[132] The Serpent’s Kiss

Chapter 132: The Serpent's Kiss

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The banquet dragged well into the night, wine flowing like the rivers of the Westerlands. I stayed away from much interaction, just watching the lords from my elevated position, noting every furtive glance, every whispered conversation. They reminded me of carrion birds circling a fresh kill, uncertain if the beast was truly dead.

Daenerys did my share of socialization along with her own. She moved through the crowd with otherworldly grace. Her horns caught the torchlight, casting strange shadows across her transformed features. Lords visibly flinched when her violet eyes fell upon them—too mythical, too knowing for comfort.

She spoke rarely, but when she did, her words sliced through the sycophantic babble like Valyrian steel through flesh. Unlike me, she'd never watched these lords on a screen, never knew their fates in another timeline. Her perspective was refreshingly direct.

Wealth buys loyalty until power offers a better price.

Myrcella sat rigidly throughout, a golden statue amid the revelry. Arianne had taken pity on the girl, drawing her into harmless conversation from time to time. Despite everything, Myrcella's courtesies never faltered—perhaps thanks to Cersei's relentless training. She smiled when addressed, laughed at jests that deserved it, yet her emerald eyes remained hollow pools of carefully contained terror. Each time they strayed toward me, she would quickly look away, as if my gaze might burn her.

Yet, I did manage to ease her fear by chatting with her casually by the end of it. She was giggling for real at one point, although quick to control it when she realized what she was doing.

People’s eyes caught our interaction, my smile and her laugh.

No one dared mention the Wardenship of the West throughout. The question hung in the air, but nobody brought it up. My treatment of Myrcella as Lady of Casterly Rock had planted an assumption I'd let grow for now.

Perhaps they believed she—or more likely, a son she might bear me—would become the future Warden. Given how I was smiling and joking with her, while caring not to do the same with these arrogant lords.

I didn’t care. Let them speculate. In the game of thrones, uncertainty is as powerful a weapon as certainty.

The lords were finally shown to their chambers, many eager to extend their stay. Casterly Rock had transformed overnight—once Tywin's impregnable fortress, now a gilded cage filled with ambitious men scrambling for crumbs from the dragon's table.

The most dangerous predators are those who appear to be prey.

In my chambers, Tywin's former suite, I shed my formal attire for a black silk robe embroidered with crimson dragons. The irony wasn't lost on me—sleeping in the bed of the man who'd orchestrated my family's downfall. I wondered what ghosts haunted these walls, what secrets Tywin had whispered into the night.

I swirled Arbor gold in a goblet, contemplating the peculiar energy surrounding Lady Lyra. My initial plan had been simpler, to visit Myrcella's chambers, to witness how the little lioness was settling into her new cage. But the girl needed time for her situation to truly sink in. Coercion was easy, but a resigned participant was always more rewarding.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. Confident, deliberate. Not a servant's hesitant tap.

"Enter."

The door swung open to reveal someone who made my eyebrow raise. It was Lady Lyra Prester, a vision that would make even the High Septon question his vows.

She'd changed from her purple gown into something far more provocative—a black silk that clung to her curves like a second skin, the neckline plunging dangerously to reveal the generous swell of her breasts. Her necklace fell into her cleavage, as if begging to be looked at. A slit ran up the side, offering tantalizing glimpses of a toned thigh with each step. Her dark hair cascaded loose down her back, and her lips, painted purple, curved into a knowing smile.

"Lady Lyra," I greeted, reclining against the cushions. "To what do I owe this late-night pleasure? Lost your way to your chambers?"

She slipped inside, closing the door with a soft click. "Perhaps I found my way precisely where I intended to be, Your Grace." Her hips swayed hypnotically as she approached. "Some paths are more... inviting than others."

Queens command respect, but seductresses command desire.

"Bold of you to venture into the dragon's lair unaccompanied," I remarked, gesturing for her to sit beside me. "Many have burned for less."

"Many lack the proper protection." She settled gracefully beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her perfume, that exotic eastern scent, enveloped me once more. "They say the crown weighs heavy, Your Grace. That kings require... release from such burdens. I thought you'd call me."

I chuckled, studying her honey-brown eyes for any hint of her true purpose. "Many seek the king's ear, Lady Lyra. Or perhaps other parts of his attention. I don’t lack such people. So what is it you truly seek?"

She leaned forward, her breasts threatening to spill from her bodice. One slender finger traced the rim of my goblet. "Some say the greatest power lies not in commanding, but in being commanded—if only for a night." Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. "A king must tire of always being in control, no?"

