A/N: Hi. I've been in Medical School for three weeks now and my first exam is next Tuesday. Wish me luck.
Ecstatic from all the response to this. Be sure to keep it up! Follow and comment.
Chapter 3: Out of the Mouths of Babes
Meat was something that Prince Jaehaerys normally enjoyed. Beef stew hearty with barley mash and Dornish chilis. Roast pork tender with juices and fat. Plump sausages of beef or pork that filled small rolls that the cooks often snuck for him and his siblings when no one was looking as a gesture of affection… This herb-braised, boiled chicken was not any of those dishes. It tasted… both bland and sharp at the same time.
Apparently it was some northern dish that his muna devoured with gusto. Jon, Daenerys, Aegon… all did so as well. He didn't understand it. Ironically enough, Jaehaerys was more Dornish in his taste.
All around the servants placed platter after dishes for the Targaryen family. Joined by Lady Melisandre, Lord and Lady Seaworth, and both Tywin and Tyrion Lannister, all other seats were taken by his family, Stark and Targaryen. His uncle Benjen was off duty and dressed in a simple tunic next to his wife Ashara, their children all there.
Uncle Arthur wasn't there, oddly enough. Muna told Jae that he was having a private dinner with Dacey, Artie, and Lyanna, but Jae found the explanation… lacking.
Still, all the five-nameday old Prince cared about was how he didn't like his meal.
Sticking to a small-shaped meat pie of beef and diced vegetables, a low whimper drew Jae's attention. Slumped on the floor and looking up at him with big grey eyes was Spirit, his muna's direwolf. He licked his nose expectantly, as if pleading with Jae.
Jae smirked inwardly. A solution to both their problems. Surreptitiously, he snuck a piece of the chicken down to Spirit. The direwolf gobbled it all down, tongue slurping any remnants on his teeth or jaw. Good boy. The process repeated without incident.
But the third time... "Oh, no you don't, hatchling." Jae wilted under the gaze of his muna Elia. "Finish your plate, Jae."
"Was he feeding his food to Spirit again?" called out muna Lyanna. "Jae, for the love of the Old Gods. You need to eat, you're too thin." It was true. Unlike his elder siblings who were all strapping or at least toned, Jae was a stick of a thing.
Jae grumbled. "Not my fault this tastes icky." He crossed his arms, pouting. "Plus Spirit is hungry."
"He just devoured a sheep leg an hour ago. He's fine."
"But look at him." The furry mutt just kept staring at him, tail swishing on the floor.
His sister Rhaenys was giggling. "He's a land shark, Jae. Put food in front of him and he'll eat it. Reminds me of Daenerys."
"Shut up, Rhae," the Princess called out. "But everyone, Jon has an announcement to make."
"Dany, not now," Jon muttered.
"Oh pish, now's the perfect time." The bubbly Princess Daenerys got her own way yet again - she had Jon wrapped around her finger much as she did her brother, muna, and most of the household. It made the Queens quite amused.
Jon groaned. "Fine, Sandor. Bring it in." The Hound lugged in a large painting frame with a tarp draped over it. Setting it down upon an extra chair in view of everyone. "Wanted to wait until dinner was finished, but oh well."
Rhaegar set down his fork. "What do you have for us, my son?"
Smiling awkwardly, Jon drank a sip of water and motioned to the frame. "I thought that now that I am a knight, even as a Prince I should have a personalized sigil alongside that of my House."
"That is perfectly acceptable, my Prince," spoke Davos Seaworth, folding his hands together patiently. Out of the entire small council, Jon liked him the best.
"Well, I put together the entire thing with the help of the royal seamstresses. Hope it finds your taste." He gestured to Sandor again.
When the tarp was removed, surprise and even shock predominated around the dining chamber. To Rhaegar, the one most in command of his emotions, a cursory look around found that out of everyone present, only Robb, Daenerys, and strangely enough Tyrion Lannister seemed unfazed. Happy, but unfazed. Did they help my son with his design?
One look at the personal sigil of the Crown Prince left a full justification to the family's shock.
Many Princes or Princesses or even Kings had taken personal sigils. Aegon II and Rhaenyra both possessed their own dueling sigils during the Dance, the former a golden dragon on black that represented his mount Sunfyre while the latter formed a four piece checkerboard with two red dragons, a seahorse of House Velaryon, and the falcon of House Arryn, all of her family whether by blood or marriage. King Maekar had a four quartered sigil with four Targaryen dragons. Most controversially were the three sigils of the Great Bastards, Daemon with his inversed black dragon, Bittersteel with his winged stallion, and Bloodraven with his white one-headed dragon.
