Welcome to the roleplayblog of my main OC Sigfrid Brahe and other creations of mine. I'm your host Oliver, a roleplayer born 1988 and thus grew up in the early Pokémon era.
I've been playing around with doll maker games to get a sense of Sigfrid's clothes style or what he sort of look like, or what he wished he look like. I've done some victorian styles were he is dressed feminine vs masculine. I also made him a vampire, a vampire angel and a pirate. I've added a hand drawn picture I made some time ago as well.
The picture below was my attempt to do a modern version of Sigfrid. The doll game had two characters standing side by side. I decided to make one version as a less confident version av Sigfrid. The one with longer hair is him masking as cis gal and feeling uncomfortable. I picked the red shirt as it had straps that could be viewed as a binder.
The character with short hair is Sigfrid as he embrace his identity. I used paint to fix the eyes so one eye is brown and the other green.
Here is a drawing I made some time ago which depict Sigfrid as a pirate.
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Circe wasn't sure what would happen once she spoke with sincerity about the struggles of being sober. A heavy silence lay between them until Nunnally carefully asked if she wanted help. "I want to be sober." Talking about sobriety made her grab the fruit bowl. "I'm just, scared of who I will become..."
"Nunnally..." Circe inhaled deeply before speaking up again. "I don't know how to be when I'm sober and It'll take some time before I figure it out." While speaking she began to peal a clementine. "And what if the new me is too boring?"
So boring that Atarion would never speak to her again...
The clementine turned into a sludgy mess in her trembling hands.
@lured-into-wonderland
She tore into a roasted quail with fingers still sticky from plum juice, the meat yielding easily beneath her, his? No, hers now, sharpened nails. She barely tasted it, the flavors dull compared to the bitter amusement bubbling in her throat. Circe’s suggestion hung between them like a hangman’s noose, swinging gently in the silence. Selected people. As if she’d ever shown such restraint. The irony was rich enough to choke on.
“Talking to you is refreshing, a sharp tongue and mind, I like this already, I made the right choice.”
Across the table, she saw that Circe nibbled at an apple slice with infuriating delicacy, her lips glistening with juice. She watched the witch’s throat move as she swallowed, the pulse there fluttering like a trapped bird. How many times had she watched others in this same predatory stillness, calculating the precise moment to strike? Now, she was the one pinned beneath that gaze, dissected and reassembled with each passing word. The realization made her fingers tighten around a bread roll until it crumbled into dust.
“I also have the golden company and the second sons in my service, I have a grand army, across the seas, I need to work on getting them here.”
Her fingers drummed against the armrest of her chair, her chair now, gods be damned, as she studied Circe with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The witch’s words were surgical, each syllable a scalpel slicing through the fat of courtly niceties to expose the raw muscle of truth beneath. It was intoxicating. She had spent years drowning in the sycophantic murmurings of lords and lickspittles, their voices a monotonous drone of flattery and fear. But Circe? Circe spoke as if the world were a puzzle she’d long since solved, her advice delivered with the casual certainty of a woman who had watched empires rise and crumble over breakfast.
"Castrated monks," She repeated, rolling the words around her mouth like a rare vintage. She leaned forward, elbows sinking into the tablecloth, her newly softened chest pressing against the edge of the wood. The sensation was still foreign, a constant, nagging reminder of the body she now wore. Yet, for the first time since the transformation, she found herself interested rather than enraged. "You’d make eunuchs of my bastards and call it mercy."
As she chuckled, a sound low and rich, like honeyed wine poured over velvet. "It’s a good idea indeed," she admitted, flicking a grape stem toward the hearth with newly delicate fingers. The fruit sizzled against the embers, its juices hissing into steam. "Though I wonder if you’d extend the same solution to your enemies, witch. Or is it only my spawn you’d neuter so elegantly?"
She drained her goblet in one smooth tilt, the wine’s sweetness cloying against her tongue. It wasn’t the Dornish red she preferred, too floral, too soft, but this body craved sugar like a starved thing. The goblet thudded onto the table, its base leaving a damp ring on the polished wood. "Tell me," she mused, tracing the rim with a fingertip, "did you geld the men who took your Cassandra from you? Or did you drown them in their own desires first?"
As she leaned forward and looked into her eyes, really looked, the way a predator studies prey before deciding whether to pounce or play. Circe didn’t flinch. Her gaze held his, green as poisoned wine, unreadable as the tide. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink, the crackle of the hearth fading into white noise. He could smell her, honeysuckle and something darker, like iron left too long in the rain.
“I won’t be sticking my cock into anything, rather I think I have plenty more to explore with this body for the time being, more the other way around.”
The apple pieces were sweet in Circe's mouth. Juices escaped down the lips and sometimes her tongue dotted out to lick it up. While doing so she studied Aerion who gnawed at bird meat like a wild beast. Though most of Circe's advice had been accepted without much protest she wondered if anything would prevent Aerion from laying with countless men or women. "Its not too sharp to your liking?" She wondered out loud before sensually licking at a glistening apple piece. A restrained giggle was stuck in her throat as Aerion's fingers squeezed around the rolled bread.
