Chapter 9: Coronation by Cock
The mountain air had never tasted so clean. For Caius, each breath was a affirmation of a life he’d never dreamed possible. The perpetual scent of pine and cold stone was now layered with the aroma of baking bread, forging metal, and the singular, potent perfume of the Valkyries themselves—a scent of sweat, skin, and a sweetness that clung to the back of his throat.
Months had woven themselves into the fabric of his new existence. The timid prince was now a comfortable centerpiece in the vibrant, chaotic tapestry of the village. And the village… the village had flourished. It was in the way they moved, a new, undeniable lushness to their powerful frames. Hips seemed wider, swaying with a heavier, more deliberate rhythm. Breasts, already magnificent, had grown even fuller, straining against leather and wool, their soft weight a constant, welcome pressure against his back or chest during the long, lazy mornings in the longhouse. Their lips were perpetually swollen from kisses, their laughter richer, their eyes holding a satisfied, proprietary gleam when they looked at him.
Their world, as it had since his arrival, revolved around him, but the orbit had become smoother, more natural. It was less a frantic worship and more a contented cultivation. He was their most prized possession, their fountain of youth and vigor, and they tended to him with a focused, joyful diligence.
He was currently seated on a fur-draped stool outside the forge, the morning sun warming his face. A Valkyrie named Lyra, whose golden hair cascaded over shoulders that could split a tree, was diligently braiding a thin, silver thread into his. Another, Eir, knelt before him, her astonishing chest nearly spilling from her tunic as she carefully fed him slices of sun-ripened pear, her thumb tracing his bottom lip with each piece.
“Open wide, my little prince,” she cooed, her voice a low hum.
He complied, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. This was peace.
The peace shattered with the frantic beat of unfamiliar wings.
Two griffins, their feathers travel-stained and their hides lathered, descended into the main clearing with a jarring clumsiness that sent Valkyries reaching for axes and spears. The regal, albeit horrified, faces of King Theron and Queen Elara were a stark blot of pallid courtliness against the vibrant, muscular health of the village.
The Queen’s shriek cut through the mountain calm. “Caius! By the gods, what have these… these… amazons done to you?”
All movement ceased. The Valkyries didn’t assume defensive postures; they simply stopped, turning their gazes toward the interlopers with a collective, uncomprehending blink. To them, the King and Queen were like two startled pheasants that had wandered into a wolf den, squawking a language that made no sense.
Caius slowly stood, the silver thread pulling taut in Lyra’s hands. “Mother. Father.”
King Theron’s face was a thundercloud. He swept a disgusted gaze over the scene: his son, being hand-fed by a kneeling warrior woman with breasts like siege weapons, his hair being braided by another, while a dozen more looked on with casual, possessive interest. “We have tracked you for months, boy. This… this debauchery ends now. You will return to the castle and assume your duties.”
Astrid emerged from the longhouse, not with haste, but with the inevitable, ground-covering stride of a glacier. She had, if possible, grown even more formidable. Her hips were a broader shelf, her chest a deeper landscape. She wiped her hands on a rag, her expression one of mild, amused curiosity.
“Who are these noisy little birds, my heart?” she asked Caius, her voice effortlessly drowning out the Queen’s sputtering.
“These are my parents,” Caius said, his voice quieter, but without its old tremor.
“Ah,” Astrid said, as if that explained everything. She looked them up and down. “You are welcome to visit. But you will lower your voices. You are frightening the peace.”
“Visit?” Queen Elara shrilled. “We are not visiting! We are retrieving our son from this… this den of iniquity! Look at them all! They’re… they’re… bursting out of their clothes!”
A Valkyrie nearby, the flame-haired one named Runa, glanced down at her own prodigious chest, then back at the Queen. “They are happy to see you?” she offered, genuinely confused.
“We do not need him ‘back’,” Astrid stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “He is home. He is ours. He provides for us, and we care for him. It is a very simple arrangement.”
“Provides?” King Theron spat the word. “What could he possibly provide? He is a prince, not a… a stud bull!”
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, a ripple of understanding moved through the Valkyries. They looked at each other, then at Caius, then back at the fuming King.
Eir, still kneeling, looked up at the King with wide, innocent eyes. “But he is a very good one.”
The entire village nodded in unanimous agreement.
Caius felt a strange laugh bubble up in his chest. The tension, the fear he should have felt, was entirely absent, burned away by months of unconditional, fervent adoration. He looked at his parents—their pinched faces, their rigid postures, their world of rules and shame—and he saw them for what they were: small.
“Father, Mother,” he said, his voice firming. “I am not returning.”
“You dare defy us?” the King roared, taking a step forward.
In an instant, the casual atmosphere vanished. It didn’t turn violent, but it became… solid. The Valkyries didn’t draw weapons; they simply shifted their weight. Shoulders broadened. A wall of immense, curvaceous muscle and unwavering calm closed ranks around Caius. The air grew heavy, charged with the promise of effortless, absolute force.
Astrid placed a hand on Caius’s shoulder, her touch both possessive and reassuring. “The little prince has spoken. He stays. You may leave. Or you may stay and learn why he prefers it here.” Her gaze, for the first time, held a glint that was not amused, but predatory. “The choice is yours. But choose quickly. You are interrupting his breakfast.”