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writingjourney · 7 months ago

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Small Beauties

Life at court while beneficial to your station is above all else one thing – unbearably lonely. With a youth spent in unreciprocated longing, the trap of an unhappy marriage, illness, loss and untimely farewells there is one thing that does not change throughout the years – your infatuation and blossoming friendship with Otto Hightower. After all is said and done, are you not both deserving of the very thing you never allowed yourselves to have?

pairing: Otto Hightower x fem!reader // rated E, 18+ MDNI

content: 19k words in five parts + epilogue, pining, forbidden romance, mostly gentle!otto, talks about pregnancy/infertility, minor character death, grief, religious themes (faith of the seven), smut (thigh riding, hand job, oral sex f!receiving, p in v, unprotected, coming inside, mild hand kink)

This story is available on AO3, split into five chapters ♡

1 The Maiden Days

Otto Hightower lifts the ornate cup to his lips, taking a lazy sip before he slowly lowers it yet again. A crimson stain lingers on the soft skin, the Dornish wine momentarily painting them red. You are transfixed by the sight. No matter how often he repeats this simple action it never fails to incite a war in your chest – heart beating rapidly, your lungs fluttering with every breath.

You fold your hands in your lap to ground yourself, observing him from your spot on the cool stone bench that sits at the far end of the balcony. Around you, a handful of other young ladies has erupted into lively chatter, most of them a few years younger than you.

“Ser Alister is so very handsome,” one of them chirps, giggling under her breath as they all turn to look at the man. “A fine knight, tall and strong and most honourable. His blue eyes are captivating.”

“Have you seen Ser Matthos? I hear that he has never lost a battle, the strongest knight in all the Riverlands.”

“Who do you admire, my lady?”

The voice resounds close to your ear – your friend, the Lady Emeline. You answer in a low hum, feigning contemplation. But your eyes still follow his every movement. Often times the lord will keep to himself, observing these gatherings more so than participating. His auburn hair shimmers golden in the warm sunlight and you are so very grateful to behold him outside of the gloomy chambers of the castle.

“Ser Otto,” you whisper.

They all burst into laughter like you told a hilarious joke, guffawing quite unladylike which garners the attention of the entire balcony, including the man you have been speaking of.

“I am not jesting,” you inform them.

Their laughter stops at once. Emeline’s hand wraps around your forearm. “But, you cannot be serious?”

Your eyes stay on the Lord whose solemn gaze still holds you captive. “The Lord Hand is handsome and tall, he is intelligent and experienced in life. An honourable man who serves our realm most faithfully. Any young lady would be lucky to be wed to him.”

“But he is… old,” she whispers now.

“And he is the Lady Alicent’s father,” another girl adds.

You decide to end your rhapsody, if only because you know they could never understand your infatuation. The Lord Hand is not older than half of the men your father is considering as a match for you, even though he certainly appears to be wise beyond his years. Recently widowed and in no want of a new wife, you are well aware that all your dreams of being with him are hopeless. However, this knowledge does nothing to quench your desires as his eyes remain fixed on you for longer than is appropriate. You confidently hold his gaze, even as your heart threatens to burst from your chest. Finally, he averts his eyes, just as the red stain slowly fades from his pale lips.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your father has been pacing since the sun began to wander westwards, his arms crossed behind his back as he fiddles with the rings on his fingers. You’ve seen this nervous gesture plenty of times in your life, only this time his distress has been inadvertently caused by you. Not even the splendid view over the prospering gardens of King’s Landing seems to calm his agitation. “She is of age, she has been of age for long enough that anything but a swift betrothal would be considered shameful, especially now that we are here.”

“Surely that should not be an issue, my lord?” your mother asks. “I hear from the other ladies that she has many a handsome suitor.”

“Suitors, yes, but no promising match. We have to entertain the possibility of sending her to the Riverlands or even the North, though I would prefer for her to stay in the capital. It is always useful to have a direct line to the crown.”

“Perhaps a Lannister?” she asks. “Or Ser Alister? All the young girls seem enamoured with him and his father sits on the king’s council.”

“What about Ser Otto?” you interject.

“The Lord Hand?” Your father barks out a laugh. “He will not have you, girl.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are not important enough, child, and most certainly not handsome enough to tempt a man like him. If he harboured any interest in you he would have already expressed it.”

“My lord.”

You startle at the sound of the deep voice that haunts your very existence these days, followed by the crunching of heavy footsteps on the gravely path. Your face instantly drains of all colour until you can feel the blood rushing back to your cheeks tenfold. You and your mother are seated underneath a rose-colored pavilion but the shade does nothing to cool your heated skin. At the arrival of your guest, you both stand for a polite greeting. From your spot close beside him you make out a familiar pair of leather boots and the ornate hem of a set of dark green garbs, the elaborate pattern of which you could describe in great detail from memory alone.

You cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“My Lord Hand,” your father greets. “To what do I owe the honour of such an unexpected visit?”

“I was informed of your arrival, my lord. I deeply regret that I was kept busy for most of the day – as you well know from your own time in the capital the council never truly rests.” He stops for a moment when your father chuckles, then his voice softens. “My ladies.”

“My lord, what a pleasure to see you,” your mother replies. “It has been nigh a decade.”

“Indeed, my lady. I trust that your lord father is in good health?”

“He is,” she says with a playful smile. “The only ailment he cannot quite soothe is his growing ennui. He so loved to meddle in politics, now all he gets to dictate are his servants while my brother commands his army.”

The Lord Hand gives a kindhearted chuckle and you can almost feel the deep rumbling of his chest vibrating against you, a quake that has your own body trembling helplessly. You realise that every second of silence raises the risk of appearing unseemly to the lord, and so you finally glance up at him, only to find his green eyes already resting on you.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” you say, wishing the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

“My lady.” The corner of his mouth bends into a kind if not sympathetic smile. He must have heard his name coming from your lips upon his arrival and you cannot help but suspect that he finds the suggestion pitiable.

For the remainder of their conversation you stay quiet, withdrawing into yourself to nurse your deep embarrassment and sneaking glances at the lord only when you’re certain that his attention lies elsewhere. Soon your father follows the Lord Hand back inside the keep for a private audience and you remain seated in the gardens with a broken heart. Your mother inquires about the knights and lords you have met in your time in King’s Landing, riddling you with questions about potential marriage candidates.

She does not ask about Otto Hightower.

✦ ✧ ✦

The lady Alicent pulls the book from the shelf ever so cautiously in the way that she was taught to handle the ancient tomes that reside in her lord father’s library. You stand by her side, reading the spines of the books in the collection that his lordship as well as his predecessors have accumulated over the past centuries. Storybooks and fairytales are scarce, you are quite certain that you have read all of them thrice at this point, and so you and your friend have moved on to the historical accounts that the septa never taught you about.

The Lord Hand is eyeing you from his desk where he is taking care of his correspondence, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as the quill scratches the ink into the parchment. Alicent, who has retrieved the book by now, presents the title to him.

“Hm, a good pick, my daughter.”

You both smile at him and his eyes stay on you for so long that you are inclined to stall your departure even as Alicent makes her way to the door. You have never been very subtle about your feelings for the lord and for the past few moons he has indulged you by meeting your eyes more often than would be deemed appropriate should anyone notice.

“A word, my lady?” he asks, sensing your apprehension.

You glance at Alicent who merely gives you one of her kind smiles. “I shall wait for you in the godswood.”

A nervous sensation spreads in your limbs, numbing your fingers as you link your hands behind your back. His lordship stands and beholds you for a moment, his gaze betraying none of his thoughts as it flits between your face and the rest of your form. You stand still, meeting his eyes as you are wont to do, trying to uphold an air of confidence and maturity beyond your years.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your betrothal, my lady,” he says eventually.

“Thank you, my lord.” You hesitate for a moment in surprise as he is the first to bring up the subject since your father presented you with the news. “I was not aware that it had been announced already.”

He sits down behind his desk, neatly folding his long hands on its surface. “I assisted your father with the arrangements. The match was my suggestion.”

“Oh.” You feel your limbs trembling, the realisation like a knife in your chest. “I see.”

“I know he may not be who you dreamed for yourself,” he continues with a knowing expression that softens his features in a way that makes you want to weep.

“My lord has a keen, observant eye.”

“Indeed I have noticed your glances, my lady.” His brows pull together in a display of almost fatherly sympathy but it only makes the knife twist and sink in deeper. “And while I am flattered by your… infatuation, I must point out that this arrangement spares you a life by the side of a man much older than yourself. Ser Alister is in the prime of his youth, a well-favoured knight, and he will make a fine husband for many years to come.”

You nod, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. “I am fortunate to be betrothed to such a brave and noble knight. And yet **I feel that I must point out that you are being most unkind to yourself, my lord. Your age only adds to your character, your wisdom and gentle disposition are unmatched by any knight I have met in my life. If you ever chose to marry again, the lady would be most fortunate indeed.”

“Your generous words are appreciated, my lady.” He gives a smile that feels more genuine than the ones you have seen before. You refuse to get lost in the way it makes his eyes glow in the light of the candles. “May the Seven watch over you and bestow you with a prosperous future.”

You swallow around the tears that are painfully forming in your eyes, willing the corners of your mouth to return his kindness. “Thank you, my lord. I am certain with your blessings they will.”

2 The Wedded Days

“Seven blessings on your hunt, my lord. May your arrows fly true.”

You press a kiss to your husband’s pale cheek, the courtyard a cacophony of neighing horses, shouting men and clattering weapons in your ears. The hour is early and yet the keep is already alive as it prepares for a day that promises fresh game and other spoils of the woods.

He mounts his horse with a chuckle. “Can you not hear the deer already bawling? They are quivering with fear.”

You fight off a grimace, feeling sorry for the poor animals, and wave after the party as they depart for the Kingswood. A few other ladies who have bid their husbands farewell are waiting with you, waving until the last horse is out of sight and quiet settles in.

Your husband of three years recently inherited his father’s titles and has risen significantly in the king’s esteem ever since. As a proficient hunter since his childhood days it is no surprise that he was invited to join the party. You are surprised, however, when you encounter the Lord Hand on your way back inside, the quiet of the keep’s interiors enveloping you most welcomely.

“Are you not joining the hunt, my lord?” you ask when he stops to greet you.

“No, my lady, it is a small party.”

“His Grace would leave without his most trusted advisor?”

“His Grace has little use for me in the Kingswood, my lady. I am tending to important matters of the realm during his absence.”

You nod in understanding. Naturally the Lord Hand knows to prioritise his tasks but that does not mean you cannot tempt him to a small diversion. “Perhaps his lordship would allow me to keep him company, then?”

He scoffs mildly. “I hardly think that is appropriate, my lady.”

“Why not?”

The lord stops in his tracks, his gaze suddenly softening. “My lady.”

You raise your brows. “Are you concerned about matters of propriety?”

“I am concerned about the matter of your propriety, my lady, yes.”

“If you are alluding to…” You pause and he quirks an eyebrow, almost as if in amusement. “If you are alluding to my childish infatuation with you, my lord, I can assure you that it has long since passed. All I wish is for some company. It has been quite some time since I had the chance to enjoy the sunrise on a morning walk and I merely wish to share the beautiful view the gardens offer at first light.”

For a brief moment, the lord regards you as though he is trying to decipher one of his books. Eventually he tips his head to the side, locking his arms behind his back. “Very well, my lady. Since you are so fond of the gardens, I shall let you lead the way.”

You chuckle good-naturedly. “That is only because his lordship is so busy with politics that he hardly leaves the council chamber. Something he has in common with my husband.”

“There are duties that require an environment free of diversions, my lady.”

“Beauty is a diversion, then, my lord?”

“It most certainly is.”

You exit the keep onto a rather large balcony, the view opening up to the gardens that are still draped in deep shadows as the sun slowly rises above the horizon. A clear sky stretches out in purples, pinks and oranges, their pastel hues blending into each other with the soft brushstrokes of an artist. The sight takes your breath away for several seconds and when you come to, you notice that the Lord Hand is observing you.

“A marvel, don’t you agree?” you ask.

Otto Hightower smiles softly, his eyes crinkling beautifully in their corners. “A marvel indeed.”

The pink on your cheeks must mirror that of the sky when you descend the stairs and tread along the path. The cool air is not unwelcome even though your gown with its southern cut is not meant to keep you warm. You have only known the warm climate of the capital, hardly remembering your time before you were sent here as a ward, but you imagine that this is what the earliest signs of fall would feel like further up North.

“I don’t think I have properly conversed with anyone but my own servants in over a fortnight,” you muse as your footsteps lead you past flowering bushes, their blossoms still closed from the night. “Not even my lord husband has any time to spare for me these days, so busy is he with the council and his… lordly activities.”

“My lady, if you suffer from feelings of loneliness, I am sure we can make some arrangements to ease that affliction.” The tall lord's footsteps are heavier than yours, a reassuring sound that follows you along the path. “Perhaps we can send for one of your sisters.”

“I do not wish to talk to my sisters who I hardly know and hardly remember.” You pause, trying to hide your disdain as you let your hand hover under a particularly beautiful flower. “My lord, I so long for easy conversation or even just the silent companionship that being in the mere presence of a familiar person offers. Since becoming a wife my social circle has only grown smaller which I find quite odd.”

“Perhaps it simply lacks the carefree nature of childhood,” he says wisely.

“Perhaps it simply lacks another intelligent being to converse with.”

“In which case you flatter me, my lady, by seeking my companionship.”

You cannot hide the small smile that slips onto your face. “I have always enjoyed listening to you, my lord. Your insight and wisdom in any conversation over a shared meal has taught me more than my septa during her lessons.”

He rewards you with a deep chuckle and you glance at him, the way his usually stoic face lights up in a smile. “I should think that your septa did a fine job in raising a knowledgeable, kind-hearted young lady.”

“She did, you are quite right. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” You continue to walk, trying to focus back on the sun that wanders along with you. “However, I cannot deny that I regret the ways in which time has passed. I have lost my friends to motherhood while I myself have been less than fortunate in this area. I now suffer the consequences of these shortcomings.”

“There is still time, my lady. You are quite young.”

The smile you give him is tinged with sadness, even though you appreciate his kind words. In truth, you are close to giving up all hope to ever conceive. You have been married for three years now and in all that time you have not once been with child. Not for a lack of efforts from your lord husband nor from your unwillingness to endure said efforts, no matter how unenjoyable you found them. As of late, however, he has shifted those efforts to other recipients, if your staff is to be believed who has spotted him frequent certain establishments in the city. You are not sure if that is a blessing or a curse.

“You speak very kindly, my lord, and yet deep in my heart I can feel that this marriage will not be as prosperous as anyone would have hoped. Perhaps the Gods did not intend for me to be a mother, as much as it pains me to entertain this possibility.”

“My lady, let me assure you that it is not necessarily the fault of the mother,” he says, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Many good men have not sired a child in all their life.”

You consider his words, consider their implications that perhaps the fault of your childless life is not yours alone. “You may be right, my lord, and yet if the purpose of a woman is to bear her husband’s children then I cannot help but feel like my worth has been impaired by my failure to give him an heir.”

“Some narrow minds may view it like that, yes, but I cannot agree. My own lady wife was much more to me than just the bearer of my children and I miss her dearly to this very day.”

You cannot help the wave of pain this opens in your chest, your eyes stinging the faintest bit. “How beautiful it must be to be loved and cherished as you did her.”

“Do you not feel cherished, my lady?” he inquires.

“I never expected to be blessed with a happy marriage, my lord,” you confess truthfully. “And yet the reality of it disappoints me greatly. They say a lady may not love her husband but that she will love his children. It fills me with great sorrow to find that there is no love in my life when my heart is overflowing with all that I have yet to give.”

He halts right beside you and you do the same, the view from the edge of the retaining wall quite spectacular now that the sun has risen above sea level.

“I know my lady is visiting the city’s orphanages quite frequently,” he finally says. “And that she is very fond of my own grandchildren, generously helping my daughter in her care for them.”

“Indeed and it may not be quite the same as having a child of my own that I can spoil as I please but it brings me a few moments of domesticity now and again that I deeply cherish.”

He nods sagely, his sombre gaze meeting your own. “Seeing that you find yourself lacking for company perhaps I may extend an invitation to join us for supper more frequently, my lady? With or without your lord husband, as his schedule allows.”

You find yourself smiling freely at him, awakening sensations that are altogether too familiar, too intimate. If only he had not married you to a man incapable of such affections. “I shall gladly accept your kind offer, my lord. It would please me greatly.”

