From the walls of Goodbrook Keep, defenders watched as a man approached alone. An old knight called a calm command, steadying the untested men-at-arms and young men who had been pressed into service. The walls were thick, but walls were only as strong as the men who held them, and the lord’s sons and his best men were absent, sent away to join up with the White Bull as he held off the faithless rebels from Harrenhal. The approaching foe might have been alone, but he was large enough to give any man pause. More than that, there was something about the way he walked as he entered bowrange, something that pricked at the mind of the few atop the walls who had seen war before.
The old knight frowned as he glimpsed the white star on the man’s broken shield, a half heard bit of gossip trying to surface in his memory, but his attention was drawn to the bundle of wood - spears? - that he held under one arm. He certainly wasn’t making his intent to parley clear, but what else could such an approach be? All of his men were left gathered out of range, still preparing for their attack. Seven Above, he had hoped they would be left alone after Lord Goodbrook had sent his forces away and bunkered down. The approaching knight began to slow a stone’s throw from the moat, but made no move to call for parley or shout any demands.
Instead, those atop the wall watched with growing bemusement as he began to jab his bundle of spears into the ground, each one a step closer to the moat.
“What is he doing?” the master-at-arms asked, a short way down the wall.
Once all the spears were stuck into the ground, the man returned to the first, taking it up and hefting it as if to throw it. But that was a fool’s move; even from the wall the old knight could tell it was a thrusting spear, not a throwing spear.
“Is this some sort of…?” the old knight’s squire asked, trailing off, clearly unsure of what it could possibly be.
The old knight opened his mouth to reply, only for the first spear to be thrown. The heavy impact and the deep thrumming that followed echoed off the walls, cutting off whatever thought he had been about to express. He was not alone in leaning out past the merlons to confirm what his mind was telling him.
The spear had pierced the seasoned oak of the drawbridge, somehow finding a gap in the metal lattice that covered its underside. It still quivered in place, such was its force, and as they watched, another spear joined it, this one slightly higher. The old knight suddenly remembered why the white star had pricked at his memory, and a pit formed in his stomach. Another spear pierced the drawbridge, sending another ominous crack and thrumming up over the walls. None had ever heard anything like it.
“Go and warn the Lord,” the old knight said to his squire, pulling his head back behind the safety of the crenellations. “Tell him Lord America leads the foe.”
“Who?” the squire asked. “Wait, the foreigner from Harrenhal?”
Amongst other things, but there was a reason Lord Goodbrook hadn’t seen fit to share the gossip from King’s Landing with the men. “Go,” he snapped. Another spear hit its target, and every man on the wall found themselves double checking they were covered by the merlons.
By the time the squire made it down the stairs to the bailey, Lord America had only a single spear left, but that too soon joined its fellows. The horrid sound of its impact faded away, and the old knight peered over the wall once more. “What’re you doing, you bastard,” he muttered to himself. He had no weapon now, only a shield - was it all just meant to intimidate them before the assault? “You can’t tell me-” he stopped, refusing to believe what he was seeing.
Lord America had broken into a sudden sprint, showing no signs of slowing as he reached the moat. Any thoughts as to the swiftness of his pace were forgotten as the man leapt, seemingly launching himself into the water and sure death, but it was not to be. There was a thud as the heavily armoured knight collided with the drawbridge, catching himself with the lowest of the spears. Then, he began to climb.
“What’s going on?” the master-at-arms demanded.
“He’s climbing the gate,” the old knight said, still staring in disbelief.
“He’s what?”
“He’s using the spears to climb up the gate.”
“...what?”
The bastard was already halfway up the wall.
“Ready crossbows!” the old knight shouted, turning for the door that led into the gatehouse proper. “Ready!” His gut was telling him what the mad foeman intended, but even as his mind was telling him it was impossible he knew it was true.
“What?” came the shout from the men in the gatehouse. “They’re still out of range!”
“The arrow slit, watch the slits!”
“What do you meaaah buggering fuck!”
There was the sound of steel rasping across stone, and the old knight feared it was almost too late. “To the gatehouse!” he roared, a sudden vigour filling him. “You lot, on me! To the winch! Now!”
Seeing the old knight, a fixture around Goodbrook lands for decades now, so concerned and moving so quickly, lit a fire under those he had bellowed at. They followed him into the gatehouse, rushing for the control of the drawbridge.