But as subversive as many of those had been, Baelon's was from a whole new level.
The three-headed dragon upon a black background was unchanged, his son much too traditional to find a different symbol for himself. A Targaryen, born and raised. But the red coloring was abandoned in favor of white. White as the fallen snow. An ice dragon. A northern dragon. One of the blood of Old Valyria and the First Men. Bloodraven had done something similar, but as a trueborn son and heir, Baelon was able to color the actual Targaryen dragon in white.
And yet, Baelon hadn't finished on such a statement. Surrounding the dragon was a blood-red son. A darker, draber version of the dragon's traditional color. Namely since it was not ordained on that. Rather, the sun was borrowed from a different house.
The sun of House Martell. Elia's house.
He had chosen not only the sigil of his father and the color of his birth mother, but part of the sigil of his second mother as well.
By the gods son…
"You took the Martell sigil?" In the end, it was Viserys that blurted out the obvious, but that no one else could muster the ability to voice aloud.
Baelon nodded. "Was thinking on this ever since the tourney… yet Dany pointed out to me that Queen Rhaenyra took the sigils of the houses of her birth and her marriages. I'm not married yet…"
"And whose fault is that?"
"Shut up, Rhaenys!" Dany hissed as her niece doubled over laughing. "Continue, Jon."
He cleared his throat. "So it hit me. The houses of my kepa and munas. Targaryen, Stark, and Martell."
"This is incredible," murmured Rhaella.
Smiling at her son, Lyanna looked over to her wife. "Elia, love. What do you think…?"
In lieu of an answer, rising with tears in her eyes, Elia rounded the table and soon enveloped Jon in her arms. "You are the sweetest son I could ever pray for." Again and again she pressed kisses to his forehead and cheeks, making him squirm slightly as a blush colored his cheeks - much to the amusement of his siblings and aunts. "What made you choose this, why?"
He shrugged, Elia thankfully giving him a bit of room so he could breath and look upon the rest of his family. "I am the blood of Old Valyria and the First Men, but I was raised by both them and you, muna. Uncle Oberyn and cousin Nym and Ty sparred with me, cousin Arianne helped teach me how to carry myself at court, and you…" He paused. "There is not a world in existence where I wouldn't want you as my muna."
Tears returning, Elia hugged him closer. Loving him beyond what mere words could convey. Across the table, Lyanna took Rhaegar's hand, squeezing it with tears of her own. They truly had the most wonderful son.
Peeking out of her embrace, Jon met Daenerys' gaze and she beamed, winking at him.
Rhaegar, eyes flickering between his children, siblings, and muna - even Lady Melisandre - each cast Jon the most warm of glances. But when coming across Lord Tywin…
He was frowning. Meeting Rhaegar's eyes and gently shaking his head. In a manner where only the King could notice. Thinking for a moment, Rhaegar suddenly realized just how dangerous what Jon had done was. Profoundly stupid that such was a concern, but a concern nonetheless.
It was bold, it was proud. Requiring either great daring or simple misunderstanding of danger.
Could Arthur be right?
Why did he love it here so?
Perhaps it was the gentle trickle of water through the various fountains that pumped the refreshing liquid around the pools.
The lush vegetation in contrast to a land full of deserts and arid scrubland could also have been a factor.
Or was it simply the tranquility of being away from Sunspear and the hustle and bustle of the large town and port adjacent to it?
No, it was all of those for Doran Martell within the Water Gardens. Barely able to walk unless with a cane, the smattering of humidity and gentle cool air greatly helped his gout-ridden bones. Fresh fruit from the trees, daily butchered meat or gutted fish from the stocks, he wondered not how the second Princess Daenerys acclimated to her Dornish husband when he wandered the halls.
A sudden weakness came to him, Doran needing to brace himself to the wall for support lest he fall. He already leaned on the cane with everything in him. "My Prince." Aero Hoteh approached, letting Doran lean on his shoulder. "Should I fetch a Maester?"
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Doran blinked his eyes several times before letting out a relieved breath. "No, Aero, that is not necessary." While the weakness remained, Doran returned to enough strength to stand without assistance. "Simply this old body failing me."
