Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.
Song of The Blessed
Chapter 02 – The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms
~ Draedon Baratheon ~
The dust of the Kingsroad tasted of home, a familiar grit on the tongue that twelve years in the pristine Westerlands had not managed to erase. It rose in a golden cloud around the hooves of Draedon Baratheon’s warhorse, Radahn, a monstrous black destrier that even his father would have envied. The stench of King’s Landing followed—a perfume of filth, blood and humanity packed together.
To the Crown Prince, it smelled of opportunity.
His retinue was a study in contrasts: fifty knights of the Westerlands, their crimson and gold cloaks immaculate, their discipline a testament to Lord Tywin’s unforgiving standards. Beside them rode fifty of his father's own Stormlords; louder, brasher, the black stag emblazoned yellow banners snapping in the wind, men whose fathers had bled for his. They were the two halves of his inheritance, the lion and the stag, and he was the master of both.
At eighteen, Draedon was the image of a maiden's dream. The famed Baratheon size was his—six and a half feet of strong muscle and broad shoulders, a frame that promised violence. But the face was pure Lannister, a sculpture of high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and a mouth that seemed perpetually caught between a smirk and a snarl. His hair was a thick mane of Baratheon black, but his blue eyes shined with the intelligence, ambition and cunning of his mother’s house.
Today, they shimmered with an unnatural light, a divine blessing that made the world sharp and clear.
He could feel the city before he saw it, a thrum of a million heartbeats. He could feel the lust and awe from the crowds lining the streets, a sweet nectar for Aphrodite. He felt the tension in the steel of his men’s armor, the weariness in their bones, a faint echo of the battlefield for Ares. The city was a symphony of mortal frailty, and he had returned as its conductor.
The gates of the Red Keep groaned open, and there, in the courtyard, stood the King. Robert Baratheon was a large mountain of a man, his former glory buried under the weight of his addiction to wine, whores and regret, yet he remained formidable. His beard was a wild thicket, his eyes bloodshot, but they lit with a fierce, possessive pride as he saw his son.
“BY THE GODS, HE’S RETURNED!” Robert’s voice was a physical force, a roar that sent pigeons scattering from the ramparts. “LOOK AT THE SIZE OF HIM! A TRUE BARATHEON!”
Draedon dismounted with a fluid grace that belied his size. He strode forward, his boots crunching on the stone, and met his father in the centre of the yard. The King clapped a hand on his shoulder, a blow that would have staggered a lesser man. Draedon didn’t move an inch.
“Father,” he said, his voice a low baritone that carried easily over the courtyard’s din.
Robert laughed, a booming, infectious sound. “Father? You look more like a man than I’ve felt in a decade! Let’s have a look at you.” He grabbed Draedon’s arm, his thick fingers squeezing the bicep. His eyes widened in genuine shock. It was like gripping stone. “Seven Hells, boy! What has Tywin been feeding you? Ground iron?”
“Discipline,” Draedon replied smoothly, a hint of a Lannister smile playing on his lips. He met his father’s grip with his own, his fingers wrapping around Robert’s forearm. For a moment, the two strongest men in the Seven Kingdoms were locked together. Onlookers saw a son greeting his father. Draedon, channelling a whisper of Ares’s blessing, felt the subtle tremor in Robert’s arm, the slight give of flesh and bone unused to meeting its equal. He saw the flicker of surprise, then respect, in his father’s eyes. He had passed the first test.
Robert released him, throwing his head back to laugh again. “Hah! Good! A king needs discipline! And strength! We’ll hunt, we’ll fight, we’ll drink! It’s good to have you home, son. Truly.”
It was then that Draedon’s eyes found his mother. She stood at the top of the steps, a vision in crimson, her golden hair a beacon in the morning sun. Queen Cersei Lannister looked not at the prince, but at the boy who had saved her life so many years ago. The fever dream, the pact, the twelve years of letters—it all culminated in this moment. As he ascended the steps, the crowd and his father seemed to melt away. There was only her.
He knelt before her, taking her hand. It was cold, trembling slightly. He brought it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “Mother,” he murmured, the word a private prayer.
