The Bastard Baratheon

'Orys Baratheon' prowls the Festival, broad of shoulder, dark of hair and beard, well-muscled, and -- apparent at an event like this -- straining at the front of his black leather breeches. The costume was an expensive one, though perhaps not so expensive as others on display (or others lying discarded by now), and was tailor fitted to him. Leather-scaled 'armor' in red and black, bracers on each otherwise-bare arm sporting Targaryen dragons, high leather boots, leather breeches, all of it made exactly to fit just right. The...irregularity...of his physical insistence is maddeningly obvious, that being the case.

I have her token, but nothing more, he sighs to himself, his dark blue eyes roving the debauchery almost of their own accord. A spooked horse will have their big brown eyes roll in their sockets, and it seems a drunk, overly-stimulated, young man might do much the same. Every where he looks, bare buttocks and breasts are on display -- or more -- and the thickness of the air is as intoxicating as the sweet red wine he keeps pouring down his gullet, trying to quench the fire in his loins with it; as useful, that, as pouring oil on a campfire.

"Mason," he finally half-growls, voice thick behind his bushy beard, behind his half-obscuring mask. "He'll have willing servants aplenty, even if naught else."

So he seeks out the eye of the storm. The unmasked lad sitting in the center of the festival, the middle of the web of secrets, lies, and desires. The one who, purposefully or not, wanted or not, kept this reputed to be a Bartheld party by so many guests. Everyone knew what he did, and who/what would likely be on-hand amidst such a party.

So he finds him, sitting in that tattered high-backed chair, lounging like a Prince of Lys.

'Orys,' the bastard founder of the proud House Baratheon, gives him a nod and a grunt of hello, pointedly -- politely -- ignoring the black-armored guards nearby.

Nathan looks up at the newcomer, and for a moment gives the impression his sparkling blue eyes can see straight through the mask. He smiles and rises, lays a hand across his bare, flat stomach and gives the man a deep bow. "Lord Baratheon." he says in rich tones. "What a pleasure it is to have you with us." His eyes briefly flicker over the athletic man before him, not long enough to be lewd, but long enough to emphasize the point.

He straightens to the erect posture usually reserved for nobles and Knights. "I hope that you are enjoying the festivities." His eyes wander to the Red Priestess for a moment, then his gaze returns to the first Hand of the King. "If there is anything I can do to make your stay more welcome, please don't hesitate to ask."

"I am," he speaks louder than he would unmasked, his voice a chest-deep rumble, Stormlander accent pronounced.  It's not until after he's started talking that Aerion realizes he's mimicking Ser Harbert;  in his head, the first great Baratheon must speak and act like this generation's Baratheon hero.

"Though not as much as I'd like.  A Priestess left me smoldering, and I'd rather be ablaze."  One bracered arm swings wide -- he seems to have misplaced his Orys One-Hand stump cap -- and takes in the debauchery.  "But I'll father no children here, masks be damned, and I'll trust no tea.  Have you...options?"

Beneath his mask, Aerion's just sober enough to marvel at himself.  Here, he's no bastard, no squire, no meek shadow to Harbert, minding his manners and trying not to offend until he's been spurred.  Here, at least, he can just want something, and ask for it. In a way, it's every bit as intoxicating as the wine and the length of red silk he's got tucked under a bracer.

Nathan moves to Orys' side, his movements almost liquid. "You look upon this buffet of delights and ask me for options." the young man grins mischievously. "That is not the Orys Baratheon I remember from history."

He places a hand on Ory's arm as he surveys the room. His touch is pleasantly cool against the man's heated skin. "The most famous bastard does not wish to make more." His blue-eyed gaze flickers about the assembly. "A difficult endeavor, given everyone's hidden identity." He ponders for a moment. "The easiest solution would be to choose a male companion. Is that an option, my Lord, or should I look for something more complicated."

