@hcrctics queried: “ take your clothes off... slowly. ” for aymeric, obviously from orlaith. Though frey likely says it in a mocking tone also.
------HE’D BEEN HERE before with her, though under very different circumstances. it was in the nature of ser aymeric xandros to flirt his way through any situation that didn’t call for a fight. he’d flirt with his own reflection if it meant he’d get something out of it. loyal to the kingdom of wheldrake to a fault, he bore many scars in the name of service ---each of them a white line across almost permanently sun-kissed flesh ( somehow, for how foggy the kingdom always seemed to be ). he could recall the first time she’d given him this request: shortly after her wedding to his king, when her life had been jeopardized by assassins from another country and an arrow had made its home in the otherwise flawless flesh of her shoulder. if aymeric ever had a chance to live a pampered life ( not that he would want one, and it had been offered to him many times since his service had carried him thus far ) he supposed he could understand queen orlaith’s reservations to bearing a scar of her own.
so he’d done as he was instructed in the gardens of the castle and stripped away his leathers, untied his cotton undershirt and let it fall open to bear to her what she’d wished to see. BUT THAT WAS A VERY DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCE. she was a very different woman then; barely aware of her own body and desire, never mind being tuned into higher wants and demands. she’d named him her consort since then, taken him to bed and shared many a heavy breath from the feather down of her mattress ( and the command table, and the throne room, and the stables, and the--- ). ser aymeric xandros was no stranger to being bossed about, no stranger to taking orders. no stranger to this specific scenario.
there was always the shadow of a knowing grin painted against the growth of his beard, but it was SOMETHING ELSE whenever she summoned him as the sun went down. the queensguard outside of her door never said a word, merely gazed at him ( and the shadow knights were a boastful few in wheldrake, it was small wonder he outranked the man before him who swore an oath to die for the woman waiting just beyond ) in the same way he always did: impassive. perhaps he’d turned his ears off already to the sounds he was too familiar with, by now. no sooner had he crossed the threshold of her room than did her order come, and aymeric stopped in his tracks, listened to the heavy click of the steel inlay sealing him in, and turned dark gaze to her.
as to how halius had ever gotten so lucky as to marry a woman as beautiful as she, he didn’t know. ( all aymeric knew was that his king squandered it, chasing the tail of any other woman that might have looked twice in his direction ( DAMN FOOL ). ) he wasn’t fool enough to look the gift horse in the mouth, merely to stand in her presence and belay her order a moment longer in favor of drinking in the sight of her: alabaster flesh nearly flawless against the dark colors of wheldrake - the scar he considered beautiful only a pucker under the tuft of silken black strands that rest over the round of her shoulder. she dressed in gowns that cut themselves out and replaced warm fabrics with lace and transparent patterned designs that served to both leave little and too much to the imagination, but wore them all too well.
fingers rose to the buckles of his armor at his sides and aymeric made to unfasten them. he worked at the pauldrons of his armor next, and the bracers after that, dropping both to the floor before he peeled at the thick steel half-plate covering his heart. he chose not to adorn the armor of a true knight ( or what any other kingdom would boast that as ), favoring black-dyed leathers instead for the speed they offered in lieu of full protection. half-plate adorned where it mattered: protecting his heart and chest in layers. bracers, half-plate, pauldrons, gauntlets came next in the pile and once they fell to the warmed stone at his feet in a clink! he finally removed lamellar armor to add to the pile. slowly ---the purr in her voice at the command had him remembering pace. aymeric was sure not to pull his eyes away from her during any of this particular stage of the dance.
it was a repeat of the day in the garden thus far, and when he pulled at the tie of the black cotton undershirt he could say it was almost match-for-match ---except he did not stop there as he had that day. not in the privacy of her chambers. it was a wisp dancing in firelight as he let it slip to the pile, then reached for the tie of his greaves below to be rid of those when the first task had finished. slowly. “ does her majesty require council this evening? ” he teased, tone a rasped hum, the cat that caught the canary, far too amused for his lot.
and once his greaves were added to the pile he made for belts ( and only did he break eye contact to rest his broadsword against the wall by the door, as well as the various daggers tucked here and there in his armor ). then came his breeches, where he tugged at that tie as well, letting the leather fall open. thumbs slipped into the sides to peel them over the shape of his hips and when he stepped out of them the pile was complete: aymeric xandros was a ser no more in vision but a man laid bare before his queen. the dancing warmth of firelight was enough to tell of the scars that mapped his body ---white-silver lines etched on his sides, arms, shoulders, chest, back, thighs ... no spare ounce of flesh on him for the muscle below, no spare ounce if that had been saved from something sharp or biting throughout his life, never mind service.
he stood proud, his grin a ghost at the corner of his lips, gaze nearly down his nose ( though not out of disrespect for his queen ), and rest his hand at the small of his back, clasping his other forearm. a good soldier. he waited for her judgment, for her response, for her touch.
“ separately they were impressive. it was easy to see how they’d earned their right to fight for their kingdom. one was a rush of raw power, raw energy and the other a flurry of steel and spite. but together ... oh together they were a storm, both brilliant and blinding and dark as the void of death. mark the shadow knights moving across the battlefield by the carrion swarm overhead, waiting to pick clean the bones of fresh kills ---the keeper of the underworld has sent his best to retrieve him souls. ”
i let him sleep and as he does,
my held breath fills the room with love.
hurts in ways i can’t describe,
my heart bends and breaks so many,
many times. and is born
again with each sunrise.
