Song of The Blessed - 12

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.

Song of The Blessed

Chapter 12 – Divine Pleasure

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

The transition from the kingdom he would someday lead to the inner sanctuary of his mind was usually a jarring shift, a sudden plunge from the chaotic noise of the Red Keep into the serene order of the Pantheon.

But this time, it was different.

There was no cold chill of Hades’s presence, no blinding radiance of Apollo’s form, nor the bloody metallic tang of Ares’s aura.

Instead, Draedon Baratheon found himself breathing in the scent of crushed rose petals, sea salt, and the heavy, musky fragrance of pure, unadulterated desire.

The air was warm, humid like a summer day in the Reach, and tinged with a soft, golden-pink luminescence that seemed to radiate from the very walls. He was not in the main hall of his mindscape. He was in a private chamber, a space that defied the laws of physics and geometry, existing solely to cater to the senses. The floor was not stone, but a carpet of soft, white sand that felt warm beneath his boots. Above, the ceiling depicted lovers from a thousand different eras and worlds, their limbs entwined in an eternal dance of passion.

In the centre of the room, lounging upon a massive circular bed draped in silks of crimson and violet, waited Aphrodite.

The Goddess of Love was bored. It was a terrifying state for a deity of her magnitude to be in. She lay on her stomach, her chin resting in her hands, her legs kicking idly in the air behind her. She wore a toga of spun gossamer, so sheer it was more of a suggestion than a garment, clinging to the valleys and peaks of a body that had been sculpted by the collective yearning of every man who had ever drawn breath.

"You took your time," she purred, her voice a melody that vibrated in Draedon’s chest, bypassing his ears to hum directly against his heart. "Here I was, thinking you’d gotten lost at the funeral of the old falcon, or perhaps you were too busy playing ‘champion of the gods’ with Hades."

Draedon adjusted his cuffs, though his attire here was merely a projection of his self-image. He felt the residual chill of the Great Sept fading, replaced by the cloying warmth of this room. "The dead require respect, Aphrodite. And the living require entertainment. I had to ensure the performance was completed before the curtain fell."

"Entertainment," she scoffed, rolling onto her back and stretching. The movement was a calculated assault on his composure, the silk riding up her thighs, the fabric pulling tight across her breasts. "Funerals are a dreary affair. All that black. All that weeping. It creates such a sour energy. I prefer weddings. Or bedding ceremonies. Much more... vigorous."

Draedon approached the bed, his boots sinking silently into the sand. He looked down at her, his expression amused but guarded. Even in his own mind, dealing with Aphrodite was like handling a viper made of honey; sweet, intoxicating, and capable of swallowing you whole.

"You promised me a blessing," Draedon reminded her, his voice steady. "Athena and Apollo have given me the eyes of Truth. Hades helps me finding treasures and Ares has blessed me with the strength of 10 men. You said you would be next."

Aphrodite smiled, a slow, languid expression that didn't just reach her eyes—it ignited them. Her eyes, currently a deep, emerald green that reminded him of the wildfire the Alchemists brewed, sparkled with mischief.

"I did," she agreed. She sat up, the silk pooling around her hips. "And I always keep my promises, my sweet Prince. Especially when the reward is... mutual."

She patted the space beside her. "Sit. We have things to discuss before we get to the fun parts. Even I know that foreplay involves the mind as much as the flesh."

Draedon sat. The mattress was impossibly soft, like sinking into a cloud. He turned to face her, noting how her appearance rippled like water disturbed by a stone. One moment, her hair was a cascade of golden ringlets, her features sharp and imperious like a heightened, divine reflection of the Lannister bloodline. The next, the gold bled into silver-gold, her eyes shifting to a violet hue, her cheekbones high and angular resembling the classic, haunting beauty of Old Valyria.

It was disorienting, yet strangely hypnotic. She was every woman he had ever desired, and every woman he had yet to meet, all existing in a quantum superposition of beauty.

"My father moves for the North," Draedon said, cutting through the haze of lust she was projecting. He needed to anchor himself before he lost himself in her domain. "The procession leaves in three days. He intends to name Eddard Stark as Hand of the King."

Aphrodite groaned, throwing her head back. Her throat was a column of alabaster perfection. "Stark. The dour one. Admittedly, our eyes and influence in the North are not as deep as the ones in the Capital, yet even we know how he is. The one who treats smiling as if it were a tax violation. Why must it be him? Why not someone with a bit of... fire? Someone who understands that life is meant to be enjoyed, not endured?"