Those terms were unfamiliar to Circe but from what was said she concluded it had to be army forces serving Targaryen rulers. Another thing to be researched when serving the princess. "What do you aim to do when they are gathered here?" She asked in genuine curiosity and wondered if it had anything to do with Aerion's dragon obsession or if there was a tactical reason.
"I don’t care for the well being of men. There is no reason for them to exist except for breeding purposes.” As macabre as it was Circe couldn’t help but feel a sense of amusement at the thought of castrated men. It wasn’t particularly aimed towards one bloodline or someone who had wronged her. No. The world would simply become a much better place if men didn’t exist to begin with. While people prayed for fertility she thirsted for a world owned and ruled by women without societal pressure to procreate. A world being freed from arranged marriages. Violence against women would dwindle as well as slavery. But such a world could never be. Circe didn’t have that kind of power.
While showing her hand regarding the subject she had a gnawing feeling that Aerion lured her into some sort of trap. The unease grew and caused her skin to prickle. Despite the attempts to shield herself from being seen as vulnerable there was something that would make Circe unravel. Unfortunately she had sprinkled too many breadcrumbs around Aerion for her to not take notice. She tensed up as Cassandra’s name left Aerion’s lips. Fingers slowly moved along the tablecloth, inches away from the bread knife. “She jumped on her own during the siege.” There was a brewing storm in her eyes as their gazes locked together. Green waves with heavy under currents building up. “There was no time for bodily mutilations but I swung a maze without a thread on my body. One of your soldiers was hit in the head.” The sounds of waves thundered together with Cassandra’s teary scream. It ached in Circe’s ears.
“There are more ways to experience bliss than being filled up with cocks.” While speaking she gripped the knife handle.
@fallesto
Her fingers danced along the edge of her wineglass, tracing its delicate curve as if assessing its fragility, or perhaps her own. The goblet was a stunning example of Myrish craftsmanship, as thin as a whisper, with the red liquid inside glimmering in the torchlight like spilled blood. She took a deep sip, the wine exploding on her tongue with a tartness that made her nostrils flare. It was overly sweet for her liking, cloying, reminiscent of syrup infused with violets. She favored the dry Dornish wines that left her mouth parched and craving more. Yet she consumed it nonetheless, as she did with most things these days, without joy, but with the grim resolve of a soldier taking medicine.
"Your work is unparalleled, I cannot commend you enough, and praise comes with rewards. I will arrange a new bedroom for you, a better one; the library is now yours, along with a lavatory for your work and full access to the castle."
Across the table, she saw that Circe watched her with those disconcerting eyes, the hue of sunlight filtering through storm clouds. There was a calmness to the witch, a patience that unsettled her more than any weapon could. She yearned to break through that exterior, to peel back the layers of composure until she uncovered the raw, beating essence beneath. Instead, she placed the goblet down with careful intent and reclined in her chair, the intricately carved wood creaking under her unfamiliar weight.
"Indeed, this is true, no one will believe it, but still, he is bothersome and yielded quickly; send him to the wall then."
She appreciated the way Circe articulated her thoughts. It was a realization that slinked into her awareness like smoke seeping under a door, unexpected, unwelcome, yet impossible to dismiss. The witch’s words lacked the sycophantic flutter of courtiers or the dull compliance of servants. They were sharp, precise, each syllable a blade refined by centuries of outliving men who considered themselves her superiors. And when Circe mentioned castrating sons, her borrowed lips curled into something dangerously close to admiration.
"You’re merciless," she whispered, swirling the overly sweet wine. The phrase felt alien, a confession cloaked in a challenge. She had dedicated years to forging her legacy in screams and flames, yet this woman, this being, discussed the pruning of bloodlines with the cool precision of a gardener snipping roses. It exhilarated her. "But pragmatic. I’ve wasted gold on idiots who couldn’t strategize their way out of a brothel."
Her fingers wrapped around a fig, its skin yielding under the pressure of her nails. The pulp exploded on her tongue, the sweetness overwhelming, but she swallowed it nonetheless. Breakfast was a ridiculous notion, this body demanded sustenance with annoying regularity, yet she found herself relishing the textures, the way honey adhered to her teeth, the crisp crack of bread crust between her molars. Every sensation was a revelation, a reminder that flesh could be more than just a vessel for conquest.
"Too numerous to tally, who can say, just compensate them." Her fingers rested on the stem of a plum, the skin yielding under her nails like the throat of a vanquished foe. Juice, thick and dark purple, began to pool around her fingertips, dripping onto the silver platter with a soft plink. "That could be a wise choice." As she lifted it to her lips, biting in deeply, the sweetness burst across her tongue, causing her toes to curl against the cold stone floor.
"I contemplated, your intellect is remarkable, yet wars have ignited even with such strategies. They are too young to harm, the mothers will spread there lies about me."
As she consumed it. It was ridiculous, this body's craving for pleasure. As a prince, food had merely been sustenance, wine a way to dull the sharpness of restlessness. Now, the tartness of the plum made her eyelids flutter, the texture of its flesh sending an unexplainable shiver down her spine. She devoured it with the same ferocity she had once reserved for combat, relishing each bite as if it were a triumph.
