Her husband, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and so forth and so on, fucked her well and often, but the last night of the week … every other week … well, those evenings were special.

She could hear him feed wood into the hearth until it blazed with a roaring fire that would keep their bedchamber warm. Warm enough, at least … fall was upon them and the top of the Eyrie, where the Lord's quarters were located, had begun to grow quite cold at night. She tried to remain at ease while she heard him draw shut the wooden doors to their balcony, ensure the windows were closed, and light a number of candles and braziers throughout the room. Nevertheless, despite her best efforts to stay calm, by the time her husband had set to bubbling a small copper pot filled with scented oil and lowered the chain holding aloft the circular, brass candlerack that hung from a metal bracket driven deep into the stone of the ceiling, her excitement had made it nearly impossible to stand still.

"Alright, Daella," her husband said as he gave her a loving kiss on the top of the head and a quick embrace. "Stop your fluttering and go put your clothes away."

Finally.

With as much dignity as she could muster given her excitement, with hurried, nervous footsteps she left her corner and moved towards a row of cabinets set in the far wall of their bedchamber. The large, furred rug on which she'd been standing was soft and warm while the stone of the chamber was hard and cold … the transition was jarring on her tiny, bare feet. The domed room in which they stood was the largest of the lord's quarters and it perched at the top of the keep's tallest tower. The views of the valleys, ice frosted canyon rims, and clear blue skies from the balcony were incredible, and most importantly the room felt safe.

Her husband had explained to her all the features of the Eyrie that made it impervious to assault, its remoteness ensured that she need not stress and fret over how many new faces she might encounter each day, and their chambers were entirely private and secure once the door to their room had been double-barred with thick cords of aged oak. The truth was that until she'd married and come to her lord's home, she had never felt safe a day in her life. The ride through the Vale and then up the wooden lift to the Eyrie had been horrendously difficult for her even though he had bundled her in an enormous overcoat and held her close the entire journey, but once she'd arrived, she finally felt safe. Safe from crowds, from exhausting noises, from endless unfamiliar faces, and most importantly … safe from herself. In such an isolated keep, she could never hope to escape her husband's watchful eye, and that more than anything else helped silence the endless terrors that had once ruled her thoughts.

My husband understands me in all the ways that my family never did.

Her father loved her, she knew, but the bronze horror that he rode and the face he wore to be king never failed to reduce her to a terrified, trembling mess. Her mother was kinder and had not so often made her see the dragons, but neither of them ever understood the extent to which she lived every second in King's Landing in fear of one thing or another.

All of that now felt very long ago and very far away.

While her husband detached the candlerack from the heavy chain from which it hung, she slid her gown and undergown off her body with quivering arms, unwound the bandeau wrapped around her chest, and within a few minutes had rendered herself as naked as she had been on her name-day. Once nude, she gathered up the garments and neatly folded them atop a cabinet. Her hands shook as she worked and her husband undoubtedly took satisfaction in the extent to which two nights of teasing her without providing release had left her quivering with wanton desperation. As she disrobed, her eyes kept drifting to the low table on which sat a candle heating the pot of aromatic oil, a gleaming silver bowl filled with water, several towels, a straight razor of black-hued Valyrian steel set within a red handle, and four sturdy leather manacles. Riveted to the exterior of each of the manacles were sturdy iron loops, and she was quite familiar with the manner in which her husband would use those attachment points once the cuffs had been fastened tight around her wrists and ankles.

The razor had cost a small fortune, and she had gasped when she learned of the price he had paid. He had tried to justify the expense by explaining that shaving her every fortnight was a time-consuming business and that the sharpness of Valyrian steel would greatly expedite the process, but it was not as if the hair of her body could grow long within fourteen days time.

The blazing hearth had warmed the room, but she still shivered as she looked up at her husband. He had removed his shirt and boots and wore only his dark pants. His stomach was flat, the striations of his abdominal muscles created a wedge that enticingly directed her attention towards the thick dark leather of his belt, and she desperately wanted to be in his arms … that would come later, of course. His dark eyes were kind but also had a hungry glint as he looked down at her.

The two of them were a study in contrasts. If she stood straight, she measured a few inches past five feet and after a heavy meal weighed around seven stone … he stood close to a foot taller, was well over twice her weight, and his shoulders, chest, legs, and abdomen were corded and bunched with muscle. He kept his brown hair shorn close to his scalp, as befitted the warrior he was, while her silver-gold locks hung thick and heavy to the middle of her back. His jaw was heavy and hard-edged, while hers was thin and delicate, and his nose was strong and flat while hers was small and turned up at the tip. He loved her ears, which protruded a bit more than one usually saw … a feature that had earned her unending, cruel teasing as a child … perhaps because his own ears lay so flat against his skull.