One of the crossbowmen already stationed within looked their way, face pale with shock. “Ser, someone climbed up-”
“Quiet,” the old knight barked, hand raised in warning. “Bar the doors.” The rumours said Lord America had fought through a dozen knights to open the gates at Gulltown, but even if it had only been city men-at-arms that was still a tougher challenge than what they could muster. If the foreigner meant to do the same thing there, they’d need to take him by surprise as he entered.
Timber creaked above them - but it wasn’t the other defenders on the walkway on the second level. It came from the wooden roof of the gatehouse itself.
“Be ready,” the old knight whispered as he looked up, drawing his warpick.
They waited, listening as creaking timber marked the steps of the intruder, waiting for the moment he would make his attack. Would he drop down the side to come in through one of the doors? Would he somehow crash down through the ceiling? They waited, palms growing sweaty, the old knight’s wariness well and truly spread to the rest of the men. They waited.
They waited, but as the moments stretched out, long heartbeats with no sign of the foe, the old knight began to doubt himself. It was an absurd thing to think, but no, he knew what news they had received, and he knew what he had seen. Any man who could leap the moat and climb the drawbridge with spears he had thrown deeply into its old timbers was not one worried with what was reasonable.
There was a shout of alarm from outside, and the old knight readied himself, but then he heard what was being called, and he realised with a horrible certainty that he had gotten it wrong. A racket rose in the distance, and he raced for the door, wrestling the bar off and emerging from the gatehouse. He looked not out over the walls, but back across the bailey, to the keep, and saw that his fears were true.
Lord America’s target had never been the gatehouse to open the way. He had made directly for the keep, and the thick doors that were its main entrance were subject to a one man assault, visibly bowing and splintering as he beat on them with his shield.
A cry to defend the keep was bitten off at the last moment, the old knight remembering the enemy force still waiting patiently out of bow range. He hesitated, torn between two needs. The loud whump of the keep doors being slammed open made his decision for him, and he looked to the master-at-arms.
“The wall is yours,” he said grimly. “Spread the men out. The rest of you, with me! We defend the keep!” He put word to action, racing down the inner staircase, panic lending him a speed he had lacked for years.
Maybe he was overreacting. But he knew what he had seen, and he knew what he had heard, and he didn’t want to think about the consequences of leaving America to have free reign over the inhabitants of the keep.
X
He was being ridiculous, he knew. There was nothing militarily important about what he was doing. No benefit would come of taking the castle. No gain to be had. But goddamit, he and his girl had been ready to take the next step since before Mastford, and if he didn’t take this castle, he was pretty sure she would.
The keep wasn’t as large or winding as the Red Keep, but it was still an unknown structure. He strode down its halls, building a map in his mind’s eye as he searched for its lord. He hadn’t seen the man on the walls as he had hoped - a repeat of Grassfield Keep was not to be - so now he had to track him down. Tapestries lined the walls, and most halls were carpeted, candles spaced along those halls that lacked natural light, but he didn’t have time to stop to admire the decorations. He did feel bad about tracking dirt inside though.
Steve turned a corner, and almost bowled over a young lady. She took in a startled breath, visibly holding back a shriek of surprise as she fought to keep her balance. He caught her, steadying her in place.
“Sorry, excuse me miss,” Steve said. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, I - apologies, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the young lady said, regathering herself.
“No, it was my fault,” Steve said, releasing her shoulder now that she was well. “Say, do you know where Lord Goodbrook is? I need to have a word with him.”
“Uncle is in the receiving hall,” the girl said, stepping to the side, as if out of his way. She frowned, taking a moment to look him over now that her surprise was fading. “Have we met? I am not familiar with you, Ser…?” Her gaze lingered on his shield, but there was no recognition in her eyes.
“I’m just visiting. Don’t worry, I left my weapons in the door,” Steve said. He gave a slight bow. “Thanks for your help.”
Without another word he was making his way down the hall, following the girl’s unspoken directions. He could feel her uncertain stare following him, but unless her title started with Black and ended with Widow, there was nothing she could do to stop him.
One wrong turn and a backtrack later, the receiving hall turned out to be on the second floor of the keep. When he found it he found not only Lord Goodbrook but two others, a knight and a squire, the three of them at the base of a dais that held the lord’s chair. All three looked up at his entrance, and the squire’s eyes bugged.
“That’s him! That’s Lord America!”
