#otto hightower fan fic

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter One

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical death and mild angst. Word count: ~8.4k

Chapter summary: Lia suffers bitter disappointment at the king's tourney, and finds herself uncertain of her future in the wake of an unexpected shift in dynamic.

Series masterlist

Author's note: Header by @vampire-exgirlfriend who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The wheels of the carriage squeaked and rattled over the bumpy roads of King’s Landing, accompanied by the thumping of the horses’ hooves that pulled them towards their destination. Lia shifted uncomfortably, repositioning against the plush cushions that she sat upon. It was not the instability of their short journey towards the Dragonpit that irked her, however.

Click. Click. Click.

She cast her gaze down towards Alicent’s fingers, the sound of her nails moving against her skin was audible even over the din of the wheelhouse. The flesh was red, raw and bloodied, and Lia had to force herself to suppress the way her lips attempted to curl in disgust, instead leaning forward to place her own hand over top of Alicent’s, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that halted her friend’s nervous habit.

Alicent smiled softly at her, but Lia could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was embarrassed at having been caught outwardly expressing her anxiety. Lia could not help but pity her, she had plenty to feel worried about herself, but had never allowed it to manifest itself in such an unseemly manner.  House Costayne was sworn to the Hightowers, and so it was no question that Lia, youngest daughter of Lord Owen Costyane, would serve as a companion to Lady Alicent, the young daughter of the Hand of the King. Whisked away from the Whispering Sound at the age of six, the two years in Oldtown had been extraordinary—the largest port in the Reach, full of bustling excitement and things to see, all temptations to a precocious and formerly sheltered little girl. When King Viserys took the throne, Lord Otto called his daughter to the capital to be a companion to the young princess and of course, Lia joined as part of Alicent's household.

At the age of fourteen, she had spent more of her life away from her family than with them. They were leagues away, and the memory of the castle in which she was born was but a distant memory. The silver chalice and black rose that adorned the Costayne House sigil felt more tangible to her than the faces of either her mother or father.

She could not pretend that she had suffered in their absence though; she had had every luxury she could ever desire at her disposal, and though her family were far away, at least they still lived. Alicent had suffered through the loss of her mother, and had to keep her composure through all of it. The royal court was no place for the weeping and wailing of a young girl. Lia supposed that if she had been forced to endure that, then she would likely have taken to picking her nails bloody too.

The death of Alyrie Florent had brought Lia and Alicent closer together, and with it their shared bond with Princess Rhaenyra had blossomed too. Lia helped to bring Alicent out of her shell, allowing her an outlet for behaviours that were otherwise considered unseemly for a young lady at court; they gossiped, laughed loudly, and did so with the unspoken bond of secrecy that runs like an invisible thread through the fabric of friendship. Alicent had a calming influence on both Lia and Rhaenyra, serving as the voice of reason that helped to keep them out of trouble–most of the time. Oftentimes, it would take but a look from Alicent for both girls to know they had gone too far, a trait she had doubtless inherited from her father. It had taken just a simple widening of those big brown eyes to halt Lia and Rhaenyra’s ascent up through the branches of the Heart Tree in the Godswood; a foolish attempt to gain a vantage point in order to spy through the higher windows of the Red Keep, that would likely have resulted in broken limbs. Rhaenyra shared Alicent’s knowledge of propriety, though not her love of it, and the wild, adventurous side of her played well with Lia’s, her status as The Realm’s Delight allowing them a margin more leniency than most would be afforded. 

The three girls were inseparable, yet in the unwavering foundations of their bond, Lia had never felt more uncertain about her own future. Otto clearly had plans for Alicent, and Rhaenyra’s comfort was secured in her position as the King’s daughter, however, no such fate awaited Lia. She was every bit the spare part, aware of the fact that her destiny is one she will have to build on her own. As such, she delights in being Otto’s confidant, sharing news of the movements of Rhaenyra and Alicent in exchange for his favour. It had begun innocently enough, a fatherly figure taking an interest where the patriarch of her own family was unable to. She had taken pride in recounting her lessons to him, beaming up at him with girlish exuberance as he had listened carefully, amusement glittering in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that he had any ulterior motive, and so the unspoken vow of secrecy she afforded Alicent slipped in front of her father, allowing him to be privy to the gossip they indulged in and the adventures that they embarked upon with Rhaenyra within the walls of the Red Keep. As Lia had grown older, she had started to suspect that Otto’s questions served a deeper purpose than simple interest, however, it did not deter her; acting as a confidant to the King’s Hand would not be without its advantages. She hoped that when the time was right, the loyalty of both her and her family would not be forgotten.

The wheelhouse pulled to a shuddering stop just outside of the Dragonpit, and Lia moved to push the door open, stopping as they were plunged into sudden darkness. A forceful gust of air shook the carriage. They had arrived just in time for Rhaenyra’s return on Syrax. Lia and Alicent hovered apprehensively by the door, waiting until they heard their friend’s dragon thump heavily against the earth, before tentatively peeking out. Lia was brave enough to descend the small set of wooden steps to the ground below, while Alicent opted to remain in the safety of the wheelhouse, standing in its doorway.

She could not help but feel envious of Rhaenyra, watching as she slid gracefully from the back of her golden dragon, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth, staring up at the great beast in admiration as it was coaxed back to the pit by the dragon keepers. Lia longed for the sense of adventure and freedom that the princess experienced high above the clouds of King’s Landing, the walls of the Red Keep felt as much a cage as they were an extravagance at times.

Though as Rhaenyra drew closer, the sulfurous stench of dragon radiating from her leathers, Lia wrinkled her nose in repulsion, deciding that if she were to experience freedom then she certainly had no desire for it to be atop the back of a dragon.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, nodding towards the dragon’s retreating form. “She will soon be as large as Caraxes.”

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra replied with a grin.

“I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent quipped, the gentle smile reserved only for Rhaenyra spreading across her mouth.

“And you?” Rhaenyra regarded Lia with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground, I am afraid.”

Rhaenyra tutted. “Cowards, both of you,” she jested, stomping up the carriage steps.

The three of them huddled together on the same seat on the way back to the castle, talking excitedly about which knights they expected to be in attendance for the tourney being hosted by King Viserys in honour of the impending birth of Queen Aemma’s second child.

Their laughter carried through the Keep’s corridors as the three of them walked back towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, linked arm in arm, Rhaenyra sandwiched between Alicent and Lia.

While Alicent and Lia reclined comfortably on couches, nibbling on candied lemon slices, Rhaenyra went to change out of her riding gear. The two exchanged a surprised glance as she reappeared in a yellow gown, much too quickly to have bathed. Lia could not imagine being allowed to conduct herself at court smelling quite so pungent; it was a privilege only afforded to royalty. Her and Alicent had to always present themselves as clean and well groomed, a necessity that Lia did not mind at all. She was well aware of her own beauty, and took a level of care with her appearance that bordered upon outright vanity. She would never dream of being seen outside of her chambers without her long, dark curls having been meticulously brushed and styled. Whereas Rhaenyra, Lia often thought, could have been mistaken for one of the scullery maids were it not for the finery she dressed it. She was lucky she was pretty.

Rhaenyra swept into the Queen’s apartments, leaving her friends to stand awkwardly in the doorway, looking in on the queen and her ladies. They both greeted Aemma courteously, and she responded with a polite hello and a strained smile. 

A sense of unease crept over Lia’s flesh at the sight of Aemma, fanning herself as she lay on the settee by the open balcony windows. She looked more uncomfortable every time she saw her. It was not a state she wished for herself, though it was an inevitability. Such was the role of a woman, though Lia hoped her fate would be one more fortunate; she was all too aware of the fruitless pregnancies that Aemma had endured prior to this one.

“Take a bath, you stink of dragon,” Aemma gently scolded her daughter.

Lia bowed her head, concealing the way her lips curved upwards in amusement, suddenly pretending that the golden stitching of her ivory coloured gown was the most interesting thing in the world. She kept her blue eyes fixed upon the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the delicate golden rings upon the fingers of her left hand. At last, someone was saying it aloud. A statement only a queen could get away with saying to a princess.

Rhaenyra ignored her mother, settling beside her. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.”

The princess huffed. “How long?”

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” The queen’s voice was tired, though of the pregnancy or of this oft repeated conversation, Lia could not tell.

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Lia lost herself in her thoughts as Rhaenyra conversed with her mother, continuing to twist the rings upon her fingers and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, as her mind conjured scenarios she would prefer not to dwell upon. She wished for a secure position in life, but did not want to be confined to the birthing bed. She longed for power, to have authority, over herself, surely, and perhaps over others, yet did not share the princess’ desire to fight in battle. Her days of climbing trees and skinned knees were well behind her.

