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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 11
🕑 Added 2026-01-12 14:12:01 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don’t own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I’m just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 11: A Mistress’s Message
The Red Keep’s gardens were never truly silent, but they knew how to pretend to be.
Even at midday, when the sun stood the highest in the sky and its rays illuminated every building in the capital, the Red Keep bustled with activity. Servants, scribes, guards, and petitioners all moved about with a certain haste. Though the castle’s gardens always held a serene relaxing air, as if the stone walls absorbed the anxieties of the court. Sounds that entered were immediately softened: footsteps dulled by cobblestone and earth, voices reduced to murmurs, and the distant, rhythmic clang of steel from the training yard filtered in like percussion.
At the heart of all of it stood the giant weirwood tree.
Its trunk was thick, ancient, and pale as old bone. Its bark etched with deep red veins that pulsed faintly in the sunlight. Crimson leaves stirred gently overhead whispering secrets that no person of the south had a hope of understanding. The carved face upon its trunk-older than the seven kingdoms themselves-watched everything with patient indifference.
Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, leaned against the white bark. He crossed his legs at the ankle, looking so nonchalant that few would believe he was a king. He wore no crown, nor the heavy, stifling silks of his station. Instead, he was dressed plainly: dark trousers and a loose white doublet, unlaced at the collar to expose the faint edges of his shadowcat scars. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing forearms marked by the nicks and burns of a lifetime—or two.
Across his lap rested an object he had commissioned months ago. It resembled a typical lute only in the broadest sense. Its body was sleeker, its curves unfamiliar, and its neck longer and reinforced to handle a higher string tension than any bard had ever dared. Crafted by the finest artisan in King’s Landing under Joffrey's strict supervision, it was the closest replica he would ever get to a modern guitar.
He adjusted the tuning pegs methodically, relying on memory as much as his ears. A few paces away, his shadows watched.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood with hands clasped behind his back, posture straight but not rigid. His White cloak hung heavy on his shoulders, its hem brushing the grass. His gaze was outward, ever-watchful, yet there was a softness to his eyes today-something contemplative.
Beside him, new but no less imposing, stood Ser Balon of the Kingsguard. He leaned lightly on the pommel of his sword, alert but respectful, eyes scanning entrances with professional ease.
Neither spoke. They had both learned over time during his times of relaxation from his hectic schedule, that silence was the greatest courtesy they could offer their king.
Joffrey slowly plucked a string. The note rang clear and wrong. He frowned slightly, fingers adjusting, turning the peg by a fraction. Another pluck. Closer but still not right.
“This body,” he thought distantly, “doesn’t want to cooperate.”
His mind knew the chords, but his hands were still learning the language of the strings.
For a moment the garden faded-not vanished, but receded, like a tide pulling back from shore. The scent of flowers and damp earth gave way to something else entirely: memories. Memories of dust, of steel and oil. Of the faint tang of dry air in the middle east.
He remembered sitting on an overturned crate beneath a canvas awning, his boots half-buried in sand, the sun dipping low enough to grant mercy. His rifle had been propped nearby, his helmet set aside. Around him his men lounged where they could-some smoking, some laughing, some just getting some sleep when they could, using rocks for a bed like cavemen.
And he played.
Not well, perhaps, but earnestly. A guitar scarred by travel and neglect, its strings replaced whenever possible, its body scratched by time and use. Music had been a luxury there-a fragile light that could be extinguished as quickly as a firefly.
His men listened.
Some closed their eyes. Some smiled. Some hummed along to melodies they half-recognized and half-invented. For a brief moment they weren’t soldiers waiting for the next order, the next mission, the next possible end.
At that moment they were just friends enjoying their time together. Joffrey’s fingers tightened slightly around the neck of his instrument as the memory shifted and darkened. There had been no warning on that fateful day. A whistle, sharp and wrong. Then another and another.
Chaos erupted. Shouts, confusion, taking cover behind whatever they could find and offered absolutely no protection against the sheer destruction. He remembered the fire-the intense flames that melted some of his flesh from his body. The pressure that crushed the air from his lungs. The thoughts of regret and the tears streaming down his mangled face until the last last shell brought an end to the agony.
And then…nothing.