"Because my father trusts him," Draedon replied, watching the light play across her perfect, blemish-free skin. "He sees the past when he looks at Ned Stark. He sees the glory days of their fostering, of the Rebellion, before the crown made him fat and miserable. He wants to recapture his youth."

"Nostalgia," Aphrodite mused, tapping a fingernail against her lower lip. "A potent drug. Often similarly blinding than love itself. So, he drags the entire family halfway across the continent to a frozen wasteland where the men wear furs and the women smell of wet dogs. How romantic."

"It is a mistake," Draedon stated, his mind working through the variables his own upbringing had made him realise. "Stark does not belong in the capital. He is a man of rigid honour in a city built on betrayal and lies. The sharks in the South like Littlefinger, Varys, even my grandfather Tywin, they will eat him alive. He won’t bend, so he will break. And when he breaks, the realm will bleed."

"And you intend to stop it?" Aphrodite asked, tilting her head. She shifted again, her features softening, becoming more doe-eyed, more innocent, though the predatory hunger remained beneath the surface.

"I tried," Draedon admitted, frustration edging into his tone. "I told father to choose Tywin, or even Stannis. Someone who understands governance. But he is deaf to reason on this. He wants his brother-in-arms. He wants to ride north, drink northern ale, and pretend he isn't a King for a few months."

"Then let him," Aphrodite whispered, leaning closer. The scent of her natural odour was overwhelming. "Let the old stag have his final gallop. If Stark comes south, he brings the North with him. And with that, an opportunity."

Draedon looked at her, really looked at her. Beneath the veneer of the ditsy, pleasure-obsessed goddess, there was an ancient cunning. Love, after all, was the cause of more wars than hate ever was.

"The North has been isolated since the Rebellion," Draedon reasoned slowly, following her train of thought. "They pay their taxes, they keep the King's Peace, but they do not engage. They are a kingdom of their own. If Stark becomes Hand, the North is tied to the Iron Throne by duty. Their armies, their resources... they enter the game."

"Exactly," Aphrodite purred, trailing a finger down Draedon’s arm. "And who is better suited to charm the frosty northerners than you? You, the Crown Prince, the Champion of the Gods. You think the North only respects strength? They respect presence. They respect vitality. You go there, Draedon, and you don't just secure an alliance. You seduce an entire kingdom."

Draedon smirked. "You want me to seduce the North?"

"I want you to make them fall in love with you," she corrected, her eyes flashing purple. "It is the same thing. Power is not just swords and laws, my darling. Power is devotion. It is the ability to walk into a room and have every eye drawn to you, every heart beat a little faster, every soul ache with a desire to please you. That is the power I offer."

She paused, her gaze dropping to his lips. "Imagine it. You ride into Winterfell. The stark, grey walls, the cold wind. And you... you shine like the sun. Not the blinding, harsh sun of Apollo, but the warm, inviting sun of a lover's embrace. You smile at the Stark girls, and they dream of you for years. You clasp hands with the Stark sons, and they feel a bond of brotherhood that transcends duty. You look at the Stark lord, and he sees not a southern schemer, but a future King he would die to protect."

"Influence," Draedon murmured.

"Charisma weaponized," Aphrodite confirmed. "Athena gives you the logic to dismantle their arguments. I give you the allure to bypass their minds entirely and command their hearts. It will be... very easy for me to bless you with this."

She moved then, rising to her knees on the bed. The movement caused the toga to slip further, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast. She was breathtaking. It wasn't just physical beauty; it was a metaphysical weight. To look at her was to feel a physical pull, like gravity, drawing him toward her.

“And how is this blessing administered?" Draedon asked, his voice dropping an octave, the banter fading as the atmosphere in the room thickened with intent.

Aphrodite smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of her lips. Her form flickered between a Lannister’s golden hair, A Tully’s red hair, the voluptuous curves of a Dornish beauty, the elegance of a Reach maiden. She was cycling through his subconscious preferences, refining herself to be the perfect object of his lust.

"Apollo uses light," Aphrodite whispered, her hands moving to the single clasp holding her toga at her shoulder. "Ares uses blood. Athena uses knowledge. But I? I am the Goddess of the Flesh, Draedon. My magic is tactile. It is fluid. It passes from body to body, through sweat, through breath, through..."

She let the clasp fall.

