Song of The Blessed - 16 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 16 – A Hunt and a Miracle

~ Robert Baratheon ~

The Wolfswood was a sprawling kingdom of pine and massive trees that seemed to breathe with a cold, resinous lung. The air here was different than in the south; it didn't carry the stink of the city, the reek of unwashed masses, or the cloying blanket of deceit that hung heavy over the Red Keep. Here, the air tasted of iron and snow, sharp enough to cut the throat of their enemies and cleanse the soul.

Robert Baratheon sat atop his massive destrier, a beast bred for war that was currently serving as a glorified armchair for a King who had grown too heavy for his own legend. He inhaled deeply, the freezing air burning his nostrils, and for the first time in months, he felt a flicker of the man he used to be. The man who had swung a warhammer like a toy and crushed a dynasty.

"Gods, Ned!" Robert bellowed, his voice booming through the silent trees, scattering a flock of crows from a nearby branch. "Why in the Seven Hells did I ever leave this life? I should have stayed here, built a hut, and hunted until my heart gave out. The South is a pit of vipers and cunts."Lord Eddard Stark, riding beside him, offered a small, quiet smile. He looked at home here, his grey eyes scanning the treeline, his posture relaxed yet alert. "The realm needs a King, Your Grace. And winter is not always so kind as it is today.""Piss on the realm," Robert grumbled, taking a swig from a wineskin he had lashed to his saddle. "Let the boy have it. Draedon. He has the look of a King, doesn't he? More than anyone ever will. I have no interest in playing King. Joffrey looks like a frightened cat. Draedon... he looks like a storm."Robert cast his gaze forward, past the vanguard of Stark household guards and the white-cloaked knights of his own Kingsguard. Leading the party, riding with a casual grace that made Robert’s chest swell with a mixture of pride and envious nostalgia, was his eldest son, Crown Prince Draedon.He sat his horse as if he were born in the saddle, his black hair swept back from a face that possessed the Baratheon jaw but refined by something sharper, something more dangerous. He wore light leather armour, eschewing the heavy plate for the hunt, and a greatsword was strapped across his back. "He certainly has the energy for it," Ned agreed, watching the Prince halt the column with a raised hand. ""He has been eager for this hunt since we crossed the Neck. He's eager for blood," Robert laughed, wiping wine from his beard. "The boy has a hunger in him. Reminds me of me, before... well, before."They were deep in the Wolfswood now, far deeper than the usual hunting parties ventured. The canopy overhead was so thick it blocked out the weak afternoon sun, casting the forest floor in a perpetual twilight of blues and greys. They had been tracking small game for hours—rabbits that vanished into burrows, a fox that was too quick for the hounds—but Robert wanted something with meat on its bones. He wanted a boar. A challenge.Draedon turned his horse, trotting back to them. His eyes, a piercing electric blue, were alight with excitement."Father," Draedon said, his voice carrying clearly without the need to shout. "The tracks have changed. The hounds are nervous.""Nervous?" Robert scoffed. "They're dogs. They get nervous if the wind blows the wrong way.""Not these dogs," Draedon corrected smoothly. He gestured to the ground. "Look at the earth. Something heavy has walked here. Something with hooves the size of dinner plates. The mud is churned up like a battlefield."Robert leaned over his saddle, squinting. Draedon was right. The underbrush had been decimated, trampled flat by something immense. Saplings had been snapped like twigs."A boar?" Robert asked, reaching for the spear attached to his saddle. The thrill began to sing in his blood."Perhaps," Draedon said, his brow furrowed. "But big. Bigger than the one we have hunted in the Kingswood."Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, rode up, his white whiskers twitching. He looked at the tracks, then at the deep gouges in the bark of an ancient oak tree—gouges that were higher than a man on horseback."This is no ordinary boar, Your Grace," Ser Rodrik said, his voice low and grave. "The smallfolk speak of beasts from the old times. Hell Pigs. Daeodon, our elders call them. Though I’ve not heard of one this far south of the Wall since I was a boy.""A Hell Pig?" Robert laughed, the sound echoing dangerously loud. "Sounds like a proper trophy! What are we waiting for? Lead on!"Draedon nodded, but he drew the longsword from his back, the steel hissing against leather. "Stay close," he ordered the guards. "And quiet. If this thing is as big as the tracks suggest, armour and steel won't stop it."The party moved forward, but the atmosphere had shifted. The banter died. The guards, seasoned men of Winterfell and King's Landing, kept their hands on their hilts. Even the horses seemed skittish, their ears pinned back, nostrils flaring as they scented something musk-heavy and rancid in the air.They trudged through a dense thicket of holly and briar, the thorns snagging on their cloaks. As they broke through into a small