Since you did the Honkai 3rd boys for Lucky egg, how about Otto for this series if it's okay? I can already smell the scary shit this man bout to do 😭
If not him then either Kaveh or Alhaitham will do (I hope it isn't demanding, I genuinely enjoy your writing and the lucky egg series)
LUCKY EGG
Yandere!Otto Apocalypse x Reader
No one really knew where the machine came from. One day, it just appeared, gleaming under the spring sun in the city’s central square. Children clustered around it. Teenagers lined up. Even adults gathered to watch it.
“Lucky Egg Dispenser– A Companion Chosen by Fate.”
That was all.
Everyone said it was harmless fun. A magical pet, maybe a servant, maybe something more. It was all random, luck and chance.
You tried your luck. You didn’t expect much, but when you turned the crank, a shimmering white-gold egg rolled into your hands. Something about it made your heart whisper: this is yours.
But trouble noticed too.
“Oh. Wow. That’s a good one.”
You turned. Seraphina D’Argent. You recognized her instantly, the polished shoes, the designer coat, the effortless arrogance. She was flanked by two assistants, a chauffeur hovering behind her.
She held her own egg, dull and brown, with a couple of jagged marks across its shell.
Her eyes locked on yours.
“Well, looks like the machine glitched.”
“Uh. No, I don’t think so.”
She laughed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. “No offense, but... I don’t think you’re the type it was meant for. Why don’t we trade?” She held out her egg like it was a generous offer.
You shook your head. “I don’t think it works that way. I think... the egg chooses. Not the other way around.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Before you could react, her assistant stepped forward and reached out. You took a step back, but the man was quick. He grabbed your wrist and pried the egg from your hand.
“Don’t make a scene,” Seraphina said. “It’s not worth the trouble. I can give you mine, and maybe even pay you for the inconvenience, alright?”
You looked at the cracked egg she shoved into your hands. It was colder. But you knew what would happen if you resisted further. Her father owned half the district. The other half owed him favors.
So you said nothing.
“Good choice.”
She walked off, cradling the egg like it was her birthright.
You were left standing there with the egg and the quiet, awful sense that something important had been taken from you.
The next three days passed in a blur.
You brought the egg home, uncertain if anything would hatch at all. But it did, one morning, as sunlight streamed through your window.
A boy sat on the floor, staring up at you. He looked delicate, but there was something old in the way he moved.
“My name is Joachim” he said. “I was sent to you.”
In that same day, in the grand marble atrium of the D’Argent estate, your egg hatched.
Otto Apocalypse opened his eyes, and he immediately sensed it, something viscerally wrong.
“You’re even more beautiful in person!” Seraphina said, stepping toward him. “I knew you were special. I just knew it.”
Otto’s expression didn’t change. He tilted his head. “You are..?”
By nightfall, the D’Argent estate was silent. Otto stood amidst shattered glass and blood-slick marble, dabbing at the crimson staining his collar with the same detached precision one might use to brush away dust.
You woke that night with a chill creeping down your spine.
Joachim sat at the foot of your bed, his eyes locked on the door as if expecting something to burst through. When he noticed you stirring, his voice came out low.
“Is something wrong?”
You swallowed. “No… nothing.”
----
Joachim wasn’t like a normal child. From the moment he hatched, there was a strange, almost eerie intelligence in him, like his thoughts were always two steps ahead of yours.
He learned quickly. Within days, he began handling small things for you: running errands to the corner shop, organizing books, even fixing the broken kitchen drawer. It was easy to forget sometimes that he’d come from an egg, like a pet or a servant. He felt like a… quiet constant in your life.
But something had changed lately.
He became tense when walking past the windows. He’d pause, tilt his head slightly, then resume as if calculating something. At first, you thought he was just daydreaming.
Then one afternoon, when he came back from picking up tea and milk, he stopped in the doorway.
“There was someone standing by the side of the house” he said, “They disappeared when I got close.”
You looked up from your book. “Did you see who it was?”
“No,” Joachim answered. “But they stood very still. Like they were watching.”
You frowned and went to the window, pulling aside the curtain.
The yard was empty. Just wind, rustling leaves, and the streetlamp flickering in the distance.
“There’s no one out there.”
Joachim didn’t move from the doorway. “They left when I arrived. But they’ll come back...”
You looked over at him, startled by the certainty in his tone.
That night, the house felt unusually quiet.
Dinner passed in the usual way. Joachim always ate exactly enough, no more, no less. You noticed the way he glanced at the window now and then, but he didn’t speak of it again.
Later, after the dishes were done and the rain had started to fall gently against the windows, you curled up on the couch with one of his new books. It wasn’t anything you would’ve picked, honestly—Foundations of Probability and Chaos in Structured systems. You didn’t even know where he’d found it, but when you asked what he wanted from the bookstore, he pointed right at it.
Now, he sat curled neatly on the floor beside you, his hands in his lap. He didn’t look at you while you read, but you could tell he was listening.
You cleared your throat and continued:
“‘In a system without outside interference, patterns tend to stabilize. But when an unpredictable variable is introduced, one with high entropy, the structure begins to break down. Not due to internal failure, but because the system was never built to handle chaos masquerading as control.’”
You paused. Glanced down.
Joachim looked… content, somehow. As if this cold logic brought him comfort in a way emotion never could.
“You really like this stuff, huh?”
He nodded slightly. “Because it explains things people don’t want to explain. Most people are afraid of patterns breaking.”
You stared at him for a moment. His words weren’t childish at all.
“You’re a little scary sometimes” you said, but smiled as you said it.
He looked up at you. “I’m only trying to protect what matters.”
You reached over and ruffled his hair.
“Sleep soon.” you said, closing the book.
Joachim gave a quiet nod. “Yes. But we should check the locks again.”
“Still thinking about the person from earlier?”
“Yes...”
Far from your house, beneath the cover of dusk and rain, Otto walked. He knew you were near. He could feel you. The first one to touch the egg. He couldn't be wrong.
----
You had spent the morning tidying up. Joachim, of course, had taken one of his usual errands to the bookstore. You’d given him a pouch to pay for whatever he likes.
You were just rinsing out a cup when you heard the latch on the door click.
You turned, half expecting to see Joachim. Instead, there was a man.
He stood just inside your living room. His hair, impossibly blonde, looked like it was spun from fine thread.
You stumbled back, “Who are—how did you get in here?”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “It’s me. I’m home.”
You had never seen this man in your life.
“Get out!” you said, reaching behind you blindly for the knife.
“Please,” he murmured, coming closer. “It’s me. Otto. Don’t you remember? From the machine?”
“No, I never... You’re not supposed to be here!”
“You’re confused. It’s alright. I can explain everything. Once you remember—”
Before he could finish, something heavy slammed into his temple.
A book, held by Joachim, struck Otto hard enough to knock him sideways.
“Stranger-”
You stood there frozen, while Otto groaned faintly on the floor. You couldn’t believe he was already getting up—as if a direct hit to the head meant nothing to him.
“He’ll wake up soon,” Joachim added, “We need to bind him.”
You didn’t even question it. You ran to the hallway closet, dug out the old rope you’d never used, and together, you and Joachim dragged Otto’s body to the kitchen chair.
“I can explain.” he whispered.
Joachim stepped between you immediately.
“You’re not wanted here.”
Otto didn’t even look at him.
He was staring at you.
“You are my rightful owner.”
“Right... then what am I?” Joachim said.
Otto tilted his head slightly. “No one.”
Neither of you said anything for a minute.
You swallowed. “You weren’t meant for me.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
Joachim, calm as ever, turned slightly toward you. “What do you want to do?”
You stared at Otto, who is now bound to the chair by restraints. You took a seat across from him—not too close, setting a low table and a cold cup of tea between you like some perverse peace offering.
Joachim lingered nearby, not quite at your side but close enough that his presence was a threat. His eyes never left Otto, sharp and unblinking, the way a hawk watches a wounded rabbit.
Finally, you spoke. “So you’re saying that I should accept you? How is that even possible? I already have Joachim.”
“I have to remind you that you didn’t trade your egg willingly. You hesitated because you felt the connection before reason could interfere. That’s what matters.”
“That connection doesn’t mean he belongs here.” Joachim added.
Otto glanced at him.
“I understand your role. You’re merely my replacement.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But you’re not me.”
Otto turned his attention back to you. “I’m not here to threaten you. I just want to return to my owner.”
“By breaking into my home?”
“You didn’t exactly leave a door open for conversation.”
That stung a little. Because it wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Let me stay.”
Joachim stepped forward instantly. “No.”
You raised a hand to stop him.
Otto continued. “You don’t have to trust me immediately. You can keep the restraints. But I only want a chance to exist in the space that should have been mine.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Joachim spoke again, quieter now. “If you let him stay, he won’t leave. You know that, right?”
“I do.” you murmured.
Otto didn’t interrupt.
You weren’t stupid. Letting him stay meant inviting a problem into your life that couldn’t be solved with locks and rules. But you also knew something else:
He had been meant for you.
That truth was quietly sitting in your chest like a weight.
The apartment lights had dimmed into their nighttime setting. Otto sat rigid in the chair, the binding cable cutting into his wrists, skin mottled from the pressure. Sweat gleamed on his neck, but he stayed silent.
You studied him. He hadn’t met your eyes since his last statement since you’d refused to answer.
Joachim lounged on the couch beside you, arms crossed, gaze locked on Otto like a sniper.
Eventually, you stood up without a word and walked over to Otto. He stiffened immediately, like prey expecting a final blow.
You adjusted the rope, just enough to ease the pressure, not enough to free him. Back on the couch, you dragged the blanket over both yourself and Joachim.
“I’m not leaving.”
Joachim shot him a glance. “Y/N doesn’t want you here.”
“They haven’t told me to leave.”
Joachim’s voice sharpened. “That’s not the same as being wanted.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?”
You didn’t say anything else.
You were tired.
Eventually, you leaned your head on Joachim’s shoulder, and your eyes fluttered shut. The blanket shifted slightly as he adjusted to your weight. He stayed still after that.
You woke up some hours later.
It was still dark.
The two are still fighting.
“…You’re clinging to function,” Otto was saying. “Not purpose.”
Joachim replied, “Function is purpose when you’re protecting someone.”
“You’re trying to replace what was lost,” Otto said quietly. “I’m restoring what was never supposed to be taken.”
You didn’t move. You just listened.
“And what happens if Y/N picks me?”
Otto didn’t answer immediately.
“They won’t.”
Neither of them realized you were awake.
By morning, you moved around the kitchen, making two cups of coffee, one for yourself, and one you instinctively handed to Joachim, still on the couch. He accepted it, his eyes flicking to Otto every few minutes.
Otto watched the two of you.
Removing him won’t be enough.
Otto had already imagined it.
Joachim's body hit the floor with a sickening thud, his temple striking the edge of the glass coffee table. The impact sent a spiderweb of cracks through the tempered surface, jagged lines radiating from where his skull connected. Blood seeped into the carpet fibers.
The scene was almost artistic in its plausibility.
But utterly useless.
Because grief would only chain you to him tighter.
And Otto couldn’t afford your grief.
What he needed was not subtraction.
