, you look beautiful” he whispered.

“Thank you Ser Steffon,” you giggled. You knew he had asked the lord commander if he could scort you himself towards the sept, and he agreed, only because he knew what it meant for him. He had told you once you were like his little sister, and you felt like it too.

You started walking down the hallway with him right by your side, not behind you like always, this time, he was right by your side

“This might be the last time you escort me” you whispered, sadness in your words. The Keep seemed to be empty, except for the silent servants. You didn’t encounter any member of court, you guessed because they were all waiting for you.

“It’s not going to be” he answered with a wide smile, “you are not getting rid of me that easily”

“Harwin is supposed to protect me now” you explained

“I know, but you are still a princess, and I made a vow” he reminded you, with that easy smile that always brought you comfort.

“Yes, but now I will have to share my chambers with a man” you teased, and he chuckled

“It’s not so bad” you gasped, but giggled when he winked at you. “Besides I trade the night’s watch with another sucker” you laughed.

The walk was comfortable, he, your sworn protector, your confident, and your friend walked slowly, leading you in silence to the next stage of your life. He offered his arm and you took it.

“He is going to be a great husband, I know this” he said when you went into the open and saw the Septon right in front of you. Your father was expecting you, alongside his royal guard.

“You look beautiful,” your father said as he received you from Steffon. In his hands he held a velvet cape, it had a black background and red flames and design. He placed it over your shoulders, a shy smile on his lips

“Your mother would have been so happy” he whispered. and you couldn’t help a happy tear falling down your eye.

“Thank you father” you managed to say above the lump in your throat.

“Now let's get you married”. he positioned himself at your side, offering you his arm which you gladly took. You gave Steffon one last look and he smiled, nodding at you. The doors of the sept opened in front of the both of you, royal soldiers on each side of them.

“Father, I’m nervous” you whispered, grasping into his arm so tightly he groaned. In front of you and down the steps, where all waiting for you, at the right side, your family, the Velaryons, even some Baratheon and Arryn, at the left was Harwin’s and other important members of court.

“Relax, sweet child” he whispered, his easy smile never faltering, “this is how you serve your house, this is how you help your family”

You walked down the steps, the sun no longer shining above you. And when you looked at the end of the hallway made of the people attending the ceremony, there was Harwin, standing by the high septon. He looked so handsome, his hair was tamed back. He whore a deep blue jacket with silver buttons

As you walked towards the Septon, the faces of your friends and families turned clearer, and just by the steps, you saw your sister, joined by Laenor, and the Queen just one step over them, and on the other side of the hallway, you saw Ser Lyonel, who smiled at you, and at his side was Larys, who bowed his head at you.

Your father took you by slow but steady pace and up the steps where you stood in front of the High Septon

“You may place the bride under your protection” indicated the Septon, and your father retrieved the cloak over your shoulders, kissing you swiftly on the cheek, to go down the steps and stand at the side of the Queen. And Harwin stepped up to place his own instead. It had a silvery background, and intricate designs with Green, Blue and Red. You held into the cape as Harwin smiled brightly at you, you in turn smiled shyly, the cape heavily on your shoulders, but bringing you warmth nonetheless

“Your Grace”, the voice of the High Septon interrupted your thought like a thunder, “My Lords and Ladies, we stand here today in the presence of Gods and men, to witness the union of men and wife, on flesh, on heart, on soul, now and forever”

The Septon started reading a passage from the 7 pointed star, their book. But you really didn’t pay much attention, you and your sister never did. Your father and Uncle always told you that Targaryen like your dragons, don’t answer to neither gods nor men, you didn’t have a proper instruction in the faith of the seven, especially after what happened with Maegor the cruel, your great-great uncle.

You felt nervous, all their looks on you, Harwin’s eyes on you, even your sister’s. She seemed happy, truly, genuinely happy, and you wanted to believe her, after all, she didn’t do any effort to stop the union, rather, she encouraged it. So that thought alone lets you relax.

And suddenly, interrupting your thoughts, Harwin grabbed your hands on his, to turn and present your joined hand to the Septon, who with a colorful velvet ribbon tied both of your hands together

“Let it be known that Harwin of house Strong, and (Y/N) of house Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder” he then cleared his throat, to say out loud, “In the sight of the seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity” he then released the ribbon, but Harwin kept his hand on yours. “Now say the words”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I’m his/hers, and she/he is mine, from this day, to the rest of our days” you said together as one.

“You now may kiss the bride”

“With this kiss I pledge my love” he grunted, “and take you for my lady and wife”. With a blush, you thought this was going to be your very first kiss, ever. Harwin was going to be the owner of all your first times, you were his now, with that in mind, you replicated the vow

“With this kiss I pledge my love…” your voice was barely a whisper, but the acoustic of the Septon let everyone hear you just fine, but it sounded as cracked as you said it. Harwin’s thumbs caressed the back of your hand with kindness, seeing how nervous you were, and that gave you the strength to continue, “...and take you for my lord and husband”, and without being able to wait any longer, Harwin leaned in and kissed you, it was hard and rough, and sticky, feeling how just moments ago he had wetted his lips, but it was also sweet, and warm, inviting. And just as swift as it started, it ended, leaving you flush and bothered, and with your now husband’s cheeky smile.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever” chanted the Septon. The ceremony continued with more chants, more words of wisdom, the meaning of joining your house through marriage, even though you were now his, you were a Strong now, your future children were going to be Strong's as well.

And just like that, you were married, your life always connected to that of Harwin’s.

You broke the spell he had on you to turn and face your family, friends and guests, they were all cheering and applauding, big smiles everywhere…. Everywhere.

Well maybe Alicent wasn’t smiling, if anything, she looked like she pitied you.

Harwin squeezed your hand and he drew a smile just for you

“My wifey” he grunted, leaning over you and making you smile, your body tingled with his proximity

The feast was going great. Alicent let you hold it in The Queen’s ballroom as a gift. Harwin and you chose it as well. It was, to your liking, the most beautiful room in the entire castle. It had rich paneling decorations and mirrors in all walls that reflected the candles making them shine.

After some sweet words from your father, the music and the dance began. Because Harwin didn’t have Valyrian blood, you didn’t have to perform the dance of dragons, lucky for you though, you weren’t much of a dancer, but you enjoyed it, and because you weren’t the first born or heir to the throne, no one really paid any mind to you, so you could dance at your liking.

Your sister sat beside you, already too pregnant to participate in the dancing, although it didn’t forbid you from giggling and gossip about all the ladies who were invited to the feast and how they were dressed and who they were dancing with.

The truth is that you were having a great time. The celebration was smaller than your sister’s had been, but that meant the people who attended were closer to your family. For example, Jason Lannister wasn’t here, but his brother was, and you were thankful for it, you liked his brother more.

Harwin’s family was here, his sisters that you had never met before, and their lord's husband’s families. They presented their respects to you, barely, and they were now enjoying the feast.

But Harwin didn’t seem to be enjoying it, he seemed tense, distracted, watching everyone at the hall like a hawk. Your father was enjoying his boar, eating slowly, and chatting with Lord Lyonel and the other members of the council

He seemed so on edge, you leaned into him with a shy smile

“You want to dance, husband?” his face immediately changed as he look at you, a relieved smile on his face

“I certainly do” he stood up, offering you his hand which you took gladly, and directed you to the made up dancefloor, everyone made space for the both of you, and the musicians played a new song only for the both of you, you took distance from each other only to approach again, you offered your hand and he took it to spin you around like the rhythm demanded.

He felt so familiar to you, in his arms you felt safe, and you smiled at the thought, he was so easy to be around, you had never seen him angry, at least for long, and he always had a smile in store for you, perhaps this wasn’t going to be so difficult.

The song ended with you glued to your husband’s side, his arm around your waist. and he leaned in and stole a simple kiss from your lips.

“Let’s raise our cups, to Harwin Strong, and (Y/N) Targaryen!” your father raised from his seat and raised his cup, a servant was quick to provide you and Harwin with one as well, and you toasted with your family and friends

Harwin visibly relaxed by your side, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders, and besides dancing, he enjoyed the rest of the night with a big smile on his face. You dedicated yourself to dancing for the rest of the night, even Nyra joined, with Laenor trailing her every step.

Without you knowing your father was watching with a proud smile on his face, he had just secured both of his daughter’s futures, they were safe, he thought, content.

The night continued without any problem, Ser Harrold, the lord commander himself and lord Steffon guarded the celebration. Since it was being held at Maegor’s Holdfast, were the Royal chambers were, so they were keeping a very careful eye, watching all the guest not to get lost inside the rooms of the royal family

The wine and food flooded freely through the room, soon everyone seemed to be in better spirits, but the dancers were getting sloppier and everyone was getting louder, laughter could be heard from every corner of the room and the intimate atmosphere was lovely. Everyone seemed to be having fun. Harwin was drinking and chatting with some members of your family, as you danced with Laenor and other men as you traded partners throughout the dance.

Your father at some point left the celebration alongside the Queen, she claimed that your father was tired and you believed her. He said goodnight to you with a kiss on your cheek and then left. Criston Cole, now the Queen’s sworn sword, was now in guard as well.

You finished your fifth cup of wine, feeling happy, but a little slow in your movements. You needed to keep a straight mind, you thought fleetingly, you were supposed to bed your husband today. And suddenly the very thought made you stop dancing and your cheeks blushed scandalously, or perhaps it was the wine.

“It’s time for the bedding ceremony!” somebody yelled, and everyone started cheering. Before you could realize what was happening, the room splitted between women and men, the first group surrounded Harwin and the men gathered around you. You blushed, you really expected these men weren’t very drunk but you doubt it. The wine had flown freely and the Ale as well

“You are ready princess?” it was part of the ritual, men would say lude things to you as they undress you, you really weren’t hoping they actually did. And you didn’t think they dared. The ladies grabbed Harwin and they started to pull him out of the Ballroom, all giggly, he looked for you over the crowd, smiling and you smiled back, but when a hand landed on your shoulder threatening to lower your gown you slapped it off

“If you rip off my dress I swear I’ll feed you to my dragon!” you threaten, and they all keep laughing. And once They left the room they started pulling you too.

Luckily you were in the same tower as your chambers, so the humiliation didn’t last long.

They said things so lude it didn’t fit in your mind repeating them, but they did make you giggle nonetheless. At one point they raised you over their shoulders and took you up the stairs. As they took you down the hallway they became more clever

“You’ll really need to be Strong for tonight princess!” mocked one

“I’ll tell you what I tell every Knight before the joust, be careful of Ser Harwin’s lance, princess” chuckled another. Making the group laugh

“Harwin will feast on your delight tonight!”

When they finally dropped you off to the gates of your chambers, you had lost all the precious stones in your hair, and your braids had become undone, your hair wild. Before they pushed you into the room a sneaky hand grabbed the lace that held your dress together and pulled it, if you hadn't caught the fabric it would have fallen and left you naked, right in front of your husband. Who was waiting for you

“Be careful Princess, they don’t call him Breakbones for nothing!” one mocked.

“You are feasting on the realm’s delights, Strong, you lucky son of a bitch!” mocked another.

“You will know how it feels to ride a dragon!”

“That’s it”, Harwin growled and threw himself over the door to close it and keep all the men out. With his back turned to you, you realized the ladies had removed his pants, and his blue velvet jacket, only leaving him with a long and thin shirt… If you focus, you could see his…

He suddenly turned and your eyes traveled back to his face to see him smiling. If you hadn't you could have totally seen his manhood.

“I’m sorry for all those lude words my princess” he growled.

“Your?” you asked, amused.

“Well you are my wife now, aren’t you?” he teased

“I’m yours, and you are mine” you repeated your vows. He growled

“Wifey” the men outside started knocking on the door, his words still could be heard from the inside of your chambers, but soon somebody kicked them away, you guessed of your father’s Kingsguard.

Soon the situation became uncomfortable. you looked down at your chest barely covered by your arm and your dress. You had to bed him, he was your husband now. When you looked up again you found Harwin looking around your rooms. It was a twin room like Rhaenyra’s, big and comfortable. HIs eyes anchored in the nearest table, where there were books and other things dear to you, and among them…

“You still have this” he said gently, grabbing the crown of roses, they were dried now, but not less beautiful than the day they had been placed on your lap by your husband himself, proclaiming you the Queen of Love and Beauty.