Joffrey opened his eyes that had become wet with tears as he remembered his and his men’s death. The garden was still there, and the weirwood still loomed above him, unchanged, eternal. The sun filtered through its crimson leaves, painting the grass with shifting patterns of red and gold.
He breathed in slowly.
Sadness settled into him-not sharp, or overwhelming, but deep and steady. Like an old wound that had scarred but still ached. He lowered his gaze to the strings and began to play.
The first notes were tentative: Concierto de Aranjuez, second movement.
The melody unfolded with quiet tenderness, each note placed carefully. It was not a song of triumph, or despair, but of longing-of something once held only to be lost and remembered with painful clarity.
Joffrey’s fingers moved slowly at first, guided more by emotion than muscle memory. He adapted as he went, compensating for differences in tension, shape, and weight. The instrument responded, its voice unfamiliar but willing.
The music grew stronger.
It carried across the garden, weaving between hedges and stone paths, slipping through archways and open windows. Servants slowed, then stopped altogether. A pair of young squires near a fountain abandoned their argument mid-sentence. Even the birds seemed to quiet, as if unsure whether to intrude.
Ser Barristan turned his head. He had heard courtly performances and battle hymns all his life, but this was different. There were no words, yet it spoke clearly. Of loss endured with dignity. Of memory sharpened by time. Of a grief not shouted, but lived with.
Joffrey played on.
The sorrow he carried fed the music. He thought of faces he would never see again. Of voices he could no longer hear. Of the world he left behind that had ended in fire and bloodshed. The final notes lingered, trembling softly before fading into silence.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Ser Barristan spoke, his voice low and respectful.
“That was…beautiful, your grace.”
Joffrey exhaled slowly, fingers resting against the strings to still their vibration.
“Thank you, Ser Barristan.”
The knight hesitated, then allowed curiosity to fill his tone.
“I confess, I do not recognize the piece. It bears little resemblance to the music of barbs of the seven kingdoms-or anywhere I’ve traveled.”
Joffrey considered the question for half a heartbeat.
“Well that makes sense, considering it's a song I picked up during my last visit to Casterly Rock from a traveling Bravossi bard.” He said smoothly. “Apparently it was one of the Free Cities lesser known compositions, but I liked it.”
It was an easy lie. And a necessary one.
Ser Barristan’s brow furrowed, but after a moment he nodded.
“I see. It is still unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. But it's beautiful all the same.”
Joffrey inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Inside something tightened, not guilt not exactly, but the quiet understanding that this part of him would always remain unknowable to those around him.
And that was for the best.
Joffrey adjusted the instrument on his lap, his gaze drifting upward to the weirwood’s carved face, his mind momentarily remembering his experience in the north.
“Ser Barristan,” he said casually as if he were about to ask about the weather. “May I ask you something?”
The old knight turned fully now.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“What was Prince Rhaegar truly like?”
The question struck with unexpected weight.
Ser Barristan blinked, surprised flickering across his face before giving way to something older-nostalgia tinged with regret. He was silent for a long moment, eyes unfocused, as if he was staring beyond the garden.
“He was…” Barristan began, then stopped, searching for the right words. “Complicated.”
Joffrey waited.
“He was a man of ideals,” the knight continued slowly. “Deeply thoughtful. He loved music-not as a diversion, but as an expression. When he played, it was as though he were speaking truths he could not voice otherwise.”
Barristan's mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “There was a sadness in him. Not born of weakness, but of awareness. He felt the weight of prophecy, of expectation, of the realm itself. And yet…”
“Yet?” Joffrey prompted gently.
“Yet he cared deeply for the smallfolk,” Barristan said. “He listened to them. Spoke with them as equals when he could. He believed a prince’s duty was not to be adored, but to serve.”
Joffrey absorbed his Kingsguards words quietly.
“I wish I could have met him,” he said at last. “He sounds…interesting.”
Barristan looked at him then, truly looked-and something in his gaze softened.
“I believe he would have enjoyed meeting you as well, your grace.”
Joffrey’s eyebrows rose, genuine surprise flashing across his face.
“Really?” he asked, a trace of amusement filling his voice. “You think your silver prince would’ve enjoyed meeting the son of his killer?”
Barristan didn’t flinch.
