Chapter Text
Deep inside, you had known he’d want you tonight. You had taken great care to bathe and thoroughly wash your hair. Your bare skin warm and flushed, hair now dry and cascading in thick ringlets about your shoulders, there was no denying your reflection was a pleasant one.
You reach for the oils made of lavender and dab delicately below each ear, on the tips of your breasts, the dip of your belly and the inside of your elbows. He never touches you there, has never even hinted at desiring to, but still, every time you know he will summon you, you place a fingertip’s worth of the scent he loves on the most intimate part of you.
The brothel is alive with cries of pleasure and distress alike, laughter and tears. You are happy to abandon it, having no other clients to tend to, other than him. You were a whore. You suppose you still are, even if an unusual one. Most girls in pleasure houses are forced to be there, unhappy to have to live this miserable life. As for you, with nothing left to lose, you passed the brothel’s doors of your own volition, seeking shelter and gold to feed and clothe yourself.
Nerves made you shake on that first night as you waited for a man to solicit a moment between your legs when the City Watch had barged in and thrown every paying man out onto the streets of Flea Bottom. That night the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, had come with his sworn swords, attempting to conceal his efforts of finding his grandson, Prince Aegon Targaryen. The prince was not there, but you were. How you had caught his eye still dumbfounded you. You were easy enough to look upon and you had many men tell you as such, but the way this man regarded you was nothing you had ever encountered before. He took you in as though you were something worth studying. Otto Hightower with a glance had captured you and with the steps he took to close the distance between you had possessed you.
“How long have you dwelled here, girl?” He questioned, the sound of his gravelly voice a caress.
“ ‘Tis my first night, my lord.” Your voice did not shake with the rest of you and his blue eyes gladdened to see it.
From this night, you are mine, he had told you that evening many turns of the moon ago, You will do as I bid and want for nothing. Is that something which you would deem agreeable? And your life’s pulse had stuttered in your chest when you had bowed, your voice a tease of a sound when you answered, If it please my Lord Hand.
You still do not know what madness overtook him or what of you continues to lure him, but you would have him keep you. He is kind and stern, but gentle. He is clever and handsome and his voice warms you to your very core and his hands…gods—you want him. You want him so much it feels as though you always have. You long for him to touch you with more purpose, for his body to need yours the way yours seems to have need of his, but it’s the same every night he has his sworn swords bring you to him.
When the door opens, you have barely dressed, still adjusting the thin material that needs be tied around your neck. The gown, if it may be called as such, is made of fine, Hightower green silk. So slight the tips of your breasts are nearly exposed, it curves in harmony with your body and leaves your back bare. It is a delicate thing, unlike your resolve to be had on this night.
Tonight, it is Ser Arryk Cargyll who comes to fetch you, his eyes traveling the length of you as he forgets himself for just a moment. You hide your smile as you greet him with a soft,
“Ser Erryk is it?” Even though you know exactly which twin this is. Arryk is loyal to the Lord Hand and his daughter the Queen and thus, would never utter a word of his hour of the owl exploits, but she enjoys watching him straighten in his armor, hearing the sound of his breastplate accommodating his arm guards.
“It is Arryk, my lady.” He says with a mischievous look. The knight is taller than you, dark haired and bearded, exactly the type of man you would find appealing. You wonder why you can’t find it in yourself to desire him. He would take you if it wouldn’t cost him his head. Yet the man who owns you, who can take you as he pleases, seems not interested in the least. “You ought to remember me. I have come to find you often as of late.”
“Do forgive me, good Ser.” The words sound salacious, even to you. His grin makes his beard stretch. “I meant no offense.”
“None was given nor taken, my lady.” They call you lady, all because of a man that does not want you. “Come. My Lord Hand demands you wear your hood for the night is cold and he does not wish you to become ill.” The knight produces the garment colored black and waits for you to obey the Hand’s orders, ignoring the roll of your eyes.
“Shall we, Ser Arryk?” You ask once you have glanced in the looking glass once more. You want to be perfect.
“After my lady.” The knight says gallantly, his heavy, meaningful steps trailing behind you as you leave the brothel. The incessant rutting does not bother you, though Ser Arryk seems quite entertained, falling a couple of paces after you, but you understand. Of course you understand.
He takes wonderful care of you, making the journey to the Hand’s tower a quick one without catching anyone’s attention.
Before long, you stand before the door to his bedchamber. You will your heart not to pound and your legs not to tremble. This man you have met with countless times. This man you have shared a bed with, you have been closer with than many people in court would dare to be. Why should you feel even a grain of uncertainty? He is the most sure thing in your life.
“You may enter, my lady.” Ser Arryk instructs, turning his back to you and the door. Must be his turn to take the night’s watch.
“Thank you, kind Ser.” You whisper as you push open the heavy chamber door, composing yourself with a breath.