There is no pity in the expression he gives you this time but a gentle friendliness that you cannot remember seeing in his eyes before. You resume your stroll through the gardens, the increasing warmth of the sunlight invigorating your cold limbs the further you go, and when you reach a fork in the path that leads either further down or back towards the keep you do not wish to turn around.

“Shall we keep going, my lady?” the lord asks.

You cannot help but smile when you agree.

✦ ✧ ✦

Otto senses some reluctance as he glances at the names of staff that is working for your household, if only because he is keenly aware that the findings of his current research may upset him in ways that will tempt him to folly. However, if your husband is mistreating you then he simply must know. His net of spies within the palace is tight as it is in the rest of King’s Landing but the proximity will make it much easier to have him observed.

It instils amounts of regret in him that border on a stomach ache. Marrying you to Ser Alister had been a logical decision at the time but he cannot deny that keeping you in King’s Landing influenced his judgement severely.

A handsome young knight, to inherit his father’s titles and possibly even his seat at the king’s council, Ser Alister was an easily agreed upon match for your father, easier still for Otto who felt like he was doing you a favour after he had noticed your attentions for a while – attentions he could not return at the time, for your protection and out of the overwhelming grief he still felt after the death of his wife. Even so, Otto has to admit to himself that your very openly displayed affections have always flattered him, that you are a true beauty with a comely face that is not just a joy to look at but also a delight to listen to. You are educated, intelligent, sweet, bold in private but shy in the company of others. Endearing even to his old and fractured heart.

Alister did inherit the title as well as the seat on the council within the next three years after your wedding, having wrapped the king around his finger with his open support for the Princess and his Grace’s adamancy in keeping her as his heir. Otto can see now where he went wrong – a severe lapse in judgement of his character, to think him respectful and harmless despite their political disagreements. To think him even remotely worthy of you.

The questioning of your staff as well as a few of his spies in the city reveals quickly that the man he had you marry is a well-known customer in the Street of Silks. Otto cannot, will not believe that anyone would discard a woman like you so foolishly and after only three years of marriage. Such disrespect to the Maid and the Mother of whom you are such a striking image, deserving of nothing but reverence and adoration and a family to love. There is no honour in men like Alister, in men like Daemon Targaryen and so many others who do not know how to cherish their wives as they vowed before the Gods.

A vivid feeling of contempt takes hold of Otto, at himself as well as your husband. He cannot alter what he did in arranging this match but he can make sure that you are comforted in knowing that you deserve more.

✦ ✧ ✦

The Tower of the Hand has not changed much over the past few years, the narrow staircases, the cool stone walls still caging you in. To be summoned now makes you wonder what his lordship could possibly need from you. When you enter, the Lord Hand swiftly dismisses his guards and they close the door behind you. The chamber is dark, only a few candles flickering from his desk and the mantelpiece of his unlit hearth, and yet you can make out the lines of worry on his handsome aging face.

“My lord,” you address him.

“My lady, I am afraid that I have requested to see you on a rather… delicate matter. Please, have a seat.”

There is hardly enough time to scan the circular room before you sit at a small desk with his correspondence spread over top, the wax still melting over a candle. You can see his bed from the corner of your eye – his private quarters.

“My lady, after our conversation in the gardens…” He stops himself, making sure that you are meeting his gaze. “I could not help but look into matters that you have hinted at, in genuine concern for your well-being, and I am afraid that I have uncovered a concerning truth.”

“Pray tell, my lord, what truth? You do not have to spare my feelings.”

“I got word from a trusted source that your lord husband has been seen in… certain establishments in the Street of Silks.”

“I am afraid that this is not news to me, my lord,” you say and he regards you with surprise.

“You are aware?”

“If it please, my lord, I would prefer for this to remain private. It is already shameful enough without the entire court knowing.”

“Of course, my lady, I merely wished for you to know the vicious acts–”

You have to suppress a dry chuckle, wondering why he seems so astonished by your husband’s ways. “Vicious? My lord, I am hardly the only lady bound to a husband who seeks his pleasure elsewhere.”

Otto’s voice drips with venom. “That does not make it any less despicable.”

You nod, conceding to his point. “May I be truthful, my lord?”

“Certainly.”

“I would rather he takes his needs elsewhere than continue to…” You pause, trying to phrase your thoughts without leaving respectability. “I have given up hopes on a child of my own, so there is no need to continue our efforts. I find no enjoyment in them and with no remaining purpose I find myself incapable of putting my body through the pain.”

His gaze changes now, sympathy perhaps. The crease on his forehead is deeper. “Pain, my lady?”

“Were you not aware that it is painful, my lord?”

“You say this as though it is a fact.”

“Is it not?” you ask, confused as to his meaning.

He looks at you as though there is something weighing on him, something he is desperate to share, but when his mouth opens no words come out. The lord spreads his palms on his desk as he sits up straighter, his hands pale and broad, adorned with rings that reflect the light of the candles. “My lady, I fear that the continuation of this conversation will lead us beyond the realms of propriety.”

You nod, averting your gaze in shame. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady. I understand there is a… curiosity that grows upon the discovery of such intimate matters.”

You fight back the tears that have gathered in your eyes. “No matter, he is not requesting my presence anymore. I just wonder–” Again, you have to pause, feeling like a child again and not like a woman of two-and-twenty years. “Is it true, my lord?”

He furrows his brow. “Is what true, my lady?”

“Am I not handsome enough? My father–”

“Your father should never have spoken to you like that,” he interrupts, only catching his tone after the words left his mouth. You are surprised he still recalls that conversation. “I can assure you, my lady, that your beauty is greatly admired at court and certainly not the reason that your husband is disrespecting you in such a way.”

“And yet, perhaps he cannot find it.” You swallow the tears of irritation that are threatening to spill. “Please forget that I ever mentioned this to you, my lord. I hope you can forgive me for my transgression. I am aware that my intent is one that does not befit a lady of my station and that you cannot give me counsel in such matters. I thank you for your concern and for looking out for me when no one else does.”

“My lady.” His voice is soft, hardly more than a whisper and when you meet his eyes you see a glimmer in them that is akin to the longing you feel in your heart.

Perhaps it is this notion that gives you the courage. You place your delicate hand on top of his, feeling the lines and ridges, scars of a long life spent with a sword in his grasp. He does not pull away, not even when you smooth your thumb over his skin in a tender stroke. You repeat the movement, his eyes fixated on your joint hands, and round the table without letting go.

Once you are in his lap, you let go of his hand to toy with his doublet, tracing the chains around his neck, the brooch that shows the world that he is the hand of the king, the second most powerful man in all the Seven Kingdoms. And yet the power he wields over you far surpasses that of anyone else. Your faces are at the same height now, your noses brushing together before you lean back. You take his hand in both of yours, admiring how large it is, how you have to use both hands to fully grasp it. For a brief moment you bring it to your lips, breathing a kiss to his knuckles. The silver ring on his finger feels cool against your mouth, his skin softer than you expected.

“My lady,” he warns, the hesitation evident in his eyes.

You place his hand on your waist and to your delight he curls it around your shape. When you reach for his other hand he meets you halfway. They settle over your hips, holding you in place, and you rest your own hands on top of them for a moment to feel the warmth of his skin. This is how a lover’s touch should feel, you think. Gentle and warm. Safe.

“This is foolish,” he comments but his voice is too soft to convey the sentiment.

“Perhaps,” you agree. “Let me be foolish for once, my lord. I want to know what it feels like to follow my desires, to have a memory that I can retreat to when I need it.”

His throat constricts as he swallows, his gentle gaze fixed on you as you inspect the soft wrinkles on his face, the discoloured skin below his eyes that crinkles when they move. You lift a hand to caress him, shy fingertips exploring the shape of his face. Your lord stays still for you, allowing you the innocent touch even as his heart tightens at the intimacy of it all. He has not been touched by a woman in so long that he quite forgot the reactions it lures from his body, the want, the need it stokes when such a sublime creatures offers him the tenderness and comfort he so craves.

You shift forward and suddenly his thigh is pressing against that soft part between your legs. The pressure sends a jolt through your body. You gasp and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. You move your hand to comb his beard, your fingertips grazing the skin underneath until you can cup his cheek. The lord leans into your touch, eyes still shut, and breathes a burdensome sigh.

“Let me adjust you,” he finally says as his eyes open, waiting for you to give a nod before his grasp tightens. He lifts you enough that your leg slides between his, shifting his hips forward to give you more space. You are straddling his thigh now, the fabric of your dress bunched up high enough that you can feel him pressing against your core through your shift and your linens.

“My lord,” you whisper.

“Move your hips,” he instructs. “Gently, and tell me when you feel it.”

“Feel what, my lord?”

“You will know, darling girl.”

With your eyes on his you do as he says, rocking your hips clumsily at first. His hands guide you into a more fluid rhythm and you find more confidence when you feel the first sparks of pleasure his firm leg sends through your body. Your gasps soon fill the room, even as you try to hold them back. You recognise the feeling and the heat, you have felt it at times when your husband happened to touch certain parts of you, when you tried to touch yourself but weren’t courageous enough to continue. Only now the intensity is tenfold, especially with the lord’s keen eyes so focused on your mouth, on every sigh that leaves your lips.

“My beauty,” he whispers. “Carved from marble, a face that even the Gods must envy, and yet he does not see it, does not treasure it. What a shame to be gifted such a beautiful flower and to let it wilt in neglect.”

His words hardly register as he bounces his leg to meet your rhythm. The sparks of pleasure that spread in your body feel wrong, almost shameful, and yet you want to chase, need to chase them. But then the pressure slowly becomes uncomfortable, a tension that you don’t recognise but that is bordering on painful. You whimper, stopping your efforts, whispering that it is too much.

“Keep going,” your lord orders, gripping your hips tightly to drag you across his leg. “Do not stop.”

“I c-cannot–”

“Shhhh,” he coos. “Trust me, my girl.”

You cry out softly, picking your rhythm back up as he helps you with strong hands, the hands of a knight, a powerful man that you have wanted since you knew what wanting really meant. The tension pushes you towards an invisible edge and then you fall–

“My lord. My lord.” You wail as if in pain, your face falling against his as your breathing becomes more shallow and the pleasure tears through your body. He does not stop you as you hide your face, his beard soft against your cheek as he drags out the sensation by moving his leg back and forth, pressing against that spot again and again. The fabric of your linens as well as his pants feels damp against your core.

Your body goes slack and his arms wrap around you, cradling you against his broad chest as you catch your breath. Even as your body stops trembling the warmth and contentment stay trapped within you, your muscles slowly relaxing now.

“My darling girl,” he whispers, breathing a kiss to your hair. “And how well you did.”

“What have you done to me?” you ask breathlessly.

“What you are owed, my lady,” he says with a chuckle. “I have given you pleasure”

“Pleasure.” The word tastes sweet on your tongue but it comes with a sting. How cruel to give you a crumb of bliss only to pull it away again.

You lift your head to look at him, a softness on his face that lets you believe he holds a warm affection for you, at least for this fleeting moment. The desire to kiss him is overwhelming and you place your hand on his other thigh. Immediately you feel the hardness between his legs against your arm and you flinch back in uncertainty. “My lord.”

“Pay it no mind,” he says.

You ignore him and place your hand on his stiff member, feeling the outline clearly even through the fabric of his garbs. The gasp that leaves him sounds like music, the first sign that this is affecting him beyond what he is willing to share. You want to kiss him still, your face inching closer on its own accord. His hand moves up to cup your chin and he places his thumb on your plump bottom lip, only allowing you to hover above his own mouth. It is but a futile attempt at restraint, at keeping up the illusion that nothing here is untoward. You move your hand to stroke him through his pants and his hips buck to meet your movement.

“Gods have mercy,” he breathes, his voice raspy and barely audible.

You wonder how long it has been since someone touched him like this. Mesmerised by his reaction, you do it again and his eyes flutter closed, his unkempt brows furrowing so tightly that they almost meet. After only a handful more strokes he releases a scarcely concealed groan and you feel him kicking against your hand, the thick fabric turning wet as it soaks up his spend.

His ragged breathing betrays his state, even as he controls any other sound that leaves him. You are still trapped in the haze of your own bliss, in the newfound sense of power you have gained from whatever it is that you just did to him. He still won’t let you kiss him, his thumb firm against your lips. Perhaps it is better that way, you think, the only skin of his you have touched being that of his hands.

“My sweet girl,” he says after a moment, clearing his tight throat with some effort. “We can never speak of this again.”

The words tear you back down from your high, their reality so evident, so clear. You nod and allow the pain to spread in your heart, expected but all the more severe. Of course nothing has changed, not in truth, even though you feel like you will never be the same again.

Otto removes you from his lap, making sure that you can stand on your own and waiting patiently until your legs stop wobbling, his hands firm on your hips. His face betrays his regret – he cannot hide his emotions from you anymore, not after what you just did. He is such an honourable man, valuing propriety and respect above all else, that this must pain him more than you can understand.

You make sure your gown sits correctly and smooth out the strands of hair that have fallen into your face from moving so erratically. The door-handle feels cool against your warm hand, a feverish sensation spreading within you. You spare the lord one last glance, your eyes meeting his for a burning hot moment, and then you slip through the door, a profound sense of loss slowly settling in your bones.

3 The Lonely Days

Your handmaiden carefully adjusts the sleeves of your gown, a deep blue fabric with golden accents to match the colours of your husband’s house. Bejewelled earrings and a bracelet complete your look, dainty jewellery with blue stones just like he once told you he prefers. You stare at your reflection in the polished metal for a long moment, struggling to recognise yourself even after years of wearing his colours. You are almost ready when the door to your chambers opens and a footman enters with his gaze lowered.

“What is it?” you ask impatiently.

“His lordship has requested to stay in bed tonight,” he says. “He is not feeling well enough to accompany you to the celebration, m’lady.”

“He is unwell?”

“He has been sleeping for most of the day, m’lady, complained about a headache.”

“Why have I not been informed?”

The servant simply stares at the floor and you sigh as you realise that the signs point to a long night down in the brothels more so than an acute illness. It would certainly not be the first time that he is leaving you to your own devices to nurse the ailments of a night spent drinking and– You clear your throat.

“Send for a maester should he not feel better in the morning,” you tell him. “And inform me of his condition the moment it changes.”

A nod and the door softly closes. Another event you will have to attend by yourself. You would be glad to avoid a night of his indifference were it not for the fact that his absence must appear even more worrisome to the other houses. You are anything but a strong unit and talks about your childless marriage never cease – you see them whispering their rumours from ear to ear whenever you enter a room, followed by pitiful glances.

“Anything else, m’lady?” your handmaiden asks. “Perhaps a shawl in case you feel a chill?”

You falter for a moment as you look down at yourself and suddenly detest your whole attire. Why are you dressing for a man who disrespects you at any chance he gets, who cannot even exert himself to appear by your side when it truly matters? “Apologies, Malena, but I have decided that I will wear the green dress tonight after all.”

She bows and you begin to undress as she fetches the garment. There is only one pair of eyes that you want to feel on your body tonight and it won’t be drawn to blue fabric.

✦ ✧ ✦

The hall is filled to the brim with people of all houses – a banquet to which not only the capital’s nobility has been invited but any noble who was willing to commit to the journey to King’s Landing. It is a celebration in honour of the Prince Aegon’s nameday but Otto insisted on the opulence – the prince has to stay on their minds, his grandson, namesake of Aegon the Conqueror, and as far as Otto is concerned the future regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

Noisy chatter fills his ears as he watches his lovely daughter introducing Aegon as well as the Princess Helaena, her second child, to the lords and ladies who have not had the pleasure yet. His Grace is watching them with a gentle smile on his face and Otto cannot help but feel a hint of complacency. Thanks to Aegon the mess the king created in naming his daughter his heir can be mended, if he plays it well.

Even though he feels a deep affection for his grandchildren, two innocent infants who are blissfully unaware of the role they are going to play in securing peace and order in the realm, Otto’s eyes are drawn to the entrance. You are late, a few minutes of tardiness that Otto spends wondering if you decided against attending after all, perhaps in favour of staying with your lord husband. He was informed just an hour ago by one of his little mice that the lord is feeling rather unwell this evening, that he has been complaining about different symptoms for a while now. Otto is not surprised by the news. These may well be the first signs that his increasingly frivolous whereabouts are affecting the man’s health and, therefore, his accountability.

When you do arrive at last, Otto is quite struck by the sight of you entering the hall – so much so that Alicent rouses him with a concerned look on her face. He gives her a reassuring smile, then trains his eyes back to your form. It is quite distracting, the way your dress accentuates your womanly figure. His colour, he notes, the dark shade of green he usually wears. A mere moment later you eye him with a gentle smile playing at your lips and his suspicion is confirmed that you’re wearing it for him. Gods, he finds that your beauty is taking his breath away even more so than usual. Not that he did not admire you before, you have always been a sight for the Gods, but now that he knows what you sound like in the throes of your pleasure you fully and irrevocably occupy his mind.

