Game of Thrones: Reign of the Dragonking
[144] A Vulture’s Feast

Chapter 144: A Vulture's Feast

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The Great Hall of the Eyrie felt like a tomb dressed for a feast. 

Despite the roaring hearth that threw dancing shadows across ancient artworks, the cold seemed to seep from the very stones. The long table between us might as well have been the Narrow Sea for all the warmth it provided.

Lysa Arryn sat at the far end, trying desperately to project authority that ill-fitted her like a borrowed gown. Her dress tonight was an unfortunate shade of blue that did nothing for her pallor, cut low enough to display breasts that had clearly nursed one child too many years past propriety. She'd attempted to style her hair in some elaborate Southron fashion, but wisps had already escaped, giving her a frazzled appearance.

"The Vale's knights are the finest in the Seven Kingdoms," she declared in an attempt to make conversation, sawing at her capon with more enthusiasm than grace. "Jon always said one knight of the Vale was worth ten from anywhere else."

Jon Arryn said no such thing. The man was too pragmatic for such boasts.

"Indeed," I murmured, taking a measured sip of wine that was surprisingly good. At least the Eyrie's cellars hadn't suffered from their lady's neglect.

Robin, that pale specter of a boy, pushed food around his plate with theatrical disgust. "This meat is too tough, Mother. I want lemoncakes."

"In a moment, sweetling." She reached across to cut his meat into smaller pieces, her movements revealing more of her décolletage than was wise. "Your Grace, I trust you found our defenses impressive? The Eyrie has never fallen to siege."

"Because no one's ever been fool enough to try," I said, watching her preen at what she took for a compliment. "Though I wonder what good stone walls are against dragons."

Her face went pale, then flushed. Robin chose that moment to knock over his goblet, sending wine spreading across the white tablecloth like blood on snow.

"I'm tired, Mother! I want to go to bed!"

The whine in his voice could have curdled milk. Lysa's jaw tightened, but she forced a smile. "Of course, my brave boy. Septa Marlow will take you."

After the boy was bundled away, not without several sloppy kisses from his mother that made my stomach turn, silence descended like a shroud. The fire crackled, casting our shadows long and strange against the walls.

Time to change the game.

I swirled the wine in my goblet, letting my gaze grow distant. "I’m going to be honest, Lady Arryn, I’m surprised how you have such a strong hold over the Eyrie as a single mother. To secure a realm, one must understand its people. As a Highlady, I think you already know that. Their loyalties. Their... passions." I paused, letting the word hang between us. "Even so, as a lone ruler, it’s often difficult to remain in control without having a strong outside backing. It’s good that you have your sister, Catelyn, who’s a King’s mother, but…”

Mentioning my mother-in-law did the trick. Her eyes twitched, but she controlled her expression. “What are you implying, Your Grace?”

“As the King of the Seven Kingdoms, it falls upon my shoulders to see that all of my kingdoms remain stable. I have found that alliances forged in the most personal of ways are often the strongest. Lord Tyrion realized that too, and that was why during that bastard Joffrey’s rule, Littlefinger was sent to become your husband. But ultimately, I don’t think you’d have received much benefit from that marriage. Being such a great, respectable Lady, your suitor must be better."

She straightened, trying to look sage. "...The Vale's loyalty has never wavered. To be honest, it bothered me a lot when Lord Tyrion sent Lord Baelish here. I… I was still mourning my husband’s death, after all. So I want to request you to not send me any suitors, please."

“Hmm? I thought you and Lord Baelish were close, since he grew up in your family?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

She laughed, hiding her surprise at my knowledge. “No, he always liked my sister more. I’ve always found him annoying. Imagine how awkward I felt when I heard Lord Tyrion’s command. As well as my nervousness when you thought I was hiding him.”

"Hmm, I see." I let doubt color my tone. "Regardless, a marriage would do you well. The Tyrells came to me through marriage. The Martells through... understanding. Even the proud North—" I sighed, as if the memory pained me. "A complicated and stubborn people. Securing their loyalty was a significant challenge."

Her eyes sharpened like a blade finding its edge.

The North meant the Starks. The Starks meant Catelyn.

"I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but the Starks are fools," she spat, decades of venom finally finding voice. "Ruled by honor and ice. My sister was always too proud for her own good." She leaned forward, her breasts threatening to spill from her gown entirely. "How did you let them become independent, Your Grace?"

There it is. The fish takes the bait.

I stared into the fire, letting silence build until she was practically vibrating with curiosity. When I spoke, my voice carried the weight of confession.

"There was a lot to unpack in that situation. The reason behind my decision to let the North be free was quite complicated,” I lied with a sigh. “Mainly, it’s regarding Lady Catelyn Stark. She is quite the formidable woman. Fiercely protective of her children." 

“...”

I turned the goblet slowly, watching the wine catch the light. "She convinced me using ways I can’t say, to not only grant North independence, but also to marry her daughter. But, heh, if I’m allowed to brag a little, at least I managed to make her understand what true submission meant for her family's safety."