She was roused from her thoughts as Rhaenyra hurried past her.

“Where are you going?” Alicent called after her.

“I am late!” She replied over her shoulder, running in the direction of the Small Council chamber.

Lia propped herself up on her elbow, lying on her side as she watched Alicent carefully stitch delicate powder blue flowers into the fabric suspended within her embroidery hoop. Her own lay discarded beside her, she had given up when the thread had become knotted, in no mood to attempt to fix it.

“Alicent…” she began slowly, “do you ever think about why your father wanted to bring you to King’s Landing?”

Alicent kept her eyes upon her needlepoint, her tone matter of fact as she continued her work. “To instruct me in what is expected of a highborn lady.”

Lia huffed, leaning across and tugging Alicent’s sleeve to get her full attention. “Yes, but why?”

The other girl sighed, lowering her embroidery hoop into her lap and fixing Lia with an exasperated stare. “To give me the best possible opportunities in life, so that an appropriate match may be made for me.”

“And that is enough for you, is it? To simply be married off to a man who is not of your choosing?”

She lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “My mother did not choose my father, and yet they were very happy.”

“But is that what you want?”

“What is it that you are trying to get at?”

Lia hummed, flopping down onto her back against the plush rug that they sat upon in the solar, clasping her hands across her front as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “I am unsure of my own purpose, what it is that I want.”

Alicent nodded in understanding. “Well, there will be plenty of eligible knights at the upcoming tourney. Gwayne is going to be there,; he is competing in the jousting.”

She scoffed, recalling the gangly boy of ten, a mop of hair the colour of rust, that they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. “Ah, yes, how fares your older brother?” she asked, turning her head to the side to look at her friend.

“He is a knight now,” Alicent said proudly, “and quite handsome too.”

“Handsome?! How would you know?”

“He tells me so in his letters.”

The pair burst into peals of laughter, stopping abruptly as Otto stalked into the room, casting a disapproving glance at both of them. “Do the pair of you not have lessons to attend this afternoon?”

“We were waiting for Rhaenyra, so that we might all go together,” Alicent said apologetically, scrambling to her feet and smoothing the skirts of her dress down.

Lia rolled her eyes, knowing their fun was over, and rose to her feet too, running her fingers through her dark curls, rumpled from having laid upon the floor.

“Well, the Small Council has concluded its business for the day, and with it Rhaenyra’s duties as cupbearer, so run along. Do not keep your septa waiting.”

“Yes, Father,” Alicent said quietly, making her way out of the solar. The skirts of her pale blue gown swished behind her, the cascade of her auburn hair down back appearing as Autumnal leaves against a cloudless sky.

Lia readied to follow suit when Otto reached out, gently grasping her forearm and halting her movements. “I trust you are behaving yourselves?”

“Always,” she said with a saccharine smile, moving to pull away from him.

He tightened his grasp, and Lia lifted her eyes to meet The Hand’s, his gaze steely and unblinking, apparently unaffected by the mischief that glittered within her own. “The Princess is…spirited. Do not allow her to lead you or Alicent astray.”

She slipped away from him, pausing once in the corridor to look back over her shoulder at him. “You have raised a well mannered young woman, Ser Otto. She will heed your wishes, though I cannot say the same for myself.”

Lia did not know why, but she had always enjoyed testing how far she could push Otto Hightower. He seemed to have more patience for her misdeeds than that of Alicent’s, and there was a certain thrill to watching his features pinch into annoyance. Perhaps it was because she allowed him to be privy to the secrets of her and her two friends, and he did not wish to sever that connection with too harsh a scolding for misbehaviour. She still remembered when he had taken it upon himself to instruct her in the art of handwriting, claiming that hers looked as though “a spider had fallen into the inkwell and then scurried across the page.” She had taken her quill and flicked the end at him, watching as spots of black had splattered across his doublet. He had scowled, snatching up her wrist, but then she giggled. His grip on her had loosened and his expression had softened. If she did not know him better, she would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not turn up for lessons, leaving Lia and Alicent to endure the presence of the stern Septa Marlow without her. Lia would not have minded, except for the fact that that day’s lesson was history, her least favourite subject. She endured a scolding for not remembering that Princess Nymeria departed Rhoyne for Dorne, and by the time the hour was over she felt tired and irritable.

Alicent had always been more studious than she was, her ability to focus surpassing Lia’s, who was far too easily distracted by the world around her. The comings and goings of the Red Keep’s staff was far more interesting to her than what was contained within any book. She preferred to focus on the whisperings found within darkened alcoves of the castle, than the monotonous drone of Septa Marlow.

“Come,” Alicent said, pulling a thick historical tome from the library shelf. “We shall study in the Godswood, the fresh air will help you to remember.” There was no heat in the subtly pointed look she directed at Lia, so she followed without complaint, merely returning a glare of her own.

They had been seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood not five minutes when Rhaenyra arrived, quickly settling herself between them, as was her customary place within the confines of their group. She placed her head in Alicent’s lap, and her legs across Lia’s, letting out a sigh as she gazed up at the clear blue sky through the branches of the tree.

“You did not attend lessons today,” Alicent said to her, hefting the book onto the grass beside her.

“I did not,” Rhaenyra replied simply.

Lia spied the Valyrian steel and ruby necklace that now rested around Rhaenyra’s neck. It had not been there earlier. She leant over, lifting the pendant delicately between two fingers.

“A gift from your father?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, as though she found the idea ridiculous. “A gift from Daemon.”

“He’s back then?” Lia’s interest is piqued. Daemon had never paid her much attention. As a ward of House Hightower, she was of no consequence to him. However, he was endlessly fascinating to her; his volatility and reckless behaviour served an endless supply of gossip.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, “to take up his position as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and compete in the tourney.”

“And give you gifts,” Lia teased with a smirk, letting the pendant drop softly back against Rhaenyra’s clavicle before settling back against her palms upon the grass.

A look of worry flickered across Rhaenyra’s face, her mouth turning downwards as her gaze grew distant. She studied her fingers for a moment, then asked “So what did I miss today?”

“History,” Lia said bitterly, “Princess Nymeria’s escape from Rhoyne.”

“Have you read it?” Alicent asked her.

“Of course I have read it,” Rhaenyra said, “there was no need for me to be there.”

“Then when Princess Nymeria arrived in Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent silenced Lia as she opened her mouth to answer. “Not you, you actually turned up today,” 

Rhaenyra groused, shrugging her shoulders as she continued to lay across their laps. “A man.”

Alicent scowled, her tone clipped with annoyance. “And what was his name?”

“Lord something,” Rhaenyra replied petulantly.

“Gods, if only you had been there today,” Lia giggled, “you would have made me look good. Septa Marlow was furious.”

Rhaenyra smirked, playing with the rings upon her fingers. “She is funny when she is furious.”

“You are always like this when you are worried,” Alicent commented softly.

“Like what?” snapped Rhaenyra.

Alicent did not hedge her words, the only one to speak to their princess in this way. “Disagreeable. You are worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son.”

“I only worry for my mother. I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it is all he has wanted.”

“You want him to have a son?” Lia asked.

“I want to fly with you both on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

Lia snorted as Alicent clicked her tongue. Lia did not mind the idea of seeing the great wonders, or existing solely on cake, however, the notion of taking flight on Syrax made the prospect seem far less exciting.

“We are trying to be serious,” Alicent protested, glancing warily at Lia, “well, at least I am.”

“I never jest about cake,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk.

“You are not worried about your position?” Lia asked, her curiosity piqued, masking the envy she felt that Rhaenyra possessed a position that could be threatened in the first place.

“I like this position,” she told Lia, wiggling her feet in her lap, making her laugh aloud, “it is quite comfortable.”

“Rhaenyra! Lia! It is impossible to have a serious conversation with either of you!”

The princess groaned, moving out of their laps and sitting cross legged in front of them. “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her knowledge, glancing over at Alicent to gauge her reaction. Before Alicent could respond, Rhaenyra leaned across and tore the page free from the book, letting it flutter into Alicent’s lap.

“So you remember.”

Alicent chewed her lip nervously. “If Septa Marlow sees this book–”

“Fuck the septa!” Rhaenyra interrupted.

Not for the first time, Lia felt envy burn acrid in her chest. Only a princess could get away with defacing a book from the Crown library and not have to suffer the consequences. She wondered if Rhaenyra had any awareness of the power she yielded over both her and Alicent. And if she was aware, would she even care?

Lia meandered through the halls, slippered feet quiet on the stone floor as she made her way to the library the next da She looked up, her attention stolen by Otto walking in the direction of the Small Council chambers. Changing course, she fell into step beside him, taking in the way his features were furrowed into annoyance. There could be only one explanation for it.