Perhaps tonight, then, he thinks, toying with the small box he has been keeping in his pocket for a few weeks now. You are tempting him to folly, evoking emotions of a strength he has not felt in years. Even his work is impacted by this attachment. He finds his hands forming fists underneath the table whenever your lord husband speaks up during council meetings, most days still half drunk from the night before. Pathetic, with no sense of honour, besmearing your good name in the process. Seeing you now without this worm hanging by your arm is most welcome, wearing his colour no less, a beautiful deep green. It seems that you are well aware of who you truly belong to.

No, who you should belong to, Otto must correct himself. A constant reminder of a mistake that caught up to him faster than he would have wished for. A mistake that calls for more mistakes that he cannot allow to happen.

Dinner passes with stolen glances and timid smiles. Ever since the moment you shared in his quarters you seem to blush and turn away whenever you catch sight of him and yet it seems like your gaze never strays too far. It is quite endearing, the shy glances, the rosy cheeks that no one else knows are just for him. As daring as you were in the privacy of the tower, you have respected his wish to never mention it again. It is for your own protection, of course, although Otto fears what it would do to his own integrity if word spread about an illicit affair, no matter that what occurred between you hardly deserves the name. He has been meticulously crafting his reputation for decades now and he cannot allow these foolish desires to taint it.

Soon, the dancing is in full swing. For a brief moment he indulges in the fantasy of asking you to do him the honour, to see the cheerful smile on your face he has not seen since he married you to Alister. Judging by the expression on your face as you observe the dancery, he imagines that you long for a partner to share the delights of a joyful evening. Young as you are, it is a shame that you should sit in your chair all night. Another reason to loathe your husband, not that he is lacking for those.

Perhaps this is the reason why you slip away the moment the steady flow of wine and musical distractions allows you to do so unobserved. It is his only chance. Otto rises as soon as he can without arousing suspicion. The hour is late enough to justify a reprieve.

“Excuse me for a moment, your Grace,” he says without waiting for an answer.

The castle is abandoned and his steps echo loudly, bouncing off the stone walls of the keep. He finds you in an empty hallway halfway back to your chambers, gazing out of a window that overlooks the gardens that he knows you are so very fond of. The two guards who are closest pay him no mind, yet he dismisses them with a nod and they take station at a more unobtrusive spot.

You turn as his steps approach, confused momentarily as to who could be following you. When you recognise the figure as him your expression visibly softens and your guard is let down once more. The effect he has on you should alarm you but on the contrary, you seem to be eager to welcome him in your presence.

“Are you tiring of the festivities, my lady?” he asks, approaching you with cautious strides.

“I do not have much to celebrate, my lord. You might have heard that my lord husband is feeling rather unwell.”

“And yet you are not with him, no?”

You eye him with barely hidden annoyance and he chuckles lowly, satisfied. There is hardly any cause for jealousy when your disdain is so very obvious. Otto approaches, closing the distance cautiously to make sure that you remain comfortable in his proximity. He stops about two steps away from you, a towering and broad figure compared to your shorter frame, and you have to look up to meet his eyes. He drinks you in for a long time, not lustful but in admiration, letting his gaze wander over your body in a way that has goosebumps spreading all over your skin. He would count every single one of them, if he had the time.

“You look beautiful tonight, my lady,” he whispers. “A new colour?”

You meet his eyes, boldly this time, in the way that makes him want to pull you into his arms and ravish you. “My favourite colour.”

“Is that so?”

A timid smile. “I know, I should not, I cannot… But, my lord, you know that it is true.”

“It is alright, my sweet,” he assures you. “Indeed, catching you alone allows me to do something I have been avoiding for too long and I do not mean complimenting your beauty.”

“And what would that be, my lord?”

“I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, my lady, I know it is not my place to lavish you with gifts and you may find it presumptuous, but… I have something that I wish to offer you.” Your eyes widen, so he quickly continues. “I am in no position to put a claim on you and yet it would please me greatly to see you wearing it on occasion. I am certain that you can think of a plausible explanation as to how it came into your possession.”

Before you can protest he retrieves the small box from his pocket. Taking off the lid he reveals a finely crafted ring with a sparkling green gemstone – a real emerald. He must admit the choice of colour was quite on purpose, green as the beacon of the Hightower when his house rides to war. A war Otto cannot win, he knows, but it is a war he is fighting every day nonetheless. To see you fighting it with him, if subtle, would be a great source of comfort.

“My lord, but this is…” You admire the beautiful piece of jewellery, your eyes drawn to the way it shimmers in the moonlight, subtle and delicate but breathtaking nonetheless. “It is too much.”

“I am afraid that no gemstone will ever suffice to express what I truly wish to say, my lady,” he says. “And yet I hope you will honour me by wearing it.”

You nod and stretch out your hand. The lord takes the ring and carefully slides it onto your finger. A perfect fit of course, he made sure of that. His larger hand gently holds yours so that he can admire the jewel and you briefly rest your other hand on top of his. His skin is warm and weathered. It is all you want to feel for the rest of your life.

“Forgive me,” he says and you’re not quite certain what he means until he lifts your hand to his mouth and places a reverent kiss on the back of it. He lingers, his beard tickling your soft skin as his lips travel along your knuckles and finally rest on the gem.

“I shall think of you whenever I wear it,” you supply. Then, with a softer voice: “Though, in truth and in shame I must admit that I already think of you more than is proper, my lord. You occupy my mind and heart at all times. You always have.”

He smiles, a tight-lipped, pained smile. “You honour me, my lady, in ways that I fear I do not deserve.”

“It matters not what we deserve, my lord.” You lift your hand and cradle his face, stroking his cheekbone tenderly with your thumb. “I shall find comfort in knowing that you return my affections at last.”

“My darling girl,” he whispers and the words sound like a prayer from his lips.

You close your eyes for a moment, trapped in the sensation of his lips on your skin, the feeling of his beard against your fingertips just like he is trapped in the gentleness of your touch, in the longing for more of your simple comforts that he has to deny himself over and over again. You both pray in silence that the moment never ends, and yet he has to let go of you eventually and come to his senses. How cruel to ache for a love that he denied himself in the first place.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your sitting room is illuminated by burnt-down candles, the hour late as you have reclined on a settee to read in your book. Truth be told, you should be sleeping, but you cannot bear to let your mind wander as it tends to do in the quiet of your canopy.

To your surprise, the door opens and your husband stumbles in. Even from afar you can tell that he reeks of wine and the fumes of the city. He sits down in a chair and stares at you in a manner that has always made you rather uncomfortable. Rare as it is, you do not enjoy his company.

“I overheard a most interesting conversation in the council chamber,” he says out of nowhere, a smug smile playing at his lips. “About the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower.”

You pause, closing the book as you gaze at your husband in interest now. He is not in the habit of discussing politics with you and certainly does not bring up the council on his own accord.

“He was dismissed as Hand to the King,” he continues, standing now to pour himself a glass of wine from your private pitcher. “Finally, thank the Seven.”

“Pray, what do you mean?”

“The king finally had enough of his little schemes. He does not wish for Aegon to be his heir, he insists on keeping the Princess in the position and rightfully so. Your lord got too bold with his endless attempts at installing his own grandson as heir, spreading rumours about the Princess. His greed for power is so obvious even our blind king can see it now. Perhaps you should go and bid your lord farewell before he departs.”

“He is not my lord, whatever are you talking about?”

He sets the glass down, turning to you with a withering expression. “Do you think I am not aware that you are wearing green more often? That you’re suddenly wearing emeralds instead of blue stones? That your lord continuously eyes me with disdain when I speak up during council meetings and dismisses any of my suggestions, even proceeds to work against them? How his eyes linger on you when we are invited to sup with the king and his family? I may not be the most devoted of spouses but I do have eyes in my skull.”

“Unlike you I remain in control of my desires. As does he,” you reply coldly. “The Gods see what you are doing in the Street of Silks, what you are doing to your own wife.”

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But my sins do not absolve you from your own and, let us be frank, my dear lady wife. The difference between thought and action matters little to the Gods when it comes to corruption. Whether it festers on the inside or the outside you end up rotten. I might as well take what life offers to me instead of pining after someone who could be my own father. It makes you look pathetic and not just in my eyes.”

You bite back a reply. His provocations mean little to you, especially with the knowledge that the Lord Hand has been dismissed from his position. If it is true then he may leave King’s Landing for good.

Leave you.

Without another word you abandon your book and exit your chambers. In the quiet of the old hallways of the keep you take a few deep breaths, the tightness of your dress suddenly suffocating you. This cannot be true, you think, His Grace would never dismiss such a trusted advisor, such a devoted servant of the realm. But then you know Otto is ambitious, that his plans at times may be unpopular and that the peace of the realm has always ranked higher for him than the will of the king. The Princess threatens the delicate balance between the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, threatens the loyalty of many houses to the crown who will not accept a queen where there is a male heir to be had. And while you always loved the Princess and considered her to be a worthy successor you can see why he may have tried to sway the king in Aegon’s favour. He is his grandsire, after all, and he knows the ways of court politics.

As soon as your racing heart beats a more bearable rhythm, you hurry to the Tower of the Hand. However, the guards inform you that you cannot enter as it has been abandoned not long ago. You are unaware as to when this conversation your husband overheard took place and the hour is late, or perhaps too early, when you finally decide to retreat to your own chambers.

You see nothing of Otto over the next day, even though you are pacing the hallways of the keep in a way that must make even the guards nervous. You all but give up on ever seeing him again until from a window you spot Queen Alicent by the gate across the courtyard with a rider who you can only assume is her father.

He is leaving, you realise.

Heart pounding anew you hurry down the stairs, nearly tripping over your dress as you run faster than is deemed appropriate for a lady. But you care not, even as your feet begin to ache and you finally reach the courtyard. It is pouring, the rain mercilessly beating down from the skies above but you cannot wait for anyone to fetch you a coat. When you approach the gate you hear the clicking of the hooves on distant cobblestone but the rider has already left.

You don’t, cannot, stop, not until you are by Alicent’s side, your Queen, your friend, who falls into your arms in painful, shaking sobs that vibrate deep within your chest. Something inside of you breaks with a finality that weakens your very bones. You cannot hold back your tears either, letting them mix in with the rain until you cannot tell them apart any longer.

4 The Widowed Days

Every morning, you observe the murky water rushing down the river and mouthing into Blackwater Bay – a steady, endless stream with harsh currents as well as the occasional softer tide when the weather is more agreeable. Time passes in much the same way.

It has been nearly ten years since the first symptoms showed, made memorable by the night of Prince Aegon’s name day celebration. While the illness progressed slowly at first, with years and years of mild symptoms, your husband’s health has been declining rapidly over the past two years. You take care of him to the best of your abilities but as a proud man he does not wish to be fussed over and more often than not he sends you away. The maesters are clueless as to his condition, perhaps the repercussions of his drinking excesses that would not cease even as his affliction progressed. Whenever you look at him you see a withering face, the face of a man much older than the years he truly lived. Even though you don’t hold much love for him it pains you to see him succumbing to such an undignified illness.

You have not much to hold onto besides the fantasies your mind conjures up in the quiet hours you spend in the keep, a weak attempt at comfort. The years have not diminished your love for Ser Otto, or rather the desire for a love that could have been. He comes to you in dreams, fragments of memories of the feel of his weathered hands in yours, the scratch of his beard against your fingertips.

Alicent knows about your affections for her father as you spilled your heart to her the very moment he had left and you found comfort in each other’s arms upon his departure. Ever since, your bond is as strong as it used to be in your childhood, perhaps even more so with years of hardships added to its weight. Thanks to her you know that he is in good health, that he is safe in Oldtown, and as much as you long to see him again you are comforted in knowing that he is faring well.

You spend much time helping her raise her children, especially the Princess Helaena, an intelligent but misunderstood girl who struggles with the life she was forced into, not unlike her mother. Alicent’s role as queen is demanding and you notice how she is changing, becoming more and more like her father, a clever woman forged by court politics and increasing responsibilities as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Life at court has become tense with rumours about the legitimacy of the Princess Rhaenyra’s offspring, with tensions between her children and those of the queen as well as the notable decline of the king’s health. You do not envy her.

The night he left, you found a letter from Otto on your bed, delivered to you in secret – a brief message that was written in haste before his departure. My lady, I regret to inform you that my time at court has come to a premature end. However, I remain hopeful that we will meet again under improved circumstances. Know that it pains me to leave you without as much as a spoken farewell. In my absence, I ask you to remain by my daughter’s side, if not for the affection that I hope you still hold for me then as her loyal childhood companion and friend. May the Seven keep you in good health, Otto.

You know it by heart, the parchment old and scarcely readable by now. Since then, some letters have been exchanged between Ser Otto and you in which you have informed him about the whereabouts of his grandchildren and he thanked you for your support of his daughter and family. Even so, you remain a married woman and regular correspondence with a man who is not your husband raises too many questions, too many rumours on top of an already strained reputation. So you keep the exchanges sparse, hold the replies he sends you as dearly as you can, and tell yourself that he must be thinking of you fondly still or he would not write to you at all.

With your husband bedridden and often unresponsive, you find yourself a widow in all but law. Though your life feels even lonelier than during the first few years of your marriage, you found solace in frequenting the gardens, supporting the capital’s orphanages as well as keeping the queen’s company. Every morning you go on a lengthy walk, reminiscing about the time you spent here with Otto, following the exact route you took with him the morning of the hunt. It feels as though centuries have passed since then – the bushes have been replaced, the paths altered, even you yourself don’t feel like the same person anymore. What never changes, however, is the beauty of the sunrise over Blackwater Bay, though the colours vary and are never quite the same – every morning a welcome but familiar surprise.

When you return one morning, the Keep is more alive than usual at this hour. Servants are running past you almost as though you are invisible. Perhaps they prepare for the arrival of some noble guests, you think and head to the nearest window facing the outer courtyard. You cannot see any larger wheelhouses, nor do you spot anything out of the ordinary. That is, until one of the riders by the gate lifts his hood.

You scarcely believe your eyes. It must be a trick, an evil one at that, but you could swear that he looks like Ser Otto. It would not be the first time that you see him in someone else’s face, that your mind deceives you so cruelly into believing that he is near. Missing him has been one of the harder burdens of the past decade and sometimes relief means delusion for just a few precious seconds. However, as you continue to observe the man, you cannot help but see Otto in in his shape, his height, in the way he moves.

Of course you know that Lord Strong and his son Ser Harwin recently perished in a fire at Harrenhal but you had not assumed that Alicent would send for her father to replace the Lord Hand. It is entirely possible, however. Suddenly invigorated, you storm down the stairs and head outside in what may be unseemly but entirely necessary for your own sanity.

You nearly stumble when you finally exit the keep, though fortunately the lord does not notice your ineptitude as he gives orders to a footman. Seeing him in the flesh feels like a dream, his tall stature only slightly more slumped with age but not diminishing his dignified presence in the slightest. Your heart begins to hammer in excitement, in relief, and you have to hold back the tears to feign an indifferent politeness.

“My Lord,” you say. “How it delights me to see you back in the capital.”

He turns to offer you his full attention. Within a split second recognition flits across his face. “My lady.” A soft chuckle. “Well, you honour me. How lovely to be greeted by a welcome, familiar face.”

“It gladdens me to see that you are in good health,” you say happily as your eyes meet the very face you have not seen in near a decade. “In fact you have not changed at all, except perhaps for a few grey hairs.”

He smiles at your mild teasing and you wonder if the years away from court have softened him. “As a wise lady once told me: My age only adds to my character. And the same appears to be true for you. You have…” He pauses, weighing his words. “… matured.”

You give a soft laugh. “It has been ten years, I should hope so. Or are you implying that I look old, my lord?”

“I would not dare suggest such a thing,” he says. “Let me rephrase, my lady. The years have served to enhance your beauty.”

Warmth blooms in your cheeks at the first openly spoken compliment after so many years and for a moment you feel like the little girl that used to admire him from afar. If she were here now she would be floating on saccharine clouds for the rest of the day, daydreaming about him reciprocating her hidden desires. But you are not that girl anymore. The past decade has left its ugly marks on you and coveting what you cannot have has only brought you the deepest misery. You vow to protect your heart, no matter how much it wants to beat out of your chest and land in his gentle hands.

“Thank you, my lord,” you say. “I trust that we will see each other more frequently now.”

“I should hope so, my lady, since I am reassuming my position as Hand of the King.”