Not even a sock was allowed to her, but she wasn't embarrassed by her nudity, nor would she feel any humiliation when her body inevitably began to exhibit visible signs of arousal. Her husband cherished her form and delighted in seeing her become excited by his treatment of her, and over many long months he had whipped, tickled, and spanked out of her any mortification she felt about the pleasures of the bedchamber. Now, three years and three months after their wedding day, she found herself largely incapable of feeling shame about the joy they took in their marriage, regardless of what they did.

"Turn around, little one" he commanded, and although his words were firm, they were also warm with affection.

She kept her arms at her side as she rotated in place to present her back to him. With quick, assured movements of his fingers he wound her cascading silver-gold tresses atop her head and used a thin leather thong to tie her hair into a tight bun. While he loved the sight of her Targaryen plumage, as he liked to call it, it would prove an impediment to the business at hand if allowed to hang free.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Privy? Water?"

She shook her head and then turned slightly so she could fix him with a shy, lopsided grin. "I doubt I have enough hair to need shaving, but I am sure … as always … that you will nevertheless be quite thorough."

He chuckled, then led her by the hand to the black iron chain that dangled from the center of the room's ceiling. Once she was under the chain, he produced a soft strip of black wool from his pocket. Being rendered sightless was hardly a novel experience for her. In fact, if one were to include the hours spent sleeping, she spent far more time blindfolded in their bedchamber than the reverse.

She looked up at him with a trusting gaze as he wrapped the cloth over her eyes. One edge of the wool settled a few inches down her nose, the other reached nearly to the top of her brow, and she knew from long experience that the blindfold would not become dislodged no matter how vigorously she moved her head. She would miss the sight of her husband's face and body, but the darkness was a thrilling intoxicant that forced her to focus on her other senses.

After the leather of the manacles had been adroitly strapped around her wrists and ankles, her husband tugged upon them to ensure that they were tightly buckled. He raised her hands over her head and with several wrought-iron clips secured the manacles to the chain hanging from the ceiling. She squirmed a bit and pulled against the securing bracket … perhaps if she were an elephant she might have a hope of yanking it free. The bracket could easily support her entire weight, a fact that she could confidently attest to after evenings spent suspended upside-down by her ankles.

Her legs he nudged wide apart so that the cuffs around her ankles could be fettered to copper rings inset within pockets carved into the stonework of the floor. She scarcely could imagine what explanation her husband had given the masons for making such a modification to their lord's chambers, but he was the Lord of the Eyrie … he needn't give a reason if he did not wish to.

She tested the restraints on her ankles and smiled when she felt how secure they were. Her husband moved away from her, and a few seconds later she heard a clicking sound as he worked the mechanism of the chain. Upwards her hands were yanked until she was pulled taut. Her lower ribs stood out in stark relief, her feet curled against the floor, and soon she was fixed so tightly that she could do little more than sway and squirm. When he was satisfied with her positioning, he locked the mechanism. The manacles secured on her wrists were wide and well-padded, and the extra support the chain offered eased the strain on her legs considerably. While the position in which she was fixed was ungainly and undoubtedly looked painful, in point of fact it was not even particularly uncomfortable … so long as it did not go on for too long.

She waggled her fingers, swayed a bit in her restraints, and quivered in anticipation when she heard his approaching footsteps.

"I am glad to see you have put on weight this fall," he said as he ran his hands over her tightly stretched breasts and stomach … a motion that elicited a gasping shiver from her. "Winter is nearly here, and you know how important it is to me that you take care of yourself."

And you ensure that I do …

"I know," she whispered. On their wedding day, she had come to him as a skeletal, wasted figure. The knobs of her joints protruded through pale, parchment-thin skin, and her lank hair glimmered and shone only because her handmaidens had rubbed it with oil. Even now, over three years later, she remained thin enough that he constantly worried about her diet. "I am trying."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and patted her bare bottom. "And you will keep trying, little one."

She nodded in response and hoped that he would turn his attention to the soft, needful parts of her body that her widespread, stretched legs gave him easy access to. Instead, to her profound disappointment he moved away. She heard a scraping sound as he dragged a stool and a small table in front of her. The razor and his other tools would be on the table, she knew, and she tightened her hands into fists and shifted a bit in the chains in anticipation. Her squirming elicited a swift rebuke along with a reminder that she was to remain still, and then he began his work.

The oil he rubbed on her body smelled faintly of spices she did not recognize and citrus fruit that was unknown to her … her husband seemed to take special delight in finding new scents with which to coat her body. He began with her neck and shoulders, his hands were strong and firm as he worked the oil into her flesh, and though she could not see herself she imagined that inch by inch her skin began to glow by the light of the candles and the fire of the hearth. After her shoulders, he worked down her torso, and though he was adept at tickling her, he took care to ensure that he provoked no squirms while he coated her armpits and her flanks. He oiled her breasts as well, of course, and his kneading, swirling fingers provoked her nipples into hardening into twin points. Small moans escaped her lips as he cupped the soft flesh of her stretched chest, but sadly, his hands didn't linger. This part of the evening was intended to be functional, not amorous. From time to time, however, he brushed himself against her so that she could feel the hardness of his cock beneath the thick fabric of his trousers. It was a teasing sensation all its own, particularly after she had spent two days and nights desperate for release.