[OOC: Nathan's current passive seduce is 19. While he is not actively seducing you, he is practically dripping sex appeal at the moment. And, let's be realistic, you are Henry Cavill.]

"There is no need for...something more complicated," he says, with a bit of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Complications weren't, ever, something he sought out. The narrow view from his visor was his favorite, the simplicity of a single opponent, a charging lane, a clear goal.

"So yes. It's certainly an option."

Older pages did such things, younger squires did such things. Aerion had, a time or two, himself. He wasn't above such dabbling. Not this drunk on red wine and red priestesses, this emboldened by masks and the debauchery of strangers. There will be no bastards, his eyes slide up and down Nathan's slender form, heavily-muscled arm twitched a the younger man's soft touch. I will shame and burden no one this way, neither woman nor child.

Nathan, again, seemed to look beyond the man's mask. "Yes, I think you are a man burdened by many 'complications'. You do not need to be burdened with more." He glanced around the room and gave a slight frown. "No. Nothing here will do." He pondered for a few moments more, then took 'Orys'' large hand with his. "Come. I want to show you something special. Something I think you will appreciate."

The mask leaves his features less than clear, but there's little mistaking the arch of a curious brow.

"Lead on," his broad shoulders give a careless, wine-loosened, shrug.

With a motion from Nathan and a few brief words, a server picked up a nearby lantern, a bottle of wine and two glasses.  The young man led Lord Baratheon away, out into the garden and the night.  Orys could sense entwined bodies as they passed, sensuous movements in the dark, soft moans of pleasure, brief flashes of flesh in the moonlight.  

On the far side of the garden stood two black-armoured guards.  They were there to protect the guests, among others scattered throughout the garden, but these also barred a narrow path that wound between rocks which lead up a craggy hill.  Nathan passed them with a nod and bid his companion follow.

The path was deeply dark and the rocks close, but well worn and gradually elevated.  It took only several minutes to traverse the winding corridor, but time seemed to lengthen and the world seemed to shrink. It felt like they were walking from one world to the next, only the server's lantern to light their way in the darkness.

Just as Orys was starting to think better of this 'option' the rocky corridor opened into a airy grotto.  A niche carved from the rock.   The darkness was lifted and the full moon illuminated the area into wondrous glory as their eyes began to adjust.

There were rocky walls on three sides, the fourth gave a glorious view of the bay and the lights of King's Landing beyond.  The illuminated Red keep rose up in the night, backed by a glittering starry sky.  In the center of the grotto was a round pool of water, liquid silver in the moonlight.  Ruined columns surrounded the pool.  Some still stood.  Many had fallen, giving the grotto a sense of age and character that it had never possessed when it was new.

Growth had overtaken those columns during the long years of solitude.  Remarkable in that most were night blooming flowers.  The visitors had arrived at the height of their display.  Tall pink and white moon flowers moved in the gentle breeze, illuminated in the darkness by that which they took their name.  Evening primrose grew in spots below them, their bright yellow flowers visited by luminescent white moths and flickering fireflies.  Vines of Jasmine wrapped around the columns and climbed the rock walls, sending out their scent to compete with the spicier Night Gladiolas that clustered around the pool with creamy blooms.  The pool itself was almost free of any overgrowth except for a cluster of water lillies to one side.  Large blooms of bright crimson, pink and purple a stark contrast to the the flowers that surrounded them.

"I closed of this area for safety reasons."  said Nathan, indicating the precipace to their right, "But the truth is, I'm not sure any of them are worthy to be here."  He grinned at his companion mischievously.  "I'm not sure we are worthy to be here, but here we are."

Without a hint of modesty, Nathan undid the broach that held his skirts in place and handed them to the server.  His lithe body seemed like flawless alabaster in the moonlight.  Walking over to the pool, he slipped slowly into the silver waters, comfortably warm from their source deep within the earth.  They came to just below his chest, and when he reached the bottom, he glided luxuriously to the far side and turned, waiting expectantly for his companion to join him.

