Nathaniel Baratheon (CH 1) (Patreon)

A/N: This story is rated M for mature content not suitable for children.

Naruto Uzumaki - Nathaniel Baratheon

This story was commissioned by Terminator1738.

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Chapter 1: The Stag of the Storm

Westeros - Red Keep

The Iron Throne was a monstrosity of fused blades and jagged edges, designed by Aegon the Conqueror to ensure no king ever sat easily. But Nathaniel Baratheon didn’t sit; he loomed.

Unlike most men who were in his position and let themselves become a ghost drowning in wine, Nathaniel was a pillar of corded muscle and sun-kissed skin. His hair was a wild, golden thicket, more lion’s mane than royal coiffure, and his eyes were a startling, stormy violet-blue. They didn't glow, but they held a predatory focus that made men lower their gaze. He was a man of blood and iron, a king who had won his crown with a warhammer and kept it with sheer, unrelenting will.

"Enough," Nathaniel’s voice boomed, the sound vibrating in the chests of every courtier in the Great Hall.

The court went silent. At the base of the steps, Loras Tyrell stood trembling, his hand hovering near the hilt of his decorative, jewel-encrusted sword. Beside him, the Crown Prince, Nathaniel’s eldest, a boy of fourteen who already shared his father’s massive frame, looked on with a mixture of cold boredom and pity.

"Loras," Nathaniel said, leaning forward. The movement was predatory, smooth as a great cat despite his size. "You are a Knight of the Reach. You are a guest in my house. But if I ever catch you whispering 'honeyed instructions' into my son’s ear again, or attempting to lead him into the 'gentler arts' of the rose garden, I will not send you home to Highgarden. I will send you to the Wall to freeze your pretty curls off. Am I understood?"

Loras swallowed hard, bowing so low his forehead nearly hit the floor. "Perfectly, Your Grace."

"Get out. All of you. Except the Ladies Tyrell."

The court cleared with a frantic rustle of silk and clatter of boots. Nathaniel didn’t move until the heavy oak doors groaned shut. Only then did his gaze soften. He looked toward the two women remaining: Olenna, the Queen of Thorns, and her daughter-in-law, Alerie Hightower.

Olenna didn't look intimidated; she looked like she was suppressed a smirk. She adjusted her wimple and leaned on her cane, her sharp eyes scanning Nathaniel with the appreciation one might give a prize stallion.

"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Nathaniel," Olenna chirped. "Poor Loras is probably changing his breeches. He’s a boy of... delicate sensibilities."

"He’s my son, Olenna," Nathaniel said, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Which is why it’s damnably awkward when he tries to flirt with his own brother."

Alerie Hightower, a woman of legendary beauty who had aged into a curvaceous, elegant masterpiece, stepped forward. She didn't bow. She placed a hand on the arm of the throne, a gesture that would have cost any other woman her head.

"The boy doesn't know, Nathaniel," Alerie whispered, her voice like velvet. "How could he? You were very thorough in your... 'negotiations' during the rebellion."

Nathaniel let out a sharp, barking laugh. He remembered the Siege of Storm’s End. While Stannis had been eating rats behind the walls, Nathaniel had been "infiltrating" the Tyrell camp. He had meant to burn their grain; he had ended up staying for a month, proving that his stamina on the battlefield was matched only by his stamina in a silk-lined tent.

"I kidnapped you both to end the siege," Nathaniel reminded them, pointing a finger. "It was a tactical maneuver."

"It was a kidnapping for the first week," Olenna corrected, her eyes twinkling. "By the second week, Alerie and I were the ones keeping you captive. I recall a particular night where you swore you’d give us whatever we wanted if we just let you sleep for an hour."

"And what you gave us," Alerie added, her gaze dropping to the King's broad chest, "were sons. Loras carries your fire, even if he directs it toward the wrong targets. And my 'miracle' son, born so late in my husband's life... Mace still thanks the Seven every day for that 'blessing.' He has no idea he's raising a Baratheon in a nest of roses."

Nathaniel rubbed his temples. "I was young. And you two were... persistent."

"We were bored, and you were the most magnificent thing to ever walk out of the Stormlands," Olenna said. She tapped her cane. "We’ve kept your secrets, Nathaniel. We've kept the Reach in your pocket. But do not be so hard on Loras. He is your blood. He wants what he wants."

