chattersstuff - Tumblr blog

chattersstuff · 9 days ago

Text

The whole series reminds me of Trouble by Frank Ocean (unreleased) Like the lyrics match so well

Forbidden from the beginning, I saw her there, up there Been like that since I met her, They said I couldn’t have her Way out of my league, I never believed it Gotta get her heart, I gotta make her mine

Caught by Fire (the sinful)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the fallen

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The solar was warm with the glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the tall arched windows, the golden light casting shifting patterns over the polished wooden table where King Viserys sat. A goblet of wine rested in his grip, half-forgotten as he studied the collection of maps and parchments before him. The air carried the scent of ink and aged parchment, familiar and comforting in its routine.

Otto Hightower sat in his usual place beside the king, his hands folded neatly before him, his posture composed as ever. But beneath the mask of calm, guilt churned like a storm within him.

He was not a man easily shaken.

And yet, since the moment he had left you standing in the library with Rhaenyra’s knowing gaze lingering between you, he had not known a moment of peace.

Did she tell him?

The question gnawed at the edges of his mind, laced with an anxiety he despised. Rhaenyra had always been unpredictable, bold in her defiance, and while she had not seemed particularly outraged by what she had witnessed, Otto knew better than to assume that meant she would keep her silence.

She was her father’s heir, after all.

And she knew exactly how much chaos her words could bring.

"Otto?"

Viserys’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Otto straightened slightly, schooling his expression into something unreadable. "Your Grace?"

The king exhaled, shifting the parchment in front of him. "You seem distracted."

Otto hesitated for only a fraction of a second before shaking his head. "Merely preoccupied with matters of state, Your Grace."

Viserys hummed, clearly unconvinced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as he sighed. "I have little patience for games today, Otto. If something is troubling you, speak plainly."

Otto’s hands tightened slightly against the table. For a fleeting moment, he considered confessing—voicing the weight that sat so heavily on his chest. But the thought was dismissed just as quickly as it came. There were some things that even years of loyalty could not withstand.

So he chose his words carefully. "I only worry about the princess’s continued indecision regarding her betrothal."

Viserys groaned, rolling his eyes. "Gods, not this again."

Otto inhaled slowly. "The lords are growing impatient. Their pride is wounded, and they begin to question whether she has already made her choice and refuses to name it."

Viserys frowned at that, rubbing his chin. "And why would she refuse to name it? If she has chosen, she should speak it, and this nonsense can be put to rest."

Otto studied the king carefully, searching for any sign of awareness, any indication that Viserys knew what had transpired in the library. But there was nothing—only the usual exasperation of a father dealing with the stubbornness of his kin.

If Rhaenyra had told him, she had done so subtly.

That, or she had not told him at all.

"Perhaps," Otto said carefully, his voice measured, "she fears that her choice will not be accepted."

Viserys sighed, shaking his head. "She is a Targaryen. She must know by now that her choice is not entirely her own." He swirled his wine in his cup, staring into it with a tired expression. "I only hope she does not think herself above duty."

Otto stiffened, his throat tightening ever so slightly. "And if she does?"

Viserys set his goblet down with a clink. "Then she will have to be reminded of where her loyalty must lie."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

Otto lowered his gaze, guilt tightening its grip around his ribs.

"She must choose soon," Viserys continued, rubbing his temples. "I will not have this matter dragging on much longer. If she does not decide, then I will do so for her."

Otto forced his voice to remain steady. "I am sure she understands the weight of that, Your Grace."

Viserys huffed, shaking his head. "Sometimes, Otto, I think she understands too much."

The words sat between them like an unspoken threat.

Otto bowed his head slightly. "If I may, Your Grace, I will continue to observe the situation closely."

Viserys waved a hand, already weary of the topic. "Do as you will. Just see to it that this does not spiral into another disaster of Daemon’s making."

Otto exhaled slowly.

Daemon.

If only you knew, Your Grace, Otto thought bitterly.

With a final bow, Otto rose from his seat and left the solar, his mind still tangled in uncertainty, his guilt gnawing at him like a beast that refused to be tamed.

And in the back of his mind, one question lingered—one that no logic, no reason, no strategy could silence.

What will you do when she does choose, Otto?

And worse still…

What if that choice is you?

The Tower of the Hand was quiet in the late evening. Most of the castle had retired for the night, leaving only the occasional guard patrolling the halls or the distant murmur of servants preparing for the next day’s duties.

Inside his chambers, Otto Hightower sat at his desk, his fingers idly tapping against the wooden surface as he stared at the open ledger before him. Numbers and records blurred together, his mind unable to focus, lost in the labyrinth of thoughts that had plagued him for days.