'Orys' casts the server an appraising glance -- a young man's habit, servers were always more accessible to him than those they served, growing up -- but follows.  His gaze flickers to the shadows as they stride through the garden, drawn here and there by moans and flashes of skin, sizing up the groups they see...until he catches himself and doesn't risk being seen staring.

Fat luck of that.  They seem busy enough not to've noticed.  Hells, half of them likely would've waved us over.

Even as his cheeks redden beneath his mask, they come across the pair of guards barring the path.  He sizes them up, too, out of a different set of old habits.  He's acutely aware of the silliness of his soft leather armor, the light weight of his costume sword.  He's just as aware that none of it should matter -- it's a different sword Nathaniel's interested in, no doubt -- but instincts die hard.  A wayward glance is all they get, though, no staredown, no shove, no brusque shoulder-check.  Just a look.  Same as the moaners in the shadows.

With barely a pause, he follows Mason into the darkness of the rocky path.

Half-hidden by mask and beard, the young warrior still can't help a soft smile at the grotto.  It's something out of a maiden's dream, a singer's story.  It's not what he was expecting, that's for sure.

"I don't think tonight's a night where 'worthiness' is much of a concern," he flashes a grin, disrobing eagerly, if not so smoothly, as Nathan.  He's got more in the way, to be fair;  leather scale armor, boots, black leather breeches, and finally the bracers.  There's a flash of red inside one of them, a tight-folded silk scarf, that he's more worried with losing than he is hiding.

Naked save his mask -- powerfully built, and sporting only a few small scars -- he wades into the pool, himself.  His hardness has not been diminished by the long walk, nor, certainly, the view of Nathaniel's slender body.  The warm waters seem entirely unlikely to make him falter, either.

Together in the warm water, Nathan turned the man away from him and began massaging the Knight's muscled neck, broad athletic shoulders and chiseled back. He was stronger than he looked, and though some of the taut muscles beneath the velvet skin resisted the young man's efforts, none were a challenge to his skill and experience. Orys soon found the tension that had been building since he'd arrived smoothed away between the breathtaking short stabs of pain and the intoxicating pleasure that followed.

It was only after the Knight seemed fully relaxed that Nathan finally moved around to kiss him softly. His hand gently teased the young man's beard and then slowly moved down his neck, across his chest, over his rock hard stomach and finally to what waited below. Maneuvering his body, he nudged the man to sit on the lip of the pool. Arms encircled his waist and Nathan's lips began to work on the only hard muscle that remained.

Only then did Orys realize this was not just Nathan's profession, it was his vocation. The young whore had devoted a lifetime to perfecting his skill. Ripples of pleasure flooded the man's body and all he could do was hold onto the edge of the pool with a vice-like grip. However, just like the massage, while there was pleasure, there was pain as well. Every time the Knight felt like release was inevitable, Nathan cruelly snatched it way. He wanted to snarl in frustration, but could only moan as the next wave of pleasure overtook him.

Just when he thought he could take no more, when he was as hard as diamond, Nathan pulled him back down into the warm water and straddled his waist, slowly sheathing the waiting sword. The young man fit neatly into the Knight's strong arms and they moved together, heated breaths on each others necks. Ory's pleasure built, and this time would not be denied. Release, when it came, was almost overwhelming. He went rigid and his whole body shuddered, for a moment helpless before it. He let out a guttural, animal sound and his arms squeezed Nathan tightly as if clinging to a tree in a flood for fear of being washed away.

For a long time they lay together in the pool, Nathan's head resting on the man's shoulder. He said nothing; simply waited for Oyrs pounding heartbeat to return to normal as they stared up into a clear night sky.

"You're a natural, I've got to give you that.  You've got talent and skill, both" he says eventually, after a long, low sigh.  A smile splits his beard, Baratheon mask a little crooked, but still on; he's mostly forgotten it.  His hand slides down the curve of Nathaniel's back to cup his rump.  His breath is a warm tease into Nathan's hair, his lips almost brushing the top of the younger man's head.  "I'm gold a man can go far with one or the other, but that having both is a blessing."