“Draedon,” she breathed, her composure cracking. One hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I had sent my boy. Father seems to have returned me the Warrior reborn.”
He rose, his full height shadowing her. He was no longer the small child she could hold, but a fortress standing before her. “I am whatever you need me to be,” he said, his voice soft, for her ears only. It was a promise. In her eyes, he saw not just a mother’s love, but her salvation. And she saw in his, the absolute certainty that he could provide it.
With a smile, she patted his cheek before she spoke, "Your siblings are eager to meet you. But right now, you need to relax. They can see you tomorrow after you have rested."
"FEAST TONIGHT! BAELISH! SEE THAT IT IS ARRANGED FOR!" the voice of the King boomed across the yard as he went back inside the Red Keep, making Draedon chuckle as Cersei shot her husband a venomous look.
"It seems resting will have to wait, Mother," Draedon spoke, as he looked past her.
Over her shoulder, he met the gaze of the third member of the trinity. Ser Jaime Lannister stood in the pristine white of the Kingsguard, his hand resting on the pommel of his golden sword. His handsome face was a mask of conflicting emotions. There was pride, curiosity, and a deep, gnawing wariness. Their eyes locked, and a silent acknowledgement passed between them. Jaime gave a barely perceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment of the new, terrifying power that had just entered their lives. The Kingslayer, the finest swordsman in the realm, felt a chill crawl up his spine.
This was no mere boy. This was something else entirely.
~ Draedon Baratheon ~
The Small Council chamber smelled of stale wine and old paper. It was a room where empires were managed with whispers and lies, and Draedon felt Athena’s presence sharpen his senses as he took his seat at the table. His father, predictably, was absent, having already declared the day’s duties fulfilled by his son’s return and promptly departed for a brothel. It left Lord Jon Arryn, the aging Hand of the King, to preside.
Draedon remained a silent observer, a statue of black velvet and steel. He listened as Lord Arryn droned on about tax revenues, as his uncle Renly offered vapid suggestions about a new tourney, as Grand Maester Pycelle dozed, and as Varys, the Master of Whisperers, watched everyone from beneath hooded lids, his powdered hands clasped over his ample stomach.
Then, Petyr Baelish spoke. Littlefinger’s voice was slick with false sincerity, a serpent’s hiss wrapped in silk.
“My lords,” he began, steepling his fingers. “A pressing matter. With the poor harvest in the Crownlands, our grain reserves are dangerously low for the coming winter. However, I have been in correspondence with Lord Paxter Redwyne. He is willing to sell us a significant portion of the Arbor’s surplus… though at a premium, of course. The autumn storms make the sea lanes treacherous.”
Jon Arryn looked at the Master of Coin, his brow furrowed with worry. “A premium? How much, Lord Baelish?”
“A thirty percent markup,” Littlefinger said, his expression one of grave reluctance. “A steep price, I know, but can we truly put a price on feeding the people of King’s Landing? I have already arranged the contracts and the ships. We need only approve the expenditure from the crown’s treasury.”
It was a masterful play. He presented a problem and offered the only solution, wrapped in a veneer of civic duty. He would skim a fortune off the top, laundering it through a dozen shell companies and fabricated shipping manifests. Draedon could see the entire web of deceit laid bare before him, as clear as a map, a gift from the goddess of wisdom.
As Lord Arryn prepared to give his weary assent, Draedon spoke. His voice, calm and measured, cut through the room’s stale air like a razor.
“The price is not steep, Lord Baelish. It is theft.”
The council froze. All eyes snapped to him. Littlefinger’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Your Grace? I don’t understand. It is a simple matter of supply and demand.”
Draedon leaned forward, his green eyes pinning Baelish to his seat. “Is it? You propose to ship the grain from the Arbor, around the coast of Dorne, and up through the Sea of Dorne. A long and, as you say, ‘treacherous’ journey.”
“The most direct sea route, Your Grace,” Baelish countered, regaining his composure.