clearing dominated by a massive, hollowed-out weirwood stump, they saw it.Robert stopped his horse so abruptly the animal reared slightly."Seven Hells," he whispered.It was a nightmare made flesh. It stood in the shadow of the weirwood, digging at the roots with tusks that looked like curved scythes. It resembled a boar, but only in the way a dragon resembles a lizard. It was massive, standing nearly six feet at the shoulder, with a humped back of bristling, wire-thick fur. Its head was enormous, a monstrosity of strong bones and a heavy jaw, the mouth filled with teeth designed to crush bone.It hadn't spotted them yet. The wind was in their favour.Draedon raised a hand, signalling for absolute stillness. He motioned for the crossbowmen to fan out, to find angles."Quiet," Draedon mouthed. "Hold."The tension was a physical weight. Robert gripped his spear, his knuckles white. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the cold. This was it. This was the dance.And then, Boros Blount, a man whose clumsiness was rivalled only by his cowardice, shifted his weight, his foot landing on a patch of dry, brittle deadfall.CRACK.The sound was like a thunderclap in the silence.The beast’s head snapped up. Small, beady eyes, red with malice and ancient hunger, locked onto the group. It let out a sound that was not a squeal, but a guttural roar, deep and resonant."Damn you, Blount!" Robert roared, abandoning stealth.The Hell Pig charged.It moved with a speed that defied physics for a creature of its bulk. It was a battering ram of muscle and hate. It covered the distance to the Kingsguard in a heartbeat.Blount stepped forward with his sword, bracing himself against the ground. The beast didn't even slow down. It smashed into the man, the impact shattering through the armour like a bloody toothpick. The guard was thrown ten feet into the air, his chest cavity crushed before he hit the ground.Chaos erupted. Horses screamed and bolted. Crossbow bolts flew wide or bounced harmlessly off the creature’s thick hide."Defend the King!" Barristan Selmy shouted, drawing his sword and spurring his horse forward.But the beast had turned. It had seen the largest target. It had seen Robert.Robert cursed, trying to wheel his horse around, but the animal was panicked, fighting the bit. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of fear. He was fat. He was slow. He was not the Demon of the Trident anymore."Ned, move!" Robert shouted, shoving Stark’s horse aside as the beast bulldozed through the brush toward them.The Hell Pig lowered its head in the distance, preparing to gut Robert’s horse and bring the King down. Robert braced himself for the impact, raising his spear, knowing it would be too little, too late.Then, a blur of black and silver dropped from the sky.Draedon had vaulted from his saddle, using the momentum of his galloping horse to launch himself. He landed squarely on the beast’s massive, hump-backed spine.The animal roared, bucking wildly, trying to dislodge the Prince. It was like riding an earthquake."Hold on, boy!" Robert screamed, fear for his son overriding his own. He had lost him once; he was not about to let that happen again. He raised his spear, swerving his horse towards his son's aid. But Draedon didn't just hold on. He clamped his legs around the beast’s torso, his face a mask of pure, concentrated fury. He raised his greatsword, holding it point-down with both hands."Die!" Draedon roared.He drove the blade down. With a sickening crunch of bone and a squelch of flesh, the steel pierced the thick skull of the Hell Pig, driving deep into the brain.The beast stiffened, its legs locking mid-stride. It crashed into the earth, sliding for yards in the mud, throwing dirt and snow into the air. Draedon rode it to the ground, wrenching the sword free as the animal gave one final, shuddering convulsion and died.Silence fell over the clearing. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the men and the horses.Draedon stood up. He was covered in mud and the dark, steaming blood of the creature. He placed a boot on the carcass, looking at the assembled men with a wild, triumphant grin."I think," Draedon said, his voice calm despite the violence, "that I win this hunt."For a second, no one moved. Then, Robert Baratheon threw his head back and laughed. It was a laugh of relief, and of immense, bursting pride."You mad bastard!" Robert shouted, sliding off his horse and waddling over to hug his son, his massive frame covering his boy, ignoring the gore. "Did you see that, Ned? Did you see that? Jumped on it like it was a pony! Gods, that was magnificent!"Draedon wiped the blood from his cheek, smiling at his father. "It seemed the most efficient way, Father. Boros was too busy being a corpse to help."Robert kicked the carcass of the Hell Pig. "We're taking the head. I want this mounted in the Red Keep. I want to stare at this ugly bastard while I drink."He looked at Draedon, his eyes shining. "You are my son, truly. Ours is the fury."As the men began the arduous task of loading the kill, Robert watched Draedon. He saw the way the Northmen looked at the Prince now—not just as a Southern spoilt royal, but as a warrior who had faced a monster of their own legends and killed it.