He needed displacement.
You must turn away from him yourself.
He could do that.
He had time.
Later that day, you brought Otto a protein pack and untied his hands long enough for him to eat. He didn’t try anything. Just thanked you, sincerely, then folded his hands in his lap again.
That was the first moment he touched you. And it was subtle, so subtle you might not have noticed, but Otto felt the link spark beneath the skin.
There it is.
A master-servant conduit that had never been properly formed—because he had been stolen before it could bloom.
-----
At first, you thought he’d just gone out to think. Maybe to walk, or to breathe air that didn’t belong to the same room as Joachim’s constant glares.
But when Otto didn’t return that night, you began to worry.
By the second day, worry turned into guilt.
He’d been unpredictable, yes. But he hadn’t hurt anyone. He hadn’t even resisted when you left him unattended for minutes at a time. He ate quietly. He answered your questions when asked.
Joachim noticed your silence immediately. “It’s better this way.”
You didn’t argue.
----
Elsewhere.
Otto stood under the shuddering blue glow of a fractured dungeon rift—deep beneath the outer districts.
He wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve.
He hadn’t given up. He had simply seen a better path.
To rewrite the moment that went wrong.
All he needed was power.
He picked up the shattered core of a high-level anomaly and watched it flicker in his hand. The energy pulsed faintly.
It would do.
He closed his fist around the core. The interface updated again.
STATUS: 11.6% charged.
Still a long way to go.
But that was fine.
He had time.
----
[Reversion Core: 32.8% CHARGED]
Still not enough.
Otto sighed through his teeth as blood dripped from his gloves.
The subject lay strapped to the surgical cradle. His body trembled under the feedback restraints, barely alive.
Otto’s hands moved with the quiet care of a man who’d done this many times before. There was no frenzy in him, just the steady, awful certainty of a task seen through. He didn’t relish the screams, but he didn’t waste them either. Pain was a language, and he listened closely.
“Why are you doing this?” the man sobbed, “Wh-What did I ever do to you?!”
“You were born on the wrong side of an equation. Nothing more.”
Then the knife moved again.
The man choked on a sob. “Please—please, you don’t have to—”
“I do. Because love, like time, must be precise. It has rules. And you, I’m afraid, are part of the cost to restore what was broken.”
The man’s scream was cut off by a surge of containment light—then silence.
The core extracted from his chest flickered in Otto’s palm like dying starlight.
He turned to the girl watching from the corner of the lab.
Her name was Kahla. Maybe 17. Otto had pulled her from a trafficker's cart three weeks ago. Collapsed from hunger, half-drugged and barely conscious. He had fed her. Given her clean clothes and a bed.
And now, she followed him.
"Did he deserve it?" she asked.
Otto looked at her for a moment. Then stepped toward her and crouched down to her level.
“Do you believe people deserve to die?”
Kahla hesitated. “I… don’t know.”
“I don’t believe in justice, Kahla. I believe in necessity. And love is the greatest necessity of all.”
“Love?”
He nodded. “There is someone I belong to. Someone the world ripped away from me. And if that world resists correction… I will break it.”
Kahla looked away.
Otto stood, wiping his gloves. “You don’t have to understand it. Only help me gather what’s needed.”
[Reversion Core: 34.9% CHARGED]
He stepped away, already calculating the next target.
He would kill for you.
Because you were worth it.
----
Days passed. Kahla and Otto worked as a team. They carried the mission together.
“You’re late”
He didn’t look up as she entered. He was elbow-deep in a man’s ribcage, carefully pulling a core from its anchoring cartilage.
Kahla didn’t answer right away.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the state of the chamber. Limbs twisted unnaturally. Eyes open but vacant. Several bodies strapped to the wall.
There were… eight this time.
More than usual.
Kahla swallowed. “You didn’t say you were starting.”
“I did,” he said simply. “You didn’t listen.”
Otto straightened slowly, core in hand, the heart-like organ glowing dully in the dim lab light. He turned it in his palm, admiring the structure.
“Did you know,” he said conversationally, “that pain extracted too quickly creates noise in the signal? Like static. You can only get a clean feed if they understand what’s happening. If they know they’re dying, and that no one will save them.”
He glanced at her, as if she should be taking notes.
“You want to know the difference between agony and fear?” Otto asked, moving to the next body, still breathing, barely. A woman. Mid-thirties. Her jaw had been broken at some point, it hung open at an unnatural angle.
“Agony is survival. It's the body trying to outlast itself. But fear…” He brushed hair from the woman’s forehead. “Fear is the soul realizing there’s no one left to witness it.”
Kahla tried not to gag.
Still, she didn’t leave.
Otto stepped back. “Finish her.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“You've seen how I do it.” he said smoothly, wiping his hands on a cloth. “You’re not helpless anymore, Kahla. If you want to live in this world, you need to learn how to remake it.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“And yet, here you are.” Otto turned to face her fully. “Eating from my table. Wearing my clothes. Breathing my air. You think survival doesn’t have a cost? Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
Kahla’s hands trembled as he pressed the blade into them.
She stepped forward, inch by inch, toward the woman. Her mouth trembled. “She’s… she’s still alive.”
“Exactly,” Otto said. “That’s what makes it count.”
The woman looked at Kahla.
Kahla’s hands froze midair.
“If you don’t, I’ll have to do it. And if I do… it won’t charge the core the way it should. Her pain doesn’t resonate with me anymore. But you, you’re still human. You’re still clean.”
Later, as they left the facility, Kahla’s hands still wouldn’t stop shaking. But Otto offered her a handkerchief, as if they’d just left a dinner party.
“You did well.”
“I felt her...” Kahla whispered.
“And now you’ll never forget what it takes to love someone properly.”
“That wasn’t love.”
“No,” he agreed. “That wasn’t.”
Then, with terrifying clarity, he added “But it gets me closer to them.”
[Reversion Core: 48.7% CHARGED]
Just a little more.
And time would be his to bend.
Kahla had stopped asking questions two days ago. She no longer hesitated when he pointed to a target. Her hands, once trembling, had become steady.
He praised her for it.
She had started to believe that she was important to his mission.
But as they descended into the final chamber, the place Otto had meticulously constructed to house the energy needed for the last sacrifice, she noticed.
She saw her name.
“You lied to me..”
Otto stood behind her. He only gave her a look of mild, almost weary patience.
“No. I gave you purpose. You accepted it.”
Kahla turned toward him. “I helped you. I killed for you. I trusted you.”
“And because of that,” Otto said, “you’ve made yourself valuable enough to matter in the final step.”
He gestured toward the circle.
“You should be proud. This is a far greater fate than what the slave market had in store for you.”
Kahla tried to run. Of course she did.
But he had prepared for that too.
The paralysis sigils activated before her second step. She crumpled to her knees.
“You told me I was clean,” she choked. “You said I could still stay human.”
Otto approached her quietly, stepping into the circle with her.
“And you were,” he said. “Which is why you’re perfect now.”
He knelt and held her head gently, like he had done with every victim before.
“This will be quick. You’ve already suffered enough.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to curse him. But what came out was something smaller.
Otto did not feel himself die. He felt himself return.
He opened his eyes inside the dispenser room, where warm white light streamed down from overhead panels, and the capsule containing his egg was cradled gently in your hands.
His rightful master.
You tilted your head at the smooth shell. You joked softly that the color reminded you of sunlight through glass.
He could hear your voice through the walls of the egg. He knew it by heart now.
Three days later, you woke up to see the shell was cracked at the top.
The capsule hissed faintly as it opened. You blinked in the dim morning air, rubbing sleep from your eyes, unsure whether you were dreaming. You hadn't expected it to hatch today.
And a boy stepped out.
No, not a boy. A young man.
He looked straight at you.
And then he threw his arms around your waist, pressing himself against you like a child who had found his parent after being lost for days.
“Wha—hey! Easy there..” you murmured, catching yourself before pushing him away. You could feel how fast his heart was racing. He was warm.
You weren’t sure what kind of personality egg you had gotten. The ones from the machine were always a surprise. Sometimes playful, sometimes shy, sometimes downright strange. But this?
This felt like someone who had been waiting for you his entire life.
Tentatively, you placed a hand on his back. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned further into your arms.
You sighed softly, letting him stay like that.
“So…” you asked after a long pause, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he looked up. “Do you already have a name, or do I have to give you one?”
“Otto Apocalypse.”
“Otto, huh?” You repeated it aloud “Alright. That sounds like someone reliable.”
He nodded once, eyes still on you. And then his body slumped.
“Wait—Otto?”
You caught him before he hit the floor. His face had gone pale, his skin slightly cold. For a horrible moment you thought you had done something wrong. Maybe you activated something. Maybe he was defective.
No, he was breathing. Just unconscious.
You rushed to check his vitals, and the system’s tiny assistant orb finally chirped a response, projected above his form.
You stayed beside him the entire time. You barely went to work. You fed him sips of warm broth with a straw when the assistant orb told you it was okay. You took his temperature every few hours and read aloud whatever you could—weather reports, news headlines, random pages from economics books—just to fill the silence. You didn’t know if he could hear you, but it felt wrong to let the quiet take over.
On the fourth morning, just as you were about to doze off, something tugged at your sleeve.
You opened your eyes slowly.
Otto was sitting up.
“You're awake.”
“You didn’t leave.”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered. “You’re mine now, remember?”
He smiled at that.
----
The kitchen was quiet except for the running water and the soft clink of plates in the drying rack. Otto stood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, washing the dishes. You watched from the doorway for a moment. He had even memorized where the towels went, how the cups stacked.
Then, thinking it’d be funny, you stepped forward without a sound and reached out to poke his side.
The moment your fingers touched him, a pulse surged through your vision.
[ANOMALY DETECTED]
Subject: OTTO
Danger Rating: 14.3%
Redemption Sync: 03.7%
You jerked your hand back with a small gasp.
The image vanished.
Otto turned, towel in hand, blinking at you in mild surprise. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah… just static. Weird vision thing.”
Later that evening, you found him in the kitchen again, this time bent over the stove, quietly sautéing vegetables. You couldn’t help it. Despite your nerves from earlier, he looked so focused. The warmth from the stovetop lit his face, and you found yourself walking toward him again.
You reached out, brushing your fingers across the edge of his arm.
You grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back, hard.
The moment he stumbled away from the stove, the oil pan flashed—a sudden, violent spark leaping up. The corner of the towel hanging too close to the burner caught fire instantly.
You grabbed it and shoved it into the sink, dousing it with water.
“How did you not see that?” you snapped. “It was about to go up.”
“You pulled me before it happened.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Because I saw it. There was a box or a screen or something. It showed numbers, danger level, countdowns... like a warning.”
Otto stared at you for a long moment.
“You could see it?” he asked.
“Yes. And there was another number. Redemption… sync?” You folded your arms, trying to calm your racing thoughts. “What does that even mean? Did you do something, Otto?”
He didn’t deny it.
“I don’t know how you’re seeing that. But if you are…” His eyes lowered to the floor for a moment. “Then maybe it’s not over after all.”
“Not over?”
Otto didn’t speak of it again.