“Oh, yeah” you felt embarrassed all of a sudden, “No one had ever dedicated his win to me before” his eyes find you again

“I find that difficult wife, you are the most beautiful woman on the seven Kingdoms”

“Oh stop it” you giggled. “Only for you I believe” you whispered

“I hope that is enough…” he whispered, in two shy steps he reached you, his hand cradled your face gently, making you look at him

“It is,” you whispered, completely flustered. He leaned in and kissed you. this time it was needy, his lips moved against yours and when you gasped his tongue caressed your parted lips. You felt like you were dreaming, his other hand grabbed your hip and drew you to him. Your hand rested on his chest.

He wasn’t like all those young, silly, pretty boys that you have met before, with their hairs perfectly cut and no facial hair. He was gruff, big, strong, and older, he had an unruly beard and a thick mane. The opened buttons on his shirt revealed a thick, hairy chest that made you blush, he was tall, and big. He was a man.

His mouth abandoned yours, and you instinctively lifted your chin and he dropped lazy and wet kisses down your jaw and then your neck. You whined, suddenly feeling a need you had never felt before

“You are so beautiful” he whispered against the skin of your shoulder, dropping a wet kiss, making your skin crawl, but in a good sense

“You said that already,” you giggled. your hands now on his shoulders. He grunted, again

“I want to bed you” he admitted, still against your skin. his heavy and hot breath makes you tingle way down south of your belly.

“It’s your right now” you answered, that’s when he left your collarbone to look at you. Concern washing on his face

“I will not take you if you are not willing” he whispered. Oh those eyes. when his hands left your body you felt empty, cold, and you didn’t like it.

“I’m willing” and that was all it took for Harwin to return his touch to your needy body. He gently led you to the bed.

“Let me see you” he demanded, he was so rough and in control and yet, you felt safe, you felt like if you wanted to stop, to say no, he would listen. But you didn’t want him to stop, you wanted him to continue. You let him pull the dress off of you, revealing your naked body, but you didn’t have time to feel blushed, he led you until you were laid on your bed. He removed his shirt, his last piece of clothing, revealing his own naked body.

You gasped

His chest was as broad as pictured with a armor on, his shoulders thick, his arms as well, thick as logs, you followed his hairy trail until you reached his manhood and you swallow thickly

You had never seen a naked man before.

Rhaenyra, on the other side, has told you everything about her encounters, when she laid with Criston Cole for the first time she was 16 and you 14, and you blushed at the thought. But you decided to wash every thought of Rhaenyra from your head, especially now.

His manhood was big, even though you didn't have anything to compare it with, it was as thick as your arm, but pink, and perfect. You whimpered without even thinking about it, and he smiled because of it. He climbed on the bed until he was on top of you, looking straight at your eyes

What happened next was so wild, chaotic and primal. You opened your legs for him instinctively, he placed himself between them, and he lowered himself to kiss you, his tongue found yours, only to grunt against your mouth and then kept going to devour you whole. At the same time, his fingers prodded in your entrance, in your intimacy. You weren’t innocent, you enjoyed caressing yourself at night sometimes, you knew how babies were made, and you knew having sex could be the greatest of pleasures. But this felt ten times more intense. You felt like your blood was boiling, and he chuckled when his fingers entered you easily, because of how aroused you were

Between growls and gasps he pushed at your entrance with his manhood. The pressured felt painful, he still did it slowly, opened you up to for him until you whined in pain, tears leaving your eyes

“I’m sorry wife, did I harm you?” he asked

“It’s fine” you cried, you wanted to be good for him, you wanted to please him, and he kissed your tears softly, his big hand caressing your cheeks as he stood still for you to accommodate him.

“It will get better sweet wife” he purred over your mouth I promise. You felt so deep inside of you that when he moved just an inch you could swear you could see stars. You moaned in need, the pain disappearing.

He started thrusting in and out of you slowly, one of his hands landed in your hip to keep you grounded as he pounded inside of you. Your hand desperately grabbed him holding him against you, your nails scratched his back and shoulders in need as his trousers became more sloppy

“You want me to plant my seed in you?” he asked between grunts, and you were barely able to nod

“Yes” you answered simply, and he moaned. Your hand ended in his dark locks, pulling them as his thrusts became more intense. “yes I want to” he kissed you tenderly, as your bodies joined in flesh like you just spoke in your vows.

You woke up curled against Harwin’s side. His arm protectively around you taping you to him. You liked his warmth, you liked his touch.

“Good morning Wifey”

“Good morning husband” you whispered. HIs fingers tickled your shoulder and down your back, making you giggle

“Are you well?” rubbings your eyes and face you seated on the bed, wanting to clean the stickiness that you felt between your legs, but somehow, you could still feel a pressure on your lower belly, like you felt when Harwin is inside you

“Is it normal that I still feel it in my belly?” you couldn’t help but ask. Your heard him chuckle darkly, as he sat on the bed and wrapped his big arms around your shoulders

“Only when the cock is as big as mine” he grunted in your ear, you were still so sensitive it made you whimper. He pulled you until you were both laid on the bed. “I’m not done with you yet, wife” you giggled. he dropped kisses at the side of your face traveling down your neck, and you let out a sound you had never felt before, like a purr. “Now that you surpassed your first time, this is only going to become more enjoyable, I’ll make sure of it”

“Really?” you giggled, you felt him smile against your shoulder

“Yes I promise”

In celebration of the fifth anniversary of your father’s marriage to Queen Alicent, he hosted a big joust, dragging Harwin and you finally out of your chambers, a place you had been for three days, only enjoying each other's company. Food was being delivered to you by maids with blushes and big smiles.

He had you more times that you could count and each time he made you see stars, he pleased you as he assured you that you pleasured him. Each of his touch was so gentle, so kind, yet so feel with need

Now as you were walking towards the field for the joust, Harwin grabbed your hand tightly.

“I will joust today, does that please you” you looked up at him with surprise in your eyes

“Really?” he leaned in

“I win to proclaim you my Queen again” he whispered in your ear, making you tingle. You smiled widely.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to” you reminded him

“I’m the strongest knight in the seven Kingdoms sweet wife, it’s a title I want to uphold” he kissed you swiftly before he parted ways to go to the tents to prepare for the joust.

You father had given Criston a special dispensation to participate in the joust, and as you sat there at Rhaenyra’s side you saw the Kingsguard beat every opponent that opposed him, until the imminent came, and the banner of the Strongs was raised alongside Criston’s

The dornish made his horse trot towards the gallery, where he took off his helmet and presented his respects for the pulpit and everyone on it

“I would like to ask Queen Alicent for her favor, because I’m certain that having it will ensure my win” he said firmly, and Alicent conceded his wish with a content smile. She threw at him a laurel crown with red flowers.

Soon it was Harwin, in a blue armor that appeared right in front of you

“I’d like to ask the princes, my sweet wife to grant me her favor” he said with a smile, “to ensure my win” you raised to your feet and you swear you felt as the first time you did this for him, two years ago

“Of course my Lord husband” you giggled, thawing him your own crown, he received it swiftly with his big arms, and you blushed when you felt it around your own body like a ghost. He winked at you before trotting away to his place to start the jousting.

“I’m going to enjoy seeing Criston getting knocked off his horse” Rhaenyra said with a wide smile, which you shared

“You and me both sister”

“I waged 100 dragons in favor of Ser Harwin” whispered Laenor who sat besides your sister

“Then you can invite us to purchase some dornish horses” you giggled, and they laughed with you

Before long the horses ran towards each other, the hooves resounding on the ground and the grunts of the men.

It happened in slow motion, Criston was aiming for Harwin’s shield but at the last moment he changed his trajectory hitting the man directly on the shoulder. Your husband flew through the air, luckily it was a clean hit but hard on the ground nonetheless.

The people gasped and you jumped to you feet and to the railing to see his trembling body

Harwin managed to take of his helmet, but what you heard chilled you to your bones

What sounded like a war cry made everyone in the galleries gasp, as your husband twisted in the ground in pain. Grabbing his shoulder.

notes: I wanted to retrieve this iconic scene from the books, I kind of ruhsed this chapter, I hope it was to your liking! See you soon!

taglist! ❤️ @tearsarcane @integra1127 @aestmilky @thanyatargaryen @tythaitie @lostinworldofdarkness @voodoogoul @wildmindedbeauty32 @lil-pudd @alicattx @electric-bloo @astaaan-lol @stargaryenx @kaitieskidmore1 @bregarc @lilpnd

#misguidedhotd #harwin strong x reader #ser harwin strong #ser harwin x reader #harwin strong x targaryen reader #harwin strong #harwin breakbones #ser harwin breakbones strong #harwin x reader #house of the dragon

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thisisnotthenerd · 6 months

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and we're up to a crown of candy.

quick episode descriptions:

ambush on the sucrosi road: you're dead and here's your mini. threatening lapin. lapin and theo are kind of cool? good nat 20s. amethar goes down and comes back up.

the grand tournament: theo unseats plumbeline in the joust. liam smokes everyone in archery. keradin tries to murder amethar. detect poison and disease. where is your bulb now.

chaos in the cathedral: candians are ambushed in the church. amethar throws jet. lapin's epiphany about the nature of the bulb. fly on theo. i send preston to lapin. keradin murders lapin.

deep bleu sea: peppermint batman is invisible in the darkness. primsy is attacked. jet send stilton to the bottom of the ocean. shenanigan time. cumulous appears. throwing the cheese marauders to induce a dexterity check. can i use swirlwarden to get back into the boat.

safe harbor: the twins and liam go to dulcington and are ambushed. amethar is ambushed by calroy, stabbed and thrown off the castle walls. jet goes down, liam rope tricks them out and ruby runs to find theo. the locket goes out as ruby runs back. theo casts knock. amethar rages for two rounds of falling and survives as he hits the ground

blood & bread: aftermath of safe harbor. fleeing from the palace as the banners are changed. stealthing through dulcington. quick encounter where ceresians are obliterated. amethar is good at what he does.

rescue at buzzybrook: liam becomes onionpatch to assassinate him. theo cuts the rope. max damage 4th level thunder step to get joren. quicken spell spare the dying. truly so much damage from liam to onionpatch and flashfry. lightning bolt through that whole 100 foot line.

encounter in the ice cream temple: saccharina's counterspells against the cones of cold. cumulous is impaled. ruby swings to the dragon platform. create bonfire on the egg. amethar swings with payment day for two big strikes. ruby gets the fairy with flickerish. liam gets yoinked.

for candia! part 1: leading troops with class features. stealthing back through dulcington. ruby nat 20s. saccharina lights up the castle candy with cinnamon and a lightning bolt. 40 foot shield from swirlwarden. plumbeline ambushed theo and is killed by liam.

for candia! part 2: liam and theo in the chariot. amethar and joren attack grissini. liam breaks keradin with the truth. saccharina levels the archers and paladins. freak-a-meep. theo takes the infantry hits. liam ices keradin as keradin and picks up the body. ruby slaughters ciabatta, liam shoots the pontifex, and amethar bisects calroy. ruby and saccharina try for peace. amethar is the emperor. liam quadruples candia with a wish.

#dimension 20 #battle episode of all time #a crown of candy #d20 poll #dimension 20 spoilers #d20 spoilers #feel free to add your reasoning/propaganda as you like

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chromiumagellanic06 · 2 months

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The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 10: A Wedding

MASTERLIST

Summary: A wedding. A joust. Some simping.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: nothing, really

The Sept. Sept – Hept – Seven, referring to the Seven New Gods that prevailed over the Faith. It was filled with people, nobles, high merchants, children old enough to not disrupt the proceedings, and guards. There were a lot of guards.

Princess Naera Targaryen stood behind a mostly closed door in the most prominent Sept in King’s Landing, running her fingers over a clear red ruby within an iron crest that dangled from her neck, as she pondered the customs. It was the door behind the Crone and the Stranger, though she did not know the reason. The Crone symbolised time—the future, perhaps? The Stranger held little significance to her.

Her father stood beside her, looking the best at his health than he had in a very long time. His maesters had outdone themselves, it seemed.

The High Septon’s quiet, drawling voice echoed through the Sept within, reading some prayers and extracts from the Seven-Pointed Star. It did not help that it was the same book which had been cited to Princess Alysanne before she married her brother who later came to be known as King Jaehaerys the Reconciler—there were none more deterred by their ways than those who held Faith in the Seven Gods. Naera did not understand why her family agreed with the commoners and their beliefs in this regard, when the commoners so rarely hid their dismay over the marriage of brother to sister as done in he Targaryen family.

House Targaryen had been fueled to stray above the petty crowds, as it was obvious in the height of the Iron Throne above those who stood on the grounds, as it was obvious in the soaring might of the dragon riders above the main populace. They were above them—as they had been, for a hundred years, and a thousand years before that also.