"You are not old, my Prince, merely sick. If you would take my advice and visit the healers of the Summer Isles."
"Enough with that." Aero hailed from there and possessed the same dark skin and warrior poet nature. He opened his mouth, but felt a sharp twinge in his right knee as he put weight on it. "Mayhaps I should, but not now. Too much work to do."
Aero frowned, one of the few around Doran with leave to speak his mind. "And if you collapse again? I cannot risk your health."
A chuckle. "Aero, your talents are wasted playing nursemaid to a sick man such as myself." He stroked his beard. "I know you wish to train with the newest guardsmen, so escort me to my solar and you have my leave to go." His sworn sword nodded, grateful.
Doran's solar was an open one, balcony overlooking the heart of the gardens and high enough to catch a glimpse of the sea beyond. He adored it, and made to conduct the business of the Prince of Dorne here when he could. Papers covered his desk, but he sat in his padded chair with a goblet of Dornish Red from Kingsgrave and a platter of fresh fish, olives, and ewe's cheese. A proper diet, one that he intended to heartily enjoy.
And yet, there was always an exception to his tranquility. "You are overreacting to this!"
"And you are fucking underreacting to this!" Doran rolled his eyes, gulping down a decent helping of his wine just as his two children stormed into the solar. "Father, can you believe what this damned bastard has done?!"
He sighed and motioned for them to stand in front of him. "Forgive me, Quentyn, but how would I know what Prince Baelon has done if you have not told me?" Quentyn flushed red in embarrassment at the thought, his beaky knows and dark eyes focused on the floor. "Care to tell me, dearest daughter?"
Arianne Martell looked the spitting image of Elia, only shorter and darker, decked out in a very revealing dress that showed off every curve. The perfect exotic beauty that charmed men and women alike into her bed. Doran long ago gave up the vain hope to preserve her maidenhead, but made it clear that no bastard could come of her womb. She knew better, for Arianne was smart. Easily my most capable child. "My idiot brother is blowing this far out of proportion… Cousin Baelon won the Squire's Tourney."
"He's not our cousin, Ari!" Quentyn was furious.
"Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you… or do you not want the women of court to see your ass handed to you by your shorter sister?"
"The women of court know I'll win, cause they flock to me."
Arianne scoffed. "Please, I could seduce them far quicker than you, even the ones that do not favor women in their beds…"
"Silence!" Both children ceased their bickering at their father's shout. "Please, Ari, continue. I do not see what the issue is that we should be upset about - my nephew Aegon won the Squire's Melee last year."
She cleared her throat. "Exactly, but Quentyn has sand in his asscrack since his Grace knighted Baelon."
Cutting a chunk of fish with his knife, Doran froze just as he speared it with his fork. "Knighted, you say?"
"Youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre," grumbled Quentyn. "Our actual cousin is older and hasn't gotten that honor, while that's not the worst for it." I regret I ever let them speak. "The bastard adopted a sigil of a white dragon on black… with the sun in the center of it! He dared adopt the sigil of our house in his monstrosity! When he's not even of Martell blood!"
"Trystane says Aunt Elia embraced him wholeheartedly for it."
"Aunt Elia is a fool…" Quentyn was cut off when Arianne slapped him hard upside the cheek. "You stupid bitch…"
"Alright, enough!" Doran summoned the guards from outside. "Please escort Prince Quentyn to his chambers." The boy glared at his sister before storming off, guards right behind. When the doors closed, Doran let out a heavy sigh. "Ari, why must you antagonize him?"
She crossed her arms. "Because he's an arrogant, spoiled prick that thinks he'll be Prince of Sunspear simply because he has a cock."
"True that could be, he's still your brother. He's been that way since… your mother left for her home."
"And whose fault is that?!" Arianne was angry, but she was also hurt. "We've all suffered since mother left, you most of all. Just write her, tell her you were wrong, and beg her to come back."
He shook his head. "It won't help. Believe me."
Arianne scowled. "You're such a coward." Without another word she stormed out the same direction as Quentyn did only minutes before.
Slamming his fist against the arm of the chair, Doran contemplated his collapsing domestic life with regret and envy. Oberyn, with his wife and their large brood. Elia, with her husband and their strapping, powerful dragons…
And that brought the greatest source of his disgust and resentment. Lyanna Stark… The Wolf Whore, who stole the throne from their family for her own bastard pup.