They talked while he oiled her, and she treasured such conversations. He asked about her day, about the gossip she had heard … he always assured her that he was sincere in his interest in regards to the doings of the households of his lords and ladies … and he inquired deeply of both her writing and her weaving. The easy manner with which he referenced prior discussions on the same topics had long ago convinced her that he did care about her thoughts, her opinions, and her preferences. Though they spoke often, of course, it was different when she knew that he would be devoting several hours of his direct and unceasing attention towards her needs, without any chance of obligation forcing him elsewhere. His hands lingered on her while they spoke and he used the tips of his fingers with knowing gestures to ease the soreness from muscles that she hadn't even realized were troubling her until he had begun to massage away the lingering hurts. After he'd spent no fewer than five minutes coaxing a particularly painful and tense spot in her neck into a state of relaxation, she found herself smiling at the irony of him fretting over any discomfort she was experiencing when he likely planned to do far worse.

There was another purpose to shaving every inch of her form besides the obvious one, of course … it afforded him the opportunity to inspect her skin very carefully. He had once conducted such examinations each and every night, but eventually, when some measure of trust had been established between them, he limited himself to these bi-weekly searches. Not that he generally didn't keep an eye on her body as a matter of habit, but her entire life she had been very clever in finding ways of hurting herself that were not immediately apparent. If her husband was determined about nothing else, he was determined that the only marks to be found on her would be the ones that he had made … she scarcely recognized herself anymore, he had worked so tirelessly to repair the cracks in her spirit and give her a foundation of self-worth.

As he began to work the oil into her stretched limbs he patted each of her hands and feet in turn, and she correspondingly extended her fingers and stretched her toes so that he could look for telltale clots of blood beneath the nails … by doing so he made sure that she had not pressed any needles deep into the quick. In King's Landing, when she couldn't control her thoughts or her fears, she'd found sewing needles to be an excellent way to silence her anxious worries without creating wounds that might draw the attention of her minders or her parents. Her husband had put an end to that, as he had so much else.

He ran his hands down her sides and checked her armpits as he worked, not only to rub the oil deep into the skin along her flanks, but to also confirm that her fingernails had not scratched any new scrapes or gouges in the spots where a network of old, faded scars were bunched. Of course, he checked her legs carefully as well. The front of her upper thighs were banded with a dense pattern of thin, raised white lines … scars left by a sharp blade wielded by a girl who knew of no other way to make herself feel brave. After all, surely a princess strong enough to wound herself in such a way was strong enough to overcome being the constant subject of mockery and object of disappointment ... at least, that was what she had once believed.

Her husband labored unceasingly to rid her of such notions, and for the most part, had succeeded. In truth, his checking her like this hadn't been necessary for a long while, but he wanted to be sure. Not only did she not mind, she reveled in the feel of his fingers on her body and felt a sense of relief at how much he cared. She would be regularly searched in this manner indefinitely, he had told her, because they both wanted to be sure … and though her opinion on the matter was somewhat irrelevant, the truth was that she could not have agreed more.

Once she was, for the most part, well-oiled, he began with slow steady strokes of the razor to shave her skin, stopping as needed to clean the razor with gentle taps in the water-filled bowl. Each gliding motion collected both hair and oil, and the many hours she had practiced standing motionless served her well during experiences such as this. Her husband was skilled with blades of every sort, but he needed her help to avoid cutting her. After all, Valyrian steel was sharp. In particular, when he worked around her slippery breasts … he was always amused at the responsiveness of her nipples to his touch … she very much hoped that he was extremely cautious with every flick of the well-honed edge.

Though he never spoke of it directly, she knew that one of the reasons he performed this task himself, rather than leaving it to her, was that she could not be trusted alone with steel. When her husband or others were present, she was permitted to cut her food, sew, and use scissors to trim threads while at the loom, but early in their marriage he had pronounced that she would never again so much as touch anything with a point or a sharpened edge when she was alone. She readily agreed, and now, years later, she had reached the conclusion that the prohibition was unlikely to ever be lifted … which was probably for the best.