You perk up in delight at the news, your suspicion confirmed. “I do not wish to keep you, my lord, I am sure you long to be reunited with your family and acquaint yourself with the current state of affairs. I do hope we will get the chance to speak in more depth.”

“I will make sure of it, my lady.”

His expression gives you hope that his promise is sincere.

✦ ✧ ✦

“A green dress,” you order, dabbing some of your scented oils to your neck and wrists.

“Which one, m’lady?”

“The darker one with the lower neckline, I think. Or the green-gold one?”

Your handmaid smiles to herself; you think she must be amused by your antics. “I think he would like the lower cut, m’lady, if I may speak so freely.”

As always she can read your thoughts and you have to agree. “Then that one it is, Malena. And don’t forget to bring the emerald ring.”

You hope his lordship won’t be cross with you. He did not seem opposed to your initiative the last few times you were alone together, even if that was over a decade ago, so you hope he won’t mind you paying him a visit so soon. He has been rather occupied since arriving but tonight Alicent invited you to sup with their family and you are quite certain this means the Lord Hand must be ready for company.

The hour is still early, the sun has only just risen and you are getting ready to start your day with a visit to the Tower of the Hand before your morning walk. You are not sure you could sit through supper without having seen him for yourself first. The past days have been filled with anticipation, the sheer prospect of being in his proximity enough to keep you awake at night.

As your feet carry you up the stairs after many years of absence, your heart is beating mercilessly against your ribcage. You carry a small basket, clutching it tightly to your front so its content comes to no harm.

The men of the Hand’s household guard allow you to enter without a second glance, announcing you briefly. Otto Hightower stands from his chair, surprise but no dismissal in his features. He easily rounds his desk to approach you and you are once again struck by his tall frame, the grace with which he moves.

“Good morrow, my lord,” you say, trying to find your courage. “I have come to deliver a welcome present for you. I thought you might still be weary after your long travels and–” You pause, looking at him and his tired eyes. “Forgive me for being so forward. I am certain that you are quite occupied and–”

“No need for apologies, my lady, I would have sent for you shortly.”

“I wanted to give you more time to arrive, my lord, but I simply could not–” Again you pause, your heart hammering so fast that it drowns out the thoughts in your head. “I could not fight the urge to see you.”

The lord takes a step in your direction, an untamed emotion in his eyes now, and he only falters for a moment before he fully closes the gap between you. His hands grasp your wrists and wander up your arms, careful and slow, as though he is trying remember the shape of you. With a tender expression he finally captures your face and while his openly displayed attention confuses you you can’t help but melt into his touch. The lord leans forward, his beard and nose brushing against your cheek as he inhales, taking a deep breath to have his fill of you. All of his senses satiated, he releases a wistful sigh, the depth of which sends heat pooling into your lower belly.

“I brought you some oils, my lord, lavender for sleeping a– and–” You pause when his lips trail along you jaw, so soft you hardly feel them. “My lord–”

“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me you feel the same, my sweet girl. That you did not forget me. You must let me know.”

You can’t help but whimper, his insistence making your skin tingle with need. “I have missed you every single day, my lord,” you whisper as if in silent prayer, the truth spilling out despite your resolution to be cautious. “No day would pass that your vision did not haunt me. I have dreamt of the day that the Gods would return you to me, begged for it in the darkest hours of my existence.”

Another deep breath, shakier than before, and he looks at you with a fire you have never before seen in the calm lord’s eyes. “The Maid herself sent you into my arms all those years ago, the sweetest girl I had ever seen, and I was fool enough to refuse her gift. To this day it is my biggest regret.”

“Regret not, my lord, please.” You set the basket down on his desk right by your side, then you place your hands on top of his, gently grasping them where they are still holding your face. “You did what you thought to be right and honourable.”

“And doomed you to a life by the side of a man who could not cherish you as I wished to do.” He huffs out a breath, two long thumbs stroking over your wet cheeks. You are unaware as to when you started crying but now you can feel the tears burning in your lash line, pearling onto his fingers. As you grasp his hands tighter his eyes are caught by the sparkling emerald on your finger and his expression softens with sentimentality. “You still own it?”

“It is my greatest treasure.”

The lord closes his eyes, his brow furrowed tightly in a way that betrays his pain. “I shall make things right, sweet girl. I promise this to you.”

“But my lord, I am still ma–”

A loud knock interrupts your words. You break apart just as a servant enters the chamber and you are certain that you must be red and hot as the flaming tips of dragon’s breath. The servant appears to be quite winded, as though he ran up the many stairs of the tower in quite a hurry.

“Excuse me, m’lord, m’lady,” the man says. “It is urgent. I was sent to come looking for you.”

“What is it?” you ask, brow furrowed in increasing confusion. You look to Ser Otto for help but his expression is filled with sympathy, almost as though he knows what the man is going to say even before you do.

“It is your lord husband, m’lady. He passed in his sleep.”

✦ ✧ ✦

An orange sunset coats the roofs of King’s Landing in its golden light as you let the evening fade out on a balcony with Alicent by your side. You were supping with her family just earlier, for the first time in a decade joined by her father as well. Even though you had to push the occasion back, caused by the recent news of your lord husband’s passing, the evening was pleasant and a welcome distraction. You had not seen the Lord Hand since visiting him in the Tower and though not many words were spoken between you this evening you found comfort in the way he would meet your eyes so reassuringly.

It has only been little over a week since the Silent Sisters took Alister for cleansing, to prepare him for his final goodbye. Since then you have received many offers of commiseration, in letters as well as from people here at court. You wanted to spend your period of mourning alone but your queen forbid it after a mere four days of isolation. She said she needed you, having received her own news of loss, and that you should spend each other comfort in these times. Now, watching the sunset for the first time after you lost him you are glad that she is here with you.

“The Stranger has visited us again and so soon,” Alicent says, pouring you a glass of wine. “First your husband and now Laena Velaryon.”

You accept the wine, even though you don’t drink before your queen has taken her first sip. “And they were both too young, though I am afraid my husband won’t be as direly missed as the Lady Laena.”

“Perhaps he sensed that my father came back, that it was his time to go knowing you would not be alone in your grief.”

“He would not have done me the kindness of letting go so that I could be with your father,” you reply, no emotion in your voice as you speak the words frankly for the first time. “If he had known he would have made sure to live another decade, just to make me miserable. He once said that my feelings for the Lord Hand made me pathetic and I doubt he ever changed his mind. He was always too fond of the Princess.”

She regards you hesitantly, the monotony in your voice no doubt unsettling her. “No matter, he is gone now, a blessing after all the pain and suffering he had to endure. May he rest with the Gods.”

She finally drinks and you take a sip as well, tasting the sweetness of the wine in contrast to the bitter reality of your life. A childless widow now, at just over thirty years of age. Even though you never loved your husband you feel a sense of loss. For the life you could have had, perhaps, a life without the stain of a childless, loveless marriage that ended far too soon. The family he never gave you, the true love he took from you.

“If it is still your wish,” she says, sensing your thoughts, “then I will not object to a match between you and my father when the time comes. You are already an integral part of our family, we might as well make it official. And I want you on my side for what is to come, the both of you.” An awkward smile. “Though I must admit… it will take me some time to get used to calling you mother.”

“Please, do not call me mother.” You both have to laugh at that notion, the first real sign of emotion you allow to bubble out of you in days. “However, I am not sure if the Lord Hand’s affections run so deep that he would propose a wedding.”

Alicent smiles, grasping your hand in hers. “He would be a fool not to marry you and my father is anything but.”

5 The Happy Days

You roll up the letter and place it back on the table, staring at the broken wax seal with the sigil of your father’s house. Amongst the bustle of the royal family arriving back from Driftmark you nearly missed the raven this morning. The keep had been entirely too quiet as the king’s family was away to attend the Lady Laena’s funeral but now that they have returned rumours are spreading like fire.

It is easy to tell that something has gone awry. The Prince Aemond is missing an eye, the people at court whisper when you take a stroll in the gardens to clear your head. A conflict, a bloody fight between the children of Queen Alicent and the Princess Rhaenyra. You have to refrain from intruding as your concern grows after hearing increasingly violent stories, the need to see Alicent and the children overwhelming. It is almost enough to distract you from the news you received that very morning.

You don’t expect anyone to call on you soon in the aftermath of what happened and with the tension still so very palpable within the Red Keep. The very evening of the family’s return, however, a footman arrives at your door carrying a small chest with a familiar crest.

“The Lord Hand sends for you, m’lady. He wishes for you to wear these.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The Tower smells of incense. It is the first thing you notice and you wonder if your lord has been praying, calling to the Gods for his grandson. Unlike many times before you do not find him behind his desk but on a daybed that must have been brought in recently. The padding looks unused, rich green brocade, and it is positioned perfectly in front of the hearth to provide ample warmth during cooler nights. You wonder if his joints are troubling him.

Otto Hightower looks up, the flames casting an orange glow on his handsome face, and his features soften remarkably as he beholds you. Under his gaze you fiddle with the matching pair of emerald and gold cuffs he gifted you and that his eyes are drawn to immediately.

“My lord sent for me,” you say, hovering by the door.

“I should like to have your company tonight,” he says, patting the spot beside him. “I am in need of a gentle face and a soothing voice. But only if it please my darling girl.”

He looks weary, you note. Despite his sweet words there is a heaviness to him that he must have carried here all the way from Driftmark.

“Can I offer you wine?” he asks as you approach.

“Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I am perfectly content.”

As you sit down beside him the scent of incense grows stronger; like perfume it clings to his robes and skin. His hands are folded in his lap and you see the tension in his white knuckles, in the way his rings bite into the soft flesh of his slender fingers.

“May I, my lord?” you ask cautiously.

He nods and you reach for one of his hands, pulling it into the lap of your black linen dress. You gently take off his rings, soothing the abused skin with a kiss. Your lord allows you to linger and when you press your lips to the next finger you meet his gaze. The warm light of the fire has softened his features even more but his eyes are keen as always as they observe your doings. When his lids flutter shut as you press yet another kiss to his knuckles it satisfies you greatly.

After a few more kisses you stand to rid yourself of the rings, placing them on his desk instead. The oils you brought him before his departure still lie in their basket and you take a deep purple phial before you settle by his side once again. Applying some drops to his wrist you begin to massage the tincture into his skin with a circular motion of your thumb. The lord sighs and visibly relaxes as the rich scent of lavender penetrates the air.

“How are you faring after your loss?” he asks after some silence.

“I am quite well, my lord. I have long since started the process of grieving, tethered to his bedside for years. Now the Stranger has ended his suffering and I feel at peace knowing that my husband is with the Gods.”

“I am glad to hear it. I would not wish for you to be in pain.”

“It is a tragedy,” you say, carefully then, “what happened to your grandson, my lord. Will the prince be alright?”

He gives a court nod. “He will, though I am afraid that his eye will not. But that is the price he paid for his dragon.”

“His dragon? You mean Vhagar, my lord?”

“Yes, my sweet. I am certain you heard the rumours.”

You smile at the term of endearment, ending your massage with a kiss to his palm before you reach for his other hand. The lord is rather pliant, allowing you to move him this way or that with the odd grunt of amusement. You do not dare ask for details, aware that he is looking for distraction and comfort tonight.

“Such good care you take of me,” your lord says, his voice deep and calm. “I should like to have you in my chambers more often.”

You glance at him, your resolve melting at the fondness in his expression. “I should like to take care of my lord whenever he is in need of me.”

“Otto,” he corrects softly. “Please.”

You look into his eyes. “Otto.”

A smile, gentle and warm. You continue to relieve his muscles, giving his second hand just as much attention as the first. However, your heart is heavy as you sit on the news you do not wish to bring up. The letter that arrived this morning makes any moment you have with your lord bittersweet.

“I am not sure how many evenings we will have, my lord. It seems that the Gods do not wish to see us together,” you finally say.

His left eyebrow rises. “What do you mean, my girl?”

“A letter arrived this morning in which my father requests my presence at our family’s seat.” You swallow, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice. “An old friend of his has expressed a specific interest in me and the match would bring me much closer to my family.”

“I certainly cannot fault him, my darling. Your presence is a gift to anyone who is fortunate enough to enjoy it.” He begins to stroke your hair with his free hand, gently running his fingers through the loose strands that aren’t pinned to your head. His movement carries the calming scent of lavender back to your nose. “However, I shall not allow it.”

“My lord?”

“Otto,” he corrects again, his brow furrowed in disapproval as his fingers curl underneath your chin, firmly holding it in place.

You try again. “What do you mean, Otto?”

He resumes his attentions, trailing his hands over your shoulder now in a gentle caress that mirrors the movement of your hand. “I claim you as my own, sweet girl. Your father will not dismiss the request of the Hand, I am quite certain.”

You sit up straighter. “And you mean it?”

“I will not see us parted again,” he states and his hand comes to rest on your cheek, more tender now. “If it is agreeable to you then I will send word to your lord father and after a reasonable period of mourning we arrange for the wedding.”

You cannot hide your relieved smile. “That is most agreeable to me, Otto.”

“Very good.”

You resume the treatment of his hand, noting the subtly pleased smile on his lips. He has always been sweet with you, sweeter than with anyone else as you know him to be stern and not too sentimental outside of his family. As a child you interpreted the changes in his demeanour as sympathy, pity even, and perhaps it truly was at times but now you realise that he must have always had this soft spot for you. Perhaps this was inevitable, perhaps it was always meant to be like this.

His hand tenses in yours, then, and his expression sours. “I do not know the extent to which my daughter has let you in on the tensions that are rising within the royal family but I feel that I must–”

“I am aware,” you gently interrupt with a hand on his arm, not wanting him to speak the words that trouble his mind. “My lord – Otto – whatever may come, I promised my Queen to be by her side a long time ago. In what function matters not.”

Perhaps it is his fatigue that makes him accept your decision so easily or perhaps it is the conviction in your voice. You were always rather adamant that you saw yourself by his side, that you were loyal first and foremost to your queen’s party. When your eyes meet you exchange a silent promise and there is no need to speak of it any longer.

Otto’s hands reach for yours then, softened by the oils. His eyes take in the sight of the finely wrought cuffs adorning your wrists, his thumbs trailing their rims where they meet your skin. The bracelets are narrow enough to remain delicate but still allow for the emerald ornamentations that run along their outer curve to stand out. The gems sparkle in the firelight, endless shades of green.

“Do you like them, my darling?” he asks.

“They are beautiful, Otto.”

He smiles, then runs his thumb over the matching ring on your finger. “I had them made for you before I left for Driftmark.”

For a brief moment the memory of him gifting you the jewel flickers in your mind, how hesitant he was at the time and how you both had to stop yourselves from speaking the truth of your feelings. Now he seems less hesitant to stake his claim, less hesitant to open himself to you.

“Thank you for such generous gifts, Otto,” you whisper. “I do not know how I deserve them.”

“You are deserving of more than mere jewels,” he replies, grasping your hands even tighter. You are surprised by the strength he still has in them. “You must know how very dear you are to me.”

You give a weak nod, getting lost in the intensity of his blue eyes. His lips part and you realise that you have leaned closer, a mere hairsbreadth separating you. The rough tips of his beard tickle your chin and you shut your eyes. His breath is warm against your lips.

“Otto–”

You want to ask for it but you cannot bring yourself to say the words. He does not close the distance but he also does not pull away. You blink your eyes back open and find his brow deeply furrowed, his eyes trained on your mouth.

He is conflicted, you can see it plainly written on his face. “You are in mourning, I would not offend–”

“There is no offence,” you whisper. “Otto–”

“If you are sure–”

Your lips meet before he finishes as you desperately press yourself against him. He groans lowly, his grasp on your hands tightening as he leans into you. Your lord tastes of sweet wine and tart berries, the flavours of a fading summer. No kiss has ever felt so warm and inviting but then you have gone without a lover’s touch for so long that you can hardly remember.

With some effort your lord pulls away, a sharp exhale through his nose following. His forehead comes to rest against yours, fingers searching for your cheeks as he cradles your head. “Is this what you want?”

“You said the Gods placed me in your hands,” you whisper in reply, skin prickling where his beard touched it. “I believe you are right.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, long thumbs swiping along your cheekbones. “You would let me have you, tonight?”

“I would let you have me every night.”

“Hm, such tempting promises.”

His lips wander, so very soft in contrast to his beard as they travel along the sharp line of your jaw and down to the much more sensitive skin of your neck. You inhale the smell that clings to his hair, incense, lavender and something that is distinctly Otto, some mix of ink, parchment and the crackling fire in front of you.

“We have denied ourselves for so long.” Your voice is desperate even to your own ears. “I do not think we have to repent any longer for sins of the past.”