After the fire, he brushed away your questions with a gentle smile and a quiet apology, claiming it must have been leftover code in your visual implants—some glitch from the hatching synchronization, perhaps. He kept washing dishes. Kept cooking your meals. He even offered to do the laundry more often.
The strange visions hadn’t come back since. Maybe it had been a fluke. Maybe your nerves were still catching up with your new life, and Otto’s presence had simply overwhelmed your system.
But Otto knew better.
That night, long after you had fallen asleep, he lay in the dark, watching the ceiling.
You were never meant to see it.
The system wasn’t supposed to show you anything. It had been keyed to him alone. But somehow, that connection between you had begun to open doors. Dangerous doors. He realized, with growing tension, that your very presence might be interfering with the karmic balance he had disrupted.
Which meant the universe hadn’t forgiven him.
And if it hadn’t forgiven him, it might be trying to punish you instead.
He couldn’t allow that.
Not you.
He turned his head toward the soft shape of you curled beneath the blanket beside him. You had fallen asleep facing him.
Otto had rewritten the world for this.
He would not let it collapse again.
He closed his eyes, slowly. Then opened the system interface within his own vision—an admin-level command screen he had buried deep, so deep it threatened to fracture what little code his form had left.
[Command Input: Search — Compatible Energy Divergence Points]
[Target: Y/N]
[Objective: Isolate Karma Aura Interference → Transfer Vector Options]
Names. Not all human. Some were hatching soon. Some were adults already living in the outskirts of dungeon zones or slums near defunct portal rings. But they shared something in common. A proximity in soul frequency to yours.
If he used them as substitutes then the karmic load that hunted him and bled into you could be redirected.
He would have to monitor their aura readings. Wait until one reached full compatibility. And then remove them. Completely.
Until the Redemption Sync bar returned to zero.
Only then would you both be safe.
Otto smiled to himself.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I’ll clean everything up this time.”
-----
You rose early to catch the tram into Sector 3, a coffee in hand and your ID chip blinking green as you passed the checkpoints. The office wasn’t glamorous but it paid well enough, and more than that, it gave you something stable.
And when you returned home, Otto was always there.
The smell of warm food drifting from the kitchen. A towel hanging neatly where you left it. Soft slippers by the door.
But while you worked…
He also began his routine.
He mapped energy patterns, watching as candidates rippled across the system’s karmic field. None of them matched your aura completely.
One afternoon, while hanging the last of the laundry on the balcony, a name blinked across the screen in his mind.
Otto stared at it for a long moment, then quietly folded the towel in his hands and went inside.
---
His hands found her throat. She bucked against him, lips parting around a scream that never left her lungs. He adjusted his grip, thumbs pressing just so beneath her jaw. Her pulse hammered against his palms like a trapped bird. Then—slower. Slower. When her body went limp, he didn’t let go. Not until the Redemption Sync bar finally dropped.
When he returned home that evening, the sunset painted the apartment in gold and warmth. The quiet hum of the heater filled the space, and from the kitchen, something savory simmered on the stove.
You were there, humming faintly under your breath, putting the finishing touches on dinner.
Otto slipped off his gloves, placing them quietly on the sideboard.
He moved to set the table. Each plate placed with care. Each spoon aligned.
Then, just as he reached to light the table candle, you crept up behind him.
“Wait—don’t turn around yet” you said, and giggled.
He obeyed without hesitation, closing his eyes with a faint smile.
You reached up, fingers brushing past his hair, and gently looped something around his neck.
Your handiwork. Soft, thick, woolen, a little uneven at the edges.
“Okay, you can open them now.”
He did.
It was a scarf.
“Surprise,” you said shyly. “I’ve been working on it during lunch breaks. I just… wanted to thank you. You’ve done so much for me. Really.”
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
You almost worried he didn’t like it. That maybe you had made it too short, or picked the wrong color.
But then he turned to you, slowly, and pulled you into a tight embrace.
You felt the scarf wrap gently against your cheek, still warm from your hands. His chin rested atop your head.
“I love it,” he whispered. “It’s perfect.”
You smiled, relief blooming in your chest.
In that moment, wrapped in soft wool, with your heartbeat pressed close, he thought of the girl he’d killed hours ago, the terrified look in her eyes when she reached out for mercy that never came.
It was worth it.
All of it.
For this warmth, this moment, this one soft breath against his neck.
ft. Doc Ock (Spiderman 2)
Day 2 - Coming Untouched, Age Difference, Kidnapping
Warnings: Nsfw (MDNI), dubcon, kidnapping, age difference / older man, afab reader, explicit language, emotional manipulation, bondage and restraint
Synopsis: Don't you see that he's saved you from a life of squandered potential? Well, if you won't see logic, he'll just have to show it to you.
Word Count: 1404
Doc Ock / Otto Octavius x Fem!Reader
A/N: WOOO look how long this baby is! Anyways, LOVE myself a big guy like good ol' Otto Octavious <3 stop, he's hot HAHAHA. also, bro, how am I already a day behind...i should probably write some of these in advance...
“Oh, quit glaring at me like that, I haven’t harmed you. Rather, relocating you has removed any further injury those imbeciles might’ve imparted on your intellect,” Otto spoke, his mouth a grim, impatient line.
“It was my life,” you seethed, gritting the words out between bared teeth. “You had no right to take me from it.”
“They were squandering your potential,” he snapped, not taking kindly to your ingratitude nor your tone. “I’ve done you a great service, even if your mind fails to comprehend it.”
“Potential?” you scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping you. “You locked me in a lab! You’ve just stolen every possible opportunity from me. I’d rather have taken my chances poor and stupid than holed up here with an arrogant, delusional—”
“You foolish, stupid girl!” Otto snapped, his pride flaring. His mechanical arms hissed through the air as he hauled himself towards you. His eyes blazed with feverish passion, his frustration surmounting past his threshold. “Evidently you lack the maturity and insight to understand what I am offering you.”
The fierce, sharp rebuke startled you, and you shrank into the chair as he glowered from above. Two clawed tentacles seized the armrests on either side of you, the wood groaning and splintering under the pressure.
Your eyes widened to the size of saucers, and a quick, frightened gasp stole from your lungs.
Something about your reaction seemed to satisfy some unknown urge within him, for the anger in his eyes melted into something molten. “Perhaps you require a more kinesthetic lesson to see reason. I have the utmost confidence that you will learn to appreciate my…foresight.”
You were left little time to ponder his cryptic and foreboding suggestion, for before you could even utter a response, the older man was upon you. Two of his mechanical appendages held him suspended upright, allowing him to access you with both of his calloused hands.
He gripped at your waist, his hands splayed large there as he lifted you quite effortlessly with the insurmountable strength of his extra limbs. You startled, and despite your best efforts, you felt a warmth rising to your cheeks at being so thoroughly manhandled.
“What are you doing?” you cried, clinging to his shoulders for fear of slipping from his grasp and falling. The world around you spun as the four metal tentacles maneuvered your forms at an inhuman speed, clawing viciously into the linoleum floor. Then you were unceremoniously dropped, and you felt your back hit the cold metal of a desk.
“Allow me to give you a rudimentary lesson,” Otto spoke lowly, his voice huskier than you’ve heard it before. Two metal arms clamped around your thighs, tight but not painful, and pulled you down the surface of the desk so that your hips rested right at its edge.
Mortification and something sinfully thrilling shot through you like a bolt of lightning. You cried out shrill protests, but much to your self-disgust, an unmistakable aching had begun between your legs.
“Let go!” your voice lacked the conviction you wish it had, and the delightedly devious smirk on Otto’s face let you know he heard as well.
Angered, more so at yourself than at your captor, you raise your hands to push at his chest. Through his shirt, you could feel the thick and stocky build of him, softer than it was firm. You struggled, squirming and pushing at him because that’s what you ought to do, you thought.
You heard him grunt after a particularly hard shove of your palms, and in a flash the remaining two mechanical arms had gripped you by the wrists and forced them above your head. You were pinned, helpless against the impossible strength those tentacles of metal and machinery possessed. And yet, there Otto stood over you, looking calm and in control, free to do as he pleased.
A dark and twisted part of you liked being handled like this, rough and without permission. Your own sense of pride raged at the traitorous desire that was rapidly building. If not for the man’s dangerous reputation, it all would have felt like harmless foreplay.
Otto leaned in close, his large hands trailing up your exposed sides and sending goosebumps rising to the surface of your skin. “Now listen, and listen well,” his voice warned, gravelly in your ear. “You have no idea of the parameters I had so disciplined myself with, the lengths I’d gone to prevent this growing fault line.”
You felt the warmth of his palms graze over your chest, the heightened sensitivity making your body arch into the touch. “And yet, why is it, that despite my best efforts, it is your face that’s haunts me in every equation, every shadowed and sleepless night? I see you woven into everything I build, and every vision of the bright future I aim to realize.”
His lips, surprisingly soft and warm, ghosted along the flesh of your neck. You shuddered, inhaling sharply as the delicate sensation sent pleasure right down to your core. “You think this is delusion. You think this is mutual destruction.”
His hands creeped under your shirt now, palming over your bra and squeezing firmly. He delicately drew the straps down, dipping his hands beneath the remaining layer to touch your bare skin. He’s massaging your breasts now, deftly circling and pinching at your nipples. Your eyebrows furrowed as a soft moan sighed from your lips.
“Perhaps I am partly at fault,” he whispered, nibbling at your ear, “for expecting a young woman such as yourself to understand the rapt passions of a weathered man. So, allow me to speak explicitly so that you might see my reasoning.”
Otto’s hands stilled as he baited you, your reactive body straining against your constraints to lift towards him. “This, is not madness,” he stated in a quiet, low tone. “This is clarity, at last.”
His mouth latched against the nape of your neck, sucking and kissing open-mouthed as his hands resumed their exploration of your body.
Evidently his additional years has given him plenty of time to learn the female anatomy, for you were already seeing stars at just the barest of touches. Your wrists twisted against his immovable extensions, desperate to reach and tangle in his brown locks.
He trailed kisses down your neck, hands adjusting your shirt so that your chest was fully exposed to him. You felt a rising pressure in your abdomen, pleasure flooding every square inch of your body. Your skin was so sensitive, your senses heightened. He palmed one breast…and then enclosed his mouth over the other.
Overcome by a hazy cloud of lust, your pride and anger long forgotten, you began to sigh and moan in earnest. You felt your wetness beginning to soil your untouched lower half, your private parts beginning to throb and clench with a vice-like grip. So, painfully empty.
“Can you feel it now?” his breath ghosted over your nipple, wet with his saliva. “The correctness of this arrangement?” You whimpered as he continued to work your body, plucking at the invisible strings that composed your being, and evoking sweet sounds from you. “Shh,” he cooed as you whimpered, hips bucking up against the air, desperate for the friction that would send you over the edge.
“You are at the cusp of enlightenment,” he groaned, sounding nearly overcome with his own pent-up desire, wanting nothing more than to work you properly. But he would hold off—he had to until you’ve learned this very important lesson.
“All you have to do,” he whispered, “is take a bite of the forbidden fruit.” With that, you felt his teeth clamp down, and the sudden pain severed the cord that was pulled taut in your abdomen.