Sometimes, she wondered when he ran his fingers over her body if he was haunted by the sight of her legs on their wedding night. He had coaxed her from her hiding spot, coerced from her an admission that she did not wish to disrobe for reasons besides being frightened of the marital bed, and then had taken her trembling, terrified form into his arms and told her that he would be patient, but that his wife would be honest with him. Eventually, she'd pulled up her gown to reveal the makeshift bandages wrapped around her thighs, and he had stared in horror when he yanked aside the blood-soaked cloth to reveal the slashes beneath. There was no anger in their chamber that night. Instead, he held her long hours and spoke to her of how different her life would be from now on. He assured her that he was going to make sure that she never did such things ever again, she'd shivered and tried to believe him, and when he grew tired of her refusing to open her eyes, he blindfolded her. Once rendered sightless she'd immediately lain relaxed and still in his arms.

After he'd properly bandaged her, other … happier … moments soon followed.

He had completely shaved her neck, back, torso, and lower legs before he began to oil her hips, inner thighs, and groin. The lips of her glistening, dewy cleft had separated in anticipation of receiving attention, she bit her lower lip as his hands lingered near her sex, and judging by his chuckle it was obvious that he had noticed her excitement. He patted her rear, kissed her belly, and whispered, "Such a sweet treasure of a wife you are."

An expression of gratitude at his words left her lips, but what she really wanted was to beg him to grant relief to the frustrated, throbbing bud that he had spent the last two nights repeatedly coaxing to the edge of bliss only to leave wanting. Seldom had he been so relentless.

She accepted that every rule, every punishment, every demand he made of her had a purpose, though sometimes she did not immediately glean his intention. Day by day, week by week, he had encouraged her to grow stronger and less fearful, through methods that ranged from the direct to the devious. Tickling when she'd been sullen, quiet, or inclined towards hiding did wonders to increase her energy and motivate her to socialize. Banishment to the corner with unpleasant vegetables lodged in her mouth served to remind her to think and speak well of herself. Even less pleasant was when he stuffed wedges of itching, stinging ginger root into sensitive places of her body … though she could not deny that such treatment never failed to result in her being more punctual in attending functions requiring the Lady of the Eyrie's presence.

Truth be told, being whipped, spanked, tickled, and subjected to an endless variety of disciplinary measures was absolutely not the inducement to improve her behavior that her husband believed it to be, as she was typically more enthusiastic towards receiving a fierce cropping than avoiding one. No, rather it was the shame she felt when her husband was disappointed with her that provided the true motivation. She might often be tempted to incur a punishment just for the sheer thrill of receiving it, but never did she want to see him stare at her with reproach in his eyes.

Once he'd oiled the most pleasurable spots of her body, with strong hands he helped her keep motionless sensitive flesh so that he could shave each pale, private patch of skin. The razor swept with gentle, short strokes in a steady rhythm and the feel of his fingers and the now-warmed steel dancing along the edges of her sex was a slow, tortuous pleasure all its own. Conversation between them ceased, as did her breathing, until her husband had finished removing every stubble of hair from the crevice of her bottom and the lips of her sex.

He informed her that he was finished with the razor, a small thump indicated that he had set the red-handled blade aside, and she exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed muscles that had been tensed for long minutes.

"I took the liberty of reading some of your most recent poems," he informed her in a conversational tone completely at odds with the reality of her present circumstances. "I am not much of a judge of such things, but I found them beautiful … particularly that one about sunrise over the Vale. Maester Harwin was impressed, as well."

The irony of him speaking matter-of-factly in regards to her poetry while she vibrated with need right in front of him was not lost on her, but she managed to divert her thoughts away from the throbbing of her sex long enough to consider a reply that would not make her sound petulant and upset. "You showed my poems to someone else? Husband, I would have greatly preferred that you ask me first … those were not intended for others to hear."

"I think you're forgetting something, little one," he informed her in a determined, but kind, manner. Not so kind, however, was the firm slap he placed on one of the cheeks of her bottom.

She could not help but utter a surprised squeak as she flinched from the sharp, stinging pain of the blow.

"Now then," her husband continued, "who owns you?"

Such a question usually meant that the two of them would work through a familiar series of inquiries and responses the repetition of which never failed to calm her nerves, envelop her in a sense of love, and make her feel protected … most especially from herself.

He asked this question of her often, and the reply that left her lips was both well-practiced and entirely honest. "You own me, husband. Well and truly, I am yours."

She could hear his body stir as he stood and leaned in close enough that his breath wafted along the side of her head and neck. "That's right," he whispered. "Every inch of your skin and every ounce of your flesh belongs entirely to me, and that means that every idea in your head and every word that passes your lips is mine to do with as a choose." He stepped to the side and with affectionate caresses rubbed away the lingering discomfort in the spot of her body he had just struck. "After all, if I own a cow, the milk is mine, too."

Ugh.

She crinkled her nose and frowned. "Husband, I do not enjoy being compared to your cow."