“So, you have heard that Prince Daemon has returned to the Capital?” she asked with a wry smile.

Otto paused, eyeing her carefully before ushering her into a nearby alcove. “What do you know?”

Lia shrugged. “Little and less. He gifted Rhaenyra a necklace, Valyrian steel.”

“An empty gesture,” he remarked bitterly, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he adjusted the collar of his forest green doublet. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were not being watched, before fixing her with a heated stare.

“Oh, I am not so sure, you would be surprised at what people are willing to share if one is generous.” She reached up, tapping the bronzed hand that was pinned to his breast, as if to punctuate her point.

Otto’s much larger hand clutched hers, enveloping it, though it did not pull hers away. Her eyes shifted to where their hands now rested upon his chest, the gesture stirring something within her that she could not quite identify, filling her with both warmth and unease.

“I know a girl as clever as you cannot be swayed by trinkets,” he said softly, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through their connected hands.

Lia swallowed thickly, slowly pulling her hand back and letting it drop to her side, though still able to feel the place where his palm had rested. She felt an overwhelming need to push back against whatever had transpired, and so doubled her efforts to be cheeky. “If you are not feeling generous, perhaps Prince Daemon may have additional trinkets to spare.”

Otto straightened, his expression turning stony.

There it was, the annoyance that she felt much more at home with.

“You should not covet the actions of that brute of a man. Keep away from him.” He glared down at her, a silent warning before leaving her alone in the alcove, as he continued on his way.

Lia smiled to herself. Provoking Otto suddenly seemed much more appealing to her. If she could capture the interest of Daemon, then perhaps the Hand of the King would be more forthcoming in furthering her position at court, and making clear his plans for her.

“My dearest Lia, 

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend the King’s tourney. Your mother is suffering a fever and we did not wish to risk the journey to King’s Landing when our efforts must be spent upon ensuring her recovery. Your mother has requested that your brothers stay here at the Whispering Sound, as she fears her worry over them both competing will worsen her condition.

We have passed along our apologies to the Lord Hand, however, please send him my regards. I hope that life in the capital is treating you well and that you are behaving as befits the royal company that you keep.

Warmest wishes,

Your loving father, Lord Owen Costayne”

Lia gripped the parchment tightly between her fingers, having lost count of the number of times she had read it since it was brought to her by the maester two days prior. She lost herself in the words, the din of hoofbeats and roar of spectators fading to nothing as her eyes flitted between the letter and the lists, as though if she concentrated hard enough she could will her brothers into attendance.

Rhaenyra sat beside her, equally morose, her brow pinched in worry. Shortly after the tourney began, King Viserys had announced to all in attendance that Queen Aemma had begun her labours. It was obvious that Rhaenyra would rather be at her mother’s side than watching this display. However, it had not been allowed.

Sitting on the other side of Rhaenyra, Alicent had picked her nails bloody once more. A combination of worry for both the Queen and her older brother, Gwayne, who would be competing in the tourney.

Lia crumpled the parchment between her fingers, stowing it up her sleeve as she leaned forward, looking out across their elevated position on the stands, eager for a distraction.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards a young man she did not recognise.

“The Tarly squire?” Rhaenyra responded, clearly as keen to focus on something else as she was.

“Mmhmm,” Lia affirmed, glancing back at her.

“Lord Massey’s son, I think. He is promised to Elinor Stokeworth, they are to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Best get on with it,” Alicent chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Lia and Rhaenyra gasped, the three of them quickly falling into fits of giggles, though she was pulled out of her mirth when she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder. Looking back, she saw Otto seated directly behind her. He leaned in close enough that both his breath and his beard tickled softly at the shell of her ear as he spoke quietly, isolating her from the huddle of her two friends.

“I thought you might offer your favour to Gwayne.”

She pulled back, regarding him impassively, before speaking much louder than he had to her. “Actually, I intend to offer my favour to Prince Daemon,” she said with an amused smirk, “I have not yet had the pleasure to welcome him back to the capital.”

Otto’s nostrils flared in obvious annoyance, his gaze unblinking as he exhaled heavily, sitting back against his seat beside the King, though his focus remained upon her. His eyes raked carefully over the delicate manner in which she had pinned up her ringlets, revealing the slender slope of her neck. Lia suppressed a laugh as she turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, pleased with her efforts, and the three of them continued to share gossip about those participating in the lists.

She eyed the knights carefully, wondering to herself if any of them would be a suitable match for her. There was no denying that Daemon cut every bit the imposing and extravagant figure, the plume of his dragon shaped helmet blood red and striking against the grey of the stone walls. It was a pity he was already wed, albeit unhappily, to Lady Rhea Royce. Daemon’s presence within King’s Landing had always been so sporadic, coupled with Lia’s being too young to appreciate what a handsome man he was, that she supposed he was never destined to be a suitor for her anyway. A pity, but it would not stop her from expressing interest, if only to incite the look of irritation on Otto’s face that she had grown to enjoy so much.

So engrossed in what was going on, she did not notice when King Viserys slipped away from his seat. Daemon rode towards the stands, a cocky grin upon his face as her, Rhaenyra and Alicent rushed to the railing to greet him.

“Lady Lia,” he drawled with a courteous nod, “a fine young woman you are growing into.”

She felt her skin flush at the compliment, glad of the fact she had opted to wear her house colours for the occasion; she knew that the gold and black of the gown complimented her complexion. It was an effort to resist the urge to both giggle and look behind her for Otto’s reaction.

“You flatter me, my prince,” she responded sweetly, “I wish you luck, though I am not sure you will need it.”

“I am confident that I can best my opponent, but I would ask for the favour of the Lady Alicent Hightower to ensure my victory.”

Lia’s face fell, her heart sinking in disappointment. She watched Alicent move sheepishly back towards their seats, meeting her father’s eye as she took the intricately woven band of flowers and ribbon. She knew from Otto’s sour expression that it was merely a ploy from Daemon to further upset the King’s Hand, having already beaten his son spectacularly in the lists. However, the rejection stung all the same. She wanted it to be her favour that Daemon had asked for.

As she took her seat again, she grasped her own hoop of feathers and twine, half turning to toss it haphazardly into Otto’s lap. “Here, you might as well have it,” she muttered sullenly, “I have no one else to give it to.”

Misery clung to Lia like a black shroud as she leaned back in her seat, visibly sulking and crossing her arms, as she watched the tourney, but did not really see it. She had hoped that the day would prosper a potential match for her, though, with Alicent’s favour already given away, Rhaenyra was her only rival. There was no way she could compete with a princess.

Her lips twitched with smug satisfaction when the mystery knight with the red and black spotted shield bested Daemon; a small retribution in Lia’s eyes for having snubbed her favour for Alicent’s. She did not bother to join her friends when they rushed back to the railing, both eager to greet the man who managed to unhorse The Rogue Prince, not even swayed by Alicent’s gasp of “he’s Dornish.” What was the point? She saw the way his dark eyes glittered with interest, but it was not interest directed at her; no, they glittered only for Rhaenyra. 

Lia knew that she could be the most comely of maidens in all of the Seven Kingdoms and it would do little to sway a suitor when presented with a Targaryen Princess. She could not help the jealousy that swirled like a maelstrom inside of her as she watched Rhaenyra throw her favour down towards him.

The smile that graced the princess’ fair features as she returned to her seat only faltered as Otto touched her delicately on the shoulder, the colour draining from her face as he whispered to her. As the news spread throughout the royal box, Lia’s eyes remained fixated upon the floor of the stands where her favour now lay, trampled under foot as people rushed back towards the Red Keep. It was crushed, and with it her hopes for the day.

Queen Aemma was dead.

The wind whipped Lia’s dark curls around her face as she stood upon the clifftop, the bite of the icy sea breeze nipping at her cheeks. The wrapped bodies of both Aemma and her short lived son, Baelon, laid prone upon the pyre that stood before the modest crowd gathered for the funeral. Syrax looked over them from her perch, awaiting Rhaenyra’s command, her neck undulating with discomfort under the feeling of her rider’s grief.

She could not imagine a more brutal death; cut open like livestock in the birthing bed, and for naught. The babe that had been tugged from the Queen’s womb had lived but for a few hours after her passing. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, who choked on the command of “drakarys!”, the word faltering with unshed tears as she ordered her dragon to engulf her deceased mother and brother in flames.

Lia knew she felt pity for Rhaenyra, but was she truly sad that Aemma was dead? She did not know. She knew it was proper to express condolences, but she did not think she was experiencing grief. Would she feel sadness at her own mother’s passing? She was as much an acquaintance to her as the Queen had been, considering how many years had passed since she had last seen home. It was a disquieting thought, and one she was eager to push from her mind.

