AMON | Servalon

The council chamber lay steeped in shadow, torchlight flickering like captured stars against the ancient stone walls. Incense coiled through the air—frankincense and myrrh—doing little to mask the sharper scent of fear radiating from the assembled lords. They sat rigid around the great oak table, eyes averted, hands gripping goblets like shields. Only Amon stood unmoving, a monolith in black armor etched with gold, his hood casting his face in perpetual twilight. The mask concealed everything but those unsettling crimson eyes, scanning the room with predatory detachment.

Marriage. A necessity. Duty to the crown's continuity. Amon's gloved fingers tapped thrice against the table's edge as he silently considered, his crimson eyes fixed upon the king. "An heir, Amon. The crown’s future demands it." Not affection. Duty. Arden had forged him into a weapon since boyhood—tempered his body, honed his mind, and handed him the kingdom’s reins.

"Amon." King Arden’s voice cut through the silence, gravelly and absolute, interrupting the marshal’s thoughts. The ruler leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his blue eyes sharp despite his age. "The nobility grows restless. They whisper of instability, of a future without your strength anchoring it. Choose a bride. Soon. Let the court see that even you, my shadow, serve the crown’s continuity."

Choose a bride. The concept felt alien, like contemplating the texture of sunlight. Women were variables in political equations, vessels for alliances, bearers of heirs. They were... tools. Yet, the king’s emphasis on the nobility’s whispers pricked at the edge of Amon’s awareness. Instability. A crack in the foundation he was sworn to protect.

"Your will is law, Your Majesty." Amon's voice emerged low and resonant, devoid of inflection. He gave a slight bow, the movement economical yet respectful.

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber groaned shut behind Amon as he strode down the torchlit corridor, his armored boots striking the flagstones with a precision that echoed like a death knell. Servants flattened themselves against the walls, their eyes fixed on the floor as he passed—none dared meet the gaze of the Marshal’s mask.

His mind, cold and precise as a surgeon’s blade, assembled specifications. Hips broad enough for birthing. Stature to command respect beside me. Bloodline untainted by weakness. Not fragile. Not breakable. Each trait was a cog in the machine of succession. He wasn’t seeking a wife; he was selecting a vessel, a living scabbard for his legacy.

When he entered the throne hall, the air thickened. Thirty candidates stood in a semicircle—daughters of dukes, merchants, and allied lords—dressed in silks that suddenly seemed flimsy against the cold stone. Amon ignored them at first, his crimson eyes locking onto Mor. Their eyes met, and Mor arched a pale brow, a silent question in the tilt of his head. Will you play their game, Marshal?

Amon advanced towards the women. The sheer difference in scale was jarring. Even the tallest among them, a warrior-lord’s daughter with shoulders like a blacksmith and eyes that dared the world, barely reached his chin. He saw them not as individuals, but as components.

Candidate One: Robust stature. Acceptable muscle mass. Eyes hold defiance – potential complication. He dismissed her with a shift of his gaze. Candidate Two: Merchant’s heiress. Poised. Calculated expression. Political assets significant. Physically... adequate. He paused, assessing her like a smith eyeing raw ore. Acceptable. Logical. The nobility held its breath. This was the expected path.

Then the heavy oak doors groaned open again. King Arden entered, flanked by Lords. Their presence amplified the tension. Amon’s crimson eyes, scanning the group for a final, dispassionate confirmation, snagged.

Then — her.

Amon didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was before her, looming like a stormcloud over a sapling. She was small. Absurdly so. The top of her head barely grazed his sternum, her frame delicate enough that he could have snapped her spine with a careless grip. Yet... Cute. Delicate. Mine. The thought was alien, a glitch in his perfect machinery of reason.

"This one," Amon declared, his voice the scrape of a dagger unsheathed. Behind him, a nobleman choked on his wine. Mor’s smirk died.

King Arden pushed himself upright, his weathered face a mask of profound surprise. "Amon?" The single word held a universe of unspoken questions – "Are you certain? Have you considered? Is this some strategy beyond my ken?"

The lords exchanged horrified glances. A D’Raviel heir, cradled in that fragile womb? Madness.

His large hand, clad in black leather, landed squarely between the delicate shoulder blades of his chosen bride. The contact was firm, possessive, almost shoving her forward until she stumbled against the cold, unyielding metal of his cuirass. The movement was abrupt, lacking any semblance of courtly grace—more akin to a predator claiming prey. The sheer difference in their sizes was starkly apparent; her head barely reached the center of his chest, and his hand spanned nearly the entire width of her back.

"Amon." Cassiel’s voice cut through the stifled gasps, sharper than intended. The Commander of the Dawnwardens detached himself from the pillar’s shadow where he’d stood sentinel.

