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It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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 another life another way, ray
JON CONNINGTON
 Posted: Dec 18 2017, 09:40 PM
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is N/A
years old
JON CONNINGTON



It was a happy day. The war was over, the kingdoms reunited, and Jon ruled at Rhaegars side. The management of Westeros had its challenges, but today was one of celebration, and the two childhood friends were allowing themselves some rest at the tournament. Jon didn't bother to compete when Arthur and Rhaegar were in the lists. He had tried himself against the pair of them more than enough times over the years, and he had no desire to get flattened by one of them in front of an audience, or to nurse an aching body for days afterwards. He was a knight, a capable commander, and back in the Stormlands only Robert Baratheon could regularly best him in the lists, and he felt no need to prove himself against people who didn't hold a candle to his lifelong companions. Besides, Rhaegar's young squire had desired so sorely to compete, so Jon had easily volunteered to take his place in armoring and attending to Rhaegar during the tournament.

Jon didn't think overmuch about his other reasons. He was rarely in company with Rhaegar in a state of undress anymore. As boys they had jumped into the Narrow Sea and trained and bathed in the practice court's baths often enough. They had less time for such things now, and Jon would take his quiet moments alone with Rhaegar where he could get them. They were a balm; one which he sorely wished he didn't need, but a balm nonetheless.

He was plainly dressed in dark green which cooled the red of his hair well enough and made his eyes look a bit brighter. That's what Elia had told him when they first started talking on good terms. She was always full of advice on how to calm his coloring. All red, she had accused when he lost his temper around her, which was true enough. He'd always been too pale to hide a flush. He was neat in appearance, and a glance in a mirror had even sparked the thought handsome in his mind for a moment, but not elaborate or courtly. If Rhaegar had needed real help in the lists, there was no need to destroy something costly.

Rhaegar prevailed of course, as he usually did in such trials, and he was laughing and smiling as they walked back to his tent. Jon was smiling to- he always did when he saw Rhaegar happy, and his mind couldn't help but remember the last tournament they had gathered at. Harrenhall had begun so many fated paths in their life that the event was never long from Jon's mind. He mulled on the events of that day, turning them over bit by bit in his mind as first he took Rhaegar's helm, and then his gauntlets. As he worked the straps holding Rhaegar's pauldron's in place, Jon let his thoughts take shape.

"It is good to see you so happy of late Rhaegar. Love suits you well enough that I could almost be jealous," he disclosed with a quiet laugh. Jon was notoriously opposed to being married, and his female friends were limited to Lyanna and Elia before her. His friends had asked him why and he always pointed to his duties as Hand. What room for a wife in his life with such responsibilities? The truth was not so easy.
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RHAEGAR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Dec 24 2017, 12:34 AM
Quote
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
THE IRON THRONE
house targaryen
KING'S LANDING
KING


Gods, it felt good to be King. Times such as these, where the blood ran hot in his veins, where his heart hammered with a dragon’s strength, fueling the fibers of his muscles, the thrust of his arm, the impact of his lance, these were the times he could feel truly alive. Summer was as hot as the temperature burning beneath his flesh, and the love of his people still echoed through his ears even as he rode from the lists their victor. The High Septon had crowned him King, yes, but it was the lords and ladies, knights and dames, common men and their wives who had crowned him champion. The sun glowed upon his head, colors of silver and gold rivaling all that House Lannister could boast once he removed his helm, smiling upon the cheer that roared from the stands. When he named his swollen, pregnant wife his Queen of Love and Beauty, the applause that followed chased him all the way to his tent, where he at last relinquished his horse and bid his squire all the luck he deserved in his upcoming match. Sending the boy off with a hearty clap on the back of his shoulders, he was happy to fall into the attendance of his friend and Hand, instead.

“Jon,” he smiled, draping an arm about the man’s shoulders as they strode the remaining distance to the King’s tent. “When will I have the honor of seeing you upon the lists?” It was already a rare feat for Rhaegar to enter them, but to see both King and Hand in the same tournament? He was certain many a men would pay good money to see such a match. Dipping his head, they passed through the canvas flaps of his tent, the great royal fixture large enough to accommodate him for weeks, if he so pleased. Though his Kingsguard were quick to take formation just outside, the interior remained empty, its solitude pierced by the arrival of the two comrades. Though he was quick to pour himself a cup of a thick, frothy ale, its bitterness strong enough to dismantle any victor, he took only a few chance sips, too relieved at the feel of his first gauntlet’s removal that he even began assisting Jon in removing the many pieces of his black plate.