"Though I'm sure it wasn't handling this type of lance that they had in mind, when I heard the saying," he adds with a little chuckle and a playful roll of his hips, grinding his still semi-hard manhood against Mason's hip with a grin.

"I cannot take credit for the talent.  That is a gift of the Mother, although the skill to realize that talent is born through lots of practice."  Lots and lots of practice.  He sits up, still straddling Orys and stretches like a cat, lithe muscles rippling in the moonlight.  "The body is a gift of hers as well, although, like any gift that's appreciated, takes a great deal of effort to maintain, as one such as you would know."

He feels the thrust of Orys' hips and smiles.  Crossing his arms to lean on the Knight's broad chest, he stares into the man's eyes with his liquid blue gaze.  "Are you ready to go again so soon?  I'm impressed.  Not many men have such stamina."  While not lascivious, Nathan's appetite for sex was unquenchable; a distinct advantage for one of his profession.  Most men could not keep up with Nathan, except for, perhaps, Ser Jon, but then Ser Jon was not most men.  "I am willing if you are ready, but there will be a price this time Lord Baratheon."  He tapped the man's mask pointedly and grins.

He stirs again -- rather pointedly that time -- and tries to tell himself it's due to the slender body so eagerly pressed against his own, and not from being called 'Lord' of anything at all.

"Well, since we agree that practice is important," he grins and trails off, blue eyes -- almost black, almost purple, in the dark -- flickering around the grove, even as he jests and teasingly wiggles again. "Far be it to me but to keep you from spending more time in the saddle."

But there's no ignoring the mask, no ignoring the request for it.

It's Nathaniel. You've heard of him. You know who he works for, and you've heard how. Hells, it's his bloody party, isn't it? He already knows, and can be trusted with it. He licks his lips, nervously, some tension leaking back into those broad shoulders, as he lifts a hand, though. Taking the mask by the bottom edge, along the jawline, off to one side, where the faux beard blends into and is overtaken by his own, he pauses...for just a heartbeat.

And it's just Nathaniel. He won't care you're a Storm, fool.

And he lifts.

Beneath it, there's no Orys Baratheon, founder-taker of one of the greatest Houses, first Hand of the first true King, in fact there's no 'Lord' at all. Just a bastard hoping that servant's got shitty eyes and the clouds have kept it too dark for a worried blush to show.

"Much better." Nathan smiled. "Even with the necessity, it seems almost criminal to hide such a handsome face." He leaned forward, licked Aerion lips where he had just licked them, then gave the man a long soft kiss.

Rising, he lead the Knight from the water. Stretching, he lay down in the cool grass and wildflowers, looking up at the chiseled young warrior. "Now that all the pretense has been stripped away we can truly enjoy ourselves." he grinned mischievously. "I have given you a taste of my skills. Perhaps now you will give me a taste of yours."

"I haven't trained with these lances near as much as you, Ser," he says with an impish grin, rolling, half-covering Nathan's slim form, lips lingering near one nipple as his beard tickles and teases across the younger man's smooth flesh. "But I've received no complaints."

[camera pans away to the moonlit pool or -- still nearby? -- the blushing servant, time passes, camera swings back over...]

Aerion stretches out on the grass, young enough in his chosen profession that it comes with only a few pops and creaks, yet, muscles rippling as he lets out a long, low, sigh. The smaller man's nestled up half-atop him again, and one strong arm is looped lazily around Nathan, for a bit of warmth.

Not the worst night ever, he thinks to himself, enjoying the satiated exhaustion for just a few moments more; the party awaited, they were hardly going to lay here until dawn. And I'm burdening no woman, nor shaming myself, with a bastard.

