A Lonely Reign Ch. 01

Please note that this story will be several Chapters long, with a focus on world-building and slow romance. If you are after a quick fix this is probably not for you, but if you would like to appreciate a detailed story then please read on. Enjoy!

Princess Caera dragged her gaze reluctantly upon the throng that gathered before her throne. As a few baleful eyes met her gaze, she realised with an unpleasant jolt that almost everybody in the room shared her disdain for the ceremony that would soon be upon her.

"The Swearing of the Oaths shall now commence!" screeched her elderly herald Berfard, as if he had sensed her hurry to get all of this over with. Caera supposed that Berfard thought himself in fine voice this morning, but sadly she knew the elderly servant's days of magnificent heralding had been behind him since before she was born, some twenty-three years ago.

"The Lords may now approach her ladyship!" warbled Berfard tremulously, his rotund belly wobbling along with every syllable.

"Nice of him to ask my permission," thought Caera sullenly, "not that it would change anything if he did."

Caera stole a quick glance around the crowded hall, inducing another pang of longing in her heart for the days when she was just a carefree Princess, and her Mother and Father were still alive. The hall had been brighter then, with countless candles sparking in every corner, where now only stubs sat feebly attempting to stay lit. The ladies of the court looked downcast, none were coyly trying to catch the eye of a young man, or gossiping to one another, but simply lurked statuesque. Lords and men who had gathered did not crowd around to slap one another on the back and guffaw at ribald jokes, but shuffled from foot to foot, with half an eye already looking to the stables for their ride home. When foreign raiders had stolen the lives of her parents, they not only robbed the castle of its monarchs, but the kingdom of its spirit.

Caera was shaken from her reverie by a pair of muddy boots troubling the floorboards before her.

"The Lord Hanley of Greenwater, my Lady," intoned Berfard, waving a hand in the vague direction of the boots' occupant.

"I swear to serve the crown this day, and to the end of my days," a stout voice growled.

Caera looked up into the weather-beaten face of Lord Hanley, and did her best to summon a smile. Lord Hanley had long been a friend to her parents, and she looked up to him as she might a kindly uncle. Lord Hanley leant forward to complete the official part of the ritual, taking her hand and placing a whiskery kiss upon it.

"I'm truly sorry for your loss, my Lady," squeezing her hand as he stood. Hanley stumped back towards the crowd to make way for the next supplicant, leaving Caera with a small reminder that not everything in the castle was as bleak as it might seem.

Despite the gesture of support from Lord Hanley, Caera's black mood persisted as she suffered the ceremony that was now hers to fulfil, despite the fact the Lords had not seen fit to officially make her queen. Countless lords tiptoed up to her and mumbled the dutiful words, then kissed the air around her knuckles before dashing back into the safety of the crowd. If any of these lords truly wanted to be there in her court, he had yet to reveal himself. Caera lifted her chin to scowl at the latest intruder on her dais, but her expression froze even before her brow could furrow.

A tall knight stood before her, a small smile playing across his lips. Caera thought he seemed familiar, but could not place where she might have met him. He couldn't be a regular visitor to the castle, she definitely would have taken notice if a man like this had crossed her path. She took in his nut-brown hair, gently framing a slender face, then was captured by the piercing gaze of his ice-grey eyes. They seemed to bore into her, as if he was drinking in the details of her appearance, almost unblinkingly evaluating her. She felt his eyes rove downwards from her face, to take in the rest of her body, which was currently slumped awkwardly to one side of the throne. The realisation that she had just come across perhaps the most strikingly handsome man she had ever met was enough to jolt her upwards into what she hoped was a more princess-like posture of understated poise.

Having reached her feet, the knight's gaze reversed its journey, tracing a lustful line up her slender legs, past her waist, and settling on her face after the merest of pauses upon her breasts. Caera felt her face flush, accompanied by a strange quivering in her belly. She had never been so brazenly appraised by such a striking man before, and it was inducing some very unfamiliar feelings within her.

"Sir Torven of Huntsmark, my Lady." Berfald had revealed the identity of the knight before her, but it took a moment before Caera heard his words. Huntsmark, but wasn't Lord Eston ruler of Huntsmark? Unless old Eston has passed away leaving...no, it couldn't be, surely it wasn't...

"Torvi?" The word slipped out of her mouth without her permission, but the effect on Torven was immediate. He beamed a great smile, and the granite marbles of his eyes lit up in an instant, no less piercing but infinitely warmer. A ripple of laughter at her outburst went almost completely unnoticed by Caera, transfixed as she was by the towering man before her.

"I was wondering when you might recognise me, my Lady." His voice was deep, and seemed to hum and resonate with every syllable. The flash of his smile had precipitated a fresh wave of redness in her cheeks, and more alarmingly, a brief pang from between her legs. Caera's mind whirled, as she recalled the time she had spent with Torven long ago.

They had been just children back then, running wild through the castle. Whilst the adults attended balls and banquets, Caera, Torven, and the other children of lords and ladies had played games in the fields, swum in the moat, stolen fruit from the kitchens, and any number of other mischievous things that bored children could think of to do when let loose upon a castle. Looking at him now, Torven was almost unrecognisable.

He had become a tall man in the years since she had seen him, and his once skinny frame had filled out into a broad chest, with square shoulders and taut, muscular arms. Upon his chest was emblazoned the charging Boar of Hunstmark, pushed forward by the lean muscles of his chest. Not trusting herself to speak without embarrassing herself again, Caera opted to demurely hold out her hand to signal him to approach.

Torven swaggered towards her, stopping short of her throne, but dwarfing her with his height and breadth. Kneeling, he took her hand in his. Caera fought to stop herself trembling at his touch, feeling a jolt of warmth coursing up her arm from where his fingers entrapped hers. His smirking lips ventured forwards and brushed against the back of her hand, lingering there just a moment longer than was seemly in court.