“Prince Rhaegar never held children responsible for the actions of their parents,” he said firmly. “In his eyes, all children were innocent. Whatever their names might be.”
Joffrey smiled-a small, thoughtful smile.
“Something else we have in common,” he murmured with a hint of guilt in his voice as his mind wandered to the blue haired young man he had killed.
The garden seemed to breathe again. A breeze stirred the crimson canopy overhead, scattering the light and shadow across the grass. Beyond the castle walls the city lived and prospered. Vendors shouted, ships docked at the harbors, and the bells tolled the passage of time.
But beneath the weirwood time seemed almost to converge and join. Past present and future all coexisting at the same time. Ser Barristan studied the young king with renewed interest. He had known the young man had steel, as well as the right type of ruthlessness that would not allow crimes to go unanswered no matter the perpetrator’s title, but now he was seeing a new side to his king. One of sorrow and perseverance, which both unsettled the old knight and strangely enough filled him with hope.
Joffrey carefully rested his new instrument against the trunk of the tree, hands folded loosely in his lap. For a brief moment, he allowed himself stillness-not as a king, not as a commander, but as someone remembering who he had been.
But then-footsteps approached. Measured, respectful, and announced well in advance.
“Your grace,” came a voice from the path, “Lady Sansa Stark requests an audience.”
Joffrey slowly opened his eyes. The past receded and the present returned.
He rose smoothly to his feet, his expression becoming composed, with the weight of his old life settling back in its proper place-beneath his duty to the realm.
“Thank you,” he said. “Send her in.”
Soon Sansa entered the garden as though she belonged to it. Her gown was a soft harmony of blue and silver, the fabric light enough to stir with every step yet rich in appearance. Fine embroidery traced its lines-vines and blossoms sewn to command attention. It was a dress chosen carefully, not for the court, but for a quiet moment with her future husband.
Her auburn hair fell freely down her back, catching the sunlight in warm copper hues. There were no braids today, no heavy adornments-with the exception of one piece of jewelry. The necklace Joffrey had especially made just for her rested comfortable on her neck.
She touched it once as she approached, fingertips brushing the metal unconsciously, before lowering her hand and straightening her posture.
Joffrey turned at her arrival and for a heartbeat the world narrowed.
She was not the frightened or naive girl who had walked these halls in silence. There was a certain strength to her stride now-quiet, confident and to Joffrey utterly captivating.
“Sansa,” he said, voice gentle in a way few ever heard from him.
She curtsied, graceful and exact.
“Your Grace.” She greeted.
“You look well today,” he replied.
Color warmed her cheeks at the compliment.
“Thank you, your grace.”
He briefly studied her, then inclined his head.
“Is something troubling you, my lady? Or has someone been bothering you again?”
He thought back at the countless servants he had dismissed from the Red Keep when he learned they had been making disparaging comments to her due to her brother's rebellion. Calling her a treacherous wolf as they passed by her, or just looking down their nose at her. Suffice to say they were all immediately sacked and cast out of the city.
She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.
“Nothing of the sort, your grace. I only wished…to spend time with you. Not as part of a lesson. Or a council meeting.”
His expression softened. A year ago he would’ve been annoyed by such a request, but the young girl’s gentle nature had cooled a part of him, and made him come to enjoy her company.
“I believe,” he said, “That’s reason enough.”
He signaled to one of the nearby servants. “See that the instrument is returned to my chambers.”
“At once, your grace.”
Turning back, he offered his arm. Not as a command, but as an offer. Which Sansa accepted. Smiling softly as she laced her arm through his, and together they began to walk.
The gardens of the Red Keep stretched around them in layered beauty-hedges trimmed with care, flowering trees casting dappled shade, fountains whispering softly over the smooth stone. Bees drifted lazily between flowers, making the scent of nature linger in the air a direct contrast to the usual scent of shit that hung over the city.
Behind them, Ser Barristan and Ser Balon followed at a measured distance, alert yet unintrusive.
Sansa walked perfectly at first-a little too perfect. Her shoulders were straight, her back was rigid, her steps precise, her expression carefully composed. Letting out a tired sigh, Joffrey decided to address it.
“My lady, you don’t need to be so formal when we are alone," he said kindly. “In fact I’d prefer our time together to be more relaxed than holding court.”
Sansa looked up at him surprised.
