ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 24: The Lenten Bed and the Crown of Flowers
POV: Ros (297 A.C.)
As my footsteps echoed through the imposing granite corridors of Winterfell, I couldn't help but dwell on the absolute insanity of the past few days. A full week had already passed since the start of what the nobility and smallfolk had dubbed, with due exaggeration, "the Wedding of the Century." At this very moment, I was heading to the private chambers of the king and his wife. And yes, I emphasize the term wife, because Margaery Tyrell had not yet been officially crowned queen. By northern laws and traditions, a legitimate coronation depended on the formal conclusion of the matrimonial consummation, and the royal couple—along with their dynastic appendages—had been locked into that routine for seven consecutive days.
Watching the reactions of the southern lords throughout this week had become my favorite pastime. The faces of the dignitaries from the Reach and the Crownlands were the purest portrait of worry and embarrassment—elderly men of high lineage whispering in corners, fearing that the young rose of Highgarden was being torn in half by the eccentricities of the North. In contrast, the rustic lords of the North celebrated with every passing dawn. For them, that marathon of sheets was seen as a resounding victory in a mystical, virile competition that apparently only their minds understood.
Upon reaching the end of the main corridor, I came across the immense, static silhouette of Inverno, Arawyn's personal direwolf, who served as the sentry of the royal door, lying down like a sphinx of gray fur. Inverno. I had to admit to myself that my king possessed a terrible lack of creativity when it came to naming his beasts. He had summarily rejected my name suggestion as well as Rhaenys's. The Targaryen girl's proposal actually made some sense to discard, after all, Morghul was a name heavy with omens of death and possessed an ancient Valyrian sonority that did not match the soil of the North. However, my name was instantly rejected for a reason I could never decipher. After all, why on earth wouldn't Lord Marshmallow be an excellent name for an alpha predator?
I approached slowly, crouching down before the creature's massive head and running my hands through the thick, frosty fur of his neck.
"Good morning, Lord Marshmallow, my beautiful little boy," I murmured in a soft voice.
The direwolf opened one of his green eyes, fixed it directly on my face, and made a slow ocular movement, seemingly rolling his eyes in pure boredom and disdain. I shook my head. Surely it was just an optical illusion caused by the distant torches trying to illuminate that corridor, which was almost entirely plunged into darkness.
Upon pushing open the heavy oak doors and entering the imperial chambers, the scene that unfolded before my eyes was exactly in line with what my projections had anticipated. Over the unmade bed, my king and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen were executing what Arawyn used to call, with his sharp humor, "morning physical exercises." Judging by the extreme curvature the dornish princess's body found itself in and the way the monarch suspended her, this morning's session was dedicated exclusively to anatomical flexibility tests.
Further away, nestled in a padded oak armchair before the hearth, was the future queen. Margaery Tyrell displayed a posture that in no way recalled the aristocratic modesty that the septas of Highgarden so heavily preached; she was completely naked, with her legs thrown casually over the arm of the furniture, quietly sipping a full goblet of Arbor wine. The thin layer of sweat covering the skin of her shoulders and chest indicated that she had just been dismissed from her own round of exercises to regain her strength.
Without asking permission, I walked over to the armchair and sat directly on its wooden arm, appreciating without any modesty the vigorous choreography of the king claiming the last lineage of Old Valyria. Observing the carnal duel between Arawyn and Rhaenys possessed a magnetic quality that I couldn't explain in purely logical terms.
The Targaryen's body looked as if it had been sculpted by the gods to function as an ultimate tool of seduction, carrying that sinuosity and heat characteristic of the women of Dorne. In one of our past nights, Arawyn had confided to me in a pragmatic manner that if Dorne were geographically positioned in place of the Riverlands or the Vale of Arryn, he would have already marched with his runic armies to conquer it years ago, solely for logistical convenience. To the immense luck of the Martells, they inhabited the other end of the continent. The moans Rhaenys was emitting at that moment possessed a cadence so explicitly erotic that they would certainly be capable of raising the member of a hundred-year-old lord on his deathbed.