"Hmm, see to their payment now, it poses a dilemma, years ahead, my illegitimate children are all infants anyway, not a threat at present, best to keep the mothers satisfied with money, a concern a decade from now, which won’t matter when the kingdoms are in ruins. I just need it resolved now, before powerful lords hear of my blunders."
“You are most gracious, my prince. I’m relieved that you find my advice serviceable.”
After stroking Aerion’s ego with pleasantries she decidedly devoured the ham sandwich. The thick butter blended together perfectly against smoked ham and wholegrain bread. With a pleased sigh she sliced apple pieces before eating one piece at a time. “If possible I’d prefer purple or violet themes and it would lift my spirit to leave room for an altar dedicated to the moon Goddess. I will of course dress according to your customs but I wouldn’t mind clothes with different colors.” Circe spoke with a matter of fact tone while pouring red liquid into a wineglass. A whiff of violets hit her nose before she slowly sipped from the glass. “Mm, what is this sweet nectar?” If this was a local wine she would make sure it would be imported to Aeae in the future.
After dipping her hands in a bowl with scented water she dried them with a small towel. “To the wall it is then.” Carefully she moved the pile of letters before looking around for papers and something to write with. The only thing she found was a wrinkly paper with butter stains. No reed pens in sight. “Hm. I will have to write down our official decisions later.” So far they had only discussed two issues and possible solutions that Aerion either approved or denied.
Since they were out of bed she left out most of the rebellious attitude that challenged authority. They were discussing politics after all and as a Tareryan heir Aerion had the final say in what had to be done. Circe’s status hinged on her own ability to solve problems. Keeping Aerion’s reputation safe meant her own life would be spared from hardships but there wasn’t much she could do if the princess herself didn’t put in more effort. A monark had to consider what would benefit not only their own needs but also the safety of their subjects. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake spread fear but also unrest. Hungry people with empty stomachs meant less effective workers and if unchecked their needs would eventually turn into anger. Anger was potent for war but it could also be wielded towards those in power. For a ruler to remain in power and stay alive they had to grasp this concept.
Loyalty simply died in places of festering unrest…
“Bastard sons are more likely to claim their birthright. However, taking away their ability to spawn children early on and guide them towards religious celibacy might be less costly in the long run. But do tell me, what do you prefer? A hot headed bastard who seeks alliance among half siblings for a coup or a castrated monk who is dedicated to worshiping some God?” Circe had heard about these practices in passing from political allies during trade meetings but she wasn’t intimately familiar with them. Hearing about castrated monks that swore celibacy left a strong enough impression to still be remembered. At the time it had been a strange curiosity from a foreign world. Now it was valuable knowledge that could potentially save Circe from squalor.
Her mouth curved ever so slightly as their gazes met. There was a curiosity and a hint of admiration within Aerion’s purple hues as Circe spoke of castrations without sugar coating her words. Instead she offered practical solutions and carefully explained the reasoning behind them. Never once did she shy away or fully agree with Aerion and every word was carefully chosen. In between advice she simmered in silence to give room for thoughts and responses. Circe smirked while picking up one of the letters about a bastard son. “I did fuck you in order to get this position but I am trying to earn this role fair and square. If what I say is valuable then I am doing something right.”
“I will see it done then, generous donations to your women and bastards in all secrecy. It is unlikely that they will speak openly of who fathered their children and those who break the silence will be seen as prostitutes if they are not already treated that way.” It was more likely that Aerion’s women were already struggling in life and had to sell their own bodies for survival. “If the children are as numerous as you say it will take time to compensate them all. I will need more information”
For someone who supposedly feared for her reputation it was rather careless to keep siring children everywhere without a system in place. Some regents only visited high end brothels. Others kept a few mistresses. In some countries it was common to own a large set of women with the intent of bringing up heirs. Aerion on the other hand slept with anybody who happened to be pretty without considering the consequences. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. “For future endeavours I suggest you only stick your dick into a few selected people. That way you will keep track of potential offsprings.”
She raised the porcelain cup to her lips, her fingers feeling strangely unfamiliar, long and tapered, the delicate bones shifting beneath skin untouched by the scars of old sword fights. The steam danced around her face as she breathed in the fragrance of jasmine, mingled with an elusive darker spice she couldn’t quite identify. The first sip seared her tongue, yet she embraced it. Pain was a familiar companion, even if the body experiencing it was foreign. Across the table, she watched the witch as she observed her with the stillness of a predator who had mastered the art of patience. The silence between them stretched, taut like a bowstring, until she placed the cup down with a clink that resonated in the lofty chamber.
“I am relishing this moment, and I owe it to you; you have granted me the opportunity to pursue new thrills.” She hummed. “Thrills and dangers.”
