Chapter 66: Taming the Lioness
…
Richard POV
A fortnight later
I found myself roaming the eastern mountains of my territory. The terrain here was rugged—rolling hills draped in dense vegetation.
I wore my usual hunting attire: a long black shirt lined with subtle golden patterns, matching trousers, and boots built for silent movement.
I carried no weapon—none was needed. My adamantium claws were more than enough.
As I walked deeper into the forest, towering trees loomed overhead, their trunks tangled with underbrush and serpentine vines.
The wild grasses swayed and whistled with each passing gust of wind.
The reason for my presence was simple: a lion.
One had been spotted by a hunter in the forest in Eastern Neméos.
Lions were an endangered and majestic creature of the westerlands. Being a sigil of many houses, as well as mine. They were after all a symbol of strength, courage, and majesty, which is one of the reasons I wish to tame it.
About a week ago, a sheriff from the eastern marches—a knight named Adrian—had sent in his monthly report, as all sheriffs and landed knights under my rule were required to do.
Most of it was routine: farming yields, mining numbers, logging progress. But one entry by Adrian stood out, he stated that "A large lioness was found in a forest by a hunter."
Now, beneath the cool canopy of the forest, I followed its trail. The scent in the air was rich, earthy—alive.
I crouched beside a large paw print pressed into the soil. It was recent, broad. heavy. Definitely a lion.
I brushed my fingers along the edge of the track and brought them to my nose. The scent was fresh which meant the lioness was close.
I picked up the pace. The forest thickened around me, and I took to the trees, leaping from branch to branch.
It is easier this way, and made my travel faster and quieter.
Below, the undergrowth was too wild to move through without noise. It would've also ruined my clothes.
From above, the trail was much clearer without tedious obstacles.
Soon, I found the cave. I dropped silent to the ground from the tree.
The smell hit me immediately—strong, musky, primal, and unmistakable.
The lioness was inside.
I stepped into the entrance.
Darkness swallowed the stone corridor, but my enhanced vision adjusted quickly. The shadows shifted into clear shapes and sharp lines. And there she was. A lioness, lying asleep on her side.
What caught my attention wasn't just her presence, but the swell of her belly—round and full.
She was pregnant.
A lioness alone was valuable, but a pregnant one, even more so.
Another thought struck me—if she was carrying cubs, a male wasn't far. If that was so, the male lion would be my next target.
But first, I'd need to tame this lioness.
I whistled—low and sharp, cutting clean through the stillness.
Her ears flicked. Her eyes opened, hazy with sleep, then locked onto mine.
A moment passed.
Then came the growl from her, which was deep, raw, and laced with murder.
She rose slowly, powerful limbs coiling beneath her as she stood. Then she roared. The sound thundered through the cave—fierce, startled, defiant.
I felt it all—her anger, her fear, her surprise—radiating from every tense muscle.
I didn't flinch, instead I calmly studied her features. The lioness had a golden coat with amber eyes. She was nearly four feet tall at the shoulder, ten feet from nose to tail.
As expected of a magnificent beast.
Even though I was able to understand her. I haven't tried to communicate with her yet. After all, communication with a wild and proud animal like this wasn't immediate.
It took time—just like learning a language.
I'd only come to understand birds, horses, cats, dogs, even rats, through patience—by studying their rhythms, gestures, instincts.
She would be no different.
Still, I thought it was worth a try. I crouched low, moved slowly, hands open and visible. I made soft noises—mimicking the sounds of a cat, hoping to ease her tension.
It didn't work.
She took it as a challenge—and lunged at me.
I pivoted fast, boots sliding on the cave floor as I sidestepped her charge.
In an instant, I closed the gap again and wrapped my arms around her, wrestling her to the ground.
She was strong.
Every muscle in her body strained against me, powerful and wild.
But i was unmoving as i held her with a small ounce of my strength, which was enough to easily hold her down.
Then I growled—not in frustration, but in warning. I mirrored her earlier growl.
A message in her own language.
She fought harder.
Her jaws snapped dangerously close to my face.
That's when I knew—this wouldn't end with kindness.
I had to establish dominance. I would have to reply to her aggression with my own.
I shifted my weight, pinning her with one arm, and used the other to grip her throat.
I pressed—not enough to kill, but enough to let her feel it. Enough to make her understand.
She struggled as I tightened my hold. Her breath caught and her resistance began to wane.
A few moments later just before she slipped into unconsciousness, I released her.
She moved from me, backing up as she began coughing and gasping for air. Her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to refocus.
When she focused again, she looked at me with complete fear. She knew she couldn't best me.
I noticed that there was no sign of aggression and killing intent like before, instead she lowered her head in timidness.
Her muscles eased, her body seemed weakened, and her tail lowered. She had submitted.
Not tamed—at least not completely—but the first bond had been forged.
Now that the lioness was mine. It was time to find her mate.