"He can want it in Highgarden," Nathaniel grunted. "I have enough problems. Stannis is outside, grinding his teeth loud enough to shake the foundations of the Red Keep."

"Ah, the Duty-Bound Brother," Olenna sighed. "Alerie, come. Let’s leave the King to his misery. Nathaniel... do try to visit the gardens tonight. Alerie has a new vintage of Arbor Gold she’s been dying to spill."

Alerie gave him a wink that promised far more than wine before following the matriarch out.

Nathaniel couldn't help but let his gaze drift to Alerie's swaying waist as memories of the past flooded his mind.

Flashback Scene Ahead

Storm's End

The night was thick with the scent of salt and the rot of starving men. Inside the walls of Storm’s End, Stannis was likely counting his last few rats. But outside, in the sprawling, silk-lined camp of the Reach, life was a feast of Arbor wine and roasted venison.

Nathaniel Baratheon, barely twenty and already a man whose name was whispered with fear across the Trident, moved through the Tyrell lines like a ghost made of muscle and shadow. He had no chakra to mask his scent, no magic to turn him invisible. He had only the brutal training of a man who lived for the hunt and the silence of a wolf.

His target wasn't the grain stores. It wasn't the siege engines. It was the heart of the Tyrell machine.

He sliced through the back of the Great Pavilion, his obsidian dagger whisper-quiet against the expensive silk. He stepped inside, the heat of the braziers hitting his face.

Olenna Tyrell sat at a small table, a map of the Stormlands spread before her. Beside her stood Alerie Hightower, her hair a cascade of silver-gold, her bodice loosening in the heat of the tent. They were alone.

"Don't scream," Nathaniel said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to fill the room. He stepped into the light, his massive warhammer strapped to his back, his golden hair wild and matted with the dirt of the field. "If you scream, my men outside fire the grain. And then we all burn."

Olenna didn't scream. She reached for a grape, her sharp eyes tracing the sheer physical scale of the man standing in her private sanctum. Alerie, however, let out a soft, sharp intake of breath, her gaze lingering on the corded muscle of Nathaniel’s forearms.

"Nathaniel Baratheon," Olenna said, her voice dry as parchment. "You’ve come a long way to die, little stag."

"I've come to end a siege," Nathaniel replied, stepping closer. He looked at Alerie, whose fear was rapidly being replaced by a visceral, magnetic pull. "And I'm taking the two of you as my collateral. You’re coming with me."

"And where exactly are we going?" Alerie asked, her voice trembling, not with terror, but with a sudden, sharp spike of heat.

"Into the woods," Nathaniel growled, grabbing Alerie by the waist and pulling her flush against him. "Where I can negotiate without a thousand knights between us."

Fast Forward

For the first week, it was a kidnapping. Nathaniel kept them in a hidden sea-cave along the cliffs, a place known only to the locals. He fed them, he kept them warm, and he ignored their demands.

But Nathaniel wasn't like most brutish men they were used to. He didn't just drink and roar. He spoke of the world he wanted to build, a world where strength was rewarded and the rot of the Mad King was burned away. He was a force of nature, a man who could take down a buck with his bare hands and look at a woman as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

By the second week, the "negotiations" changed.

The cave was heated by a roaring fire, the sound of the crashing waves providing a constant, rhythmic backdrop. Alerie had stopped trying to escape days ago. She sat by the fire, her silk dress torn at the hem, her skin glowing in the firelight.

Alerie was a vision of the Reach’s finest harvest. At seven-and-twenty, she wasn't some waifish girl playing at being a lady; she was a woman in full, glorious bloom. Her hair was a cascading river of silver-gold that caught every flicker of the torchlight, and her skin was a pale, flawless ivory that seemed to glow against the dark furs of the cave. She stood nearly to Nathaniel’s shoulder, a tall, regal creature with a classic hourglass frame, wide, fertile hips and heavy, natural breasts that strained against the delicate, torn laces of her green silk gown. There was a lush, bountiful softness to her that made a man want to lose himself in her, but beneath that velvet exterior, he could feel the frantic, heat-drenched pulse of a woman who was realizing she craved the hunt as much as the hunter.