~ Draedon Baratheon ~ The return to Winterfell was a triumphal procession. The head of the Hell Pig was lashed to a sledge, dragged behind the horses, a grotesque trophy that drew gasps from the smallfolk in Wintertown and the guards at the gate.Draedon rode at the front, the blood dried on his armour, looking every inch the conquering hero. He revelled in the attention, the awe in the eyes of the Stark household.But the celebration was short-lived.As they rode into the courtyard, the atmosphere in the castle was wrong. There was no bustle of servants, no smell of the evening feast being prepared. The yard was quiet, sombre.Catelyn Stark was not there to greet them. Nor were the children.Maester Luwin met them at the stables, his face grave, his chain clinking softly as he bowed."Lord Stark," Luwin said, his voice trembling slightly. "King Robert. My Prince.""What is it?" Ned asked, sliding from his horse, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. "Where is my wife? Where are the children?""It is Bran, my lord," Luwin said. "He... he has fallen."The world seemed to stop spinning."Fallen?" Ned whispered. "From where?""One of the towers. The Broken Tower, we believe. He was climbing."Draedon watched as the colour drained from Ned Stark's face. He watched as his father, usually so loud and brash, went silent, placing a hand on Ned's shoulder in a gesture of genuine comfort."Is he...?" Robert couldn't finish the sentence."He lives," Luwin said. "But barely. His back is broken. He has not woken."The mood of the victory evaporated instantly. The Hell Pig forgotten.Draedon dismounted, handing his reins to a stable boy. His mind was racing. He knew the stories. He knew the layout of the castle. A fall from that height... it should be fatal."Take me to him," Draedon said quietly."My Prince," Luwin said, "Lady Catelyn is with him. She has not left his side. It is... a difficult sight.""Take me," Draedon repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I wish to pay my respects."They made their way to the family chambers. The corridors felt colder now, the stone walls pressing in. When they entered Bran’s room, the air was thick with the smell of sickness—milk of the poppy, heated herbs, and the stale scent of grief.Catelyn Stark sat by the bed, her face pale and ravaged by tears. She looked up as they entered, her eyes hollow. Ned went to her immediately, embracing her, whispering words of comfort that seemed too small for the magnitude of the tragedy.Robert stood by the door, looking uncomfortable, twisting his hands. He hated sickness. He hated weakness. Once again, his friend's family was suffering, and he could not do anything about it. Draedon walked to the bedside. He looked down at the boy. Bran looked tiny in the great bed, his face bruised, his breathing shallow and ragged.Draedon felt a strange sensation. A warmth, starting in the centre of his chest, spreading outward like liquid gold.'He is broken,' a voice whispered in his mind. 'But you are the light.'It was a voice he knew.