Quentyn was too stupid to realize it, but his father wholeheartedly agreed with him - Doran just had the sense to never vocalize it. His sister's ears were everywhere and it made him burn in his core. She allows this, thinking that whore and her bastards are her family. Loving them, bedding her… He willed himself to calm down, breathing deeply. No sense in getting a stroke over it.
The sigil and knighthood were but mere symbols, but symbols of something Doran feared greatly. If the Martells didn't hold influence over the crown, then the status of Daeron II's special arrangement would be… up in the air. He couldn't allow that to happen, not when the Principality was at its greatest strength and wealth.
Baelon Targaryen threatened that.
He summoned his servant. "Find Aero Hoteh and bring him to me. I wish to speak with him."
"Gods… how can…" Even as the sea was calm as a millpond, Aenar Blackfyre released much of his midday meal out over the deck of the caraval. Green with malady and red with embarrassment. "Can anything smell so rancid?"
Leaning against the railing, his younger sister Daena merely smirked softly at his antics. They'd stayed in Ibben for the last moon, and for intermittent moons for the past several years, and he still hadn't acclimated to the vast whaling ships that dragged their immense cargo from the depths of the sea to the infamous port city. Likely cause we were inland most of the time, though that's no excuse.
No foreigner were allowed by the hairy men of the Shadow Counsel to travel inland, but gold and threats largely talked.
For the first time since their founder began his tragic quest for the Iron Throne, House Blackfyre had plenty of allies to effectuate such bribes and pledges of doom. Even the notoriously stubborn Hairy Men of Ib bowed and scraped.
But her brother refused to stop complaining. "Why must we stay in that shithole? It stank and the food is awful." They knew worse, but lately the fortunes of House Blackfyre improved and they'd been dining on more lordly fare. "Couldn't we go back to Braavos, or the Three Daughters?"
"We're going back to the Three Daughters, idiot," Daella shot back at him.
"I mean why didn't we stay there," he corrected quickly. "You know what I meant, stop being such a simple girl." The previous holder of her name had been universally regarded as a simple girl. This Daella was far from simple and she prided herself at it. I'm smarter than you are, brother.
Sometimes she just wanted to plunge her sword into his gut. The only downside would be the mess she'd have to clean up… not to mention muna's feelings.
The latter always stopped her.
"Lay off our sister," Gaemon interjected. Still older than her but not the oldest of the brood, Gaemon Blackfyre was named for the ancient Targaryen hero Gaemon the Glorious. He was just as bold and daring, but also had a calculating streak that imposed a sense of caution in him.
He was Daella's favorite person.
"She's being stupid!" Aenar interjected.
"No, you're being stupid! You know perfectly well why we have to stay in Ibben. Be thankful the Shadow Council takes our coin and doesn't ask questions about muna's other children."
While Daella was mostly glad to head back to civilization, that one factor caused her heart to clench in agony. My beautiful one. She missed him terribly, and loathed that he and the others had to be hidden.
One day… one day we will soar openly against our enemies.
Deep in thinking, she didn't catch her brothers nearly coming to blows till a new arrival separated them. "What's this? Two Princes acting like Sothoryos Apes?"
"Fuck off, buggerer, this doesn't concern you."
Bright red hair tied into a horsetail, Jon Connington's eyes narrowed. "Buggerer? Buggerer you say?"
Aenar snickered. "Aye, goes well with women, pansy, coward…"
Suddenly he was flipped on his back, Connington holding a sword to his throat - but lazily so. Only for the effect. "Never underestimate your opponent. The tiniest woman could be skilled enough to kill you when you least expect it."
Grumbling, Aenar only rose when the sword was taken away. Behind, Gaemon grinned at the knight he formerly squired for.
Daella had mixed feelings for Jon Connington, the man muna allied with not long after they fled Braavos and rendezvoused with the Golden Company - the first time House Blackfyre was among them since the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A good fighter and loyal, he injected a sense of logistical planning and strategic might to their cause. However, the man boiled with personal rage and a thirst for vengeance. Against whom Daella didn't know, but it was concerning.
Plus there was the fact that her charms had no effect on him as it did on all others. Daella was five and ten, her voluptuous body filling out and slimming down in all the right places. Just like muna, Daella knew just how far her pure Valyrian beauty just now starting to bloom from childhood cuteness into something more sensual could go in influencing people.
