The axe bit deep into the heart of the pine log with a solid thwack, sending a satisfying jolt up Jagheer's arms. He worked with a steady, practiced rhythm, his athletic frame coiled and released with each swing. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his brow despite the crisp autumn air that carried the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke from the village of Oakhaven. In the shadow of the Radsen Keep, a brooding silhouette of dark stone against the grey sky, life was simple, hard, and defined by the iron rule of Count Jason Radsen.
This was a world of strange echoes; the clatter of a rare automobile on the muddy track was as likely as the sight of a knight in soot-stained plate armor riding a destrier. It was a time caught between the dying gasps of chivalry and the grim, oily birth of industry, a blend of Westeros's feudal grip and the Lands Between's decaying grandeur.
The rhythmic chopping was his meditation, the place where he could drown out the whispers of his true desires. At nineteen, Jagheer was an aspiring swordsman, his calloused hands as familiar with the hilt of the battered longsword he practiced with behind the shed as they were with the axe. But his discipline was a fragile dam against a relentless tide. His weakness wasn't fear or laziness; it was a raw, humming hunger for the softness of women, specifically the experienced curve of a hip, the knowing smile of an older woman. While other young men his age dreamed of glory in Radsen's tourneys, Jagheer's fantasies were populated by the milky-white thighs of the butcher's wife or the generous sway of the innkeeper's widow.
"Jagheer!"
The voice cut through his thoughts. He lowered the axe, turning to see his Aunt Lysa standing at the edge of the woodpile. Her simple woolen dress did little to hide the lush figure beneath, the body that had haunted his dreams since he'd first understood what the ache in his loins meant. Her face, still handsome with high cheekbones and warm brown eyes, was framed by strands of greying hair escaping her kerchief.
"You're dripping all over the yard, boy," she said, her hands on her hips. "The light's fading. Come, bath is drawn. Don't track mud through my clean house."
He nodded, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Yes, Aunt Lysa."
He plunged the axe into the chopping block and followed her inside, his eyes unconsciously tracing the sway of her hips, the way her dress tightened across her backside with each step. The small, cramped cottage was warm, filled with the rich, savory smell of a stew simmering in the pot over the hearth.
He bathed quickly in the wooden tub behind a faded screen, the lukewarm water sluicing the sweat and wood chips from his skin. The simple act of washing himself felt charged, his mind already racing ahead, imagining other hands, softer hands, doing the work. He dried off, pulled on a clean tunic and breeches, and padded barefoot into the main room.
Lysa was at the heavy oak table, her back to him, chopping carrots. The firelight played over her, glinting in her hair, outlining her form. The domestic scene was a stark contrast to the violent, possessive heat coiling in his gut. He moved silently, a predator in his own home. He came up behind her, his hands finding her waist.
She started slightly, then relaxed as his arms wrapped around her, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. "You're clean," she murmured, her knife stilling.
"I am." His voice was low, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. He inhaled her scent—yeast from the bread, herbs from the stew, and beneath it all, the simple, warm fragrance of her skin. His hands slid upward, over the soft swell of her stomach, cupping the heavy weight of her breasts through the rough-spun fabric.
"Jagheer…" she breathed, a warning that held no conviction. It was a sigh, a surrender he knew well.
"He's at the tavern," Jagheer murmured into her ear, his thumbs circling her nipples, feeling them peak into hard buds. "He won't be back for hours."
"The stew…"
"Can wait."
He turned her in his arms, his mouth finding hers in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It wasn't gentle. It was all the pent-up frustration of his training, the simmering lust he fought daily, channeled into this one, forbidden act. She met his ferocity with a desperate passion of her own, her hands tangling in his damp hair, her body arching into his.
He walked her backward until the edge of the dining table dug into the backs of her thighs. With a grunt, he lifted her, setting her down amidst the scattered carrot tops and the wooden bowl. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him close. He fumbled with the laces of his breeches, then shoved her skirts up around her hips, baring her to the warm, fire-lit air. She was already wet for him, her heat a palpable force.
He didn't hesitate. He drove into her in one smooth, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her slick, welcoming warmth.
"Oh! Gods, Jagheer!" Lysa cried out, her head falling back, her nails digging into his shoulders.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, the old table groaning in protest beneath their combined weight. Each slam of his hips was a punctuation mark in the story of his obsession. This was his real training ground, this union of sweat-slicked skin and ragged breaths. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his eyes locked on her flushed face, watching her composure shatter. Her moans were not delicate things; they were raw, guttural sounds torn from her throat—"Unnh! Yes! Right there, don't stop!"
He leaned over her, capturing her mouth again to swallow her cries, his pace never faltering. The world narrowed to this: the slap of flesh, the creak of wood, the crackle of the fire, and her whispered, filthy encouragements in his ear.
It was in this feverish state, lost in the primal rhythm of their coupling, that the cottage door swung open with a bang.
Uncle Borin staggered in, reeking of cheap ale and pipe smoke. His face was flushed, his eyes bleary. He blinked at the scene before him: his wife splayed across the dinner table, her skirts around her waist, his nephew buried deep inside her, both of them frozen mid-thrust.
A slow, stupid grin spread across Borin's face. "Lysa… m'home," he slurred. He took two wobbling steps forward, his gaze unfocused, not truly comprehending the violation happening three feet from him. Then, with a grunt, he collapsed into his worn armchair by the hearth. His head lolled back, and within seconds, a thunderous snore rattled from his open mouth. He was dead to the world.
Jagheer and Lysa remained frozen for a heartbeat, a tableau of illicit passion interrupted. Then, a new, darker fire ignited in Jagheer's eyes. The risk, the sheer audacity of it, sent a fresh, electric jolt of arousal through him. He looked down at Lysa, whose wide eyes were fixed on her snoring husband.
"Don't stop," she whispered, her voice husky and urgent, her hips giving a slight, involuntary roll beneath him.
A savage grin touched Jagheer's lips. He began to move again, slower now, more deliberate, each thrust a deliberate act of defiance. He kept his eyes locked on Borin's sleeping form, on the man who had raised him, the man whose place he was taking, whose honor he was pissing on. The snoring provided a grotesque, rhythmic counterpoint to their own muffled sounds.
Lysa buried her face in Jagheer's neck to stifle her moans, her body trembling with the effort of staying quiet even as her climax built, fueled by the terrifying thrill of their audience. Jagheer felt her inner muscles clench around him, a series of frantic, fluttering pulses. "Hnngh! I'm… I'm coming!" she gasped against his skin.
That was all it took to push him over the edge. With a final, deep grind of his hips, he spilled his seed inside her, a hot, claiming rush, his own groan a low, guttural sound lost in the symphony of Borin's snores.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them panting, listening to the oblivious drunkard in the chair. The air was thick with the smell of sex, stew, and ale. Finally, he pulled out, helping her sit up on the edge of the table. Her legs were shaky. She quickly smoothed her skirts down, her face a mixture of shame, satisfaction, and lingering fear.
Jagheer tucked himself away, his heart still hammering. He looked from his aunt, rearranging her disheveled clothing, to his uncle, sleeping peacefully in a pool of his own drunkenness. In that moment, the line between the aspiring swordsman and the degenerate seducer blurred into nothing. He had faced no dragon, no rival knight, but he had conquered his own private battlefield, and the victory tasted sweeter than any tourney laurel.