Eventually Nathan rose and returned to the pool to clean up from their exertions. Leaving the water he shook himself like a cat and dried what little water remained with his skirts, affixing them once again around his waist with the broach. There was much feline about Nathan. In fact, in this light, all that was missing was expressively twitching ears and a languidly swishing tail.

Nathan bowed to the young Knight. "Thank you for the wonderful time, Lord Baratheon." He smiled softly. Gone was the affectionate boy or the earnest lover. The 'Lord' of the Carnival was back. Aerion marveled at how easily Nathan compartmentalized his life. The young whore had many faces, putting all his thoughts and emotions into their proper boxes. This was not, however, a deception. As many masks as Nathan wore, they were still all him. "I must return. That we were not interrupted is a good sign, but I have been away too long. I know you are not comfortable at the Carnival. Would you like to stay here and relax with the wine? You may stay as long as you like and I will ensure you are not disturbed."

Aerion -- 'Orys' once again, mask in place before any of the rest of the costume -- shakes his head, even as he's still dressing.

"No need for that. I'll make my way back well enough, thanks. I don't expect to keep your moonlit grotto all to myself," he adds with a smile.

There are others you no doubt need to entertain here, or have servants watch over while they entertain themselves. The breeches come on, the boots, the leather-scaled armor.

"And it's not so much...uncomfortable...as it is unaccustomed. It's been a long time since I had to learn something new, instead of refining skills and talents I've already got. It's not a saddle nor a tent, so it stifles me, and not a melee I've fought in before, so I'm off-balance. Believe me, it's my fault, not the party's."

"I've just got to...acclimatise." There's a hint of a smile beneath his beard. "And I'll not do that here, alone, soaking in wine."

"Every man should have a roaring drunk in a secure setting at least once a year so he is not tempted to do so at a more inopportune time... like tonight."  Nathan crossed to the Knight and began helping him with his 'armor'; ensuring everything was in it's place and fitted properly.

"I'm not sure you want to get 'acclimatized' to this world Aerion.  It's a terrible place filled with terrible people doing terrible things.  Acclimatize too much and you risk becoming one of them."  I will never be one of them.  My position prevents that, but that has not stopped me from being in terrible places doing terrible things to terrible people.  What does that make me, I wonder. He grinned, brushed some dirt from the the shoulders and straightened the tunic.  "There.  Very handsome."

"Terrible, maybe, but no moreso than everyone else, everywhere else."

Except the tilt. Two men, two horses, two lances. Simple. Easy.

"How many of your guests've been anointed by the seven oils? How many are septons or septas? How many are more respectable -- by far! -- than you, or I? Are what we're supposed to aspire to?"

How many are highborn married ladies, dressed as priestesses, that he just called horrible? Aerion's a little surprised to feel almost defensive on her behalf. He pushes it down.

"I need to get used to it. I don't need to like it, necessarily, but...I need to understand it, if I'm ever to have a chance among them."

Mask or not, there's no doubting it's Aerion talking, not Orys Baratheon.

"I'll not be a squire forever." I pray. "I need to learn the rules of these people, in these places. It's a melee, not a joust. Ser Harbert can't teach me this. He sent me here, I think, to learn that. On my own."

Then comes a gusty sigh, a shrugging of those broad shoulders, and a smile at Nathan's almost-maternal straightening of the costume.

"Thank you, though. For the warning, and also the...hospitality." A nod of his masked head, towards the pathway. "Now, let's be off. You back to your throne, holding court among the terrible. Me, wading into a melee and using wine as a shield."

[/scene?]

"I know it can be hard. Trust me, I know.

We have to follow their rules, when they don't even follow their rules."

Nathan smiled. "I'll tell you a secret. If you don't like a rule, change it. I know that's harder than it sounds, and that's not the secret. The secret is... it's not nearly as hard as they would like you to believe."

Nathan picked up his staff, straightened his shoulders and motioned to the server who led the pair of them out of the grotto into the darkness.

[/scene]