Connington wasn't one of them, thus giving more credence to Aenar's insults of him. Not that Daella cared, but someone she couldn't control could end up being a threat.
"Princess, your mother wishes to speak with you," a servant called out.
Daella nodded. "Until next time brothers."
"Count on it," Gaemon replied, while Aenar was silent.
Below decks, thankfully away from the foul stench of the fat-bellied wailing vessels, the largest cabin was reserved for their muna. Daella knew it wasn't just desire for luxury - Sarra Blackfyre was not one that worshipped at the altar of vanity and comfort as many highborns, shunning that of their father's. No, the space was what she desired.
As evidenced by the massive pile of barrels and chests containing her… mixtures and ingredients. "Muna? You called for me?"
"Ah, child." Sarra was still tall and beautiful, violet eyes framed by jet black hair - truly a Blackfyre in the literal sense of the word. She could easily pass for a maiden of merely eight and ten. "Yes, I did call for you. Come, sit."
Daella perched herself on the edge of her muna's bed. "So what is this about?"
"News from Westeros." A grimace on her face. "Crown Prince Baelon has been knighted."
"The bastard?" Daella knew of him - mostly negative rants from her brother or Connington. "Isn't he younger than even I?"
"Aye, he broke the title that our founder held, the youngest knight ever ordained by a mere moon in age." Snorting, Sarra stood and paced a bit. "I know many would assume that he was just given this as another crown for a spoiled princeling, but from what the whispers say he earned it. A dual wielder just like Arthur Dayne."
Daella's eyes widened. "Dual wielding? At a mere two and ten? Impossible." Her aim was vastly off the mark in her assumptions about the bastard Prince. "He will be very powerful."
"Aye, and he rides the dragon called the Black Dread Reborn. A formidable foe both on the ground and in the skies." Her eyes bored intensely upon Daella. "Such is why we are to increase your training to put you on level with your brothers."
"But I can beat my brothers now!" Daella insisted, huffing. She'd compare me to them?
Sarra grinned devilishly. "Exactly, but you must be ready to vanquish those at your brother's level in training, of which Prince Baelon clearly is now. Rest up." She pecked her on the cheek. "We begin tomorrow."
"That wonderful, amazing son of ours," Lyanna gushed, stretching before bed in her silk nightgown. "Did any of you know he was going to create that sigil?"
Rhaegar, doing some pre-sleep calisthenics on the wooden floor, grunted in the negative. "Not in the slightest." Up and down he pushed his body up with his arms, bare-chested as he did so. "Elia?"
Out of all of them, it was Elia that was the most touched. "I think Tyrion helped him out, but it was all Daenerys and Robb for the most part that he confided in." A sigh. "He truly loves me as his mother…"
"Well why wouldn't he?" Lyanna hugged Elia from behind. "He's our perfect Prince."
Rising, draining a cup of water dry, Rhaegar had to brace himself against the beams. Forgetting momentarily they were shipborne. The fleet of ten ships had departed from King's Landing north towards White Harbor, guarded by the maze of dragons flying overhead. For once Aemon was traveling north with them, while Viserys and Talisa stayed behind to watch over the Red Keep.
With the majority of the small council, though Tywin and Tyrion traveled with them as well.
Standing, he waited for his wives to stop cooing at each other before he broke the silence. "About Arthur's offer…
Lyanna's head whipped around. "You're actually considering that?!"
He held his hands up. "Hear me out, I'm not saying I agree…"
"Then it's not happening." The northern Queen shook her head. "I'm not risking Baelon again. No, he's staying here, safe, where he belongs."
"Lya… Tywin and I were speaking before the voyage."
Now it was Elia that answered. "And what does that cold bastard have to say?"
"Elia, please… the sigil, as touching as it was you know it will not be received well in Dorne."
"He's my son too," she replied, but looked down. The point was hard to refute - most of her homeland didn't see Baelon as part-Dornish in how he was raised. They weren't as enlightened as herself, Oberyn, Ellaria, Arianne, and the Daynes. "They will learn to love him."
"Still, we cannot take the risk of him acting so impulsive and brash. Perhaps what Arthur suggests, within reason, would be good for him?"
Crossing her arms, Lyanna was as stubborn as a mule and far more ferocious. "I refuse to believe my son is so irredeemable as to need to travel the world as a common orphan just to save him. He's our son, the most perfect little boy."