It was unlike him to be so easily distracted, to let matters of the heart disturb his discipline. And yet, here he was, a man who had spent his life in pursuit of order, now caught in the throes of something he could neither control nor deny.

A sharp knock at the door shattered his thoughts.

Otto stiffened. It was late—too late for council matters, and few would dare disturb him at this hour unless it was urgent.

He rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his tunic before striding to the door and pulling it open.

He had expected a guard.

He had expected a summons.

What he had not expected was you.

You stood before him, your silver hair illuminated by the torchlight, the faint scent of smoke and something sweeter lingering in the air between you. Your expression was unreadable, but your violet eyes bore into his with something unspoken—something that sent a sharp jolt of unease through his chest.

“Princess,” Otto said carefully, his voice quieter than usual. “What are you doing here?”

You arched a brow, tilting your head slightly. “May I not visit the Hand of the King?”

Otto exhaled slowly, glancing down the corridor to ensure no wandering eyes had seen you approach. Satisfied that you were alone, he stepped aside, allowing you to enter.

As the door shut behind you, the silence grew heavier.

You wandered slowly through his chambers, trailing your fingers over the spines of the books stacked neatly on a nearby shelf. “I imagined your chambers would be grander,” you mused, casting him a sideways glance. “But I suppose your mind prefers function over extravagance.”

Otto remained near the door, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I have never been one for excess.”

You turned fully to face him now, your expression softer but no less piercing. “No, you haven’t.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. Otto forced himself to remain still, to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

“Why are you here, Princess?” he asked again, his voice quieter now.

You took a slow step toward him. “I could ask you the same, my lord.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I do not follow.”

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “You spend your days in the king’s company, your nights in these chambers, and yet… I suspect you are neither here nor there.”

Otto inhaled deeply, his gaze steady. “You should not have come here.”

“And yet, I did.”

Your voice was steady, unwavering, and it sent something dangerous twisting in his chest.

He turned away, running a hand over his beard as he exhaled. “If the king—”

“I do not care about the king right now.”

Otto stilled.

The way you said it, so simply, so decisively—it was almost cruel, how easily you dismantled his logic, his walls.

You took another step closer, your presence burning through the carefully constructed distance he had placed between you. “Tell me, Otto.” Your voice was softer now, though no less certain. “What do you want?”

He turned to face you again, his throat tight. “You know the answer to that.”

“Do I?”

His breath came heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges. “Yes.”

The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across your face, your expression unreadable as you studied him. And then, in one slow, deliberate motion, you closed the remaining distance between you.

Your hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of his sleeve. “Then why do you fight it?”

Otto swallowed, his voice rough. “Because it is madness.”

You smiled slightly, tilting your head. “Then let us be mad together.”

Something inside him snapped.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he reached for you, his hands gripping your arms as he pulled you against him. His lips crashed against yours, and this time, there was no restraint, no hesitation—only the desperate, consuming need that had been building for far too long.

Your fingers curled into his tunic, pulling him closer, and Otto groaned softly against your lips as his hands slid to your waist, holding you as if afraid you might slip away. The kiss was searing, deep, filled with weeks of unspoken longing, of stolen glances and denied desires.

It was reckless.

It was forbidden.

And Otto no longer cared.

You broke away just enough to whisper against his lips, your breath warm and unsteady. “You see? Not so impossible after all.”

Otto let out a low, shaky chuckle, his forehead resting against yours. “You will be the death of me.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “Then let me make it a sweet death.”

Otto captured your lips again, this time slower, more deliberate, his hands roaming over your back as he lost himself in the taste of you, in the feel of you.

Otto Hightower had abandoned reason.

And he had never felt more alive.

The scent of burnt wax and something richer—something unmistakably them—hung in the air, lingering like a whispered secret.

Otto Hightower lay beside you, his breath still uneven, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of passion. The sheets were barely draped over his waist, the warmth of your body still pressed against his own. It was an unfamiliar feeling—this moment of quiet vulnerability, of indulgence without consequence.

Or so he wished.

You lay on your side, one arm draped lazily over his chest, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. The silence between you was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy. Heavy with what had just transpired. Heavy with what it meant.

Otto should have felt guilt. He should have been thinking of the consequences, of the precarious position he had placed himself in, of the danger that lurked behind every stolen moment with you.

But instead, all he could think of was how right it felt.

He had spent his life drowning in duty, in responsibility, in choices made not for himself, but for the realm. And yet here, in the quiet aftermath of what should never have happened, he had never felt more like a man, not just a Hand, not just a figure of reason.

Just him.

And then—your voice, soft and uncertain, broke the quiet.

“Do you regret it?”

Otto stilled.

Your fingers stopped their movement against his chest, your body tense as you awaited his answer. It was an impossible question, one that had no simple answer, one that held the power to unravel everything they had just built between them.