“My sweet girl. I trust Ser Arryk Cargyll was good to you as he procured you for me?”” Are the first words Otto Hightower says to you as you close the door, keeping everyone away from you both.
“Yes, my lord. He is most chivalrous, as always.” You say with a bow, turning to find him there. Larger than life itself this man you long for as he is the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He sits the iron throne most days, he’s told you, and finds himself calling to you when his duties are performed.
“It gladdens me to know it.” He nods, searching your face. “I would like to look my fill of you as I could not last evening, darling girl.”
“My lord.” You lick moisture onto your lips, as you meet his gaze, his eyelids low and smile soft as it often is. “Would it please you if I removed the hood?” You keep your composure as he takes your right hand in his own to kiss your knuckles, and then turns it to kiss your pulse. You have only just arrived and the space between your legs is as warm as your cheeks. He is not a young man, Otto Hightower. His dark auburn hair is lightening with trails of white, as is his beard. And when he smiles for you, creases adorn his eyes and there are noticeable lines on his forehead when he is deep in thought. It all makes the fire within you burn brighter. You have never been one to long for a boy’s touch, but you have fantasized of men like this one. Tall and broad and stronger than you. A man who can take you apart with only the look in his eyes.
“It would please me greatly if you would allow me to help you out of it.” Your lord says, making good on his offer and you do naught but raise your arms and allow him to reveal the garment underneath, the one you mean for him. “My girl.”
“My lord?” The smile has vanished from his face as he takes you in, the hardened peaks of your breasts and the slim curve of your waist, the dip of your womahood between your writhing thighs. “A talented lady made this for me. I wanted nothing more than to wear it for you, my lord. To give my thanks for it.”
“It is a sure thing it was made to be worn by you for none other has ever looked more beautiful than you do tonight.” His eyes take every inch of you in as he walks around you, you wish you could see him as he examines the back. You can’t quite keep still and it is clear he notices when you hear him hum his approval of your apparent discomfort. “The Maid in the flesh is what you are.”
“I thank you, my Lord Hand.” You play coy, to see what else you can get out of him. He steps into your space, his front to your side and presses his forehead against your temple, breathing you in. You wish to turn your head, for your mouth to meet his, but you must remain still. He’s hardly touched you and you feel out of control.
“Would you care for wine?” He offers, his lips moving against your ear as though he is trying to savor you. You arch your neck, giving him more room as you crave to be thoroughly ravished by him.
“Does my lord want me to care for wine?” You murmur, a gasp leaving your lips as his nose runs the length of your neck. No matter your intentions and the dress you have procured, it is you being seduced, as it always is and you now know you were a fool if you believed you could turn this around on Otto Hightower.
“What your Lord wants is to have you in his bed, in this dress,” You bite your lip to keep from begging for him to remove the garment as he pauses every other word to kiss the flushed skin where neck meets shoulder, ”so that he may enjoy your company as he always does.”
“Then that is what I want as well, my lord.” You manage to say with whatever breath may still be in your lungs, shaking with want as a callused finger trails up your back. “Gods.” You’re throbbing and slippery, you can feel it. You can smell it, this lust overtaking you at his slightest attention. You’re sure he can, too.
You feel the moment he withdraws from you, cold settling over the moment you were sharing.
“Come to bed.” He says. “It has been a long day of ruling and I have grown weary.” Are his parting words as he turns to tend to himself and ready for bed. Disappointment floods you from the toes up and your eyes well. No matter his words or the fire you feel between you, it is never enough. He will not lie with you as a man does with a woman. He will not touch you in that way. You’re the whore he takes to bed to hold as he sleeps and sleeps only.
It makes you want to laugh. It makes you want to weep.
“Of course, my lord.” You don’t mean to sound dismissive, but rejection is making you burn inside and you long for sleep to take you now and carry away the embarrassment.
You make your way to the bed, taking your position in the middle of it, lying on your side, waiting for him to join you. You hear him get comfortable, take off his Hand’s garb and fuss about. When the bed dips with his weight, your body instinctively tenses, not expecting it.
“It is only me.” He whispers with a kiss to your shoulder, his beard making your belly warm. “Something is amiss, darling girl. Tell me what it is. Do you not wish to keep my company tonight?”
“No!” You catch yourself and don’t shout, trying to keep your dignity about you. “Never that, my lord.” You whisper, closing your eyes as he pulls your body back against his, as he does every night you spend with him. He is solid and hot against you, nothing but his tunic and your thin dress between you.
“Still, there is something to make right. Tell me.” The former knight speaks into the crook of your neck and you squirm in his hold, thighs tensing to ease the ache between. “Your smell is delectable, sweet girl. Do you make it so just for me?” His hand travels down the length of your arm and then up, but ventures out onto the side of your breast, continuing it’s torture down your waist.
You whimper with need, pushing back against him for any relief that might be found, nodding your response.