"An interesting theory," I replied, sliding my hand over hers. "But dragons are not easily leashed, even by the most beautiful of handlers."

"I don't seek to leash," she purred, her free hand boldly landing on my thigh. "Merely to serve. House Prester has remained neutral in recent conflicts, thanks to my husband’s absence. A lone woman can hardly make impactful decisions. We've neither gained nor lost. But a wise woman secures her future."

And there it was—ambition thinly veiled as desire.

I'd seen her type before, though usually on a screen, plotting their ascent through powerful men's beds. In my previous life, I'd watched Cersei, Margaery, and countless others play this game. The difference was, they played it against each other. I had the advantage of knowing the rulebook.

Yet, there was something odd about her too. That feeling remained.

"And what future do you envision, my lady? Surely you don't expect to become queen from one night's service."

She laughed, the sound musical yet calculated. "Queens are watched too closely, judged too harshly. A king's favored companion, however..." Her hand inched higher on my thigh. "She enjoys the benefits of power without its constraints. Wealth, influence, protection. Simple desires, Your Grace."

A different king, and any lady would have been less direct. Across history, most Kings of Westeros entertained ladies, either by marriage or affair, so her ambition wasn’t totally misplaced. Especially since I carried a particularly strong reputation regarding ladies.

Her intentions were no clearer than before, but I found myself enjoying the game. Was she a mere opportunist, a spy for Tywin, or something more sinister? Only one way to find out.

Power reveals what desire conceals.

"Simple desires deserve simple rewards," I said, setting my goblet aside. I caught her wandering hand in mine, bringing it to my lips. "Tell me, Lady Lyra, have you ever ridden a dragon?"

Her laugh was low and throaty, eyes glittering with promise. "Not yet, Your Grace. But I've always been a quick study."

Lady Lyra moved closer, undeterred by my scrutiny. Her hand trailed along my arm, her touch surprisingly cool despite her heated words. The contrast was jarring—like snow falling in summer.

"Then perhaps," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as her body pressed against mine, "the dragon would enjoy a different kind of hunt tonight?"

Before I could respond, she closed the distance between us, capturing my lips in a kiss that was both fierce and calculated. Her mouth tasted of honey and spice, sweet yet foreign. She threw herself into it with an abandon that was thrilling and, to my heightened senses, still faintly off. Like watching an actor perform a scene they'd rehearsed too many times.

Even serpents can wear beautiful scales.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging with just enough force to send a jolt of pleasure down my spine. I responded in kind, one hand sliding to the small of her back, pulling her closer until I could feel every curve of her body through the thin silk of her gown. Her breasts pressed against my chest, full and inviting.

I broke the kiss, trailing my lips down the column of her throat. She arched into me, a soft moan escaping her painted lips. The sound was perfect—too perfect, like she'd practiced it in a mirror.

"Oh, Your Grace," she breathed, her fingers working at the fastenings of my robe. "You're even more magnificent than the rumors claim."

As the silk parted, revealing my chest, she looked up at me through heavy-lidded eyes, hunger evident in her gaze. "Would you like to try something... special, Your Grace? As I said, I've heard that men who are always in control... they sometimes love to let go. To cede that power, if only for a fleeting moment."

Her finger trailed down my chest, circling my navel before dipping lower. "Have you heard of such delights?" she purred, suggesting with her touch what her words only hinted at—restraints, blindfolds, a reversal of roles.

I found this genuinely amusing, a slight laugh escaping me. "Binding a dragon, Lady Lyra? A bold proposition." I shook my head, remembering the pathetic man I'd once been, desperate for any scrap of validation, letting slaves pour molten candle on my skin. "I guess you must have heard the rumors of what I used to... enjoy, before. Back when I was merely Viserys, the Beggar King."

Her eyes widened slightly, the first genuine reaction I'd seen from her.

"No, I don't indulge such fancies anymore," I continued. "Not since my dragon blood awakened. It changes a man. Strengthens him in ways beyond the physical."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before the seductive mask slipped back into place. "A pity," she pouted, her hands continuing their exploration of my chest. "But wouldn't the mighty Dragon King love to revisit those vulnerable past memories? To feel that thrill of powerlessness again, knowing you could break free at any moment?"

I laughed again. "No. The past is ashes. I prefer the fire of the present."

Desire is the mask ambition wears when it wishes to go unnoticed.

Lady Lyra shrugged, a playful pout on her lips. "Then at least let me be on top? Or does that hurt your magnificent ego too much, my mighty King?" Before I could properly respond, she pushed me back onto the large bed, her movements surprisingly strong and agile.