The silk toga slid down her body like water cascading over a cliff. It pooled around her waist for a heartbeat, then fell away completely, leaving her nude amidst the crimson sheets.

Draedon had seen naked women before. He was a Prince of the blood, lusty and experienced. But this was different. She was the archetype of the female form. She was perfection made manifest. Her skin glowed with an inner light, smooth as polished marble but soft as warm velvet. Her breasts were full and high, tipped with dark rose. Her waist nipped in sharply, flaring out into hips that were wide and inviting, a sign promising fertility and pleasure in equal measure.

But it was the shifting nature of her that captivated him most. As he watched, her pubic hair shifted from a tuft of Lannister gold to the silver-white of the Targaryens, then to a deep, raven black. Her skin tone warmed to a Dornish olive, then cooled to a creamy Andal pale.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked, her voice trembling with a hunger that matched his own. "I am everything you want. I am the one you hate to love. I am the one you yearn to tame. I am the conquest."

Draedon didn't answer with words. He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek. The sensation was electric. A jolt of pure pleasure shot up his arm, settling in his groin.

"You are a distraction," he murmured, leaning in.

"I am the motivation," she countered, her breath hot against his lips. "Now... worship me. And in doing so, become worthy of worship yourself."

Draedon didn't hesitate. He was a King in the making, and a King took what was offered. But he was also a man who understood that to receive, one must first give.

He moved forward, pressing her back against the pillows. She went willingly, her laughter a soft chime of bells. He kissed her, and her mouth tasted of honeyed wine and ambrosia. It was a kiss that deepened instantly, tongues tangling, a battle for dominance that neither truly wanted to win.

He trailed his kisses down her jawline, feeling her pulse hammer against her skin. He moved lower, over the elegant slope of her neck, to the valley between her breasts. She arched her back, her fingers weaving into his dark Baratheon hair, a testament to his lineage and the lustful nature that rushed through his veins.

"Yes," she hissed, her voice shifting, sounding for a moment like Margaery, then like someone else entirely. "Taste me, Draedon. Drink deep."

He moved lower still, his hands exploring the contours of her body. He could feel the power thrumming beneath her skin, a vibration of divine energy. He kissed her stomach, the skin taut and smooth, before moving to her hips, parting her legs.

She opened for him like a blooming flower. The scent was intoxicating.

When he lowered his head between her thighs, the world seemed to narrow down to this single point of contact. He tasted her, and it was like drinking liquid gold. It was sweet, salty, and overwhelmingly intense.

Aphrodite cried out, her head thrown back, her golden-silver hair fanning out across the crimson silk. Her hips bucked involuntarily, meeting his mouth.

Draedon worked with the dedication of a scholar and the hunger of a starving man. He used his tongue to tease, to stroke, to explore every fold and crevice of her divinity. He felt the shift in her biology as he did so, the texture of her skin changing slightly, the taste evolving from sweet to slightly sweaty and back again as her form fluctuated in the throes of pleasure.

"Oh, Gods," she gasped, her voice echoing throughout his mindscape. "Yes... right there... deeper..."

He obeyed, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place as he devoured her. He felt the energy beginning to transfer. It wasn't just sexual pleasure; it was a golden warmth that seeped into his lips, into his tongue, flowing down his throat and spreading through his veins. It was the essence of attraction, the raw magical substrate of allure.

Every time she shuddered, he felt a surge of confidence, a spike of vanity, a rush of absolute self-assurance. He was drinking in her domain, absorbing the concept of Beauty itself.

She writhed beneath him, her hands clutching the sheets, her heels digging into the mattress. The Goddess of Love, who had brought kings and gods to their knees, was unravelling beneath the ministrations of a mortal prince. It was a heady feeling, a power trip unlike any other.

Finally, with a cry that shook the phantom walls of the room, she climaxed. Her body went rigid, a wave of golden light pulsing out from her, washing over Draedon. He didn't stop, continuing to taste her until the tremors subsided and she lay panting, her skin flushed with a rosy glow.

Draedon pulled back, wiping his mouth. He felt... electrified. His skin felt sensitive, alive.

Aphrodite opened her eyes. They were a swirling vortex of violet and gold. She looked at him with a mixture of satisfaction and predatory intent.

"Good," she whispered, her voice husky. "Very good. But a blessing is a two-way street, my Prince. You have tasted the divine. Now, the divine must taste you."

She sat up, her movements fluid and serpentine. She reached for him, her hands deft and eager. In moments, Draedon was stripped of his mental projections of clothing, leaving him bare before her.