“No,” he whispers against your jugular. “We give thanks to the Seven for their graciousness. Worship–”

“Worship?”

He stops as his hands stray, ghosting along your bare neck and then, suddenly, he tugs at your bodice. You gasp in surprise, and after another attempt it finally loosens, your breasts spilling over your dress as you shiver in the cool air. The lord’s warm hands soon find the soft flesh and with his slender fingers he kneads them, drawing noises from you that sound so very unfamiliar to your ears. You can tell that he is quite overcome as well. His breathing comes in hard bursts that betray his state and yet he is gentle with you, careful.

“Worship their gift,” he clarifies, glancing down at your partly revealed body. “Cherish it, treasure it.”

His mouth presses to the pliant curve of your breast and you realise that it is you he is idolising, your body the sole object of his adoration. You are melting under his lips, the reverence with which he kisses every bit of exposed skin exhilarating and new. When his warm mouth closes around your nipple you bury your hand in his hair and he moans deeply, wantonly. You feel yourself clenching at the sound.

It must have been some time since he touched a woman and just like you even the simplest contact seems to affect him. You would explore the possibilities if he allowed you to but presently he is too occupied with the mechanisms of your dress. You gently urge him away and help with the fastenings on your back, but he soon finds that he prefers to peel it off your skin in a rather slow, torturous fashion.

“Black,” he states with a hint of distaste, freeing your arm from one of the wide sleeves.

“I know my lord prefers me in green,” you whisper.

“And soon you shall be wearing it for me, my darling. It suits you so well.”

It gives you a thrill to have him take off your mourning dress with which you commemorate your late husband, a husband who shamed you for your attraction to the very man you are intimate with now. It is a sick feeling, a sinful feeling, to strip off your memory of him so soon and give into your desires with the man he so loathed. It gives you a perverse sense of satisfaction. But you have suppressed your needs for too long and you think it truly must be a sign of the Gods that they have brought you and Otto Hightower together again tonight.

When you are in nothing but your shift, the lord sinks from the daybed and kneels in front of you, bunching up the sheer fabric until your legs are exposed. You want to alert him that he should not rest on his poor joints on the cool stone floor but then his lips press to the inside of your knee and the thought is forgotten. He is yet unhurried, languid kisses pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the roughness of his beard sending pleasant tingles into your belly.

The nearer he draws to your core the more restless you become. You feel yourself getting wet, throbbing in anticipation. You grasp at his hair, a blush spreading over your cheeks and when he does not stop you tug at the thinning strands. The lord’s eyes find yours, heavy-lidded, and you feel the warmth of shame blossoming in your chest at the lustful display.

“My lord, I have never–”

“Otto,” he corrects yet again, a mild reproach with one hand stroking your calf. “Lean back, my girl, I want a taste.”

It is not a request. You rest your back against the brocade and he grabs one of your thighs, placing it over his shoulder to reveal your private parts to him, to angle your hips just right. He holds your gaze and even though your heart is hammering almost too violently you cannot bring yourself to deny him. His lust-blown pupils paint his eyes black, a thin sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. It is an odd sight, a new sight, the usually so composed and controlled lord driven by his carnal impulses in a rare loss of composure.

He beholds you for another moment to make sure you are in agreement before he presses his mouth to your cunt. It is entirely too much, the lighting bolts of pleasure it sends into your body, the way he feels so hot and wet against your most sensitive parts. You moan, an obscene sound that you stifle with your hand the moment it leaves your lips. Otto’s eyelids flutter shut and his lips part against you. His tongue is soft in contrast to his beard that is chafing your thighs, licking along your slit and flattening against the sensitive bud at the top that you only rarely found the courage to explore on your own. He continues like this, his nose pressed to the swelling knob while he devours you like a man starved. When the lord pulls away to breathe you roll your hip in his direction, trying for more, and he gives an amused chuckle.

“You are a wanton thing,” he says. “I should have known.”

He says it fondly, running a thumb over the coarse hair that gathers where your legs meet, wet with your arousal and his own spit. He rubs along your slit then, circling the spot that lures the most sensual sounds from you. Your hips move on their own accord, trying to meet his rhythm, and you feel the heat building in your lower belly as he stokes the fire.

“Please–”

You clench around nothing and the lord withdraws, leaving you aching. His beard is glistening wetly in the light and you watch as he cleans the digit with a low hum. “My girl has the sweetest of tastes.”

You do not know whether he speaks the truth but his eyes are filled with devotion and desperate longing. When he stands, you pull your legs to your body to nurse the dampness and unsatisfied pulsing between them. The lord flinches as he straightens his knees, no doubt feeling the pain you anticipated but he recovers before you can inquire and reaches for your hand to help you up. You understand he does not wish to feel old tonight.

“On the bed,” he says.

His voice is firm and controlled. When you stand before him he surprises you with a hungry kiss, hands following the lines of your scantily clad form and squeezing at every bit of soft flesh he can reach. You feel like a debauched woman and modesty seems to be out of place. With shaking hands you pull your shift over your head and crawl onto his heavy four poster bed. The fabric of his sheets feels soft against your bare skin and you sense a thrill running through you at the prospect of what he might do to you. You are nude safe for the jewellery he bestowed you with.

“You are an exquisite sight,” he says as he watches you from the foot of the bed, the buttons of his garments coming undone with practiced fingers. “And you are mine now, sweet girl. Does it please you?”

You forget to reply, quite distracted as he reveals the tunic he wears underneath. The lord knows, as he always does. The admiration for his body must be written all over your face and you cannot look away as he fully exposes his torso to you. Despite his age his body is that of a knight, toned in places but overall softened by decades spent behind his desk. Tufts of greying hair cover most of his chest, the supple curve of his belly resting right above where he is already hard inside of his breeches.

The same bravery you felt all those years ago takes hold of you at the sight of him and on your knees you crawl over to where he is standing. Cautiously, you run your hands through the hair covering his upper body, feeling the soft skin underneath. He seems rather docile, allowing you to squeeze and palm whereever you want to, silence interspersed with the odd hum of approval at your exploration. Starved for the touch of a woman there is no resistance but a deep infatuation in his eyes. Perhaps he is just as enamoured with the sight and feel of you as you are with his.

“Pleased is hardly a word I would use at present,” you finally reply and allow your hand to cup him through his breeches. “Are you aching for me, too?”

A dry huff of a laugh, as though the question itself is superfluous. Two fingers tilt your chin up, the fire burning in his eyes answer enough. His free hand dives into your hair, not gentle but not rough as he frees it from its constraints and allows it to fall over your shoulders. Once he can angle your head how he pleases the lord closes the distance and litters your neck with kisses, teeth and tongue teasing at your skin. You find the fastenings of his breeches but your fingers are too jittery. The more you palm at him the rougher his kisses become until all breaths between you are drawn in desperation.

His patience has run thin. He climbs onto the bed, effectively urging you to lie back as he settles between your legs. His weight on top of you is heavenly, the feel of his skin against yours enough to have you whimpering underneath him. Otto grabs your wrists, one in each hand, pinning them down on either side of your head. The gold cuffs bite into your skin but not unpleasantly so with his warm hands covering them. His fingers slot between yours, grasping them, and you feel your pulse hammering against the ball his hand. Large as they are his hands almost completely cover your smaller ones and as his weight comes to rest on his forearms you feel like he is spreading you open for him.

“You are a sight for the Gods,” he whispers. “Such beauty, even they must envy me.”

You buck your hips, desperate for the feel of him now that he is within reach. “Please, Otto–”

“Needy, shameless,” he chides, voice sultry and deep. “Tell me, how many times have you fantasised of this? Or have you stopped counting?”

The arrogance in his tone only makes you want him more. His hands tighten almost painfully in yours as he kisses you, feverish and filthy, forcing his tongue between your lips with a distinct possessiveness. It is evident that he intents to claim you in more ways than just adorning you with jewels. You are not resisting but you cannot match his pace, overwhelmed with the intensity of your desires for him.

When his mouth releases yours, bruised and wet, you moan at the loss of him. The gasping breath you take burns in your lungs and once again you cannot help but tilt your pelvis to try and find some relief.

“Shhhhh, I know,” he whispers. “I will have you, my girl. You were very patient.”

The blood flows back through your wrists when his tight grasp loosens and he finally works his breeches open. His member is coated in arousal, thick and throbbing after his own stalling. You release a sob when you feel him sliding between your folds, grazing your swollen bud. The lord groans when you reach down to help him find your entrance and you notice how hot he is, how painfully stiff against your soft fingers.

“Yes,” you whisper when you feel his tip parting you. “Please, more.”

He relents, tries to go slow for your sake but you are slick and worked up and one thrust is enough to fill you to completion. The feeling is unlike any of which you have experienced before, no pain or discomfort but just the dizzying need for more of him that burns through your veins. He stretches you open, both of you glancing at where your bodies join so beautifully before your eyes meet once more. Your lord takes your wrists again, softer now, and as your hands link together it is you this time who tightens their grasp.

He begins to rock his hips, gentle at first as he holds your gaze, swallows the first of your moans with his puffed lips. Soon his thrusts harden, the pace he sets merciless as he drives himself into you over and over. You are both too sensitive for it to last long, the lingering fire inside of you spreading into your fingertips, your toes, and you feel as though you could explode with the sheer bliss of it all.

You come undone a moment later, crying out his name and spasming with a force you have not known before. Your lord holds you and you sink into the feeling, trembling and weightless in his arms. Otto hums at the sight but he only pauses for a moment before he resumes his movements, prolonging the pleasurable sensation. He moves to pull out of you as he nears his own end and you catch his wrist, pressing it against your chest.

“No,” you whine. “Please.”

He holds your gaze as he continues to take you, chasing his own pleasure more savagely than before. You cradle his face, brush the sweaty hair back that has fallen into his forehead, and when he finds his release the sound that comes from his throat is broken. His hips still but you feel the heat of his spend as he fills you, his body going slack on top of yours after the efforts of the night.

You recover with his gasping breath warming the crook of your neck and even though he is resting some of his weight on his elbows his strength has ultimately left him. Wet skin clings to wet skin, soft and comforting as you stroke his back through the aftershocks. Your chests heave in sync and you swear you can feel his heartbeat matching your own.

A deep sigh tickles your shoulder, then, and he carefully rolls you onto your sides, wrapping you up in his arms as he gathers you against his chest. The position is much more comfortable and you curl up against him with a warm, sated feeling in your belly.

“Will you stay a while?” he asks.

“For as long as you will have me,” you reply, using the quiet to allow your fingers to explore more of his chest. “I thought you might tell me about Oldtown.”

A smile, so soft and genuine that your heart stutters. The lord brushes your hair back, thumb following the line of your brow down to your jaw and resting on your lips. You can only imagine the mess you look but he does not seem to mind.

“Perhaps you should like to dine with me tomorrow?” he asks.

“I should like that very much.”

“Good,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Very good.”

He is exhausted and you know sleep will take him within moments. Lips softly pressed below his ear you reach for the end of the comfort and provisionally pull it over your entangled bodies. The fire is still burning but you know you will catch a chill once your skin cools. You will have to leave before the morrow but right now dawn is far away and you are too content to rest in the safety of his arms. At last.

Epilogue: A year later

A yawn parts the lord’s lips. He stifles the noise quite quickly but it does not escape your notice how his hand flies to his mouth. He so rarely makes a sound, a man of silent concentration, choosing every word with a deliberation that requires his full attention.

You smile to yourself. “I did not take you for a man who falls victim to ennui, husband.”

“It is a slow night,” he concedes, rubbing an ink-stained finger along his brow.

“And you have copied this letter…”

“Seven times, my heart.”

You softly close the book you have been reading while sitting in quiet companionship with the Lord Hand. You so love watching him when he dedicates his evenings to his correspondence, the scratching of the quill a calming noise in the background.

“Perhaps I can aid his lordship in finding a less tiresome occupation?”

He leans back in his chair, surrendering the quill as well as his efforts as you saunter over. A smile tugs at his lips, amusement. You find him less serious these days, less stern, at least when he’s sharing your company. The months have been kind to you both.

“My darling wife is as insatiable as during our first night,” he muses, pulling you into his lap.

“How disappointing, I made such an effort to become worse.”

He kisses the mock pout from your lips. For a man who has aged so gracefully his hunger has not dwindled. He tells you that your enthusiasm keeps him youthful and perhaps that is true. After over a decade in a love and passionless marriage you have a lot to make up for. Otto is happy to indulge you.

“The hour is late,” you whisper against his lips, a subtle proposition.

“Indeed,” he says, one hand sliding up your hip, then pressing down gently on your belly. “What are we to do with this hunger of yours, lady wife?”

“Perhaps my neglectful husband can sate me.”

“Neglectful?”

“At times I feel that he prefers the touch of his quill over mine.”

He lifts you abruptly, placing you on the surface of his desk where you can hear the parchment crumpling underneath your skirts. Your lord stands tall in front of you, broad-chested yet slender of frame save the small pouch of his belly. You trace the soft curve up to his chest but he quickly grasps your chin to draw your gaze up to his, ever imperious.

“Audacious,” he chides, “that you would make such accusations.”

The hint of teasing in his voice sets you alight. His long fingers curl underneath your jaw, denting your cheeks with his grip. With a raised eyebrow he studies your face, knowingly, your flushed skin betraying his effect on you. His patience is like to drive you mad as he is methodical and studious even in your shared intimacy. You think he reads you as though you are words written on a page of his books, drawing meaning from tracing the shape of you with his eyes.

Only when you are writhing does he close the distance in a heated kiss. As if to prove you wrong his hands eagerly roam your body, unfastening the lacings on your dress and groping every soft spot he meets in the process. Before long you find yourself stripped and heaving under the strain of your passion. It is a well-rehearsed dance by now, the undressing, the way from his desk to the bed where your lord likes to take his time with you, pleasuring you, teasing you until your begs and whimpers fill the quiet of the chamber and at last he is satisfied.

Under the canopy he leaves scratchy, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as his fingers work you open. So far his seed has not taken and the maesters are not sure it will. You had hoped that you could refute the rumours of your barrenness but even so your second marriage is a much happier one than your first. The Gods have been good to you and you wonder if in time you may be blessed with a son after all.

“Focus on me, my girl,” Otto rasps, then, and you find him staring down at you, pupils so wide that they swallow his irises. His hair has fallen into his face, thin strands clinging to his forehead. You reach out to brush them back and as always he leans into your touch, starved for affection. An ink smudge stains his brow. He works so much that the signs never leave his face.

“Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment,” you whisper and push at his shoulder.

He removes himself and sinks into the pillows beside you, reclining with a soft, weary sigh. You climb on top of him, easing him inside of you. Otto pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you as you both begin to rock against each other. You can feel his soft chest hair tickling your breasts, pressed together as you are, and you breathe broken moans into each others mouths.

“Where were your thoughts, then?” he whispers, biting into the soft skin of your neck.

“I thought about the future,” you say. “I thought about you giving me a son.”

His hips buck and you keen as he hits you deeper than before. You tug at the hair on the back of his head, following his rhythm as he groans into your ear with that deep, raspy voice. You smile, enjoying the feel and sound of him so desperate for you.

Whatever the future may hold, you know that you will never tire of this, the small intimacies with your lord, the knowledge that he burns for you so vigorously after a lifetime forced to spent apart. You can taste your own fire on his lips, feel it as you both crest and his seed drips down your legs. Otto kept the promise he gave you – he made things right, he cherished you, and now nothing shall part you again.

“I am doing something I learned early to do, I am paying attention to small beauties, whatever I have – as if it were our duty to find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.” – Sharon Olds, from "Little Things"; Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

#otto hightower #otto hightower x reader #otto x reader #otto hightower x female reader #otto hightower fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd x reader #hotd #team green fanfiction #team green #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic

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jhuzen · 2 years ago

Text

married life [m.reader]

this is me taking the first step in creating the househusband hcs of our tall hsr men for us gays and bi kings. happy pride ansismdkf (i mean to say that also in haitham’s post bUT OH WELL). anyway, i still hate luocha. otto trauma so true so real (honestly, his only saving grace in mhy games is ayato because he’s not blond). today, we have ourselves some househusbands.

𖦹 househusband hcs with gepard, sampo, jing yuan, blade, dan heng, caelus and old man welt, no luocha but i’m open to be convinced why i should start loving him, mostly fluff, domestic stuff, modern au though… aren’t they more modern if they can travel the space? huh. normal world au then. forgot to add that ceo reader is implied

GEPARD LANDAU

He’s a very reluctant househusband at first, actually. He’s one who firmly believes that relationships are a team effort (and they are and should be), and thinks that it wouldn’t hurt for the both of you to work together. Of course, you encourage him regardless, and with both of your career-oriented selves, you were basically the couple that could foster a ten or so children and still be financially sound.