She desperately wished she had a hand to hold, to squeeze for comfort, and could not help but notice the way that Alicent gripped her father’s with such intensity that her knuckles were white. Stood to the other side of him, Otto had ensured that Lia’s arm linked through his, a gesture which she found oddly mature in comparison to the childlike manner in which Alicent’s fingers entwined with his. Perhaps it is just because she is not family, she pondered, though memories of the intimacy with which he had held her hand to his chest just a few days prior linger at the back of her mind. She was being treated as though she was a lady, when she had never craved more to be comforted as though she was a little girl.

A cavernous void opened between Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra in the weeks that followed, filled only by loss. Lia spent much of her time alone, not knowing how to comfort Rhaenyra in her grief, for it had made her angry. Her tone was curt whenever Lia attempted to engage her in conversation and she had withdrawn so far into herself that she did not know how to coax her back out. Deep down she knew that her friend was justified in her bitterness towards her father, for he had killed her mother in his desperate attempt for an heir, an heir that barely lived long enough to draw his first breath.

Lia wondered what her own expression of such grief would look like, had the circumstances befallen her.

Otto had become more protective of Alicent. He sought Lia’s company less often, instead looming over his only daughter like a shadow, summoning her to his quarters to speak to her of things that Alicent would not allow Lia to be privy to. In all of her years in King’s Landing, despite missing her family, she had never felt lonely. Now it was a feeling that overwhelmed her with such potency that she had picked up a quill more than a dozen times, hurriedly scrawling a plea to her father to allow her to return home. Each time she had thought better of it and tossed the balled up parchment into the fireplace. She had yet to find her purpose within King’s Landing, but she knew in her heart that her fate was not to run away like a mewling child, simply because her friends were preoccupied.

Deciding she could bear her own company no longer, Lia emerged from her quarters, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. She found it in Alicent, but as she was about to call out to her, she faltered, thinking better of it. There was something strange about the way her friend carried herself, her gaze downcast, trepidation in her step. Lia slipped into an alcove, peering out discreetly from behind the wall. Alicent was not dressed as she usually was, the royal blue gown she now wore was much too grown up. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the fabric. It was a dress that had belonged to Alyrie.

Curious to see why Alicent had suddenly taken to wearing her late mother’s clothes, Lia quietly followed behind her, mindful to keep her steps light and maintain her distance, so as not to get caught. She froze as she saw Alicent slip through the door of the king’s apartments, a feeling of dread forming a pit in her stomach. Rhaenyra had not spoken to her father properly since the passing of the queen, so what possible reason could Alicent have for keeping such close company with him?

It was with this question in mind that she stormed into Otto’s quarters the next day, a seething and lingering anger bolstering her. She did not knock, though her intrusion was met with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow by the king’s Hand as he looked up from his writing desk.

“Lia, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked, his tone friendlier than she had been anticipating, causing her courage to waiver as her outrage quelled slightly.

She opened her mouth to speak, stammering over her words as she struggled to get them out. Why on earth was he not annoyed by her just bursting in? She had been prepared to be met with resistance, and it completely unraveled what she had planned to say. Closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, she shook her head as if to clear her mind and tried again.

“Alicent has been visiting the king.”

Otto pursed his lips, carefully placing his quill back into the ink pot, before he leaned back against his chair. “She has,” he said matter of factly, “the king is alone in his grief. Alicent has been of great comfort to him.”

Lia blinked rapidly, a wave of nausea churning her stomach, as she realised that this was not only information that the king’s Hand was already privy to, and he did not have an issue with it, but he was also the one that has arranged these visits in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as her shock and disgust turned to sudden anger, simmering hot beneath the surface of her skin.

“So it would not be an issue were I to offer him comfort also?” Lia asked, her jaw jutting out defiantly.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across Otto’s face, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands upon the desk. “You shall do no such thing. And you will speak of Alicent’s visits to no one.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” he began, rising from his seat, suddenly towering over her, “the pleas to return to the Whispering Sound that you crumple into the fireplace may just find their way to your father.”

Her blood ran icy cold as, simultaneously, her cheeks blazed with heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew; the Hand had spies everywhere, she had acted as one herself on many occasions.

Otto’s expression softened as he took in her look of upset, and he sat heavily back in his seat with a sigh. “There is no need for tears, you—”

“Why am I even here? You may as well return me home,” she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion.

His features remained gentle and impassive as he regarded her silently for a moment. He then reached into a drawer of his writing desk, pulling out her favour and holding it out for her to take. Each feather and intricate loop of twine was undamaged, in seemingly pristine condition. She examined it in wide eyed wonder as she accepted it from him. It was as good as the day she had made it, no longer crushed as it had been when she had last laid her eyes upon it.

“How? Why?” She whispered, disbelief and confusion causing her brow to furrow.

“You may have need of it yet. Your time here is far from over. Now run along, I have important matters to attend to.”

She wanted to protest, to press him for further answers, but instead the authority in his tone had her obediently turning and leaving with more questions than she had initially arrived with.

The late afternoon sunshine beat down upon Lia as she sat on a stone bench in the gardens, the soft rays warming her skin, casting the last of its amber brilliance in the hours before dusk. She held her favour delicately, fearful that too tight a touch might cause it to break apart again, as she studied it for imperfections, wondering how it could have been so expertly mended, and why.

“I would have thought you would have given that away at the tourney.”

Lia startled slightly, lifting her head at the sudden sound of Rhaenyra’s voice. A playful smile graced the princess’ lips as Lia watched as she came to sit beside her. Rhaenyra reached out a delicate finger to stroke across one of the favour’s feathers.

Lia returned her smile, though it did not meet her eyes. “I found no one I liked enough to give it to.” It was a half truth, but admitting that Otto had it repaired and returned to her would have raised questions that she is unable to answer.

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement, before facing forwards, her eyes fixed upon the row of rose bushes planted into the flower beds in front of them. The two girls sat in uncomfortable silence, until Lia could bear it no longer.

“I am sorry I have not been there for you, it is not an easy thing to lose your mother,” she said softly, glancing sideways at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra shook her head, turning to face Lia, gripping her hand in one of hers. “It is me that should be sorry. I have not made it easy for you, for anyone, to comfort me. I was just so, so…”

“...angry?” Lia offered, intertwining their fingers. The warmth was soothing, and she had not realised until this moment just how dearly she had missed her.

“Hmmm. Did you know that Father sent Daemon away?”

Lia’s eyes widened, though it was no surprise that Daemon, prone to coming and going as he pleased, was no longer in the capital. Tt was a shock to her, however, that this time his absence was at the command of his own brother. “What for?”

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, averting her gaze. “My father would not say, but I have heard whispers. He made a jest about my brother to a crowd in a pleasure house, apparently.”

“And your father banished him?”

“I am sure there is more to it than that, especially considering that Daemon has been removed as my father’s heir.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to take in the information. It appeared she had missed an awful lot in the weeks that she and Rhaenyra had not spoken. “So, who will be his heir now?”

“He has asked me to be.” Rhaenyra appeared less sure of herself than usual as she said this, her voice quiet and uncertain, as though she felt simultaneously crushed by the weight of the responsibility, but also terrified it would be taken away from her again.

Lia smiled at that, a gesture of both gentle comfort and genuine happiness, though she could not help the pang of envy she felt at both her friends having secured their futures. Alicent’s own advancement under the watchful eye of Otto, and now Rhaenyra’s succession to the Iron Throne.

“You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra gave Lia’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “So, where is Alicent?”

‘With your father, most likely.’

Lia knew she should not say; it would have devastating consequences for their friendship, and Otto would be furious. Yet she could not help the pang of guilt she felt at withholding such information from Rhaenyra.

“I am unsure. Does she not know yet?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had hoped to find the two of you together. I will need you both to help ready me for my proclamation. I feel too nervous to allow my lady’s maids to do it.” She paused, her fingers tightening once more, twisting their hands together further. “Lia, I need you, I need my friends.”

Lia’s heart ached for her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead softly against Rhaenyra’s in silent assent. The two girls remained like that, the void between them bridged by a desperate need to cling to the other for support.

Lia stood on a wooden step stool to the side of Rhaenyra, the tips of her fingers sore from the sheer number of pins she had had to press into the princess’ intricately braided hair, simply to keep her headdress in place. She pulled back to admire her work, a small smile pulling at her mouth. The intricate gold and black halo was positioned perfectly upon Rhaenyra’s head. Satisfied, she stepped down to move towards the bureau to fetch the jewelry.

Alicent stood behind her, helping to drape the heavy black cloak around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, beaded gold and red dragons adorning the lapels. It was not until Lia moved back towards them that she noticed Rhaenyra’s sombre expression in the looking glass.