She looked him over, her eyes tracing every muscle, every scar, every line of his body. "Magnificent," she purred. "Ares did good work with the chassis. But let me polish the engine."

She pushed him back onto the pillows. Draedon lay back, watching her. She loomed over him, her hair a curtain of shifting light. She moved down his body, her tongue tracing a line of fire from his chest, over his hardened abs, down to his groin.

She took him into her mouth with a greed that was terrifying.

The sensation was indescribable. It was warmth, wetness, and suction, but magnified by a thousand. Her mouth felt like it was made of velvet and fire. She worked him with a skill that was older than civilization, a rhythm that was innate to the universe.

Draedon groaned, his hands gripping her hair as his fingers tangled through her luscious locks. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. Every stroke of her tongue, every tighten of her lips, sent shockwaves through his nervous system.

She didn't stay just at the head. She used her hands, fondling him, her fingers dancing over his skin. She moved up, her breasts brushing against his thighs, his stomach.

Then, she shifted.

She moved her body so that she was hovering over him, her breasts dangling enticingly close to his face.

"Multi-tasking," she teased, her voice vibrating against his cock.

She lowered herself, taking him deep into her throat while simultaneously pressing her breasts against his face. Draedon reached up, groping her. Her breasts were heavy, soft, and perfect. He squeezed them, watching as the nipples hardened under his touch.

The visual was overwhelming. The Goddess of Love, bobbing on his cock, her eyes locked on his, her cheeks hollowed, while he fondled her tits. Her form continued to flicker—one moment he was holding the pale, firm breasts of a Valyrian, the next the sun-kissed, fuller curves of a Dornishwoman.

"You like the variety," she mumbled around him, reading his mind quite literally. "You want them all. You are a greedy king, Draedon."

"I am a collector," he managed to grit out, his hips bucking up to meet her rhythm.

She pulled off him with a wet pop, leaving him glistening and aching for more. She crawled up his body, straddling his waist. She looked down at him, her eyes burning with intensity.

"Now," she commanded. "The final step. The binding. Put it inside me."

She lifted her hips, positioning herself. She sank down slowly.

The friction was exquisite. She was tight, incredibly hot, and wet. As she encased him, Draedon felt a slam of metaphysical weight. It was like connecting two live wires. The circuit was closed.

Aphrodite threw her head back and moaned, a sound that was half-prayer, half-curse. She began to ride him, setting a slow, grinding pace.

"Feel it," she gasped, her hands resting on his chest, her nails digging in slightly. "Feel the change. I am rewriting your presence. I am weaving divinity into your skin. I am pouring seduction into your voice."

Draedon reached up, grabbing her hips, helping her set the rhythm. He thrust upward, hard, driving into her.

With every thrust, the room grew brighter. The golden-pink light intensified, swirling around them like a cyclone.

He looked at her face. She was shifting rapidly now, a kaleidoscope of beauty.

He saw faces he didn't recognize—women of the North, women of Essos, wildlings and princesses.

"Who are you?" Draedon roared, the pleasure building to a crescendo, a tidal wave threatening to crash.

"I am Desire!" Aphrodite screamed back, her voice a chorus of a thousand women. "And I am yours!"

She increased the pace, moving with a frenzied, divine energy. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, milking him, urging him on.

Draedon couldn't hold back. The sensation was too much, the mental and physical stimulation overloading his senses. He gripped her hips, bruising the divine skin, and thrust one final, deep time.

He poured himself into her.

It wasn't just seed. It was will. It was ambition. It was the claim of a conqueror.

And as he spent himself inside the Goddess, he felt the blessing rush into him. It felt like molten gold flooding his veins. It started in his groin and shot outward, filling every limb, every pore, every cell.

His mind felt clearer, sharper, but also... lighter. The heavy burden of calculation that Athena had given him was suddenly buoyed by an effortless confidence. He didn't just know the truth anymore; he knew how to make people *love* the truth he spoke. He felt a newfound awareness of his own body, a hyper-proprioception of how he moved, how he looked, how he was perceived.

Aphrodite collapsed on top of him, her skin slick with sweat that smelled of perfume. The room slowly stopped spinning. The blinding light faded back to the warm, ambient glow.

They lay there in silence for a long time, the only sound their synchronized breathing.

Aphrodite shifted, her form stabilizing into a blend of his preferences—violet eyes, golden hair, olive skin. A synthesis of the realm’s beauties. She rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him with a lazy, satisfied smile.