Serval is the one who convinced Gepard to lay low a little in his job and relax for once. You’re making a decent income a month — enough for you to be the only one working and still have a comfortable life together.

You have to thank your sister-in-law and her craftiness. She wasn’t Gepard’s sister for nothing. She knew your husband more than anyone and knew that he was too down bad to even refuse in entertaining the thought of not taking care of you. All she had to do was do a little convincing.

“If I were [Name], I sure wouldn’t mind coming home to a nice meal like this every night,” she’d muse with a hum while she ate off of Gepard’s cooking. He came home early that one night and thought to surprise you. Of course, Serval just had to taste test since she’s looking out for you, her beloved brother-in-law. “Also wouldn’t mind being taken care of by my own spouse…”

Gepard quickly folded. What if his sister was right and you wanted that kind of life? But it’s not like he also wants to quit his job just like that. So he made a gradual decrease in work until he can finally have a schedule that can commit as a househusband and occasionally help when he’s needed at work as a consultant.

Your beloved husband is a bit mid from the start — basic in cooking, in chores, but it’s his perseverance that pushes him up to S-tier househusband status. He will really go out of his way to learn recipes that you suddenly brought up in the middle of a conversation and will execute it to the highest standards. He will become a lot more meticulous in his chores around the house.

If he can, he’s definitely the type to drop by and join you in lunch. He’s a lot more free now, and if there’s nothing else to do in the house, he’ll take some lunch and go to where you work and just eat lunch together. Everyone is looking at the windows of your own office in envy while they watched you get spoon fed by your cute husband (they don’t know how embarrassed Gepard is since you technically just coerced him to feed you so people can see you on purpose).

So very attentive to you. He wakes you up early (even earlier if you have meetings where you have to discuss things to be extra prepared) for work. Your lunch is just top tier, but the plating is too cute — with the slightly uneven shapes to create cute animals. He’s the kind to even put a note in your packed lunch every time without fail.

He knows how hard you work and only wants the best for you. And when you recognize his efforts, he’s quick to get flustered from your compliments. He will fold like a wet cardboard. He’s too weak.

“Dear, please,” you could only laugh at your beloved’s winsome attitude. Currently pressed against the marbled counter of the kitchen, you can only shower him in a plethora of love-filled kisses as you expressed your unending gratitude. Your lips left tiny pecks from his cheeks down to his neck, only serving to fluster him even more.

You pulled back but not before leaving another quick kiss on his nose, “What’s got you all knotted up, love? No one’s watching.” You cooed, leaving your poor husband whining at the thought of earlier — when you so cruelly asked him to feed you in front of your subordinates while you busily ‘worked’ on your projects.

But somehow even with the unbridled embarrassment that you brought to him, Gepard couldn’t help but feel the elation engulf his entirety at the prospect of you showing him off in your own mischievous ways. Even with your busy schedule, you were more than willing to let him come inside your work and take the time off just to let him join you for lunch. He’d already heard enough drama around the neighborhood to be grateful that you can still balance your work with your marriage.

He was grateful to have you as his partner for life. And even then, he wouldn’t mind having to visit you just to feed you. It was certainly a rare thing that he’s heard partners would suggest, so to be given a privilege as seeing you everyday at work was something he would cherish more than ever.

A kiss on his temple knocked his fleeting thoughts off the rail and pulled him back to reality, blinking at your curious smile, “…Shield for your thoughts?” You inquired with a gentle tone, eager to pry just what has got your husband so spacey all of a sudden.

He only grinned before pulling you in for a proper kiss and murmured against your lips, “Just thanking my lucky stars for having you as my husband.”

Now it was your turn to be flustered.

𐂂

SAMPO KOSKI

Your friends still think you’re a legend for even managing to wife up the untamable Sampo. But somehow, you pulled him in and he was more than willing to be a househusband. For more reasons than one.

But let’s get out the pinnacle of his reasons out of the way — it being, him living so comfortably? Financially supported by a handsome guy like you? Sign him up. He’s more than willing to take care of you while you take care of him. He’s a sleazy guy, after all. Wouldn’t wanna get married to a broke man. Kidding.

Anyway, he mostly sells the story of getting married just for benefits for laughs. But really, you’ve somehow managed to actually trap him as a prisoner of love. He’s a huge simp for you and actually considers your high-end job a bonus. A really good bonus. But other than that, you’ve got Sampo completely wrapped around your finger. And he’s a very eager househusband.

A surprisingly good househusband. He’s meticulous in his work and can cook. But what really sells him is how well he can budget and actively get discounts just by smooth talking the vendors in the market. You once went with him, telling him to go nuts and buy everything that he needs, and you came home with only just a good half of your money spent. He was scarily good and from then on, you made an oath to take notes from your husband’s amazing haggling skills.

He’s a very resourceful man. If you need anything, he’s there to lend a hand. He’s always there to fix equipments that break down. Really, you rarely get issues with the things at home, because the moment he senses that there’s something wrong, he’s already on the case. Your husband is a jack of all trades.

All he requires is a small fee of some attention and loving from you. Seriously, he will mope around and will let you know that he’s upset that you forgot to give him a goodbye kiss earlier when you left for work.

You wake up much earlier than he does, but please wake him up. He wants to cook you breakfast and see you off like a loving househusband that he is. He will sulk if you so much as even think of leaving him without waking him up. He’s a big drama queen and unless you make up for it once you get home, he will continue to walk around the house with a pout on his face.

The only way to make this man completely crumble underneath you is to spoil him. He’s working so hard with the upkeep of your shared home! If you take him out on surprise date nights, he will melt. Shower him with lavish gifts from all the money you saved up, courtesy of Sampo’s extreme bargaining. He will latch onto your arm the entire night like your pretty little arm candy (even if he’s taller than you).

Oh, right. You will get sudden visits from Natasha or even Seele and Oleg, just to check up on your married life. They’re mostly just there to whack some sense into Sampo if he’s being difficult to you. Suffice to say, they’re always surprised when they come visit your homely abode that’s clean and has a refreshing atmosphere. Seele plugs her ears every time you say it’s all because of Sampo that your house is even remotely presentable. She’s in denial.

It was a grueling day, leaving you completely vulnerable to the throes of exhaustion. You ought to take some vacation days, maybe go on a different country with your husband for a treat. Surely, he’d like that. You noticed he’s been working just as hard as you at home. Speaking of which — the reason for your home’s unfamiliar silence was in fact the lack of singing from your lively husband. You were so used to hearing his voice that the silence felt incredibly deafening when you were alone.

“Love? You home?” You called out, glancing at the shoe rack by the door to see his outdoor shoes in the same place and the indoor shoes missing. He’s here. You pursed your lips, brushing off the peculiarity and headed to the joint dining room and kitchen, seeing a nice still hot meal sitting on a nice plate. But it was the only thing on the table, no other plates or even a husband waiting on you with a smile. You peered at the food to see a card beside the plate, scribbled with a sad face.

“…What.” You sat the card back down before finally poking your head in the living room, seeing your husband watching another sad show while screwing in some panel from what you can only guess a part of your heater. You sauntered up from behind him, before grabbing his face and tilting his head up to meet your gaze.

He made no noise and had it not been for his evident pout, you would’ve only been left wondering what you did to make him so sulky again. You sighed before leaning to press a kiss against your lips. You could feel him finally smile against the kiss.

“So you still love me?” He asked, insinuating that you felt otherwise for not even giving him a kiss goodbye earlier.

“Not like I have a choice,” was your only cheeky response.

“Wha— Hey!”

𐂂

JING YUAN

Out of everyone, he is probably the most eager one to be a househusband. He is so ready to retire. He’s been moaning about it at work constantly, about how he’s just ready to settle in somewhere nice and be taken care of. And when you decided to finally tie the knot with him, you didn’t even have to ask twice, that man is already turning in his resignation and is already making your shared home even cozier than ever.

He’s a very languid man, but that does not mean he’s going to flake out on chores. He can do them all efficiently just for the sake of getting them out of the way so he can keep relaxing after. That, and of course making sure that you come home to a clean home. Aeons know how stressful it is to come home from work and seeing your own home completely cluttered. Jing Yuan has suffered the same thing before he met you.

Jing Yuan loves you through his cooking other than sleeping in with you. He creates the greatest dishes for you. Often are you eating your lunch with so much pride. Your subordinates would come inside your office during lunchtime to pass some papers and they would see you just completely enjoying life with your husband’s cooking.

He likes to greet you with a nice warm meal after your work. And he’d just watch you eat his meals with a fond smile while you continue to talk about each of your days with each other. Of course, occasionally, he’d open his mouth and you would have to feed him as well. Yanqing would sometimes come home to such a sight and never has he seen a more domestic scene than before.

Another one of his much favored ways to show his love is through after work massages. You’d come home and be completely smothered with love just by his touches. Sometimes he’d give you a nice neck and shoulder massage while you’re eating and talking about your day. Or you could both be lounging on the sofa and he would absentmindedly massage your overworked hands.

However his most favored time spent with you is when you’re on a day off and that he would successfully persuade you into staying a little bit longer in bed with him. Just sleep until the afternoon, with limbs tangled against one another. He loves spooning his husband that takes care of him so dearly. Just feeling your back pressed against his chest while he’s nuzzling his nose into the nape of your neck. Bliss. Utter bliss.

The two of you scream old married couple. Just two old geezers enjoying their lives. It’s really such a relaxing relationship. Being married to Jing Yuan is like a vacation from your problems and him being married to you is an adventure without the nauseating exhaustion.

Yanqing is inadvertently your child the moment you got married to your husband. And suffice to say, you were far more content in your life than you could ever imagine. Never have you felt the genuine happiness swell within you the moment you came home to the two of them cooking together. You still have a slightly motion blurred picture in your phone and neither of them know about it.

Overall the most chill househusband. But even in his passivity, you can feel the radiating warmth of love for you. He just… loves you so much that he’s more than willing to take care of you and the little family that you and him have created. He will wait for you by the door with his half-lidded gaze completely fixated on you with so much adoration. He’s lucky to have you.

You were used to the hectic mornings you often faced upon waking up. It was always a rush job in the morning, speeding through all your morning routine before finally leaving for work. But today was not that day. You could tell from the way the sunlight hit your eyelids. You always left just before the sun could even come up, but right now, you had other plans.

You wanted to prepare a nice breakfast for your husband. He had been working so hard all the time, taking care of you and Yanqing with no days off unlike you. You figured you could get the day started and surprise the both of them with some of your cooking prowess. Suddenly filled with the motivation, you sat up, ready to face the first hour of your time off work for a few days.

However, your plans were soon foiled when a strong arm hooked around your waist and immediately pulled you back down on the bed without even breaking a sweat. You sighed, looking off to the side to see one golden eye peering at you sleepily. Lips turning up into a smile, you shifted to fully face him.

“Can’t even let me make you some breakfast in bed, huh?” You teased with the same fondness as the very first day you and him got married.

A quiet grunt was all your lover gave, only to follow it up with his own gruff response a minute later, “While that sounds nice, I believe I can also reap benefits just from canoodling with my husband for let’s say… until the afternoon.”

Your hands were tied at that point, and with one last charming smile from your dozing husband, you dove into his arms, letting him press some kisses on your face before falling asleep, with you following after.

𐂂

BLADE

No one in this world knows how you managed to charm and marry Blade in the first place. Even his family considers you a miracle worker for bagging the hard to get man. You could only reminisce of the times he would give you the cold shoulder when you tried to ask him out. You were cringe but Blade somehow liked it.

Regardless, he’s one of the reluctant househusbands at first. Blade doesn’t like the feeling of not going out and making money like you. He believes that as long as he can, he will contribute to this relationship. It’s really adorable. And you were supportive of what he wants, but when he realized no one can take care of you while you’re busy being the breadwinner, he decided that he’ll take one for the team and take care of everything in the house instead.

He is meticulous in cleaning. Your house is always sparkling clean the moment you arrive at home. He’s constantly on the hunt for any dust that could taint your shared humble abode. He once read that an unclean house can cause sickness to the occupants, and he has never let a single dust touch a furniture ever since then. Your health is his priority and he will do everything in his power to keep you healthy.

You know what? Screw it, he wears his apron without a care too. He goes out of the house in a pink frilly apron you gifted him as a silly little joke and he’s not ashamed of it. Even Kafka’s incessant teasing isn’t enough to deter him from wearing it. You gave it to him and he loves it. That’s all that matters.

Surprisingly loved by your neighbors. In contrast to his gloomy disposition, he’s always seen around the market and with people’s tendency to draw closer to mysterious handsome men like him, let’s just say he’s managed to unintentionally charm your neighbors. Everyone calls you lucky for getting him, everyone calls him lucky for having a good husband that provides.

Really, he cares so little about the money you make. All he needs is your love and attention. It is imperative that you give him calls on certain times of the day, let him know that you’re still alive at the very least. It’s not like you can’t make do on such a promise either, you loved calling him just to take a break from work for a little while. Even just hearing his quiet grunts of agreement while you gossiped about your subordinates was enough.

He wakes you up… like really early. Super early. Like at least a few hours before you call in for work. His reason? To get enough time with you before you go to work. It’s adorable. You two could be just lounging at the balcony, sipping coffee or tea while you both watch the sunrise.

Speaking of which, with him comes a package. His aforementioned family. Kafka and Silver Wolf’s visits are a must. They are a part of him and now they are a part of you. Kafka could be dropping by just to chat and gossip with you (somehow both of you know a lot about people’s own businesses) or Silver Wolf would just barge in and hog all your game systems (she says no one plays them since you’re both old men so she gets the privilege). Either way you’re already used to it, and one guest room is always at the ready.

Getting married to Blade is honestly the best thing you’ve ever done in your life. You still don’t know how you pulled him, but with him resting on you while the both of you watched shows, showing you his vulnerability tells you that doing so is not an accident or a mistake.

“…Would it kill you to step back a little? It’s hard to cook.”

“But you’re so warm. So soft… so…”

Quite possibly out of all the forms of affections that you’ve expressed towards him, Blade finds your nosy hands cupping around his chest from under his clothes the least practical. Especially when you’re doing it while he’s cooking your breakfast before you’re off for work.

He flipped the omelet with ease despite his claims of difficulty just seconds ago. Of course, it wasn’t as hard when he’s standing still. But on times where he had to go get some things, you in your sleepy daze had to trudge behind him like a shadow just to persistently warm your incredibly cold hands.

Regardless, other than the difficulty in moving, Blade finds it even harder not to burn the kitchen down as his concentration dwindled with every kiss you pressed against his neck, unrelenting and incredibly soft, so filled with love in every individual peck that met his skin. His face turned a rather dark shade of scarlet while you busied yourself with him.

“Keep this up and you’re going to be late.”

“At least it’s extra time with you~” you cooed.

Blade only sighed before leaning against your back, using his free hand to softly knock into the side of your head as his form of half-assed discipline.

Well. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that extra time too.

𐂂

DAN HENG

He’s not so much as a reluctant househusband. In fact, he relishes in the idea of just staying home and doing his work there. He likes the comfort of being able to sit things out for once after having to look after his two gremlins for friends. However, he does want to make sure that you’re always safe when you’re working.

After a lot of reassurances, he finally decides that you can handle your own. He will compensate for it by taking an extremely good care of you and your shared home. And this man does not play around. He’s sort of like Blade, excelling at everything that needs to be done not just because, but it’s to keep you safe. He cooks you healthy meals and scrubs any dirt off the face of the world.

Easily one of the greatest househusbands in the list. Dan Heng has the right temperament and while he’s often aloof to most people, when it comes to you, you could already feel how he seems more lenient, a little softer on you.

He does all his work efficiently to get them over with as fast and as best as he can so he can have time to visit you in your work. If he knows he has time, count on your beloved husband to come and bring you some freshly cooked lunch in your office. Almost everyone in your company already knows who he is. He’s the elusive husband of the big boss, coming in just to bring you some lunch.

Speaking of which, might wanna keep your subordinates in check. Dan Heng is a looker, and the fact that he’s just as considerate, combined with his mysterious nature, people are bound to be more attracted to him. Though honestly, none of their little admiration could measure up to Dan Heng’s love for you.

In his eyes, you are the only one important, right next to his own family with Himeko and the rest. And he will do all that he can to make sure that you’re alright in any aspect of your life. However even with that dedication, it’s also your job to keep him intact. He focuses so much on you that he sometimes forgets to wind down.

