#letsdoscmethingwicked

𓂅⠀ ⠀ @letsdoscmethingwicked ⠀ asked ⠀ ❛ may i have the honour of wearing your favour today, my lady? ﹙ for his kingsguard verse ﹚ ⠀ .

NAERYS IS NOT, BY TEMPERAMENT, A WOMAN WHO FINDS PLEASURE IN THE MISERY OF OTHERS. it’s never been in her nature, and she’s never wished it otherwise. yet, there’s something almost satisfying about the way her cousin’s gaze finds her from across the gallery, sharp and poorly hidden. it’s wrong, she knows. her septa would say so. the mother would think so.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ as she looks back at the man who has occasioned it, however, she finds she cannot fault her cousin the envy. they are the most honourable men in the realm, THE KINGSGUARD — and, consequently, the most coveted.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ still, ❝ do you mean to comfort me, ser? ❞ is what she asks him, even as she unwinds the ribbon from her wrist. he would have heard of it, she imagines — most had, by now, and those who hadn’t need only look, as her husband is ever proud to flaunt the favour of the women he beds. ❝ the king did say you were kind ( . . . ) ❞ she says, more to herself than to him, and smiles. ❝ the pink may not lend itself to a particularly knightly appearance, but it may yet serve you in securing a win. ❞ she offers it to him then, the silk laid across her fingers.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　SPICY SPECIAL // ACCEPTING

just past 12 am . the witching hour . the only 24/7 library open on campus and nathaniel’s usual abode during late hours in the term . as he pours over a boring graph for a boring , meaningless class , his phone buzzes . there are not many here that have his number , much less that he has notifications on for . he sees that it is a message from professor targrayen . a soft frown furrows his brows ; he could not imagine what the professor might text him so late for . but , just as with all messages or comments from the man , nathaniel gets a bloom of excitement in his chest , and rushes to open it .

AND STOPS . heat floods his cheeks , his hand , holding the phone , shaking . on screen is --- is ... in low lighting , it is what nathaniel supposes one would call a mirror - selfie . he notes absently that the mirror is very clear , a testament of professor targaryen's cleanliness , but it is what he sees in it . . . a smooth expanse of muscled chest and arms , smattered attractively with grey and dark hairs , a tense stomach , clearly posed , and below --- below . NATHANIEL SLAMS THE PHONE TO THE DESK , taking a deep breath , alarms ringing through his mind . an accident , simply an accident --- but the realisation that it is an accident rears its ugly head of jealousy . he takes a couple of deep breaths . he picks the phone up again . he types .

[ FROM : NATHANIEL, TO : PROF. TARG. GRK&RMN HIST. ]

Good evening, professor . I am assuming this was meant for your. . . wife ? I highly apologise for opening it , i had been sleepless in the library . rest assured i did not look nor will i remember it . i wish you a good sleep . kind regards , nathaniel underwood .

" you are not. you are not ! " her hands are shaking, and there is blood ! so much of it, dark and viscous and sticky and horrible, that clings to her skirts, that dye her palms red, as if she'd eaten from a rotted pomegrante.

while jena is begging, while her tears are hot and bitter and make tracks down fair skin, it is obvious to her that he is telling the truth. baelor is here, breathing, but not for long. how much time do they have ? seconds ? minutes ? she breathes with him : in, and out, as if she could replace, desperately, the air from his lungs with the strength of her own breath. it is useless. his is ragged, and torn from his body, each inhale a fight ! and her own is shaking, trembling, terrified and catching in her throat with something between a sob and a wail of a terrified, broken creature.

" my love. " she whispers, and while her hands are bloodied, she does not care. palm to his cheek, as if to will life back into him. " my love, please. do not leave me here. the gods do not deserve you. " jena has never been religious, but this is when she prays : when her back is against the wall. but what god would listen to the woman that calls to them only in times of tragedy ? do they not require devotion, always ? the septons say forgiveness is a virtue, but jena will never forgive them -- the warrior, mother, stranger -- the whole lot of them, if they tear baelor away from her now.

she can feel the maester move at her side, masterfully working with all of his tinctures and strips of cloth. he whispers to an attendant at his side of stitches, of the need for possible cauterizing ; but these are words that jena does not understand. what she does understand is the look of fear in baelor's eyes, and the pit in her stomach. she understands the splattering of blood on each exhale, covering her husband's lips. she feels a twist in her gut. later, that twist would turn to the signs of another babe, but for now, it is a feeling. it is a feeling that jena pushes far down within her, to place a kiss, salty and warm and wet to his forehead. " . . . i am listening, darling. i hear you. "

♢      —        send  [ THEY’RE A 10 BUT … ]  and finish it in my muse’s inbox.

@letsdoscmethingwicked asked ; [ feed ] // drunk!baelor feeding lyonel grapes during a feast

𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖊𝐲𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖊. one that seems softer and yet more knowing of him than should likely be admitted to. at least not here , anyway , a feast called for prince baelor's nameday where all other eyes are on him. lyonel sits to his left , as he has on many an evening before , and as the celebration carries on he notices a slightly more drunken sway to him than usual. so , his own urge to reach for his cup and drink deep is somewhat stalled. one of them has to remain a shade more sensible , and his dragon has every right to throw that idea to the wind if he wishes on his nameday.

though , when that shimmer in his mismatched stare turns seeking is when he becomes cautious. just by virtue of a look can the dragon heir call to him , speak to his heart and fond memories of his hands against hot , bare skin , all without a word. that he must then brush off with a humming , if prudent laugh. acknowledging and yet he does not take the bait. dark gaze swivels around the hall full of friends , foes , and family , and back to baelor as if to remind him of exactly where they are. seems to work for a moment or two , and yet what a false sense of security that is.

the first grape seems such an absurdity that he'll allow it. everyone is drinking , laughing , a little raucous for why ever not. ridiculous visions of the crown prince feeding the nearest man grapes. the taste is sweet and it turns his face a shade of scarlet that he might yet be able to get away with. the stag's laugh is snorted and ugly as he sinks back into his chair , while it still endears. but the prince seems only to take such as an encouragement and when he takes up another , lyonel can feel stares begin to gather. ones that force him to sit up straight , to offset his love's hand with a gentle grip at his sleeve.