“But not the most efficient,” Draedon said. “According to the ‘Unified Maritime Accords of 69 AC,’ signed by Jaehaerys the Wise himself, goods transported overland through the lands of a loyal vassal for the benefit of the crown are exempt from all local tariffs and tolls. An obscure addendum, I admit. It hasn’t been invoked in over two centuries since my predecessors seem to fancy steel over basic knowledge of how to rule. ”
He let that sink in. Jon Arryn was staring at him, stunned. Pycelle was now wide awake. Varys observed with a slight smirk, as Renly openly grinned at his nephew schooling the Mockingbird.
Draedon continued, his voice as cold and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “If we were to dock the ships at Oldtown, the grain could be transported up the Roseroad directly to King’s Landing. The journey is faster, safer, and according to my grandfather’s reports, House Hightower maintains their section of the road so immaculately that a wagon train can make the journey in half the time of a fleet of ships sailing against autumn currents. The cost would be a fraction of what Lord Redwyne demands.”
He paused, his gaze unwavering. “Unless, of course, there is some other reason we must pay this thirty percent premium? Perhaps a finder’s fee for the one who brokered such a… disadvantageous deal for the Crown?”
The silence was absolute. Draedon hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t accused Baelish of anything directly. He had simply presented a superior alternative with an unassailable historical and logistical precedent. He had shown, in less than a minute, that he understood the game better than the man who prided himself on mastering it.
Littlefinger’s face was a pale, tight mask. The charming, mocking schemer was gone, replaced by a man staring into the eyes of something he could not comprehend. An eighteen-year-old boy, fresh from twelve years of fostering in the West, should not know of 250-year-old maritime law. He should not have an encyclopaedic knowledge of trade routes and logistics.
“An… astute observation, Your Grace,” Baelish managed, his voice strained. “I confess, my knowledge of ancient Targaryen accords is… lacking. I shall, of course, explore this alternative immediately.”
“See that you do, Lord Baelish,” Draedon said, leaning back in his chair. “The crown’s coin is precious. We should not see it squandered.”
He said nothing more for the rest of the meeting. He didn’t need to. A new piece had been placed on the board, one that moved with terrifying prescience. In the shadows of the room, Varys the Spider watched the prince, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt a sliver of genuine fear.
~ Draedon Baratheon ~
The Great Hall was a riot of noise, colour, and scent. A thousand candles burned in the chandeliers, their light glinting off gold plate and polished steel. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the perfumes of every noble house south of the Neck. The feast in honour of the prince’s return was the event of the season, and Draedon was its undisputed sun, a gravitational centre around which the entire court orbited.
He moved through the throng with the predatory grace of a lion, his charisma a tangible force field. Aphrodite’s blessing was a heady wine, and he was drunk on its power. He shared a crude joke with his father that made the King roar with laughter and clap him on the back. He listened with rapt attention as his mother introduced him to his youngest sibling, Myrcella and Tommen, both of whom he was quite happy to meet. His other brother Joffrey, seemed to openly scowl at everything and everyone related to Draedon so he simply acknowledged the little shit before he began coddling his other siblings.
He clasped the hand of a grizzled Stormlord, promising to ride with him in the Kingswood as his father had in the old days, earning the man’s fierce, unwavering loyalty in a single gesture.
But as the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, another aspect of his divine patronage demanded tribute. A familiar, primal hunger, born of Baratheon blood and amplified by a goddess of love and lust, began to stir. His eyes scanned the room, not for allies or enemies, but for prey.
He found them near a tapestry depicting the Sack of King’s Landing. Lady Tanda Stokeworth, a chubby woman whose ambition far outstripped her intellect, stood with her famously plain daughter, Lollys, and her far more comely niece, Falyse. Near them hovered Lady Esmerlda Hayford, a young, recently widowed landowner whose lands were modest but strategically placed. With them was the fiery Serra of Myr, a former bedwarmer who had cleverly parlayed her position into a minor sinecure at court, her exotic beauty a stark contrast to the Westerosi ladies.
Draedon approached, a wolf moving toward a flock of sheep. Their conversation faltered as he drew near, all eyes fixing on him.
“My ladies,” he said, his voice a low purr. “I hope you are enjoying the feast my father has so graciously thrown.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Tanda gushed, nearly curtsying to the floor. “It is we who are honoured by your presence. Your return has brought such life to the court.”