Her fingers slipped into the folds of her robe, retrieving a slender vial filled with murky liquid that shimmered in the torchlight like smoke caught in a jar. The contents swirled thickly as she removed the stopper, the scent, sharp and faintly metallic, making her wrinkle her nose. She paused, the vial hovering above her tea. A lifetime of arrogance clashed with this unwelcome vulnerability. Pregnant. The word soured in her mind like curdled milk. She, who had created a dozen bastards across the Seven Kingdoms, now confronted the grotesque irony of possibly carrying one herself. Her lips curled back in a silent snarl as she tilted the vial, watching the droplets disperse into the tea, transforming the amber liquid into the hue of tarnished gold.
"That man knows far too much now. Eliminate him. I’m not making a request; I’m giving you an order. Prove your loyalty. Send him to the pig pen or end his life. I don’t want him speaking. Make it happen. You are my maester, and you must obey my commands. Or do you long for the chains and cell again?"
In one swift motion, she emptied the cup in a single scorching gulp, her throat battling the bitterness. "Ugh, this tastes like becoming one of those whimpering peasants clutching a child at my gates." She slammed the cup down, the sound of porcelain striking oak underscoring the unspoken truth: the idea of a child growing within this borrowed womb made her stomach churn. Not from a fear of losing power, but from the raw, animalistic humiliation of it. Dragons did not reproduce like cattle; they scorched the earth and rose anew from the ashes.
"Buy their silence?"
As she selected another fig from the silver platter, allowing its sticky sweetness to explode between her teeth, her teeth, now smaller and sharper, snagging on the fruit’s flesh in a way that made her tongue curiously explore the roof of her mouth. She reclined in the intricately carved chair, one leg crossing over the other, the unfamiliar silk draping against her thighs both strange and intoxicating. The gesture was almost careless, yet her gaze remained fixed on Circe’s face. "You’re mistaken," she said, licking syrup from her thumb.
"I don’t purchase silence. I bury it. We ought to kill mother and child both, all of them."
As her toes curled against the cold stone floor, small, pale things now, no longer the calloused feet of a warrior-prince but the delicate arches of a highborn lady. The rhythm was unconscious: curl, release, curl again, as if her body sought to expel the restless energy coiling beneath her skin. She picked at a bunch of grapes, plucking one free with nails that glinted like polished ivory in the morning light. The fruit burst between her teeth, tart juice flooding her tongue, yet the taste barely registered.
This was a mess.
The words echoed in her skull, punctuated by the distant groan of Ser Jorah shifting in her bed. So many bastards. So many women left clutching babes with silver hair and violet eyes, each a potential dagger aimed at her back. She flicked a grape stem toward the hearth, watching it blacken and curl.
"Youthful exuberance, I was intoxicated, reckless, what can I say? I’ve brought forth at least a dozen of them, perhaps even more, each one my creation, and each one poses a threat as they mature."
She had acted unwisely, birthing so many illegitimate children, not out of concern for ethics or heritage, but because every wailing infant was a mark in a ledger of a debt she hadn’t realized she was incurring. The first had been entertaining, a fisherman's daughter from Driftmark, her belly swelling while a smirk lingered on her lips. The second, a Lysene courtesan who chuckled as she counted her coins, had been a practical choice. By the seventh, it had become a trend, and trends reveal weaknesses. Now, as she gazed at Circe across the breakfast table, she traced the edge of her goblet with a fingertip still sticky from fig pulp, pondering how many of those silver-haired offspring might be roaming the world.
"Settle their debts then, all of them, but ensure it cannot be traced back to me, pay them what they need. I have enough on my plate; this is quite serious. The king would be furious if he discovered just how many there are. Money is no issue, wise counsel indeed. You see, you possess a gift, more than one. Now eat, have a drink, enjoy some food, and let’s converse further. It has been far too long since I’ve had someone with wisdom speak to me like this; it is invigorating."
While sitting with official letters she noticed how relaxed and confident Aerion was in her new form. As if it was a great improvement. Albeit being a strange turn she wouldn’t put down the newly made princess for relishing in her new form. If anything this could be a valuable lesson about the various struggles of womanhood. Which hopefully would improve the lives of all women in the kingdom from now on. Besides, there would be less bastard children out there if she remained a princess. Though, considering the wild night of sex it wouldn’t be surprising if either of them ended up with a swelling stomach.
“You’re welcome, my princess.” Fingers lingered along cursive written lines as Aerion fished out a vial and poured gold liquid into the steaming teacup. Whatever it contained she had a feeling it contained poison to prevent pregnancies. Oh. The seeds must have been fruitful. It was probably why Circe’s spell didn’t take effect. If so Aerion would need some more time before returning to a prince form. At least until the poison had done what it was meant to do. Circe’s own stomach turned at the thought of her stomach swelling with life. To carry a bastard child.
Eyelashes fluttered as Circe listened to her request. “Who would believe him if he spoke out about what he had seen and done? Once you are back to normal there would be no evidence. Just hazy rumors of a sultry mistress.” Despite being threatened with imprisonment she remained calm and collected. She spoke with a certainty of someone who was used to cleaning up scandals. “Or perhaps. Perhaps we could frame him for rape? What is the punishment for that?” Though she wasn’t sure if being described as a survivor of rape would sit well with a Targeryan princess. Most people would find it shameful and humiliating.