' what is he doing ...? ' a shake of his head , as if to tell the others to pay this no mind , a roll of his eyes at these antics by baelor the beloved. though , stare is stark and warning as lyonel turns toward him as if to ward off his unruly behaviour. can feel the eyes of king daeron following them with an impatience that he can only consider justified. it's just more often that it is levelled at him , always so terribly behaved. a turn of the tables it certainly is , and it's what forces his hand.

@letsdoscmethingwicked asked : “ she  is  with  child,  but  remains  unmarried.  a  scandal! ”

such   whispers   follow   the   dispossessed   w’nzaian   princess   wherever   she   might   go   .  she  is  a   strong   woman  who  takes  it  in  stride  ,  those  who  gossip  quickly  finding  her  golden  gaze  ,   predatory   and   severe   ,  fixed  upon  them  as  if  merely  looking  at  them  would  strike  them  dead.  it  certainly  gets  them   quiet   ,  but  amala  knows  better  than  to  believe  their  silence  will  persist.  as  soon  as  she  is  far  from  earshot  ,  she  will  once  again  become  the  subject  of  their  chatter.   such   is   the   fate   of   she   who   warms   baelor   targaryen’s   bed   .

but  she  is  more  than  a  mere  bedmate  ,  or  so  he  claims.  for  her  part  ,  she  would  not  still  carry  their  child  were  her  intentions  purely  physical.   will   this   child   secure   the   positions   she   and   her   sweet   sister   hold   at   his   court   ??   certainly  ,  and  as  should  anyone  expect  of  a  woman  wise  in  the  way  of  the  world  —  a  world  which  is  so  often  against  her  —  this  factors  heavily  into  her  decision.  but  ,  perhaps  more  prominently  ,  it  is  the  fact  that  the  prince  had  worked  his  way  into  her  heart.  it  is  no  easy  feat  ,  scaling  those  impenetrable  walls  which  shield  her  softness  ,  yet  he  had  done  so   with   seemingly   little   effort   .  more  than  anything  ,  it  is  deserving  of  respect  ,  and  how  could  she  ignore  how  she  too  yearns  for  his  companionship  ?

perhaps  that  is  why  such  words  do  wound  her  ,  though  she  never  shows  it.

upon  entering  baelor’s  chambers  ,  the  courtesan’s  hand  cups  her  swelling  belly  with  a  short  sigh.   there   he   is   ,  working  hard  at  his  desk  as  always  ,  sorting  through  missives  and  law  books  and  all  the  other  things  a  man  of  his  station  need  consult.  she  circles  ‘round  his  chair  ,  plush  ,  pink  lips  pressing  to  his  temple.  ❛  might you  spare  some  time  to  accompany  me  on  my  afternoon  stroll  , my lord ?  ❜  words  are  spoken  into  his  ear  ,  the  voice  which  carries  them   breathy   ,   seductive   .  ❛  i  think  the  babe  wishes  for  time  with  their  father ,   as   do   i   .  ❜ 

and  ,  perhaps  his  presence  would  halt  the   vicious   talk   for  the  moment.

'is it always like this?' that lord ashford would stage a tourney to ensure that all the realm knew of his daughter's thirteenth nameday was not so momentous a surprise for what parent did not wish to hang the stars themselves for their offspring? it was the reaction of the tourney's attendees that had taken the young woman by such surprise for their sheer number and the fierce enthusiasm with which they crowded and fluttered about was both captivating and unnerving. she found herself wishing that she could view herself the way and those around her through the eyes of the tourney's spectators. what did they see when they looked at the finely-clad members of house targaryen?

The knights take on the duties of shadows with pride. // from kingsguardverse!baelor // @letsdoscmethingwicked

❛ how romantic of you, azantyssy. ❜ Sovanaelyra murmurs it into the curve of her knuckles, her chin propped there as if the weight of her own head bores her. White hair spills wild around her crown, tight curls clinging to her brow in soft, deliberate disarray. She looks every inch the picture of idle beauty, though nothing in her is ever truly idle. Her nails, sharpened like talons, rest against the flute of her chalice. She leans back in her seat, languid, and lets her gaze travel over the knight in a slow, cutting sweep. Lavender eyes, bright and merciless, take him apart piece by piece.

❛ does your liege lord know you wait on your knees in the dark, barking ? ❜ Her tone is light. Amused. It only makes the words bite deeper. ❛ you circle your enclosure once, twice, and wait for him to command you to heel for his amusement. tell me, have you decided whether you’ll balance something on your nose as well? or do you draw the line at parlor tricks performed in the dark? ❜ A faint smile touches her mouth, thin and cruel, meant more for herself than for him. Around them, the feast hums with chatter, a restless flock pecking at wine and spectacle. He has made himself loud enough to be noticed. Loud enough to be made sport of.

So she obliges.

❛ a knight on his knees is more predictable than an abbess before the iconography of your gods. ❜ Her head tilts, just slightly, studying him anew, as if the answer might be written somewhere on his person.

❛ which of these lords holds your leash, then? ❜ There is no illusion in her. No belief that it is the crown that owns him. Her gaze flicks, briefly, to the gathered nobility, to their silks and titles and fragile importance, before returning to him with sharpened interest. ❛ tell me which princeling you’ve given your sword to, so I know where your loyalty truly kneels. ❜