I couldn't help but think to myself that we would have a practical opportunity to test this medical theory when we marched in a retinue to the Wall, since the records indicated that Maester Aemon had already crossed that centenary mark.
"Make sure to show due respect for your elders before subjecting him to your experiments, Ros," Arawyn spoke aloud, his deep voice cutting through the sounds of the room without him even breaking his rhythm or averting his eyes from Rhaenys.
"Get out of my head, my king, or I will be seriously forced to direct my thoughts toward that specific memory of the Neck," I shot back aloud, narrowing my eyes at him.
The threat worked. Arawyn stopped his pace for a brief second, turning his face to look at me with a dangerous glint in his green eyes.
"As soon as I finish the morning's work with the princess, you are next in line," the monarch declared, his deep voice heavy with a serious promise. "I want to see if you will hold onto that same cockiness and audacity when you are beneath my weight."
With that said, he immediately returned to his vigorous attempt to split the dornish princess in half. Beside me, a melodious laugh cut through the sound of the room. Margaery Tyrell watched the scene with genuine amusement.
"Please, Ros, promise me that you will never change" Margaery commented, bringing the wine goblet to her lips.
I furrowed my brow, looking her up and down. I really couldn't understand that statement. Was there perhaps something wrong with me—or something excessively right—that required a change? My only plausible conclusion was that the excess of semen and continuous sexual activity of the past seven days had finally begun to damage the mental discernment of the poor girl from the Reach. I couldn't help the urge to stare at her with a deep expression of pity and commiseration.
Margaery, noticing the change in my countenance, arched an eyebrow and adjusted her posture in the armchair.
"Why are you staring at me with that look of pure envy, Ros dear?" she asked, with a sweet tone that poorly disguised her pride.
Poor thing. Her mind was so clouded that she mistook the purest feeling of pity for dynastic envy. I turned my face toward the large runic glass mirror adorning the opposite wall and analyzed my own reflection. Well, being honest and evaluating from the angle I was positioned, that expression really could be interpreted as envy by an outside observer... but I guarantee it was just pity. Believe me.
Besides, who should believe me? What a strange line of thought. I felt as if my mind were breaking some invisible barrier or dialoguing with the void for a brief second.
I was abruptly snapped out of my metaphysical daydreams when I felt a thick, calloused hand grip my chin firmly, forcing me to look up.
The king was already before me. I cast my eyes back to the bed and saw that Rhaenys had collapsed against the fur pillows, completely exhausted and unable to move a single muscle. The Targaryen possessed an obvious biological advantage over Margaery and me: her Valyrian blood magic granted her body a capacity for regeneration and endurance that allowed her to withstand Arawyn's excesses for much longer. I, at least, had received physical enhancements to my muscular structure through the runological infusions of the Winter Throne over the years. The future queen, on her part, relied solely on face, courage, and the pure obstinacy of her southern lineage not to faint. Since none of us carried the genuine Stark wolf blood, the royal bed became a true testing ground for survival.
Arawyn released my chin and walked to the table to pour himself another horn of his fortified mead. I took advantage of the brief interval to quickly begin shedding my own clothes. I was no fool; I wouldn't give this idiot the chance to rip my fine garments, just as he had done with Rhaenys's clothes—whose silk tatters now decorated the stone floor—or with his own wife's attire. That detailed lace lingerie Margaery had brought from Highgarden was a masterpiece of tailoring, and the monarch had simply destroyed it with his teeth as if it were a piece of old leather.
As soon as I was completely naked, Arawyn approached and wrapped his massive arms around my body, pulling me against his fit, rune-covered chest. He looked down at me and then glanced at my clothes, which were neatly folded and placed on top of the oak chest. A corner smile appeared on his lips, as if he had just processed an internal joke that only he understood. He began to lead me toward the bed.
Before climbing onto the mattress, I heard the characteristic snap of magical combustion. I quickly looked over my shoulder and witnessed the exact moment the bastard threw a small spark of elemental fire directly onto the pile of my clothes, reducing them to ashes in a few seconds.
"Why did you do that, you big, stupid..." I snapped, the anger rising in my cheeks.