Beside her, Olenna Tyrell sat with the stillness of a hunting hawk. She was two decades Alerie’s senior, a matriarch in her early fifties who had traded the softness of youth for a lean, refined elegance that was arguably more dangerous. Her chestnut hair was shot through with streaks of distinguished silver, pulled back into an intricate crown of braids that highlighted the sharp, aristocratic lines of her face and the piercing intelligence in her hazel eyes. She lacked Alerie's sheer, bountiful scale, but she possessed a firm, toned vitality and a posture that screamed authority. She didn't look at Nathaniel with the terror of a captive; she looked at him with the predatory curiosity of a woman who had finally met a force of nature she couldn't control with words alone, her gaze tracing the corded muscle of his chest with a hunger that age had only sharpened.

"You're a brute, Nathaniel," she whispered, watching him sharpen his dagger. "A golden, arrogant brute who thinks he can take whatever he wants."

Nathaniel looked up, his violet-blue eyes boring into hers. "I don't think I can take what I want, Alerie. I know I can. And right now, I want the Reach to stand down. I want your husband to stop starving my brother."

"And what will you give us in return?" Olenna asked from the shadows, her voice filled with a dangerous curiosity. "What is the price of our loyalty?"

Nathaniel stood up, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the room. He walked over to Alerie, reaching down to tilt her chin up. "I'll give you a King. Not a madman who burns his subjects, but a man who can protect what's his."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against Alerie’s ear. "And I’ll give you a night you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to forget."

Lemon Scene Ahead

Alerie didn't pull away. She leaned into him, her hands finding the raw, heated skin of his chest. Nathaniel didn't wait. He claimed her mouth with a primal intensity, his tongue demanding entry as his hands found the laces of her gown.

The silk gave way with a satisfying tear. Nathaniel lifted her, her legs instantly locking around his waist as he backed her against the cave wall. The cool stone was a shock against her heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of Nathaniel’s hands on her.

He was thick, heavy, and radiated a heat that seemed to burn through the salt air. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as Alerie let out a jagged, breathless moan.

"Nathaniel... please," she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.

He didn't need to be told twice. He shucked his breeches, his length heavy and tensed, a testament to the Baratheon vitality that was already legendary. When he drove into her, it was a world changing for Alerie, a single, deep thrust that filled her completely and drew a sharp cry from her throat.

Alerie’s eyes flew back, her body arching in a perfect bow as he began to move. He was relentless, each thrust a hammer blow that shook her to her core. He wasn't just taking her; he was marking her, claiming the future of the Reach with every heavy, rhythmic strike.

From the furs near the fire, Olenna watched. She was a woman who had seen everything, but she had never seen a man like this. She didn't stay back. She moved toward them, her own robes falling away to reveal a body that was still full and inviting.

"Don't stop," Olenna whispered, her hand sliding over Nathaniel’s hip, guiding him even as he continued to drive into Alerie. "Show us the fire of the Stormlands, Nathaniel. Burn the roses down."

Nathaniel turned his head, his eyes dark with a wild, uncontrollable hunger. He grabbed Olenna by the hair, pulling her into a kiss that tasted of wine and salt, even as he continued his brutal rhythm with Alerie. He was the center of a storm, a man of endless stamina and primal power.

The cave was filled with the sounds of skin on skin, the heavy breathing of three people lost in a fever of their own making. As Alerie reached her breaking point, her body shuddering in a violent, toe-curling climax, Nathaniel let out a gutteral roar, his own release hitting him like a tidal wave. He poured himself into her, a future King’s tribute to the women who would soon become his most powerful allies.

Lemon Scene End

The month ended with a "miraculous" escape. Olenna and Alerie returned to the Tyrell camp, claiming they had been held in a secure location and had managed to slip away.

But the siege ended. Mace Tyrell, under the "gentle" guidance of his wife and mother, suddenly found his enthusiasm for the war waning. The grain stores were "accidentally" left unguarded. The pressure on Storm's End eased just enough for the rebellion to turn the tide.

Nathaniel Baratheon rode off to the Trident to join his brother, leaving behind two women who would never look at their husbands the same way again. And nine months later, the Reach saw a sudden "miracle" of late-blooming heirs, boys with a fire in their eyes and a strength in their limbs that didn't belong to the roses.

Flashback Scene End

The moment the Tyrells left, the side door slammed open. Stannis Baratheon marched in, his face a mask of granite.

"Nathaniel," Stannis barked.

"Stannis," the King replied, his voice hardening. "I assume you’re here to complain about the Handship."

