Stannis/Melisandre PWP
Cut for NSFW - written to go with this drawing
There were no shadows in the tent. The night was dark and black as
pitch, and Stannis lay silent on the pallet. He was not yet entirely
asleep and the sounds of the canvas flapping, the whispered
conversations of men outside, permeated his consciousness.
He knew when she was there, though he couldn’t say how. The air was
different, there was the feeling of no longer being alone, but she made
no noise. Indeed, there had been no movement at all and he couldn’t
determine how she had made her way inside without rousing him.
There was still no light, but he could see the gleam of the ruby at
her throat, the ruby that always seemed to carry its own light, and it
moved slightly when she spoke.
“Your Grace.”
Stannis raised himself up onto his elbows. “Melisandre. What do you
want of me? The hour is late and I must deal with my brother on the
morrow.”
“The Lord of Light will deal with your brother, my Lord. There is
only one true king in Westeros; only one that R’hllor will recognise.”
Stannis let out a slow breath and ground his teeth. “The Lord of Light is not always forthcoming with his support.”
Melisandre moved closer, the shape of her body becoming clearer as
she did so. Her intent was apparent. It was written over the way she
moved, her hips swinging lazily and an inviting smile painted in the
shadows cast by the ruby. It roused him to look at her, but he said
nothing, did nothing, and waited to hear about the help she offered.
“There is a rite.” There was a slight pause in the way that she said
it, the flash of the suggestive smile again. He didn’t need to ask what
she meant. “Tonight, and then after dusk tomorrow you will not need to
worry about your brother again.”
“I have a wife, woman,” he said, his voice rough. The words were true
enough though the marriage was little more than dutiful. “What does the
Lord of Light make of that?”
“Was his name spoken then, on your wedding day? R’hllor has not seen
you married, your Grace. This isn’t an act of love. Make no mistake. You
are the rightful king and I am your priestess, and I am telling you now
what you need to do to claim your proper place.” She reached around
behind her and unhooked her dress enough to slip it from her shoulders,
down over her hips, until it pooled on the floor.
Stannis curled one hand into the sheets and met her eyes. The ruby at
her throat gleamed and he could see flames in her eyes. He was a hard
man, a man wrought of iron and straight edges, but he was not a man of
stone. There were yet some weaker places inside and he didn’t push her
away when she started forwards and climbed onto the pallet.
She was made of fire - red hair, red eyes, red ruby - and she moved
like fire, hot and wild against him, until the flames seemed to be
burning in his veins and it was easy to reach up and pull her down onto
him. His fingers dug hard into the flesh of her hips, hard enough to
bruise, but she was slick and wet and it was so hard to do anything but
grind upwards and into the heat of her.
She thrust her breasts forward, canting her hips just slowly enough
to be infuriating. His hands didn’t move, though his eyes drank in the
sight of her. Her body gleamed with sweat in the light of her ruby, and
he could taste the power in her. Even he was human, and voluptous
Melisandre, always at his side but never quite in his reach had been an
itch that he could not, would not scratch.
Melisandre arched back again with a sigh and moved harder, faster.
There was almost no sound as they moved together and it had been far too
long since Stannis had shared a bed for it to last any amount of time.
The red woman leaned over him as he sank back into the sheets.”Even iron
needs to be tempered, your Grace.”
There were no shadows in the tent. The night was dark and black as
pitch, and Stannis lay silent on the pallet. He was not yet entirely
asleep and the sounds of the canvas flapping, the whispered
conversations of men outside, permeated his consciousness.
He knew when she was there, though he couldn’t say how. The air was
different, there was the feeling of no longer being alone, but she made
no noise. Indeed, there had been no movement at all and he couldn’t
determine how she had made her way inside without rousing him.
There was still no light, but he could see the gleam of the ruby at
her throat, the ruby that always seemed to carry its own light, and it
moved slightly when she spoke.
“Your Grace.”
Stannis raised himself up onto his elbows. “Melisandre. What do you
want of me? The hour is late and I must deal with my brother on the
morrow.”
“The Lord of Light will deal with your brother, my Lord. There is
only one true king in Westeros; only one that R’hllor will recognise.”
Stannis let out a slow breath and ground his teeth. “The Lord of Light is not always forthcoming with his support.”
Melisandre moved closer, the shape of her body becoming clearer as
she did so. Her intent was apparent. It was written over the way she
moved, her hips swinging lazily and an inviting smile painted in the
shadows cast by the ruby. It roused him to look at her, but he said
nothing, did nothing, and waited to hear about the help she offered.
“There is a rite.” There was a slight pause in the way that she said
it, the flash of the suggestive smile again. He didn’t need to ask what
she meant. “Tonight, and then after dusk tomorrow you will not need to
worry about your brother again.”
“I have a wife, woman,” he said, his voice rough. The words were true
enough though the marriage was little more than dutiful. “What does the
Lord of Light make of that?”
“Was his name spoken then, on your wedding day? R’hllor has not seen
you married, your Grace. This isn’t an act of love. Make no mistake. You
are the rightful king and I am your priestess, and I am telling you now
what you need to do to claim your proper place.” She reached around
behind her and unhooked her dress enough to slip it from her shoulders,
down over her hips, until it pooled on the floor.
Stannis curled one hand into the sheets and met her eyes. The ruby at
her throat gleamed and he could see flames in her eyes. He was a hard
man, a man wrought of iron and straight edges, but he was not a man of
stone. There were yet some weaker places inside and he didn’t push her
away when she started forwards and climbed onto the pallet.
She was made of fire - red hair, red eyes, red ruby - and she moved
like fire, hot and wild against him, until the flames seemed to be
burning in his veins and it was easy to reach up and pull her down onto
him. His fingers dug hard into the flesh of her hips, hard enough to
bruise, but she was slick and wet and it was so hard to do anything but
grind upwards and into the heat of her.
She thrust her breasts forward, canting her hips just slowly enough
to be infuriating. His hands didn’t move, though his eyes drank in the
sight of her. Her body gleamed with sweat in the light of her ruby, and
he could taste the power in her. Even he was human, and voluptous
Melisandre, always at his side but never quite in his reach had been an
itch that he could not, would not scratch.
Melisandre arched back again with a sigh and moved harder, faster.
There was almost no sound as they moved together and it had been far too
long since Stannis had shared a bed for it to last any amount of time.
The red woman leaned over him as he sank back into the sheets.”Even iron
needs to be tempered, your Grace.”