"No one is suggesting anything different, my love." Rhaegar encircled her waist from behind, thanking every god he knew when she merely sulked and didn't wiggle out of his embrace - or stop him from kissing her neck. "He is the most wonderful child, bright, studious, skilled, and honorable. But everyone can be corrupted by wealth and greed."
"Viserys being one of them," snorted Elia.
Rhaegar groaned into Lya's shoulder. "Stop saying that."
Now it was Lya's turn to groan, though it was only half in annoyance as Rhaegar resumed his kisses. "He's spoiled, my dragon. Spoiled and bitter."
"I wish not to talk about this, only about Jon." He tugged at her nightgown, exposing her bare shoulder which was now assaulted with open mouthed kisses. Gods, why do they wear these? They usually disappeared sometime in the night anyway, the royals falling asleep fully naked and intertwined. "Arthur raises a point, and all I ask is that we consider it." A hand drifted over a silk-covered breast.
Turning to counter, Elia noticed her husband groping their wife, Lyanna much too tempted by lust to respond. Her bottom lip was sucked betwixt her teeth and she was bucking her hips lightly. Elia's own control threatened to falter. "Mayhaps we should, but I cannot think Baelon such - Arthur, Tywin, and yourself are the only ones with such observations." Standing, she moved towards Lyanna with purpose. "No more talking."
Lya felt her arms being tugged up. She complied, rewarded as Elia peeled the nightgown from her and took a nipple into her mouth. "Mmmm… Elia…" her hands gripped Elia's hair, holding her in place while Rhaegar continued to lavish her neck and ear with licks. "Jon… you can't…"
"We're discussing it later, my love," Elia insisted, her own nightgown hiked to her waist while she circled her own nub - getting herself wet, though such wouldn't be much of a problem.
Rhaegar bit onto Lya's shoulder, coaxing a moan when he sucked a reddish mark. Branding her as his yet again. "I think we should move to the bed."
"Mmmm… a fantastic idea, husband." With Rhaegar pushing and Elia pulling, the trio soon collapsed onto the bed. Elia first on her back, scooting up the bed without losing her suckling grip on Lya's breast. Lyanna crawled in unison, and upon reaching the head of the bed doing her damndest to yank the nightgown off of Elia.
Breaking contact with her nipple, Elia soon had it replaced over her mouth with Lya's, the two kissing hungrily. They truly were blessed, familiarity over the last thirteen years only heightening the lust rather than dampening it. How could one not? The most beautiful woman and man in the world in the eyes of the two Queens… they knew every plane of their bodies, every curve and sensitive spot… every spot that made them moan and scream and cum so deliciously.
It was the greatest of aphrodisiacs.
Lya's mouth defiled Elia's body, her fingers blazing a trail until they batted aside the Dornish beauty's and slithered into her cunt. Two fingers pumping as Elia moaned into her mouth. So distracted was she that she didn't notice Rhaegar ease onto the bed behind her. Didn't notice his face lowering till it lapped at her slit from behind. "Oh, fuck," she gasped against Elia's lips. "Oh, husband… yessss…"
He lapped at the wet cunt like a man starving of thirst, but for Rhaegar it was just the warm up. Angling behind her back on his knees, he positioned his hardened member over her wet cunt. Making sure she felt it. "Do you want it, my Queen?"
His answer was a wanton moan. "Yes, my King. Fuck me." Lyanna added a third finger into Elia, making her scream against her skin.
Such was enough for Rhaegar. Once aligned, he plunged his cock into her cunt. Lya bucked hard, but his hands were firm. Keeping her down, keeping her fucking their wife. Keeping her still while he began to thrust in and out, her cunt just as tight as they were when they married.
Lyanna was in heaven. The sound of skin clapping as his hips rocked against her juicy ass filled her with the most glorious feeling. His cock reaching places deep inside her only it could reach. "Oohhh, yes Rhaegar... give it to me!"
Rhaegar did just that, spearing into her at a punishing pace.
As for Elia, she fisted the sheets with one hand and clawed down Lya's back with the other, gasping and screaming the filth of a slattern. Fuck, she loved it. Lya's fingers pleasuring her as Rhaegar was undoubtedly pleasuring Lya. It was too much. "I'm cumming!"
"Meee too!" Both screamed against each other's skin, their essences leaking out of their pulsating cunts to coat Lya's fingers and Rhagar's cock.