Arms and wrists, shoulders and chests, the King inhaled a deep sigh as the armor was slowly loosened and peeled from his muscled form. Reaching up, he pulled at the leather ties of his collar, stripping himself of his padded doublet and the sweat-lined linen shirt beneath. The veins in his forearms bulged to the surface of his skin, invigorated by the day’s events, the heat of the sun and the ferocity of his blood, and they seemed to almost twinge with every movement he made. Glancing at his reflection in the trifold of mirrors before him, he quickly made a gesture with his hand, motioning to the carafe of water nearby. “Wet some linen,” he spoke, looking down to his chest where he could spy particles of dirt and dust adhered to him by his own sweat. Loosening his armored skirt and legplates, sighing as the pieces fell off of him and to the floor, the King could do little else but chuckle at his Hand’s comment. “Almost?” He tugged loose the ties of his padded trousers, the waist falling slack until they were easily tugged past his knees and to his ankles. Standing only in a pair of simple linen shorts, Rhaegar reached for a soaked linen cloth, squeezing out its excess. “Then perhaps I might almost choose a lady for you.” He began wiping down his own forearm, all the way down to his wrist and palm, having to suppress a shudder once Jon pressed his own cooled linen cloth against him. “Lady Connington. A nice sound, no?”
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JON CONNINGTON
 Posted: Dec 28 2017, 12:24 AM
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is N/A
years old
JON CONNINGTON



A soft, familiar thrill ran from the weight of Rhaegar's arm across Jon's shoulder down to his toes where it lingered, warm and prickling even after Rhaegar let him go. A wry smile crossed Jon's face and he shrugged at his King's question.

"When you and Arthur both stay out of them I expect. No need to try myself when I know how it will end," Jon answered easily. No whisper of wounded pride hung in his words as it might have done just a few years past. Years of serving on the council of a mad king and orchestrating a rebellion that easily could have seen him killed for a traitor had sobered Jon and his temper considerably. It still prickled irritably and lit like a bonfire at more provocations than most, but knowing himself and his friends no longer excited embarrassment any longer. He knew now why he had always been so keen to wrestle Rhaegar to the ground, or best Arthur in his prince's view. It didn't seem so necessary anymore.

The two of them made quick work of Rhaegar's armor, and Jon did his best to keep his gaze from lingering on the thick twists of muscle edged in vein that girded Rhaegar from every angle. His forearms, his shoulders, the groove of his spine. All of it thrummed to Jon's eyes with a certain quality of vitality, of strength that he never saw in most people. Perhaps it was just the intimacy of his friendship with Rhaegar, but Jon believed in a way he wouldn't examine willingly that this was something unique, or at least some aspect of it was. Perhaps the grace Rhaegar brought to bearing arms, or the mastery, or the razor's edge of his intellect in the heat of combat. Basking in it like this was to be in the presence of a power Jon could never pretend he didn't admire.

Jon stepped away and let Rhaegar shed the last of his plate to obey orders. This was the part that sent a shiver up Jon's spine, the part where his hands ran over Rhaegar's sweat tracked body to wipe away dust and fatigue, the part where only a cloth served as a pretense to conceal what he desired. Jon wished fervently, not for the first time, that he had more mastery over himself. By the time he turned he was flushed, and he could feel it rising up his neck and onto his cheeks. He would blame the summer heat trapped in the tent if Rhaegar mentioned it.

He was grateful beyond words that he was standing behind Rhaegar and working the cloth over his King's back when he suggested finding a wife for Jon. His immediate reaction was one of disgust, and his hand stuttered unevenly over the rounded crests of Rhaegar's shoulder. He managed to keep his voice light when he answered, though it took some effort.

"A terrible sound. What would I do with a wife with a country to run for you, and squires to fill in for," he asked, trying to make it into a jest. Jon wouldn't know what to do if Rhaegar really did find a wife for him. "Besides, I cannot marry who I love," Jon added idly. Immediately he blanched, and left off wiping Rhaegar down to rinse and wring out the cloth he was using. Gods be good, let Rhaegar miss that sentence's meaning. What had Jon been thinking? He savaged himself internally; he hadn't been thinking, he had been mooning like a lovesick maiden over the chance to touch Rhaegar's bare skin, ignoble, immoral idiot that he was.
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RHAEGAR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Jan 27 2018, 09:38 PM
Quote
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
THE IRON THRONE
house targaryen
KING'S LANDING
KING


TRIGGER WARNING [Show]