She stared through the inch-thin parting of the doors before her. She could see solemn light, and crowds, and the High Septon leaned over his book between the statues of the Mother and the Father. A stair below and to the right stood Daemon, dressed in black, arms clasped calmly as he struggled through the prayers—struggled, yes, for she knew him better than to think he felt no irritation or ire. She recognised faces by the statues—Aegon, by his height, Helaena, by the dress, Rhaenyra and Laenor, and her two older sons, and Aemond by the black spot of his eye-patch—she almost pitied the boy, were it not for his crime—and a woman in Green, extravagantly dressed, with a gleaming golden Seven-Pointed Star at her neck. Queen Alicent. Yes. That is why the dragon dared heed the wishes of the sheep. Her weak father was the reason.

Naera made an effort to not frown but pulled her arm away from her father. Not for long. Yes. House Hightower of Oldtown shall soon fall. She shall ensure it. The Greens shall forever be defeated, as Aegon’s enemies had been. The dragon does not concern itself with the opinion of the sheep, and it was time they returned to a reign ruled with Fire and Blood, and not compromise and faltering diplomacy.

Naera ran her fingers along the edge of the cloak on her back—ash black, as the remnants of a most disastrous fire, with a blood-red dragon—a dragon has three heads—inscribed in a circle. Fire and Blood, but perhaps she just needed to rediscover her fire—perhaps the man, her uncle, her blood who she had never really known, who stood irate, about to wed her would help her. Perhaps, he’d warm and rekindle her lost flames with his own fire.

Before she guts him, of course. Although, perhaps the pyre of his funeral shall burn her with a delight so strong, a kind of joy which would burn through her blood for all her life. Perhaps.

The doors were heaved open by priests from within, and Naera gave her father her arm. The crowds hushed silence as the King walked in his daughter, his Visenya Returned, down the aisle to where the High Septon stood. Every step felt numbing on her feet, a strange anticipation boiling in her throat—the urge to destroy, surely, but she did not like the sensation. It felt like she had seconds before she had been enslaved for the first time, with no hopes for escape, the way she had felt every second in Stygai before the world came crashing down, the way she had felt when Raiden had first taken to illness. Nothing good came of this feeling.

Naera did not look down; she did not dare blemish the rites and her family. No, she wore the Targaryen cloak with pride, despite the implication, despite the sighs of contempt and aversion at her blood. It had not been her choice, she thought. This was the crown’s disdain to bear and it was an insult to the King to ignore.

Naera looked up to the blinding morning sun that gleamed through the windows, and her own regal lilac eyes caught those of nourishing soil brown. Elysabeth Tyrell stood in a gown of gold and pink, as the rose she was, a teasing look stuck on her beautiful face as she stood closer to the Septon than the rest, ready to receive her cloak.

Her father grasped her arm a little tighter as they ascended the stairs to the Septon—to Daemon, who stared down at his struggling brother with a shielded stare of pity, and then looked upon his Valyrian bride, and smiled. Viserys settled to the side, standing on the left, behind his dear daughter, besides the Queen, and their children.

Naera ascended the final stair alone, her footsteps echoing in the silence, and she stood before her smiling uncle—smiling, still, at her decorated face, her silver hair, and at her silver gown, her black cloak, and he refused to stare between her breasts where the red ruby dangled. He would not let himself be reminded of that ordeal, tubis daor—not today.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” and Naera turned with mincing steps to face the statues behind her. She felt Daemon lift up her cloak and saw Lady Tyrell accept it with glee, and he spread another fabric—near perfectly identical—across her shoulders, and yet it felt heavier than her maiden’s cloak, as though a symbol of the weight that came with the ties of marriage. It crushed her from within, and without. Naera turned once the cloak was secure, trying her best to keep herself from frowning.

Suffer through this night, and relish in what comes after.

“My lords, my ladies,” the Septon drawled on, “we stand here, in the sight of gods and men, to witness the union of man and wife,” and Naera thoroughly frowned at his words. Man and wife—not husband and wife, then it should be man and woman. To denote a woman by her man is the simplest form of enslavement. “One flesh, one heard, one soul, now and forever.” No. It would not be forever, Naera knew. Nothing is forever.

She turned to face the Septon, as did Daemon. She held out her hand, and he covered it with his own, as the Septon wound a white ribbon round their joint hands, once, twice, thrice, until he approached seven loops. The Septon spoke as he wound the ribbon around their hands, “Let it be known that Naera of the House Targaryen and Daemon of the House Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” His hand over hers felt warm, comforting, caring.

“Look upon each other, and say the words,” and Naera turned to Daemon, their hands still held.

They spoke the names of the New Gods of the South, in unison, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” and never breaking their flow and rhythm, never cracking their unison, Daemon spoke, “I am hers, and she is mine.”

Naera spoke in a voice quieter than Daemon’s, but heard nonetheless, “I am his, and he is mine.”

“From this day, until the end of my days,” he finished.

“From this day, until the end of his days,” and the threat in Naera’s voice went unnoticed by all—by the Septon, by Elysabeth Tyrell, by her father, and her step-mother, and their children, and Rhaenyra and her family. It went unnoticed by every man and woman in the Sept, other than Daemon.

He tightened his grasp on her hand, smiling fake yet again, but she knew the joy of finally attaining his Valyrian Bride outweighed the possibility of losing her by the worth of a thousand lives. Soon enough, his eyes twinkled with the spark he must hold for a lady wife he has wanted for very long, and he still refused to glance at the ruby and all it represented.

“With this kiss,” and his voice adopted a dulcet tone she had never heard in it before, “I pledge my love.” And the destruction of House Hightower, was that which he did not voice. They knew—oh, they knew the promise very well. Naera couldn’t resist a smile, oh, to watch the perfect Alicent cower and weep to her false gods after all she holds dear is gone, and Naera yearned for the kiss that would promise it all. Daemon leaned forward, tilting his face to the side, the heat that radiated off his face, his eyes, his hands adding up to be too much, and pressed his warm lips against hers for a moment only—a moment of fire and storm that sent a chill down her spine, before pulling away. Yes.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” In perpetuity. Naera blinked, as the High Septon unwrapped the white ribbon. Daemon’s eyes smiled down at her, as did his lips, but Naera heard, in the euphonious voice of the woman from her dreams, or do I have my facts wrong?

I wasn’t there, your grace, a deeper, lower voice answered, quieter, smaller, inferior.

No, of course not, the voice of the Conqueror, the Targaryen Princess, the Breaker of Chains echoed in Naera’s mind, but still, an oath, is an oath, and an ounce of guilt ran down Naera, and in perpetuity means…what does in perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?

Forever, surely, Lord Tyrion, whoever he was, spoke.

Forever, and the voices faded away. Naera blinked. No. This was a sham wedding—it was not binding, it was not a promise—valar morghulis, all men must die, and she held no obligation to them all. Didn’t she?

“Are you alright?” Daemon asked her frozen face, concern colouring his joys.

No. No, no, no.

“Of course.”

There was always a portion of theatrics that came with tourneys. The cheers of the spectators, the clink and clutter of gamblers handing their silver and gold to barterers, the whispers amongst high nobility all boldened the knights. The thrumming of drums in a rhythmic setting boiled anticipation. To feel the heave and weight of one’s armour, to hear the hammering of one’s horse’s hooves against the mulch-ridden ground, and to stare into the eyes of your opponent, all those feet away, through the cages of one’s helm, was brilliance.

Daemon rode out on his horse—midnight dark, to match his obsidian armour. He heard the crowds and their cries and their praises, and it cemented a sort of pride he couldn’t source elsewhere. There were a series of knights lined up, bearing the emblems of houses on their chests, their horses lined up in a row—He always chose first. A man dressed in red and black announced his ordeal, as he rode past each and every mounted knight to find one worthy.

The first he faced was Jason Lannister, with his silken cape of red and gold and a lion that roared within. Dragons didn’t duel with Lions—no. The next was a Stark, and a Bolton, and Daemon had no desire to fight a man who stood no chance—no. Baratheon, Hightower, but he had already injured them before, so no. He passed by the Tyrell rose who dared have his beauty tainted, but oh, Targaryen.

With her wedding gown still in place beneath gleaming silver armour, and it made sense why she had chosen one with wide ankles—his lady wife, his beloved niece, his Naera had been serious about the tourney. The cloak he had settled on her shoulders just hours ago now acted as a cape, though hidden behind a sheer white cape that glowed in the sun, and when Daemon passed his horse by her, he saw a lilac eye wink through the bars of her helm. Well, he decided, as he turned his horse and lowered his lace to her shoulder.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, has chosen his opponent…” and the man was certainly confused beyond words, but he found them nonetheless, “It is…Princess Naera Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and, uh, the Silver Knight!” The crowds roared aloud, about to witness a match that wouldn’t be seen for another two hundred years at the least.

The man backed away thus, as Daemon approached the King’s bracket, his black stallion clucking its way to the front. “I request the favour of the Heir to the Iron Throne—Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” and if his old love did resent him for caving up thoughts and memories she had buried away, she did not show it.

“Good fortune to you, uncle,” she announced with a diplomatic smile and threaded a wreath of green leaves and yellow blossoms through his lance. He heard claps and excitement of those who watched, and wondered if he should be gentle—what would they think of him, if he disarmed his lady wife. Surely, that he was cruel and merciless, Maegor Returned, as she was Visenya—nothing they did not already believe.

Naera’s grey horse approached the bracket also, as Daemon took his place by one edge of the track. He saw the irritation on her face as she flicked off the visor of her helm, for he had known without a doubt that his niece would have asked the favour of her own sister.

“I ask for the favour of his grace, King Viserys,” and the crowds took a minute to register her request before they cried out in approval—this was hardly a conventional match, of course. “Shall I have your blessing, father?” Naera used her words to coax her laughing, joying, priding father off his chair. He fetched a wreath of gold and twine and dropped it through her iron lance.

“I wish you victory, Silver Knight—my Visenya Returned,” said the King, after which, he returned to his seat, and the happiness was evident on his ageing features. Naera let her horse neigh and directed it to turn and take its place on the opposite end of the track. The drums were beaten with vigour, with a rhythm long imbued into Daemon’s mind from all the tourneys he had won, and as the beats came to a still stop, he reined his horse to stagger and run forth, aiming his spear at an angle meant to disarm—to not hurt his lady wife at all.

Naera, at the other end, rode faster than he did, for she understood that the strength she did not possess would come with the speed her lord husband could not gain, and angled her spear further out into his space—to harm, and not just disarm.

Her armour caught the glow of the noon day’s sun, but her momentum made it all blur into a streak of silver, and as the cape of red and grey-black that hung off her back caught wind in the air, they clashed spears with a brassy, deafening blast of metal and wood.

Daemon’s spear cluttered against her wooden shield, splintering the wood and streaking the symbol of the dragon. Naera’s spear caved in a metal place near his shoulder, throwing him off his balance, and she turned, as her grey stallion blared past, to watch her uncle’s midnight dark horse cry out and run, throwing him off its back and down to the muddy, mulchy ground.

His arm collided against the fence pole, sending a crackle of pain through his shoulder.

There were at least a thousand men and women—and as the Rogue Prince was demounted by his new lady wife, every single man, woman, and child shored up a riotous, thundering uproar. Daemon pushed his way to his feet, gasping and groaning.

Oh. She was not bluffing, it seemed.

Naera turned her stallion, and shouted, “Get him a sword!” Happy.

A squire approached Daemon, holding out the sheathed Black Sister. Oh, he had been wrong—how terribly wrong. He watched Naera dismount her horse, tugging off the heaviest of her armour around her shoulders and arms, and dropping it to the ground, but leaving the breastplate in place. He watched her remove her jousting helm, letting her silver hair fall across her shoulders.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister with a shrill sound, throwing away his helm, making his way towards Naera as the man from earlier announced their intentions. Naera held a thin blade, not very strong or sturdy, but he did not know what to expect.

“First blood,” he named his terms, and she hummed her approval above the noise of the people.

“Very well,” but neither of them failed to notice the panic in the King’s eyes as he leaned against the veranda, face contorted in worry. Eh.

Naera held her blade in her high hand, extending it straight, as though it was a part of her arm. Daemon lunged at her, his sword aimed straight, and she leaned away, stepping back, not daring to try her hand at a straight clash. No, Naera instead leaned away, stepped back, whipping her grey gown against the wet mud, and swiped her sword against dark sister as it heaved down, and again, and again—three quiet hits and her sword pointed at Daemon’s face. Ah.

He drew a long breath, whipping around and slashing at her, but Naera—his Naera, leaned away, again, and again, and she managed to catch him off guard with a drastic flip of her hair, and pushed down her leg against his chest. Daemon slipped against the mulch, colliding against the ground yet again, and Naera pointed the thin, flimsy blade at him, at his neck, and the fear of the nights before returned.