She straddled me in one fluid motion, her silk gown riding high on her thighs, revealing smooth, pale skin that gleamed in the candlelight. Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she gazed down at me, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a midnight waterfall.

I was surprised by her audacity but not unpleased by the change in dynamic. A smirk played on my lips as I watched her, saying nothing. My hands found her hips, fingers digging into the supple flesh as she began to move against me.

With deliberate slowness, she reached behind her back, unlacing her gown. The silk slid from her shoulders, pooling at her waist to reveal breasts that were full and perfect—too perfect, like they'd been crafted rather than grown. Her nipples were dusky pink, already hardened to tight peaks.

"Is this more to Your Grace's liking?" she asked, taking my hands and placing them on her breasts.

I kneaded the soft flesh, watching her reactions closely. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat, a moan escaping her parted lips. Again, that sense of performance nagged at me, but the physical pleasure was undeniable.

She leaned down, her breasts brushing against my chest as she kissed me again, deeper this time, her tongue exploring my mouth with growing urgency. Her hips continued their maddening rhythm against mine, the friction sending waves of pleasure through my body.

"I want to feel you inside me, Your Grace," she whispered against my lips, her hand slipping between us to free me from my smallclothes.

When she sank down onto me, taking my cock fully inside her in one smooth motion, I couldn't suppress a groan. She was tight and slick, her inner muscles gripping me like a velvet fist. She began to ride me with increasing fervor, her movements urgent, almost desperate.

I matched her rhythm, thrusting upward to meet her downward motions. Her breasts bounced with each movement, hypnotic in their perfect symmetry. Sweat beaded on her brow, her lips parted in what appeared to be genuine pleasure.

"Ah, yes… Yes, Your Grace," she moaned, her pace quickening. "Just like that."

The serpent strikes when its prey is most vulnerable.

As I felt myself approaching climax, my senses heightened, that "wrong" feeling about her suddenly screamed a warning in my mind, a fraction of a second too late.

Lady Lyra's eyes, so recently glazed with passion, snapped open, cold and hard as chips of ice. With a speed that belied her seductive demeanor, her hand flashed to her intricately styled hair. A thin, needle-sharp dagger, previously hidden, was suddenly in her grasp.

She slammed it down, aiming for my throat.

My instincts, honed by my awakened blood and countless dangers, reacted. My hand shot up, intercepting the blow. The dagger punched straight through my palm, the point scraping bone. Pain, sharp and searing, flooded me, but adrenaline followed instantly.

She was incredibly strong, I registered with a detached part of my mind, to penetrate my enhanced flesh like that.

My other hand, free and already coiled into a fist, connected with her cheek with the force of a battering ram.

Lady Lyra was sent flying from the bed, crashing against the far wall with a sickening thud, the dagger clattering to the floor. Her naked body slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood in its wake.

I was on my feet in an instant, blood dripping from my impaled hand, a furious, almost gleeful laugh erupting from me. The pain was already fading, my enhanced healing beginning its work.

"You shouldn't have tried so hard to want to tie me up, little serpent," I said, staring at the crumpled figure of the woman. "If you hadn't, my earlier doubt would have melted against that hot body of yours. Pity. Such a waste." I began to advance on her, pulling my robe closed with my uninjured hand. "It's time to die, assassin."

Death wore many faces, but fear wore only one.

And fear… I saw none in her eyes.

Lady Lyra groaned, pushing herself up slowly. A trickle of blood ran from her split lip, but her eyes were clear, cold, and utterly devoid of the earlier seduction.

"Truly, the Dragon King is something else," she said, her voice different now—flat, emotionless, with an accent I couldn't quite place.

She raised a hand, not in surrender, but to her own face. She drew it across her features, and with a sickening, subtle shimmer, her face changed. The lush beauty of Lady Lyra melted away, replaced by the sharp, androgynous features of a stranger. Even her body seemed to shift, becoming leaner, harder, less feminine.

"The Many-Faced God wants you dead," the stranger said, rising to a crouch. "So it is you who will die, lizard... Valar Morghulis."

I stopped dead, the blood from my hand momentarily forgotten.

Oh, shit.

My mind raced, connecting the "wrong" feeling, the flawless performance, the impossible strength. Of course, but of course!

[You have been poisoned.]

Lesson learned.

Never play Rains of Castamere at a noble event.

The woman, creature, deity, whatever it was, rushed at me at a frightening speed.

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