#otto hightower fanfiction

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Would That I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surely that can’t be all?”

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

“Is he kind to you?”

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

“Is that your favourite quality of his?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

A Companion (Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader) Chapter 1

At the wedding of of King Viserys and the Lady Alicent Hightower, the father of the bride has an unexpected meeting with a young widow.

Series Masterlist Here

Pairing: Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings: discussion of spousal death

Author's note: PEEPAW TIME

Chapter 1: A Meeting

The Great Hall was full of laughing, happy people, many well on their way to true celebratory drunkenness.

Otto Hightower was not one of them.

He had been enjoying the celebration of his daughter’s wedding. But that was before his son, Gwayne, had gotten so raucously drunk that two members of the Kingsguard were required to force him back to his quarters. And before the bedding ceremony was called for, and despite earlier agreements, several pieces of Alicent’s ensemble had been left on the floor of the Great Hall.

It was enough to tempt him into a second goblet of wine, dulling his mind just enough for him to begin to enjoy the music – and to be grateful the Princess Rhaenyra had sullenly slunk away before she could shove any young maidens at him. Perhaps she had entirely forgotten about her plan to arrange his marriage or given up on getting her revenge.

Then again, perhaps not.

Otto passed the time observing the remaining guests, noting who had spoken to whom and about what. It helped him discern who would make a potential ally, who needed more convincing, and who needed to be removed from court. He had just dismissed the grumblings of two minor lords as inconsequential when his eye caught on two people – a man and a woman - that he did not recognize.

They both seemed familiar, yet Otto could recall no name to match their faces. Perhaps he had seen them in passing during the events preceding the wedding – the tourney possibly, or even the morning feast. Though if it had been one of those, he likely would have remembered them.

Still, something about them was scratching insistently at the back of his mind and bringing an unpleasant feeling to his chest. More so the Man than the Woman, but still. If they were somehow a threat, as his instinct suggested, it would be prudent of him to watch them closely.

The Man wore entirely ostentatious clothing, the dyes obnoxiously rich and bright. A gaudy purple shot through with the whitest white silk Otto had ever seen. He was clearly trying to impress his peers and ensure his house was recognized. Still, Otto could not quite place the heraldry, an irony he allowed himself a moment to delight in. The purple and white were relatively unique, but stars were so common that they offered no hint of who the man was.

Northern, most likely, judging by his thick dark hair, hard gray eyes, and stocky build. His features, individually, were well-formed, yet it made an unpleasant whole. A man of brutality and brutishness. A man who smiled rarely. And when he did, his smile likely indicated something wicked. A thoroughly unpleasant figure.

But the Woman – the Lady…

A pretty young thing. A very pretty young thing, likely only a year or two older than Alicent. She wore no heraldry save a small silver pin on her breast. Her clothes were simple, all made of dark fabric that could easily be mistaken for black if one did not look closely. Though she bore no ring on her finger, her hair was worn braided and pinned back like a married woman’s.

With the sinking feeling of both realization and pity, Otto realized that there was only one reason why she would be wearing such clothes at a royal wedding, of all places – she was in mourning.

Yet her companion seemed to hold no pity for her. They were far enough away that Otto could not hear the words, but from the deep furrow of the Man’s brow and the Lady’s tired, resigned eyes, he knew the conversation was not pleasant. He had only just made the decision to stay out of whatever family squabble this was when the Man turned to look at him, then seized the Lady’s arm, hissed something into her ear, and thrust her in Otto’s direction.

At least this did not seem to be the work of Rhaenyra. No, this was all the work of the unpleasant man. It no longer mattered what house he was from or if he could be used as an ally. It only mattered that he was desperate to raise his station, and that Otto did not like him.

The decision was easy to make – he understood her pain, having lost a love himself. He would be kind to her but would not impose himself on such a lovely young woman in mourning any longer than necessary to temporarily sate her companion’s apparent social climbing aspirations. No matter his promise to the King, or his burgeoning desire for a companion of his own, this girl deserved better than an old man. Once he spoke to her, perhaps he could even introduce her to more suitable bachelors.

For he certainly was not the match for her.

If you thought the nearly month-long journey to King’s Landing was insufferable, it was nothing compared to the cacophony that was the capital during a royal wedding. In the last five days, you were forced to endure a parade in the sweltering heat, three days of brutal tourney events, and a “woman’s breakfast” the morning of the ceremony, during which no one spoke to you. And at the end of each day, a grand feast in the Great Hall.

Not that you could partake in much of the exquisite and exotic food, for your good sister Sybelle would not let you eat more than a few bites in worry that you would appear gluttonous and unladylike. Any respite that would have come when she inevitably flitted across the hall to grovel at the feet of the well-esteemed ladies from better-known houses was quickly squashed when her husband – your good brother, Gryff – whisked you away to present you to suitors like you were a prized cow gone to market.