"It is an ancient northern tradition of purification by fire before the act, my dear," he replied, letting out a muffled laugh that gave away the lie.
"Tradition my ass!" I bellowed, not filtering my words.
In the next millisecond, regret hit me hard, but the mistake was already made. Arawyn flashed a predatory smile. With an agile movement, he threw me face down onto the fur mattress, keeping only the upper part of my torso supported by the pillows. I felt his body position itself behind me and, right after, the rough touch of his runic fingers tracing a firm vertical line between my buttocks, stopping exactly at my rear entrance.
"Excellent. Let's verify, then, if this ass of yours complies with the traditions of my realm," the monarch murmured.
I felt the pressure of his palm flat against the base of my spine, at the upper end of what he usually vulgarly termed "the butt crack." In that specific region of my skin, there lay a hidden runic inscription of a circular design. Upon channeling his own mystical energy into the matrix, an immediate sensation of itching and heat spread through my anal entrance, disappearing as fast as it had arisen. I had to accept the facts: the miserable bastard had spent hours of arcane study to develop a rune whose sole and exclusive purpose was to facilitate and optimize the practice of anal sex.
In the next instant, the tip of that structure of over twenty centimeters pressed against my outer folds. The member invaded my posterior canal with a fluidity and lack of friction that completely defied the natural mechanics of human flesh; in a few controlled thrusts, I received the entirety of his length all at once. Although the rune was active, the initial process still held a considerable amount of pain and discomfort—after all, accommodating a diameter of that magnitude in a region not designed for it should be a physical impossibility. However, the runic gears soon began to work. Arawyn started the movements slowly and rhythmically, but it didn't take long for him to apply all his usual speed and brute force.
As a woman who had spent the last few years fascinated by the study of runic matrices, I immediately understood the engineering behind that specific mark on my skin. The inscription worked by temporarily altering the elastic properties of the muscular tissues in that region, expanding the dilation capacity of both the external sphincter and the internal walls. Obviously, the royal member was not invading my intestinal tract; instead, the narrow portion succeeding the entrance was being tensioned and stretched to its maximum limit without tearing. The second and more diabolical characteristic of the rune was its ability to convert nerve signals of pain into pure impulses of synaptic pleasure. The result was an overwhelming double sensation that obliterated my capacity for logical reasoning. A few minutes after the start of the bombardment, my body spasmed as I hit the first of a series of violent orgasms, soaking the fur sheets beneath my belly with an embarrassing intensity.
After what I calculated to be long, tortuous minutes of continuous friction, Arawyn finally reached his own limit. He gripped his hands tightly on my hips and discharged a massive amount of his warm seeds into the depths of my canal. As soon as he withdrew from inside me, I felt the excess fluid slowly trickling down my thighs, dirtying the rest of the already devastated bed.
I leaned back on my side, trying to stabilize my faltering breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Margaery Tyrell had already bathed in a side tub and was duly dressed in her gala attire, while Rhaenys finished adjusting her own dornish garments. The movement in the chambers indicated that the Lenten bed had finally come to an end; the official coronation would indeed take place today. Apparently, I would have only a few minutes to rest my body before being forced to bathe and get dressed for the ceremony as well. I looked toward Arawyn, who was smiling in an extremely suspicious and satisfied manner as he put on his royal robes. I simply hated him with all my strength.
Hours later, the ceremony began in the Great Hall of Winterfell. I found myself positioned in a prominent area near the steps of the Winter Throne, flanking the remaining members of House Stark and the direct associates of the crown. Internally, I felt like the most miserable creature in that castle: I reeked of sex in an almost perceptible way, my legs threatened to fail with every shift of weight, and my backside remained completely filled with the royal semen. The only mystical concession my wretched king had allowed before we dragged ourselves out there was authorizing Rhaenys to use her liquid manipulation abilities to draw the layer of sweat from our bodies. Nothing more.
I tried to shift my focus away from my physical discomfort and concentrate on the solemnity of the event. In the center of the stone altar, Lady Lyanna Stark held a black velvet cushion upon which rested the new consort crown. The piece was a jewel of runic engineering and visual delicacy, molded from a translucent crystal alloy that perfectly mimicked the shape of intertwined leaves and wild flowers, sprinkled with large, brilliant green emeralds that gleamed under the torchlight.