Taking him out on something with a serene atmosphere usually does the trick. Bring tons of books to entertain yourselves, and if the stories get too old, you chat about things you have yet to tell each other. Dan Heng really appreciates the effort you put in, investing your time in him despite the fact that you’re running a conglomerate, but even then just a little gesture from you is enough for him to know how grateful you are for his own efforts as well.

Old married couple 2.0. March said so herself when she decided to barge into your home to show you her pictures from her recent travels. She and the raccoon are tied at the tally of visits. Often they just crash just to make sure Dan Heng hasn’t driven you insane yet with his very… unromantic nature. Safe to say March still couldn’t believe that dear old Dan Heng was the first to pop the question in tying the knot.

Speaking of unromantic, your husband does come off as one, often giving you practical solutions than giving you any words of comfort when you’re stressed. And perhaps it’s because you understood that’s his way of romancing you that you and him ended up married in the first place.

Exhaustion was more of a friend than a foe after having to bury yourself in the tower stacks of paperwork. It’s times like these that you had to wonder if running the family company is even worth it.

“I’m too tired to driiiiive,” you whined, looking at the spreadsheets in exasperation.

And as if he had a sixth sense, a knock on your door was heard and you gave the green light with little regard for the person behind the door. You then looked up and almost cried at the sight of your beautiful husband, with two coffees in hand.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” it was all he had to say to prompt what little motivation you had left in your system, letting your sluggish self spring back to life. You bound to him with a grateful smile on your face and greeted him with an embrace.

You took one cup from him and graced him with a kiss on his cheek, “Hang on, let me get some take home work. I need to at least finish a good third of this.”

Your poor husband was a lot more worried than he could let on with his stoic face — seeing you on the ropes, completely hard at work and barely functioning at the sheer exhaustion was almost enough to tempt him into stopping you from bringing home your work. Alas, he supported you regardless and only thought to compensate for your extra work with an even better dinner.

“Anything you want for tonight?” He asked, thoughtful as always.

“Mmm… chicken fried rice?”

“Chicken fried rice it is.”

𐂂

CAELUS

Not a single soul expected for this man to get married. Everyone thought he’d just end up on the streets willingly, constantly rummaging through trash can after trash can, falling in love with one and settling down with it in his own odd way. Surprise surprise, he is now a househusband that digs through the high end trash cans placed inside your shared home.

Quite frankly, if Caelus was being honest, he also did not expect to trip into you and quite literally fall in love. And for you to reciprocate it. He always thought you two were just the best of friends, with you supporting his hobbies with little to no judgment. So imagine his surprise that he keeps feeling every time he wakes up right next to you (and right next to his five foot pillow of a trashcan, but it’s a separate affair on its own).

Moving aside your husband’s very odd addiction of living the life of a trash panda, Caelus is actually a pretty decent househusband. His specialities are mostly the meals he makes for you. They’re always so delicious and is often the highlight of your day even without him around.

He’s very active around the neighborhood and is always armed with the latest news around town. The other stay at home spouses love him. And you were quite surprised to find out that he’s far more connected in the very place you both live in than you could ever be. When you’re free, you’d sometimes accompany him to the market and somehow end up staying very late because a lot of people recognize him and seem to want to chat with him.

Caelus parades you around as his beloved husband and people are just dropping jaws when they realize you have definitely been interviewed in one of those famous magazines about businesses and all that jazz.

Surprisingly, just like Sampo, Caelus is your man when it comes to spending wisely and learning how to haggle. He knows his way around almost everything and even you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself of fishing out such a dashing man that is wise in finances. Good man, honestly.

One fact about him that you like are his skills in caring for children. There’s something so wonderfully domestic whenever you would come home early and see him playing with the children — Hook and Clara, if you can recall. He’s mostly just babysitting for them on days that he’s not completely hammered to death with housework.

His favorite thing to do with you is grocery shopping at night. Just the two of you cruising around every aisle, more often than not, you’d push the cart with him in it getting gradually buried by every item you decided to purchase. It’s a good way to spend some time together while getting something productive done. And perhaps coax you into buying a little more food than you and him intended in the first place. Dan Heng always advices you not to be too swayed by your husband antics… but it’s clearly not working.

Caelus is a silly little man, with his weird eccentric jokes and his equally strange fascination for all things related to trash cans. But it’s probably because of this that you found yourself enamored. He is your respite in the suffocating world of your workforce. He pushes you in situations you never thought would be fun unless he was with you.

“If you loved me, you would’ve gotten ten more boxes of cookies.”

“And if you loved me, you wouldn’t be willingly burying yourself in that cart instead of helping me pick between chocolate or strawberry milk.” You quipped back with a snarky grin, not even bothering to look at your childish husband who continued to be sprawled out in the cart at ten in the evening while you shopped.

Caelus pouted, you always did make good points. It’s why he could never win an argument against you. Or maybe he could… if he wasn’t so completely smitten at the sight of you. You were always seen as the dignified boss of your company, dressed in three piece suits that could suffocate anyone and their wallet.

But here you were, dressed in a loose shirt (likely one of his just judging from the fit) and some pair of joggers that you haphazardly threw on.

Absolutely breathtaking.

He lent out a hand to reach for the carton of flavored milk that you finally chose, adding it onto the pile. He waited until you were at the end of the cart, getting ready to muscle your way through pushing an incredibly heavy cart, courtesy of your husband.

Caelus looked up at you, “Don’t I at least get a kiss for helping out?”

“Cae, I’m dying from pushing you. How ‘bout we entertain that incentive once you got out of the cart and started helping me, hm?”

Maybe he’s just a simp, but how could he deny his demanding husband’s whims?

𐂂

WELT YANG

This old man is the definition of a reluctant retiree. Well, it’s not actually a retirement for him. He still gets to be the voice of reason, only that he won’t actually personally animating. Who’s to blame? You. To be accurate, this old man officially decided to step down from his hands-on job as an animator so he can be a househusband. You’re a priority after all, and only the heavens know how bad you need to be taken care of.

Welt joins the ranks of a godly househusband. He knows his way around almost every single thing that needs to get fixed. His cooking? Top tier. His housework game? Absolute perfection. Floors are swept, counters are wiped and dusted, sheets and clothes are washed and pressed. He is perfect.

And on top of that, he still manages to balance his work from home as the consultant for any new anime that is about to be produced and can still care for you without even breaking a sweat. Old man Welt is always pulling through.

So let’s get this out of the way — actual old married couple. Not just vibes. You two are old men who look at the screen with squinted eyes. Well, only Welt does that while you laugh at him and then proceed to forget where you placed your own phone despite being on it just a few minutes ago.

Regardless, you live a much more balanced life, just two husbands cruising through life with little worries. You live on a good neighborhood, living comfortably and get a lot of visits from yours and Welt’s friends/family. Most of which are from the trio and Himeko. You and Welt always host these family dinners on weekends where everyone is free. Life is good.

However despite all the glamour of living a comfortable life in this marriage, there is one glaring difference between you and Welt — mostly it’s the fact that you have worse time management than he does and often gets the short end of the stick, always pummeled to death with your paperwork that could leave anyone in a fit of raw despair. Welt looked at your work the one time you left to answer a phone call from office and shuddered at the heavy load.

Welt is essentially your clock when it’s time to unwind from work. You have a tendency to overwork at times and it’s something that Welt always makes sure to keep an eye out for. He just wants what’s best for you, and oftentimes, what’s best is for you is to finally get some shuteye after suffering through another overnight that you pulled.

Also, there is an unspoken rule of not letting any man with long blonde hair inside your home. It’s just a house rule. The top of all other house rules in fact, as it takes the most priority in fulfilling.

Regardless, Welt is so… househusband-shaped. He knows what to do as one and does a damn good execution of it all. Maybe it’s because of his compassionate self that you were quick to fall for the old man. He didn’t even have to try and show off, all he had to do was be himself and you’d still give him the world with every penny you’ve earned from your job.

A taut frown tugged onto Welt’s lips as he squinted on the labels from the spices that Himeko sent from her recent overseas trip. Not that he didn’t trust his good friend’s tastes in any form of flavor, it’s only that he wanted to make sure none of it had any ingredient that could probably send you into an anaphylactic shock. Yes, he is this meticulous when it comes to you.

Alas, his cautiousness grants no extra clear sight in viewing the labels and he struggled, holding them in different proximities. Are the characters really that small intentionally or are they so incoherent because they manufacturers made an error in the sizing the font before printing it on the packaging.

Fortunately for him, you came into the rescue as you plucked the packaging from his hands. Welt didn’t need to look up to see the same smug smile plastered on your face whenever you’d catch him doing the same thing to his phone. Well, he loved looking at you so he did it nonetheless.

“Having trouble again, old man?” You teased and Welt only had to sigh in response. “Is this from Himeko’s package?”

Your endeared husband nodded, “Of course. I had to see what else she gave us. And I’m looking over the ingredients so I can keep you out of the hospital as best as I can.” He turned to the stove and lowered the heat. “Now kindly read it for me, dear.”

You only nodded, flipping over the packet, “Sure thing.”

There was a silence that followed, with Welt expecting you to run your mouth about the ingredients already. He looked back to you…

…And saw you squinting at the same bundle of text that he’s been staring at.

Welt scoffed, playful and light in nature, “And you call me old.”

“It’s the manufacturer’s fault…!!”

#you’d think i learned my lesson after doing the shivers with 8 characters. but nope. Here we are with seven.#OOH. now i wanna make an hsr men version of the shivers scenario thingy that i made for the tall genshin men #jhuzen’s stupid hcs #hsr x male reader #honkai star rail x male reader #gepard x male reader #sampo x male reader #jing yuan x male reader #blade x male reader #dan heng x male reader #caelus x male reader #welt yang x male reader

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themastaralex · 2 months ago

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the eldest daughters:

second chapter to this fic!! been a month since i last uploaded a chapter lmao, anywho, enjoy this, and enjoy otto being a fucking prick

and forgive me if I mischaracterized alicent, please

TW: targcest (between cousins), depictions of blood and aftermath of birth, OTTO

Summary: The aftermath of Viserys's choice of who to save doesn't come without consequences- because now the king has no male heirs aside from his brother to take his throne after him, and his wife is likely incapable of bearing him any more children. But he chose her, and he'll be damned if he changes his mind just to impregnate her again and definitely lose her. A funeral occurs, and as always, everyone else has their own agenda, from Daemon to Otto.

Chapter 2: Burning Like A Flame

Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Harrold Westerling escort the princesses and their lady friend to the Queen’s apartments, where they enter, the pair of Kingsguard knights staying right outside the door to give them some privacy.

The first thing they see is the maids and servants carrying away heavily bloodied sheets, as they walk a bit more in and see Viserys clinging onto Aemma’s right hand as he kneeled at the floor, next to the side of the bed. Of course, she looks as if she’s barely hanging on, because she is, but the maesters in the room and some other servants are tirelessly working to at least bring her to a stable condition before doing anything else.

Aemma’s eyes are glazed over, likely from the milk of the poppy and the birth, in which she lost Baelon- the heir that Viserys so desperately had wanted for years, even after the birth of his only daughter, who SHOULD be his heir. If having a cock between your legs was all that determined it, Rhaenyra would be heir every time she was aroused.

The three girls just watch the commotion in the room, along with feeling like they shouldn’t be there; mostly a feeling that Alicent is feeling however, seeing as she’s not blood related to either the Queen or the King. Regardless, it makes not just Alicent uncomfortable, but you and Rhaenyra as well. Although, that’s because of the fact that Aemma is lying in that bed, in pain, as three teenage girls witness this.

Viserys seems to take just a moment to breathe and look at the girls at the door of the entrance to the apartments, his eyes almost bloodshot red, looking at each of them for a moment, before speaking to them with a weak, almost broken voice. “You three… should not be witnessing this.” He says it more out of concern than aggravation, even though that tone is still there too, even if minorly.

Out of the three of you, it’s Alicent who takes the words more to heart, slightly nodding her head and body before walking backwards out of the door. She doesn’t want to upset Viserys more than he already looks like he is, and she doesn’t exactly have ‘royal immunity’ like you and Rhaenyra do, so she leaves first, with Ser Lorent and Ser Harrold watching her for a moment before looking inside to you and Rhaenyra; who are almost frozen like statues.

Because what you see on that bed is exactly what both of you are dreading; childbirth– or perhaps, the part that could lead to death. Because you both know it won’t be Rhaenyra getting pregnant with your two’s children. It’ll be you. And watching Aemma in that bed, half-dead and well on her way to death via blood loss, doesn’t make it better.

“Ser Lorent, Ser Harrold! Escort the princesses out!” Viserys would say, forcing the two Kingsguard knights to gently take their respective charges out of the room, and close the door behind them.

You’re just standing there now, in the hallway with Alicent, Rhaenyra, Ser Lorent, and Ser Harrold, thinking about that scene. It wasn’t particularly gruesome at that point, since they had already taken away the bloodied sheets and most of what had Aemma’s blood on it. But she kept bleeding.. From down there no less. And that scared the both of you. Because all that Rhaenyra could do while her mother is practically dying on that bed is nothing. Because she froze.

“I-I’m sure the Queen will be okay..” Alicent tries to console them, mainly Rhaenyra, as she’s just reeling. For one, she heard her brother died during childbirth- the heir her father wanted- second, her mother, and third, not even you, who is always so bold and snarky, can speak at all after witnessing that.

You just blink, looking back up at Alicent as your mouth slightly opened to try to talk. Your lips slightly twitch as you attempt something, but you just slightly shake your head and close your mouth, swallowing down a particularly hard bit of saliva, harshly gulping as you turn around to walk toward your chambers; Ser Lorent following.

Rhaenyra isn’t too far off from you, being in the relative same boat, scared quite a bit, and not able to say much, “Um.. I think we should probably not be here anymore.” She said quietly, walking a bit behind you, Ser Harrold trailing her as well, as Alicent walked with both of you.

— — — — —

The funeral for who was– and would have been– Prince Baelon, Prince of Dragonstone, was held weeks after his actual death, after Aemma could at least sit up and be awake without milk of the poppy to soothe her intense pains. Syrax was the one to light the wooden pyre with baby Baelon’s small body on it, so small you could almost miss he was there, cloaked in white.

“Dracarys, Syrax.” She said, and Syrax let out a long burst of dragonfire, as you gently placed a hand on her shoulder from behind, making sure to let her know you’re there. Of course, no one wants to have their dragon burn their sibling’s corpse, but it was better than if Aemma had died alongside him. It’s a blessing and curse at the same time.

Softly, you spoke to her in High Valyrian, “Iksan vaoreznuni.” ‘I’m sorry.’ And you mean it, because not only is Viserys barely even looking at her, but he hasn’t made a move to console her, likely being ‘too preoccupied’ with getting Aemma back to good health, as if he’s a fucking maester who does any of the actual work.

Rhaenyra just wears a sad frown on her lips, almost crying, but not quite, as she spoke to you, quietly and softly back, “Trēsy dōrī kesan.” ‘I will never be a son.’ Because yes, she’ll never be the son Viserys wanted or needed.

“Nyra..” You brought your hand down from her shoulder, tentatively going to hold her hand in yours.

For a few moments, she didn't do anything, just staring at the open flames of the pyre, distracted with her own feeling of inadequacy, of not having been born a son.

But she feels a warmth in her hand, your hand clasped in hers, with both of your hands holding one of hers– not because there's a huge size difference, but because you want to make sure she knows you're there, to talk, for her, or whatever she needs.

And that's really what makes a tear or two fall down her cheek, quickly wiping it with her free hand before gently squeezing your hand back, smiling a bit despite the hurt and other feelings she's facing.

You can share the same feeling of inadequacy with her; of not having been born a son. It's something that plagues all firstborn daughters, especially when in positions of their standing, of princesses who are supposed to be subservient and obedient, and do as their fathers say until they're married off to their husbands to do as they say.

You, in particular, are plagued with being like your father. His anger, his arrogance, his ambition, but in a woman, and even worse, in an omega.

Rhaenyra at least has some slack on the rope to be rash and snarky and rude– you don't, or you shouldn't, in theory. But your name, your appearance, your skills, your DRAGON, all give you that power and slack that many girls and women both as betas and omegas don't receive.

Rhaenyra smiles even through looking over at her side, behind her a bit, where Aemma is seated in a wooden wheelchair, with Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, behind her, handling and pushing her around, probably, as Viserys stands next to her, looking very sullen. His eyes are a bit irritated and bloodshot, as if he's been crying for the past few days, on top of worrying for Aemma. It looks like it's made him age years in a matter of weeks.

But he won't look at Rhaenyra. He still hasn't, and has had only the most basic conversations with her, if any at all for the past weeks.