Fortunately, your mourning clothes and shy demeanor meant that very few of the men were enticed by you. And any that were interested were quickly put off when they learned how small and insignificant your house was and that there would be little benefit for them in a match with you. Lord Jason Lannister even expressed surprise that you had been invited to the wedding. Gryff’s sputtering after that had made your evening.

But the more you were rejected, the more insistent he became. Desperate was perhaps the better word. Either way, it led you here – standing to the side of the hall with a still-empty stomach and Gryff hissing in your ear like the viper he was.

“Six days,” he spat, the smell of alcohol lingering on his breath, “six fucking days, and you have yet to tempt even one suitor! From among the two score I’ve introduced you to!” He scoffed and took another swig from his goblet. “Soon, I’ll have to start offering you to young twats whose stones have not dropped. At least they won’t be able to tell how hard you’ve already been ridden.”

“You are vulgar,” you said softly, not entirely wanting him to hear you.

But, of course, he did. Gryff rounded on you, his face reddened and blotchy from his imbibement. There was no pity or warmth in his eyes. There never was. “Vulgar it may be, but if that is what it takes to find you a new husband so you can finally get off my land and stop draining my coffers, so be it.”

You took a deep breath, trying not to cry or scream. It wouldn’t be proper at an event such as this and would provoke even more anger from Gryff and Sybelle. While they would not dare to harm you, they had found several other cruel and creative ways to make you miserable. Best to calm the fire before getting burned.

“I have done my best. I have been kind and amiable of every man you’ve thrust me upon,” you knew your attempt at reasoning with him would likely fail, but at least you would have tried. Locke would not have stayed silent in the face of such insults, so neither would you. “It is not my fault that they are well-mannered and civilized and therefore do not wish to court a woman in mourning.”

Gryff barked a callous laugh, drawing the attention of several of those around you. For once, he did not notice; he only continued to sneer. “But it is your fault, good sister. You may recall that before we left, I commanded that you leave your mourning clothes behind. That you wear something more attractive. Yet you disobeyed me, just so you would have a good excuse to continue living off my generosity!”

In truth, it was because your lady’s maids had known how much you still grieved your beloved husband and refused the order their new master had given. Though you were grateful for their thoughtfulness, you were very close to wishing they had not done it.

Pressing your lips together to stop them trembling, you replied quietly. Weakly. “You know that is not true. Locke was – ”

“A fool to fall for your little act,” he interrupted, smiling triumphantly when he saw tears forming in your eyes. “Always so sentimental and trusting. He may have put on a convincing façade, but he was weak. I have no doubt he would have squandered our fortune and destroyed our reputation just to please you.” He leaned forward to whisper in your ear. “Perhaps it is fortunate, then. That he met such an untimely end.”

A monster. That’s what Gryff was. To say these horrid things about anyone was terrible enough, but to say them about his own brother?

Your revulsion was almost enough to make you throw yourself at the next man you saw and beg him to take you on. But you could not, for you still saw Locke around each corner. The bright smile he always bore when he saw you. The way he held you close and kissed you, propriety be damned. The way he looked at you as though you were the Maiden herself.

He was no fool. He was not weak.

He was a good man. A good husband. Your great love.

And he was gone.

The crushing weight of the grief shattered any retort you had. Not that it mattered anyway – something had caught Gryff’s eye. He seized your arm, making sure his nails dug into your skin even through the layers of black silk, and leaned in to again spit his venom in your ear.

“It seems there may yet be one man remaining who is wealthy enough to suit your tastes,” he laughed gravely. “Do try to make a good impression, or else I shall have to start sending inquiries to the heathens in Essos.”

With that, he shoved you away, towards a shadowy alcove against the far wall. Partially hidden amongst the dimness and the curtains was a tall man. A very tall man. Lean for his age, but with an erudite look about him that suggested his prowess was not of the body, but of the mind.

He was a man you recognized immediately, having seen him in a place of honor at every celebratory you had attended in the capital. Even without that knowledge, you would have immediately known who he was by the golden pin on his breast.

Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King.

And he was looking directly at you.

Oh, Gryff was reaching far too high. And now it seemed you would be the one to weather the fall.

But there was a spark of kindness in Lord Hightower’s eyes – eyes as wise and perceptive as an owl’s – that assuaged your fears enough that you did not tremble as you weaved through the crowd to reach him. Still, you turned your eyes down and prayed he would not recognize you from the pin you still wore. Pity given for your mourning was bearable, but the Hand would know…

You reached him before finishing the thought and lowered yourself in a curtsy. “My Lord Hand,” you began, thankful that, for once, you were able to speak for yourself, “I offer my congratulations to you and your daughter on this joyous occasion. You must be very proud.”

“Hmm, proud indeed.” He held out a large hand to help you rise, a kind gesture you had not expected from a man of his station. When you met his eyes, they were searching your face for something. He did not recognize you then, a relief.