He chuckled, while he chuckled he tickled the underside of one of her breasts, and in response she squealed and uselessly tried to squirm away. "That is fair," he admitted, though she could barely hear him over the hysterical laughter being forced from her lips. When he finally ceased with the tickling she hung in her chains and gasped great heaves of air in an effort to catch her breath. "Now then," her husband continued in a placid tone while she tried to compose herself, "Maester Harwin selected a half dozen pieces from your collection of writings and forwarded copies to the Citadel so that men who are skilled in judging such things could offer their opinions. I received word last week that they were so impressed that two of your efforts were selected to be incorporated within their chronicles … including that poem about the sunset."

Husband, I am not sure that I like what you have done.

"My love," she responded without taking the necessary time to consider and measure her words, "the learned men of Oldtown likely found my writing to represent mindless drivel, and I would guess that they only offered praise to avoid giving offense to the lord of House Arryn and his Targaryen princess of a wife." As soon as the statement had left her lips, she winced with regret, her manacled hands twitched fearfully in their bindings, and her body stiffened in its chains. She felt very exposed with her legs sprawled wide, her eyes blinded, and her undoubtedly furious husband gazing upon her nude body.

I know better than to talk about myself in such a way … he will be very wroth with me, and deservedly so.

She felt his looming presence as he stepped nearer, and then felt the touch of his fingers as he grasped her trembling chin in a broad, strong hand, and tilted upwards her blindfolded face. "Little one," he said in a voice that was the rasp of steel over a sharpening stone, "you are well aware of the fact that you are never allowed to speak ill of yourself in such a way. Regrettably, there is nothing I can do to prevent you from thinking such horrid thoughts, but I can and will keep any such nonsense from being voiced from your lips. You are beautiful, you have a good heart, you have a quick, observant wit and a talent for wordplay, and I will continue to do whatever I must to make you realize these truths."

She hung in her chains and in an attempt to placate him replied with quick, hasty words. "I spoke without thinking, please forgive me."

He tightened his grip on her chin. "The maesters of Oldtown have seen thousands of lords come and go. You can trust that they care nothing about my pride or your sensibilities, and if they decide that your writing has merit then that is the truth. You can also trust this, Daella," he said in an ominous tone that made her knees quake, her sex tremble, and her heart flutter, "if you disparage yourself again this evening, tomorrow you will be spending an hour in your corner with a freshly peeled onion jammed between your teeth. Do I make myself clear?"

An hour?!

"Yes, I understand!" she replied with as much of a nod as she could manage with his hand clenched upon her jaw. The threat of the onion was nothing new, she had been disciplined in such a manner on many occasions … though less frequently over the past year … and she had absolutely no desire to repeat the experience. In fact, she considered herself lucky that he was giving her a second chance.

He must be in a good mood tonight.

He removed his hand from her chin and good cheer returned to his voice. "Now then, your poetry will be shared with the realm because that is what I have decided will happen, and the marvelous tapestry that you are weaving will ultimately be hung with a place of honor in the Eyrie's dining hall because that is my will."

"Thank you," she replied. He kissed her then, and as his lips touched hers, her worries evaporated and she felt suffused with happiness … happiness, and a growing desire that he turn his attention towards her wide-spread legs. When the kiss ended, even though she knew she should let the subject drop, she could not help but carefully voice further thoughts on the matter. "The poems, though, I really am embarrassed." She began to shake, only a bit, at the notion that people would know her inner thoughts.

"They are poems, not confessions, and you are deserving of praise," he reassured her. "Your writings are beautiful, and it breaks my heart that you burned so much of your work from before we were married. Be strong enough to let people appreciate your quality."

It had always been easier to reveal the truths of her heart when she could not see, and she doubted that she could have voiced the next words from her lips if she was looking upon her husband's face. "That is nice of you to say, but you know that being strong is difficult for me."

She knew that he would not mind that comment, because honesty about herself did not constitute disparagement.

His voice was loving and thick with concern as he replied, "Sweetling, you are stronger than a Kingsguard knight in many ways. Tonight, your schedule in this bedchamber includes being blindfolded, bound, teased, shaved, whipped, bathed, and finally … bred. Do you think any man of the Kingsguard has the courage to bear such treatment, let alone find enjoyment in it?"

The imagery his words conjured could not help but make her laugh hysterically, and the links of the iron bindings rattled as she convulsed in mirth. He laughed along with her, and she was reminded of all the times he had told her that her laughter was the sweetest thing he had ever heard.

"Thank you," she said once she had calmed.

"In fact," he added, and she suspected she might not like what he was about to say, "I think it would be wonderful if from time to time you let your friends hear your work read aloud, and I am sure that you agree with me."

She was not at all convinced that such an idea was wonderful, but she nodded for his benefit.

"Daella," he reassured her, "I would not surprise you with having your poems recited in open court … we would discuss it and you would be free to disagree."

Thank the gods.

She nodded but did not trust herself to make any further reply.