Apollo. The Goddess of Healing, of Music, of the Sun.'He can be mended,' the voice continued. 'Through you, my champion.'Draedon closed his eyes. He felt the power rising, a humming vibration that made his fingertips tingle. He had felt the strength of Ares, the charisma of Aphrodite, the shadow of Hades... but this was new. This was restoration."Lady Catelyn," Draedon said softly.Catelyn looked up, wiping her eyes. "My Prince. Forgive me. I...""Hush," Draedon said. He stepped closer. "May I?"He reached out a hand toward Bran’s forehead."He is feverish," Catelyn warned. "The Maester says...""The Maester looks at the body," Draedon murmured, his voice taking on a resonant quality that filled the room. "I am looking beyond."Draedon placed his hand gently on Bran’s forehead.The reaction was instantaneous.A soft, golden light erupted from Draedon’s skin. It wasn't blinding, but warm, like the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. It illuminated the dim room, casting away the shadows.Ned gasped. Catelyn froze, her eyes widening in shock. Robert took a step back, muttering a curse."Draedon?" Robert asked, his voice shaking. "What are you doing?""Something new," Draedon whispered.He pushed the energy into the boy. He could visualize the damage in his mind—the fractured bones, the swollen muscle, the damaged body. Guided by Apollo’s knowledge, Draedon began to knit it back together.The light intensified, pulsing in rhythm with Draedon’s heartbeat. Bran gasped in his sleep, his back arching off the mattress."He's hurting!" Catelyn cried, reaching out."No, Cat, wait!" Ned held her back; his eyes fixed on the Prince and his son. "Look."The heavy bruising on Bran’s back was fading. Visible violet marks turned to yellow, then to pale skin before their eyes. The ragged sound of his breathing smoothed out, becoming deep and rhythmic.Draedon held the connection for another moment, pouring his will into the boy, until he felt the snap of the final bone setting.He pulled his hand back. The light faded, leaving the room feeling dimmer than before, though the warmth remained.Draedon staggered slightly, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit him. Robert was there instantly, steadying him, his own eyes widened in shock."My son," Ned whispered, looking at the bed.Bran was sleeping peacefully. The colour had returned to his cheeks. He looked... healthy."He will sleep for a day," Draedon said, his voice raspy. "When he wakes, he will be hungry. And he will walk."Catelyn threw herself across the bed, checking Bran’s breathing, touching his legs. She let out a sob, but this time it was a sob of disbelief and hope."The swelling is gone," she wept. "Ned, the swelling is gone!"She turned to Draedon. She looked at him not as a Prince, but as a saviour. Tears streamed down her face, but her eyes were shining with a fanatic gratitude."How?" Ned asked, looking at Draedon with a mixture of fear and awe.Draedon straightened his doublet, regaining his composure. He looked at them all—the stunned Lord Stark, the weeping mother, the proud father."The Gods favour House Baratheon," Draedon said smoothly. "Call it a miracle. Call it a gift. I do not care. But know that the boy is whole."Robert Baratheon stared at his son. Then, a slow grin spread across his face."A miracle," Robert whispered. Then he roared, "A miracle! Did you see that? My boy! Touched by the Seven themselves! Gods be good, Ned! We have to celebrate! Open the casks! Draedon has saved the Stark boy!"While Robert began to bluster and shout for wine as the entirety of the castle would now hear about Draedon's deed, Catelyn Stark remained on her knees by the bed. She looked at Draedon, her gaze intense, unblinking."Thank you," she mouthed.Draedon nodded, holding her gaze for a second longer than was proper. He saw the shift in her. The wall of ice had melted.