A man has lost to a girl, he almost heard her say, but with the fear turning to singed panic, and the panic being the fire that fueled his blood, he kicked her down onto the mud, staggering to his feet, and Naera had already twirled back to her feet—agile, elegant, quick. He watched the silk and silver of her gown tear and screech at the hems, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered—not when her eyes were smiling unlike he had ever seen them do.

Naera clashed her sword against his armour, against his Valyrian Steel Blade, and it clattered off into two pieces. She hissed at the loss, taking a large step backwards, and lunged at Daemon with the broken blade, aiming at his neck. Daemon pulled the blade out of her hands, throwing it somewhere near the shouting man who informed the people of their deeds.

Daemon heard the pitched sliding of metal against metal, as Naera unsheathed the dagger he had once gifted her. Oh, she was being sentimental, in a way.

He gasped a laugh, clutching Dark Sister as hard as he could, and he slashed at her again, and she knelt down to avoid it, piecing her second blade through the joint plates of his obsidian armour. Daemon groaned out in pain, and Naera was again throwing him down with her weight, her Valyrian Steel dagger striking across his cheek in a blur of grey and silver.

Daemon faced the skies, and he watched Naera raise her dagger, coated in his blood, smiling, happy, almost ecstatic, he’d even dare word. He felt warm blood pour down his face, and the sting of a wound well cut spreading through his mind.

Every woman in the crowd—Rhaenyra and Elysabeth in particular, screamed out their joys at her victory, but the face of King Viserys, clapping at his daughter’s victory shone through the rest.

“Well, husband?” Naera held out a hand, silver hair settled down on her shoulders, as she replaced the blade by her waist. Her lilac eyes gleamed brighter than her hair, and her breastplate shone with the light of the sun. The lines on her face had settled, a suppressed smile eating away at her face, Silver Knight. Daemon accepted her hand, unable to fight a smile. He had never enjoyed losing—who did?

He did not leave her hand once he stood but instead raised it above their heads, despite the ache in his leg and on his face. He left her arm hanging high, and wrapped both his arms around her waist, and raised her up higher. The shadow of the tracks escaped her, and the tilted sun illuminated her. The shimmer of her armour blinded him, but he looked on, at her blooming high-set cheeks, her rosy, smiling lips and her eyes—oh, her eyes, which he was sure were amethysts worth more gold than this world could own. She was perfect.

Naera laughed as she did, like a shower of crystal rain after a decade-long drought, like a wakening light in the darkest of hells, and like a little child after receiving praise or a maiden after receiving a flower from her long love. He couldn’t resist—did not wish to resist the grin that befell him.

He had lost.

He loved it.

MASTERLIST

#daemon targeryan #original female character #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon x oc #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #team black #house martell #dance of dragons #melisandre of asshai #melisandre #daemon x y/n #daenerys targeryan #azor ahai #dreams #fanfiction #archive of our own

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sca-nerd · 1 year

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Recap of Ruby Joust to come. I give you this placeholder of my Knight holding my traitor dog who made a liar out of me.

#mysca #society for creative anachronism #sca #ruby joust #house de rath #daisy

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iprefertheterminsane · 2 years

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Some of yall liked the first 2 parts so heres part 3 ig

Dreamling Royal AU King Dream Knight Hob Part 111

To be clear, the draft name for this fic outline is Let Him Be Mine, based on that one poem, you know the one.

So last we were talking about HobMurphy scandalising the whole court and Corinthian being pissed off. Theres a couple of tournaments, short melee sparring, Archery and such, but Hob and the Corinthian end up facing each other as finalists of the Jousting competition.

Hob wins, obv

Corinthian comes to threaten Hob after the game was over, hissing so close to his face hes practically spittin on him, asking how some dumb hick nobody's head of from the Sunless Lands could come to know the Dreaming Monarch so well? Eyeing the ruby like he plans to fucking kill him to tear the necklace off.

Hob s like i dont even fucking know you wtf. Back off. But just before things could escalate Dream came between the two of them to shoo the Corinthian away, flanked by Matthew and Lucienne

He pulls them both away to somewhere more private in the back of the participant tents so that Dream could apologize for leaving so abruptly and of COURSE Hobs his friends please dont freak out. Hobs like i am perfectly calm (not calm). Theres this sexually charged scene where Hob returns the ruby to him while Dream says "what no thats ur ruby now i gave it to u" but Hobs like no its yours. Dream asks if hes going to be unable to recognize him without it Hobs like you could be wearing a completely different body with a completely different voice from a completely different lifetime and i could still recognize you. Its all very romantic. Lucienne clears her throat. Dream is regrettably pulled away, but promises to explain everything soon.

Theres a tournament afterparty the following evening. Tradition dictates that the winners of each tournament must begin the dance with a partner of their choosing. Hob steels himself and approaches the throne (beckoning gasps from all over the court again), and to make it worse, it isnt for Death's hand, which-as she is his queen-should have at least be understandable, but asks for DREAM'S hand. Death gives her blessing with a smile, and Dream lets himself be pulled away.

Once the first dances were over and with the party in full swing, Dream pulls Hob away to a discreet balcony to explain everything, divulging what happened with his kidnapping that led him to seeking solace in the Sunless Lands with his sister. He apologizes for lying, but he'd been too comforted by Hob's lack of knowledge and the comfort of their camraderie. Hob tells him that he never blamed him for leaving, admitting he'd thought it was because Dream had been upset with him labelling their odd relationship as a friendship at all. He'd still come to their garden every day, waiting after training, a combination of false hope and desire to stay away from his own home since he's found more warmth by Dream's side in comparison, since. Yknow. Eleanor. There should be a tense moment of will-they-wont-they-kiss, but Dream's cowardice wins again. Dream warns that hes a difficult lover, capricious and prideful and cold due to his devotion to duty, but Hob says "let me be the judge of that." He never expects anything beyond Dream's friendship, in itself a rare and precious thing. He finally pulls away again, but not before letting Hob bestow one last longing fueled kiss upon his knuckles.

#LHBM AU #Let Him Be Mine #Dreamling #Dream of the Endless #Hob Gadling #Royal AU #HobMurphy

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anansianansi · 5 months

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A Clexa Fairytale

A long, long time ago, in a faraway land, Princess Clarke sat brushing her silky hair with a handmade sterling silver brush inlaid with the shiniest rubies and emeralds (a sweet sixteen gift from her Uncle Theolonious), and the back of which made for an excellent mirror.

“Your locks, m’lady, they’re spun….”

“.…From golden sunshine, I know, I know.” The Princess waved a dismissive hand at Niylah, her chambermaid, “My beauty is beyond compare in all the lands everywhere, etc. etc. “ She cast a frustrated glance outside at the sparring suits, the jousting between the princes having taken a particularly rowdy turn now that Prince Bellamy had been knocked clean off his horse and had landed on his ass in front of a rabidly cheering crowd. Prince Finn bowed to the tower where she had been sent up for the duration of the suitors’ tournament, and thumped his chest triumphantly as he turned back to the crowd, “I challenge you, Bellamy, to a hand-to-hand fight to the end. The winner shall take Princess Clarke’s hand in marriage….”

“Not to mention the rest of me, as well as all the lands in my father’s kingdom.” Clarke sighed, “How many millennia before women are allowed to rule?”

“Oh, a score or two at least, m’lady; though one of these two lords is bound to make a fine king and husband.”

“Perhaps you should give your hand to him, then,” Clarke smirked at Niylah, “Though I reckon, with your proclivities, they aren’t very suitor-able?”

Niylah blushed, lowering her eyes to the princess’ bosom, “Well, I am always at your service m’lady….”

“And you are an excellent teacher, I dare say.” Flashing her best shit-eating grin, Clarke walked to the door. “I can’t marry either of these two idiots, Niylah; I’d eat them whole for breakfast; and not like that.” She was off to try and reason with her parents.

Read the rest here.

#clexa fanfic #fairytale clexa #the 100 clexa #okay but there’s feminism obviously #clexa endgame

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 10 months

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Hello my friend! Hope you'll have a lovely August!🧡

Could I get some Meássë headcanons? General, medieval AU, whatever's on your mind that you'd like to share. I love her and need to hear more about her ^^

Hello! Thank you for the ask! I hope you will like this full Medieval AU Bio I did of her.

Full list of the great noble house of Valinor can be read here.

Rules and tag form here | Prompts for requests here.

Warnings: Mentions of illness, death, and weapons use

Get to know: Medieval! Meássë

⚔️Early life and family: Lady Meássë was born into House Tarkil, a minor noble house sworn to House Shield. She is the younger twin of Makar and was raised in the family seat of Crescent Peak.

Despite their standing as a noble house, House Tarkil had little in the way of coin, their lands were hard to farm, and members often served in House Shield’s household guard. Still, they persevered, with Lord and Lady Tarkil doing everything possible to ensure their children wanted very little. Meássë had a good childhood alongside her twin brother, often training beside him in the sparring yard. Much like other high-born ladies, Meássë was taught traditional feminine arts such as art and embroidery, but she preferred her lessons in archery, horseback riding, jousting, and hunting. She would often join in on hunting expeditions.

This hard but somewhat idyllic life ended when a plague spread through the land and killed many of those who contracted it. Meássë and her brother survived, but most of their household did not. Due to debts incurred by senior family members, the twins lost their home. Tulkas, the new lord of House Shield, invited them to stay with him in Stonehearth. The twins agreed, and both soon rose to the rank of captain of the household guard for House Shield.

⚔️Appearance and Personality: Meássë takes after her father’s side of the family and possesses the same auburn hair, pale skin, and vivid green eyes many members of House Tarkil are known for. Unlike Makar, Meássë is slender and lithe, with lean muscles. She is also noted for her height. Meássë stands over six feet tall, but is not as tall as her twin.

She wears her hair in heavy braids and coils when fighting or hunting, and only keeps it loose for feasts and frolics. She will dress well but simply, often preferring soft wools over silk and velvet.

Meássë, much like the rest of her family, once believed that elves had no place in Valinorian society. However, time spent with the elves serving Tulkas made her adopt a more tolerant view. She possesses the same fiery temper as other family members. Unlike her twin, however, Meássë is more willing to listen to reason if the occasion calls for it.

⚔️Weapons and armor: Prior to joining House Shield, Meássë’s armor consisted of boiled leather and light chain mail and thin plated armor without color or device. After she was made captain of House Shield's household guard, she was given new armor of heavy steel plate enameled in a deep crimson. The crest of her helm bears a crouched lioness wrought in yellow gold with rubies for eyes.

Her shield bears the bloodied hand sigil of House Tarkil.

Her preferred weapon for both hunting and war is the spear. However, she is just as skilled with the bow and lance, the latter being used often during jousts.

⚔️Relationship with her twin: Meássë was once close to her twin, often confiding in him, sharing secrets and seeking his counsel. That slowly changed when they moved to Stone Hearth, and she spent more time with Tulkas and his attendants.

The twins grew distant because Makar did not like that she was more welcoming toward elves. Meássë opened her eyes and saw her brother’s darker impulses and attitudes for what they were.

Besides Tulkas, Oromë, and a handful of others, Meássë is the only person that does not fear her brother.

⚔️Other relationships: Meássë formed a friendship with Lúsion, and even Tilion and Nessa, as High Tree Hall is not far from Stone Hearth. She and Nessa would often try to outrace each other on horseback.

Tulkas took her under his wing after seeing her potential as a true warrior. Theirs began as a mentor/student relationship, but this relationship slowly morphed into something else over time. This further strained her relationship with her twin. Makar never truly liked Tulkas, despite him taking the twins in after they lost their family and their home.

⚔️Romances: Meássë had several casual relationships before she became involved with Tulkas. Most ended amicably.

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @edensrose @wandererindreams @floragardeniahope

#the book of lost tales #the book of lost tales imagine #Meássë #Meássë imagine #medieval!au #medieval! ainur #medieval! Meássë #Tulkas #medieval! tulkas #Makar #medieval! makar #headcanon #medieval au headcanon #the valar #the ainur #tolkien

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sio-writes · 1 year

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Servant and the Knight (Part 1/2)

8.6k Words - Servant to the Prince, Dain thought he’d have no chance in fighting at the tournament and winning the prize that would set his mother for months. Then, a set of living armor offers to train him, and Dain starts to think he may have a shot.

Tag: NSFW, masturbation and vouyerism, mild blood mention

The preparations for the grand tournament takes over the kingdom faster than any siege or battle could ever hope to. In the matter of a day the banners have been lifted, the barriers have been set, and the musicians are practicing for opening day.