Stifled, finding little relief in the cool compress of the wet linens against his skin, Rhaegar heaved a deep sigh and draped his own cloth over the rim of the water basin. Dunking his hands within, he cupped his palms to gather a great bit of water to pour atop his own head. Working the liquid ribbons through his silvery hair, feeling the stray streams trickle down the sides of his neck to gleam over his collarbone, he did it a second, even a third time, until his untied tresses felt soaked enough to offer him some bit of relief. Even despite his movements, he allowed Jon to continue wiping him clean of the dirt and dust matted to the ripples of his muscles, lining the swollen green veins with his ministrations and sealing the pores with the cold linen. Still, the King felt hot, as if his own body heat began to warm the water left behind, and he was quick to finally decide to disrobe himself of his last remaining piece of clothing. Stepping free of the flax white undershorts, Rhaegar stood as bare as his nameday, almost wishing they could part open the flap of his tent to let some sort of breeze inside. Still, with each long breath and press of wet cloth his Hand made against him, he could feel the high levels of his temperature gradually sinking.

“What would you do with a wife?” He recanted, somewhat incredulously. The arched brow above his indigo gaze said all that his words did not. The King could not help but laugh. “Surely you are not serious.” Some could say Jon was married to the realm, certainly, or perhaps even to the Iron Throne itself. But Rhaegar himself would see to it that the man had enough life and heart left to devote to a good and lovely woman, if he had to. Turning his back to him, allowing him the large expanse of his dirtied shoulder blades and long, sweated spine, he could only shake his head in humor. “I think most ladies would prefer to say their husbands are helping the King,” a chuckle bloomed in his throat, almost as warm as the constant summer air around them. He had to pay a playful, jesting and yet no less comfortable glance over the top of his shoulder. “Than helping another woman. Filling in for my squires may become more of a common thing, yet,” he jested again, briefly letting his eyelids fall shut as he found himself relaxing beneath the pressure of Jon’s hand, and the cool cloth he used to skim across his flesh. Even as he turned to face him, allowing him to move to wipe clean his chest and abdomen, the King’s eyes were still closed.

“Love?” Opening them, revealing the piercing purple gaze beneath, Rhaegar’s mind swam. Jon had a lady love? How had he not known? Why would he not have told him? Did Varys know? For a moment his brows furrowed, tangled with possible candidates, completely uncertain as to who could have won over his Hand’s affections. A lowly maidservant? A woman perhaps already bound to another? He could not discern a scenario that would prevent the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms from his desired wife, and he was nearly too hesitant to pry. Coaxed once more by Jon’s machinations into closing his eyes, he sighed deeply and tilted his head back somewhat, his mind still turning behind the low, contented groan he released. “I find that hard to believe,” he spoke slowly, confident he could appease or fix any problem his beloved comrade presented. His skin cooled with every swipe of the soaking cloth, from his clavicle, down to his chiseled abdomen and to the juts of his pelvis, and still he waited for Jon to elaborate. Eyes still hidden behind heavy lids, the King felt his blood cooling, sinking gradually to collect in his lower abdomen as if gathering coals, still warming him in places that only lulled him further into relaxation. Muscles loosening with every press Jon made against them, he had little notice for the physical manifestation of his contentment; made clear in the ever so slight swell of his manhood between them. “You are the Hand of the King,” he went on, leaning somewhat against the nearest tent post. “Ask for it, and you shall see it made yours.”

@JON CONNINGTON
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JON CONNINGTON
 Posted: Apr 19 2018, 02:32 AM
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Laurie is Offline
N/A years old
STORMLANDS
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N/A
N/A
N/A



The young knight pressed the damp linen against the lines of the King, watching the water bead at his hand's edge. It blotted, then bled, dribbling down the skin of the pan beneath. Glistening, really, enough light in their enclosure to mimic the light of the Gods, or at least the sun. Jon felt himself fluster, falter even though his hand remained steady. The one that didn't hold the linen came to his forehead, pushing the skin with his palm as he tried to calm his thoughts and cover his own building sweat. "But I am," He said with a slow breath, "A child, a home? What would they know aside from an absent husband? My duties have always been destined for your court room." His admiration for the King had begun when he was one a prince, fighting to prove himself.

