[ another game, she thinks, of wolves and sheep. alicent plays along in part to maintain favour with the balfours — to say nothing of the heat blossoming under her skin, the flush that rouges her breasts, neck, cheeks as she sheds her gowns and dons her mask. a doe, oft cornered by lords so that the king may shoot the killing arrow. pathetic, in truth, that her husband could not hunt such docile prey. he would never have had her, even, if not for her and her father’s efforts. viserys offered her neither seduction nor conquest. the indolence of a royal lot.
her hunter, however, does not languish. there may have been two or more contenders at the start, but the world narrows to the one, glimpsed between the trees. the scent of him overwhelms, at once familiar and revelatory — she recognises him as the boy — the man she sat beside twice, to bestow power upon him and save him from death. an absurd thought: was he hunting her then, eyes beseeching and tongue honeyed?
she uses everything furiosa taught her to evade capture, even as her legs grow wobbly and her breathing shortens, pitching low and ragged (to say nothing of her heart, taking flight behind her ribs). in her growing desperation, she cuts left, into a clearing — and thus finds herself both exposed and caught. relief floods her first, overriding the instinct to dart away. the fluttering in her gut, her chest, seem anticipatory rather than nervous, for the sight of a familiar face, who might have pursued anyone in the game and instead found her, seemingly rattling apart with the want. her big eyes catch on the divot of his hip, the curve of his cock, then the muscled planes of his back, as he passes behind her.
her mask stays in place, the only armour left to her, though she does not shy from his hungry assessment. instead, she sweeps her auburn curls over her shoulder to bare her breasts (as well as the flat of her stomach with its fain stretch mark; mother to four, even if she did not raise the last). ]
Hm. [ he speaks as though he knows what she wants, which irks and charms in equal measure. for she imagines fisting her hands in his curls so he can do nothing but please her with his mouth. no, even in her spiralling fantasies that leaves her wanting, when he should press her into the clearing floor, fill her up as her husband never could. a dream more unladylike and debaucherous than all she allowed her knight, in the dignity of her chambers. ]
Do you think a queen wishes to kneel, unconquered?
[ nevermind that she doubts she could or would slip from his grasp again, with her whole body aching for him. once, desire was foreign to her, subsumed entirely by duty. now, she knows the shape of it, amorphous though it can be. difficult, still, to gauge whether she wants something simply because it has been asked of her, after a lifetime of obedience, but this feeling, this molten heat, could not be an act to fool her predators or herself. ]
[ tone arch, ] You might consider begging, if you think yourself incapable.
[ of capture and conquest, the name of the game. even if she no longer wishes to run (if her stomach cramps with need, if her whole body shivers when he faces her again), she is a prideful woman. and she spoke true to him, before, men have competed and warred for her hand. she’ll not be so easily won. ]
no subject
her hunter, however, does not languish. there may have been two or more contenders at the start, but the world narrows to the one, glimpsed between the trees. the scent of him overwhelms, at once familiar and revelatory — she recognises him as the boy — the man she sat beside twice, to bestow power upon him and save him from death. an absurd thought: was he hunting her then, eyes beseeching and tongue honeyed?
she uses everything furiosa taught her to evade capture, even as her legs grow wobbly and her breathing shortens, pitching low and ragged (to say nothing of her heart, taking flight behind her ribs). in her growing desperation, she cuts left, into a clearing — and thus finds herself both exposed and caught. relief floods her first, overriding the instinct to dart away. the fluttering in her gut, her chest, seem anticipatory rather than nervous, for the sight of a familiar face, who might have pursued anyone in the game and instead found her, seemingly rattling apart with the want. her big eyes catch on the divot of his hip, the curve of his cock, then the muscled planes of his back, as he passes behind her.
her mask stays in place, the only armour left to her, though she does not shy from his hungry assessment. instead, she sweeps her auburn curls over her shoulder to bare her breasts (as well as the flat of her stomach with its fain stretch mark; mother to four, even if she did not raise the last). ]
Hm. [ he speaks as though he knows what she wants, which irks and charms in equal measure. for she imagines fisting her hands in his curls so he can do nothing but please her with his mouth. no, even in her spiralling fantasies that leaves her wanting, when he should press her into the clearing floor, fill her up as her husband never could. a dream more unladylike and debaucherous than all she allowed her knight, in the dignity of her chambers. ]
Do you think a queen wishes to kneel, unconquered?
[ nevermind that she doubts she could or would slip from his grasp again, with her whole body aching for him. once, desire was foreign to her, subsumed entirely by duty. now, she knows the shape of it, amorphous though it can be. difficult, still, to gauge whether she wants something simply because it has been asked of her, after a lifetime of obedience, but this feeling, this molten heat, could not be an act to fool her predators or herself. ]
[ tone arch, ] You might consider begging, if you think yourself incapable.
[ of capture and conquest, the name of the game. even if she no longer wishes to run (if her stomach cramps with need, if her whole body shivers when he faces her again), she is a prideful woman. and she spoke true to him, before, men have competed and warred for her hand. she’ll not be so easily won. ]