The royal family is overseeing the festivities, which means Prince Galliant is requesting his brightest, most striking uniform. He’s thrown all the rest on the floor, and Dain languishes at having to pick up and re-fold every single item of clothing.

"This tournament will be the highlight of the year," His Majesty brandishes his ceremonial rapier in front of the mirror as Dain ties a length of fabric over his shoulder.

"Your majesty certainly looks the part," Dain replies, walking around the prince to stand by the mirror, and Prince Galliant laughs.

"Of course I do!" he points the end of the rapier at Dain's chest, not as a threat, but an acknowledgement. "I have the best foot servant in the kingdom."

Dain glows at the praise, suppressing a smile. "Is there anything else I can assist with, your majesty?"

Prince Galliant swishes the rapier again, ignoring Dain's question. That's a dismissal in Dain's book, so he bows at the waist and steps out of the range of the blade.

Dain begins to pick up the discarded clothing items that litter the floor, rejects from the prince's closet. His Majesty had wanted to appear divine, the crown jewel of the kingdom, so he'd picked out a ruby red doublet and matching pants, a golden sash and several pieces of golden jewelry.

It left many of his clothing items on the floor, like casualties of battle laid out for the singular crow named Dain to pick at.

But this is what Dain is used to. He’s been Prince Galliant’s errand boy for over ten years now, since the both of them were young teenagers. He’s nothing if not accustomed to his majesty’s peculiarities.

"Dain," Prince Galliant calls over his shoulder. "Will you be attempting the tourney this year?"

Dain stops with an armful of clothes in front of the prince. He hadn't thought about it, competing. The tournament is open to the public, and the prize money is nothing to scoff at. It could help his mother in the city; but competing is a dangerous game. Dain had seen men lose their lives trying to win.

"I hardly think I qualify, your majesty," he admits.

Prince Galliant regards him, a hand on his chin. "You don't know how to fight?"

It feels like an admonishment, and Dain grimaces. "No, your majesty."

Prince Galliant chuffs, disappointed, and Dain sinks a little further into his tunic. His father had passed when Dain was very young, and Dain's been in the castle ever since he was old enough to run errands. There's been little chance to learn the ways of the sword.

“You’d better learn, then,” his highness says. “A man’s not a man if he doesn’t know how to fight.”

Dain accepts the advice gracefully, as always, and continues cleaning up.

***

After Prince Galliant is satisfied with his ensemble, Dain is dismissed and given something he has no idea what to do with: free time.

The kitchens waved him off as they prepared luncheon for the castle, comparing him to a scurrying rat underfoot. The laundry is on rest until suppertime, and the stables are all empty— the noblemen and their guests are touring the city and riding in the hills.

Dain knows if he tries to nap that he’ll sleep well past dinner, that the library is probably filled to the brim with more nobles and honored guests, and a trip to his mother would take too long. So Dain wanders the castle grounds, without direction or purpose.

In his wandering, he winds up watching the men set up the jousting stands. The fence marking the edge of the ring is already up, and a group of several men are currently working on the stands for spectators.

Prince Galliant’s words drift back to the forefront of his mind. A man’s not a man if he doesn’t know how to fight. It’s not as if he never wanted to learn, but the time to teach him has likely passed. He should’ve started when he was a young boy, possibly learning alongside the prince himself.

One of the knights waves him down, "You, boy! Come lend us your hand."

Dain hops the fence and trots up, and the knight lowers his arm as he spots the crest on Dain's tunic that marks him as a royal serf. "Apologies, sir, I didn't realize--"

Dain waves him off. "It's no matter, how can I help?"

The man stutters for a moment, looking to the others pulling ropes and hammering nails into wood for the large central arena. Already the forms of the stands are taking shape into perfect angles, like stairs for a giant, where everyone will watch the tournament.

Everyone helping is covered in a healthy layer of mud, it cakes their boots and is slowly creeping up their legs the more they move. The knight sees this, glances back to Dain, then shakes his head, as if banishing the thought. He gestures to a much cleaner looking section of the market, where several sets of living armor are throwing cloth over large wooden frames. "Go set up the stalls, then."

Finally having a task makes Dain perk up. He nods once, and jogs over to the living armor. The metal of their suits glints in the sunlight, shiny and smooth. From a distance, all the armor appear the same, but as Dain trots up, he starts to make out small differences marking each individual.

Some wear the crest of the kingdom, a lion reaching towards a distant star, others have clothing under the steel colored red and black. The metal plating on each of them shows signs of battle and wear, scratches and nicks from swords, dents and punctures from a shield glancing too close to the delicate magic that keeps the armor together.

They're not the ones Dain is familiar with that walk the castle, these must be a lower rank that patrol in the city. They're still something to admire, though. Magic come to life.

"Hello," Dain calls, and waits for an answer, a command to tell him what to do. But they all ignore him, not breaking in their movements of throwing a large sheet of canvas over the framework of a stall.

Every set stands at least a head taller than Dain, broadcasting a figure that could easily pick him up and throw him over their shoulder like a sack of grain. The armor in the castle is more slim, made for parades and exhibitions, not battle. They speak endlessly of triumph and honor with no experience of it, plus they’re a bit rude.

After another moment of nothing, Dain bites his tongue and taps one on the shoulder. It stops, then turns to Dain as if to rudely ask, “What?”

This one doesn't have the crest of the kingdom, but the kingdom's colors are inlaid in the metal itself. It gives the armor colored red lines that guide the eye, from the pointed helm, down the flat chestplate, over the jointed legs and ending at the articulated feet. This one looks the most worn down of the lot, with dozens of scratches and dents, there’s even a hairline crack down one shoulder pauldron and pieces of chainmail missing.

Dain half-expects it to knock him aside. He freezes, waiting for the blow, but the armor only cocks its head to one side.

"I, uh," Dain says, eyes searching for a face that isn't there, tamping down the urge to fiddle with his hands. "How can I help?"

The armor looks to its compatriots, then back to Dain, but says nothing before continuing on with the next stall. Dain takes that as a sign that he’s meant to do what they’re doing, and steps up to join them.

So he does, stepping into the small group and falling in line. They work quickly, hammering the wooden beams and planks together before propping the completed frame up. Then they throw a large cover on top, not quite a quilt as Dain had thought, but something sewn that lays flat over the corners and even creates an opening for the vendor.

It’s easy work, if a bit boring, and Dain falls into a rhythm where he isn’t quite paying attention anymore. He prefers this group of armor to the sets in the castle. They don’t speak much, but they jostle each other, clamping hands on shoulders, knocking affectionate punches. It reminds Dain of the soldiers when they return from a campaign, the comadre and friendliness that comes with being in close quarters.

Sudden pain lances up Dain’s foot and he yelps, falling to his ass on the ground and kicking up his leg.

Son of a bitch, he stepped on a nail. It's small, barely the length of his first knuckle, sticking out of his boot. Thankfully it's shallow, but a simple brush of it shoots more pain up his leg and he holds back another yelp of pain.

Setting his teeth, Dain rips the nail free and works to take his boot off. The sight of blood doesn’t usually bother him, but seeing his own starting to pool on the grass has his head spinning. He blinks several times, and makes an attempt to stand, only for the dizziness to hit harder and drop him to the ground.

Perfect, just perfect.

Suddenly, he's being scooped up, held like a bride by one of the living armor knights, the one with the lined detailing that he’d tapped earlier.

“Wait I—!” Squirming, he tries to release its hold on him, but its arms only tighten around his knees and back, and Dain grits his teeth against the embarrassment. He's never been carried like this. The steel has been warmed by the sun, making two bands of heat through his clothes, not altogether unpleasant.

"You can put me down now," he protests, trying to climb down from the hold but thwarted again by its strong grip. People are starting to stare.

Where is it taking him—? Looking ahead, Dain sees that they’re heading towards the river, which is barely a stone’s throw away. On the sidelines behind him, Dain hears voices. Muttering, gossipping no doubt, followed by a peal of laughter. He covers his face with his hands.

This is humiliating.

He's not some swooning maiden that faints at the sight of blood. Or at least, he didn’t think he was. Apparently the sight of his own made it impossible to stand.

The armor sets him down on the grass just before the riverbank, and Dain yelps when those large hands pull his foot up, pitching him backwards so he's laying on his back and staring at the sky. The armor inspects his injury, then gently guides his foot to the water. Legs splayed open, Dain bites back a nasty retort in his head and attempts to right himself, only to be shoved back down by those strong arms.

The laughter behind him fades into the distance, apparently the ladies got their fill of this little show, and he’s left in silence. Well, almost silence. The armor clanks and clatters every time it moves, one of the hazards of being covered in plated metal from head to toe, but it’s a comforting sound. Like rain on the ground or the sound of wind through the trees, Dain’s so used to the bustle of the castle that the rough sound of metal is one he knows well.

The armor is gentle as it soaks Dain’s foot in the river, waiting until the injury seals itself up before gently grasping his ankle and setting it on the grass. While it works, Dain looks up at the sky. This is surprisingly human behavior for living armor. He probably shouldn’t be calling it an ‘it,’ now that it’s helping him. The others from the group had rough, battle worn voices, so perhaps this one is male as well.

As Dain turns his gaze back to the armor, he sees it producing a small square of cloth from its sleeve, and wrapping his foot with it. It’s plain white, with an embroidered edge, it looks like a napkin from the kitchens.

The armor makes to stand, and Dain sits up. Even though any onlookers are long gone, there’s still heat in Dain’s cheeks. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms over them.

"...Thank you," Dain says, cheeks puffed out in a pout.

The armor nods, then stands straight and offers Dain a hand up, which he takes. The pain has lessened, and hopefully the bleeding has stopped by now. This was all rather unnecessary, and Dain hates being fretted over. Still, he should thank the armor for helping him.

"Do you have a name?"

"Warrec." Finally, the armor speaks, in a soothing baritone no less, and Dain smiles. Warrec, a man’s name.

Dain fiddles with his hands so he doesn’t have to look at his own reflection in the metal. "I’m Dain,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. “Thank you, Warrec."

Warrec starts, like he didn't expect Dain to thank him, and slowly shakes his hand. "Of course, my lord."

Dain snorts, his cheeks burning even hotter. No one's ever called him that before. "Are you going to allow me to continue setting up?"

Warrec tilts his head, as if considering him, before he nods decisively. "But please watch yourself more carefully, m’lord."

Dain laughs, already starting back to the preparations.

***

The completed stands, cloth covers and all, are beautiful and enchanting during the day, a cascade of colors and shapes like a living mosaic. But at night they turn into ghosts, a sea of specters with gaping mouths. It’s an eerie sight, one that makes Dain stop on his way to the servant’s quarters to peer out the window. Was he only setting those up just this afternoon?

As humiliating as it was, Dain wouldn’t change anything about today. It’s not often he’s taken care of so thoroughly by someone else. Had this happened in the castle, he’d have been expected to dress it up and then get back to work as soon as possible, with a note from the matron to not get blood on anything.

The rest of the armor had given the two of them a hard time about “mooning over each other,” but it only helped Dain feel as part of the group. They joked with him, they were all familiar now. They’d completed the rest of the stalls without issue, and then Dain was called to the prince’s side once more. Dain had spent the rest of the evening with his mind preoccupied. All evening he’s been thinking of glinting armor in the sun, and cool river water over his feet.

He hopes the good knight is having a nice evening.

Dain turns away from the window, and nearly flattens his nose against a plane of sheet metal. He squeaks and jumps away, caught off guard and shocked— how had this knight snuck up on him and what did they—?

Until Dain realizes that it’s the armor from earlier today, the one with the lines. Warrec, he’d said his name was.

“Oh, it’s you,” Dain says, breathing out a sigh, pushing down the feeling of being caught out, daydreaming. “You scared me half to death.”

"Are you not going to dinner, my lord?" Warrec asks, and Dain blinks at him, confused. The dinner in the Grand Hall is for the royal family, court, and guests of the crown. Warrec must think he's a noble, a thought that makes Dain smile.

"I've already eaten, good knight. I'm off to tend to his majesty's room."

The prince is a rather messy fellow, one of his few flaws. But when one has an army of servants at his beck and call, his majesty can afford to be a bit of a slob. Or a large slob.

Warrec stares at Dain as if processing his words, and then turns his head, looking out the window, then back to Dain. "I will accompany you."

Dain holds back a laugh. "It's just laundry. Very low likelihood of being attacked," he teases.

Warrec straightens, somehow making himself taller. "But not impossible."

"Wouldn't the good knight prefer to do something else?"