Jon felt as if it had been cemented by the defeat of his father, the rush of his babe out of the Red Keep, the death of his wife... the union of his new one. Their lives were young, and yet so much had already happened to the boys growing in the training yard with swords at their sides. The gold flecks inside of Jon's eyes shifted, watching the rattle of the young king's chest as he laughed, "It may be true, I wouldn't be at the side of another woman in such a way," He answered as he watched the lids of the man before him fall, "But I doubt anyone would be willing to share their time so unevenly." He tried to produce an argument, one with merit.. But it was hard. Gods, it was hard to focus on the conversation. The griffin felt himself pause as the King's face displayed his moment of relish in his hand's touch. The King jested, saying he might fill the position of squire more often, but Jon wasn't sure how he would ever keep pace. He had found a way to do it in the court and war rooms, but here in the King's tent he felt disoriented. Too small, too close, too overwhelmed at the shift of his skin loose from his armor and the musk of his scent that filled Jon's nose.

Love. He had hoped his slip of the tongue might have gone unnoticed. Confusion seemed to seep into his Silver King, knitting his brow in such a way that Jon's own did too. His chin slightly retracted, his left brow barely rising. And with a deep breath, closer to a huff, Jon tried to still himself and his hands He stroked, patted, up and down the skin nearest him. His eyes had looked from above him, to the line of cloth at their height, his knees coming to the dirt to reach a little lower. They stared close to his navel, the round little thing that shouldn't pull his attention so.

Rhaegar seemed to forfeit, his head lulling back at Jon's strokes. Gaining a roll of the Hand's eyes, of course he couldn't fathom it. The man before him had never been aware of it, not since they were boys and the feelings first rooted. Before they won any true tournaments, before they participated in any rulings, before he was Master of Laws, before he was Hand of the previous King, before... all before, as much history that laid between the two, as many small intimate movements, and never. Jon followed the curves of his body, reminding his self to remain steady. He breathed in and out, ignoring the statement of his friend, knowing what he wanted him to do. Rhaegar wanted him to elaborate, but what would he do with the truth? Nothing. He had his wife, so enamored by her fire...

His mind wondered to where they could possible end with this conversation. He switched from his dominant hand to his other, letting the cloth dab at the dirt around that damned little circle at his eye level. He let the fabric glide over the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, knowing that the trace of it would likely fuel the electric pull of Jon to him as as any motion would. He hovered over the jutting bone of the King's pelvis, eyes narrowing at the shift before him. The curve of Rhaegar's manhood had... well, grown. It was a swell that, as much as Jon would never admit, he had seen and noted before. At the passing of more appropriate times, ones that made sense. Now, now, didn't make sense... did it? His eyes glanced up, from their forward stare, to the lush expression of the other. Rhaegar shifted his weight as he spoke, his body moving just enough to balance his back against the post behind him. With Rhaegar's movement, Jon's clothed hand drifted at the hem of his thin, linen shorts, brushing against the contents with his pinky, palm, and wrist.

And there, the pulse of the manhood beneath reacting to the sliver of a touch was enough to cause a sharp intake of air into Jon's nose. His jaw flexed, knowing his own blood flooded between his legs. "Rhaegar, His exhale was deep, rumbling in his own chest as his heart threatened to jump from its rattle, "I think you extend a promise you can't possibly keep." He finally released, praising his little mastery of himself. Were the Gods trying to tempt him, to teach him? They were doing quite a job, "There is one I want, but... " He moved his hand, slowly, continuing to focus on the area near the line of the small clothing, near the trace of hair that pointed down to his King's sex, " I fear they are wed, and I've never known them to be interested. I suppose it makes no matter," there was another slight pulse, "That person has never noticed me in such a manner." He was close, so slow to him. Surely, they had been in such a position before, had he been so affected then? Jon let his teeth pull at the jut of his bottom lip, trying to calm the flames that had built themselves up. His face was only inches away from the man he had admired, vowed to serve, and dared to hope for. "I am too concerned with my service to the realm, and it's glorious King," He flattered, trying to jest and flatter.

He let his hand travel to the other side, where the skin pulled taut against the bone and muscle beneath. And he gave a momentary prayer that he never be allowed to squire again, he barely knew how he would survive this encounter... let alone the next. A breeze drifted through the tent's heavy canvas flaps, barely a stir in the air. But enough to add to the goose flesh that had begun on his arms, "Rhaegar," He tilted his head up, encouraged by the wind as if it were the will of the maiden, or the father, or whoever, to let the tip of his index finger drag across the skin as his hand moved further down, "Is there a way I could better serve you...?"