Lord Goodbrook was on the wrong side of middle-aged, but hardly incapable. All three were armed and armoured, and the lord and knight shared a glance before drawing their swords.
Seems they’d need some persuading.
Steve let them approach, making no move to prevent himself being surrounded. His lack of action seemed to unnerve them, and they hesitated at the last moment. It cost them. He dropped to the floor, spinning, and swept their legs out from under them. All three collapsed, completely unprepared for the move, and by the time they could comprehend their new positions, Steve was already back on his feet, staring down at them.
“Lord Goodbrook,” Steve said, speaking for the first time as he stepped towards him.
The knight couldn’t bring his sword to bear on that ground as he was, but that didn’t stop him from pulling a rondel knife and attempting to drive it through Steve’s ankle. Absently, Steve stomped hard on the dagger, careful to avoid the man’s fingers but neutering his attack all the same.
“Lord Goodbrook,” Steve said again, hunkering down beside him. “You would like to surrender.”
Goodbrook pulled wide eyes away from his knight to look at Steve. Light brown hair was thinning, and he was missing a tooth, but otherwise he was in good health. “I - yes,” he said. The squire groaned behind them as he sucked in a breath, winded from the fall. “I would like to surrender.”
“That’s swell,” Steve said, all smiles. He rose, and he pulled Goodbrook up with him. “Now, there’s some things you need to know.”
Taking a deep breath, Goodbrook steeled himself. “I understand. I only ask that you treat my people-”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about there,” Steve said, making a cutting gesture with his hand. “You and yours will be treated with all the respect owed by guests to their host.”
Goodbrook blinked as he absorbed the words. “Then - what?”
“You’re going to be hosting Ned and Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, and a dozen or so other lords,” Steve told him. “Ned just got word that his wife gave birth to twins, and we’re looking to celebrate his good fortune.”
“What?”
The knight had risen to his feet, watching Steve cautiously, and was helping the squire do the same. Both had very carefully left their weapons on the floor.
“The war is over for you, of course, but that’s something you can think over later,” Steve said.
There was a sudden commotion at the entry door as a group of armed men all tried to enter at once. They saw Steve standing next to their lord and made to charge, worsening their attempts to enter.
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Steve turned for them.
“Stop!” Goodbrook commanded, confusion banished. “Stop. I have surrendered, and received Lord America’s guarantee.”
The old knight at their head slid to a stop, sagging. “Aye, my lord.” He was breathing heavily.
“You should take a seat,” Steve told the greybeard, concerned. “There won’t be any fighting today, and I figure you’ll need to talk to my second to organise the handover.”
A glower was his answer, but Goodbrook gave the man a stiff nod.
Steve brought them back to more important matters. “Now, there’s a couple of things we need to discuss about tonight,” like organising a private room and the possibility of silk sheets, “but we’ll need to include whoever it is that oversees that sort of thing. Is that your wife, your niece?”
“My niece?” Goodbrook asked, sharpness entering his tone.
He received an approving nod. “I passed her in the hall on my way here but I’m not sure where she went after that,” Steve said. “Is she in charge of your social functions?”
“My - no, she assists my wife…”
It was clear that the suddenness of the situation was starting to overwhelm the man. “I’ll give you a moment to open the gates and get out of your armour, and then we can talk. My quartermaster can help out,” Steve said. He glanced at the cluster of men who were still standing uncertainly at the entrance to the hall. He raised his brows at them, expectant.
It took a moment to get things moving, and several reassurances that yes, this was how things were going to be and one whispered conversation they didn’t think he could hear that no, they wouldn’t and couldn’t turn the tables on the invader to take him hostage, but in the end Steve had his way. He made small talk with Goodbrook - Glendon Goodbrook - and asked idle questions about the guest rooms of his castle. The defenders were stood down, the drawbridge lowered and gates opened, and then his soldiers were riding in.
For once, it was not Keladry leading the way in his absence. Naerys led the way, clad in the armour he had bought for her and shadowed by the banner she had made for him, looking like a conquering general. He had to remind himself that the others could arrive any time in the next hours, and that stealing away with his girl was not an option. They had waited this long. They could wait until evening.
Naerys came to a stop beside Steve in the bailey, and the look in her eyes said she was struggling with the same dilemma. He reached up to take her gently by the waist, lifting her up and off Swiftstride. If he held onto her for a touch longer than was needed, and if her stumble into him as she was placed down was less than believable, none commented.