They often entertained on the balcony outside their solar or in the smaller dining halls, and she'd grown fond of certain friends and several household knights. In time, with her husband's coaxing, she'd learned to enjoy conversation and music … so long as such gatherings were of a limited duration. If her eyes became downcast or she shied from chatter, her husband would touch her lightly upon the back of her neck to remind her of the need to be social, and if she seemed troubled, he would lay his hand upon her wrist to reassure her that he was there, that he cared about her needs, and that she was not alone. His nudges and caresses were precious to her, and she often thought of herself as a boat being steered by his hands upon her rudder.

She heard the scrape of wood on stone as he moved the table away and positioned the stool directly in front of her, and her breath rasped out of her lungs when he laid a coaxing, promising hand on her glistening sex. Her cunt throbbed and pulsed as he cupped it in his fingers, and her entire body felt as though it wanted to melt into a hot, wet heap upon his palm.

"Now then," he said in a serious tone, "I want you to be honest with me, Daella. Is there anything that you need to admit?"

He asked her this question on occasion, and on nearly every such instance she was hiding something from her husband. Whether he could tell because of her manner or because he kept a closer eye on her than she realized was a mystery she had not yet managed to solve, but he was almost always right.

He is right this time, too. I should tell him the truth.

"There is," she admitted with quavering words as a tremulous uncertainty flared in her stomach.

"Go on," he said in an encouraging, knowing fashion.

Earlier in their marriage, she had lied on occasion to such questions, of course. He always knew when she lied and she had quickly learned that she ended up happier if she was honest. It was only when she had finally been truthful with her husband about what she enjoyed, about what she needed, that everything became better … in fact, she never believed that such a happy life could be possible for her.

My husband deserves an honest answer.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes behind the blindfold, and began. "Two nights ago in the bath … after you had given me that gift from Dorne … the bottled potion that smells of flowers and has the little chunks of white rock that make bubbles …" Her words trailed off, but she mustered her courage and carried on. "The bubbles felt so good, and when you left to use the privy, I couldn't help it. I … I touched myself. Not for too long, and I felt ashamed the entire time, and … and …"

She was making excuses, and a lady should not make excuses.

"Continue," he said, and he sounded neither surprised nor angry … instead, he sounded hurt. The guilt of hearing that tone in his voice hurt her ways no crop ever could. "Out with it, tell me the extent of your disobedience."

"I didn't go too far," she assured him. "I stopped before I achieved release, I swear."

I had to grab hold of the edges of the tub until you returned in order to keep my clumsy, fumbling fingers … which have had almost no practice in these matters … away from my sex.

Only once in the past year had she pleasured herself to relief in defiance of her husband's prerogatives over her body. She'd seen him training shirtless in the courtyard and later, after she'd admitted to him what she had done, he had been flattered at the depth of her lust for him … which unfortunately had not stayed his hand. The resulting correction she'd received had left her unable to sit down without the use of a pillow for a few days.

She heard her husband fumble with his trousers and a few seconds later something was being held aloft beneath her nose. She cautiously inhaled and recognized the scent immediately.

That's the bottle of scented potion from Dorne!

Her eyes fluttered open beneath the blindfold, she gasped in shock, and then she exclaimed, "You already knew!"

"Of course I knew!" He laughed for a good long time and she imagined that he was shaking his head in amusement at her surprise. "Did you truly think that I would not notice your guilty expression, frightened posture, and white-knuckled grip on the rim of the tub? I know your sly ways quite well, little one, and I pay rather close attention to everything involving what lies between your legs. I am disappointed, but I am also proud that you had the strength to put an end to your misadventure without my prompting." He stood and kissed her again on the cheek. "Daella, did you think that you spent the last two nights going to bed a sweaty, teased, frustrated princess because of a whim on my part? No, it was because you had done something wrong and failed to tell me about it."

I should have known that there was a purpose behind leaving me wanting for repeated nights.

"I would have much preferred a whipping," she remonstrated him. "Husband, these past few days have been torture."

His voice was kind, but also firm, when he replied, "If you had told me the truth at any point before I dragged it out of you tonight, within minutes I would have had you on your back with your gown gathered about your waist and your knees spread so that I could grant you relief from your misery. My sweet wife, I want to help you, but you make that so much harder if you keep secrets. Your secrets are sometimes dangerous, Daella, and that is why you aren't allowed to have them."

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"I forgive you," he said, and he sounded so sincere that her worries eased. He leaned forward, this time kissed her on the mouth, and she desperately wished her hands were free of chains and manacles so that she could hold him.

She would still be disciplined, of course, but it was her own fault and she deserved her punishment. More importantly, as she reminded her husband whenever necessary, leniency on his part when she acted inappropriately did not represent a kindness. Rather, it tended to leave her anxious and uncertain.

He broke off the kiss, sat back down, and rubbed her slippery, pulsing sex. She moaned, arched her back, and as much as the chains allowed tried to press herself into his hand. "Who owns this?"