You cried out as he sucked against the injury, licking as you writhed beneath him. The mechanical arms held fast onto your limbs, keeping you anchored as your mind and body flew to the stars, buzzing with mind-numbing euphoria.
Your body jerked, hips grinding into nothing but air, even as your pussy pulsed and thoroughly soaked through your panties. Your body lowered heavily onto the metal desk, muscles aching, your breath labored.
One of the most earth-shattering experiences…and he hadn’t even properly touched you. Through fluttering eyelashes, you could see the pure disaster this fact has had in bolstering his already gigantean hubris. And yet, floating in the post-orgasmic bliss, you couldn’t find it in you to much care.
Warning: affair, fingering, oral, first time sex, ,LONG one shot!
Note: Reader first time having sex so it’s written with innocence and guilt because Otto isn’t her husband. Lol this took me a week to write I’m writing better lol i didnt rush that bad with it
It’s exactly 2/13 11:50pm when I finished editing/ writing I know damn well I missed so much so tm I’ll fix it so don’t mind what my half exhausted mind wrote💔
How
How did I land myself in such position
I couldn’t remember the first time i kissed him, I was too drunk at the feast to even remember. One simple kiss landed me almost many moons later with Otto behind my legs, staring down at me as he held back from wanting to grip off my nightgown with his teeth like a damn animal.
Daemon never looked at me the way Otto does, nor have I scene daemon since our wedding feast. The thought of never consummating our marriage made me feel a bit in my stomach but now that Otto is ready to eat me alive i felt the pit burning a hole through my body
Otto's breathing grew heavier as he cupped between her legs, feeling the heat emanating from their most intimate area even through the fabric of her smallclothes. His fingers began to move, rubbing and stroking along the outside of the garment, tracing the contours of her most sensitive parts.
A twinge of guilt pricked at Otto's conscience, knowing this was wrong, that he should not be touching a married woman in such a lewd manner. But his lustful urges overpowered any sense of propriety or familial decorum. He told himself that this is what they both wanted. How much i craved to be touch and longed by a man, I wound have never guessed it’ll be Otto. Days I tried to discuss my, needs to daemon. The most recent time he brought a whore into his chambers while I was trying to have this discussion with him. For Otto, Women was the least concern after his wife passed he imagined he’d never lust for another again. Let alone now in the most scandalous way, unbecoming of his title as hand of the king he’ll lust for a married woman. Daemon women, yet deep in Otto heart he felt so alive in this moment. The thrill of his fingers caressing the folds of her, her untouched pussy made him want to cum in his pants at the thought.
Otto's other hand slid under the covers, finding my bare thigh. He caressed the smooth, soft skin, relishing the feel of it beneath his calloused fingers. His hand moved higher and higher, pushing up her nightgown as he went. Soon, he was cupping my bare core, feeling the warmth of it against his palm. A finger traced along my slit, feeling the delicate folds.
Otto's manhood throbbed almost painfully in his breeches as he touched her so inappropriately. He ached to free himself, to plunge into her most secret place and claim her as his own. But he resisted the urge, not wanting to startle he saw how sensitive she was to his simple touch. Face bright red while her gaze looked away what she didn’t hide was soft, eager moans escape her soft parted lips. 
Instead, he continued to fondle and caress her core, his finger circling around her sensitive pearl. He could feel the dampness beginning to gather there, the proof of her body's response to his touch. Otto's breathing grew ragged as he touched her, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Such a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Otto murmured under his breath, more to himself. "And all mine for the taking..." He smiled wickedly to himself, his mind already conjuring up all the deliciously depraved things he wanted to do to her body
Otto please talk be through it
Daemon will forgive me
He has his own play things, I shall have mine
Otto shall be my toy..
Otto's own body reacted to the sound of her moan and the feeling of her slick arousal coating his fingers. Otto began to move his fingers more purposefully, rubbing and circling her sensitive pearl as he slid one long finger inside her tight, wet heat. He groaned softly at the feel of her walls clenching around his invading digit, as if trying to pull him in deeper. His manhood throbbed almost angrily against the confines of his breeches, a damp spot forming where the head leaked pre-cum.
"Look at me- now. ," Otto murmured, his voice low and rough with lust. "Tell me to stop okay? This is for your pleasure”
“Keep going..please don’t stop..” my voice trembling with slight guilty, the awakening of pleasure slowly brewing inside of me it felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Once I opened my eyes turning my head to meet his gaze he continued again . 
Otto worked a second finger into dripping pussy, pumping them in and out, curling them to rub against that spongy spot on the front wall of her core. His thumb continued to circle and rub my clit, making my hips twitch and jerk
Otto's other hand slid up to cup and knead my breast, feeling the soft weight of it in his palm. He brushed his thumb over the peak, feeling it stiffen and harden under his touch. He longed to take her nipple into his mouth and suckle hard, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he focused on bringing closer to the edge with his fingers, fucking her harder and faster, his digits glistening with her arousal.
“O-oh! Oh gods! Otto! I can’t-“ I quickly cover my mouth to hide screaming of pleasure, the guilt was eating me alive as i clenched around his fingers. My body began tensing, breathing growing more ragged as I practically gasp to hide the sinful moans. I pulled my hands that once grip onto the sheets to travel move my hands onto your breasts, needing and pitching over the night grown
"That's it, my little dove," he encouraged, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Touch yourself just like that. Imagine it's my hands on your body, worshipping every inch of your luscious curves." He watched shamelessly as I fondled my breasts, I bit onto my lips as I saw his own hand slid under her nightgown to grope and squeeze the bare flesh of my breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm. He rolled the nipple between his fingers, tugging and plucking at it until it was red and throbbing. Pulling my hands away to let him go on
“Otto- please I..I can’t I need too-“ I fumbled my words i couldn’t even complete the sentence as an unfamiliar feeling swirling in my stomach. Otto could feel my body tensing, my inner muscles fluttering wildly around his plunging fingers as he broughtmr closer and closer to the pinnacle of pleasure. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he growled,
"Come for me, I want to feel you come undone on my fingers, want to feel your sweet little pussy spasm and clench as you scream your release. Give yourself to me, my dove . Let me feel you come apart."
With that, Otto rubbed my clit harder and faster, his fingers pumping into me at a relentless pace as he pushed over the edge. He could feel my body stiffening. My body went rigid, my back arching sharply off the bed as a strangled cry tore from her throat.
"A-Otto! Oh, gods, Otto!"i wailed, my inner walls clamping down viciously around his plunging fingers as I came undone. My juices gushed out around his hand, soaking his fingers and dripping down onto the sheets beneath you.
Otto groaned gutturally as he felt my velvet soft walls spasming and fluttering wildly around his fingers, her pleasure dripping out and coating his hand. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of her, drawing out her climax for as long as possible, relishing every clench and shudder of her sex.
"That's it," Otto panted harshly, his own arousal throbbing almost painfully in his breeches. "Come for me, scream my name, let all of the castle know who makes you feel this way." He rubbed her clit firmly, circling the sensitive nub as her orgasm crashed over her in waves.
As my climax began to subside, my body going boneless and slumping back against the mattress, Otto slowly withdrew his soaked fingers from my dripping core He brought them to his mouth, making a show of licking my essence from each digit, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Delicious," Otto murmured, his voice rough with lust. "You taste even sweeter than I imagined, my dove ." He licked his lips, his gaze roaming hungrily over my disheveled form, taking in the way my chest heaved with each ragged breath, the way my nightgown was hiked up around my waist to reveal the glistening flesh of her core. "I know this is all so new and overwhelming for you, but I swear, I will make you feel pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."
"You want to taste more, don't you, my princess?" Otto murmured, his thumb circling her clit, making you gasp and shudder. "You want to wrap your sweet little mouth around my cock, to feel it throbbing against your tongue as you take it deeper and deeper into your throat?"
Yes! Oh please yes
“I do..oh please I do”
Otto's other hand reached down to wrap around his straining erection, pumping it slowly as he watched my face for her reaction. He could feel the thick vein on the underside pulsing with each beat of his heart, could feel the silky steel of his shaft as he stroked it. My teeth sinked harshly against my lip, almost enough to cause blood.
"I want to feel your lips stretched wide around me, want to fuck your pretty face until I paint your throat with my seed," Otto growled, his hips rocking into his fist. "Would you like that, my dove ? To taste my cock, to swallow down every drop of his essence?"
I nodded eagerly , a moan escaping as Otto's thumb circled ny sensitive clit, sending jolts of pleasure through my body. I couldn't believe what i was feeling, the overwhelming urge to touch myself, to taste Otto, to have his cock in my mouth. But the ache between my legs was too intense to ignore.
"Yes," my voice barely above a whisper. "I want to taste you, Otto. I want to feel your cock in my mouth, want to make you feel good." I licked my lips, my gaze locked on his thick shaft, watching as it throbbed and leaked precum. "Teach me how to please you," i added, a hint of shy eagerness in my voice.
Otto's eyes darkened with lust at my breathless confirmation, a feral grin spreading across his face. He released his shaft and reached out to grasp her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. His thumb brushed over her plump bottom lip, tracing the delicate curve.
"That's my good girl," Otto praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "I'm going to teach you everything you need to know to be a perfect little cock slut for me." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "First, start by wrapping your hand around the base of my shaft. Feel how thick it is, how hard it is for you."
Otto guided my small hand to his throbbing erection, wrapping my fingers around the thick base. He groaned at the feel of my soft skin against his aching flesh, his hips jerking slightly at my touch. His cock was so engorged and stiff that he could feel every ridge and vein pulsing beneath her palm.
"Now, start stroking it," Otto instructed, his voice strained with desire. "Move your hand up and down the shaft, squeezing gently. Explore every inch of it with your fingers." He demonstrated the motion with her hand, helping her stroke him from base to tip and back again.
As I began to pump his cock with clumsy enthusiasm, Otto reached down with his other hand to grip himself at the root, pointing his shaft towards my face. Drops of precum oozed from the flared head, dripping onto my parted lips.
"Open your mouth, princess," Otto commanded, rubbing the leaking tip
My lips parted obediently, my tongue darting out to lap at the bead of precum drooling from the swollen head of Otto's cock. I shuddered at the unfamiliar taste, a jolt of electricity shooting through the intimate contact. The musky, slightly salty flavor exploded on my tongue, making me want more.
"Good girl," Otto praised, his voice a low, approving growl as he felt her tongue flick against his sensitive flesh. "Now take the head into your mouth. Wrap your lips around it and suck gently."
I did what I was told, my soft lips engulfing the broad crown of Otto's shaft. I could feel it throbbing against my tongue, could taste the salty precum leaking steadily from the tip. Hesitantly at first, i began to suckle, my cheeks hollowing slightly as i drew on the head of his cock.
"That's it, princess," Otto encouraged, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. "Take more of it into your mouth. I want to feel your hot little throat squeezing around me."
Obediently, i opened her jaw wider and took another inch of Otto's thick length into my mouth. I could feel it stretching my lips, pressing against the roof of my mouth as she struggled to accommodate him. The taste of his skin, the weight of his shaft on my tongue, was dizzying.