A small titter erupted behind her, which Caera knew must have come from her most prickly lady-in-waiting, Consetta. This small interruption broke the spell between Caera and Torven, the latter beating a hasty retreat from the dais. Caera stared hungrily after him, taking in the smooth, sloped contours of his shoulders, which seemed somehow even broader from behind. Torven was swallowed by the crowd, his place taken by a far less pleasant entourage of aged and sycophantic courtiers.

After what felt like half a lifetime, the ceremony was over and the hall was empty of lickspittles and kowtowers. Breathing a heavy sigh, Caera slumped into her chair. Sharp-tongued as ever, Consetta was the first to break the silence.

"You know, I think those Lords get more decrepit and slobbery every year. But you didn't seem to mind so much when Lord Huntsmark kissed your hand. Or should I say, Torvi?" she then giggled in a way that carried plenty of malice and very little mirth.

"Oh shut up, Consetta," interrupted Gilaena from the other side of Caera's throne. "Caera did very well putting up with all the old lechers, at the very least she can enjoy seeing an old friend."

Gilaena squeezed Caera's hand and said, "come on, let's go and see if there's something we can have for supper."

"Actually, I think I might just retire to my chambers, I seem to have lost my appetite," replied Caera, returning the squeeze.

"Well then, Consetta, let's allow the Princess some peace."

Consetta sneered in Gilaena's direction, and sidled out of the hall, presumably to find some poor servant boy to terrorise.

"She's got quite the stick up her arse today, Caera," chuckled Consetta, as soon as Consetta was out of earshot. "It's even bigger than usual! Still, better get off to bed before she thinks of a witty parting remark, even if it is ten minutes too late."

"Thanks Gilly," said Caera, although she hadn't really been playing much attention to the usual squabbling between her two contrasting ladies in waiting. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the meeting with Torven over and over. The way he towered over her in her throne. The zing of heat on her hand is he kissed it. The bulging of his muscles as he bent forward to bow. The aching pang between her legs that was increasing with every thought.

Caera dashed out of the Hall as fast as her restrictive gown would allow. After winding through the tight corridors that led through to the Royal Wing, she wound her way up 3 dizzying spiral staircases to reach her chambers. After checking that no servants were tending to the fire or laying fresh rushes on the floor, she swung the door shut and bolted it.

Suddenly feeling hemmed in by the gown she wore, Caera tugged at the fastenings between her shoulder blades, eventually managing to struggle free and allowing the dress to crumple onto the floor. Her undergarments soon followed, thrown into a far corner in her hurry. She dove under the quilt, worming her way under the silky sheets until she found the softest spot in the middle of the bed. She found that she was panting, her heart racing in her chest, and not just from the exertion of ascending the stairs with such urgency.

Her mind was whirling with the events of the afternoon; she could think of nothing else. The confident smirk on his lips. The piercing grey of his eyes. The bulge of his arms and chest beneath his shirt. Suddenly new images filed her mind. This time Torven was there in her bedchamber, towering over her as he had done earlier. Caera felt a rush of warmth in her cheeks, and the unusual feeling between her legs intensified.

Almost unbidden, her hand snaked down her stomach towards the source of this feeling. A small moan escaped her lips as she slid a single finger into the wetness below. She tentatively explored further, sending small darts of pleasure up her body with each trembling movement. In her mind's eye Torven was standing over her, staring down with piercing grey eyes. She saw him take a step forward and take her hand once again. A single kiss on the back of her hand was followed by another, his lips tracing a burning path up her arm. A brief peck on the side of her neck sent tremors down her spine. Caera imagined him stepping away slightly, then lifting his arms to remove his shirt. With a small sigh of ecstasy, Caera's fingers rubbed ever faster on the small nub of flesh that sent sparks of pleasure jolting through her body.

The imaginary Torven stood before her, naked from the waist up. She luxuriated in the angular contours of his chest and stomach, then imagined that it was him reaching forwards to caress her moist folds. She felt as if tension was building in every part of her body, but she had no intention of halting the pleasure. Her fantasy lover continued to massage between her legs, causing his biceps and shoulders to flex with every small circle. Instinctively, Caera used her spare hand to cup one of her breasts, pressing the palm of her hand hard against the jutting nub of her nipple. She pinched the nipple and gently twisted, unleashing a fresh wave of moisture from her dripping slit. Torven's hand was cupping her breasts firmly, alternately massaging her breast and squeezing her nipple. Caera gently slipped a finger inside herself, cautiously exploring the slickness within. The shirtless man in her mind was roving his hands all over her, gradually increasing the speed with which he kneaded her breasts and rubbed her aching pussy. Feeling little resistance, Caera added a second finger to the first, curling them upwards slightly and finding a new area that made her spine arch.

Caera's breath was coming in sharp pants, as she furiously alternated between slipping her fingers in and out, to rubbing firm circles upon the small bundle of pleasure above. Still enraptured with her half-naked dream lover, she pictured him with a small sheen of moisture adorning his chiselled upper body, his strong hands squeezing her waist, massaging her breasts, flicking her nipples and slipping inside her. Caera felt the tension becoming almost unbearable, her hips were bucking up and down. As she pictured Torven bending forward to kiss her willing lips, a blinding jolt of pleasure hummed from between her legs, tingling her nipples and electrifying her spine. Caera cried out a great wail of delight, curling her toes in ecstasy. Caera found herself locked in place, unable to relax a single muscle as waves of pleasure pulsed through her body. Eventually she was able to relax enough to drop her hands to her side, panting into the softness of her pillow. Caera kept her eyes closed and allowed her thoughts to drift. As sleep swiftly came to claim her, she was left wondering what on earth Torven had awakened within her.