“You wished to see me, O King?”
Eowyn of Rohan stood proud before him, pale eyes flashing, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor and Sauron-incarnate laughed.
Eowyn had expected to find this Aragorn different than the one she had met in the Hall of Meduseld. He was supposed to be dark. Evil. Yet instead his burning, golden eyes merely spoke of determination and mirth. So far he had treated all who came before him with fairness and courtesy.
“I did indeed, Eowyn, daughter of Kings.” Aragorn rose from his throne, striding down to her in a swift, relaxed gait. “I have a gift for you, should you wish to take it.”
Eowyn glanced from him to his elven Queen and bit her lip. Arwen, as always, seemed both attentive and serene, the small smile on her lips never fading. It seemed odd that the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, one of the chief opponents of the Dark Lord would seem so content about having wed her father’s bitterest foe.
“It seems to me that I should be cautious, my lord, accepting gifts from you.”
That sparked a laugh from the flame-eyed king, drawing him closer in a languid spiral.
“Oh, indeed,” he breathed, hot and moist on the nape of her neck, causing her to shiver with something other than cold. “My gifts are most perilous.”
His finger traced down her sword arm, down to the starburst scar that had marred her hand from the moment she’d taken the existence of the Lord of the Nazgul.
“You like peril, do you not?” asked Arwen in a low, strumming vibrato. “Ever have you sought it.”
“My queen –”
Arwen moved in an ethereal glide, hair of midnight trailing behind her in a loose fog. Dark eyes shimmered, like the evening star at twilight, and Eowyn shivered as long, cool fingers touched her cheek.
“Will you not listen to my Lord, O White Lady of Rohan?”
Aragorn’s lips brushed her ear. “I offer you freedom, Eowyn, if you wish it.”
Arwen’s hand traced down Eowyn’s neck, leaving a sweetly corrupt pleasure in it’s wake.
“Mmmm.” Aragorn’s hands came to rest upon her hips as Arwen leaned up, brushing her lips with a sweet kiss. Long-fingered hands edged the bodice of Eowyn’s dress, tracing hardened nipples with restrained delight. “Rohan’s army is in Gondor. I can see to it that every civilian left behind is… eliminated.”
Eowyn gasped into Arwen’s mouth, feeling Aragon’s hands move, sliding across thin silk to rest heavy above her womb.
“Every man, woman, and child put to the blade,” the words burned her neck, hot and obscene, turning her liquid and furious all at once. “No expectations, no needy peasants, no stupid rules to follow or people to serve. Just fields sown with blood for every moment that you suffered for them, diverting Wormtongue from his base abuses to his baser pleasures.”
His fingers moved, rubbing gently at the juncture of her thighs. Arwen’s lips left hers, mouth trailing down to her breast, knee nudging Eowyn’s legs apart to give Aragorn greater access.
“Free me from their expectations, so I can serve your baser pleasures, my King?”
Arwen laughed against her breast in carnal music. “Oh, no. You will be our general, our chiefest advisor, the White Lady of the United Kingdoms of Middle Earth. This is because we want to lay you down and fuck you.”
“I see,” said Eowyn, lifting her hands to Arwen’s waist. “You don’t expect fidelity, do you?”
“Your body belongs to you, Eowyn of Rohan,” Aragorn’s fingers cupped her through the silk of her skirts. “Even now, you can say no.”
“To fucking, or to mass murder, my lord?”
“Either.” His hands and Arwen’s stilled. “Or both.”
“Let my brother rule Rohan, with Boromir as his advisor — keep the rabble-rousers in one place, where we can see them and where they think they have an in.” Eowyn fisted a hand in Arwen’s hair, pulling the Queen’s mouth to hers in a vicious move that caused the elf to moan in startled pleasure. The Dark Lord of Gondor laughed, ordering the guards from the room as the women kissed.
“I have a small fantasy,” said Aragorn. “Of you on my throne and my wife kneeling between your thighs.”
“Anything for you, my king.”