“You are a knight of the realm now.” The sharp, melodious voice echoed from my right, reverberating softly off the wet, steaming stone walls of the royal bath chamber, though I did not bother to turn my head just yet.
Instead, I slid deeper into the sunken marble basin, resting the back of my aching neck against the smooth, heated rim of the tub.
I let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute, unadulterated bliss as the fragrant, boiling water soaked straight into my bruised muscles and tired bones.
Ah, sweet mother of God, life was magnificent.
This was precisely the kind of divine, luxurious physical therapy a weary warrior required to brighten up a long, exhausting afternoon.
As it turned out, beating up medieval knights, cracking their heavy wooden lances into a million flying splinters, and violently slamming big men into the dirt was the ultimate balm for the human soul.
Everyone in the world should try their hands on a hobby as relieving as beating people up.
No wonder original Maegor loved to murder people all the time.
“I suppose I am a proper knight now, aren’t I?” I answered lazily, finally rolling my head across the marble lip to watch my mother slipping beneath the rippling, mirrored surface of the deep water.
A knight of the Seven Kingdoms before my facial hair had even fully filled in.
Who in the hell would have ever predicted that when I first opened my eyes in this world?
If you really thought about it, I was practically living inside a Disney fantasy film.
I possessed an magical affinity for animals, I was disgustingly handsome, and now I had been dubbed a heroic knight by the King himself.
All I needed to complete the fairy-tale checklist was to go rescue some helpless, highborn princess locked away in a tall stone tower and decapitate a fire-breathing dragon.
Wait a minute, wasn’t that very similar to Prince Charming from the Shrek movies?
Hmm, I even had my own terrifying fairy god mother in the form of Visenya Targaryen.
But ofcourse, the best method for dealing with something was to simply look the other way and forget about the whole ordeal.
“You are the youngest person ever to be dubbed a knight, and I must admit I am proud of you,” Visenya said smoothly.
Her bright, luminous amethyst eyes glowed like burning jewels in the ambient torchlight as she waded through the chest-deep water toward my end of the basin.
Her heavy, silver-gold hair was soaked through, clinging to her ivory shoulders and back in sleek, shimmering, metallic strands.
“The youngest person ever knighted in history,” I mused aloud, shifting beneath the warm waves and rubbing my chin in thought.
“I highly doubt anyone is going to be breaking my record anytime soon.” In the original book continuity written by George, the youngest person to ever earn his golden spurs was Daemon Blackfyre, who got knighted at the ripe old age of twelve after tearing through a squire’s tourney.
That bastard was annoyingly perfect at every physical martial skill he touched.
He was basically written like a power-fantasy self-insert created by a fifteen-year-old, which might have been a great gig had he not ended up riddled with arrows on the Redgrass Field at the end of his rebellion.
Aside from Daemon, Jamie Lannister held a famous record by getting dubbed at fifteen by Ser Arthur Dayne, along with a tiny handful of other legendary historical figures scattered across the centuries, but all of them were noticeably older than me when they received the honor.
My record was secure, enshrined in the Citadel’s dusty ledgers until the end of days.
Visenya glided silently through the water until she was standing dangerously close, invading my personal space with the unhurried confidence of an apex predator.
She reached out with a dripping, slender arm and rested her palm directly against the center of my chest, feeling the steady thrum of my heartbeat.
Looking straight into my eyes, her sharp, pale face softened into a rare, breathtaking smile that could have launched a thousand warships as she leaned close.
“No one else in this entire realm can compare themselves to you, my son.
No one.” She pulled her hand back, shifting fluidly beneath the surface of the bath.
The water lapped against the carved stone edges of the basin as she placed her hands upon the flat rim of the tub, lifting her body out of the water with a single, remarkably graceful turn of her long, toned legs.
“Come here,” she commanded softly, resting her weight against the smooth marble ledge.
“Apply the soap to my back.” Lying flat on her stomach along the warm stone bench, resting her cheek against her folded arms, mother idly kicked a heavy bar of expensive, perfumed soap toward me with the heel of her foot.
I reached out and caught the slippery brick of soap between my palms right before it could slide back down into the depths of the tub, holding it up to the candlelight to inspect it with a critical eye.
