𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 other ladies speak about it with clear excitement the more alicent feels a tightness in her throat. what was wrong with her that she did not delight in the prospect of finding a husband, of having children, nor the life everyone of her status seem to look forward to ? it clouded her mind, it made her retreat too far into her own head to do what was required of her. it is why she looks lost in contemplation now, eyes cast out the window were idle hands hold onto a stitching loop that has not been progressed for the better part of twenty minutes. it is the clearing of someone's throat that makes alicent blink back to present & turn her head, ❛ for-forgive me, your grace. i am distracted today. ❜ it is all the excuse she could give yet she wonders: what concern would a queen have for her ? alicent does not think rhaella cruel, no, but she has other things to attend.
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' 𝔚ould you like to take their seeds home with you, your grace? ' a lush garden, let alone to grow wild as was the intention left behind by her late aunt marissa for her daughters, tangles of blackberry and , blossoms of rhododendron in brilliant bursts of sunset hues, in shades of blue like the twilight hour. moonblooms and foxglove burst forth with pollen and petal, even beneath their feet; creeping over the walking stones was the wooly thyme that had in it's bountiful bundles of fuzzy little leaves and swaths of purpling blooms, clover with petals folded to their stems as it slumbered, awaiting the pale gleam of sunlight to wake anew. ' to grow within the castle. '
⊱ ░ 𝕽HAELLA ₍ ? ₎ one or both muses have been pining for a while, receiver body worships sender by kissing all over their body and giving them oral.
it's the sort of gown that no mortal man should ever lay his filth ridden hands on... torwyn had held velvet before ━━ spoils taken from greenlander ships, half ruined by seawater and smoke once back on land ━━ but never anything like this. THIS SILK THAT WHISPERED BENEATH HIS FINGERS EACH TIME HE DARED PUSH IT. women from the isles didn't wear dresses that closer resembled the hoard of treasure he so often sought, and he's removed many. they wore roughspun and sealskin, they laughed with split lips and shoved men harder than they fucked them... but this?
this fine as cobweb thread, pale beneath candlelight, stitched through with silver so delicate he briefly feared ( or hoped ) one careless touch might unravel it entirely [ ... ] IT DID NOT BELONG BENEATH HANDS LIKE HIS. hands scarred by rope burn, by salt, by the pull of nets and the grip of axes. and yet here @summerhells lied beneath him wearing it; as soft as something dreamt. allowing him to touch it. to touch her. even when his skin caught.
ironborn don't give, they take... and yet.
❛❛ gods, ❜❜ whispered, hoarse at the edges. his parted mouth seemed to be following a vein ━━ kisses hungry in their firmness but not quite hurried. a slow press of lips against warm skin instead; the center of her throat, a delicate collarbone he all but swallowed down the desire to bite. AND LOWER TOWARD THE DIP OF THAT EMBROIDERED NECKLINE WHILE HIS HAND CLUTCHING AT HER THIGH MOVED HIGHER, pulling fabric up with it. the dress and the flesh beneath it inhabited all the luxuries that belonged solely to her; her warmth, the evidence of her very life, and her scent he wished to lap up like water. something faintly floral, clean, ( expensive in a way he couldn't name ) rather than leather and sea salt. he could feel the quickened flutter of her breath ━━ the rise and fall beneath bodicework worth more coin than anything he had ever owned [ ... ] and it was not only hunger that guided him then, as he slowly lowered himself down the length of her body, but reverence. ❛❛ you are too fine a thing for this world... ❜❜
it's only once he could feel the soft skin of legs ( woefully hidden from him for far too long ) against his palm that he decides he couldn't possibly waste another moment outside of her skirts... and so rough hands that had been in the throes of practicing restraint would finally grab ━━ push. bunch what seems to him to be all the silk in the seven kingdoms up toward her waist until he's able to slot himself between thighs and settle [ ... ] IF HE MUST SUFFOCATE BENEATH THE WEIGHT OF DRESS AND TREMBLING SKIN ALIKE, SO BE IT. death between the thighs of a princess would be far more fortunate than how ironmen are more often than not destined.
❛❛ tell me to stop, ❜❜ he says quietly amidst trailing yet another wet line of kisses along her inner thigh ━━ cheek languidly pressed to the skin, blue gaze watching her from behind the dark hair that had fallen into them. THOUGH THE WORDS SOUNDED JUST AS STRAINED AS HIS TROUSERS. ❛❛ and i will. ❜❜
↪ @summerhells. "It was a royal affair, the women who were sought out by the King to become potential candidates for the heir's wife. Rhaella was merely in the corner, away from the spectacle. All her face screamed was pity- pity for all the women. She was a child bride, forced into a marriage... but that was the fate of all women. The Queen took her time speaking with each woman brought to court, even Sabina. The pair were having dinner in the Queen's solar. "Tell me about Lys," she said, offering a very broken smile to Sabina."
there is a strange energy at court. one that she imagines everyone is feeling, given the state of many of the crowd’s faces. a nervousness that extends beyond seeing their daughters being a possible match for the heir to the throne. she had been invited to the festivities and even more surprising, invited to have supper with the queen. however, she was under no illusions about her being a prospect for prince rhaegar. nor would she want to be, if she was honest.
despite her own cautiousness, the queen appears to be a kind woman. quiet but with a palpable sadness. “lys is beautiful. very warm, but the summer sea keeps it cooler.” she is happy to speak about her homeland, a twinge of homesickness she has never managed to shake off. “the markets have everything you could want. fruits, spices, fabrics.”
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Whispers and smiles had been exchanged all night. Excited for his new bride to be his. Not that he was a possessive man ( no, he indeed was ), but he enjoyed this. To have a wife on his arm, a lady of Storms End. Excitement stirred deep within him, to be honest.
Lyonel Baratheon had all but forgotten about the bedding ceremony. Women's hands coming to grope his clothing half way off, and his wife's as well, though with men. Possessiveness does ring through him when it came to tradition. No one but himself should see her as such. It is his duty as her lord husband, but it is not these savage cunts duty as her peoples. He makes a mental note to remember faces and names, shouting ‘you better not be doing what I think you’re doing, Butterfield !!‘ on the way up there. Though his words for the time being were empty threats.
They’re dumped onto furs that lined his bed not but moments later. He finds excitement in the prying eyes. Though just as quickly as they had all entered, they filed out and the door had been shut, only to press ears to the wood to gawk and yell.
" Were it not tradition I’d have every one of those men’s head for looking at you, wife. " Hands grasp at her waist, pulling her closer to the lord of Storms End.
𓍼ོ ─── 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃’𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌, urgent with borrowed importance. baelor did not match them — could not, after three days on the road had left the ground still moving beneath his feet. three days, for the king’s impatience summons would not allow for a fourth. admittedly, it had been 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 — to send a knight not his own into the rain just 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐤. then again, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧.
❝ i was under the impression he wanted me in the tower, ❞ he said, prompting the guard to speak. ❝ and so he does. ❞ the white cloak sat heavy on his shoulders, and as he looked back at him, his eyes held the flat, worn patience of a man who had yet to make peace with it. 𝐛𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐰, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲, 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭. not just in his face, but also the set of it. he looked away then, sighing. there was a certain absurdity to it, he thought, 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 to a man who had already made an attempt to take it. 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞.
by the time they’d stopped, 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, the blackened steel warm from his skin as he turned it once, then twice. while the room was not large, it had been made to feel larger than it was. he looked up, but then the doors opened, and he lowered his head again. he bent, too, his knee. ❝ 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲, ❞ he said, though before him stood 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧.