Warrec doesn't reply, and he doesn't make any moves to leave. Why this knight has attached himself to Dain, he hasn't the faintest idea, but he'd have as much luck arguing with a brick wall.

The living armor are always after things to do, they don't tend to stay idle as the magic keeping them upright is burning a large amount of energy. It's why they're used so frequently in battle, they'll continue moving forward until physically incapable of doing so. Watching a servant clean His Majesty's chambers hardly seems a fitting activity for such incredible magic.

And yet, Warrec remains standing in front of him, unmoving. Dain didn't think the living armor had wants, he thought they were closer to automatons, like the wind up toys the young princess likes to play with in the throne room. They make choices in battle and in matters of life and death, but this situation is neither. Maybe Warrec thinks Dain is in danger of hurting himself again.

"Well," Dain says, shrugging. "Follow me."

Warrec follows Dain through the grand halls of Castle Guthanna. It's a few minutes' walk, but one Dain can navigate with his eyes closed. He imagines Warrec hasn't seen some of the servant's passages and secret hallways that he takes en route to His Majesty's quarters, and Dain is hit with a pang of melancholy for the wonder he used to feel navigating the dank, dripping stairs that almost no commoner is privy to. Can Warrec feel wonder or melancholy like that?

“You know your way around here, my lord,” Warrec says as they ascend a set of steps. The metal hitting the chainmail is making a horrible, echoing clanking sound that can probably be heard leagues away, but Dain doesn’t mind. It’s better than the stony silence he’s used to.

Refuting the compliment would be useless, so Dain only blows a piece of hair out of his face and continues climbing. Dain pushes open the solid wood backing of a painting that opens into Prince Galliant's room, and the two step into the space, Dain without a sound, and Warrec banging enough to wake the kingdom.

The frame clicks shut behind them, and Dain turns to survey the mess. The moonlight from the windows slices the room into several even pieces, illuminating the piles of cloth that lie on the floor. Dain sighs heavily. He’d just cleaned up this mess, why had the Prince gone and emptied his wardrobe, again?

“I’ll take this half,” Dain says, slicing the room with his arm. “You take the other. Just set them on the bed and we’ll fold…everything.”

Warrec nods and turns away, and the two of them set to their task. Since the clothes are all fresh, Dain will have to fold every piece and store them instead of just piling everything into a laundry basket. It’s tedious and frustrating, but it’s Dain’s responsibility, and having Warrec as a companion makes it go marginally faster.

At least, it’s faster until Warrec starts to fold and it’s made abundantly clear that Warrec was made for battle. He’s sneaking glances at Dain over his own pile to follow along, and his folding is, well, piss poor. He’s cute, examining a garment before draping it over the huge pile and unevenly pressing sleeves and seams together. Dain has to fix more than half of them, but Warrec seems so ready, so serious about this, Dain couldn’t stand to turn him away.

“I did not think His Majesty had this many garments,” Warrec says after rolling up a pair of pantaloons and setting them next to the others. If he rolls a few more, he could stack them into a tower.

Dain laughs as he opens the large trunk at the base of the bed and sets Prince Galliant’s winter cloak— why had he removed this? It’s the middle of summer— and sets it inside. “He has more than this. These were just discarded for dinner.”

“Really?” Warrec asks, sounding genuinely surprised, and Dain laughs again.

“Really,” he says around a smile. He slips his hands under a large pile of folded shirts and breeches, stands upright, and makes for the wardrobe on the opposite end of the room.

“Would you like some help?” Warrec asks as Dain carefully balances the clothes, the pile easily past his head. But Dain shakes his head.

“I’ve done this before, I—“

Distracted by the conversation, Dain’s foot catches on the corner of the bed, and he nearly trips before he catches himself with a hop. It shifts the balance of the clothes in his arms and the pile wobbles dangerously, but with a quick adjustment, he doesn’t lose anything to the floor.

"You are quick, my lord," Warrec says behind him.

Dain laughs, flustered, as he continues to step very carefully to the wardrobe. All the while, he pushes down the urge to retaliate against the compliment. "Thank you."

If he had tripped in front of Warrec, well, it would at least have been embarrassing. Something presses at Dain to impress the armor, to earn his respect. So he makes it to the wardrobe without issue, and opens it deftly with his foot before carefully dumping the shirts and breeches onto the wood.

No one's ever paid him so many compliments, save for his mother. Dain isn’t used to them, and doesn’t know how to approach it. Shall he compliment back? Is he meant to posture?

Warrec interrupts his thoughts when he asks, "Will you be at the games?"

Dain squints. "Games--? Oh! No, no, I can't fight."

"You show promise, I can teach you."

"I— really?" That would be wonderful! If he wins the competition, the gold would set his mother for a year. Could he really compete? Did he really have a chance?

Warrec nods confidently. "I would be honored."

Dain leans forward and hides inside the wardrobe to cover his wholly embarrassed face. All that, as well that Warrec would be honored to teach him? It’s almost too much to contain.

The rest of the folding is done in silence, albeit Dain has a spring to his step the rest of the way. Not only will he have a chance at being the best at the tournament, he’s gotten a chance to prove himself, to be a man in his own right.

It’s a heady thought, one that carries Dain through the folding and back through the servant’s passages, and finally to the hallway where Warrec had cornered him. It’s the shortest way back to the servant’s quarters, which means this is where they have to part ways.

Stepping into the hall, Dain turns to Warrec. “I appreciate all your help.” And it’s only a tiny lie. Warrec wasn’t impeding the folding, just making it a little slower. They’d finished before Prince Galliant returned, and that’s all that mattered in the end.

Warrec stares at him, or he just doesn’t move for a moment, Dain can’t tell, before snapping to attention, metal coming together with a sshk!

“Glad to have been of service, my lord. Meet me at the sparring grounds at first light." And he starts to walk off.

“Before you go—“ Dain grabs Warrec by the wrist, stopping him. "This is yours," Dain says, handing Warrec the small handkerchief he'd used to wrap Dain's foot.

Warrec looks down at the fabric, and gingerly takes it in his hands, gentle despite his size. Dain had tried to wash the blood from it, but a small pink-orange stain remained no matter how hard he scrubbed. As he passes it, Warrec grabs his hands, and Dain feels the soft material of Warrec's gloves. It's leather, worked so much it's become soft to the touch, reflecting a warm brown glow from the candles above.

Warrec glances down at the cloth. "You're…giving this to me?"

Dain's mind is still focused on the contact between them, at Warrec's large hands cupping his. There's a texture to the leather, he felt it dragging over his skin in a manner that was distracting. Dain quickly pulls his hands back, hoping the darkness in his face isn't broadcasted in the low light. "I'm more returning it to you, but if you want to look at it that way, then yes."

Warrec hums, the sound echoing within his metal helm. He carefully folds the cloth and tucks it away in his sleeve. “Thank you, m’lord. I’ll see you at first light.”

***

First light shouldn’t be as exhausting as it feels. When Dain first started at the castle, he’d be up far before then and in the kitchens, or doing laundry, or any number of things. But being footman to the prince has its perks. The matron would call them drawbacks that make Dain lazy, as he only really needs to be awake when the prince is, which has allowed Dain many mornings to sleep in past sunrise.

Heaving a great yawn, Dain stretches as he walks to the training grounds. It’s empty this early in the morning, but soon it will be filled with competitors, all getting ready for the first section of the tournament— the Joust of War.

The Joust of War and the Joust of Peace are the biggest draws for the festival. The crowds that gathered flood the stands and spill into the grass, hundreds of people all in one place. Personally, Dain had never been one for jousting. It simply wasn’t a sport he’d been privy to growing up, and thus never felt attached to. It’s entertaining to watch, sure, but he’d rather view the sword-fighting.

Warrec is waiting for him in the jousting ring, two wooden practice swords in his hands.

Dain smirks. “What, no steel?”

Truly, he’s glad for the training swords. They’re meant for children, which means the wood is light and doesn’t hurt as much when it hits the skin. Hopefully he can make it out of this session in one piece. Not that he isn’t up for the challenge, but Warrec cuts an intimidating figure. Dain would be lying if he claimed not to be nervous.

Warrec tosses Dain the sword before saying, “Today is for seeing where you’re at. Tomorrow will be for learning.”

Without warning, Warrec charges at Dain, and Dain barely gets his sword up in time to block the overhead blow Warrec slams down.

“Aren’t you going to show me a stance first?” Dain asks, a little hysterical.

“We fight first, then I correct you.”

Warrec shifts his hips, and too late Dain realizes that he’s moving to sweep his feet out from under him before he’s on the ground, flat on his back, Warrec pointing the rounded edge of the blade at his nose.

“Again,” Warrec states, stepping back.

After getting to his feet, Dain warily takes a few steps back. He truly doesn’t know how to fight. When he was younger he’d imagine, in the way that all boys do, that if he’d gotten caught in a fight, his body would just…know. But the pain in his back from hitting the hard ground tells a different story.

He’ll have to try harder. Warrec clearly has no compunctions over kicking his ass.

After finding his footing, Dain charges forward and swings the sword high above his head as Warrec had done. Warrec blocks the blow with a single arm, using the other to elbow Dain’s side. Dain dodges the hit, unlocking his sword and stepping back and out of Warrec’s reach.

“At least you know to dodge,” Warrec drones sarcastically, and Dain grits his teeth. He charges forward again. He feints to the left, but Warrec is too fast and sweeps his feet out from under him again.

It goes like this for most of the morning: Dain making attempts to catch Warrec unawares, and Warrec countering it every single time. Even when Dain attempts to mimic Warrec’s posture and gait, he’s no match for the speed or power behind Warrec’s attacks.

The few times he’s managed to lock swords with Warrec, his feet are swept from under him, or the sword thrown out of his hand by pure force, each time Warrec calling out his weak spots.

“Left flank,” Warrec says before jabbing at Dain’s ribs, making contact and sending Dain sideways into the ground.

Dain hits the dirt, knocking the air from his chest, and Warrec taps his shoulder with his sword— he’s dead. Dain groans, but still plants his hands to the ground and makes to get up. His whole body aches. There’s bruises forming in places he didn’t even get hit. His lungs are on fire and his head is starting to throb from the exertion. His shirt is soaked with sweat, and Warrec still stands casually as if none of this bothers him.

Warrec steps around him, and Dain flinches, expecting a hit. But none come, and he peeks around his arm to see Warrec offering him a hand.

“You’ve done well today, my lord.”

Dain scoffs, falling onto his back and staring up at the sky. “You beat me into dust.”

“And soon, I’ll show you how I did it,” Warrec says, as if it’s a matter of the weather. “Even today, you showed improvement.”

Despite the pain starting to spread fingers over his side, Dain smiles. “Then you’ll beat me bloody some more tomorrow?”

“If m’lord wishes.”

Dain barks a laugh, then grabs Warrec’s steady hand and hauls himself up.

***

Every morning for the next week is as grueling as the first, but Dain is determined to understand Warrec’s instructions. The creature has been beating him down day after day, and Dain feels no closer to winning than he did before this all started.

But today Warrec has taken a break from shoving Dain’s face into the dirt, and is instead teaching him proper form. It’s a well-needed break for Dain’s bruised and battered skin, but the trade off is a blunted metal sword that makes his arms burn the longer he holds it.

“Shoulders down,” Warrec taps each of Dain’s shoulders with the end of his sword. “You’re so lithe, my lord, but you tense easily.”

Dain breathes out, relaxing his shoulders to where they should be, trying to ignore the small tremors working their way through his wrists. He knows, logically, that he won’t be built within a day, or even a week, but that doesn’t stop the frustration he feels at his own weakness.

Warrec switches to a single grip on his own sword, pressing the other hand to Dain’s sternum. It’s a test of balance, one that Dain sets himself against very well, while also trying to corral his wandering mind.

Warrec releases his hand, releasing Dain’s chest, and he walks around Dain to check his feet.

It’s been a very close-quarters day, with a fair amount of corrections, stances, and sparring hand-to-hand; which translated into more than enough physical contact than Dain typically gets in one day. He’s drawn in to wherever Warrec touches him, points of correction that he wants to draw a line between and then sink into the tangled mess.

Dain’s going to go insane if Warrec keeps circling him like a vulture. “I think we should—“

“One more fight, then I release you for the day.”

Warrec tosses Dain the other sword, and Dain readies himself. Right foot angled back, not too far, not too close.

Warrec rushes him without a word, and Dain watches his hands, his hips, his feet. Watches the twist of a wrist that tells him the direction he’s about to swing so he can parry, parry, and —thrust!

For the first time, Dain lands a hit on Warreck, and the chime of metal hitting metal is like the pealing of bells to his ears.

