Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 67

Chapter 67: Letters of Invitations
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Alicent POV

It was morning when I woke to the soft light of the sun rising over the hills of Neméos.

The sunlight cast a warm glow across the chamber, stretching over the stone floor and catching on the edges of the velvet curtains.

I sat up slowly and stretched my arms. As I did so, a cool breeze drifted in through the cracked casement.

I shivered from the sudden chill and sank back into the blankets. The thin white nightgown I wore was no match for the cold.

Looking outside, I noticed the trees in the distance. The green leaves, once so vivid, were beginning to fade and shift in color.

Summer was fading—I could feel it in the air. The warmth had thinned, and autumn would arrive soon.

Wrapped in the blankets, I turned my gaze toward the fireplace.

There were no flames, only faint traces of ash and dying embers. The fire must have burned out sometime during the night.

Even so, I was still warm beneath the covers. And I knew why. I turned my head toward the other side of the bed.

My beloved, Richard.

It must have been his warmth that held me through the night. He was still asleep, and peaceful.

He lay on his back, one arm flung carelessly across the sheets, the other resting above his head.

The blanket had slipped low, caught just at his waist, leaving most of his chest bare to the morning light.

His skin glowed in the soft sunlight, the golden hue making every line of him stand out—his chest, his arms, the shape of his abs, the slope of his neck, the sharp edge of his jaw. His handsome face.

I stayed there for a while, watching him.

Admiring him. And in spite of the chill in the air, I felt warmer than before.

As I was lost in my trance, I noticed the faintest movement of his lips.

Then came the murmurs—faint and jumbled, barely more than whispers—but I caught fragments here and there. One word stood out clearly: "Valyrian steel."

He must be having one of those dreams again, I thought.

I didn't know what they were about, only that Richard dreamed of them every moon or so.

I had asked him once, gently, but he only smiled and shook his head. Secrecy wrapped his answer, and I was met with vague denial.

Still, I never pressed him. If he wished to keep it to himself, I would respect that.

His murmurs continued, low and muffled, and I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh.

The way he spoke in sleep, so serious and dramatic, made the expressions on his face all the more endearing.

He said something else then—something about fire and blood—and shifted slightly. His brow furrowed, confused, and a soft breath escaped him.

But by then, I wasn't thinking about his dreams anymore.

I was too distracted.

By the way his lashes curled. By the slope of his cheek. By the warmth of his skin so close to mine.

I tried to resist, for a moment. But the urge to touch him was stronger.

A fight I lost immediately.

My hand moved on its own, tracing the line of his jaw.