The bar was clearly a luxury item imported straight from the free cities of Essos, far removed from the harsh, skin-peeling lye soap crafted from boiled pig fat that the local Westerosi commoners used to scrub their laundry.
This stuff was crafted from cold-pressed olive oils, sweet almond extracts, and infused with heavy, exotic scents of myrrh and crushed cinnamon wood.
How tragic, I thought to myself with a sigh.
When I was first reincarnated into this gritty medieval fantasy universe, I had fully expected to be plunged into a filthy, mud-caked, historical cesspool where every single person, including royalty, smelled like rotten cabbage and unwashed socks.
I thought I would be living like a dirty pig in a drafty barn.
Yet here I was, surrounded by scented Essosi oils and all the rich expensive stuff.
It turned out that the ultra-rich ruling class of high Valyrian blood enjoyed taking luxurious, fragrant baths every single day.
My disappointment was truly immeasurable, and my day was completely ruined.
This was the not the medieval experience I was promised!
Climbing out of the deep stone tub, water cascading off my shoulders in sheets, I gripped the bar of scented soap tightly between my fingers to ensure the slippery devil didn’t escape my grasp.
Of course, I had mostly been joking with my internal complaints.
I thoroughly enjoyed taking hot baths, especially when you had beauties scrubbing your skin raw until you glistened like a polished statue.
Believe me, once someone has experienced the absolute pinnacle of ancient feudal luxury, he would never voluntarily choose to take a cold shower ever again.
“If I have accomplished anything great, it is only due to your relentless instruction, I suppose,” I replied finally, a small smirk touching the corners of my mouth.
It was mostly the truth.
Because most of my time was spent in Dragonstone, where she was the one training me in everything.
Sitting down on the marble bench right near the back of her knees, I looked down at the stunning visual expanse stretched out before me.
Her pale skin was as smooth, flawless, and brilliantly white as polished ivory, glowing softly under the amber light of the oil lamps.
Her slender, narrow waist dipped down sharply before flaring out into the magnificent, sweeping curves of her hips and the firm, pillowy mass of her backside.
Her flesh was remarkably tight, sculpted by years of riding dragonback through high-altitude winds, yet full and supple to the eye.
Her long, shapely legs were pressed tightly together, preventing me from catching anything more than a fleeting glance at her lower frame, though the sheer aesthetic perfection of her silhouette was enough to make any mortal man lose his train of thought.
Rubbing the perfumed bar vigorously between my wet palms, I built up a thick, creamy lather before dipping my hands into a wooden bucket of boiling water to soften the foam.
I brought my hands down onto the back of her neck and long, muscular shoulders, my fingers sinking into her tense muscles.
A low, sweet sigh of relief escaped Visenya’s parted lips as I began my work, my thumbs pressing deep into the soft tissues to coax away the built-up tension from her training sessions.
My fingers worked masterfully across her shoulder blades, kneading the tight knots before I lathered the soap once more and slid my palms down the long, breathtaking curve of her spine.
“Your saddle during the final joust,” Visenya managed to ask, her breath hitching slightly as my palms pressed firm circles against her middle back.
“It looked…
distinctly different from standard knightly tack.
Why?” I hummed a quiet, noncommittal note in reply, my hands gliding downward to play along the smooth skin and small, delicate dimples located right above the curve of her waist.
I could feel her body subconsciously press itself down against the warm stone bench under the firm pressure of my movements.
“It is a custom design featuring a significantly higher cantle and angled stirrup mountings to give me maximum leverage,” I explained smoothly.
“While I am huge and broad for my age, it still would have not been as easy for me to unhorse grown men who weigh twice as much as me without the structural support of that modified frame.” When giant, fat bastards like Ser Burton Crakehall, who probably spent his spare time stealing food from defenseless peasant children and laughing in their faces, were charging down the lists at full speed, a smart fighter needed to utilize every available structural advantage to even the playing field.
It wasn’t technical cheating by any standard rules of the tourney, seeing as I still had to rely on my own reflexes and accuracy nine times out of ten, but it gave me a fighting chance against true physical freaks of nature.