She stood rooted in place, running her fingers over the smooth gold of the earrings, not quite knowing what to do.

‘We could run away from all of this.’

‘Let us cross the narrow sea on dragonback and eat only cake.’

It appeared that Alicent had also noticed Rhaenyra’s sadness, as her hands had stilled upon her shoulders, her gaze soft and sympathetic as it met the rincess’ in the reflective surface.

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra tugged Lia towards her and the three girls embraced, as much a gesture of comfort for them as it was for her. A silent reassurance of ‘I am okay. I must do this.’

Lia clung tighter, part of her wanting to reassure her friend, another simply wanting to smother the voice in her mind that raged in jealousy over the fact that Rhaenyra would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet somehow had the audacity to feel sad about it.

As Lia entered her own chambers to ready herself for the ceremony, her eye was immediately drawn to the emerald green fabric that lay across her bedspread. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a gown, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. She ran her fingers over the material. The brocade felt expensive to the touch, far grander than anything she had worn before. There was a note sealed with wax resting atop it.

“A trinket, and a gesture of generosity - O.H”

Lia did not need to peer into a looking glass to know her cheeks had turned scarlet. A gift from Otto, and with the timing of when it was delivered to her, she knew he would be expecting her to wear it to the proclamation. 

She felt far too grown up, the dress accentuating dips and curves upon her body she was unaware she even had until she had put it on. Yet another step away from girlhood, but towards what she had no idea.

Lia had never felt self conscious before, but she was certain that, as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, she shone like a beacon, a lurid invitation for all that she passed to stare at her. She longed to run back to her quarters, to tear off the dress and change into something more unassuming, but knew that a refusal of such an extravagant gift from Otto was a line that even she dared not cross.

As the lords of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to swear fealty to Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, she looked every bit the future queen in her Targaryen finery, and it was not until Lia saw this that she understood the significance of Otto’s gift.

Her friends were ascending towards womanhood, and she must too.

Lia watched on, with Otto stood between her and Alicent. She wanted to feel pride for her friend.However, it was hopelessness and uncertainty over her own future that held her firmly in their grasp. She stood in the presence of two future monarchs, but what was to become of her? 

“You look lovely,” Otto leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck.

And as she felt the warmth and weight of his hand come to rest upon the small of her back, it seemed as though the walls of the castle closed in around her as tightly as the bodice of her gown.

[nrilliree]

The desire to read a fic in which Otto crispin and Alicent all get what they deserve early on. Like if I were Rhaenyra I would have shoved Alicent down a flight of stairs just for visiting my vulnerable grieving father ( king v was no angle and what he did to aemma was horrible and he is totally to blame for it don't get me wrong, but he was still vulnerable after her death)

Since team green love to laugh about the line in which Alicent says that she hopes Rhaenyra dies in childbirth I would love if Alicent also died in childbirth and Aegon is raised by literally anyone else but the hightowers. Oh and Otto should have ben fed to daemon's dragon

There's a fanfic I read somewhere on Ao3. During Driftmark, Aegon decides to answer honestly that it is Alicent who is questioning the birth of Rhaenyra's children. From word to word it turns out that she and Otto are planning to usurp the throne. Otto is convicted of high treason. Alicent is punished, but Viserys, for the sake of their marriage, does not sentence her to death, but to penance and imprisonment. Criston goes berserk when he hears this and is convicted of trying to murder the king. Aegon is sent to Dragonstone, where he serves as Rhaenyra's cupbearer, to show that their family can act as a united unit (and to spite Alicent). This was actually a fic where Aegon was enjoying his life.

Unfortunately, I don't remember whether it was in English or German. (Definitely not in Polish, because we have almost no fan fiction, lol)

[macatt4c]

(I’m asking bc I’m writing an Alicent x OC fic where OC is Daemon and Rhea Royce’s son and Otto ends up backing him up and does so by persuading Viserys to wed the OC to Alicent, but I got a few comments on Wattpad that says this premise doesn’t make sense. I’m not going to change my story but now I’m just curious to see everyone’s opinion on the concept.)

[deny-the-issue]

It makes me so happy seeing new notes for my Otto Hightower fic

We’re getting such fan service this season with angry Otto, I’m happy I’m not the only one falling back down the rabbit hole 😂❤️

[daylander1000]

What's your take on Helaemond? I don't ship. I much prefer your fic with Rhaena and Aemond.

Honest opinion, I don't see it but I'm not anti? Like, I get how other people can come up with it because this is the "incest and dragons" show. I see a lot of people calling the shippers insane, but in terms of plausibility, it's not Lucemond level crack so 🤷🏾‍♀️ and the shippers are mostly quiet ime.

I personally like the idea that Alicent, Otto, the Hightower fam, and Criston are normal anti-incest people who raised the children to be mostly normal. I don't see any of the High kids being seriously into their Targ heritage/ incest culture and I don't see Helaena being "in love" with either of her brothers, much less in a triangle with both. I tried a few fics tho, and some of them were genuinely super smutty. Like, there are some people on team helaegon and helaemond who really sat down and cooked in a way I could never. 😅 Some people are like, "Incest is only the beginning," and I admire their shamelessness tbh.

There's not much story for Helaena fans to work with. They gotta do what they gotta do, I guess.

I see people complaining about them a lot, especially on reddit, but I don't get the hate. Like, 'ship and let ship' is my motto, generally speaking.

[candylungs]

Okay, I have dwindled my personal projects down to nothing lately and keep coming back to this blog wanting to write more here now that I’ve got more time. So! I’m completely open to taking requests!!!

I would prefer dark fics, whether they include romance or are pure horror. I’m also a fan of straight up smut or dark smut. Yandere is completely acceptable. Bittersweet or complete angst is great as well.

You can try for fluff but I’m not a huge fan unless it’s kind of fucked up, sorry!

I’d like to keep the fandoms small but right now I’d love to write for you if it includes:

Killers from Dead By Daylight (Setting can be within the game/out of the game)

Anyone from House of the Dragon especially if they’re a horrible fuck (Not just the main dragon family, even Otto Hightower is someone I would love to dig into--when I say any horrible fuck, I truly mean it!)

Batman or Riddler from the new Batman movie.

Any other fandom you’re wondering about, feel free to ask, but I make no guarantees outside of this list.

Before you request just keep in mind:

1.  I will not do modern/real world AUs for HotD. I like the current setting!

2. You can be as specific or vague as you want. Please just make sure you’re including Fandom, Character, and if you have any specifications for reader.

3. Piggy-backing off the previous, please make sure you specify if you want romance, angst, or smut. If you don’t give any indication, I’ll choose!

4. That’s it! Thank you <3

[crazyfoxfur16]

House of the Dragon Mood Boards #47

Ser Otto Hightower

“The Lord Hand” & “The Hand of the King”

Wielder of the sword “Green Flame” and dagger “Order”

Is the Hand of the King of Aegon II & Viserys I

Author’s Note: This is Otto in. my Fan-fic. Please enjoy and feel free to ask any questions. Love y’all ;)

[fromtheboundlesssea]

Have you noticed you're a lot more critical of female than male characters? What we've seen of W&B so far shows how things will go for Rhaenyra, while you make Tywin relatable and lovable in some of your fics and you're giving Joffrey a redemption arc.

FDH:

Petyr Baelish is going to die screaming. Jon Connigton is not a good person. Tyrion Lannister is not a good guy. Jorah Mormont is not a good person. I killed Sandor. Euron is absolute trash and you need to keep an eye out for him.

D is going to have a very nuanced POV but it naturally goes up against the other main characters of the fic because Jaime murdered her father.

Cersei is going through a character arc as well. You’re starting to see it even if it isn’t obvious.

NKAA:

Tywin is not the best character and his fate is for him to basically be forgotten by history because his oldest children hate him for the pain he put their mother through. No one will remember him to be anything other than the footnote for the history of his children.

Aerys is going to not come out looking great and Rhaegar sure as heck won’t either. He’s going to look like absolute sexist trash. Jaehaerys is also trash for forcing a betrothal that his daughter is practically begging him to end.

There are plenty of male characters who are not treated well and are treated with a very critical gaze. And I have plenty of female characters that get nuance. In ITS Rhaegar abducts a 13 year old girl and forces her to marry him with threat of marital rape in the near future after traumatizing her to the point that she can’t write anymore and won’t even speak.

W&B:

Rhaenyra is a child right now who hasn’t figured out she needs to play the game. The snippets I have shown so far are from the perspective of a character who is predisposed to dislike her because her brother was mutilated and partially disabled and her father very obviously favors above his wife/the character’s mother.