There was a moment of silent contemplation as she watched Aerion’s outburst. A teacup being slammed against the table after it being emptied. Circe’s smile strained as she listened to the harsh judgement. Death to women as well as their bastard children. It was tactless and cruel considering that everyone Aerion impregnated probably obliged out of fear. None of these bastard children wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for her using the prince status to take advantage of young women and being much too reckless. Gradually the harsh attitude softened and turned into careful contemplation. Something about Circe’s advice must have struck a cord with the princess. She even acknowledged who was truly at fault for bringing bastards to the world.
“I will consult the books to see how much to compensate your women. As a start I will have to gather how many there are.” According to Aeae laws the compensation would only go so far as to feed bastard children until they reached fifteen. What happened afterwards would no longer be of concern to nobility unless there was a claim for the crown. “If I may speak freely. I think there is a solution to prevent your grown children from becoming a threat.” Circe hesitated before meeting Aerion’s gaze. “Castrate the sons and send them away to become priests. Alternatively, have them go to the wall.” Hopefully it would be practically enough to meet Aerion’s standard in regards to ruling a kingdom. The other matters had to be carefully considered once she learned how to take on this role. For now she would take this as a successful start and celebrate by gulping warm tea and preparing a ham sandwich.
@fallesto
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She watched Circe settle into the chair across from her with the predatory stillness of a dragon observing prey, except the hunger in her gaze had nothing to do with violence now. The witch moved like smoke given form, all calculated grace, her new Targaryen silks whispering against her thighs. Aerion’s fingers tightened around her goblet. The sight of Circe in those colors, her colors, should have been blasphemy. Instead, it coiled heat low in her belly.
“Good morning to you as well.”
As she chuckled at her words, swirling the wine in her goblet lazily. Was his cock enough to satisfy you? Indeed not, but it had been enjoyable in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The memory of Ser Jorah’s calloused hands gripping her hips, the way his breath had hitched when she’d dug her nails into his shoulders, it lingered like the ghost of a flame against her skin. "You overestimate mortal stamina, witch," she murmured, tracing the rim of the goblet with a fingertip.
"But then, you always did enjoy watching men fail to measure up."
She had spent a lifetime believing himself untouchable, fire made flesh, a prince of ash and arrogance, until Circe’s magic had reshaped him into something softer, stranger. And gods, it was maddening. Not because she missed the weight of her cock, the way men had trembled beneath her, but because she hadn’t realized how dull her old body had been. Now, every brush of silk against her nipples sent sparks down her spine. The morning chill pebbled her skin in ways she’d never noticed before. Even the ache between her thighs was different, deeper, lingering, as if her body was still remembering Ser Jorah’s hands hours later.
As she lifted the goblet to her lips, letting the wine pool in her mouth before swallowing, slowly, savoring the way the taste lingered now, richer somehow. The flavors unfurled across her tongue in ways they never had before: the bite of the Dornish vintage, the smoky undertones, the hint of something almost sweet beneath the tannins. She exhaled through her nose, the scent mingling with the memory of last night’s sweat and sex still clinging to her skin. The wine tasted like victory, like surrender, like something she couldn’t name.
“Yes, I have news.” As around the table where many letters, a great many with the seal of the king on it, her father, and of course, she had been banished once more, war crimes, murders, blackmail, fruad, the list was endless, well Aerion had been banished, this power, magic, this witch provides opportunity indeed, as she had no desire to leave Dragonstone, a good story, Aerion departs, back to the foreign lands, and no one would be wise. “I am making you my maester.” As she would slide the document towards her, signed and her seal marking it, gifting her a reward, like she said, those who work with her, will know greatness, those who work against her, will suffer.
“My last maester was a fool, a liar and a fraud, I had him burned alive for failing me, but last night, everything you said was the truth, everything you did, surpassed everyone else, I deserve someone at my side like you, to advise me on matters, several being …” As she nudged her head to the sleeping man in her bed. “He needs to disappear.” As she looked at the letters. “And I am to be banished again, for crimes, by my father, a foolish old man, who worries for me, along with claims of war crimes, murders and women claiming they carry my children, I need your aid, to fix these messes.”
Circe's gaze was locked onto Aerion while her stomach grumbled with hunger. It had been some time since she had eaten anything. During the travel there had been very little to sustain her. What was offered had either mold or insects slithering around and the water tasted like wet dirt. Not only did Aerion's men feed her scraps, they kept leering while making crude jokes about taming a wild cat. Worst of all was Circe’s rapist who described her tight pussy dripping like a flood. These shameful tactics were meant to break Circe's spirit before handing her over as a prisoner of war. But rather than feeling shame she was fuming with anger.