Eh, perhaps I was being a bit too harsh on the Crakehall giant.
The man wasn’t actually fat in the traditional sense; he was more like a massive, big-boned lumberjack constructed out of raw muscle, but his sheer size made him a terrifying opponent.
Genetics in this fantasy world were a mystery anyway.
In what logical universe was a starveling street urchin like Dunk the Lunk able to grow well past six feet seven inches tall without receiving a single gram of proper nutritional protein throughout his entire childhood?
Shaking my head free of the lingering thoughts, I watched as my soapy hands slid even lower down her back, smoothly rising up to cup the full, heavy curves of her backside.
The pale flesh was amazingly soft and warm against my fingertips, and I gave the firm mass a gentle, appreciative squish, watching the pillowy weight yield effortlessly under the palm pressure.
As I lathered a bit more scented soap across my fingers, I paused for a brief moment, contemplating.
The grand tourney had been officially thrown to celebrate the second decade of my father’s reign over the Seven Kingdoms, bringing together every major lord, proud knight, and ambitious heir straight into the heart of King’s Landing.
My primary objective for the week had been simple: carve my name deep into the history books, establish a reputation, and build political clout among the younger generation, all of which I had accomplished for the most part.
Jousting was a good sport because it allowed me to utilize a few clever tricks and tight discipline to sway luck in my favor, but I had zero intention of participating in the brutal, chaotic, floor-level melee scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
While I possessed confidence in my sword arms, I was not a mindless, suicidal chicken who was going to willingly charge into a mass riot of bloodthirsty war veterans just to get my skull caved in by a stray morningstar from behind.
Baelor would surely know a thing or two about that.
Massaging the warm, yielding flesh trapped between my fingers, a wild, unhinged thought drifted through my brain, it would be an experience to just dive face-first into the softness right then and there.
Unfortunately, my fully modern frontal lobe was far too functional to allow me to attempt something like that.
Instead, I contented myself with squeezing and lifting the heavy curves until the soap was thoroughly worked into her skin.
Once I felt I had done a thorough job, I leaned back on my knees, giving her smooth backside one final, firm pat before standing up to stretch my stiff joints.
Visenya remained lying flat on the bench for a lingering moment, letting out a soft sigh before smoothly rolling over onto her back.
She did not bother to cover herself in the slightest, her dark amethyst eyes remaining closed as she bared her entire front side to the open air without an ounce of shame or modesty.
“It is of importance for a prince to thoroughly understand the body and minds of women,” she stated in a low voice, her eyes shut against the glowing torchlight.
“In the years to come, countless highborn maidens, ambitious ladies, and beautiful foreign courtesans will attempt to seduce you solely to manipulate your power for their own family’s benefit.
You must be fully prepared for their traps and learn to keep your mind clear and cold in such moments.” I offered an easy, unbothered shrug at her stern lecture.
While her harsh, practical political wisdom made complete sense in a brutal court, dying by snu snu at the hands of an gorgeous assassin didn’t sound like the worst way for a man to go out.
That was only if I were an old, decrepit man looking for an exciting exit, however.
For the time being, I had zero interest in dying by any method, no matter how breathtaking or deadly the assassin happened to be.
Picking up the block of Essosi soap once more, I accepted her implicit invitation and sat back down beside her.
While her methods of instruction were extreme, who in their right mind was going to turn down this opportunity?
Looking down at her as I lathered the soap between my hands once again, I took a moment to truly appreciate the absolute peak of Valyrian genetics resting before me.
Visenya Targaryen was the literal definition of ethereal, otherworldly beauty.
Her face looked as though it had been meticulously sculpted out of pristine white marble by a master artist, featuring high, sharp cheekbones, a straight, delicate nose, and remarkably full, soft pink lips that stood out brilliantly against her pale skin.
Staring down at those lush lips, I could not help wondering for a second what it would actually feel like to press my own mouth against them.
Suppressing a quiet sigh, I brought my soapy hands down to her slender neck, gently massaging the delicate column of skin while her long, metallic-silver hair spilled out across the bench in wet, glistening waves.