His gaze drifted over the group, the blessing of Aphrodite working its magic. He saw the flush on Falyse’s cheeks, the nervous flutter of Lady Esmerlda’s fan, the bold, appraising look in Serra’s dark eyes. Even Lollys seemed less timid, caught in the tractor beam of his charisma.
“The court is a beautiful garden,” Draedon said, his eyes locking with Falyse’s. “But it has been too long without its most vibrant blossoms.” He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “You honour us with your beauty tonight, Lady Falyse.”
Falyse stammered, her face crimson. Before Lady Tanda could interject, he turned his attention to Lady Esmerlda. “And you, Lady Hayford. I was saddened to hear of your husband’s passing. A woman of your spirit should not have to bear such grief alone.” His voice was laced with a sympathy so profound it felt like a physical caress, and the young widow’s eyes glistened with unshed tears of gratitude.
Finally, his gaze fell upon Serra of Myr. He switched effortlessly to her native tongue, his accent perfect. “Your beauty puts the sunset over the Jade Sea to shame, my lady. It is a crime that you are not appointed as a noble lady.”
Serra’s jaw dropped. She replied in shaky Myrish, “You speak my language, Your Grace?”
“I speak the language of beauty,” he answered, his smile devastating.
He spent another ten minutes weaving his web, a compliment here, a shared confidence there, a lingering touch that promised more. He made each woman feel as though she were the only person in the universe. It was an art form, a symphony of seduction.
Later that night, long after the King had drunkenly stumbled off to bed, a page delivered four separate, discreet messages to the prince’s chambers. Four invitations. He intended to accept them all.
His chambers were a sprawling suite in the Tower of the Hand, temporarily reassigned for his use. They were opulent, but he cared little for the finery. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
The chamber was a tapestry of velvet and shadow, lit by the hungry flicker of a dozen candles. Falyse was already there, a nervous tremor in the line of her bare shoulders as she knelt before him, her mouth a wet, eager O of devotion. The door creaked open, admitting Lady Esmerlda, her widow’s blacks a stark slash against the opulence. Her eyes widened, first in shock, then with a dawning, competitive fire that burned away her timidity. Before she could even curtsy, another figure stumbled through the door—Lollys Stokeworth, pushed from behind by an unseen hand, a trembling fawn shoved into the lion’s den.
Draedon’s length, already thick and straining from Falyse’s eager mouth, pulsed at the sight. He let a low chuckle rumble in his chest. “It seems the ladies of the court are eager to petition their prince tonight.”
Falyse paused her work, looking up with wide, pleading eyes. “There is only one petition, Your Grace. To please you.”
“Is that so?” His gaze swept over them, a king surveying his tribute. He gestured to Esmerlda, who was wringing her hands by the door. “And you, my lady widow? Do you come to please me, or to mourn?”
Esmerlda’s breath hitched. She took a hesitant step, then another, her gaze fixed on the raw display of power before her. “I… I have mourned enough, Your Grace. I wish to… live.” Her fingers went to the laces of her gown, fumbling, desperate.
Lollys simply wept, silent tears tracking paths through the powder on her cheeks, her simple mind overwhelmed.
The final arrival was not announced by a servant. Serra of Myr glided in as if summoned by the scent of burgeoning chaos alone, a sheer crimson silk drifting around her form. She took in the room — the kneeling Falyse, the disrobing Esmerlda, the timid Lollys, and Draedon, enthroned at the centre of it all. A slow, appreciative smirk graced her lips.
“Such a collection of lovely little birds, Your Grace,” she purred, her voice a silken lash. “Are you building an aviary?”
Draedon’s hand tangled roughly in Falyse’s hair, tilting her head back. “I am testing their wings,” he growled, his voice a low timbre that vibrated through the very floorboards. He looked at each of them in turn, a predator’s glint in his eye. “You all come seeking something. Land, titles, security. Favor. But favour is not given. It is earned. My goddess demands tribute, and tonight, you are the offering. Show me your worth. Show me why I should remember your names when the sun rises.”
That was all the command they needed. A frenzied energy seized the room. Esmerlda ripped the last of her bodice, her pale, full breasts spilling free, nipples already hard as pebbles. “Let me show you, my prince!” she cried, scrambling forward on her knees. “I have been so empty! Let me serve you!”