Finally, at Lyanna's sensations, Rhaegar spent himself. He groaned and came, spurting five ropes of seed into his northern Queen. How do these two seem to keep me so young? Other men his age were close to grey, yet here he was as virile as a decade earlier.
He decided just to embrace it and grinned down on his brides, fisting his cock for the continuation. Lyanna laid on top of Elia, their faces in the crooks of each other's necks. He could only see Elia's face, her brown eyes half-fogged in pleasure and lust as she caught her breath.
The sight quickly readied him for more.
"Come here, Rhaegar," Elia urged, pushing lightly on Lyanna to roll her off. "It is my turn for the dragon cock." Willingly, Rhaegar settled himself on top of her, grinning all the way.
Lyanna, coming out of her own fog, laid on her side and was content to watch the show. Licking her lips.
"Rhaegar," Elia whispered in his ear, licking the shell. "I need you inside me, now."
Her demanding voice turning him on like a lantern, Rhaegar slammed their lips together in a hungry kiss. Elia answered his kisses with the same enthusiasm, hands gripping his shoulders with long nails. Her legs parted and wrapped around Rhaegar's waist, finding his cock nudging her cunt. Oh… yess...
"Rhaegar, please," whimpered Elia, unable to stop herself grinding against his cock.
Looking at Lyanna, he found her playing with her clit. Staring at them intently. "You heard her," she growled like a wolf. "Fuck your Queen, Rhaegar Targaryen," Lya commanded, leaning forward to kiss him savagely and guiding his cock with her powerful hand toward's Elia's entrance.
"Fuck!" Elia screamed, stretched open so deliciously. As with Lyanna, he refused to hold back - knowing his Dornish love could take it. He slammed into her, again and again, the force of his thrusts driving Elia up towards the headboard.
The angle of his pounding hit a certain spot that drove her wild. "Yes, right there!" Elia cried out, only for a muscular leg to swing over her face. "Lya…"
"Eat me, love," begged Lyanna, not having to wait long before a long tongue slithered into her cunt. "Ah… fuck… so good." She grabbed the headboard, letting the rocking of the ship guide her slit along Elia's mouth.
The three lovers played each other like musical instruments, the night growing long and moans growing ever louder as the time went on.
"I'm so close," gritted Rhaegar.
"As am I," moaned Lyanna.
"Shatter for me," Elia begged, only to dive into Lyanna's cunt and buck further, meeting Rhaegar thrust for thrust.
Her commands were obeyed, her mouth filled with Lya's juices and cunt with Rhaegar's seed.
Soon, they were all collapsed together, panting, tired, but happy. "I love you," Rhaegar told the both of them. "I will not harm our son, I promise." He received two kisses upon his body in response. Drifting to sleep, he smiled.
Nothing could tear them apart.
"Alright! Alright! Next group!" The crack of the whip punctuated the statement. "Move it along!"
Cowering in the corner, a young girl hugged the one person left of her family as the guards descended into the pit when no one would come out. "You heard him, let's git!" One guard grabbed a woman by her hair and dragged her out towards the platform ahead of them, from which a loud cacophony of a large crowd echoed behind.
All the guards were armored and carrying swords sheathed on their hips. Overkill for them against a pen of women from Naath, a notoriously pacifistic land, giving credence to the paranoia of the Essosi slave cities and empires.
But such paranoia made them strong, the system entrenched.
Eyes shut, young Missandei wept, one and ten namedays upon the world leaving her aimless in such torment. Old enough to know loss and fear, but not old to understand what truly happened - only that her mother, father, and brothers were nowhere to be seen. Make it end… make it end…
"Shhhh, shhhh." Rubbing her back, her aunt cooed softly. "It's alright. I'm here. You're not alone." She was always one to know what her mind was thinking.
"Aya," Missandei murmured, using the Naathi word for aunt. "What is happening? Where are mama and papa?" The last she remembered of them was the fire consuming the sleepy little seaside village back in her home. Them trying to put out the fire while driving the children to run into the groves of palm and cypress trees… hiding there covered in soot and trembling until a rough pair of hands yanked her up by her clothing and carried her to a boat. Manicled chains and a dark hold in the belly of the great ship awaited her for an endless number of days…
Till she reached here. Wherever here was, that is.
"I'll take you to them soon, I promise," her Aya replied after a long silence. Did Missandei believe her?