The way I lingered on 'convince' and 'submission' was a blade sliding between ribs. Her eyes trembled, and I smirked.

"Her daughter has that same fire," I continued, twisting deeper. "Sansa, too, understands the sacrifices a woman must make for her people.” My eyes lingered on her red hair. “Or maybe it’s not the House Stark women. Maybe, it’s you Tully women who really are something.”

Lysa had gone very still. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest, making her necklace glitter like a dying star.

"What..." Her voice came out strangled. She cleared her throat, tried again. "What are you implying, Your Grace?"

Now I turned to face her fully, letting her see the truth in my violet eyes. "I'm implying, Lady Arryn, that your sister was pragmatic. And she was... very, very passionate when the safety of her children was on the line. Robb Stark, daring to go against the Dragonking, and sweet Sansa too naive to understand my dangers."

She shot to her feet so fast her chair toppled backward. "Did you bed her?" The words tore from her throat raw and desperate. "Did you bed my sister, Catelyn?!"

I held her wild gaze, letting the moment stretch until she was trembling.

"Yes."

The single word hit her like a punch to the gut. She swayed, gripping the table's edge. But what happened next surprised even me. The shock in her eyes didn't transform into rage or despair.

It became hunger.

Raw, desperate, consuming hunger.

"My... my." Her voice had changed completely, dropping from shrill anxiety to something husky and dangerous. "And here I thought the Dragon King was only interested in war and politics."

She really was sick in the head. A normal Lord or Lady would wonder why I was revealing such a secret if it was true, and they’d doubt the truth behind my words?

But Lady Lysa? She didn’t care.

She began moving around the table toward me, each step deliberate. Where before she'd seemed clumsy, now she moved with the predatory grace of a woman who'd found her purpose. Her hips swayed, her hands trailed along the table's surface, her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

By the Seven, she's actually aroused by this. I’d planned it, but even I didn’t expect it to work out this easily. Just how insecure did this bitch feel toward Catelyn?

"You must be a very powerful man, Your Grace," she purred, and the transformation was complete. The desperate, love-starved woman had become something else entirely—a creature of pure competitive desire. "To tame a Wolf like my sister. And her cub too."

She'd reached my chair now, her hand bold enough to touch my shoulder. Her fingers traced down to my chest, feeling the muscle beneath silk. This close, I could smell her perfume—too much of it, cloying and sweet, trying to mask the sour scent of her desperation.

"I wonder," she breathed, leaning down until her breasts were practically in my face, "does the Dragon King still have such strength? Show me, Your Grace. Show me the power that made even Catelyn Stark kneel. Then maybe… you and I can arrange something similar to what you arranged with Dorne."

Arianne Martell is a far greater specimen than you, dirty slut, I noted while observing her eyes burning with decades of jealousy finally given form and target. If Catelyn had submitted to me, then conquering me would be her ultimate victory. Far more ultimate than whatever fling she had with Littlefinger. The psychology was so transparent that it was almost pitiable.

Almost.

I smiled slowly, letting her see the dragon behind the man as I yanked her by the waist, placing her plump ass on my lap. "With pleasure, Lady Arryn."

She shuddered at my words, her fingers digging into my chest.

The game was won. This time, it felt a little too easy.

****

The master bedchamber reeked of desperation and lust. Pale moonlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating the obscene picture we made, with my body covering hers completely as she lay face-down on silk sheets already soaked with her orgasm.

"Gods! Oh gods, what’s up with this cock?! This manly, strong cock! Your Grace, nggh!! This feels so good, so good! It’s so much bigger than—" Lysa's words dissolved into a wail as I drove deeper, using my full weight to pin her thrashing form.

Bigger than Littlefinger's, she means. Poor woman's only known his little finger in truth.

"Your sister took it better," I growled in her ear, feeling her entire body convulse at the words. "She knew how to please a dragon. I’m disappointed, Lady Lysa."

"W-what? No! I'm better!" She screamed into the pillows, her voice muffled but frantic. "I'm better than her! I'll prove it! Please, Your Grace, please!"

Her pale flesh rippled with each thrust, and despite her age and childbearing, there was something almost hypnotic about her complete surrender. This wasn't about pleasure for her, it was about conquest, about finally winning a competition that existed only in her twisted mind.

"Break me like you broke her!" She babbled, completely lost to the madness of it. "Make me forget his name! Make me forget everything but you! Please, please, Your Grace! Own me, own the Lady of Vale and make her your s-slut- arghhh~"

Already forgotten Petyr, have you? That was quick.

The magic of my Dragondick worked its terrible purpose, each castle-shaking thrust of pleasure a chain binding her will to mine. Soon, she'd spill every secret, every plan, every whispered word Littlefinger had ever shared in this bed.

All for the ghost of a rivalry with a sister who'd never wanted this prize. 

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