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RHAEGAR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Yesterday at 06:25 pm
Quote
Shelbs is Offline
43 years old
CROWNLANDS [A]
THE IRON THRONE
house targaryen
KING'S LANDING
KING


TRIGGER WARNING [Show]


There were still songs of the competition in his blood, the heat from the day still coursing through him, but the drastic shift from the roaring crowds to the solitude of his tent had lulled him into an odd stillness. Behind the darkness of his eyelids he could feel his muscles churning with a pending ache, a tiredness that still seemed as if it could be washed away with Jon’s efforts. Every now and then he would open his eyes once more to speak, to spy an expression or gesture, but it was not long before he tilted his head back and shut them again in exhaustion. “And would the Lady of Griffin’s Roost not have a place in my courtroom?” He piqued, arching a playful brow above his liquid purple gaze. “You are my Hand, Jon,” he prodded, his lips tilted into a smirk reserved only for the man before him. “At my side you will always be. But you are well equipped with another side, no?” He laughed softly, briefly raising an arm so that Jon could press the wet linen cloth against his muscled ribs. What Rhaegar had done to deserve such a friend, such a brother and advisor, only the gods would know. But even now, as he watched the man descend to his knees in front of him, the King could think of no other he would rather share the Seven Kingdoms with. “What if I promised your would-be betrothed that I shall call upon you less?” The idea itself seemed laughable, enough to provoke a slight chuckle that caused his abdomen to stutter beneath Jon’s clothed hand, but Rhaegar could at least vow to try. His need for the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, however, might perhaps always outweigh that of a wife’s for her lord husband.

Try as he might, the King could not quite feel completely relaxed, intrigued by both his Hand’s admission as well as the ministrations he pressed across his near-naked form. For so long had he known and loved Jon, and only now, when their reign was little older than a newborn babe, did he think to confess his longing for another? Surely Rhaegar could have helped facilitate their courting, if not the desired union altogether? While he pondered the many questions he had for him, he could not seem to grasp a single one with a firm enough grasp to ask, a sudden jolt of what felt like a mixture of surprise and pleasure scrambling his mind from clarity. His purple eyes darting southward towards the sensation, he felt his heartbeat quicken a pace at the sight of both his own growing erection and the look on the man’s face on his knees before him, catching the brief withdrawal of the very hand that had touched him. Quietly he listened to him speak, saying nothing to interrupt him, and making no movements to stop him as he continued near his lower abdomen. “Wed? Truly?” Though he was not entirely sure if he cared any longer to know about the woman of Jon’s desires, much less a married woman, Rhaegar felt naturally pressed to gather more. He was his closest advisor, friend and unblooded brother, had stood beside him when he first married Elia and again when he took Lyanna… how could he not show similar interest in the man’s romantic ambitions?

“Then she is a fool, whomever she may be,” he offered with a slight smile, briefly letting his eyes close once more in contentment under the cool cloth within Jon’s fingers. Against the loose confinements of his thin linen shorts he felt another familiar twitch of his groin, almost as if in reply to his own name upon Jon’s lips, and though despite the slight clench of his jaw, he could feel his heated blood sinking even further past his pelvis. His back still pressed against the post behind him, Rhaegar tilted his head downwards once more, spying the swelling bulge between he and the loving-eyed griffyn before him. Meeting Jon’s upward gaze, it was in that moment that the King’s heart felt as if it would burst with the love he felt for the man, so humbled by his devotion and often saved by his loyalty that Rhaegar feared the Seven Kingdoms would be lost without him. He would be lost without him. There was a special place in the Silver Prince’s heart reserved only for the man whose breath he could feel upon his thickening shaft, even through the covering linen, and in his soul resided a place no other man nor woman would be able to reach. Perhaps it was Jon’s very fealty that aroused him to such lengths, his very affection and unwavering obedience that slowly coaxed Rhaegar from his own shorts, bending forth just briefly enough to strip himself naked in front of him.

“When have you ever required my direction?” He chuckled softly, his manhood large and swollen between them, pulsing with every breath that escaped far enough past Jon’s lips. Sweat and dirt had gathered near the crevices of his thighs and pelvis, and though he could perhaps ask that he use the cloth to clean him there, as well, as any squire would, the glimmer in the King’s eyes was far from such a request. Perhaps it was the day’s tournament still in his blood, the weight of his crown still enthralling, the renewed control of the Seven Kingdoms empowering enough to want to share in it all with the man who had helped him most, but Rhaegar could not help from reaching out to grip Jon’s shoulder with his hand. Again his shaft twitched between them, almost as if hoping to reach the man's lips with every pulse. “You have always known what I need…”
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