#justlycrowned

❛ forgive me, sir. i didn't mean to eavesdrop. ❜ the young lord standing alongside the fireplace, half a world away from the rest of the room's occupants, finally speaks up. breath was better spent nursing the glass of wine in hand than trying to insert himself into a conversation, the likes of which his uncle would only chase him back out of. but this man too seems to have been cut off; and the laughter erupts once more. heaven only knows what for. the corner he finds himself in is not so desolate as to be wholly out of the conversation, however. hans can hear perfectly well from here. but a show of manners felt a better introduction, if anything.

a glance cuts across the room towards his uncle, howling his boorish laughter across his second course. just so long as he wasn't looking — and he'd give hans as little attention as he could rightly manage. expression steeled, he turns his attention back to the stranger. ❛ but if it's assistance you're seeking, i'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. ❜ a slow sip from his cup and his eyes casting down, it's like he's ashamed to admit as such. not that capon could offer anything other than commiseration in the shadow of unruly lords and corrupt kings. fertile lands were better primed for the taking than for harvest it would seem. he looks back at the man, far more sheepish now than the guile that led him to his previous statement and the wine sitting sour on his tongue. he can't help but drop his gaze once more, this time into the cup, once again plagued by his uselessness.

❛ ... i'm sorry. ❜

And...well, it could be easy to believe it, Hal discovered, as the prince grabbed the sword he had bowed at his waist to eagerly present. Even here, it would seem difficult to eye him, too gargantuan in his atmosphere as to risk a sunburn. He'd surely blind him, he thought dumbly, as those eyes that pitch of irises ran along the silver. And Henry had seen him proudly, caught him with his steed with a quiet sort of power, and he had sampled his splendors. He had seen lush verdants and jewel-y reliquaries. So, to earn the favor of a man so great? Just duty. And more than even that, a nerve-wracking pleasure.

Henry glowed. That quiet approval sprung gardens in his belly.

Eyes up, son. I'm thinking you've still work before you yet.

"Sir?"

Henry rightened himself a smidge more. The hour darkened. Inside him, the long travels of the day were beginning to wear. However, Henry felt bolder all the same, his gaze falling upon a chest so beautiful in its making as to scold his want to stare. Here, the prince pried it right open, a dagger sat inside it so handsomely ceremonial. Henry, too, felt it criminal to stare right upon it, but suddenly, gaze flickering, he was staring at him.

He didn't burn up. That's good. But the words he'd speak next might have nipped his ears.

@justlycrowned

Send me a [X] to see my muses favorite picture of your muse

Home is longer than distant, the Orstunian ranges long eclipsed by the horizon. Months traveled on horse and by foot, by boat for a time; paltry were the weight of her steps in the duty of service it seemed, carrying the missive of her Keep in a script she could not decipher.

From the black lakes and forested shores of Marquinia to this distant land - perhaps the only strangeness was in how eerily similar these shores felt to home. Cliffs of blackened stone, whittled sharp by the rage of white frothing waves, a forgotten sun shielded by endless grey skies, swathes of verdant wind-whipped grasses that soaked to her thighs as she trudged through it all, weary of riding her steed.

The gales tangled her long mystic hair, that tattered edge of an ancient, stubborn flag. Garbed in layers of Marquinic clothes, a long black waxed canvas coat stained from the journey balanced upon her muscled shoulders, ornately decorated by a pooled collection of crystallic mist from the endless dreary rain.

𝔈𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤 & 𝔔𝔲𝔢𝔢𝔫.

@justlycrowned asked: to make my muse whimper - to aegon if you vibe

The   room   is   dimly   lit,   already   late   in   the   hours   of   the   night,   nothing   can   be   heard   outside   the   King's   chambers,   and   the   invitation   had   been   sent   for   the   other   to   join   him.   No   guard   was   send   but   it   was   Rhaenys   who   was   sent.   She   would   not   judge   him,   and   perhaps   she   was   hiding   away   now   in   their   secret   walls   to   witness   the   two   Kings   enjoy   themselves   in   the   pleasures   of   the   flesh.   Tristan's   lips   are   tempting   and   it's   the   first   thing   Aegon   touches,   first   with   his   fingers   and   then   with   his   mouth,   his   tongue   darting   forward   to   press   against   lips   and   part   them   away.  

The   bed   is   right   before   them   but   he   seems   to   have   forgotten,   as   bodies   collide   to   the   wall   behind   them   and   bodies   press   together,   one   leg   lodged   between   the   Griffin's   ones   and   grinds   upward,   feeling   them   both   through   thick   clothes.   The   most   delightful   torture,   he   thinks,   as   his   groan   is   joined   by   a   whimper.   Was   it   he   or   the   other?   He   is   not   sure,   but   alas,   it   makes   him   break   the   kiss   and   breathlessly   speak.   "Eagerness   would   see   this   night   end   too   soon,   dear   friend.   But   Gods   know   that   is   what   I   desire."

@justlycrowned asked: [worship.] sender worships receiver's body / chest / thighs / arms / back with touch, kisses, and praise.

She   is   no   stranger   to   a   lover's   touch.   She   had   stopped   being   a   maid   a   long   time   ago   by   now.   In   the   Reach,   they   are   proud   of   how   much   they   take   pleasure   in   the   knowings   of   one's   body   and   others',   the   exploration   of   love   and   desire.   It   is   guarded   under   traditions   and   close   doors,   but   they   all   know.   The   art   of   seduction   some   call   it,   but   it   hardly   feels   as   a   seduction   when   she   is   the   one   being   worshipped   and   touched   upon,   fire   upon   her   skin   at   every   touch   of   expert   hands   teasing   her.   Barely   touching   and   yet,   making   her   squirm   under   his   touch,   breathless   pleasure   laugh   escape   her   lips   and   she   is   carefu   lto   be   quiet,   for   anyone   could   hear   and   Margaery   learned   she   can   be   loud   when   she   is   in   the   moment,   as   she   is   now.  

her pen stopped for nothing, not even a prince. many a thing to be plotted, ordered, and taken care of: there were scarcely enough hours in the day to achieve what was required. and yet at the same time, the days seemed to drag on with no end in sight. as a result, exhaustion and stubbornness clashed with each other near constantly, with the intensity of the situation making it impossible to be at ease, even for only a moment.

" there is no such thing as a good rest during wartime. nor is time to be wasted on something so useless; i shall sleep when i am dead. " dry remarks as a response, putting pen aside to fold her letter and pour wax upon it, before pressing down her personal seal. telling image of fox and lily of the valley cast in wax gleamed upon the paper. one day, it would no longer be used and perhaps never be seen again if people were clever and destroyed whatever the fox wrote to them. it could very well be soon. who was to know when embroiled in a conflict of this scale?

it would not matter. not as long as the end result was that cruel bastard stumbling from his throne, defeated and robbed of his crown.