Rhaenyra is going to be a major player. She is going to go through arcs upon arcs of character growth. Laena is not going to come out of W&B smelling like roses.

Corlys definitely won’t. Otto Hightower is the actual worst and Viserys is a weak man who murdered his wife. Daemon is getting nowhere near the amount of character growth that Tywin will get. These four men are basically the main villains of the fic. They are not good people.

A fifteen year old reacting badly to her best friend marrying her uncle/crush while still feeling with the devastating loss of her mother is not her entire personality. She’s going to grow.

I write plenty of men who are absolute trash who don’t even get within a league of finding any redemption. Just because I am critical of a fan favorite in a fic doesn’t mean she won’t have nuance.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Would That I

Pairing: Otto Hightower x f!reader Warnings: Smut, age gap, keeping it in the family. Word count: ~1.1k Summary: Otto makes sure his pretty, young wife has absolutely everything she desires. Based on this request.

She is smitten with Otto the moment she lays eyes on him. Arriving in King’s Landing she anticipates a week of uninteresting jousts and tedious formalities, but as she sits in the stands, thoroughly uninterested by the spectacle of the two knights charging towards each other on horseback, her eye is drawn to the Hand of the King. He is older than her by at least three decades, but he is refined, tall and ruggedly handsome. While the potential suitors within the capital are seemingly endless, none of them compare to Otto Hightower

Using every excuse within her arsenal over the coming days, she seizes all opportunities to see and speak to him, and is delighted to find he is every bit as charming as he is handsome. He titters at her jokes and she is enamoured by the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the green of his iris appearing to sparkle as he does so. His voice is deep, yet velvety smooth and she hangs on his every word. He is intelligent, diplomatic and sharp as Valyrian steel.

Her desire for him intensifies as the days press on, and emboldened by one too many cups of Dornish red following a feast one evening, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, her heart fluttering as she feels the warmth of his large palm cup her cheek as he returns the gesture.

“I have not felt like this about a woman in years,” He tells her.

She smiles at his words. She has not felt like this about a man ever.

There is no need for her to leave come the end of the week, King’s Landing is now her home, and after a hastily put together ceremony in the Sept, Otto Hightower is her husband.

He surprises her with his virility on their wedding night, wringing peak after peak from her pliant body, leaving her exhausted but with a satisfying ache between her thighs the following morning. Otto spoils her beyond comprehension, she wants for nothing and has the finest of everything; jewels from Lys, gowns of Myrish silk and lace, wines from the Arbor. He is diligent in keeping her sated in every aspect of their marriage.

It is obvious his daughter, Alicent, does not approve, though she does not say it, and who can blame her? She has to admit that she’d be annoyed too if her father chose to marry someone younger than his own daughter.

It is not Alicent’s silent disapproval that bothers her, however, it is how the ladies of the court love to gossip. It is not unusual in Westeros for men to wed women much younger than themselves, yet she finds herself at the center of all manner of prying questions regarding the nature of her marriage to Otto. She supposes it is because of the responsibility he holds as the King’s Hand.

“What is it you see in him?” One bold lady dares to ask.

She bites her lip, considering her answer. She longs to say that it sends a thrill through her body to wait upon her knees for him, gazing up at him as he presses the head of himself past her lips. Such talk would cause a scandal, however, so she gives a tight smile and says that he is tall.

“Surely that can’t be all?”

“No, he is handsome too,” She says wistfully, thinking about how he gazes up at her from between her thighs, the softness of his beard tickling her soft flesh, the sensation causing her to clench around nothing.

“Is he kind to you?”

“Oh, yes, Otto is extraordinarily generous!” There is a particular necklace that Otto insists she wears, with nothing else to accompany it, whenever they are alone in their marital chambers. It sits tight against her throat, adorned with emeralds that gleam in the same shade of green as the Hightower house colours. It likely cost a small fortune, but in his eyes nothing is too good for her, not when he is buried to the hilt inside of her.

“Is that your favourite quality of his?”

“No,” She muses. “I adore his dedication to his family.”

The combined heat from the fireplace and lit candles that sit upon every surface of the bedchamber make the room stiflingly hot. She feels sweat trickle down her neck, disappearing beneath the emerald choker that sits snugly around her neck, every green gemstone glittering in the dim light as she rolls her hips against Otto’s.

His grip on her waist is vice-like, every sensation heightened by warmth, as the length of him nudges against a spot inside of her that makes her tense with every undulation of her body. She feels taut, pulled tighter than a bow string until it eventually snaps, sending her headlong into oblivion, waves of ecstasy rolling through her as she collapses against her husband’s chest, triggering his own release.

His fingers stroke gently over her dampened skin as he holds her close. Already, renewed desire throbs between her legs.

“Are you satisfied, my dear?” Otto asks softly.

“I will never have enough of you, my love,” Comes her playful response.

“That is not quite what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” She lifts her head, eyeing him curiously.

“I have seen the way that you and Aemond look at each other, I am no fool.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “It is nothing, I can assure you.”

“I do not mind,” He rises from the bed, pulling on a robe. “I wish for my darling wife to be satisfied, to have everything she desires, so I shall make it so.”

He opens the chamber door, uttering “you can come in now” and her eyes widen in disbelief when she sees Otto’s second oldest grandson hovering in the doorway. It seems outrageous to her that he would suggest such a thing, yet she cannot deny the way it makes her pulse race.

“I shall be back in an hour.” Otto informs them both, before leaving.

She is too stunned to speak at first as she takes in the sight of Aemond. He seems stoic and unaffected in his demeanour, until she studies him more carefully. She takes in how his pupil is dilated with lust, the prominent bulge that presses against the lacings of his trousers, and the slight parting of his lips as he struggles to control his excited breaths.

Arranging herself atop the bedspread, she relaxes knowing that he desires her just as much as she desires him. She beckons him to her with a crook of her finger. “Come now, don’t be shy.” He goes to her eagerly.

It is just one of the many perks of being Otto Hightower’s wife. He is nothing if not generous in every aspect of their marriage, and so dedicated to his family.

[simply-ellas-stuff]

I have a very specific request of House of the Dragon fanfic writers

I want a fix it fan fic where no one goes to war and everyone gets along and Rhaenyra sits the throne and everyone gets a happily ever after, but Otto Hightower is punished for his crimes as is Criston Cole.

BECAUSE I want a scene where Daemon tells Criston that Jace is actually Criston's son right before Daemon kills him.

I DO NOT CARE IF IT IS A LIIIIIIIIE

I know it's just a theory that has little to support it therefore I don't not care if Daemon is lying to Criston or not - up to the writer

But I need someone to write this man's reaction to finding out that the boy he hated, the boy he mistreated, the boy he detested, the boy he named a Strong bastard was actually his all along. To have the knowledge that he had a shot of raising this boy as his, in what way he could. To know he watched this boy grow up. Yet, never got to be a father the way Laenor, Harwin and Daemon were able to.

And then to know he's never going to get the chance because Daemon would never let him live.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Masterlist

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical sexism, canon typical violence, angst, smut, age gap, power imbalance. Individual warnings will be applied to each chapter.

Summary: Lia Costayne, childhood friend of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower, has always had lofty ambitions, and is all too happy to use Alicent's father to advance her position at court. Otto sees greatness in Lia too, however, their visions of what success looks like for her could not be more different.

Author's note: Header image by @vampire-exgirlfriend. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Act One

Chapter one

Chapter two - coming soon!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Ange. Beloved. Fellow Otto fucker. I am on my knees begging for brat tamer Otto or just mean dom otto

Love ya, bye

Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1100

Moodboard by @xionthelostpuppet

One of the things she’d always loved most about Otto was his stoic demeanour. He was her gentle giant, her silver-tongued negotiator, her diplomatically minded Hand of the King. He was the grounding and calming moon-like presence to her hot, fiery and unpredictable sun, and his ability to soothe even her most tempestuous of moods never ceased to amaze her. However, as even tempered as her lover was, when pushed it ignited a darkened anger within him. She’d seen it on more than a handful of occasions; clueless, unsuspecting members of the Small Council who’d asked the wrong question, rubbed him up the wrong way or insisted on a discussion that was completely irrelevant to the purpose of the meeting. His eyes would darken, his jaw would tense and his tone would become much more curt, his fury evidently burning close to the surface. It excited her. It was on those days that she knew when he returned to his chambers that she was really in for it; those impossibly large hands that usually roamed her body with such care would become rough, rendering her pliant as he slammed into her, exorcising his frustrations with every snap of his hips.