…
Alicent's POV
The soft clink of porcelain and the gentle rustle of pages filled the air around me as I sat on the fourth-floor balcony of a quiet tea house in Nemosport.
A warm afternoon breeze from the sunset sea tugged lightly at the brim of my sunhat, but I paid it no mind.
The calm here was rare and welcome.
In my lap, my pencil moved easily across a notepad—another one of Richard's creations that had taken the noble circles by storm.
Much like my love, it was practical, elegant, and endlessly useful.
These notepads and their paired pencils had become a subtle symbol of both creativity and status, especially among women of thought and curiosity.
Now these notepads and graphite pencils sat among teacups and plates of sliced fruit as I joined Sharra, Rosa, and Lady Ellara in a little game we'd created—sketching the city below and comparing our interpretations.
We all sat at a modest round table, each of us absorbed in our own pages, pausing only to steal glances and trade playful remarks.
"I think Lady Parren's taken the crown this round," I said with a grin, holding up my sketch to compare. Her drawing was sharp, precise—nearly architectural.
She had an eye for form that rivaled mine in composition.
"I only win because I'm your artistic tutor," she replied smugly, sipping her tea. "Give it a few more years, and I'll have real competition."
Rosa quipped with mock innocence, "You're only better because you're old and have years of experience with shapes," which was in response to the smugness of Lady Ellara.
Lady Ellara spat out her tea in the shock of Rosa words, which unfortunately sprayed all over Sharra's dress.
The moment froze.
We all stared at Sharra—waiting for her reaction. Her shoulders trembled, and for a moment, I feared she was about to cry.
But instead, she broke into laughter. Light, musical, unbothered. It was infectious. In seconds, we were all laughing too, our worries forgotten in the mirth of the moment.
Just like that, the conversation picked up again—easy, light-hearted.
We talked of inconsequential things, poked fun at each other's sketches, and simply enjoyed the peace.
While conversing, I caught sight of my knights in the corner of my eye. Seven of them, which even included Ellara's son.
They were clothed in light armor, standing beside the parapet with still alertness. They were never far from me. Always nearby, always watching—ready to act the moment I needed them.
Their quiet presence kept unwanted attention at bay.
To most in Nemosport, I was just another wealthy woman passing through. That anonymity was precious. It allowed me to observe the city freely, without the burdens of title or ceremony.
Occasionally, I caught someone staring too long, but they always looked away—likely deterred by the silent threat of the men who shadowed me.
The tea house, like many fine places in the city, was a Lionheart holding.
The food, the drinks, the service—none of it required coin payment from us.
Lunch arrived soon after.
The scent of spiced crab, grilled fish, and hot rice swept across the balcony, stealing our attention from art and banter.
For a time, we said little, lost in the pleasure of the meal. I chewed thoughtfully, then looked out across the city.
From here, high above the streets, I saw it all clearly.
Nemosport unfolded in neat, structured blocks—rows upon rows of buildings placed with care and purpose. It reminded me of the military formations Richard used in his war games: square, organized, disciplined.
There was precision in every street, logic in every intersection.
More than a year ago, before a single structure stood, Richard had begun with what no one saw—the foundations.
Roads and a sewage system had been the first to rise, carved into the earth with staggering effort and cost.
Once those were in place, the city had grown. Block by block. Foundation by foundation. Now, paved roads stretched in every direction. The sewers continued to expand as new neighborhoods emerged.
Unlike the chaos of many growing towns, here, buildings couldn't simply rise at a whim—permission was required from the port mayor, keeping the city in balance.
By now, I guessed there were over five hundred buildings—homes, businesses, workshops, and inns.
The population had swelled to fifteen thousand. Migrants, villagers, travelers—all drawn to the promise of something stable and new.
And yet, there was one flaw. Nemosport still had no walls.
In any other city, that would spell disaster. But here? Order held. Because of the layers of protection Richard had built into the very bones of this place.
City guards patrolled openly. But hidden among them were Lionheart operatives—elites in disguise.
Even some of the trained soldiers walked the streets, unnoticed but ever watchful. Their numbers weren't public, but if I had to guess? Five hundred. Maybe more.
And beyond the port city?
To the north, a military camp—four kilometers away. To the south, a fortress at the same distance. And to the east, Castamere—our stronghold—just six kilometers out.
Anyone who wished this city harm would have to think twice.
I leaned back, letting the warmth of the tea and the comfort of safety settle in my chest.
Richard had built something remarkable. A city born from vision, raised through discipline, and protected by design.
Richard wasn't with me today. He'd gone off this morning to tame a lion—because of course he had. That was Richard. Always drawn to the wildest challenge, always chasing the next worthy conquest.
But here, surrounded by laughter, graphite-stained fingertips, and the quiet clatter of silverware, I saw what he left behind.
His flourishing city. And I knew—it was in good hands.
…
Author note: Sorry for the late chapter. Let me know if there are any mistakes or improvements needed in this chapter.