She fell upon him, his mouth closing over her free nipple while Falyse, not to be outdone, redoubled her efforts below. The wet, slick sound of her throat working, the slurp and pop of her lips, filled the air. Lollys, spurred by a primal fear of being left behind, crawled forward, her terror melting into a desperate, slobbering need to be included. She latched onto his thigh, her tongue darting out to lick at his skin, her clumsy worship a pathetic yet potent offering.
“Oh, you poor things,” Serra crooned, shedding her silk like a serpent sloughing its skin. Her body was a masterpiece of Myrish perfection, every curve and line designed for sin. “You’re like children scrabbling for sweets. Allow me to demonstrate a woman’s art.”
She knelt between Esmerlda and Falyse, her clever hands finding the places the other women were neglecting. Her fingers stroked the undersides of his balls, sending a jolt of pure fire through his veins. She smacked Lollys's head away lightly. “Pay attention, little birds.” She guided Lollys’s head, directing her clumsy tongue. She whispered in Esmerlda’s ear, and the widow began to moan, her hips rocking as the prince suckled her harder. The air grew thick with the scent of wine, sweat, and cunt, a heady perfume for their debauched rites.
Draedon was the storm’s eye. He hauled Falyse up by her hair, turning her over his knee. The sharp slap of his palm against her arse echoed in the room, followed by her squeal of pained delight. “You wished to be first?” he roared, his thick, pulsing length springing free from her mouth. “Then you will be the first to be filled!”
He shoved her onto a pile of cushions, her legs instinctively locking around his waist as he drove into her. The wet squelch of their joining was a clarion call. He fucked her with the brutal, driving rhythm of a war drum, a Baratheon stag taking his due. Plap, plap, plap. The sounds were obscene, hypnotic. Esmerlda crawled over, her mouth finding Falyse’s, their tongues duelling in a desperate attempt to share the overwhelming pleasure Draedon was dispensing.
He pounded into Falyse until she was screaming, a high, keening sound of pure ecstasy, and just as her climax seized her, he pulled out, his seed weeping from the tip of his cock. Lollys, seeing her chance, scuttled forward and greedily lapped at the offering, her mouth closing around Falyse's cunt.
“Next,” he commanded, his voice raw.
Serra was on him then, straddling his lap, her movements a fluid dance of expert lust. “A prince needs the best, not just cows in heat,” she whispered, her eyes locked on his as she lowered herself onto him, taking his full, magnificent length with a practiced gasp. She rode him not with frantic energy, but with a controlled, potent rhythm that promised worlds of pleasure. As they moved, a battle of wills and flesh, she leaned close, her breath hot against his ear.
“Varys pays the little spiders in the kitchens with candied plums… a ship from Pentos arrives tomorrow, carrying more than just spices for the Master of Coin…”
Each secret was punctuated by a tightening of her inner muscles, a twist of her hips. It was a storm of hedonism and power, a raw clash that made the very air crackle. He let her ride him until the wine and lust frothed into a frenzy, then he flipped her onto her back, grabbing Esmerlda and pulling her down, using her breasts to soothe himself as he drove his cock back into Serra’s slick depths. He fucked her brutally, his powerful thrusts making the furniture groan in protest. He filled Serra’s cunt until she swelled up obscenely, his cream flowing out like a river of conquest. He moved to Esmerlda, then to Falyse again, and finally, even to the weeping, overwhelmed Lollys, emptying his balls of his baby batter until he was utterly spent.
As the first grey fingers of dawn crept through the windows, the chamber was a battlefield of sated lust. The women lay tangled in the silks and velvets, slick with sweat and his seed, their bodies spent and satisfied. They cradled their swollen snatches, keeping his seed deep inside them, tears of exhausted joy staining their faces.
“I am a good girl,” Falyse chanted, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“A good girl,” Esmerlda echoed, her eyes glazed with a devotion that transcended feudal loyalty.
Draedon lay in between them, his power absolute, his virile nature affirmed.
The Great Game was just beginning, and the players were starting to take notice of the one who would eventually... win.
Author’s Note
Was inspired to write this. So, here is a much-awaited chapter 2.
See you soon.