“My girl bathes for me, adorns herself with the sweetest of smells for me, dresses deliciously for me—is perfect, for me. I should like to know what bothers her.” He demands, his breath a mixture of wine and fresh mint that makes you dizzier than his sudden, merciless grip on your hip.
“Nothing, my Lord.” But the words sound like a plea in your state of need. Your humiliation only worsened the heat building within you. “It is not bother I am feeling.”
“Then what is it, beauty mine?” Lord Otto prompts again, his hips slotting behind yours, fitting perfectly. His manhood is hot and hard, straining against you and you wonder why he won’t just take you. You’re willing, you have been since your first meeting, since the very first look he gave you.
“You must know.” Perhaps you have forgotten yourself, but you shall accept the fate your Lord bestows upon you. Whatever punishment he may conjure, you are ready to take.
He chuckles darkly, making you clench around nothing. “I should like to hear it from my beauty’s lips.”
“I want you, my lord.” You confess, wishing you could look him in the eye. His hold on you does not allow it and you get the feeling this is exactly how he meant to hear the words spill out. His teeth find purchase on the lobe of your ear, wet and sharp. Your hands search for the one that holds your hip, nails digging into his skin involuntarily. “It makes me ache, this need of you.”
“My poor girl.” Your lord Hightower purrs, his hand moving to pull your long skirt up, up, up until it is a bunch atop your thighs. Yes, you think, as he maneuvers you onto your back. Yes, as he hovers over you, a hint of a smirk on his face when you eagerly open your thighs. “Have I neglected you? Have you wanted this for very long?” But his hand is traveling down your belly, lower still into the hair covering your slit. His own face lowers, until his lips are touching your pebbled nipple through the silk. Yes, yes, yes.
“Please, my lord.” You spread wider when his fingers find that sensitive part of you expertly and remain there, circling in a manner that drives you mad. Your lord breathes deeply above you, hooded eyes meeting yours, demanding you confess all your sins.
“My girl is a wanton thing.” You bite your lip as he explores your depths and finds you weeping. “So very wet and ready for whatever her lord wants to do to her, are you not?” You nod, crying out as a single finger makes its way inside you. It is so good, you can barely breathe.
His mouth opens to tease the tip of your breast with his tongue, leaving it wet before giving the other the same treatment. Your eyes struggle to stay open and sounds spill from your throat, your body convulsing around him.
“I want you.” You gasp, your hands daring to take his face as he fucks you with two perfect, skillful fingers. “I want you. I want you.”
“Do you?” His face is so close to yours.
“Yes.” You moan, hips moving in time with his perfect strokes.
“Beautiful girl.” His mouth meets yours violently, his fingers deep inside, the palm of his hand torturing the sweetest spot at your center. Gods, yes, you are nearly there. Your tongue meets his greedily, your moan compliments his own hum of satisfaction in taking you apart. His taste in your mouth, his hair in your hands and his hand working your cunt are more than you can take. “Take your pleasure.”
You break against him. It is glorious. It is more satisfaction than you have ever known. He is there, holding you together, still fucking you through the remains of it, still swallowing your shameless sounds. You are boneless as you come down, smiling through the last of his kisses, still longing for more of him, even as his fingers claim you again and again.
“My lord.” You say as if in greeting, pleased eyes opening to meet his, infatuated endlessly with the smile he returns.
“My girl.” He whispers back, depositing a small kiss on your lips, withdrawing from your core. His fingers are in his mouth now, cleaning him of your pleasure and the sight alone makes you want him thousandfold. “You are the sweetest of tastes. I should like to have you more often.” You melt against him, reveling the way he pulls you into his arms, buries his face into the crook of your neck. Your skin is damp with perspiration and your thighs are far more slick than you care for now that the moment’s passed, but you remain where you are. “Green is the color Hightower burns when we call our bannermen to war.” This he has spoken to you before. He tells you things as you both succumb to sleep. About his past quests as a knight, about his late wife, though he speaks little of his daughter the Queen. Your lord tells you about wars he has fought and wars he’s yet to fight, holding you, perhaps thinking you had not been listening.
“I remember, my lord.” You sigh, content with his gentle hold on your waist. Your own hand meets his there, your fingers entangled. “Green, like emeralds.”
“Green like the one you wear tonight. Have you come declaring war?” It makes you laugh which in turn makes him smile against you. “This is one I will fight gladly for my girl. Or shall I keep meeting her as a foe?” Otto asks you, amusement in his voice.
Your only answer is another laugh, until he bids you rest for he will have need of you in the morning. You fall asleep this way, plotting your next move in this modest war of wills. You can see it clearly now, how he’s deprived you both of this pleasure simply because he could. It makes you want him even more; it spurs your need to make him give into you. And you will. You may have not gotten everything you wanted this night, but this victory is yours.