“I don’t want to be rude, your grace.” She finally said after a moment.
“If the time arises that I believe you're being rude I will let you know,” He responded casually. “Also I’d prefer you call me by my name in times like this, not my title.”
She glanced up at him clearly startled. “I-pardon?”
“In private,” he clarified, “I’d prefer you use my actual name and I’ll do the same, Sansa.”
She hesitated for a moment then nodded. “Very well, Joffrey.”
Her shoulders relaxed, tension slipped away like a loosened knot. They passed beneath a trellis heavy with flowering vines.
“How are your lessons faring?” He finally asked.
Her eyes lit up almost immediately. “Very well! The mathematics tutor you arranged is strict, but I enjoy it. Numbers are…honest. More plain and easy to predict.”
“And politics?” He questioned knowing this was her weakest field.
She smiled faintly. “That is…difficult. Everyone always wants something and no one ever means what they say.”
“True enough,” he nodded his head in agreement. “What about philosophy?”
She hesitated unsure how to answer. “That one still confuses me.”
“Good,” he replied immediately. “That means you're paying attention.”
She laughed softly. “The man quotes Maester Herodon of Oldtown often. He says virtue lies in balance-that too much or too little of anything leads to ruin.”
Joffrey nodded. “Herodon believed excess was as dangerous as emptiness.”
“And Septon Vaelor,” she continued. “Argued that justice is harmony-that a realm thrives when every part serves its proper purpose.”
“Both very solid but very different thinkers,” he replied. “You remember your lessons well.”
She flushed at the complement. “Well that’s because you test me constantly.”
“And you answer well everytime,” he shrugged as he thought about her memory recall that seemed to rival both his and Tyrion's.
The praise settled into her like warming her chest. They slowed down near a pool of a fountain where the sky reflected cleanly upon the water.
“I want to do more,” Sansa said quietly.
Joffrey turned lightly toward her. “More how?”
“I want to help,” she said shyly. “I don’t want to just learn and read. I want to actually contribute.”
He considered her carefully. “Sansa, I know you want to help me, but what you have right now is just theoretical knowledge, do you know what that means?”
She shook her head.
“It means understanding ideas without testing them,” he explained. “A theory proposes what should happen. Practice reveals what does happen.”
She was silent for a moment before responding. “Like your changes you made in your industrial sector?”
He stopped and turned toward her completely.
“Yes,” he said, smiling that she understood immediately. “Exactly.”
Her confidence grew. “You believed shorter, structured shifts would improve productivity and reduce the risk of injury. And when you applied it, the results proved the idea was correct.”
He nodded confirming her words.
She hesitated, then said softly, “But how am I supposed to prove my ideas… if I'm never given the chance to test them?”
Her words made him pause. Joffrey studied the young girl for a moment. Not as a king, not as a soldier, but as an equal mind testing its rivals' limits.
“You have a point,” he admitted after a moment.
Hope flickered across the red haired girl’s face.
“...Write them down,” he finally said. “Your ideas, observations, and proposals, and then bring them to me.”
“And then?”
“Then,” he continued, “I’ll decide where your thoughts will become actions.”
Her smile was immediate and unguarded. Without thinking she leaned her head against his shoulder as they resumed walking. Behind them, Ser Balon let out a quiet laugh, which was quickly smothered under Ser Barristan's disapproving glance. After a few moments, Joffrey spoke again.
“How is your family coping?”
Sansa’s expression softened. “Arya still trains with her dancing master. She claims soon she’ll be able to take down the hound.”
Joffrey laughed at her words, the fiery young girl entering his mind. “I don’t doubt it.”
“As for my father…” She hesitated. “He remains…confined, but he is well.”
Joffrey thought over her words. He’d been so busy managing the city he hadn’t spared much thought for his high lord prisoners.
“You know what we should do,” he said after a moment drawing Sansa’s attention. “We should all have dinner together.”
She stopped walking and looked at him. “Dinner?”
“Yes,” he nodded his head. “With both of our entire families.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Truly?”
“I’ll invite Tommen, Myrcella, and Tyrion,” he continued. “I’ll let you be the one to inform your sister and father.”
Joy bloomed across her face. “Thank you, Joffrey.”