Her response instinctively left her lips the instant after the question was voiced. "You do."

He tapped her behind with his other hand, and upon feeling his touch her thoughts patterned themselves into the familiar sing-song litany of responses expected of her. "And who owns your oft-buggered arse?" he asked.

Not nearly often enough.

"You," she assured him. "Most especially, only you."

His free hand next reached up to run a finger up her chin and along her trembling lower lip. "And your mouth?"

"You own that as well."

Now his voice grew harsher, more like the Lord of the Eyrie whom she had seen hand down pronouncements and lord's justice of all sorts. "And who is the only person who is allowed to touch you and make you feel good?"

"Just you," she gushed. "Forever and always, nobody besides you."

"Then let me fulfill my duties as your husband," he said, and his voice had taken on a wheedling, pleading edge that she seldom heard from him. "When you pleasure yourself, it shames me and makes a mockery of my right to see to your needs however I see fit. There is never a reason, ever, for your fingers to be where they are not allowed. When, my beautiful, but at times willful, wife, will you finally cease this sort of disobedience?"

She gave the only honest response that she could. "I will try to do better."

"I know you will, my love, but the important thing is that you are honest with me." He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her stomach, just below her belly button, and the nearness of his lips to the spot of her body that yearned for them made her knees quake. "I realize that there will be mistakes, but remember, dishonesty is not a mistake, dishonesty is a choice."

"I will try to always honest with you," she promised. "I swear."

"Good," he said. "I am happy that you told the truth … even though I am disappointed that it took you two days to do so." She could hear him settle back on the stool as he rubbed her sex with a thoughtful hand. "Now then, you have broken a rule … not one of the three most important ones, but a rule nonetheless. Tonight, you will receive ten lashes while you are across the bench, but before that happens you will be rewarded for being honest."

She knew what the reward was likely to be, and she swayed in her chains and bit her lower lip while her cunt throbbed and ached.

I hope my reward comes soon … I have suffered in need of release for days now. And to think if I had just immediately admitted what I had done I would not have been teased at all.

"First, though," he added, "anything else that you need to confess?"

She wracked her brain as she considered the question. Eventually, she replied, "I have not finished all my meals these past two weeks, but surely you cannot expect me to enjoy every dish? Besides, the cooks put far too much on my plate."

He sighed in weary resignation. "Must you always pretend not to remember that the kitchen serves you what I tell them to serve you? In any event, those are minor issues that we will address later tonight."

She hadn't really expected him to add any more whip-strikes to her tally due to unfinished meals, but she was relieved nonetheless. She reveled in watching the red lines he'd placed on her body vanish over time and enjoyed even more the focused, overwhelming sensation of being cropped, but ten strokes would be plenty. There was such a concept as too much of a good thing.

"Now for your reward," he announced in a loud, cheery tone. He kissed her belly again and her legs buckled at the thought that he would soon be tonguing and licking her sex. Her swollen, aching bud badly needed release after two nights of being worked into a frenzy and then denied at the last moment. His lips traced patterns on the skin of her hips as he kissed his way downwards. "Can you not control your desires any better than this, sweetling?" he asked during a moment's pause while he caressed one of her shaking legs.

"You've been teasing me this evening as much as you have been shaving me, and the last two nights have been dreadful." Whining was not allowed, but her husband needed to understand how difficult he had made things for her. "Oh, husband, you were so merciless with me, please do not leave me waiting much longer."

He caressed her sex again, she keened as a knife's edge of need rasped over the edges of her body, and then said, "You know that I love for you to express what you desire and that you need never be ashamed to do so."

"I know," she gibbered, "but please … hurry."

She heard him reach and grab something from the table. "Open your mouth," he instructed her.

Her jaws clicked open.

"Now stick out your tongue."

Her delicate pink tongue immediately extended from between her lips.

She recognized the smooth wood of the tawse's handle as he placed it between her lips. He'd be using the divided strands of leather on the end of the implement on her later, she had little doubt, but her husband had a different sort of torment in mind for now.

"Hold that in your mouth," he ordered.

She closed her lips around the wood, and because her tongue was protruding from her mouth she could not clamp down with her teeth or relax her jaw without dropping the tawse … it was a twisted, mischievous task that he had set her to.

He released his hand from tawse's handle and needlessly said, "Do not drop that, Daella."

With her tongue pinned by the wood between her teeth, she could not say a word in reply … not without letting go of the tawse.

Her husband put a hand on her stomach, traced a slow circle in the sweat accumulating in the stretched hollow above her hips, and nudged his fingers downward while he blew air upon her skin. Her throat convulsed and she shook in her fetters when his lips and fingers reached the cleft of her sex. A whimper left her lips and she bucked her hips when his fingers with delicate movements parted her sex so that he could run a probing tongue along the nub that poked from beneath its hood. A moan escaped her throat and she fought to keep the tawse in her mouth as waves of pleasure assaulted her.