She wanted to believe her."
The clop of shoes on wood made the entire pen of female slaves cringe. It was their owner, he whose brand was marked on their collars. "Next one," he demanded, corpulent frame being fanned by a quiet male slave - his coloring being much lighter than that of the darker Naathi. "Hmmm…" The master's ruddy eyes settled on where Missandei rested. "Ah, the pretty girl. Bring her to me."
"Noooo!" screamed her aunt, holding her tightly as the guards whipped their way across the pen - carefully as to not damage the merchandise. "You can't take her from me!"
"Aya!" Missy cried as rough hands grabbed at her shoulder and frizzy hair.
"Let go, bitch!" one of them roared, shoving her Aya aside. "Let's go, girlie."
"Missandei!" The last words the crying girl of Naath would ever hear of her aunt was the calling of her name, mixed with sobs of pure agony.
The master soon brought Missandei close to him, cupping her chin with his meaty fingers and breathing a putrid stink into her face. "No flaws. Teeth perfect… a very pretty face. Some pleasure house would love you."
He spoke bastard Valyrian, as exotic to the Naathi tongue as the Naathi tongue was to it. But for Missandei, she understood it… some of it at least. "Please… let… me go…" she said in halting Valyrian. "I want… to be with… my Aya."
Rather than slap her as she expected, the corpulent man blinked, astonished. "You speak Valyrian? How?!" He turned angrily to one of his comrades. "Did you find some noble girl and fail to inform me?!"
"No, mi'Lord. This is just some common girl, I swear it."
"So where did she learn Valyrian? Hmmm, tell me, girl!" he demanded.
"I… I… I…" Missandei was shaking, sure she would be killed or sold to some monster. "I picked… talk… on ship…"
He snorted. "You're saying you picked up our tongue on your own? Don't fucking lie to me, girl." But Missy merely looked at him, not knowing what to say… or what he really wanted. It was the truth, after all. "Huh, Naathi don't usually lie, do they?"
The other man, a slave-catcher by the looks of him, shook his head. "That's why they make the best slaves, mi'Lord."
Eyes lighting up, the master patted Missandei's cheeks. "Oh, this is good. Come'ere, girl." With a tug and push, soon Missandei was thrust into the center of the platform under the glare of many torches and the attention of dozens. She stood there frozen, trembling under their many gazes. "Now, I have a special treat for everyone!" hollered the auctioneer. "A girl of Naath, beautiful and unspoiled by disease or the touch of another… yet this is no ordinary girl." His voice was proud and truly animated. "She has a mind of great worth and a talent for languages. Wish for a bedwarmer that can communicate with any soul from anywhere in the world? Well, this is the girl for you! Bidding starts at a hundred gold dragons."
"One hundred!" one man proclaimed quickly.
"Two hundred!" He was promptly outbid by another who looked at Missandei with hunger, making her flinch.
"Five hundred!" A woman this time, though her look was no less hungry.
The bidding continued furiously, the Lysenes fighting over who would finally get the prized girl. Missy merely tried not to weep, feeling faint. Her master, meanwhile, was simpering with glee as the prices were nearly doubling what he obtained on his last most valuable acquisition.
Finally, the bid was marked down. "Six thousand, seven hundred!" Missy blinked and found a pretty but severe woman without any sense of emotion looking at her. As old as her mother, perhaps older.
Her master slapped his meaty palm on the podium. "Sold! Come and collect her for yourself." He waved her off and the guards dragged Missandei off the platform.
Waiting to the side as the auction continued, bags of gold exchanged hands and soon the chafing, uncomfortable collar was replaced as the woman approached and affixed her own. It was of finer quality and didn't hurt, but Missandei still felt as if she were choking. "How many languages do you speak, girl?" her new mistress asked.
Missy squirmed under the intense stare. "Um… two… Naathi and… Valyrian…"
The woman nodded. "You will learn more if you're as quick a study as he made you out to be, come on." Yanking her by the arm, Missandei's eyes gave a last look at the pen, hoping desperately to see one last glimpse of her aunt.
She would be disappointed.
A/N: Enter Missandei. Was hard to write, but she won't suffer for much longer.
We also see Dorne and the Blackfyres.
Jon's a sweetheart, but Rhaegar is convinced that Arthur is right.
Until next time! I'll try to keep a semi-decent update schedule.