He exhaled slowly, shifting slightly so that he could look at you properly. The candlelight caught the silver strands of your hair, your violet eyes searching his face for something—anything—that would give you clarity.

He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your lips.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet but unwavering. “I do not regret it.”

Your breath hitched slightly, and for a moment, your expression softened into something unreadable. “Truly?”

Otto’s gaze did not waver. “Truly.”

You studied him for a long moment, your eyes searching, perhaps for a lie, perhaps for something deeper. “Then why do you look as though you carry the weight of the world?”

Otto let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, his hand sliding from your cheek to rest gently against your hip. “Because I do.”

You smiled, though it was small, knowing. “You worry.”

He sighed, his thumb idly brushing against your skin. “Of course I worry.”

You lifted yourself slightly, resting on your elbow as you gazed down at him. “Do not tell me you did not see this coming, my lord. You are a man who prides himself on foresight.”

Otto smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Even I did not anticipate this.”

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the faint lines of his beard, the intimate touch sending something warm coursing through him. “Then perhaps it was always meant to happen.”

Otto arched a brow, his lips twitching into something dangerously close to amusement. “And do you believe in fate, Princess?”

You considered for a moment before tilting your head slightly. “I believe some things are inevitable.”

His grip on your hip tightened ever so slightly. “And what of consequences?”

Your expression did not waver. “I am a Targaryen, Otto. We have never shied away from consequences.”

Otto exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering over your face, memorizing every delicate detail. “You make it sound so simple.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his with the lightest of touches. “Perhaps it is.”

Otto kissed you again, this time slower, less urgent than before, but no less deep. It was not a kiss of fleeting passion, but something far more dangerous—a promise.

When you pulled away, your fingers trailed down his chest before resting against his heart. “No regrets, then?”

Otto captured your hand, pressing a kiss against your palm before whispering, “No regrets.”

The lie tasted sweet on his tongue.

Because deep down, he knew—if there were ever to be regret, it would not be from this night.

It would be from what came after.

The corridors of the Red Keep were alive with the hum of courtly business as Otto Hightower exited the small council chamber, his mind still preoccupied with the discussions that had just taken place. The lords had spoken at length about trade routes, taxation, and, as always, the lingering matter of your yet-undecided betrothal.

But for once, Otto found himself unable to summon his usual discipline when it came to state matters. His thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the scent of your skin, the warmth of your breath against his, the way his name had left your lips in the dead of night.

It was madness.

And yet, he could not bring himself to regret it.

He rounded a corner, heading toward his chambers, when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Lord Hightower.”

Otto exhaled slowly before turning.

Princess Rhaenyra stood poised against the dim torchlight, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. She had inherited the striking beauty of her Valyrian ancestors—silver hair, violet eyes—but it was the light in her gaze that commanded the most attention.

Otto inclined his head slightly. “Princess.”

Rhaenyra did not move, nor did she return the pleasantry. Instead, she studied him carefully, her lips curling slightly at the edges—not a smile, but something knowing.

“I had hoped to speak with you after the council,” she said, stepping forward. “Alone.”

Otto hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Very well.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, past servants who kept their heads lowered, past knights standing guard. Eventually, Rhaenyra stopped near one of the tall, open windows overlooking the gardens. The wind from Blackwater Bay carried the scent of salt and summer warmth, rustling the edges of her gown.

Otto clasped his hands behind his back. “What is it you wish to discuss, Princess?”

Rhaenyra turned toward him, tilting her head slightly. “My cousin’s betrothal.”

Otto’s expression remained carefully neutral. “It is still unresolved, as you well know.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra murmured, her eyes narrowing. “And yet… I wonder if that is truly because she cannot decide, or because someone else does not want her to.”

Otto did not react. “A bold assumption.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “Is it?”

She stepped closer now, watching him the way a dragon might watch a man trying to remain still in its presence.

“You are a man of logic, Lord Hightower,” she said, her voice light, but laced with something more. “Practical. Methodical. You do not concern yourself with matters of the heart.”

Otto arched a brow. “And yet you seem quite determined to discuss mine.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, shaking her head slightly. “Oh, you misunderstand me, my lord. I do not think you concern yourself with it.” Her gaze darkened. “I think you have already surrendered to it.”

A tense silence settled between them.

Otto exhaled through his nose, measuring his words carefully. “You should be mindful of the accusations you make, Princess.”

“Accusations?” Rhaenyra echoed, her brow lifting. “Did I make one?”

Otto’s grip on his own wrist tightened behind his back. “You speak in riddles.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “You are avoiding the question.”

“I was not aware you had asked one.”

She took another step forward, her voice lowering slightly. “Do you love her?”