It was this domineering touch she was craving as she sat curled on the settle, hands cupped around a cup of Dornish red wine. She’d awoken in a mood that was eager to feel her lover’s wrath, but all of her attempts to put him in that frame of mind had been gently and considerately swatted away; rough tugs at the soft fabric of his doublet, piteous whines as she attempted to wrap herself around him, demanding his attention. He’d lovingly tapped her on the nose, calling her a “brat”, before handing her her wine and seating himself at his writing table, sheets of parchment spread out in front of him. She stared longingly at him from her spot on the wooden bench. She knows she should let him work, but her selfish desire is overriding any logical, reasonable thought. She needs to feel the power of him, huge and looming over her, seething with rage. She drains the contents of your cup and is suddenly struck by an idea, as a devilish smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

Empty cup in hand, she saunters towards the writing table, the saccharine sweet tone of her voice more than indicative of her dishonest intentions. “Let me take that for you”, she grabs for his wine cup, knowing full well that it’s far from empty. The dramatic flick of her wrist as she sends ruby liquid pooling across the parchment spread out on the wooden surface doesn’t go unmissed by Otto, as he looks up in disbelief. “Oops, clumsy me!” she laughs. And suddenly there it is; the shifting darkness in his eyes. She holds her breath in anticipation, but is disappointed as he sighs, rising from the table.

“You should be more careful”, he mutters, collecting up both cups and heading toward the door, “I’ll have someone clean this up.”

She chokes back a scream of frustration, balling up her fists and stalking back towards her seat. His earlier observation was correct, she was feeling bratty, but what was the point of being a brat if she didn’t get her own way? She waited for him to resume his position at the writing table. He was now deftly sorting through soggy pages, wiping up the mess and dabbing at the scrolls to rid them of excess liquid. You decided to switch tactics. She begins drumming her fingers upon the hard surface of where she is sat, rapidly increasing the tempo, while keeping her eyes fixed firmly to the broad expanse of his back. She sees the muscles tense, he pinches the bridge of his nose. On any normal occasion he’d politely ask her to stop, softly informing her he needed to concentrate. He didn’t. He was deliberately ignoring her, wise to her game and it infuriated her.

She continues to tap her fingers for a few more minutes before tiring of it, and flopping down onto the cushions that soften the surface she reclines on, considering her next move. She isn't proud of what she is about to do, but her primal urges currently have a stranglehold on her capability for compassion and empathy, so she props herself up on her elbow and once more tries to capture the attention of the leggy man currently staring at the dampened pages of a war strategy with dogged determination.

“I’ve heard Daemon is making progress in the Riverlands”, she says with her best attempt at innocent nonchalance.

Otto shifts in his seat, but ultimately ignores her. She pushes further.

“His forces are far larger than the ones that you have managed to amass.”

“Mmmm” he grumbles, without raising his head.

Good, she’s finally getting somewhere, finally. “House Hoare seems much more amiable towards Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne than Aegon’s. Why do you think that is?”

His head snaps up and he meets her eyes with a warning glare. “Don’t.” he says sharply.

“What?” She tilts her head in mock virtue, but his attention is already back on the pages in front of him.

She rolls her eyes and something inside of her finally snaps. She’s done with being subtle. She’s going to have to do something drastic to get what she wants. She strides purposefully across the room and in one sweeping movement of her arms the majority of Otto’s sodden parchment flutters to the floor.

“Stupid girl!” he shouts, shooting to his feet.

The sudden loudness and annoyance to his tone of voice startles her for a moment, until she recognises the white hot intensity of his stare that sends a pulse of excitement straight to her core.

She reaches a tentative hand out to palm his manhood through his breeches, casting a sultry look up at him as he fumes over her. “Are you going to punish me?” she whispers.

“Insolent brat!” he snarls, spinning her around and pinning her to the table with such force that she gasps from the shock of it.

As he manhandles her, stitches in her gown popping loudly as he tears at the fabric, pushing her skirts up over her hips, she braces herself with her palms. She moans wantonly at the forceful stretch as he pushes roughly inside of her, setting a brutally merciless pace. A wry smile forms on her lips. She’d gotten her own way. Little brats always get their own way.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Penance

Summary: Disobedience requires atonement in Otto's eyes. Warnings: Religious guilt/shame, power imbalance, age gap, smut. Word count: ~1400

Dedicating this to my fellow old man fucker @exitpursuedbyavulcan // Huge thank you to @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for her encouragement and reading through my draft // Beautiful moodboard by @xionthelostpuppet

She kneels before the Seven Pointed Star, the cold hard flagstones are unforgiving against her skin, and her joints cramp in protest. She has lost all sense of the passing of time, it feels like she’s held this position for an age. Each time the slick of her arousal between her thighs cools it is quickly replaced by the heat of renewed wetness, doing little to aid in her judgment of how long they have been at this. The ache in her cunt is unrelenting, tears of desperation prickle the corners of her eyes.

“Otto, please.” She whines. “I said I was sorry.”

The older man’s blue eyes roam slowly up and down her naked form as he regards her carefully. “And I said you must earn your forgiveness. What part of that is troubling you, pet?”

She attempts to stifle the wail of anguish she longs to let out, a whimper passing her lips instead.

It was never supposed to have happened. A simple serving girl and the Hand of the King, it was scandalous, improper. Yet she had given in all the same. There was no denying that she found Otto attractive, and perhaps that’s what had done it; her lingering gazes as she’d walked the length of the dining hall, her fingers brushing against his as he’d taken the cup from her. 

He had remained seated at the table one evening, after everyone else had retired. It had all happened so fast, one moment she was leaning across to refill his wine, the next he had her against the wooden surface, hips pistoning between her legs as the jug toppled over, spilling its ruby red contents onto the floor.

“You will pray to the Mother for forgiveness.” He had whispered as he’d pulled out of her.

The next day a paige had delivered moon tea to her, along with a wax sealed note instructing her to meet Otto in his chambers later that evening.

From that point onward she had spent every evening in Otto’s chambers, wetting his cock and warming his bed.

That was where he’d left her this morning, denied release and with her cunny dripping with his spend. She was under strict instructions not to touch herself in his absence - he’d know.

He seemed to take great pleasure in delaying her peak and, while she was usually all too eager to indulge him, today she throbbed as he left her wanting with no idea of when he’d return. She had tried her best to obey his command, but as the minutes had ticked by into hours her resolve had crumbled.

She had rucked her shift above her hips, sighing in relief as her fingers began to circle her pearl. Eyelids fluttering closed, her soft sighs of pleasure elevated to wanton moans as she pushed herself closer to the edge.

The clearing of a throat had caused her eyes to snap back open. She froze, her heart feeling like it had stopped as Otto stood before her, his gaze dark and disapproving.

“Are you stupid? Or just disobedient?” He asks coolly. It sent a shiver through her. She was in trouble.

Before she had a chance to respond he had ordered her to remove her nightgown and kneel before the Seven Pointed Star. She’d known better than to argue, though he had never raised his voice or hand to her in anger, she wouldn’t dare to disobey him a second time. Otto didn’t deal in anger, he dealt in consequences.

That is how she finds herself now, nipples pebbled in the coolness of the air, and Otto looming over her, a cat toying with a helpless mouse. He has been listening to her desperate apologies in heavy silence, continuing to deny her any form of relief without ever having to utter a word.

He hasn’t shed his outerwear since he returned. He leans down, a leather riding gloved hand brushing between her legs. She shivers at the smoothness of it as two fingers glide between her folds and pull away glistening in the dimmed light.

“This does not look to be indicative of your remorse.” He muses, arching an eyebrow as he inspects his digits closely.

He presses them to her lips and she opens her mouth instinctively, allowing him to press forward as she sucks her essence from the material. He withdraws them with a quiet hum of approval.

“Are you truly ready to repent for your impure behaviour, pet? To atone for your wilful disobedience?”

“Y-yes.” She stammers. She’d agree to anything right now, if only to put an end to this torment.

He circles her, coming to a stop once he’s behind her.

“On your hands and knees.” He orders softly.

She repositions herself, biting back a sigh of relief as she is finally allowed to move. Her weight being more evenly distributed is a welcome respite to her sore knees. She trembles with anticipation as she hears the rustling of clothing behind her. She is sure that in her lust induced haze she must be imagining it, until she feels him kneel behind her.

“You remember who to pray to, don’t you, pet?” Otto inquires. “Or has you behaving like a common strumpet knocked loose all reverence of The Seven from your pretty little head?”

“I remember.” She whispers, feeling her cheeks heat up with shame.

“Good girl.” He says lowly. “Now keep your eyes on The Star and say your prayers.”

She lets out a choked moan as she feels him push inside of her, all thoughts leaving her head the moment his gloved hands grab her hips and he begins to thrust inside of her.

“I shall stop if you are incapable of doing as you’re told.” He grits out, his pace not faltering despite his words.