She turned to go, then stopped turning back to face him. Before he could react, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek, making him freeze. Sansa then curtsied deeply and fled down the stone path, cheeks flushed and smiling.
The garden seemed to hold its breath. Slowly Joffrey lifted a hand to his cheek feeling the lingering saliva under his fingertips. A small, private smile touched his lips.
“Well,” Ser Balon said, cutting through the awkward silence. “You handled that better than expected, your grace.”
Joffrey chuckled at his Kingsguard’s jest.
“Keep that same courage when we train together later, Ser Balon.” Joffrey replied dryly.
“I’ll do my best, your grace.”
Joffrey just shook his head and turned toward the Red Keep. His leisure time was over, and duty called. And yet as he walked back into the stone corridors with the white cloaks at his side, the weight of his shoulders seemed somewhat lighter.
o-O-o
The king’s chambers smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and sealing wax.
The room was well-lit despite the afternoon hour-tall carved windows open to catch the light, while the pale curtains stirred gently in the breeze. Shelves lined the walls, once filled with trophies and indulgences, now stacked with ledgers, maps, rolled decrees, and bound reports. The great desk at the center of the room was nearly buried beneath parchment, organized into careful piles that only the King seemed able to navigate.
Joffrey sat behind the desk, his sleeves rolled back, posture forward, eyes sharp. Across from him stood Caspen, his steward.
“Petition from the eastern foundry,” Caspen said as he handed the parchment to the king. “One of the senior metalworkers requested leave. His daughter has given birth, and he seeks one day's rest to assist her.”
Joffrey didn’t hesitate.
“Approved,” he said, already reaching for his quill. “Make it three days of paid leave, I’m sure the sight of his grandchild will renew his strength and focus when he returns.”
Caspen paused, blinking once.
“...Yes, your grace,” he said, writing his own notes down in his ledger.
“Next,” Joffrey said.
Caspen cleared his throat. “The Dragonpit.”
Those words earned the King’s full attention.
“The Tyrohi builders report steady progress,’ Caspen continued. “Your workers have integrated well with their foremen. They are currently completing the removal of all the remaining debris from the old ruin. No major injuries reported, and so far they're right on schedule.”
Joffrey leaned back slightly, considering the invisible structure rising in his mind long before it did in stone.
“Good,” he said. “Once the debris is cleared, have them reinforce the foundations before any new construction begins. I don’t want anyone taking shortcuts.”
“That will add time,” Caspen warned carefully.
“Yes,” he nodded in agreement, “and it will save both lies and coin in the long run.”
Caspen nodded. “It will be done, your grace.”
Joffrey made a brief notation and then moved on.
Caspen shifted through his stack of parchments. “Your grace, word from Ser Jacelyn.”
Joffrey’s quill paused.
“The Royal Guard selection has been completed,” Caspen said. “The remaining men have passed the final evaluations, and await the ceremony.”
A small smile grew across the king’s lips.
“Send word to my Master of War,” Joffrey said. “Tell him to make the preparations. I’ll be there tonight, and I want any Royal Guards not on duty in attendance.”
Caspen hesitated. “Your grace…you also promised to dine with Lady Sansa and her family this evening.”
Joffrey did not look up as he continued writing.
“I’m aware,” he said calmly. “There’s time for both.”
Caspen studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Very well.”
There was something uncanny about watching the young king work. No wasted motions. No uncertainty. Each decision flowed into the next as though the path had been charted long ago.
“The breadlines,” Caspen continued. “Supplies remain sufficient despite the blockade, but crowding has increased near the western gates.”
Joffrey scribbled briefly. “Redirect surplus grain from the bay warehouses. Stagger the distribution times, and have Jacelyn station a squad of my sabers to maintain order.”
“Yes, your grace.” He wrote down his orders. “The Merchant Guild reports rising disputes among refugee traders outside the walls. Conflicts over stall space and other issues.”
Joffrey considered his words. “Issue temporary charters. Rotating allotments. Anyone caught violating the schedule will lose their slot.”
Caspen wrote quickly. “And the encampment disputes?”
“Send mediators,” he replied. “Not punishers. Make it clear the crown will listen, but only to those who keep the peace.”
One by one he drafted the orders. Signed them before rolling them up and pressed the wax seal displaying his royal authority. When he was finished he handed the parchments to Caspen.