“Well?” Naerys asked, laying a hand on his chest.
“We’ve got three options,” Steve told her. His hands twitched, instinctively wanting to lower from her waist, and she smirked at him. He took a breath, focusing. “There’s a room in one of the corner turrets with access to the roof, a room with a permanent heated bath on the upper level, or a room on the second level that looks over a private garden.”
Naerys considered them, biting her lip. “I can think of benefits to all of them. What do you think?”
“As much as I like the idea of you and a blanket on top of the turret, that bath is convincing,” Steve murmured. He wasn’t sure if the idea of a hot relaxing bath or getting Naerys in that bath was more compelling. No, that was a lie, he knew damn well which.
“The bath it is,” Naerys said. Her eyes darkened. “I would hate to go to bed sweaty.”
Steve clenched his jaw, warning her with his eyes, but her smirk only deepened at the look. She stepped back from him.
“Would you introduce me to our hosts, my lord?” she asked, innocent as the breeze. “If we are to help them make ready for the celebrations tonight, we mustn’t dally.”
Another thread of his self-control frayed, but it still didn’t snap. “Yes. Of course,” he said. Glendon was waiting by the main doors, clearly smashed in but propped open as best they could be, and he had been joined by a younger woman who must be his wife.
Toby appeared from nowhere to lead Swiftstride off, making for the stables where the bulk of the troops were dealing with their own mounts, but Keladry had all that under control. Steve and Naerys approached their hosts, arm in arm, and began to go through the dance of niceties that were expected in such situations.
Later, Steve couldn’t have related the details of what they spoke. All he knew was that the upper level room was theirs, and that the Goodbrooks indeed had a set of silk sheets that they were happy to afford to them as a luxury after long months on campaign.
X
That night, there was a celebration at Goodbrook Keep. The dining hall was not the largest, and the fare not the finest, but that had little impact on the moods of the men who had come together to mark the births of Arya and Alistair Stark. Cheer could be found all the way down the long table that ran the hall, and quick work had seen the head table done away with for the night, leaving all seated together. For all that the Goodbrooks themselves were ostensibly the foes of those they hosted, one would not know it. Though pride of place had gone to the new father, the hosts found themselves charmed by his brother, unburdening the troubles that came with siding against one’s liege lord, and sympathising with the uncertain fate of his sister.
Three big men were doing their best to ensure their hosts would be left with not a drop of alcohol the next day, and it was a tossup as to whether Robert, Greatjon, or Buckets Wull would be the last man standing. Nearby, a mix of Northmen and Stormlanders listened with incredulity as an old knight told the tale of how Lord America had taken the castle. Disbelief was answered with an invitation to check the underside of the drawbridge when they left, and the only one to believe him was the Stormlands bastard who had seen with his own eyes what the foreigner was capable of.
Few kept to their seats as the night went on. Ned spent time teaching his cousin a Northern drinking song, and Beron returned the favour. Dustin told a joke of such filth and with such a straight face that his victim had to be rescued, near choking on his ale, and the young Royce found himself unable to so much as look at the northman for long minutes after without turning red. Those who called the castle home left all concerns of occupation behind as thoughts of the war disappeared, and by the raucous singing that sometimes drifted in through the hall shutters, the common men outside had done the same. Even Keladry had found an opportunity to share in the good cheer without fear, engaged in deep conversation with Mark Ryswell on the topic of horseflesh.
Of the few who kept to themselves, two of them were a couple near the middle of the table, not quite part of any one group. They had spent the night with their heads close together, almost sitting in each other’s laps. Those around them had been quick to realise that there would be little conversation to be had from either of them.
“...ate the whole thing,” Steve said to his girl.
“No!” Naerys said, pushing at his side. “The whole thing?”
“The whole thing.”
“How did you get away with it?”
“The owner’s daughter was sweet on Bucky, and she hid the box behind all the others,” Steve said, catching her lingering hand. He pulled it up for a stolen kiss. “We spent the next week scrounging for money to pay for it, and then we came in and ‘bought’ it.”
She laughed, shaking her head at the misadventure. “I can’t believe you - well,” she said, correcting herself. “You are trouble.”