"Lord Eddard Stark," Stannis spat the name. "A man who has sat in the North for a decade while I have labored here. I have sat on your Small Council. I have built your fleet. I have cleaned the filth from this city's gold cloaks. And you give the pin to a man who knows nothing of the South? You pass over your own blood for a friend?"

Nathaniel stood up, surging down the steps of the throne until he was eye-to-eye with his brother. Stannis didn't flinch, but the air between them grew heavy with the weight of years of resentment.

"I gave the pin to Ned because he is the only man in this Seven Kingdoms who will look me in the eye and tell me I’m being an idiot without checking his ledger first," Nathaniel said. "I need a brother in that office, Stannis. Not a clerk."

"I am your brother!" Stannis roared, his voice cracking. "By every law of the realm, I am your heir until your sons come of age. I held Storm’s End while you were off winning your glory! And how did you reward me? You gave our ancestral seat to Renly! A boy who was playing with wooden swords while I was eating boot leather to keep your castle!"

"I gave you Dragonstone!" Nathaniel countered, his own voice rising like thunder. "Do you think that was a slight? Dragonstone is the seat of the Crown Prince! It is the hardest fortress to hold, the most strategically vital point in the Blackwater! I didn't give it to you because I hated you, Stannis. I gave it to you because I knew you were the only man with the iron in his spine to hold it. Renly would have lost it in a week. You? You're the only one I trust to hold the door while I sleep."

"You gave it to me to get me out of your sight," Stannis hissed, his jaw clenching so tight it looked like it might shatter. "You love the Northman. You love the Tyrell whores. You even love that fool Renly. But you have never loved me."

The silence that followed was deafening. Nathaniel looked at his brother, at the bitterness that had curdled a good man’s soul.

"Love has nothing to do with it, Stannis. This is about duty. I am the King. My duty is to the realm. You think you're entitled to the Handship? Entitlement is for pussies and cowards. In this house, we earn what we keep. You want to be Hand? Stop acting like a jilted maiden and start acting like the man who broke the Iron Fleet. Until then, you hold Dragonstone. That is my command."

Stannis turned on his heel and marched out without a word. Nathaniel watched him go, a pang of regret hitting him. He loved his brother, but Stannis was a man of shadows, and Nathaniel was a man of the sun. They were never meant to occupy the same space for long.

By the time Nathaniel reached the royal apartments, his blood was simmering. He needed a release, something physical, something visceral to burn off the frustration of his brothers and his secrets.

He found Cersei in the solar, pacing like a caged tigress. She was wearing a gown of crimson silk, her blonde hair cascading down her back. She was dangerously beautiful, a woman whose vanity was matched only by her appetite.

"You," she hissed. "You spoke to our son like he was a common stable boy! You humiliated him!"

"I taught him a lesson," Nathaniel said, closing the heavy door with a finality that made Cersei pause. "He was being soft. I won't have a son of mine being manipulated by a boy in a flower cape."

"He is a prince! He is my blood!" Cersei marched up to him, her chest heaving against the silk of her dress. "You treat him like a soldier. He is a child!"

"He is a future King," Nathaniel growled, stepping into her space. He smelled her perfume, jasmine and something sharper. "And if he grows up protected by your skirts, he’ll be dead within a week of taking that throne. I'm making him strong, Cersei. Something you wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I understand," Cersei sneered, her eyes flashing with a familiar, manic hunger. "I understand that you spend your days shouting at brothers and your nights... where? With that Hightower bitch? Or perhaps Olenna has found a way to make her withered garden bloom for you again?"

Nathaniel grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush against his massive frame. Cersei didn't pull away; she leaned into him, her hands clawing at the leather of his doublet.

"You think I’m cheating, Cersei?" Nathaniel whispered into her ear, his breath hot. "You think I need to go looking for fire elsewhere when I have a wildfire sitting right here in my palace?"

"You're a brute," she gasped, her legs already winding around his hip. "A golden, arrogant brute."

"And you," Nathaniel said, lifting her effortlessly, "are a woman who needs to be reminded who wears the crown in this bedroom."

Cersei’s answer was a kiss that tasted of wine and full of desperation. As he carried her toward the massive bed, Nathaniel knew the kingdom was fracturing. But for tonight, he would be the King of this room, and he would exert his will until the world outside ceased to exist.

Chapter End

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A/N: This is the first chapter of the commission, and chapter two is currently in the works. A special thanks to Terminator1738 for being the first to purchase the new commission item. I appreciate everyone's ongoing support. See you later!