"More," Otto demanded, his hips rocking slightly to push himself deeper into the wet heat of my mouth. "Take it deeper, my dove . I know you can do it."
I relaxed her throat and took another few inches, feeling the head of Otto's cock pressing against the back of my throat. I gagged slightly, my throat convulsing around the intrusion, but I didn't pull away. Instead, i focused on breathing through her nose and relaxing my muscles.
"That's my good girl," Otto praised, his voice strained. "Your mouth feels so fucking good wrapped around my cock. I can't wait to feel your tight little pussy squeezing me just as nicely." He began to slowly thrust into her mouth, fucking her face with shallow pumps of his hips
Otto groaned as he felt my throat constricting around his sensitive cockhead with each thrust, the tight, rippling flesh massaging him exquisitely. He could feel my hands coming up to grasp his thick thighs for balance as he slowly hilted himself deeper and deeper into my hot, willing mouth.
I fear I might crave Otto
A sin to want another man
My untouched body ruined by Otto and yet..I’m happy it’s him
I want to be pleased by a man, not a spoiled prince
"That's it, princess," Otto grunted, his fingers tightening in her hair as he hit the back of her throat. "Take it all like a good girl. I want to feel myself buried in your tight little throat."
He began to thrust more firmly, his heavy balls slapping against my chin with each pump of his hips. Drool began to leak from the corners of her stretched lips, dripping down onto her nightgown as Otto fucked her pretty face with increasing fervor.
Otto could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, his climax approaching rapidly. The sight of his innocent stepdaughter, her cheeks bulging obscenely as he used her mouth, was almost too much to bear. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself to the hilt and paint her throat white with his seed.
But he held back, wanting to drag out this moment for as long as possible. Instead, he pulled out abruptly, his slick shaft slapping wetly agains her cheek, leaving a smear of saliva and precum on her soft skin.
"Enough," Otto said, his voice ragged and rough with barely controlled lust. "I need to be inside your other tight little hole now. I need to feel your pussy squeezing me as I fuck you."
He grabbed my wrists and pushed me down on the bed. In a flash, he had ripped my nightgown off over my head and tossed it aside, leaving me bare and exposed beneath him. His hungry gaze raked over my nubile body, taking in every dip and curve.
"Spread your legs for me, princess," Otto commanded, settling himself between her thighs. The thick head of his cock nudged against her dripping slit, smearing her juices along her folds. "I'm going to fill you up now, going to claim this sweet little hole as mine."
I gasped as Otto manhandled me, a thrill of fear and excitement shooting through my as he exposed me completely naked body to his ravenous gaze. I had never felt so vulnerable, so utterly at the mercy of another person. But as Otto loomed over me,I couldn't deny the heat pooling between my thighs, the aching emptiness that craved to be filled.
With shaking hands, I reached down to spread my legs, opening myself completely to him. I could feel the cool air of the chamber kissing my most intimate places, making me shiver. The slick, swollen lips of my hole glistened in the candlelight, dripping withmy arousal.
"Please, Otto," i whimpered, my voice small and breathy with need. "I've never... I mean, I don't know if I can take something so big inside me."
Despite my nervousness, I arched my hips up slightly, seeking more of that delicious friction against my aching core. I could feel the thick head of Otto's cock nudging against my entrance, the heat of it searing me even as it made me quiver with anticipation.
Otto growled low in his throat at the sight of her pristine, untouched hole laid bare before him. He could see her rosebud fluttering nervously, her dewy petals quivering with each shallow breath she took. The knowledge that he would be the first, the only man to ever claim this sweet prize, only inflamed his lust.
"Shh, don't worry, my dove ," Otto soothed, even as his hips rocked forward to notch the broad crown of his shaft inside her tight entrance. "I'll be gentle... at first. Tell me when it’s to much okay? my perfect dove” ."
With that, Otto began to push forward, the thick head of his cock stretching my virgin passage. Her slick walls clung to him desperately, fluttering and rippling as they struggled to accommodate his girth. Inch by excruciating inch, he sank deeper into her hot, silky depths.
I cried out, my back arching off the bed as I was stretched wider than j ever thought possible. Pain and pleasure warred within me. My cries of pain and pleasure intermingled as Otto slowly, inexorably pushed himself deeper into me. My slick inner walls strained and stretched around his thick, pulsing shaft, the wet heat enveloping him like a velvet vise.
"That's it, princess," Otto grunted, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of holding back, of not simply rutting into her tight little hole with wild abandon. "Take my cock. Let it reshape you, mold you to fit me perfectly."
He could feel every quiver and clench of her untried walls, could feel the way her body fought to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being filled so completely for the first time. The knowledge that he was the one to take her innocence, to claim her so thoroughly, only spurred on his lust.
Otto paused when he felt the thin barrier of her hymen stretching taut against the ridge of his cockhead. He looked down at her flushed, panting face, saw the way her eyes were clenched shut in concentration and slight pain. With a swift, sharp thrust of his hips, he breached her, tearing through the fragile membrane and burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.
I screamed, my voice echoing off the chamber walls as searing agony exploded through my lower body. Tears sprang to my eyes, leaking down my temples as i thrashed beneath Otto, trying to escape the overwhelming pain and pressure. Her hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging into his skin, but Otto was unmoving, pinning her down as he waited for her to adjust.
"Shh, it's done," Otto murmured, his voice a dark rumble in his chest. "You're mine now, princess. My little virgin dove, claimed and deflowered" He rolled his hips, grinding his pelvis against hers as he savored the feel of her impossibly tight sheath gripping him like a fist. "No man will ever fill you like I can. No one will ever make you feel as good as I will."
I whimpered and trembled beneath Otto, my body wracked with a maelstrom of sensations too intense and overwhelming for me inexperienced nerves to process. The pain of my lost innocence slowly began to ebb, morphing into a strange, aching emptiness that craved to be filled once more. My walls fluttered weakly around the thick intruder stretching me open, still trying to adjust to the foreign sensation of being so utterly claimed.
Tears streaked down my flushed cheeks as I gazed up at Otto with wide, trusting eyes. Despite the pain and the sheer size of him inside me,I couldn't deny the flickers of pleasure sparking through my as he ground against my most sensitive places.my breath hitched as a particularly firm roll of his hips sent a jolt of heat straight to my core.
"I... I feel so full," I whimpered "So big and hard inside me. I never knew it would be like this."
I could feel every throb and twitch of Otto's shaft as it pulsed within me , could feel the weight of his heavy balls pressing against my bottom. The knowledge that he had taken me , claimed me , branded her as his own sent a dark thrill through me.
I would hear daemon fuck his whores though they were never as loud as I was
I felt better knowing the difference between them
I took a shuddering breath, my slick inner muscles clenching reflexively around Otto's thick length. "Please... please don't stop," i whispered, my voice ragged with need. "I want to feel more. I want you to... to fuck me, Otto. Make me yours completely."
As I spoke those bold words, I wrapped my legs around Otto's waist, locking my ankles at the small of his back. The movement caused ny hips to tilt up, taking him impossibly deeper into my tight, grasping sheath. I could feel him in her belly, could feel the head of his cock kissing my womb with each twitch and throb.
"Ruin me for any other man- ruin me like my husband should have done,"I breathed, my eyes burning into Otto's with a newfound hunger. "I'm yours, Otto. My body is yours to use for your pleasure. Please... please fuck me hard and fill me up until I can't take anymore."
A dark, feral grin split Otto's face, his eyes glinting with triumph and unbridled lust. He had waited so long to hear those words from her sweet lips, to know that she was finally his to claim and take as he pleased. And now, with her legs wrapped around him and her tight little hole gripping his cock like a silken vise, Otto knew he would not hold back any longer.
"As my dove commands," Otto growled, his voice a low, approving rumble. He leaned down to capture her l. ips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to stake his claim on her once more. At the same time, he drew back his hips until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her, before slamming forward to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
I cried out into the kiss, my scream of pained pleasure muffled by Otto's demanding mouth. My back arched sharply off the bed as he began to move, each powerful thrust of his hips driving the air from my lungs and sending shockwaves of sensation crashing through me. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the chamber as Otto pistoned into me , fucking me with deep, relentless strokes that shook the very bed beneath them.
"That's it" Otto panted against her lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Take my cock. Feel it splitting you open, stretching this greedy little hole around my thick shaft." He punctuated each word with a sharp, driving thrust, grinding his pelvis against hers as he hit her cervix dead on.
I could only cling to Otto, my fingers scrabbling at his sweat-slicked back as he used my with wild abandon. Each drag of his cock against my sensitive walls sent bolts of searing pleasure shooting through her, stoking the heat building rapidly in her core. I could feel my body beginning to tense, my muscles drawing taut as a bowstring as my climax approached.
"Yes, yes, yes!" I chanted mindlessly, too lost in sensation to care how wanton i sounded. "Don't stop, Otto! Harder, please! I'm... I'm going to...” my words dissolved into a wordless scream as my orgasm crashed over me, my whole clamping down around Otto's
My scream of ecstasy echoed through the chamber as my climax finally overtook me, my untouched body convulsing wildly beneath Otto's relentless onslaught. My slick inner walls clamped down around his plunging shaft like a vice, rippling and milking his length as if trying to draw him even deeper into my core. The sensation was almost too much for Otto to bear, the feel of her virgin pussy squeezing him so tightly, as if her very body was trying to keep him inside her forever.
"That's it, princess," Otto grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Come on my cock. Let me feel this sweet little hole spasming around me as you find your pleasure."
He pistoned into her harder, each thrust shaking the headboard and rattling the very frame of the bed. One hand reached down to grasp her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he yanked her into each savage thrust, while the other hand delved between their sweat-slicked bodies to find her swollen little clit.
Otto rubbed the sensitive nub in tight circles, feeling it throb against his fingertips as she shuddered and bucked beneath him. The added stimulation sent her hurtling into a second, even more intense climax, her scream of rapture piercing the air.
"That's my good girl," Otto praised, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "You're going to come for me again and again until I fill this hungry little cunt with my seed."
He could feel his own release fast approaching, the coil of heat in his loins tightening to an unbearable degree. But Otto was determined to make her come one last time on his cock before he allowed himself the sweet relief of emptying his heavy balls inside her.
Leaning down, Otto captured one of her bouncing nipples between his teeth, sucking and biting at the sensitive bud as he pounded into her. His fingers moved from her clit to plunge into her dripping sex alongside his cock, pumping in and out of her fluttering channel as he fucked her through her peak.
My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure as Otto drove my relentlessly towards yet another shattering climax.my mind was hazy, thoughts scattered to the wind, coherent only in the present moment - the feeling of Otto's thick shaft pistoning in and out of my dripping hole, his fingers toying with my sensitive clit, his teeth and tongue lavishing attention on my aching nipples.Each powerful thrust of his hips sent fresh waves of ecstasy crashing over me, my untouched body struggling to process the overwhelming onslaught of sensation.
As Otto's fingers plunged into her fluttering channel alongside his cock, she felt the coil of heat in her core tighten to an unbearable degree. Her inner muscles clamped down around the dual intrusions, gripping them like a silken vise as her climax built to a crescendo. She could feel every ridge and vein of Otto's shaft dragging against her sensitive walls, could feel the rough calluses of his fingers rubbing against her swollen, throbbing clit.