"Oh, I do believe you are enjoying the afterglow at least." She teased while eyeing the feast of fruits, bread and salted meat. Tempted to pick something up for herself. But doing so felt dangerous. It was one thing to sit down as equals but taking food from his table was one step too far. Dragons rarely shared what belonged to them and Aerion had not established what was allowed or expected. “I am mortal as well.” Circe pointed out while looking directly at the princess again with furrowed eyebrows. Being a moon priestess didn’t automatically
grant immortality. Though there was a legend of women who conquered death as well. “Men never keep up. They lose steam faster. They are rarely in tune with the natural order of things and compared to women they have a lower threshold for pain.”
There was a gradual shift as she put down her hands to rest onto the table’s surface. A maester? That was quite an offer considering she recently was taken from her country and given away to become Aerion’s property like some bar maid. Yesterday’s seduction and spell casting had been surprisingly fruitful and if Circe played the game correctly she could reclaim what was rightfully hers. As a foreigner there were a ton of laws, customs and royal etiquettes to learn before giving advice that would benefit Aerion. Otherwise she would be burned on the pyre like the former maester who didn’t hold up scrutiny. While listening to the princess she rubbed her fingers together. Giving advice or making decisions without preparations felt rushed. Circe had not even opened a law book yet or studied bloodlines.
Either way she reached for the letters while considering her words carefully. “I know next to nothing about your bed warmer but wouldn’t it be easiest to send him away? Maybe whale hunting? I’ve heard the winters up north are bone chilling.” It wasn’t an execution but there was an overarching danger that lingered with death. “If he survives you can always send him somewhere else.” While speaking she took the pile of letters and opened one.
After skimming through it with a hum she opened two other letters. A farmer girl who had taken a job as a seamstress had allegedly been taken to bed by Aerion. She recently gave birth to a son and lost her job. Another woman who worked as a baker had delivered sponge cake before being taken to bed. Nine months later she gave birth to a daughter. Then there was a handmaid of Aerion who was told to share a bath. Afterwards she was fired and had to raise a new born daughter on her own. Five other letters had similar stories of young women being taken advantage of while doing their jobs. Each one went through hardships while trying to care for children that belonged to Aerion. But forcing the princess to take them in as heirs or bastards would never be approved. She couldn’t imagine the princess raising them.
There had to be a better solution…
“Why not buy the silence of your women?” Circe slowly looked at Aerion while giving back the letters she skimmed through. “Some women whore themselves to take care of their families and when their bodies start to swell they know what will happen next. They will have another mouth to feed very soon.” She leaned forward and pointed at each letter before staring Aerion down. “You don’t have to acknowledge them as heirs, you simply send them money as support for some time. A woman who warms you successfully has earned some compensation while society condemns her for being a whore.”
@fallesto
sushi is delivered to her damn door . expensive sushi .
Circe opened the door to get a package of sushi. At first she thought it came from Carmilla and was ready to throw it in the trash. Then she felt the scent of Astarion's hair mousse onto the receit. She frowned and stepped towards the trashcan. With one step with her foot it opened up. Fingers dug into the package. But instead of dropping it she sat down on and opened the package.
"My friends cant expect me to quit both at the same time. I'm trying to quit one thing since it's affecting me badly and I can put others in danger..."
"But it's really difficult and I keep messing up..."
Nunnally didn't understand. In fact, where she came from, saying something like that would likely have earned someone (her) a slap. It was a reminder of how different their backgrounds were. Yet, although her first instinct was to scold Circe, she held her tongue.
Circe wasn't sure what would happen once she spoke with sincerity about the struggles of being sober. A heavy silence lay between them until Nunnally carefully asked if she wanted help. "I want to be sober." Talking about sobriety made her grab the fruit bowl. "I'm just, scared of who I will become..."
"Being sober and sugar-free isn't exactly a terrible thing, especially in your situation. If you're reacting this strongly to it, perhaps you're not seeing things entirely clearly right now. Maybe they're just trying to help you."
"My friends cant expect me to quit both at the same time. I'm trying to quit one thing since it's affecting me badly and I can put others in danger..."
"But it's really difficult and I keep messing up..."
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Dawn seeped through the chamber’s high windows like spilled wine, staining the sheets amber where Aerion lay sprawled, one arm flung over her face. Her body remembered every hour of the night, the ache between her thighs, the bruises blooming along her hips where Ser Jorah’s fingers had pressed too hard, the pleasant sting of teeth marks on her collarbone. She stretched, silk sliding from her skin, and hissed as muscles, new muscles, unfamiliar in their softness, protested the movement. The room smelled of sweat and sex and the lingering pine-smoke of Dragonstone’s torches.
Her reflection in the polished bronze mirror across the chamber caught her eye. Wild silver hair tangled around shoulders that were no longer broad, but sloping. Breasts rose and fell with each breath, the nipples still peaked from last night’s attention.
Aerion touched one experimentally, watching the mirror as her fingers traced the sensitive flesh. A sharp inhale. Interesting. She’d spent years reducing women to their bodies, yet she’d never considered how it might feel to inhabit one. Aerion rose from the bed with the grace of a storm-tossed ship, her legs trembling beneath her like newborn foal limbs. The silk robe, his robe, still smelling of sandalwood and arrogance, draped over her shoulders like a surrendered banner, the sleeves swallowing her slender wrists whole. She didn’t bother cinching the belt.