“Distribute these immediately.”
Caspen accepted them with a bow. “At once, your grace.”
As Caspen turned to leave, something caught Joffrey’s eye.
A single parchment-pink distinct and unmistakable-rested half-hidden beneath a stack of proposals. His expression hardened.
“Leave that,” he ordered.
Caspen paused, curiosity flickering across his features, but he knew better than to question him. Joffrey picked up the parchment and unfolded it. He read in silence. Once, then twice. When he finished he set it down carefully.
“See to your orders,” he said politely.
Caspen bowed. “Of course, your grace.”
He quickly made his way out of the room, the door closing softly behind him. The moment he was gone, Joffrey took the parchment and tossed it into the fireplace. The flames caught quickly.
“Senelle,” he muttered, watching the ink curl and paper blacken.
He crossed the chamber and opened the door.
“I am not to be disturbed,” he told the guards outside.
They tilted their heads slightly in acknowledgment. Joffrey closed the door and moved to the far wall. His hand grasped a wall mounted candlestick, and pulled.
Stone shifted silently as a narrow passage opened, dark, and waiting. Without hesitation, Joffrey stepped inside. The wall sealed behind him, leaving the chamber-and the weight of the crown momentarily behind as he descended into the shadow to hear what his mistress needed to tell him.
o-O-o
The hidden passage swallowed sound.
Joffrey moved through it with practiced ease, boots striking stone worn smooth by time and careful renovation. The Red Keep was a fortress layered atop secrets, and this corridor—rebuilt, reinforced, and quietly claimed—was one of the few places within its walls that belonged to him alone.
The compartment lay between his solar and the Maidenvault, carved into the thickest stretch of stone. Once an unused maintenance crawlspace, it had been reshaped into something deliberate: insulated walls to dampen sound, narrow vents that carried smoke and heat away, and hidden lamps remembered by touch alone.
The chamber beyond was modest but intentional.
A low hearth burned steadily, its light softened by red-glass sconces. A table sat against the far wall, already marked by ink stains and wax drips from previous meetings. A couch rested near the fire, practical rather than indulgent. Every object had a purpose. Nothing was excessive. Nothing could be traced.
Secrets survived here.
Senelle stood near the hearth when he entered.
She turned at the sound of the hidden door sealing behind him.
Her red hair caught the firelight, deeper now, like embers rather than flame. She wore a plain gown of dark green wool, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest she had been waiting a while. Her expression was calm—but alert.
“My king,” she greeted.
“Senelle,” Joffrey replied. “You asked for me.”
“I wouldn’t have,” she said evenly, “if it were not necessary.”
He removed his cloak and draped it over a chair. “Then speak.”
She did not waste time.
“The Queen Mother believes the balance is shifting against her,” Senelle said. “She has sent instructions. She wants me to undermine Lady Sansa. Not with scandal, but with doubt. Rumors that she sways your council, that you are ruled by a girl’s affection.”
Joffrey’s jaw tightened. “She wants the lords to think I am led by a leash.”
“Yes. And she has activated agents in the granaries and the docks. Not to sabotage, but to delay. Misfiling reports, slowing orders—creating just enough friction to make your reforms appear inefficient.”
Joffrey paced the room. His first instinct was to erase them all, but Senelle cautioned him. If they vanished too quickly, Cersei would know she had been betrayed.
“We let it proceed,” Joffrey decided. “We monitor every delay, every rumor. And when we have the full list... they will suffer accidents. Quiet ones.”
He met Senelle’s gaze. “And you will never be touched.”
Relief washed over her. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “You carry too much, my King. Even kings are men. Let me be your comfort. My King.”
Her hand brushed his sleeve—not demanding, not possessive and he did not pull away. Before trailing down and palming the bulge in his trousers.
The fire crackled low as the space between them closed. The world beyond the walls—crowns, wars, mothers, betrayals—faded into irrelevance. The chamber held their secrets. Slowly they began undressing each other as their tongues explored one another's mouths
Taking her by her hips he led her to the small bed laying her flat onto her back as she untied his breeches. Soon the empty private chamber filled with the sounds of pleasure and the scent of sweat as the two’s sweaty bodies coiled each other in an embrace of passion.