"I... I can't... too much..." i whimpered, even as my hips bucked feverishly to meet Otto's thrusts. Tears of rapture streamed down my face. I had never known pleasure could be this intense, this all-consuming. It was almost too much for her inexperienced body to bear.
Yet even as I teetered on the brink of her third climax, I found herself craving more. I wanted to feel Otto's hot seed flooding her depths, wanted to be marked and claimed and owned by him completely. With a final, keening cry, I came undone, my hole convulsing almost violently around Otto's pistoning length as my orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave.
"Otto!" I screamed, my voice raw and ragged with ecstasy. "Fill me, please! I want to feel your seed inside me. I want it, please!"
With a roar of triumph, Otto slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt as her pussy clamped down around him like a molten vise. The sensation of her velvet walls rippling and milking his shaft was too much for the battle-hardened knight to withstand. With a guttural groan, Otto let his climax overtake him, his heavy balls drawing up tight as they unleashed a torrent of hot, thick seed directly into her waiting womb.
I could feel the scalding heat of Otto's release flooding my insides, painting my untouched depths with his essence. Jet after jet of potent cum pumped into her, filling me so completely that I could feel it sloshing heavily in her belly as Otto ground against me , working his shaft to ensure every last drop took root inside her
"Fuck" Otto growled, his weight pressing down on her as he shuddered through the aftershocks of his intense orgasm. "Take my seed, my dove. Let it sink into your womb and take hold. You'll carry my child, I know it."
He captured her lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his lust and dark satisfaction into the embrace. One large hand slid down to possessively cup her mound, fingers delving between her dripping folds to feel the way her abused flesh fluttered around his softening shaft.
"You're mine now, my dove," Otto murmured against her lips, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Mine to fuck, mine to breed. I'll fill this sweet cunt with my seed again and again until your belly swells with my child."
He rolled his hips lazily, stirring the mixture of their juices inside her as he slowly softened inside her clutching heat. Even as the haze of lust began to recede, Otto made no move to pull out of her instead settling his weight more fully on top of her as he savored the intimate connection.
“If daemon can please his lady wife then I shall take his place- you’ll be mine my darling dove all mine”
There is probably to much to edit so I’ll do it in the morning I’m to stubborn lol
ANYWHOO more stores lined up for This coming weeks,
Under the moonlight( Valentine’s special, fluff, aemond)
Return home (cregan x Jace, fluff)
Cherry baby( Tywin, nsfw)
And unnamed daemon x Rhaenyra x reader UH HUH poly guys lol I’m like In the middle of this one so it’ll take a while for this one to be out
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 ♡
- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Next part: the daughter
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
The streets of King’s Landing were alive with noise and color as the festival in the lower city reached its peak. Crowds pressed against one another, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and the tang of the Blackwater rushing nearby. Musicians played bawdy tunes on lutes and pipes, their notes dancing over the clamor of merchants hawking their wares. It was a scene Lord Otto Hightower had no intention of witnessing firsthand.
Yet here he was, against his better judgment, striding through the chaos, his brocade cloak trailing through the muck of the streets. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde, known for his rakish charm and devil-may-care attitude, laughed heartily at Otto’s perpetual scowl.
“Come now, Lord Hand,” Jasper chided, slapping Otto’s shoulder with mock camaraderie. “Even the most dour of men must loosen their chains every now and then. You’re beginning to make Ser Harrold Westerling look positively jovial.”
Otto’s glare was as cold as the winds of the Reach. “I’ve no business in this rabble. My duty is to the Crown, not to trifling entertainments.”
Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “The Crown will not collapse because the Hand of the King partakes in a cup of mulled wine and watches a few fire-eaters. If anything, it might remind the people that their lords are not entirely made of stone.”
Otto sighed heavily but allowed Jasper to lead him further into the throng. He was keenly aware of the eyes upon him—common folk staring with mixtures of awe and suspicion at the austere man in his fine attire. It was rare for a lord of Otto’s stature to mingle so closely with the smallfolk, and rarer still for the Hand of the King to do so.
As they turned a corner, Jasper grinned and pointed toward a colorful tent pitched near the edge of the square. A sign hanging from its entrance read, Madame Lysara: Seer of Fates, Whisperer of Truths.
“You must be joking,” Otto muttered, his tone flat.
“Not at all,” Jasper replied, already tugging him toward the tent. “What’s a festival without a bit of harmless folly? Let’s see what the stars have to say about the great and mighty Lord Hightower.”
“I’ve no patience for charlatans.”
“And I’ve no patience for your endless brooding,” Jasper countered, shooting Otto a wicked grin. “Humor me, my lord. Consider it penance for dragging you out of your tower.”
Reluctantly, Otto allowed himself to be ushered inside the tent. The interior was dimly lit by flickering candles, their wax pooling onto an intricately patterned rug. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, sweet and cloying. Madame Lysara, a woman of indeterminate age with piercing eyes and a dramatic cascade of silver hair, sat behind a low table strewn with cards, crystals, and curious trinkets.
“Ah,” she purred, her voice low and melodic. “A man of great stature, though burdened by the weight of his own making. Please, sit.”
Otto remained standing, his expression carved from granite. Jasper, on the other hand, plopped down onto a stool with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. “He’s a stubborn one, isn’t he?” Jasper quipped, jerking a thumb toward Otto.
“Such men often are,” Lysara said, her gaze never leaving Otto’s. “But the stars speak even to the unyielding.”
Otto crossed his arms. “I’ll not pay coin for empty words.”
“Then you risk hearing the truth for free,” Lysara retorted smoothly, drawing a card from her deck and placing it face-up on the table. The illustration depicted a tower struck by lightning, figures tumbling from its heights.
Jasper leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “What does it mean?”
Lysara’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “A great change approaches—a shift that will shake the very foundation of his life. And at its heart, a woman.”
Otto’s brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. “If this is your attempt at flattery, it’s wasted.”
“Not flattery, my lord,” Lysara said, her tone soft but insistent. She drew another card, this one showing a figure falling through the air, arms outstretched. “The woman destined for you will arrive as if from the heavens, a gift of fate. She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you,” she added, fixing Otto with a penetrating look, “will catch her as she falls.”
Jasper let out a bark of laughter. “Falls from the heavens, you say? Well, Otto, I do hope you’re prepared to catch an angel.”
Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This is nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” Lysara allowed, gathering her cards. “But nonsense often carries a grain of truth.”
Jasper clapped Otto on the back as they exited the tent, his laughter echoing into the night. “Well, my friend, it seems your days of solitude are numbered. A woman falling from the sky—what a sight that will be!”
Otto ignored him, his mind already dismissing the fortune-teller’s words as the drivel they were. Yet, as they walked back toward the Red Keep, a faint unease settled in his chest. He told himself it was the incense clinging to his clothes, the noise of the city, the sheer absurdity of it all.
But the image lingered: a figure falling, and his arms reaching out to catch her.
The day began like any other, the city bathed in pale sunlight, the streets bustling with their usual chaos. Lord Otto Hightower stood on the steps of the Great Sept, flanked by a small retinue of guards. A heated discussion with Lord Beesbury over tariffs had drawn him away from the Red Keep, and though Otto’s attention was fixed on matters of governance, his thoughts were distracted by the open sky above. The festival's fortune-teller, and her ridiculous prediction, had faded into the back of his mind. Yet, when his gaze drifted upward, he found himself momentarily lost in the endless expanse of blue.
“My lord,” Ser Arryk interrupted, snapping Otto from his reverie. “Shall we return to the Keep?”
Otto adjusted his cloak, nodding briskly. “Yes, the king waits on no man.”
The party began its descent from the Sept, Otto leading the way with measured steps. He barely noticed the city around him, his mind preoccupied with the endless demands of his position. But then, a shadow passed over the sun. A large shadow.
Above the city, a dragon’s roar pierced the air, its deep, bone-shaking timbre sending the smallfolk scattering. Otto froze, his head snapping upward as a magnificent beast streaked through the sky—a dragon, its scales glinting like molten bronze in the sunlight. It swooped low, its rider clinging tightly to the saddle.
You had taken to the skies on a whim, your dragon restless and your heart yearning for the open air. Vermithor’s powerful wings carried you effortlessly above the city, the wind tugging at your hair. Below, the world seemed so small, so inconsequential, and you reveled in the freedom that came with flying. But then, as Vermithor banked sharply to avoid an incoming flock of ravens, the unthinkable happened.
The saddle strap—worn from battle and flight—gave way.
You barely had time to gasp before you were tumbling, the air rushing past you in a deafening roar.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sensation of falling. Panic clawed at your chest, but instinct kicked in. You tried to right yourself, arms flailing, the ground rushing closer with terrifying speed. Vermithor’s roar echoed somewhere above, the dragon circling back too late to catch you.
On the ground, Otto saw you before anyone else did—a figure hurtling toward him from the heavens. The memory of the fortune-teller’s words hit him like a physical blow.
She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you will catch her as she falls.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the commotion.
The guards around him shouted, some scattering while others moved to shield him. But Otto stood rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the falling figure. Instinct, or perhaps fate, took hold. As you plummeted toward him, he stepped forward, bracing himself.
You collided with him in a tangle of limbs and motion, the force of your fall driving him backward. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and the two of you tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap.
“Gods,” Otto groaned, his body aching as he struggled to push himself upright. “Are you—”
“Get off me,” you hissed, shoving at his chest.
Otto blinked, stunned. He hadn’t expected the woman in the prophecy to be so…fiery.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he bit out, his tone clipped. “But you are the one who fell from the sky.”
You scrambled to your feet, brushing yourself off and glaring at him. “I didn’t ask you to catch me.”
“Should I have let you splatter against the cobblestones, then?”
Your retort died on your lips as Vermithor landed behind you with a thunderous roar, his massive frame dwarfing the surrounding buildings. The dragon’s eyes burned with protective fury as he lowered his head toward you, his hot breath ruffling your hair.
“Easy, boy,” you murmured, placing a hand on his snout to calm him. “I’m fine.”
Otto watched the exchange with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You… you’re Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.”
You turned to him, your silver hair catching the light. “And you’re Otto Hightower.”
He inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that makes us…acquainted.”
“Hardly,” you replied, your gaze flickering over him. “But I suppose I owe you thanks.”
“Thanks?” He raised a brow. “I’ve just saved you from death, my lady. I’d say you owe me more than that.”
You smirked, a spark of mischief in your dark violet eyes. “A debt I shall repay. Perhaps I’ll save you one day, Lord Hightower. If you’re lucky.”
Before he could respond, you swung yourself onto Vermithor’s back with practiced ease. The dragon let out a low rumble, his wings unfurling.
Otto stepped back, watching as you rose into the sky, the dragon’s powerful wings stirring the air around him.
Jasper Wylde appeared at his side, his face alight with amusement. “Well, Otto,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It seems the fortune-teller was right. She fell from the heavens straight into your arms.”
Otto scowled, brushing Jasper’s hand away. “Not a word of this to anyone.”
