Braavos 297 AC.
Arthur. (Nolan)
Regardless of how convincing the old bat before him was, Arthur refused to believe that he'd be the one to draw that ancient blade thrust into the summit of the massive mountain at some point very long ago by the First King, whose name was lost throughout the millennia since his death.
"I don't want it," Arthur said again, aware that he must sound rather petulant. "I don't want it or the trouble it will bring me." He gestured with his hands as he spoke to get the point across.
"We don't always get what we want, young king," the crone told him softly. "Our destinies are set in stone, and all we can do is follow the pre-determined path laid out for us at birth."
Arthur frowned. "Fuck that." The thought of everything he had ever done being pre-planned was not one the exile appreciated. Perhaps the Seven had weaved their webs of fate with those who worshipped them, but the Old Gods hardly cared. They were spirits of the departed, and Arthur didn't believe those who'd lived already would bother controlling the paths of those still to live.
The crone cackled, tapping her weirwood cane on the bricks underfoot. "Believe what you will," it wasn't an argument. "But the truth is simple. Your blood is that of kings and gods, and your heart has decided the path you will take ready, yet still your mind refuses you."
"You're mad, woman."
Her paper-thin lips twisted into a wicked grin. "Age does this. It is known," she said sagely. "And yet there is wisdom within madness." Arthur couldn't believe that even a little; he had read about Aerys Targaryen's reign, and there was hardly any wisdom from the Mad King's side.
"Regardless of how wise you might be," Arthur said dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is pure madness. How can I be of the blood of kings? I'm bastard-born." Arthur felt his lips twist into a frown as he gazed down at the mouse of a woman leaning lazily on her old cane.
She raised a grey brow. "Are you?"
The exile hesitated. "Well, what else? I'm no dragon." He looked himself up and down. Yet, a little whispering—a woman's voice, by the delicacy—told him it was not a dragon who sat on the Iron Throne these days. Arthur ignored it utterly; it wasn't possible. "I don't see any scales."
"There were kings yet more ancient than the dragons, young one," the crone replied in that quiet voice that demanded attention. "Even one as old as I would be hard-pressed to name them, but two lines stick out in the sea of kings." She smiled knowingly, little beetle eyes hard, black, but in them, Arthur saw the warmth of a grandmother. "I'm sure you know which, somewhere inside."
"Say what you will," Arthur snapped. "I don't care."
The ancient sighed and tapped her cane—tap tap tap—on the bricks underfoot. It was grating on Arthur's nerves now, but he said nothing. "It does not matter what you believe; the truth is bare before you; you are the Born King, cast aside and left to die but favoured by the gods of old."
Cast aside and left to die... A pang shot through the exile at the words. Cast aside. Cast aside. So Arthur had been abandoned by choice? The exile fought off the fury twisting within his stomach with his eyes squeezed shut. "You knew my parents...?" The question burst from him before Arthur could contemplate if he honestly wanted to know the answer.
"I do." The crone nodded slowly—tap tap tap—and smiled. "For it was my granddaughter who did escape with you before your mother could finalise the heinous act of murdering you in your crib."
Dread's icy fingers curled around his throat, and Arthur felt as though he would faint. "My mother wanted to kill me?" He didn't want an answer to that. "And my father... whoever is he was allowed it?" The exile allowed the wrath instead of the sorrow that fought within him to win.
The crone lifted her cane by the bronze eagle's-head handle and pointed it at the summit of the King's Cliff, where that ever-present stormcloud brooded over the city. A flash of white burned in the darkness, but whether it was lightning or something else entirely, Arthur didn't know. "That is where you will find all your answers, young king, along with your destiny."
When Arthur pulled his eyes away from the thundering cloud overhead to stare at the crone, he saw she had vanished. Magic, he surmised. The world was a strange place and accommodated even stranger people. Slowly, the exile turned his gaze to the summit and its permanent cloud as he pushed his fringe back and scratched his close-trimmed before resting his hands on his hips.
"Fuck..." Lighting webbed across the blue-grey sky, and thunder boomed throughout Braavos so loud it caused hounds around the city to howl. It seemed to Arthur that it was the sound of every decision he'd ever made leading up to this moment, sealing his most pivotal choice with a roar of impending doom. Perhaps that was simply him being pessimistic.
Pessimistic or not, he was going to climb that mountain.
That night.
Long after he'd put the bravos assigned to him their paces and assessed their improvements in a spar against him, Arthur prepared himself to duel at the Moon Pool. His love sat on her knees just between his legs on their bed, running her fingers over the dark hair covering his cheeks, looking like what she was about to do hurt her. Sighing, she dabbed the foam over his cheeks and neck.
"You're beautiful beard," she said unhappily, reluctantly taking up the razor. "Why do you have to shear it all off?" Rosie unfolded the blade and stared at it hatefully.
Arthur had to smile. "Have you ever seen a bravo with a beard? They're all tiny and clean-shaven men," he replied. "I'd much rather lose the beard than my robustness. And besides, it'll grow back quickly." Rosie huffed annoyedly like his words didn't appease her one bit.
His love chewed her lip anxiously before sighing and starting the process. Before long, he was all done, and the cool, salty breeze through the window felt strange on his naked face. Arthur stared at himself in the mirror, dabbing the remaining foam away with a towel before looking at his love with a questioning smile; Rosie glared at him like he'd stolen something precious from her.