~ Draedon Baratheon ~Night had fallen over Winterfell. The celebration of the miracle was raging in the Great Hall, but Draedon had slipped away. The healing had drained him, not of physical stamina, but of spiritual energy. He needed to recharge.He found sanctuary in the hot springs; the structures built over the ground beneath the castle that kept Winterfell warm. The air inside was thick and humid, smelling of damp earth, winter roses, and sulphur. It was a tropical pocket in a frozen world.Draedon stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on a stone bench. He stepped into one of the natural pools, the water scalding hot. He hissed as he submerged himself, the heat seeping into his muscles, relaxing the tension.He leaned his head back against the stone rim, closing his eyes.'You did well,' Apollo’s voice echoed in his mind.'He will walk,' Draedon thought back. 'And the Starks are in my debt.''Debt is a powerful chain,' another voice purred. This one was sultry, smelling of sea foam and roses. Aphrodite. 'And gratitude... gratitude is the precursor to love. And lust.'Draedon smirked in the darkness. ‘We shall see.’He heard the creak of the heavy wooden door to the chambers opening. A draft of cold air swirled through the steam before the door clicked shut.Footsteps approached. Soft, hesitant steps on the stone path.Draedon didn't open his eyes. "I expected my father would send someone to fetch me back to the wine.""It is not your father, My Prince."The voice was female, mature, and trembling slightly.Draedon opened his eyes.Standing at the edge of the pool, emerging from the mist like a wraith, was Catelyn Stark.She was dressed in a heavy robe of grey wool, her red hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was flushed, partly from the heat of the room, partly from something else."Lady Stark," Draedon said, making no move to cover himself in the clear water. "You should be with your son.""He sleeps," Catelyn said, her voice thick with emotion. "The maester examined him. He says... he says it is impossible. His back is whole. There is not even a scar."She took a step closer to the water's edge."I came to thank you," she said. "Properly. Words... words seemed insufficient before."Draedon watched her. He could feel the aura around her. It was chaotic. Her natural reserve and honor were warring with a profound, overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude. And beneath that... something primal.Aphrodite was weaving her magic. Draedon could sense the arousal radiating from Catelyn, a sharp, confused spike of heat that she didn't understand. She was a woman who loved her husband, who valued duty above all else. But the sight of the man who had saved her child, combined with her worship of the divine, was stripping away her defences."You have nothing to thank me for," Draedon said, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic rumble. "We are allies, Lady Catelyn. Possibly even family, soon enough. I would not let a son of my father's closest friend suffer. ""You gave me his life back," Catelyn whispered. She looked at him in the water. The steam swirled around his broad shoulders, his muscular chest. She couldn't look away. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Why did she feel so hot? Why did the air suddenly feel so thin?"I have nothing," Catelyn stammered. "Nothing of value to offer someone like you. You are a Prince. You have gold, you have power, you have the favour of the Gods. How does a mother repay the life of her son?"Draedon stood up slowly. Water cascaded off his body, highlighting the defined muscles of his torso, arms big enough that could possibly crush rocks. He stood fully nude before her, unashamed, a statue of masculine perfection.Catelyn’s breath hitched. She should turn away. She should run. She was a Stark by marriage, a Tully by birth. This was madness.But she didn't move. Her eyes travelled down his body, lingering. The shame burned in her gut, but the excitement burned hotter."There is no debt," Draedon said, stepping out of the pool. He walked toward her, the wet stone slapping beneath his feet. "Unless you wish there to be."He stopped inches from her. He towered over her, the heat radiating from his skin enveloping her."I..." Catelyn looked up into his eyes. They were blue fire, burning with heat. "I want to show you... I want you to know..."

The lady took a breath to calm down, before she looked up into his eyes. 