But as the dragon disappeared into the horizon, Otto couldn’t help but wonder if fate had just played its hand—and if he was ready for what was to come.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with conversation as courtiers gathered for the day’s proceedings. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, but the warmth of the room was undercut by the ever-present tension that came with power games and politics. Lord Otto Hightower stood near the dais, his face a mask of composure as he observed the assembled nobles.
He was in the middle of a conversation with Lord Beesbury when the heavy doors swung open, and the clamor in the hall faltered.
Daemon Targaryen strode in, his presence commanding and unmistakable. His long silver hair caught the light, and the black-and-red tunic he wore bore the three-headed dragon of his house, the fabric rich and imposing. His dark violet eyes scanned the room with a mixture of boredom and disdain, and the edges of his lips curled in the faintest smirk as courtiers parted before him like leaves before a storm.
Otto’s spine stiffened.
It had been moons since the incident with you—Daemon’s daughter—had left him both bemused and bruised, and while the Hand had worked to compartmentalize the events, he knew well that Daemon had likely heard of them by now. Targaryens, after all, had a way of knowing things they shouldn’t.
Sure enough, Daemon’s gaze landed on Otto. The Hand braced himself, his grip on his staff tightening as the Rogue Prince began to make his way toward him.
“Ah, Lord Hightower,” Daemon drawled, his tone dripping with mock civility as he approached. “Still alive, I see. Good. I was beginning to think the gods had finally grown tired of you.”
Otto inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “Prince Daemon. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I’m sure it is,” Daemon replied, his smirk widening. He glanced around the hall before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the exchange feel intimate—and pointed. “Tell me, how are your arms? I imagine catching my daughter must have been… taxing.”
Otto’s jaw tightened, but he refused to take the bait. “Your daughter is fortunate to have been spared a far worse fate. Though I must say, her impulsiveness is… troubling.”
Daemon barked a laugh, drawing the attention of nearby courtiers. “Troubling? Coming from you, Hightower, that’s rich. Impulsiveness is a Targaryen birthright, or have you forgotten?”
Otto met Daemon’s gaze evenly. “A birthright that often ends in disaster.”
Daemon’s expression hardened for a moment, but then he smiled, sharp and wolfish. “And yet, here she stands—alive and well. A miracle, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps the gods themselves decided to spare her and gift you the privilege of her company.”
Otto resisted the urge to roll his eyes, keeping his tone measured. “I consider it my duty to protect the realm, regardless of who requires aid.”
Daemon tilted his head, studying Otto as though he were some peculiar creature on display. “Duty,” he mused, his voice dripping with disdain. “You wear that word like armor, don’t you? As if it can shield you from everything—including the truth.”
Otto’s brow furrowed. “And what truth is that, Prince Daemon?”
“That no matter how high you climb or how tightly you clutch your precious titles, fate will always find a way to humble you,” Daemon said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the words meant for Otto alone. “And if fate doesn’t… I will.”
The two men stood in tense silence for a moment, the air between them charged. Finally, Otto straightened, his face carefully impassive. “If that is a threat, my prince, I would advise you to reconsider. The king does not take kindly to such talk.”
Daemon’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not a threat, Lord Hightower. Merely a promise.”
With that, he stepped back, his posture relaxed once more as he cast a casual glance around the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my daughter. I hear she’s taken a liking to… wandering.”
Otto’s lips thinned, but he said nothing as Daemon sauntered off, his presence drawing the eyes of every courtier he passed. The Hand of the King remained where he stood, his thoughts swirling as he replayed the conversation.
If there was one thing Otto Hightower knew, it was that the game of thrones was never without its challenges—and Daemon Targaryen was one of the most unpredictable of them all.
The private solar of Lord Otto Hightower was a haven of calm compared to the bustling chaos of the court. The Hand of the King sat at his desk, a pile of correspondence before him, his quill moving steadily across parchment. Outside, the muffled sounds of King’s Landing filtered in—distant voices, the clatter of hooves, the occasional toll of bells. It was the sort of environment Otto found productive. Or at least, it usually was.
Today, however, Lord Jasper Wylde’s persistent presence threatened to unravel Otto’s carefully maintained composure.
Jasper lounged in a chair across from Otto, sipping from a goblet of wine and grinning like a man with a secret. For the past few minutes, he had been circling the same topic with infuriating persistence, and Otto’s patience was wearing thin.
“When will you act, my lord?” Jasper asked at last, setting his goblet down with an exaggerated flourish.
Otto didn’t look up from his parchment. “Act on what?”
Jasper chuckled, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The prophecy, of course. The fortune-teller. The princess.”
The scratch of Otto’s quill stopped abruptly. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet Jasper’s, his expression carefully neutral but his tone as cutting as a blade. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t be coy,” Jasper replied, waving a hand dismissively. “The gods themselves have practically handed her to you on a silver platter. A Targaryen princess—Daemon’s daughter, no less—falls from the heavens and into your arms, and you mean to tell me you’re not even considering the possibility?”
Otto set his quill down with deliberate precision. “Considering what, Lord Wylde? That I should ‘act,’ as you so vaguely put it? On the basis of a festival charlatan’s ramblings?”
Jasper smirked, undeterred. “Oh, come now. You and I both know it wasn’t just ramblings. The woman spoke true, did she not? She said a woman would fall from the sky and into your arms. And lo and behold, the princess did exactly that.”
Otto’s jaw tightened. “The circumstances of her fall were nothing more than a cruel twist of fate. There is no grand meaning to be found in it.”
“Isn’t there?” Jasper pressed, his grin widening. “You’ve spent years advising the king, orchestrating alliances, and navigating the treacheries of court. Yet when fate hands you a moment as undeniable as this, you choose to ignore it? Why?”
Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Because she is a princess, Lord Wylde. A Targaryen princess. The daughter of Daemon Targaryen, a man whose disdain for me is well-documented. To approach her in any manner beyond what is strictly required by duty would be… unwise.”
Jasper raised a brow. “Unwise, or inconvenient?”
“Both,” Otto snapped, his voice low but firm. “She is not some court lady to be wooed with flattery or gifts. She is a dragon’s daughter, bound by blood and fire to a family that would see me undone given the slightest provocation. To involve myself with her would be folly.”
“And yet,” Jasper countered, leaning back with an infuriatingly smug expression, “she has already involved herself with you—whether by fate or accident. Tell me, Otto, has it occurred to you that this could be an opportunity? A chance to strengthen your position, to bind House Hightower even more to the blood of Old Valyria?”
Otto’s eyes narrowed. “At what cost? My life, perhaps? Daemon would kill me before I could so much as utter a word of intent.”
“Daemon wouldn’t dare,” Jasper said with a dismissive laugh. “Not openly, at least. He may be reckless, but even he wouldn’t risk the consequences of spilling the blood of the king’s Hand.”
Otto stood abruptly, the movement silencing Jasper mid-laugh. He placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward as he fixed Jasper with a piercing glare. “Listen well, Lord Wylde. Whatever foolish notions you have conjured up regarding myself and the princess, I suggest you abandon them at once. I will not jeopardize my position, my life, or the stability of the realm on the basis of a prophecy whispered in a smoky tent.”
Jasper met Otto’s gaze evenly, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Very well,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “But mark my words, Otto. The gods are not so easily ignored. And neither, it seems, is the princess.”
With that, Jasper turned and strode toward the door, leaving Otto alone in the quiet of his solar. For a long moment, the Hand stood motionless, his thoughts a tempest of frustration and unease. At last, he sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Foolishness,” he muttered to himself. But as he resumed his work, he couldn’t shake the memory of you falling from the sky—and the strange, inexplicable feeling that his life was no longer entirely his own.
Synopsis: The marriage to Daemon Targaryen seemed perfect until she faced the harsh reality. In whose hands will her broken heart fall?
Warnings: Cheating ‧ Angst ‧ Comfort ‧ Age Gap.
Words: 3.0k
Request: Yes.
𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 ‧ masterlist
The sorrow that hung in the air pressed heavily on the chest of those who watched the suffering unfold, and the few witnesses remained silent as the woman, alone, laid bare the cause of her anguish.
"Please," she begged, desperate, falling to her knees and clutching her hands. "I can't stay with him, not after such a betrayal."
"Are you certain of your accusations?" Viserys asked, furrowing his brow, a mix of disbelief and discomfort crossing his face.
"I found them together!" she exclaimed, her breath immediately ragged. "Daemon and the Princess have stabbed me in the back. I always held them in high regard... How could they do this to me?"
Viserys pressed his lips together and swallowed with difficulty.
"What you're going through is heartbreaking, but the marriage has already been consummated... Who would accept your hand under these circumstances?"
"I don’t need to remarry—I just don’t want to be with him!" she burst out, frustration laced with fear that the union would not be annulled. "Am I truly expected to stay by his side while he beds and impregnates Rhaenyra?"
The bluntness of her words made the members of the Small Council exchange glances, while Viserys wished he could disappear.
"It is, without a doubt, an unfortunate situation," Otto Hightower interjected.
Both turned to him, while the young woman tried in vain to wipe away the tears that refused to stop falling.
"Explain yourself," the King ordered, hoping his reasoning would provide clearer guidance.
"The lady has fulfilled her duties as a wife impeccably—there is no reason for her reputation to be tarnished upon returning to singlehood. Daemon, on the other hand, has taken Rhaenyra’s virtue outside of wedlock, which could damage her standing as heir to the throne," he elaborated. "Furthermore, with the utmost respect, the Prince's fickleness is well known, and I doubt your daughter-in-law would be the only one to suffer the consequences if the divorce were granted."
Viserys took a deep breath, and for a brief moment, hope rekindled within her—just before Mellos spoke.
"I know of those who would be more than pleased to welcome such an exceptional lady into their lineage. Besides, settling this matter will allow us to move forward with the troublesome union between Daemon and Rhaenyra."
Silence settled over the room as everyone awaited the final decision. The King looked at her and took her hand.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
Viserys drew in another deep breath, gave her a gentle squeeze, and nodded with resignation.
"Be at peace, for your marriage is over."
The relief was immediate, so overwhelming that, for a second, she thought she might collapse from it.
"Thank you—thank you so much."
Wiping away the last traces of moisture from her cheeks, she apologized for the shameful display and left the council chamber with a deep bow. As she made her way back to her quarters, a storm of emotions threatened to overwhelm her, but the certainty that she was no longer doomed to live beside a man who did not value her brought a measure of solace.
"What were you doing in there?"
The Targaryen's voice sent a chill down her spine, but fury and pain burned in her chest, keeping her from even turning to face him.
"Leave me. I want nothing to do with you."
"Stop!" he growled, reaching her in just a few strides and seizing her arm.
Forced to a halt, she met his gaze with an anger she couldn't conceal.
"Let me go."
"What did you discuss with my brother?"
"The thought of staying with such a twisted adulterer is unbearable, so I ended it," she hissed through gritted teeth, secretly wishing she could tear him apart until nothing remained.
"You requested an annulment?" he asked in disbelief, forgetting to blink for several seconds. "Are you out of your mind? You won't find anything better than a Targaryen."
"What does it matter? I'd rather be alone than continue being your fool."
"Rhaenyra was just a fleeting moment—you're ending our marriage over that?"