“Ah-hah!” Dain cries, throwing his arms up in victory, giving Warrec the perfect chance to rush him and throw him to the ground. It was Dain’s fault, he left himself open, but he’s still grinning as Warrec helps him back up and reprimands, “Don’t get distracted.”

It’s the first hit he’s landed! It took a few days, but he did it! And if he can do it again, maybe he can land a hit on someone else!

“Not bad,” Warrec concedes, clapping Dain on the shoulder, and Dain’s grin grows.

“Let’s go again!” Dain hops into his ready stance, sword pointed at Warrec. “Come on, give me all you’ve got!”

Warrec looks him up and down, walking around Dain as he did before. He stops behind him, and rests one hand on his shoulder, the other over his hip.

“Relax,” Warrec says, voice deep and soothing as he presses his hands to adjust Dain’s stance. The hand over his shoulder trails a slow line down his arm to his wrist, testing the strength. “You move with grace, but don’t compromise your form for speed.”

Dain swallows, his focus purely concentrated on Warrec’s hands as his heart pounds. They’re steady, guiding, and very, very distracting. The leather somehow manages to find any patch of exposed skin, leaving ghosts of touch, prickling sensations that make his face warm to think about. It all combines with the rush from a moment ago, mixing together to form a pressure behind his ribs and a large, inappropriate bubble in Dain’s mind.

Pulling Dain out of his own thoughts, Warrec takes a few steps away and readies his stance. Dain is prepared this time when Warrec rushes at him, arms poised like he’s going to swing out in a wide arc, but he feints and makes a jab for Dain’s legs.

Dain side-steps out of the way, watching for the opening that Warrec’s huge motion left on his side, and then slices towards it with all his strength. Clang! The sword hits its mark, not hard enough to throw Warrec to the side, but enough to make him stumble.

“Yeah!” Dain shouts, stepping out of Warrec’s reach and falling into a defensive position. Warrec will probably rush at him again, he needs to be ready.

“Don’t get cocky,” Warrec says, swinging wide and fast.

“Never!” Dain fires back, blocking easily. He spins out of reach of Warrec’s sword and aims a hit at Warrec’s open side.

It hits, throwing Warrec off balance again, but he quickly regains his footing and swings so quickly that Dain almost doesn’t get his sword up in time. The move locks them together, allowing Dain the briefest of reprieves.

“You’re improving,” Warrec says, voice far too level for the amount of physical activity he’s been doing.

“Not quite as good as you,” Dain says.

Warrec chuckles, and the sound shoots an arrow into Dain’s heart. “You’d have to train for much longer.”

Dain smirks. “Now who’s getting cocky?”

Dain unlocks their blades and deflects Warreck’s subsequent attack, and the two of them match each other’s moves blow for blow.

It’s an even match, until Warrec plays dirty. He approaches Dain as if to swing the sword at him again, but just before reaching Dain he drops his body low, weaving underneath Dain’s arms and tackling him to the ground. They hit the dirt and all of Dain’s breath leaves in a huff of air as Warrec’s weight piles on top of him.

Dain stares at the sky as he catches his breath. That’s the longest they’ve fought where Warrec didn’t pummel him instantly. He could actually have a chance at this.

But he doesn’t have time to gather his thoughts. Warrec is on top of him, between his legs and pressing into his groin. His helm is close enough that Dain can make out his own reflection, see the sweat rolling down his skin. The armor is cool in the morning light, shifting whenever Warrec moves.

Wasting no time, Warrec makes a sound like he’s clearing his throat before he stands, offering Dain a hand. Dain takes it, unable to look at Warrec and hoping that his disheveled state excuses his need to adjust his trousers.

“You’ve done very well today, m’lord. You’re excelling quickly,” Warrec says as Dain offers him the sword.

That’s high praise, coming from Warrec. Over the past few days, Dain has begun to follow the pattern of Warrec’s compliments. They’re short, but honest and personal. They cut through to Dain’s core like a blade, and Dain’s growing more and more fond of them each day. He strives for them, thinks about them as he performs his daily duties, replays them as he washes his wounds from that morning’s training session.

“Same time tomorrow?” Dain asks, hopeful, but Warrec shakes his head.

“First day of the tournament is tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Dain says, pursing his lips in an effort not to pout. He’d not been keeping track of the days. Was the tournament really starting tomorrow? He didn’t feel nearly ready. He’s only landed a handful of strikes on Warrec, how is he to face another knight with the same skill?

Warrec has been firm, but invaluable in his teaching. And if Dain’s being honest with himself, he will admit that he may be a touch smitten. Warrec is doing him a great favor with this training, building him from the ground up when most others wouldn’t have the patience. His instruction is curt, but not cruel, clear and concise, very much like him.

In the evening hours he seeks Dain out, following him around like a lost puppy, and Dain’s grown used to the attention. He looks forward to their sessions, imagining the ways they could go, the ways he could win. But he also thinks of things that could happen while he’s working. He thinks of ways those lovely leather gloves could be used for his benefit. They’ve been a frequent subject of a few of Dain’s wandering thoughts after Warrec bids him goodnight.

“I will be expected for the opening ceremonies. There won’t be time, I fear,” Warrec says, and Dain is sure his mind is playing tricks because Warrec seems…almost crestfallen.

“Oh,” Dain says again, no longer hiding his own disappointment. “Well then, my good knight,” he bows with a sarcastic flourish. “I’ll see you at the tournament.”

***

The first day of festivities bursts across the land like a flower in the spring. People from all walks of life park their carriages down the river, and patrons flood the grounds, the city, and the castle. Dain has never seen so many people in one place, so many different tongues and forms of dress, it has his head spinning trying to remember all the different greetings the matron lists off.

“An’ don’t look a single one of them in the eye, got that?”

“Yes ma’am!”

The chores are layered overtop one another tenfold, from food preparation to laundry, the stables and crops as well as every little task that the noblemen ask. There aren’t enough hands to go around, and Dain is pulled in so many directions that he barely has time for a sip of water.

Prince Galliant is understanding, but still requires Dain at his side for the opening ceremony. It leaves Dain anxiously tapping his fingers against his leg, going through the list of chores that go unattended the longer he sits.

Prince Galliant picks up on his mood. “Calm down, you won’t be missed for one hour,” he says, sipping the wine from his goblet. The royal family is seated on their respective thrones at a far end of the jousting loop, and Dain is sitting below the Prince, on his left.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Dain mumbles so his Majesty won’t hear. He’s not being acute on purpose, but he’s wound up from having so many directions to follow. He shouldn’t be here, leisuring while the rest of the staff are up to their ears in chores.

But his responsibility to Prince Galliant comes first, so he’ll watch the ceremonies, then politely excuse himself later.

There’s acts from across the land, from singers to acrobatics, all wearing the colors of their home, and as much as Dain’s head is full of responsibilities, he can still appreciate the theatrics. There’s buckets of talent on display, played in front of him for the royal family in a way that makes the young Princess Melody squeal in delight.

Afterwards come the knights, and Dain nearly chokes on his spit when he sees Warrec. He looks the exact same, except tucked in his belt, tied in a knot, is the square of cloth he’d used to tie Dain’s foot.

Prince Galliant hums a short note, almost impressed. “It seems one of our autonomous knights has a favor!" The Queen laughs, and Dain hears her snap her fan open.

“I see that! What a novelty!” And she laughs again, and Dain feels his face burning. He’s glad for his complexion at that moment, that doesn’t show color in his face.

The Prince twists in his seat to face Dain. “What do you think, Dain?”

Still, Dain tries not to give anything away, faking nonchalance. "That is…fascinating, your majesty."

Prince Galliant’s face lights up in a smile. "Indeed! I've never seen such a display!"

"Neither have I."

“I wonder who it is,” Prince Galliant muses. “To have captured such a hardened warrior.”

“I’m not sure, your highness,” Dain says, swallowing hard.

Dain can’t ask the Prince what he thinks of it, it would cross a boundary that he’s never been through. So Dain swallows his questions, and waits until the Prince sees something in his face that confirms what he’s thinking, and turns back around.

Relationships with the living armor aren’t completely unheard of, but it’s still not a common sight. With one as rough as Warrec at his side, Dain would certainly be the subject of conversation. But over the days that they’ve been together, Dain finds his penchant for caring what others think has gone down significantly. Being followed by the world’s loudest baby duck has quickly cooled his burning face.

So he watches the knights circle the jousting ring, keeping an eye on Warrec as they each present to the royal family. Warrec must not be aware of Dain’s presence, or if he is, he makes no moves to show it.

It makes Dain’s viewing of the rest of the ceremonies marginally less awkward, and before he knows it, Dain is excusing himself from the stands to fall into enough chores that his mind is quiet for the rest of the day.

***

Hot water for baths is a luxury when there’s hundreds of guests within the castle. The small magic stones used to keep the water hot are in limited supply, so when Prince Galliant gifts him one saying, “You look like you could use a few moments to yourself,” and Dain isn’t one to waste gifts.

He does wait until the rest of the castle has gone to bed to prepare his bath. There’s a small room down the hall from the servant’s quarters, stocked with several tubs and more than enough water to fill each of them. From his earnings, Dain’s managed to purchase scented oils and a soap for his hair, and the water is wonderfully hot as he steps in, instantly working through his sore muscles.

Running a cloth over his skin, Dain muses over the bruises that Warrec put on him. One here from the blade, another from a tackle, a third from the blade again. It’s like a map of Dain’s progress, the faded marks layered under the fresh bruises, scabbed over cuts that are already turning into scars.

After scrubbing his hair clean and changing the soapy water for more fresh heat, Dain feels the stress of the day rolls off of him in waves.

Dain sighs into the fresh, scented water, aware of the heat surrounding his body. It’s late enough that no one will come and bother him, and the walls don’t broadcast noise this deep in the castle. It’s quiet, and Dain can look through the window high in the wall and watch the night sky overhead.

It allows space in his mind for thoughts that he’d pushed down. The reminder of Warrec’s gloves over his body has been a present thought all day, one that only grew the longer he ignored it. But here, he can think freely, can dip into a fantasy all his own.

Running his hands down his body, Dain sighs out through his nose. Oh, what he’d give for one last morning session with Warrec, one where he could memorize the placement of his hands, feel his fingers dig in as they run down his arm or over his hips. One last time where he could possibly trick Warrec into falling on top of him again.

Dain’s hands travel over his torso and down his thighs, his palms and fingers just calloused enough to spark fire underneath his skin. Grasping his half-hard cock, Dain lets out a small sound of pleasure and begins to stroke.

Warrec wore that small cloth as a favor today, and as unintentional as it was, now he thinks Dain is interested. And Dain most certainly is, he just didn’t think anything would come of it. Does wearing the favor mean Warrec is interested as well?

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and chokes out another moan, the sound echoing off the stone walls and making his toes curl.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and Dain squeals, frozen in place. A tall, foreboding shadow lingers in the doorway before stepping into the light.

"Warrec!" Dain quickly moves to cover himself, sloshing water all over the floor. Great, he's going to have to clean that later.

"I heard…" Warrec trails off, looking around the room. "I thought you may be in trouble."

Much to Dain's embarrassment, Warrec walks the room, checking for traps or anyone who may be hiding. Dain’s head falls to the rim of the tub with a thunk. “How did you even know where I was?”

Once he’s done checking the room, Warrec returns to Dain’s side and shrugs, the motion jostling his chainmail. “I saw you exiting the feast, and when you didn’t go to bed...”

“So you followed me.”

“Would m’lord like me to leave?”

"N-no," Dain says, falling further into the water. Even after being caught, he’s still half hard, he realizes. Warrec seems to realize this too.

"Ah— Ah! I see." Warrec says, and then crosses his legs and sits on the ground just outside of Dain’s tub. Dain blanches.

"What're you--?"

"Would my lord allow me audience?" He asks quietly.

Warrec says it so honestly, so baldly, that Dain is momentarily struck for words. Dain swallows hard, acutely aware of his hand on his prick, somehow growing harder the longer Warrec stares at him. And it’s a tantalizing thought, touching himself with Warrec watching. That sounds divine. Just a step below being worked over by the man himself.

"The water may splash," Dain mumbles, the excuse sounding paper thin even to his own ears. "Wouldn't want you to rust."

Warrec stands, and for a moment Dain thinks he's making to leave when he heads for the door, but he comes back with an armful of drying towels. He lays it on the floor by the tub, and kneels on one end. He stretches another over his lap, and leaves the third on top of the first, perfectly folded and waiting for Dain.

Well, that's one way to show committed interest.

Dain tries to diffuse the tension in the air. “I saw you at the opening ceremony today.”

“And I saw you,” Warrec replies.