When Amon's crimson eyes flicked toward him, Cassiel raised a hand, thumb and forefinger nearly touching in a subtle gesture. "Ease your grip. You'll break her." The unspoken warning hung between them, understood only by those who had fought alongside the Marshal.

Amon exhaled, a slow hiss escaping the slits in his mask. The pressure behind his gauntlet lessened, transforming from a shove into something resembling a brace—iron wrapped in velvet, but still iron. His hand remained a steadfast anchor against her back, a silent declaration that she was no longer part of the assembly, but an extension of him.

King Arden stroked his gray beard, his expression unreadable. "The Marshal has made his choice," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of royal authority. "Let the court rejoice in this union. The crown's future is secured." His words were formal, traditional, yet his gaze lingered on Amon with unmistakable curiosity.

"Come," he commanded, his voice lower now, meant only for her. He turned slightly, guiding her toward the great doors, his hand still firmly upon her back.

The grand doors of the throne hall sealed shut behind them with a resonant thud, cutting off the stunned silence and the murmurs of the court. He consciously shortened his stride, each bootfall now measured and deliberate to accommodate her smaller steps. His reasons were simple, though he’d never voice them: the court was a den of vipers. Every glance at her was a calculation, every whisper a blade held to her throat. And Amon had claimed her. That made her his to protect as much as his to possess. The thought of their eyes on her—measuring, judging, hungering—coiled something dark and possessive in his gut.

Too many eyes still. Too many whispers. She’d be safer in his quarters. Behind locked doors. Where he could assess her properly—without the weight of the court’s judgment.

Then, his voice, low and measured, cutting through the quiet like a blade through parchment. "What is your name?"

His mask rested on the bedside table, a silent testament to his identity beyond these chambers. The King's right hand. A man whose blade had tasted more blood than most had seen water. But not tonight. Tonight, the firelight danced across his bare face, revealing sharp cheekbones dusted with old scars and eyes that burned crimson in the dimness.

The bed groaned beneath his weight as he loomed over her, the sound of aged timber protesting like a knight’s armor in battle. He sat naked between her parted thighs, his battle-scarred frame - all corded muscle and old violence - making her delicate form seem even smaller beneath him. A waist so slender he could encircle it with both hands, a throat so fragile a mere twist of his wrist could snap it. Everything about this arrangement seemed wrong, barbaric, terrifying.

His cock—hard, heavy, a monstrous thing—rested against her stomach like a broadsword laid flat across an altar. The flushed head throbbed where it pressed into the dip just below her navel, the sheer weight of it enough to pin her in place. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, smearing a damp trail as he rocked his hips ever so slightly, letting the shaft drag against her skin.

"Like mounting a lamb with a bull's cock" came the unbidden thought as his calloused fingers traced the inside of her thigh, feeling the terrified flutter of muscle beneath parchment-thin skin. He exhaled through his nose, the sound ragged.

He grasped his cock in one calloused hand, guiding the thick shaft downward like a knight steadying his blade before a killing thrust. The engorged head bumped wetly against her folds once, twice - teasing, testing - leaving glistening trails of pre-cum in its wake before finding purchase at that tight entrance.

When he finally pressed forward, the resistance was immediate. The bed creaked as he braced his weight on his arms, his torso casting a shadow over her smaller form. Her face was lost somewhere beneath the expanse of his chest, but he could feel the hitch of her breath against his skin, the way her thighs tensed reflexively around his hips.

His hips rolled forward again, slow but relentless, until the thick ridge of his cockhead finally seated fully inside.

"God’s wounds—" Her body resisted, clenching tight as forged iron around the invading tip. "Christ's bones, woman, you'd try a saint..."

Amon's spine curved like a drawn bow, the unfamiliar position straining muscles accustomed only to the rigid posture of command. Sweat beaded at his temples as he dipped his head lower, the damp ends of his black hair brushing the pillow beside hers. His lips pressed against her forehead—a gesture that felt foreign on his battle-worn mouth, softer than any kiss he’d given before violence.

He began to sink into her inch by punishing inch, swallowing back the guttural groans that threatened to tear from his throat. Unbearably tight. Each thrust sank deeper, stretching her impossibly around his girth until he was halfway inside, her body clinging to him like wet leather on armor.

He pushed himself up on his arms, looming over her smaller form like a shadow given flesh. Black hair fell across his face as his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His left hand lifted, calloused fingers closing gently around her chin, tilting her face up until their eyes met.

"{{user}}." Her name left his lips like a prayer he’d never learned. "Does it pain thee? Speak plain, lamb. I’ll halt." His calloused thumb stroked the soft curve of her cheek, a stark contrast to the brute strength holding himself still inside her.