“Me?” Steve asked, pulling a face as innocent as apple pie. “I’d never cause trouble. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“You wouldn’t?” Naerys asked, leaning into him. There was nothing innocent about her expression, or the way her hand trailed down his chest. “So it was someone else who left my copy of A Caution for me to find, open on the page where the warlock and the handmaid-”
“It seemed well thumbed is all, I just wanted to see what you liked to read,” Steve said.
“So it wasn’t a hint?” Her hand trailed lower, beneath the table, sending frissons of sensation over his lower belly. “A shame. I had a jar of honey sent to our room, too.” Her touch skipped over to his thigh, settling there.
Steve felt the balance tilting back in her favour, and casually slipped his hand to her shoulder, ghosting a touch at the spot on the back of her neck that always made her squirm. “Mostly I needed to know what it was about so I could illustrate it properly for you.”
“Illus- oh,” Naerys said. Her imagination distracted her briefly, before her hand began to make slow circles back up his thigh and he knew he’d miscalculated. Her voice dipped lower. “But why would I want them when we could just recreate the scene ourselves?”
The super soldier tried to mask a dry swallow with a sip of his wine, playing for time, but there was no hiding his reaction from her, not when her hand was damn near playing with his belt buckle.
“You know what I think, my lord?” she asked, leaning in even further, breath tickling at his ear. “I think that I am going to step out to refresh myself.”
It took a moment for Steve to understand the turn things had taken, and by then her hand had already retreated as she eased back, his hand slipping from her shoulder. He twitched to take advantage as she rose and turned away, but from the corner of his eye he could see Ned’s friend, Howland, watching with a faint but clearly incredulous amusement, and his chance to tweak her rear in revenge passed. He let out a breath as she sashayed away, yet again judging if they’d spent enough time at the feast to be polite. He cursed internally; not yet, but soon.
The feast continued in Naerys’ brief absence, and Steve took the chance to regather himself, determined to win the war even if he’d just lost a battle. A furor down the table had him sit up and pay attention, but it was just Ethan and the squire he’d swept over earlier having an arm wrestle. When he eased back, Howland was leaning towards him from across the table.
“It was well of you to do this,” the crannogman said, a certain look in his eye.
“I just wanted to help a friend,” Steve said, his best ‘I Don’t Even Know How to Spell Guile, Now Let’s Have Some Apple Pie!’ smile on display.
“How selfless,” Howland said, glancing over to the door that Naerys had departed from. “Thank you,” he said, more serious now. “Lord Stark’s injury and Lady Stark’s passing have been weighing on him.”
Steve raised his wine to the small man. He hadn’t spoken with him much, but he had twigged quickly to the way he tended to lurk at Ned’s side, and he couldn’t help but remember the way he had once done the same with Bucky. “Everyone needs downtime,” he said. War in Westeros wasn’t anything like frontline or behind enemy line fighting in Europe had been, but it took a toll all the same.
“Is that why you hold those games with your men?” Howland asked. “They seemed…unusual.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “You’re welcome to join in next time, if you’d like.” All the local games he’d seen so far seemed to focus on strength to some degree, so he’d done his best to introduce some variety for those with other talents. Finger dancing like he’d played during his infiltration of Gulltown was an exception, but for obvious reasons he wasn’t going to encourage that.
Howland nodded, not committing either way. He glanced down the table, and a sudden scowl took his features. Steve followed his gaze, and saw what it was that had fouled his mood so.
Robert had left off from Greatjon and Buckets, distracted and drawn into conversation by one of their hosts. It was not the Lord or Lady, but the niece, and as they watched he said something with a grin that caused her to laugh, one hand playing with her hair. They were not quite so close to each other as Steve and Naerys had been, but it was quite clear that their attention was firmly upon one another.
Steve frowned.
Combat honed a person’s instincts, taught them to be aware of threats, and it only took a moment for Robert’s head to come up, swivelling around as he searched for whatever it was that had pricked at him. A moment later he found Steve, and he stilled.
Slowly, an unamused brow was raised, and Steve looked from Robert to the girl he was flirting with and back. He knew that his marriage with Lyanna was an arranged one, but from what he had seen they weren’t exactly uninterested in each other. Not to mention the pitfalls that came from flirting with a woman whose home you had occupied by force.
Robert flushed, and not just from the wine that he busied himself with for a moment. He looked back up and gave Steve a jerky nod, leaning back in his seat and away from the young lady. Steve raised his cup to him in turn.
“That was…Ned’s tales made him seem more stubborn,” Howland said.
