Everything, Francis knows, is a balancing act. Life, power, influencing others - it’s all about balance. He placed his pawns on the board accordingly when he was still rising, he the king with his lovely queen by his side. He lost a rook and took out his opponent’s bishop with a particularly nasty trap (the poor sap never saw it coming.) Francis rose as Chancellor of the Eastern Lands through careful manipulation, blackmail, and of course, balance.
Then a knight entered the board and the king took note from afar how the game changed.
Sir Douglas Stamper was a hardened man with years of court service to the king to his name - those years had straightened his back to a noble line and tilted his chin to a proud angle. Francis took notice and coveted. Because even the most sated wolf still looks to the biggest stag and licks his lips.
The king is young for the throne but such is the fickle way of the line of succession. Fathers die and their (undeserving, green as the tender shoots) sons rule in their place. But Francis raises a toast in the Great Hall like a good Chancellor, to “the continuing guidance of our new king” but when he drinks, it is the knight’s eyes he meets, and the Chancellor’s gaze that is returned. The wine is sweet on its way down Francis’ throat.
Such sweetness is forgotten (to be found again? only God may know) later when Francis sinks into the throne, spilling blasphemies from his mouth and Sir Douglas’ knees hit the floor in front of the Chancellor, ceremonial armor clanging against the spotless marble. Blasphemies abound. Sir Douglas smooths his gauntlets up Francis’ good trousers and undoes the fastenings, pulls him out and descends upon him immediately.
Francis hisses at the combination of Stamper’s subservience, the taboo of doing this act on the throne (where he will be very soon,) and that fucking mouth of his. The knight notices this pleasure and pulls away, fixes Francis with those giant brown eyes that have seen brutality and murder and he knows. Francis can see in that moment that Stamper knows every one of his secrets. Stamper, the respected knight that he is, could bring down the traitorous Chancellor with a single meeting with the King.
But the knight just leans down and brazenly licks the head of Francis’ cock, still staring into his eyes. “I’m at your disposal, sir.” Stamper breathes, then ducks his head and takes Francis back in.
Francis smiles a wolfish grin.