Raising my right hand, I reached forward out of pure, fascinating curiosity and gently cupped her cheek, feeling the unbelievably soft, warm skin beneath my thumb.
I pressed lightly against her high cheekbone, watching her flesh squish slightly beneath my touch before pulling my hand back.
Resting upon her chest were two perfectly shaped, wonderfully proportioned breasts that sat firm and high against her ribs, completely unbothered by gravity.
They were neither excessively large nor too small, boasting the ideal, natural teardrop contour that highborn ladies prayed to the Maiden for.
Crowning each breast were deep pink nipples that glistened brightly under the thin sheen of bathwater, framed by neat, circular areolas.
Humming a low tune, I slid my hands down her neck and pressed my lathered palms flat against her sternum, sliding them right down the valley between her breasts before spreading my fingers outward to fully cup both mounds.
The flesh was amazingly squishy and warm, yielding effortlessly under my touch.
I could not resist the overwhelming urge to give both mounds a firm, rhythmic squeeze, watching her flat, muscular abdomen instantly contort and tighten as she took a sharp, sudden breath.
Slowly and steadily, her pink nipples hardened into tight, rigid peaks under the continuous, circular movements of my lathered palms.
I could feel the stiffened nubs poking firmly against the center of my fingers as my hands moved in slow, massaging patterns across her chest.
Reaching out with my thumb and forefinger, I pinched one of the hardened nipples lightly between my fingers, squeezing the tiny peak just enough to watch Visenya let out an involuntary, sharp gasp, her full lips parting as her chest heaved.
Seeing that she offered no vocal objection or reprimand, I trapped both stiff peaks between my knuckles and gently rolled the hardened nipples in small, deliberate circles under the pretense of thoroughly washing her chest.
Every single time my fingertips brushed lightly over the sensitive tips, the woman twitched slightly against the marble, her breathing growing noticeably heavier.
Eventually, once I was satisfied that her upper torso was thoroughly cleansed, I abandoned her chest and slid my hands further down her front to scrub her flat stomach.
My fingers traced the defined, subtle outline of her abdominal muscles, feeling the hard wall of core strength hidden beneath her soft, pale skin.
My palms roamed along the narrow, sweeping length of her waist before my gaze drifted lower still.
Nestled deep between the tight junction of her long, toned thighs lay the final, hidden crown jewel of her form, though I could not see much of anything due to how tightly she kept her legs crossed together.
Unfortunately for my lingering curiosity, before I could attempt to maneuver my hands any lower down her lap, Visenya suddenly opened her bright violet eyes, sat up smoothly on the bench, and announced in a clear, firm voice that the bath was officially at an end for the evening.
I briefly pondered whether I should push the boundaries and insist on continuing the massage further down her legs, feeling fairly confident she would likely tolerate the boldness, but ultimately decided against pressing my luck.
After washing myself clean in a fresh basin of cold water and drying off with a thick linen towel after mother left, I quickly pulled on a clean velvet doublet and breeches, suddenly realizing that my immediate situation had gotten slightly more complicated.
While it was well past midnight and the vast majority of the Red Keep’s occupants were fast asleep in their chambers, I still needed to navigate the dark, twisting stone corridors of the castle and return to my own quarters without being spotted by gossiping servants or overly suspicious Kingsguard.
Slipping quietly out of the bath chamber, I ducked into the deep shadows of the hallway, my soft leather boots making zero sound against the cold flagstones.
The castle was dead quiet, save for the faint whistling of the sea wind through the high arrow slits and the distant, rhythmic footsteps of an armored guard patrolling the lower courtyards.
I moved with fluid, practiced stealth, keeping my back pressed against the dark tapestry-draped walls and darting from pillar to pillar whenever a torch-bearer passed in the distance.
As I successfully navigated the maze of corridors and slipped back into the safety of my private bedchamber, I pulled the heavy oak door shut behind me, dropping the iron latch into place with a quiet, satisfying click.
Stepping over to the window, I looked out across the sprawling, black expanse of King’s Landing glowing under the pale light of the moon.
Man life was good, I sure as hell hoped nothing bad would happen.
…
Word Count: 3293.