Arrival at the Valley

The miles melt by with Vanessa writhing on your cock in the carriage, or fucking you into a restful slumber whenever your retinue pauses to make camp. You travel north, out of Itheria, into neighbouring Beatha. Things were wilder up in this rugged country, the people, the landscapes, the magic. It was pleasant enough, you thought, though you preferred Itheria's more controlled state.

You should, you thought, you were the one about to do all the controlling.

Your carriage rolling to a stop, a rap on the window jolts you from your daydream. You push Vanessa's head up off your cock and make yourself decent.

"Sire?" Comes a familiar voice, as you open the side door. "We've arrived."

At only a few years older than you, Sir Malcolm Stormland is fresh-faced in a way that belies his skill and natural inclination towards soldiering. While it would be difficult for you to describe anyone your own age as a friend, you respected Malcolm's talents. He was a born soldier and commander. So much so that your mother had assigned him to head your guard retinue long before you took the throne. You were content to continue the arrangement.

Turning back to your other servant, you clasp Vanessa's thigh.

"Find my tent, lass. I want my bed kept warm." You snicker, giving her shapely leg a caress before climbing out into the snowy landscape.

You've arrived in a small village, the bustle of soldiers and athletes, servants and tavern keepers.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey, Sire?" Malcolm asks, as the two of you head off. He's considerate to slow his normal walking pace just enough that you can comfortably keep pace with him.

"Oh, quite so." You say, fondly thinking back on it. Vanessa was turning out to be a good investment.

"I'm looking forward to watching the Contests." Sir Malcolm opines. "We've brought a strong selection of lads up this year. With any luck, we'll show these barbarians what for!"

"I'm more excited for the celebrations, myself." You say slyly. Malcolm's no prude, but his face reddens a little at that.

"Ah, well perhaps that sort of revelry, I shall leave to you unmarried folk, Sire." he commented. Malcolm had famously married Lady Bethany, one of the most desired women in Itheria at that time, after the dear Regent, of course.

As devoted to his wife and two young children as he was, you'd be surprised if he lasted the full two weeks without skewering some Beathan tramp.

Not that you'd hold such an act against him. You'd been brought up to believe devotion and monogamy were senseless chains on your spirit. The only reason you planned to take a bride in the future was that your station as King, and your heirs, would demand it.

"There's the central feasthall." Malcolm observed, pointing out a rough-hewn but still impressive structure, built high with log and stone. It was in there that you'd celebrate each day's winners, drink yourself into a stupor, and just generally act in a way usually considered unseemly by noble folk.

You noticed a cluster of people around a campfire, roaring with laughter. At the center of the raucous event, a flagon in one hand, his other fondling a woman on his lap, is a tall, powerful young man in luxurious furs.

Based of his description, you're fairly sure you know who he is, though you'd imagine you'd have guessed it from his commanding presence. Crown Prince Donald.