It's not like Rhaenyra really talks to him too often about matters other than when she kind of needs to, seeing as he's the King and he's busy quite a bit, so she's relatively used to this. But used to it doesn't mean she likes it. He won't even look at her, for fuck's sake.

She catches sight of her mother, looking still quite weak, with a bit of color having returned to her skin- but her own face and eyes look very sunken in, from the lack of good sleep, likely, and from yet another stillborn child that she had to witness being taken by the Stranger.

Rhaenyra wonders if you and her will be as unlucky as her mother and her father- although, not being wedded since both of you were less than 14 is good, since early pregnancies is what caused her mother to lose so many and currently be in a chair everywhere she goes. But she knows you both won’t be so unlucky. ‘You’re strong, tough’, she thinks, slightly turning her head to look at you next to her.

You don’t look particularly devastated, just a bit sad, which she supposes would be an appropriate response. You were looking at the flames burning the wood and Baelon’s body, until you felt Rhaenyra’s eyes on you, and you turned your head to look at her; your expression lightening up from its tight state as you met her eyes.

You were family, cousins, before either of you thought of each other as anything else. As children.. As children, both of you were little sassy idiots who always gave the septas and the servants trouble.

Her eyes, that perfect soft shade of lilac, that you claim are so much more different than your father’s eyes, or your eyes, or Viserys’ eyes- are always beautiful to look at. You can remember the first time you looked into them, as a child.

Both you and Rhaenyra sit on the floor in a living area of the Red Keep, coloring or playing as you both mostly kept to yourselves. You’ve both known each other since you were young babes, and that most definitely adds to the annoyance factor, because of the fact that both of you can piss each other off so easily.Rhaenyra’s just coloring something on a piece of parchment with some charcoals, probably something to show her mother to cheer her up after a rough day. You play with a few wooden soldiers and a dragon plushie, in which the dragon promptly burns the soldiers, because what are a bunch of knights compared to a dragon?

Ashes in the wind, that’s what.

After you finish playing, you look over at Rhaenyra and her drawing, which you can’t really tell what it is, you barely know how to draw too.“What is that?” You ask, breaking the silence as you stand and walk next to her with a soldier in one hand and the dragon in the other. Rhaenyra turns her head to the side and up to look at you, before looking back at her unfinished drawing which even she doesn’t know what she’s made.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, her voice being slightly sad now that she realizes she didn’t exactly draw something even she could recognize. You look down at it, pouting your lips for a few moments while thinking, before grinning and sitting down next to her.“I know what it is!” You say in childish innocence, which prompts her to look at you with a curious gaze. “It’s a dragon!” You proclaim, looking from the paper to her, into her eyes for a second. Or perhaps more than just a second.You had almost no filter as a child, so you say, “Your eyes are pretty. Wish mine were like that.” Rhaenyra stays silent for a bit, keeping her curious gaze on you, as she pointed at you, looking a bit confused with your second remark.

“You have pretty eyes too.”

It was just childhood innocence in the manner you both so easily spoke of one another’s eyes, since neither of you seemed to had realized you both technically had the same color eyes, the light lilac purple of Valyrian descent back then, because you were children of 5 or 6 years old. And other than the times when you were both forced in close proximity of one another, such as in portraits, you were pretty good with one another.

She smiled slightly, despite everything, and despite herself in this moment. But she knows it’s because you’re there for her. More than her father, more than her uncle, and more than her mother- even though she’s not counting her on account of her being bedridden, and likely both mentally and physically tired.

But you, you, her cousin, someone she thought of as a sister (even though she hates thinking of both of you like that on account of what you two have between you), her betrothed since childhood, and her future wife and omega, is there. Always has been, and that’s something she takes for granted sometimes, truthfully.

“Iksā vok hae iksā naejot nyke.” ‘You are perfect as you are to me.’ You say to her, warmly looking at her, as you kept your hands clasped together. She softly smiled, despite that feeling of never being enough for her father. Rhaenyra may be stubborn, and all sorts of impulsive, but she wouldn’t be her if she wasn’t. As well as if she wasn’t a woman, Rhaenyra wouldn’t be herself, and you wouldn’t exactly love her as she is now.

She wouldn’t be your Nyra.

— — — — —

After the funerary, Rhaenyra’s first order of business is to see her mother, to go check on her in the midst of all this, and in the midst of her recovery. Perhaps seeing her might give her some sort of relief, or perhaps ease her mind a bit, knowing she still has her sweet Rhaenyra, even if she’s lost so many other children.

Her second is talking with you. Just about anything, nothing in particular. She just wants to make sure she has you with her, that she has your loyalty, your shoulder to lean on, and your love, above most else.

But of course, she’s not dependent on that, nor on her mother’s approval and love from her as well. She could care less about Daemon- he’s a scumbag. She only tolerates him because he’s your father, and her uncle. And don't even get her started on her father. He ignores her, doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t speak to her unless absolutely necessary, and is just an overall cunt.

After getting back to the Red Keep, she doesn’t go straight to her mother’s chambers, seeing as it’ll take some time for her to be taken up there, so she just heads back to her own chambers, with Ser Harrold following her to the door.

“My princess, are you sure you’re alright?” He asked, sounding like a soft old grandsire in his concern for Rhaenyra, as she was already past the threshold into her rooms, staying at the door before answering to him.

“Yes, I’m alright. Just please inform me as to when my mother is back in her chambers. I would like to visit her.” Rhaenyra said, weakly smiling at Ser Harrold, trying her hardest to seem better than earlier, but it’s tough enough actually doing it when you’re not there to at least smile back at her.

He just nodded, allowing Rhaenyra to enter and close the door behind her. From there, he stood guard at the door, noticing people passing by, guards, many people. He’s worried for Rhaenyra, as any guardian would be for their charge, but he’s known her and taken care of her since she was a child. He feels as though he has a familiar bond with her, something fatherly in nature. He knows you and Ser Lorent have a relationship bordering on fatherly as well. It’s just in the nature of this sort of protection between a young charge and their much older protector.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything else, however. He enjoys keeping an eye on Rhaenyra, and sometimes you, by extension, because the two of you used to get up to no good. Both Ser Harrold and Ser Lorent were surprised every time they caught the two of you’s aftermath of whatever you did. But they protect their princesses with their lives above all else.

And they do that. That’s why they’ve been Kingsguard for as long as they have, and why when Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne dies, Ser Harrold will take his place because he’s trustworthy.

Rhaenyra, on the other hand, is just sitting, contemplating nothing much, other than about her mother, her ‘failure’ of being the male successor her father wanted and needed, and her future, with you, probably. Plus smelling the traces of your soft and mud-like scent on her hand.

Gods, she loves it. She loves your scent. She loves you. She has since you were children. It wasn't an overnight type of thing, neither a love at first glance into one another's eyes.

But it was a love that developed because of learning one another's quirks and mannerisms, and one another's levels of stubbornness, and what would make the other snap easiest. Rhaenyra supposes that's why she hates you and loves you at the same damn time.

Because you both know so well how to piss the other off, when to stop, and when to ask ‘are you okay?’. That's just the kind of affection you hold for each other. Your upbringing together most definitely influenced how you show your love and affection toward each other.

But you, your scent, your everything, is something that's always something else to her. Both of you are only young and far from mature, but the manner in which she looks at you– as if you hung the moon and stars– tells all that needs to be said. The eyes are the gateway to the soul, and there's nothing more truthful than the gaze of someone on the one that they love.

And you… You look at her as if she's your whole entire world, but you'll deny this heavily, always. It's no fun if you just give in anyways, so teasing Rhaenyra is a good alternative.

Rhaenyra softly smiled and partly cringed, placing her hand back into her lap, because she was sniffing her damn palm. Gods be good, she was sniffing her palm just to smell the traces of your scent. She is absolutely, horrifically, and unfortunately (for her), swooning and head over heels for you, even when she's supposed to be the one making you swoon and be all head over heels for her.

Her right hand moves to her left to play and fiddle with the rings on her fingers for a bit, looking at the betrothal ring on her left ring finger. Rhaenyra doesn't manage and neither wants to suppress the smile on her face, because soon enough, you'll be hers, and she'll be yours, as wife and wife, and mated alpha and omega.

— — — — —

After the funeral, your father summoned you to speak with him in his chambers, which you agreed to, in the excitement of getting to argue with him– he’s funny when he’s mad in that annoyed way, because you know he wouldn’t hurt you, no matter how much he might think about it.

Ser Lorent stood outside of the door, but he’s primed and ready to come inside and fight Daemon if he did anything, or if he heard anything, or if he heard you asking for him or for his help. He’s kind of like your older brother, if your older brother were a man sworn to protect you out of duty for the crown, in which he developed genuine affection toward you as a sibling.

“Alerys.” Daemon greeted, having already been seated in a plush couch near the fireplace. He motions his hand to the chair across from him with his pointer and middle finger.

“I'm sure you've seen your aunt and her current.. state.” It's not like Daemon to make much small talk, so you listen, with just nodding your head in confirmation that you're listening. “There’s hope she’ll recover, as expected.” He says that, but sounds oddly cryptic, as if he’s not thinking of Aemma as much as he should probably worry about his cousin and brother’s wife.

“But it’s likely she won’t bear your uncle any more heirs.” And that’s what he means. Without a son, Daemon stays as Viserys’s heir, and by inheritance that Daemon firmly believes should go to the eldest child regardless of gender, you would be the heir to the throne after him. And this is what Daemon wants: legacy. You’d be the first queen in her own right and eighth ruler of Westeros after him.

“Yes.. I know that. Everyone knows that.” You say, watching him with bated breath, because he has a meaning for that, he always does.

— — —

Across the Red Keep, out of Maegor’s Holdfast and into the Tower of the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, sits at his desk signing some letters with his signet ring and wax seal, waiting for his daughter to come in due to his summons.

“Mm.” He muttered to himself, reading some of the letters sent to him, as Alicent came into the chamber, still dressed in the black dress she wore to the funeral. He looked up at her as she crossed the threshold of the doors, moving to stand up and walk to her to gently hug her for a moment.

Alicent gladly takes the hug, not thinking much of it other than the hug itself. After a few seconds of it, they pull back, enough for Otto to bring his hands to rest on Alicent’s deltoids and look at her with an oddly soft look for him.

“Daughter, how are you holding up?” He softly asked, looking at her with warm eyes- which is a bit odd, Alicent supposes, but she doesn’t take it for granted. She looked up at him with a small frown on her face, almost unnoticeable and could be mistaken as her normal expression. Yet her eyes do tell of a bit more of sadness, for the queen, for the king, and for Rhaenyra.

Her father hasn’t been this warm or kind with her since her mother died, so it’s a welcome surprise. “I’m alright. I’m more worried about Rhaenyra’s mother.” Otto nods at Alicent’s concern for the queen, since it’s all he’s heard about from anyone for the past few weeks, ‘Her Grace hasn’t been feeling well,’ or ‘Her Grace needs to rest well to regain her strength.’ But Otto knows very well it will take a miracle for Aemma to recover, or very well near one. He knows this very well because it’s been weeks, and she still hasn’t been able to stand by herself, neither walk– in his eyes, the poor woman is an invalid already, not that he’d say it out loud.

He’s just.. Waiting now. For her to die, as insensitive as that sounds. He had to be cunning, or else how would he have became and been the Hand of the King for as long as he has been already? Through being kind and naive? No. He’s taken what he’s wanted, by manipulation, cunning, or worse methods. He’s a second son, he would inherit no lands, no great castle, nothing beyond what his brother might offer him out of pity.

“Yes, the queen. Her condition is..” ‘Unfortunate for her, inevitable, perfect?’ He thought, but decided to not voice that out loud, especially not to his teenage daughter, but he finished his sentence after a momentary pause, “..quite saddening to see.”

Alicent noticed the small pause, even if it was only for a moment, ever so slightly narrowing her eyes. “Very. And I’m sure it was made worse by her son’s death..” There’s a clear tone of pity and sympathy in Alicent’s voice, as if she’s talking right to Aemma and not her father. Regardless, Otto nodded, listening to her, but then going on to almost completely disregard her words and worry.

“Yes, unfortunately Her Grace, the queen’s, condition isn’t exactly getting better. But she is not getting worse either.” He just tells Alicent what he knows– most of it anyway. Aemma’s condition isn’t actively getting worse, but she isn’t trying hard enough to recover her own will, and from there her body. Alicent just looks up at him with a small frown, seeing as this could get worse, judging from Otto’s tone and his very handpicked specifically chosen words.

“And unfortunately for the king, he still has no son.” Alicent now looks at Otto with a curious expression, confused, almost. “There are doubts she will bear him any more children in her condition.”

Oh. That’s why he wanted to talk. Alicent should’ve known, she should’ve known he didn’t actually want to know how she was and how she felt, not without ulterior motives– Gods, she should’ve known.

Otto keeps his hands on Alicent’s deltoids, looking down at her with a more neutral expression than before when he had a somewhat caring look on his face, even if it was fake. Even if it was fake, she could have dealt with that. But he’s not even trying to fake his concern or care for her feelings.

His tone is even, composed, almost monotone; as if he’s practiced these lines forever, “Rhaenyra; she needs your comfort, Alicent.”

“…” That makes Alicent speechless, because is he really telling her to seduce one of her best friends? She just stares at him as if he’s gone crazy– because the old man probably has. There is no way in his right damn mind that he’d genuinely ask her to do that, right?

Otto just watches his daughter’s reaction, or lack thereof, and sighs as he keeps a gentle but firm hold on her. “Rhaenyra would do well with a girl’s comfort. A girl in nearly the same boat as her.” He refers to Rhaenyra almost losing Aemma, and then Alicent having actually lost her own mother.

And ‘a girl’s comfort’? What does he even mean by that? Rhaenyra has you. Well, you all have one another, but you two are the ones who are betrothed and have been since childhood, and grew up together, and are attached at each other’s hips. You’re a girl. And she saw how you comforted Rhaenyra earlier as she burnt Baelon’s small body on the pyre. She can’t come between that– it’d be almost impossible, not to mention stupid, moronic, and definitely going against the king’s orders.

“Rhaenyra would much more prefer a more.. feminine.. comfort, rather than how Princess Alerys would comfort her.” He says, trying to ease Alicent into the idea that she’d be simply comforting Rhaenyra, as opposed to doing anything else. And with the way he only uses Rhaenyra’s name and not her title as well is another thing meant to ease her in.

But the way her father phrased it made it sound as if he disapproved of the match between you and Rhaenyra, especially with the way he spoke of Alicent being a more feminine comfort for Rhaenyra, as opposed to yourself who seems brash, rude, boyish, and most definitely not exactly the definition of femininity. Through, Alicent rather doubts you’d try to argue with Otto about him thinking you’re rather masculine, and Rhaenyra wouldn’t either, but that’s part of your charm, as Rhaenyra would probably say.

“But, Father.. It’s not really my place to…” Alicent tries to argue her point across, only to be cut off and stopped as soon as her final word left her lips with a firm tone, “Alicent, you are her friend. One of her best friends. The Princess Alerys will likely be too busy with her…” He pauses, mulling over his words because how he speaks of you could make or break this plan, “..training, and activities.”

Alicent just watched him for a bit, because then again, a little comfort never did anyone any wrong, did it? She doesn’t even have to do what she thinks her father is implying. She doesn’t have to. You and Rhaenyra are promised to one another regardless, and her father’s ideas won’t break that– of course they won’t. You and her have a strong bond, so, so, strong.

She harshly swallows something down– she’s not sure if it’s just saliva, or if it’s bile, or if it’s nothing, but she sheepishly smiles for a split-second, shame almost instantly filling her heart in the manner of heat passing through her. “Perhaps..” She starts, still with that almost shame-filled and awkward smile on her lips, with Otto fighting the urge to smile ever so slightly, “Perhaps just making sure she’s okay is best.”

She doesn’t want to fully upset her father, especially when he’s asking something relatively innocent of her; to comfort Rhaenyra and see if she’s okay, even if she knows that by the look on his face, he possibly intended for more..

After Alicent gives her confirmation of her going to speak to Rhaenyra and ‘comfort’ her, Otto wears a fake warm smile and pats Alicent’s shoulder with his hand, letting her leave the embrace once he turns around to go back to his desk and sit down.

“And do be nice. I’m sure Princess Rhaenyra doesn’t like her omegas to be stubborn fighters.”

And those words cemented Alicent’s fate in this plan.

#house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #wlw #alicent hightower #hotd rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra x reader #daemon targaryen #otto hightower #lesbian #rhaenyra targaryen x female reader #female targaryen reader #syrax

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