"Well," she murmured, tracing a circle around his nipple with her finger. "That was... adequate."

Draedon let out a short, breathless laugh. "Adequate?"

"For a mortal," she teased. "You have potential. We might have to practice again. Often."

She kissed his chest, right over his heart. "The blessing is done, Draedon. You carry the spark now. When you wake, you will see. Men will want to be you. Women will want to be with you. Your words will carry a weight that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with emotion. You will be... irresistible."

She sat up, sliding off him. She stood by the bed, unashamed of her nudity, basking in his gaze.

"Go to Winterfell," she commanded, her voice turning serious for a brief moment. "Charm the Wolf. Claim his pack for your own. Melt the exterior of those people. Bring the North into the fold. But remember..."

She leaned down, whispering in his ear as the world began to dissolve, the pink room fading into the blackness of waking.

"...power is nothing without passion. Don't become a statue like Athena. Burn, Draedon. Burn bright."

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

Draedon gasped, his eyes snapping open.

He was back in his chambers in the Red Keep. The morning light was streaming through the shutters, cutting through the gloom. Dust motes danced in the beams.

He lay there for a moment, orienting himself. His body felt... different.

The heaviness of sleep was gone instantly. He felt a buzzing energy beneath his skin, like a hum of vitality that was distinct from the martial strength Ares had granted him. He felt light.

He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He walked to the tall Myrrish mirror that stood in the corner of the room.

He looked at his reflection.

Draedon Baratheon had always been a handsome man. He had the height and broad shoulders of Robert in his prime, the dark hair and blue eyes of the Stormlands. But what looked back at him now was... elevated.

His skin seemed to have a subtle, healthy lustre, as if he had just spent a week in the summer sun absorbing its radiance. His eyes were a more piercing shade of blue, sparkling with a hidden amusement. His jawline seemed sharper, his posture naturally regal without being stiff.

He ran a hand through his hair. It fell perfectly into place, as if styled by a master.

He smiled.

Even that simple action felt different. In the mirror, the smile wasn't just a movement of muscles; it was a weapon. It was disarming, charming, promising secrets and delights. It was a smile that could start or end a war.

He turned his head, testing the angles. He looked dangerous. He looked magnetic.

He looked down, his trousers now a tad tighter around his groin. A quick glance saw him affirm that Aphrodite had indeed blessed him with all the tools he needed to control the fairer sex.

He heard a knock at the door.

"Enter," Draedon said. Even his voice sounded richer, a smooth baritone that commanded attention without needing to be loud.

Ser Addam Marbrand entered, carrying a pitcher of water. The knight looked up, tired from the long guard shift.

"Your Grace, I brought—"

Marbrand stopped. He blinked, staring at Draedon. A look of confusion, then subtle awe, crossed his face. He straightened his posture instinctively, as if in the presence of something greater than just a prince.

"You look... well, Your Grace," Marbrand stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than well, Ser Addam," Draedon replied, turning his full attention to the knight. He saw the effect immediately. Marbrand was captivated, hanging on his every word.

Draedon walked over to the basin and splashed water on his face. The water felt incredibly cool and crisp against his heightened senses.

"Do ask the maids to prepare my things," Draedon ordered, drying his face with a towel. "And tell the stables to ready Radahn. I want to inspect the retinue for the journey North. Also, I need you and Ser Ronnet to meet me at the mine tomorrow. We shall move the mined gold to the safehouse again."

“At once, Your Grace," Marbrand said, bowing lower than usual and hurrying out of the room with a newfound zeal.

Draedon walked to the window, looking out over King's Landing. The city smelled of shit and smoke, but even that couldn't dampen his mood.

He looked North, toward the invisible horizon where Winterfell lay waiting.

Robert wanted a pleasurable time.

Ned Stark wanted peace.

Everyone else wanted power.

But Draedon... Draedon wanted it all.

He rested his hand on the cold stone of the windowsill, feeling the hum of his divine patrons—the Logic of Athena, the Support of Hades, the Strength of Ares, the Radiance of Apollo, and now, the irresistible, amplified Allure of Aphrodite.

"Winter is coming," Draedon whispered the motto of House Stark to the winds, a smirk playing on his lips. "And I shall bring the fire."

Author’s Notes

Next stop: Winterfell. Some of my favourite girls from the world of Ice and Fire shall make an appearance soon.