Let it gape. Let the morning air lick the sweat from her collarbones, the bite marks, the places where Ser Jorah’s stubble had scraped her raw. Her toes curled into the bear pelt rug, the coarse fur tickling arches that had never known such delicacy. Every step sent a throb between her thighs, a delicious ache that made her lips twitch.
Gods. She’d fucked before, conquests, transactions, bored distractions, but never like this. Never with hips that rolled of their own accord, never with a body that wept for touch. She dragged a hand through her tangled hair, silver strands catching on callouses not yet softened, and laughed, a low, smoky sound that startled even her. The mirror across the chamber showed a stranger: a woman with her smirk, her scars, but none of her edges.
As she made her way to her table and sat down. The wine tasted like ashes. Aerion stared into the goblet, watching the blood-dark liquid swirl as she tilted it, her fingers, longer, more delicate now, clasping the stem with deliberate slowness. Last night had been... enjoyable was too small a word for the inferno that had consumed her. She’d expected disgust, rage at the theft of her body. Instead, she’d found herself arching into Ser Jorah’s touch like a starving thing, chasing pleasure with a desperation that should have shamed her. It didn’t.
A plate of honeyed figs sat untouched beside her, their sweetness cloying in the morning air. She plucked one, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, watching the way her new fingers moved, lighter, more precise. The fig burst beneath her grip, sticky syrup oozing over her palm. She licked it clean, slow, savoring the way her tongue, smaller now, sharper, caught every drop. Strange, to relish such mundane sensations. Stranger still to realise she’d never truly tasted before. As she heard the chamber door knock.
“Enter.” She knew it would be Circe, as Ser Jorah slept on the bed, passed out, she had meant to kill him, alas she had fallen alseep before she did the deed, as she ate her breakfast and sipped on her wine as she waited for the witch to enter and sit with her to discuss everything, and the fact that she needed Ser Jorah dealt with, another task for Circe to prove herself.
Not a word was uttered as handmaids flurried inside to undress Circe with nimble fingers. Some of them came with towels as well as soaps. Other items were neatly laid out. The fire was brought back to life with a burning hunger. Once naked she stepped into the bathtub. Slowly she sank to sit down to have her hair rubbed with egg whites, ashes, herbs and flowers. It stung upon Circe’s body when salt water poured into open wounds. Every inch was thoroughly cleansed with soap drenched rugs. From armpits to the butt until her skin became glistening wet and free of Aerion’s seeds. After being doused with water she was combed and dressed according to Targeryan custom.
When touching the fabric she started to realize it was of high quality material. A seamstress had spent hours of work perfecting elegant stitches and intricate embroideries.
Which probably meant that Aerion offered clothes only high born people could afford. Becoming his mistress didn’t require such a wardrobe, though Circe had no understanding of what these kinds of clothes signified in his culture. It could very well be clothing meant for a high ranking religious prostitute. Being dressed this way piqued her curiosity of what Aerion’s intentions could be and what was expected of her beyond transforming him into a dragon
Circe stepped inside Aerion’s chamber with her head high. Hands loosely locked together and resting against her stomach. Slowly she stepped towards the table with cautious steps while smelling a heavy stench of sweat and sex. It must have been a hectic night as Circe noticed how underdressed the princess was and how closely her hair resembled a bird nest. Not to mention a mosaic of new love bites scattered around Aerion’s throat. Without waiting for approval she sat down so they could face each other properly. Elbows down at the table’s surface.
Circe’s head tilted to the side and leaned against her hand. Eyelids moved slowly as their gazes met. “You do seem energized by your experience but did you have fun, my princess?” Lips curved upwards while Circe wondered how long it would take before the princess turned back to her original form. As much fun as it was to have a Targeryan princess it would draw attention if the prince never returned. “Was his cock enough to satisfy you?” Dragon blood, according to legend, was filled with an insatiable hunger to possess, conquer and marinade in pleasure. Few humans could keep up with such needs. It draws men as well as women insane. Most turned into ash when being tested by flames while those who could handle it were destined to shed skin and soar the sky.
@fallesto
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It would seem that Aeron’s mistress had no intent to engage. Echo’s words were met with complete silence. The reindeer meat offered in good faith was denied for some reason despite how much she resembled a ghostly figure who would fade away by sunrise. Perhaps it would have been better to offer something else if salted meat wasn’t satisfying. Though, after some reflection she did wonder if the silent treatment might be the result of something beyond food habits.
Fingers kept digging into open palm wounds as snickering whispers buzzed heavily. Shoulders and legs tensed up. Ringlets of white hair dangled as she tilted her head to one side. “Is it what?” Echo had no idea what it meant or if there was a context to be aware of. At this point she wasn’t in the mood to deal with cryptic discussions. Though it didn’t take long until she was given another response. “It's true, so very true.” Hands travelled to cover her ears. Eyebrows furrowed as nails dug into skin. “Chaos, there’s so much chaos and blood.” When speaking she closed her eyes and tried to calm the aggressive hissing noises. Trying to shut them out would only turn them into even louder insults in a neverending loop.