“We’re all dumb when we’re young,” Steve said, shrugging. “Young, dumb, and full of…well.”
Howland’s mouth twitched, guessing where the phrase was going. “Lyanna is a friend,” he said, abrupt. “I know how things are at war, and it isn’t my place to speak on such things to a Lord Paramount, but even so. Thank you.”
Steve shook his head. “I know that people look up to me. Least I can do is be a good example.”
A contemplative look was his answer, but any further conversation was cut off as Steve caught a swish of lilac from the corner of his eye. Naerys had come around to reenter the hall from the other door, trying to approach him without being seen. He drained the last of his cup as he made a decision. It was just about time to retire for the evening.
It took an iron will to remain calm as Naerys approached, but knowing how close the finish line was made it bearable. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and then slipped forward to brush at his chest as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his head.
“I am starting to tire, my lord,” Naerys said, speaking directly into his ear. “Will you escort me to our chamber?”
Steve held back a shiver. She knew exactly how it affected him to hear her call him that. He rose, and also got up from his chair. “My lady,” he said, looking down at her. She had stepped aside to let him get out of his chair, but only that, and now they stood toe to toe. “I’d love to.”
Naerys took his arm, and they made their way from the chamber at a dignified pace, drifting past Ned with a deliberate slowness where they paused to congratulate him one last time. They soon left the hall behind, slipping out a side door.
If anyone noticed the way that Lord America’s lady was almost pulling him along, they chose not to mention it.
It was with an expression of supreme self-satisfaction that Naerys led Steve towards their room. The halls were deserted, all either on duty or celebrating, leaving them to feel like they had the castle to themselves. They came to the stairs, and Naerys slipped up ahead of him. He wasn’t sure if letting her do so was a mistake or an act of genius, but as he watched her tight rear sway with every step he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.
When they reached their floor, Naerys slipped her arm in his once again only to set a maddeningly slow pace. Steve strangled the urge to throw her over his shoulder and dash the rest of the way, but he had decided to let her take the lead and he would stick to it. Something must have given him away all the same, for she glanced up at him from under coy eyelashes.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Steve made a sound in his throat that while unintelligible, perfectly conveyed his feelings. Naerys only smiled wider. She was playing with fire, and the look of anticipation in her eyes said she knew it.
The remainder of the walk passed by torturously slowly, and by the end even Naerys’ patience was running out. They didn’t quite rush through the door, but they passed through it quickly, and the loud thud of the door shutting set their hearts, already racing, to even higher heights. The sound of the bar setting into place had a finality to it.
The room was not over large, but it was comfortable, with a thick rug before the fireplace and a large bed in one corner. There were wooden shutters on the outside wall across from it, and below them was the bath, a metal tub placed in a stone brick frame. The water in it was steaming, and there was a jar of honey on its edge.
Naerys had sauntered towards the bath, and she looked over her shoulder at him. With a shrug, the shoulders of her dress fell from their places. “Help me with my ties?”
Steve took a step towards her, and something in his face made her teasing mien falter.
“Steve?”
Another step, and she turned, hands coming up as if to ward him off, recognising the look on his face. It was one she knew well from when he would torment her with his knowledge of all her most ticklish spots, but this time there was something more to it. Her movement made her dress slip, further revealing the generous swell of her breasts.
“Don’t you dare, the water will ruin-”
It was too late, and he was upon her. Strong hands took her by the cheeks and lifted her up, and he laid a bruising kiss on her, one that was answered enthusiastically as she locked her legs around his waist. He turned and walked, dumping her not into the bath, but onto the bed, where she bounced, blinking at the sudden release.
“But what about the bath?”
Steve pulled his top off in one motion. Something tore audibly, and Naerys licked her lips as his sculpted torso was revealed. “The bath is for after we’re sweaty,” he said, and then he took her by one ankle and dragged her towards himself.
“Oh,” she said, finding her bottom almost hanging off the edge of the mattress. “What are you-”
Steve went to his knees. His hands dragged up along her legs to find her smallclothes, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulled them down and threw them away, and then he was pushing her dress up to reveal his prize. Trimmed silver hair dusted her mound, and it was his turn to lick his lips.
“Oh,” she said again, before gasping as she felt his tongue on her. “Oh, oh!”
Steve wasn’t the most experienced man, but he was an enthusiastic learner, and Naerys was more than willing to help him.