Lord Eddard Stark took a step forward, raised the runic artifact with both hands, and pronounced the traditional words with his solemn, resonant voice:
"Under the authority of this crown and before the living witness of the gods and men, I consecrate and proclaim you as the rightful Queen of the North."
Margaery Tyrell walked with impeccable elegance up the stone steps. She wore a magnificent forest-green velvet dress, whose seams displayed discreet gold threads that shimmered with every movement. The young southern girl approached the Winter Throne—the immense chair carved from black rock and adorned with raised figures of direwolves where Arawyn sat. Placed immediately next to the king's seat rose a second throne made of polished white stone; unlike the rigid austerity of the king's seat, the queen's chair had been entirely padded with fine furs and noble fabrics to ensure the comfort of the new sovereign.
Margaery knelt a single time before the monarch as a sign of institutional respect and then took her rightful seat on the white throne. At the exact instant her body settled into the structure, the runic matrices engraved on both stone chairs connected in a pulse of invisible energy. As a result of the magical resonance, dozens of real vines and wild flower buds sprouted from the crevices of the rock, winding around the arms and back of Margaery's throne, giving the entire piece an impressive aesthetic beauty.
In the lower galleries, where the southern lords observed the spectacle, a landed gentleman from the Reach murmured, marveled:
"Behold... the Queen of Spring."
A northern lord of great stature, positioned right next to the southerner, overheard the comment. With the typical rusticity of his people, the man threw his heavy arm over the southern noble's shoulders, flashed a wide grin, and bellowed at the top of his lungs to the entire hall:
"I like that fucking name! Long live the King of Winter and the Queen of Spring!"
The rustic shout acted as a trigger in the Great Hall. Within a few seconds, the phrase was caught by the crowd and repeated hundreds of times by the smallfolk and warriors, turning into a unison chorus that made the walls of Winterfell vibrate. At the top of the steps, I saw Arawyn flash a genuine smile at his wife, reaching out to hold Margaery's fingers. He rose from his seat and declared to the room:
"Let the festivities begin!"
The hall erupted into immediate celebrations. However, the royal euphoria was short-lived. I observed the slender figure of the castellan of Winterfell approach the throne with hurried steps and an expression of pure administrative panic stamped on his face. The man bowed before Arawyn and whispered in a tone audible to those nearby:
"My king... we have an urgent logistical problem. Our provisions of food and drink have reached a critically low level. This entire week of uninterrupted feasting has exhausted the castle's main stores."
Arawyn furrowed his brow, staring at the official with visible impatience.
"Then order them to bring the supplies from the strategic reserve in the granaries," the king determined plainly.
"That is the core of the matter, Your Majesty... the main reserve was already entirely consumed two days ago. And the stocks of the secondary reserve were also depleted last night," the castellan replied, swallowing hard.
The monarch narrowed his eyes, his expression becoming genuinely threatening.
"Are you trying to tell me that even the batch of ancient wine that I personally located and cataloged in the depths of the crypts of Winterfell has been consumed?"
The castellan lowered his face in pure shame and confirmed with a nod of his head. The revelation completely broke the young Stark's royal posture. Arawyn rose abruptly from his throne and bellowed with his thundering voice, silencing a considerable fraction of the hall:
"Who was the idiot devoid of intelligence who dared to open and drink the wine I kept in the crypts?!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a suspicious movement on the left side of the hall. The group composed of Robb Stark, Aegon Targaryen, Aemon, and young Roderick began to move sideways, trying to discreetly slip behind the support columns to reach the castle's service exits. I kept perfectly quiet, displaying only an internal smile of pure satisfaction.
Well, I had promised myself I would find a way to get my vengeance against the king for burning my clothes and forcing me to attend court in that miserable state. In truth, thinking about it, I hadn't actually verbalized that threat to anyone... but I had conceived it firmly in my thoughts, and in the end, mental intent was the only gear that truly mattered in that fortress.