“But I don't want Aerion’s women to be treated harshly.” Lips trembled as she breathed loudly. Eyes slowly opened to meet her gaze. Both hands sank slowly. Seeing women covered in purple bruises being dragged around caused Echo’s stomach to turn and the voices to viciously bite into her mind. “Dont take me for a fool, I know him well enough to fear for you.” Since their engagement started she had seen how Aerion slaughtered animals as well as men without remorse. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if the violence caused death to any of his mistresses or if he hid skeletons of former lovers somewhere.
“Then it is time for an introduction. I am princess Echo of house Malos, daughter of queen Circe. What shall I call you?” Fingers trembled as she ripped dress fabric to bind her own wounds. “Who cares about titles and etiquettes? Since I will be carrying the Targaryen name very soon it is my duty to care for anyone who wanders the halls. Which includes you as well.”
“Are you feeling unwell, My Lady?” – Nunnally asked, steadying her voice and, by some small miracle, succeeding. Inside, however, fear coiled tightly. What if she were accused of harming Aerion’s fiancée? What if they called her a witch and treated her accordingly? She was the prince’s favourite plaything, yes, and that offered some protection, but the court would still demand punishment if they decided she had overstepped.
“Shall I call a maester?” – she cast Lady Echo a questioning look. The gesture, the intent; Nunnally understood neither. What was the other woman trying to achieve?
“Chaos, My Lady?” – was she some kind of oracle? Someone who could see the future? Nunnally had heard of such people, but never believed in them – “I think you should perhaps—” – lie down. She tried to rise and assist the lady, but the prince had been especially rough with her that night, and the sudden movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through her. It didn’t matter. Not now. Nunnally was used to pain; by now she knew how to endure it, how to bury it, how to ready herself for whatever the next night might bring if the prince required her again.
“You should not trouble yourself with that.” – she added quickly, though her blue eyes widened at her own words and at the implications behind them. What did his lady even hope to achieve? Even as she offered an explanation, it was the sort of claim that was difficult to accept. And yet it still stung. She knew him, Lady Echo had said. No!; she didn’t. Not yet. Perhaps she would in time… And yes, she was to be called his wife, but knowing the prince, Nunnally doubted that title would truly grant her protection.
“My name is…Nunnally…” – she hesitated, then dipped into a careful curtsy, surprisingly steady despite everything. Aerion had trained her well – “But My Lady may call me whatever she wishes.” – a faint, uncertain smile touched her lips – “And you are mistaken, My Lady. I am not his mistress. I am not worthy of such a title. I am not high-born.”
"Shh, nn. Stop growling." Echo mumbled while fighting for breath. There was an overwhelming pressure around the throat and a heaviness in her chest. Lips trembled. Eyebrows knit together tightly as a choir of insults rose before falling into aggressive growls. Once they started it was hard to make them stop. They would keep attacking until she managed to think of something fun or pleasant. But getting there was really difficult. Each voice spoke of things she thought about herself or what others might feel about her. How Echo mumbled to herself about complete nonsense mid conversation. When she burst into fits of rage and attacked people. That public events weren't meant for mad princesses as it would cause snickers and jeering. Instead she had to be locked up in a tower.
"No, no. It's. It's just so loud in my head." Perhaps it was a mistake to come here. As if the mad princess could help anyone when she barely knew how to care for herself. "No. No maester. No maester. I don't need one!" It wasn't Echo's intention to speak loudly but hearing that word caused a break out of cold sweat and tension in her shoulders. A maester would only poke around with pins, cover her in leeches or concoct strange medicines that brought nausea. Thinking about all these things made the voices unbearable. They caused searing pain reminiscent of ice water to the scalp.
“I simply can’t stand by when he uses you as a punching bag.” Echo’s eyes were unfocused as she made slow and steady breaths while binding her bleeding hands. There were signs of practice with every seamless motion. Coming here might have been a mistake after all. Aerion’s cruelty knew no limits as he mistreated servants as well as mistresses. Some even lost their heads or were torn apart by dogs and saving one of his women from torture would be as impossible as catching a star.
“Nunnally.” It was repeated in a sing-songy voice while trying to figure out if it had any familiarity to it. But she couldn’t recall if it was mentioned in any of the scrolls in Aerion’s collection. Some mistresses belonged to well known families and owned lands. It was common for them to attempt social climbing and gaining favors by bedding rich men. “High born or not, you are Aerion’s favored woman. Yet he treats you like this.” Echo slowly met Nunnally’s gaze while drying away blood from her fingers. “I guess he is a little bit entertained when I talk about the voices but he only picked me as his future wife because my mother prepared a large dowry and approved an alliance between our countries. You, Nunnally, has his full attention.”
@fallesto
"What were you doing in our bathroom? Well, apart from singing karaoke...?" for Circe obviously!
"I was out partying and spilled whiskey on my dress. So I was going to wash it. Then I was urged to sing when I noticed how great the aquustics is." Circe was still holding the brush and danced around.
@lured-into-wonderland