"I respected and adored you, but you chose to betray my trust and destroy our future. I will never waver—you're nothing but filth!"
Daemon grabbed her by the shoulders, closing the distance between them. His dark gaze spoke for itself.
"If you leave me, I will never take you back, even if you beg on your knees."
"I’d rather die," she spat, letting all the venom she carried spill out.
"Take that back," he commanded, his jaw tightening.
"Even if you threatened to hurl yourself off your red lizard, I would never return to you."
"Don't forget who you're speaking to!"
"A degenerate pervert!" she shot back, struggling to break free. "Now it’s Rhaenyra’s turn to endure your whims—I'm free!"
Daemon lost all semblance of decency and began dragging her toward a desolate area. She considered screaming, but before she could, the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps made her hold her breath.
She turned her head and saw a group of four armed guards jogging in their direction. Daemon frowned and, without releasing her, waited to see what they wanted.
"The King requests your presence," Ser Harrold announced.
"For what?"
"You’ll know once you see him."
Daemon’s face twisted into a scowl that would have unsettled anyone, but without protest, he let go of her and stormed after them. They disappeared down a flight of stairs, and she exhaled sharply, releasing the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She placed a hand over her chest, trying to steady herself, but her legs faltered, and she had to lean against a wall.
"Milady?"
Startled, she turned around and found herself face to face with the Hand of the King, who kept his palms together and watched her with an unreadable expression.
"Lord Hightower, do you need something?"
"Not really, but I witnessed your encounter with Daemon and grew concerned for your well-being."
"The divorce was granted, but it is a difficult situation," she admitted with a bitter smile.
"I can only imagine the disloyalty you have had to endure."
"I conclude that you did not act with the intent of favoring me, but I appreciate your words before the King. They greatly helped in securing the separation."
"I was merely fulfilling my duty," he replied calmly, though he then seemed to hesitate. "But I must admit that…"
"Hm?" She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes, urging him to continue.
"You are one of the few among the nobility who possesses true manners and a genuine sense of responsibility. At the time, I supported your marriage to Daemon, believing he might learn and find focus by your side, but now I see that was a mistake. A lady like you should not be wasted on a man like him."
"Thank you," she murmured, shrugging, though the storm weighing on her heart kept her from even blushing.
"I apologize if that was inappropriate," he hastily added, lowering his head.
"Not at all."
"In any case, I know a good tea recipe that Alicent used to request in her most difficult moments. If you ever need help or simply wish to relax, you may count on me."
"I appreciate the offer; I will keep it in mind."
Otto bid his farewell with formal courtesies before departing, leaving behind the subtle trace of his perfume. She remained still for a moment, processing the whirlwind of events as her gaze settled on a nearby door. She anxiously rubbed her lips, and suddenly, as if driven by a fleeting thought, she reacted.
"Lord Hightower!" she called out hastily, rushing to catch up with him.
Otto stopped immediately, surprised by her sudden call.
"Yes?" he inquired, raising his brows slightly.
"Do you have time? Now would be a good moment to try that special blend."
A faint smile crossed the Hand’s face.
"Of course."
Interested in spending the afternoon with someone who seemed to recognize her true worth, she accompanied him to the wing where the Private Council resided. The room was spacious and unremarkable, yet from that day on, it became a familiar retreat where she enjoyed the serene company of the Hand of the King. The differences with her former husband were stark, and she welcomed the change of atmosphere, especially when Daemon sent letters from exile, a consequence of his transgressions with Rhaenyra.
Months passed, and her visits to the Hightower chambers increased significantly, gradually forging a bond that eventually turned into mutual feelings. Neither of them had expected to fall in love while striving to maintain and protect the companionship they had built, but the signs were clear, and in the end, they voiced their emotions.
Their relationship began in a tranquil manner, preserving the same foundation that had brought them together from the start, with the only difference being that it now included outings, gifts, and a more affectionate and intimate connection. Upon learning of it, Viserys gave them his blessing, and the Red Keep became the heart of festivities when they announced their wedding.
Truth be told, when the day of the union arrived, many feared the erratic Targaryen’s appearance. The skies were watched closely, and House Hightower sent its own people to prevent any disruptions. However, it was Rhaenyra herself—bitter and sorrowful over Daemon’s indifference toward her—who chose to take flight and keep him away from King’s Landing.
The celebration unfolded with alcohol, laughter, and dancing, while Otto took it upon himself to win the favor of his in-laws, soon discovering that they were pleased with both his character and his status. He might not have been a prince, but he was the Hand of the King and the father of the current queen.
Little by little, they settled into a comfortable routine, and the newlywed forged an unexpected but pleasant bond with Alicent, who accompanied and supported her greatly with her experience when she was expecting. Pregnancy and childbirth were not easy, but both father and daughter ensured she had the best care to go through it without complications. To everyone’s surprise, after the birth of the firstborn, a second baby followed, resulting in a pair of twins—a boy and a girl.
“What a blessing!” exclaimed Otto’s eldest servant.
“Truly a miracle,” Mellos agreed, preparing his arms to receive the baby girl.
“Are they all right?” she asked, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Perfectly. There’s nothing to worry about for now,” he reassured her, watching as the infant breathed normally. “Here,” he said, leaning in to hand her over.
Moments later, the door opened, and Alicent stepped inside. The attendants bowed while she took in the sight of the new mother and her children.
"How are you all?"
"No problems" the woman smiled. "Two new members! I’ll inform Lord Hightower of this wonderful news," the Queen said, approaching the bed. "Rest as much as you need; once you recover, I’ll organize a banquet."
"Very kind, thank you," she replied, nodding affectionately as the Queen gave her a gentle caress.
Otto exchanged a few words with his daughter before sitting on the bed. The couple gazed at each other, practically saying everything with their eyes.
"I never imagined becoming a father at this age, but starting a family with you is truly a joy," he confessed in a low voice, careful not to be overheard.
"Bringing children into this world is supposed to be my duty, but it doesn’t feel that way when you want to have them… Especially with the man you love," she replied, the sensitivity of the moment causing her eyes to well up.
"I love you," he responded, gently holding her cheek, his personality preventing him from being more expressive with others around. "Take care of yourself, I’ll make sure to look after you three."
Appreciating the concern and dedication, she focused on the twins, who were celebrated immensely. The siblings of the consort received numerous gifts from Oldtown: clothes, toys, and green jewels surrounded the cribs, a clear statement of which house they belonged to. However, Daemon Targaryen, upon hearing the news of their birth, couldn’t bear it and broke his exile to seek her out. Few knew his whereabouts since the exile, and his appearance shook the peaceful world the woman had managed to build, the man silently intercepting her in a corridor of the Red Keep.
"Is it true? Have you borne the seed of that man?"
"What are you doing here?" She furrowed her brow, stepping back as fear began to take hold of her.
"Answer me!" He ordered, no sympathy in his voice. "Did you marry and now give birth?"
"None of your business, you're nobody in my life."
"I am your...!"
"Ex-husband!" She finished, pure exasperation in her tone.
Daemon stepped closer, once again grabbing her by the arms. She tried to break free, but it was hopeless; she couldn’t escape him.
"I’ve written to you and sent gifts, I opened my heart and showed all my regret—how could you do this? Our destiny is to be together."
"Did my lack of response not make it clear that I no longer care? I don’t love you, I don’t want you, and I don’t desire you!"
"Do you think that shitty Hightower can satisfy you?"
"It's everything I’ve wanted and more. We have a beautiful family, and every day I thank my luck that I didn't get pregnant by you," she spat maliciously, hoping to inflict the same pain he'd caused her.
The confession paled him and made him loosen his grip, the woman fearing the flash of madness that appeared deep within his eyes.
"Daemon!" The scream froze them, and both turned their heads to see Rhaenyra approaching, her cheeks flushed and her eyes tearful.
"Not now..." the man sighed.
"Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?" she complained angrily, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer to her, unknowingly giving the woman the chance to free herself and create some distance.
"I came back to verify some information, not for socializing," he responded sharply, keeping an eye on his true goal.
The Princess looked at the girl, contorting her face in resentment, but then focused back on the man.
"You barely send me letters and keep having your nightly adventures. Don’t you find me attractive anymore?" she asked, completely vulnerable. "You said you loved me and that we would be together according to our tradition. Why do you keep seeking her out?"
Daemon rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation. The new Lady Hightower, deciding that this drama wasn’t hers to deal with, turned and walked away with her chin held high, though she had to resort to a brisk trot when she heard that the Targaryen woman was struggling to keep him close.
"Ser Criston!" she called as she saw him patrolling at an intersection of hallways.
"What’s going on?" he asked, concerned, forgetting formalities due to the clear stress.
"Daemon’s back, he’s in the castle," she gasped, her words tumbling over each other in her haste. "I managed to escape thanks to the Princess’s intervention, but he’s a threat to the Red Keep."
"Get to safety, I’ll alert the other guards," he nodded solemnly, escorting her a few hallways before taking another route.
With anxiety, she headed to her chambers to check the safety of the children before locking herself in with the governesses. They blocked the door for precaution and waited for news, while the kind caretakers calmed her and distracted the babies by feeding or playing with them.
The hours passed slowly, and the sunset gave way to twilight. Nervousness filled the air, though none of the women spoke of the situation. They exchanged glances, and one of them stood up to light the candles before the darkness enveloped them. It was at that precise moment when a knock on the door startled them, releasing sounds of surprise.
"Who is it?"
"Ser Harrold," came the firm voice from the other side of the thick wood. "The castle is secure; you can come out."
With renewed hope, the women unlatched the door and saw that the Hand of the King was also waiting outside.
"How are you?" he asked, stepping closer to check for any visible injuries.
"I'm fine, he couldn't do much," she replied with a gentle smile, shrugging as she rocked the baby girl in her arms.
Otto pressed his lips together and glanced at the others, who understood they should leave to give them privacy.
"Viserys has kept him in exile, he didn't approve of the transfer or the distressed state he found Rhaenyra in," he informed while sitting beside her.
"The Princess questioned his interest in me and his indifference towards her... Daemon has become a man impossible to understand."
"Even though you were married to him, I've dealt with the Targaryen longer than you," he sighed, exhausted just from remembering all the arguments they'd had. "Once he gets what he wants, he gets bored. The hunt is over, and he moves on, but he can't stand it when what he has conquered slips out of his grasp."
"It makes sense... Still, I want to leave him in the past and keep any dragon away from our family," she confessed, looking at him with determination. "Today I confirmed once again that you are what life had in store for me. I can't predict if it will be an easy path, Daemon ended up being an absolute failure, but I won't regret choosing you."
Otto hugged her from behind and pulled her close, gently stroking her arm.
"I'm not perfect, but as a woman, mother, and wife, I will respect you. I've always been this way, and I won't change with you."
A slight smile appeared on her face, pleased as she remembered how Hightower had always held his former partner in high regard, ready to defend her firmly if anyone dishonored her. Those who had been in the castle longer knew all the details, and it was precisely that loyalty that led her to give herself to him.
With satisfaction, she closed her eyes and snuggled up, feeling the kiss on her head as a seal of his love for her and the family they had built.