She mewls piteously, before she is able to speak. “I-I pray to the Father…to ask that his judgment of my indiscretions be merciful.”

The Seven Pointed Star blurs as her vision tears up, the head of Otto’s hardened length bullies at the spongy spot deep inside of her.

“I p-pray to the Mother…m-may she be merciful to me for my sins.”

Otto’s breathing is ragged, his grip on her ironclad as he continues to drive into her.

“I pray…to the W-Warrior for the courage to resist my lustful urges.”

Eliciting a needy cry of pleasure, she can feel herself fluttering ceaselessly, and she still has four more prayers to go. She has no idea how she will last.

“Keep going.” Otto urges, the gravelly edge to his voice suggests that he is struggling every bit as much as she is.

“I ask th-that the Smith protects me from my…from my impure thoughts.”

Otto’s leather clad hand wraps around her throat, pulling her back flush against him as he continues to fuck her. The sensation of his clothing against her bare skin is enough for her to know that he has only freed his cock, yet another humiliating imbalance in their power dynamic, but one that causes her to clench involuntarily around him.

“I pray…gods…I pray to the Maiden for forgiveness for tarnishing my virtue.”

She hears Otto chuckle darkly, the hand not holding her neck snakes around her body to tweak sharply at one of her nipples.

“Oh!” She yelps at the sudden jolt, before continuing. “M-may the Crone provide the wisdom to rise above my baser urges.”

Her climax is painfully close, her body is wound so tightly she fears she may snap, and from the way that Otto’s pace falters she can sense he is getting closer too. Her final prayer is almost strangled sounding.

“I-I pray that the Stranger absolves me of my sins…so that I may depart this life as a woman of piety…oh!”

She peaks as Otto delivers a particularly forceful thrust, her body going rigid as she wails in ecstasy before falling lax against him. He fucks her through her release, before pulling her tight to him and spilling inside of her with a groan. The brush of his beard against her heated flesh borders on being overstimulating.

He pulls out of her, standing to readjust his clothing as he stares down at her prone form. “There is nothing pious about that wet little cunt, you shameless harlot.” 

He strides from the room, leaving her laying there, a satisfied smile spread across her face as she stares lazily up at the Seven Pointed Star. She knows that he is right, and if she is a sinner it is because Otto Hightower has made her one.

[fromtheboundlesssea]

You know on re-watch I found Alicent’s”He’s your son,Viserys YOUR BLOOD!”really tragic when you take into account how V and R has referred to the kids as they aren’t part of the family(V telling Otto he’s desperate to put HIS blood ok the throng he would ruin V’s and R telling V he prefers “Alicent Hightower’s son”. May V rot in hell!Also can’t wait for Aegon to feed R to his dragon. I like her as a character but her self righteousness and Targaryen entitlement is making me dislike her.

I’m wondering though are Alicent’s kids still going up feel like outsiders in Wildfire and Blood?I feel already for poor Aemond and Celia having a POS like Daemon as a father. It’s going to be so interesting to see A’s pregnancy and also feeling lonely with R being arranged from her,etc getting to witness her giving birth it’s basically a child giving birth to other children since A will be like what 14-15? That creep didn’t even wait until she was older.😡 But yes justice to Alicent in this fic due to the show failing to show these big moments of her life due to the time skips.

A lot of things are going to be different in my fic but I’m still seeing how things will fan out.

I am tired of people not seeing Alicent’s children as Targaryen. They are.

[idksmtms]

UMMMMM. Why he kindaaaa- Since when was Otto kindaaaaa-

Ange. Beloved. Fellow Otto fucker. I am on my knees begging for brat tamer Otto or just mean dom otto

Love ya, bye

Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1100

Moodboard by @xionthelostpuppet

One of the things she’d always loved most about Otto was his stoic demeanour. He was her gentle giant, her silver-tongued negotiator, her diplomatically minded Hand of the King. He was the grounding and calming moon-like presence to her hot, fiery and unpredictable sun, and his ability to soothe even her most tempestuous of moods never ceased to amaze her. However, as even tempered as her lover was, when pushed it ignited a darkened anger within him. She’d seen it on more than a handful of occasions; clueless, unsuspecting members of the Small Council who’d asked the wrong question, rubbed him up the wrong way or insisted on a discussion that was completely irrelevant to the purpose of the meeting. His eyes would darken, his jaw would tense and his tone would become much more curt, his fury evidently burning close to the surface. It excited her. It was on those days that she knew when he returned to his chambers that she was really in for it; those impossibly large hands that usually roamed her body with such care would become rough, rendering her pliant as he slammed into her, exorcising his frustrations with every snap of his hips.

It was this domineering touch she was craving as she sat curled on the settle, hands cupped around a cup of Dornish red wine. She’d awoken in a mood that was eager to feel her lover’s wrath, but all of her attempts to put him in that frame of mind had been gently and considerately swatted away; rough tugs at the soft fabric of his doublet, piteous whines as she attempted to wrap herself around him, demanding his attention. He’d lovingly tapped her on the nose, calling her a “brat”, before handing her her wine and seating himself at his writing table, sheets of parchment spread out in front of him. She stared longingly at him from her spot on the wooden bench. She knows she should let him work, but her selfish desire is overriding any logical, reasonable thought. She needs to feel the power of him, huge and looming over her, seething with rage. She drains the contents of your cup and is suddenly struck by an idea, as a devilish smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

Empty cup in hand, she saunters towards the writing table, the saccharine sweet tone of her voice more than indicative of her dishonest intentions. “Let me take that for you”, she grabs for his wine cup, knowing full well that it’s far from empty. The dramatic flick of her wrist as she sends ruby liquid pooling across the parchment spread out on the wooden surface doesn’t go unmissed by Otto, as he looks up in disbelief. “Oops, clumsy me!” she laughs. And suddenly there it is; the shifting darkness in his eyes. She holds her breath in anticipation, but is disappointed as he sighs, rising from the table.

“You should be more careful”, he mutters, collecting up both cups and heading toward the door, “I’ll have someone clean this up.”

She chokes back a scream of frustration, balling up her fists and stalking back towards her seat. His earlier observation was correct, she was feeling bratty, but what was the point of being a brat if she didn’t get her own way? She waited for him to resume his position at the writing table. He was now deftly sorting through soggy pages, wiping up the mess and dabbing at the scrolls to rid them of excess liquid. You decided to switch tactics. She begins drumming her fingers upon the hard surface of where she is sat, rapidly increasing the tempo, while keeping her eyes fixed firmly to the broad expanse of his back. She sees the muscles tense, he pinches the bridge of his nose. On any normal occasion he’d politely ask her to stop, softly informing her he needed to concentrate. He didn’t. He was deliberately ignoring her, wise to her game and it infuriated her.

She continues to tap her fingers for a few more minutes before tiring of it, and flopping down onto the cushions that soften the surface she reclines on, considering her next move. She isn't proud of what she is about to do, but her primal urges currently have a stranglehold on her capability for compassion and empathy, so she props herself up on her elbow and once more tries to capture the attention of the leggy man currently staring at the dampened pages of a war strategy with dogged determination.

“I’ve heard Daemon is making progress in the Riverlands”, she says with her best attempt at innocent nonchalance.

Otto shifts in his seat, but ultimately ignores her. She pushes further.

“His forces are far larger than the ones that you have managed to amass.”

“Mmmm” he grumbles, without raising his head.

Good, she’s finally getting somewhere, finally. “House Hoare seems much more amiable towards Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne than Aegon’s. Why do you think that is?”

His head snaps up and he meets her eyes with a warning glare. “Don’t.” he says sharply.

“What?” She tilts her head in mock virtue, but his attention is already back on the pages in front of him.

She rolls her eyes and something inside of her finally snaps. She’s done with being subtle. She’s going to have to do something drastic to get what she wants. She strides purposefully across the room and in one sweeping movement of her arms the majority of Otto’s sodden parchment flutters to the floor.

“Stupid girl!” he shouts, shooting to his feet.

The sudden loudness and annoyance to his tone of voice startles her for a moment, until she recognises the white hot intensity of his stare that sends a pulse of excitement straight to her core.

She reaches a tentative hand out to palm his manhood through his breeches, casting a sultry look up at him as he fumes over her. “Are you going to punish me?” she whispers.

“Insolent brat!” he snarls, spinning her around and pinning her to the table with such force that she gasps from the shock of it.

As he manhandles her, stitches in her gown popping loudly as he tears at the fabric, pushing her skirts up over her hips, she braces herself with her palms. She moans wantonly at the forceful stretch as he pushes roughly inside of her, setting a brutally merciless pace. A wry smile forms on her lips. She’d gotten her own way. Little brats always get their own way.