"I have nothing but this," Catelyn whispered, her hands trembling as they moved to the sash of her robe.Draedon didn't stop her. He watched, his gaze intense and appreciative.Catelyn untied the sash. The grey wool came apart, pooling at her feet. She wore a simple white shift dress underneath, thin enough that the humidity of the room made it cling to her curves. She was an older woman, having borne five children, but she was still beautiful. Her hips were wide, her breasts full and heavy, her skin milky white."Are you sure, Catelyn?" Draedon asked, using her given name. It sounded intimate. Possessive."Yes," she breathed. The denial was dead. The need to please him, to worship the man who had performed the miracle, consumed her.She pulled the shift over her head.She stood naked before him in the steam. Her nipples hardened in the cooler air, dark pink against the pale skin. A bush of fiery red hair sat atop her entrance.Draedon reached out and cupped her face. "You are beautiful, Catelyn."He kissed her. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was a claiming. He swept into her mouth, his tongue tasting her submission.Catelyn moaned, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. The feel of his wet, hot skin against hers was electric. She felt small against him, protected, overpowered.He cupped her huge bottom and lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. He carried her to the stone bench where his clothes lay, sweeping them aside. He sat her down on the edge of the bench, spreading her legs."My Prince," she gasped, her head falling back as he kissed down the column of her throat."Draedon," he corrected, his hands kneading her breasts, feeling the weight and softness. "Call me Draedon.""Draedon," she cried out.He knelt between her legs. He didn't waste time. The air in the room was charged with a primal energy. He spat down into his hand, covering his cock with his own saliva. He positioned himself at her entrance.Catelyn looked down at him. The sight of his cock was shocking in its size, but she felt only a desperate, wet hunger. She wanted him to fill her. Her arching off the bench to invite him in was all the surety he needed. He thrust into her.It was slow, deep, and stretching. Catelyn threw her head back and screamed, the sound echoing off the walls around them. "Yes," she sobbed. "Oh, gods, yes."Draedon held her hips, his thumbs pressing into her flesh. He began to move, establishing a rhythm that was relentless. The slap of skin, the heavy breathing, the splash of the nearby water, it was all stimulating the lady in all the right ways.Catelyn Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, the facade of propriety, was lost. She clawed at his shoulders, her nails digging in. She met his thrusts, her body betraying years of restraint. She felt the magic in him, the vitality. It was intoxicating."Thank you, your grace!" she panted, her voice ragged. "Thank you for your blessing!""And I will take care of you," Draedon growled, driving deep, hitting a spot that made her toes curl. "All of you."He fucked her hard, without mercy, and she thanked him for it. Every thrust was a payment, every kiss a seal on a contract she didn't fully understand but accepted wholeheartedly.As the climax approached, Catelyn felt her soul shattering. She clamped her legs tight around him, her body convulsing in a violent, earth-shaking orgasm that left her seeing stars.Draedon groaned, his own release hitting him a moment later. He poured himself into her, his hot seed flooding inside that seemed to sear her from the inside out.They collapsed against each other, gasping for air in the steam-filled room, the only sound the dripping of condensation from the glass roof.

~ Sansa Stark ~Sansa Stark shivered violently, but not from the cold.She had followed her mother. She had been worried when Catelyn didn't return to the feast. She had seen her walk toward the baths and had followed, intending to comfort her.Instead, she had found her in the arms of the man who she had fallen for. And she had watched.She had watched her mother—her strict, honourable mother—strip naked for the Prince. She had watched them kiss. She had watched the Prince take her mother on the stone bench like a common wench.Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes. She felt a profound sense of betrayal. The Prince... he was meant for her. He had charmed her at the feast. He had looked at her.But as she replayed the scene in her mind—the raw power of Draedon’s body, the way he dominated her mother, the sounds of their pleasure that had filtered through the door — the betrayal twisted into something else.Her hand drifted down to her stomach, over the silks of her dress.She was hurt. She was jealous.But gods, she was aroused.The image of Draedon, wet and naked, powerful enough to heal the dying and break the malicious, burned into her mind. He wasn't a fairy tale prince. He was a man who claimed anything and anyone he wanted. And Sansa realized, with a terrifying clarity, that she didn't want a gentle song. She wanted that. She wanted to be the one on the bench. She wanted to be the one making those sounds.She turned and ran back up to the Great Hall, her heart pounding, her innocence left behind in the snow, replaced by a dark, burning desire that would consume her. She would have him. No matter what her mother did. No matter what the cost.Draedon belonged to her. And she would learn to be whatever he needed her to be.

Author’s Note

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