Dain thinks of the favor tied in Warrec’s belt earlier that day, how he brandished it like a badge of honor. Warrec was proud of it, and wanted everyone to see. They feel the same about each other, so this would be the next logical step, right?

The shame burning under Dain’s skin diffuses into a promise, low and hot under Dain’s cheeks. Warrec wants to watch him, and the idea is not altogether unpleasant. So Dain shifts in the water, stretching out the leg closest to Warrec, and when he grasps his cock again, he’s already hard.

He’s so, so nervous, so he starts in easy, careful movements. The echoing of the sloshing water against the stone only serves to ground his embarrassment, and he tries to lessen the effect, with little success.

Warrec is still as a statue, his helm pointed down towards Dain’s hips, offering no reprieve. His hands are resting on his lap, and when Dain cranes his neck, slowly succumbing to the pleasure of his own hand, he sees Warrec’s hands tightened into fists. He’s enjoying this. It’s like Dain is putting on a show, and he wants to perform.

Planting one foot on the rim of the tub, Dain tightens his grip and speeds his pace, arching back into the pleasure that shoots down his spine. With his other hand he gently squeezes his balls, and the noise he makes is obscene.

The sound of water moving in the tub and pouring on the floor mixes with Dain’s breathy moans and makes him sound like he’s in pain. He squeezes at the head and it feels so good Dain knows he’s not going to last much longer. The foot propped on the edge slips over, hooking Dain’s leg and opening his hips so he can thrust up into his hand.

Dain doesn’t care about the mess right now, he can clean it up later when the full consequences of what he’s doing come down on him. What he wants to do now is impress Warrec, to burn this image into his mind. Dain doesn’t know if the armor need physical pleasure, but if they do, Dain wants Warrec to imagine him.

“You look heavenly, my lord,” Warrec says, voice full of awe in a way that makes Dain smile.

“I’m thinking of you,” Dain says, and it’s not entirely false. With Warrec in front of him he doesn’t need to imagine anything. “I was thinking of you before too.”

Dain twists his hand over the head of his cock and shuts his eyes against the jolt of sensation that curls his toes. He hears Warrec shift on the floor, shuffling closer to the tub so he’s up against the rim.

“Do you like seeing me?” Dain asks, cracking open one eye as his climax fast approaches.

“I do,” Warrec replies cooly, hands coming up to grasp the rim of the tub. “I wish I could touch you, my lord.”

With that, Dain comes with a short cry, his legs locking up, his back arching against the tub. The exposed metal is cool against his back and neck, his skin is over-sensitive and makes the water feel that much hotter, the shimmering afterglow that much better.

Dain falls back, the water splashing his stomach, and he rolls his head to the side to look at Warrec.

“Next time,” Dain says between heavy breaths, reaching his hand out and touching the side of Warrec’s helm. Warrec’s hands on the rim of the tub fall away, and Dain’s surprised to see small indents in the metal.

“You are graceful on and off the field, my lord,” Warrec says, and Dain turns away to smile into his shoulder.

“Thank you, Warrec.”

“Would you like to dry off?”

Dain smirks. “If you’d be so kind as to help me.”

Part 2>>

#nsfw.#my writing #servant and his knight #Monster writing #terato writing #living armor #Exophillia writing #Monster fucker #Still writing on my ipad so if you see any mistakes...no u dont lol #monster writing #monster fucker #Fantasci

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dracodazaii · 27 days

Text

The Green Queen And A Greener Future

Chapter 6

Alicent reaches past the gossiping crowds, strutting onwards over to the Royal Box of the grand tourney.

Crowds erupting with gossip and chatter, in the meanwhile waiting for the knights to fight, just as King Viserys stands up and announces for the first joust to commence joyful in excitement.

However just as the knights prepared to joust, figures trotted on forward, stepping off their horses, and striding up towards the Royal Box, intent on gaining the favour of the noble ladies.

Gwayne Hightower steps forward with bold determination, declaring for “The Beloved Queen Alicent’s favour”.

Just as Rose Tyrell, his sister’s Lady-in-waiting blushes deeply with anticipation in her chair, only to find herself overcome with embarrassed shame, as her hopeful gesture of offering her favour to the charming Hightower noble is rebuffed, with his loyalty to the Queen taking precedence over matters of the heart.

Following suit, Ser Erryk Cargyll walked onwards, sweetly asking for the “Realm’s Angel, Helaena’s favour,” while subsequently following his twin, Ser Arryk calls for “Dragon’s Daughter, Vaella’s favour”.

Alicent was wondering inside, whether this situation could be a chance for her to gain both the greatly accomplished men onto her side, noting that Ser Erryk had been a great boon for the Blacks, legitimising Rhaenyra’s reign with King Viserys’ crown.

However, Alicent knows that both twins were heavily respectable knights and that having them together would be a great blessing for the Greens, remarking that Ser Arryk would be a great sworn shield for the children, with Alicent then being protected by Ser Erryk, promptly influencing him to her side, deriving this conniving plan just from two knightly twins wanting to respect and honour their fellow twins, the royal twin princesses.

The fighting finally commenced, with Alicent watching fondly, listening to the gossiping chatter of the Ladies, Rhea Royce and Jeyne Arryn included amongst Alicent’s Ladies-In-Waiting, personally invited by the Queen to the Royal Box, intent on festering relations further.

Blushing emerged from the Ladies, upon witnessing the Queen’s brother win the tourney, and cheering erupted, as he swiftly removed his helmet, revealing his blonde locks for the crowds to fluster over.

The swoon-worthy knight strided over to the Royal box, stepping in front of his Queen, and handing over the magnificent crown, shrouded in greenery and ruby-toned roses. Perfectly fit for the Green Queen, who will lead her Targaryen son into greatness.

“A crown fit for the Good Queen Alicent!” Gwayne roars, boldly illuminating his beloved sister into a greater perspective, for the nobles and smallfolk to eventually perceive their Queen, as the admirable woman that her believes her to be.

Crowds erupted, sounds of clapping emerging through the grounds, pleased at the ending to this pleasant tourney.

Alicent saw fit to influence Viserys now.

Her spineless husband was easily malleable, and witnessing her brother’s fit of greatness could smoothly turn him towards making Gwayne the Lord Commander of The City Watch, replacing his unruly brother, with his much more agreeable brother-in-law.

She discreetly whispered to her side, husband sat beside, indulgent in the entertainment, “Viserys, see how great Gwayne performed!”

“Perhaps, he could lead the City Watch, and lead the realm’s fighters to greatness!” Alicent declares, intent on firmly placing this idea into Viserys’ weak mind, and gaining the Greens another seat on the Small Council, decreasing any potential allies the arrogant Princess Rhaenyra could possibly muster.

And additionally to influence the disruptive, murderous City Watch, urged by Daemon’s callous brutality, to become a better force, helping the Smallfolk, instead of murdering any man, innocent or not, that looked scummy in their eyes.

Fixing the mistakes of the disastrous Targaryen supremacists, yet again as Rhaenyra and Daemon can’t help but destroy the realm with their brash arrogance.

————————————

Alicent sat beside the nobles ladies of the Realm.

Chatting under the guise of a simplistic gossiping session, that in actuality would double as a breeding grounds for political talks, regarding Westeros.

However gossiping still ensued, as the Ladies surrounding Alicent were joyous in their impending marriages, upcoming betrothals and crushes on noblemen.

The Green Queen then prompted her Ladies to discuss charity work for Westeros. She had begun implementing the increase of almshouses and orphanages, with the funding and aide of the High Septon and advice from her father Otto Hightower, who held a great mastery over the Realm’s problems and treasury, unlike the arrogant Targaryens who ignore their subjects’ issues.

The Queen had brought up her outwardly-seeming altruistic actions to discreetly shift the discussions brewing into a pro-Green stance through discovering Alicent’s charitable actions, and ideally joining her further, and even influencing Great Houses to join her alongside the Faith in funding for these philanthropic ventures and helping the vulnerable Smallfolk.

As the Hightower Lady had gotten her fellow noble ladies increasingly invested and excited in helping the underprivileged, the conversation naturally begun to tilt back to gossiping, with Lady Margarey noting that Lord Jason had begun numerous conversations with her, under the guise of guiding her through the Red Keep, and Rose Tyrell blushing immensely as the shy Delena deflected her sister’s attention, noting that their fellow cousin, Alicent’s brother Gwayne, had shown great interest in the Tyrell maiden.

The willful Bethany Bracken was also rose-cheeked, shuffling in her seat in impatient excitement, desperate to speak aloud her news amongst the chatter of romance.

“I can’t hide this any longer!”

“Daemion Velaryon has proposed to me! He’s written to his father Lord Vaemond in the Stepstones, that he wishes to marry me before spring’s end!” The Bracken girl declares, joy exuding off her presence, clearly happy over this betrothal.

The Ladies in the room gasped in bewilderment, including Alicent’s cousin’s Margarey and Delena Redwyne, and most notably, the Lady Minisa Tully, soon to be Arryn, a match designed cunningly by Alicent upon her talks with Jeyne Arryn regarding her lack of an heir or alliances, thus making her distant cousin Ser Elbert Arryn get betrothed to the Tullys to tie themselves with the Riverlands, and furthering the Greens agenda.

“How wonderful! Hopefully this Stepstones drama that dreadful Prince Daemon dragged their house into will be done with, before your wedding so Lord Vaemond can witness your marriage!” Exclaims Rose Tyrell, dismissive of the war against the Crabfeeder, viewing it as an unnecessary venture by the King’s impulsive brother, with which they both were fighting against one other, damaging the Realm with their reluctance to support each other’s actions.

The betrothed Bracken girl responds in a solemn tone, turning optimistic as her words went on, “I wish for so too, but it’s unlikely. Luckily Daemion’s Grandfather, Lord Celtigar will be there as support for his beloved son.”

Alicent was shocked inside, initially only invested in this budding romance between Lady Bethany and Lord Daemion for an earlier alliance with the Velaryons, unlike the failed attempt which resulted in Viserys indulging his bratty daughter and brute brother’s murderous actions. However she sees now that this marriage can be so much more than that.

Lord Celtigar was an infamous figure of Rhaenyra’s otherwise abysmal Black Council. While he was a miserly grump of an old man, his work regarding the Realm’s treasury was infamous.

He was skilled in the money-making of the world, however it is that exact skill which majorly affected the Smallfolk’s liking for “Maegor With Teats”, as her pressuring Lord Celtigar for funds did effectively increase the treasury’s holdings, but ultimately the incredulous taxation raised coin for only for callous reasons, indulgent feasts, and disregarding of the Smallfolk’s needs.

However, just as Alicent Hightower was ready to respond to Bethany’s joyous chatter, one of the two maids of Alicent’s delegated to the twin princesses burst into the room, shock with excitement exuding from her face.

“Queen Alicent! Princess Vaella’s dragon egg has hatched!” She burst out, thrilled to witness such a momentous moment.

The Hightower Queen was astonished.

After all, Vaella had not existed in her past life, during which only Daeron had hatched a dragon egg, with Helaena and Aemond terrifying their mother by claiming great beastly dragons, and Aegon claiming a much appeasable figure for his mother’s worrisome heart. The toddler of a figure, the youthful Sunfyre who had then rapidly grown into a beloved war-machine, effectively utilised by Aegon for militia, yet breaking his heart after being desecrated by the troublesome Blacks.

“Vaella The Dragon’s Daughter!” Alicent’s bold and boastful cousin Margarey roared, exuding a smug joy over her niece’s success.

“Alicent, you’ve been blessed with such cherishable children! Aegon The Conqueror Reborn, and now you’ve got Helaena The Realm’s Beloved Angel and Vaella The Dragon’s Daughter!”

“What’s next?” Rose Tyrell wondered loudly, continuing her excited discussion over Alicent’s children, and the epithets they have been blessed with.

Yet this question made her Queen stew in her mind, as she had two beautiful children on the way, recalling her precious Aemond. How he reclaimed the rude retorts snarked at him as a result of Rhaenyra’s bastard’s scummy actions, and further remembering her diligent darling, little Daeron, of whom she had seen little of during his teenhood, as he was fostering in Oldtown and thrust into war much too soon because of Rhaenyra’s inability to accept her place in this world.

Yet Alicent didn’t linger further on the pain her once-beloved companion caused her family, as thinking of her children was the main focus of her life.

Specifically to bring joy to her babes.

Make them live life happily, while bringing them their deserved birthright without causing them to crumble under pressure.

But most importantly make them live long.

Yet this could only be possible through Viserys somehow rescinding his reckless decision, or by the removal of Rhaenyra’s existence.

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