The words struck him like a blow, though his face remained impassive.

Rhaenyra watched him closely, waiting, searching.

Otto inhaled slowly. “That is not your concern.”

Rhaenyra hummed, unconvinced. “I think it is. She is my blood, and you…” She trailed off, smiling faintly. “Well, you are quite an unexpected complication.”

Otto’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “What do you want from me, Princess?”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, as if considering. “I want the truth.”

Otto let out a slow breath, his voice steady when he spoke. “The truth is that your cousin is still unwed. The truth is that the king expects a match to be made. The truth, Princess, is that I serve the realm.”

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. “And yet, you did not deny it.”

Otto stiffened slightly, but before he could respond, she smiled.

“You cannot hide forever, Lord Hightower,” she said, turning on her heel. “And neither can she.”

With that, she walked away, leaving Otto standing alone in the dimly lit corridor, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a blade held just above his throat.

The air in the Tower of the Hand was thick with the scent of parchment, candle wax, and the ever-present weight of duty. Otto Hightower sat at his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, staring down at the open ledger before him. He had read the same line of text three times now, yet the words refused to make sense.

His mind was elsewhere.

It had been for days.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you—the way you had looked in the candlelight, the way your fingers had traced his skin, the warmth of your breath against his lips. It was madness, and yet it was a madness he had willingly succumbed to.

And now, it was a madness that he could not escape.

A loud knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Before he could answer, the door swung open, and in strolled Lord Jasper Wylde, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“Ah, there you are, Otto,” Jasper drawled, shutting the door behind him as he made his way to one of the chairs across from the desk. “I was beginning to think you had buried yourself in your parchments and died.”

Otto sighed, rubbing his temple. “Lord Wylde.”

Jasper leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “You look terrible.”

Otto shot him a flat look. “Is there a purpose to this visit, or have you come merely to waste my time again?”

Jasper grinned. “Oh, Otto, I never waste time. I simply… observe.” He gestured vaguely at Otto. “And what I observe is that something is amiss.”

Otto exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly in his chair. “The affairs of the realm weigh heavily on all of us, Wylde.”

Jasper tutted. “No, no, no. This isn’t the usual weight of tedious council business or another one of Viserys’s indecisive rulings.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “This is something different.”

Otto said nothing, his expression carefully blank.

Jasper leaned forward slightly, studying him with the sharpness of a man who enjoyed unraveling secrets. “I must say, you’ve been… distracted as of late.”

Otto didn’t move. “You are imagining things.”

Jasper let out a low chuckle. “Am I? Tell me, Otto, what could possibly trouble the ever-composed Hand of the King?” He tapped his chin in mock thought before his smirk widened. “Unless, of course… it isn’t trouble at all.”

Otto’s grip on the edge of his desk tightened.

Jasper saw.

“Oh,” Jasper murmured, his tone turning delightfully wicked. “It is something, isn’t it?”

Otto inhaled slowly, his patience wearing thin. “You are grasping at shadows, Wylde.”

Jasper tilted his head, his smirk never fading. “Am I? Or have I, perhaps, stumbled upon something far more interesting?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me, Otto—when was the last time you truly lost control?”

Otto’s jaw clenched.

Jasper chuckled. “You see, that pause right there? That tells me everything I need to know.”

Otto exhaled slowly, his voice cool and firm. “You know nothing.”

Jasper’s grin widened, his amusement growing. “Perhaps not yet. But I will.” He studied Otto for a moment before his eyes darkened with something close to intrigue. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Otto’s breath stilled.

Jasper let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Gods, Otto. I suspected, but I never thought you’d actually do it.”

Otto’s patience snapped. “Enough.”

Jasper simply laughed, leaning back in his chair with all the smugness of a man who had just uncovered the realm’s best-kept secret. “So. How was she?”

Otto was on his feet in an instant, his hands slamming down onto the desk as he fixed Jasper with a cold, dangerous glare. “You will watch your tongue, Wylde.”

Jasper raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin never faded. “Oh, come now, Otto. No need for threats. I’m impressed.”

Otto straightened, inhaling deeply through his nose, forcing his temper back under control.

Jasper chuckled again, shaking his head. “The mighty Hand of the King, falling into the arms of a Targaryen princess. I must say, Otto, I never saw this coming.”

Otto’s voice was low, firm. “You will speak of this to no one.”

Jasper smirked, standing from his chair. “Oh, my dear Otto, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He turned toward the door but glanced back one last time, his smirk laced with mischief. “But tell me, was it worth the fall?”

Otto did not answer.

Jasper chuckled as he exited the chamber, leaving Otto standing alone, his fists clenched, his breath still uneven.

He had been found out.

And now, the game had truly begun.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen

76 notes · View notes