"You look like a baby," she whined. "How am I supposed to kiss you now?"
Chuckling, Arthur kissed her. Happy enough with that, Rosie snaked her arms around his neck to keep him close. "Like that," he whispered against her lips, grinning as she rewarded him with that lopsided smirk he loved.
"I suppose it's not so bad."
He donned a jacket made of azure velvet and golden cloth. About his waist, he fastened the thin bravo's blade in its scabbard of soft black leather. It was edged and balanced for the thrust, but the exile preferred using a standard long or a bastard sword. However, he had some training in the style the greatest bravos practised when this little bald man came to Highgarden.
"All men are made of water. Do you know this? When you pierce them, the water leaks out... and they die." "Every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson is making you better." "Others were stronger, faster, younger. Why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you. The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it." Suddenly, every lesson that the swordmaster taught him came pummeling to the forefront of Arthur's mind, and he grinned as he recalled how painful those lessons had been.
Outside their modest home, Rosie seized his collar and kissed him passionately. Arthur wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her flush by the small of her back. "Don't die," she pled when it was over, brushing her thumbs over his clean-shaven jaw.
He grasped her wrist and kissed her palm, reciting the one lesson Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, always been playing on a constant loop in Arthur's mind despite him nearly forgetting the others. What do you say to the god of death? "Not today," he answered softly.
Braavo 297 AC.
Rosalind. (Margaery)
The feel of his fingers moving through her hair, his lazy half-smile, his hoarse encouragements as Rosie's hands, mouth, and tongue worked for his release, and that resolution in his strikingly blue eyes made it almost possible to believe he wasn't so exhausted. Rosie did not mind being the one to pleasure him. Arthur laboured tirelessly to grow his notoriety in the Hundred Isles, so being on her knees between his firm, long legs and making him feel good was the least she could do in her eyes. And that Rosie liked how he filled her mouth, causing her jaw to ache, didn't hurt that at all.
Yet, she couldn't help but feel guilty, too; she had been the one to plant the seed of building fame in her beloved's mind. Perhaps if Rosie hadn't done so, he'd not be so tired. "Stop thinking about that," Arthur told her, gliding his hand down her head to rest against her cheek.
She drew her head back, releasing him with a pop and rested her cheek against his leg, stroking him as she met his azure gaze. "I'm still not good at hiding my thoughts, am I?" Rosie asked, and he hissed softly before permitting a raspy chuckle past his lips.
"Are you going to stop?" Arthur questioned. She didn't let up, only staring adorningly at his face as her hand worked, pumping his phallus. "Alright, then... It's not the strangest thing we've done."
She ignored that bit but knew she was flushed. "I'm worried about you. You can hardly get out of bed in the morning," Rosie admitted, feeling Arthur's fingers moving lightly over her scalp. "If I'd known how weary it'd make you, I'd never have suggested you to go out at night."
Arthur sighed as she kissed the base of his mast tenderly, then up about halfway before leaning her cheek on his thigh again. "You make it hard to concentrate, love," he teased. "What were you saying? Right... I know you're worried, but you don't have to be." He smiled. "I'm fine."
It annoyed her that he brushed her concerns off like they meant nothing. "You're exhausted. You hardly eat unless I force you to," Rosie snapped. "When you sleep, you mutter about your father and mother." As soon as the words passed her lips, she wanted to suck back in through her teeth.
He breathed deeply to calm himself, and Rosie ran her tongue up the length of his manhood in a deviant attempt at an apology. "I've been thinking about them," Arthur admitted calmly, running his hand gently down her hair to show he wasn't angry with her. "The ancient bag of brittle bones gave me a lot to think about."
"What does my grandmother have to do with this?"
Her love barked a sudden laugh and stroked her cheek with his thumb, and Rosie smiled before sliding her lips up his length and down the other, swapping hands as she rested her other cheek on his thigh. He wet his lips with wine and leaned his head back as she worked. Rosie was glad to drop the conversation and focus on pleasing him for now. Removing her hand, she pressed it flat on the ground between her thighs and took him into her mouth, managing barely halfway before gagging around his length—unable to stop herself, she began teasing herself too.
When his release finally came, she swallowed it happily and opened her mouth to prove it to him before scooping what spilt on her face and breasts with a hand and lapping it up. A lady should never do such a debaucherous thing, but she was not a lady anymore, only a woman who loved the taste of her would-be husband's seed. He watched her all the while as Rosie cleaned herself a bit before doing the same with his manhood to ensure she didn't miss anything.
"I can die a happy man," he muttered.
Her muffled laughter around him made him hiss, and she gazed up at him before releasing him with another pop. "I will never get bored of that," Rosie confessed, offering him a toothy grin.
He averted his gaze shyly, and Rosie giggled.
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A/N:
That last bit came out of nowhere for me too XD
Anyway, I'm pretty sure I made it VERY obvious who Nolan's parents were. Again, I'm not intending to make it discreet. Maybe I'll do something like that in a different book, but I want this story to be as candid as I can make it without losing some of the mind-fuckery that Mr. Martin has rewarded us within the incredible world he's created.
Thanks for reading and voting!
—Lazarus—
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