He stopped, which led to a whining plea escaping her throat, and whispered, "Next time, be honest with me and you won't have to go days without experiencing this."

She nodded, almost dropping the whip lodged between her teeth as she did so, and when he resumed his ministrations she nearly cried. He knew every fold of her sex, every soft, quivering, velvety crease, and most especially he knew exactly how to manipulate the throbbing little nub of need that poked outwards just above her sheath. Oh, gods, he could play her body like an instrument in any way that he wished … he could overload her senses and push her to release within a minute, or he could make her linger just on the edge until the teasing threatened to drive her mad … like he had done several times the prior night. Her husband had taught her the pleasures of the bedchamber, which had been entirely unknown to her before they were wed, and then used her yearning desire to shackle not just her body but her mind as well, until her thoughts were as restrained as her limbs so often were.

Her eyes rolled back in her head beneath the blindfold as his tongue probed deeper and his fingers worked to caress the edges of her sex. The chains rattled, her body strained and flexed, and her husband moved his head closer so that he would have a better angle with which to work. With a deft inhalation, he nimbly trapped her bud between his lips and began rasping it with a swirling tongue. A high-pitched moan somehow managed to escape her clenched teeth, the muscles and walls of her sex tightened as they gathered for release, and the tawse dropped from her mouth as a torrent of moans escaped her throat. Her fettered hands clawed feebly at the air and she felt her entire lower body grow stiff as her tension grew unbearable. He flexed his tongue against the tender spot of her body he'd trapped between his lips, explored her depths with two fingers, and then curled those fingers upwards and rubbed against her inner wall.

That pushed her over the edge.

The moment of joy, when it came, was overwhelming. Each such experience was different, each one wondrous and affirming, and days of boiling tension rushed out of her body in a blissful cascade that was as agonizing as it was pleasurable. She drifted in their bedchamber as the sensations rushed over her, and her entire body stiffened and spasmed as the intoxicating bliss of the release swept her away to somewhere else. Her back arched, she tried and failed to keep from howling with relief, and she was entirely unsure of how long she stayed like that before her senses began to return.

Eventually, she realized that she was hanging in the chains with nerveless legs and a dangling head that she lacked the strength to raise. A euphoric sense of peace settled over her, and she only wished that she could bottle such feelings and drink of them when she had need. She heard her husband use a cloth for some purpose, likely to wash his mouth, then listened to him pour and drink a goblet of some liquid … probably something poured from one of the pitchers of wine he'd set out earlier in the evening.

"Do you feel better?" he eventually asked.

Her only reply was a wheezing exhalation of nonsense syllables, but her husband seemed to understand her meaning as he chuckled and kissed her forehead.

"Now then," he announced as she heard him pick up the tawse and set it on the table. "That's ten strokes for touching yourself without permission and two more for dropping from your mouth what you were supposed to be holding. That wooden handle struck me on the top of the head, wife, and I did not care for the experience."

I could not help it!

The ability to speak had returned to her to a sufficient extent for her to voice the only acceptable reply. "I understand. Thank you, my lord husband." That was a goodly amount of lashings to receive, and she would feel the burning sting of them for days, but she had earned them.

With adroit movements, he re-oiled her stimulated and exquisitely sensitive, shaved sex until her skin once again gleamed beneath the soft candelight. After he'd finished applying the substance to the smooth skin of her cleft, he moved to her rear and proceeded to work the fragrant, slippery substance between her rear cheeks. This was a very good sign, in her view, that tonight they might enjoy those rare … all-too-rare … occasions when he would make use of her bottom. He did not withhold lovemaking of that sort out of caprice or lack of interest, but rather out of concern for her health. Her husband had often warned her that enjoying each other's company in that particular way too often would injure her, and he never wanted to see her injured. Oh, he hurt her often, of course, in the ways she enjoyed and which quieted her wicked impulses, but he never injured her.

When he had finished, he unchained first her feet, then her hands, and finally removed the blindfold so that she would not stumble and trip about the room. She blinked at the harshness of the light, and her husband gathered her trembling form into his arms and showered her with light, brushing kisses on lips, cheeks, and forehead until he was satisfied that she was sufficiently composed to continue. He then had her drink half a goblet of wine of a dry, white variety that tasted faintly of charred grapes, she politely reminded him that she preferred sweet reds, and he apologized, set the wine aside, and had her take two sips of water poured into a second goblet from a silver pitcher.

The manacles fixed about her ankles and wrists remained in place and she knew he would have use for them in the immediate future. After she had drank, with a kiss on the top of her head and a gentle nudge, he directed her towards the corner of the room opposite the balcony doors. With cheerful steps she scampered to the soft, thick rug that ensured she never had to stand or kneel on bare stone.