“Thank you very much for your kind sentiments, Lady…?”

A short relief.

Steeling yourself for the pitying coos and well wishes you were sure were coming, you told him your name, then added, “Born of House Fenn, now of House Whitehall.”

And there it was, that hateful glimmer of recognition in his eyes as he remembered the story of the unfortunate girl from the swamps of the Neck, plucked from her humble origins among the crannogmen to wed the dashing young lord of Highpoint.

It was a story fit for a fairytale. That is, until it was over within a year, when your husband was killed in an ambush by the wild men of the Northern mountains. Gryff, your late husband’s younger brother and presumptive heir, was intent upon sending you back to the swamps before he was stopped by his mother, who insisted that though the marriage was short, you nevertheless had all the rights accorded to the Dowager Lady of the hall, and as the potential mother of the new heir – should you be carrying one. After all, you and Locke were truly, deeply in love, and there was no reason to believe his seed had not found root.

Thus, Gryff had you confined to your rooms until your moon’s blood arrived – or didn’t. You were allowed no servant but the guard he had commanded to watch your every move and were forced to endure extensive examinations by the Maester daily. And when your moon’s blood came, Gryff had a carriage waiting to take you back to your father.

Unbeknownst to him, your good mother had sent a letter to both your father and Lord Stark at Winterfell. As a crannogman whose title of nobility was scoffed at by those outside the swamps, your father could do very little to help. But with Lord Stark also on your side, Gryff could not dismiss you so easily. He could, however, appeal the Lord of the North’s order to the only higher authority available, requiring that all involved – except you, of course – journey to King’s Landing to present the case to the King himself.

After hearing both petitions, the King – and Otto Hightower – had not only commanded that you be allowed full rights as a widow, but placed restrictions on how Gryff could treat you. Namely, he could not banish you from his lands or force you to remarry.

He could, however, make your life at Highpoint so miserable that you would wish to leave and be desperate enough to get away from him that you would marry of your own accord. It was something he and his wife were more than happy to do.

Still, as miserable as you were there, it was Locke’s home. The lands he loved so much he spent four whole days showing you the whole of it. And you quickly grew to love it, too, despite it being so drastically different from your home. It became your new home. Aside from the ring he gave you, the land was one of your only reminders of the great love you had lost.

How could you abandon it just because of two unpleasant people?

How could you marry someone else, like Locke had been nothing?

Even if you could, how were you ever to find a husband when every man you met looked at you as Otto Hightower did now?

His brow was furrowed above his water-blue eyes, and his mouth was pursed in thought. No doubt trying to find the words to offer you his pity, as if you had not already heard everything there was to say.

“I am very sorry for your loss, my lady,” he said gently. At least his voice was lovely enough to make the repetition of the words you had heard a thousand times more bearable. “I lost my wife only two years ago. To lose one you love so dearly… is a pain without description. I confess that, when I first heard of what happened to your husband and what was done to you, I could not understand why the Gods would do such a thing to someone so young and innocent and…”

He nodded, seemingly to himself. “I prayed for you, Lady Whitehill. In fact, I still do.”

Then he turned away, looking past you and into the crowd. Had he not still been holding your hand, you may have taken it as a dismissal. You almost wished it was as you felt his fingers tighten around yours and his face turn from pensive to grave. But the second most powerful man in Westeros was holding you in place. Gently, but still. Who were you to disobey him?

“I am surprised I forgot his face,” Lord Hightower mused, only half-speaking to you. “He is easily one of the most unpleasant men I have ever met.”

You turned, following his gaze back to Gryff, who was doing a very poor job of pretending not to be watching you. Turning back to Lord Hightower, you saw his lip curled in disgust. Something about that expression on the face of such a serious, incredibly important man tickled something inside you that you thought had died with Locke.

So, you laughed. Short and weak, but still a laugh. The sound drew Lord Hightower’s eyes back to you, and he smiled curiously. “I did not intend that as a joke, Lady Whitehill. Was I mistaken?

“No, forgive me, my lord.” You shied away from him, looking down at your joined hands. “It is only that I don’t often hear people speak of him with such… honesty.”

“Yes,” he murmured as he, too, looked at your hands. After a moment, he dropped his and crossed his arms behind his back. “He is not a man I would expect to tolerate criticism.”

You sighed, briefly missing the contact, the warmth of his hand. “He is not a man who tolerates many things. But criticism is one that… none at Highpoint dare even contradict him.”

Lord Hightower looked at you thoughtfully, as if you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite sort. “I have had the misfortune of meeting many such men, and I am very sorry you have had to meet even one.”

He was quiet for a while. Long enough that you began silently crafting your farewell and considering how you would explain the fruitless meeting to Gryff. He would not be happy with this particular failure, and you could not decide which of his threats he would follow through on – offering you to mere boys or to Essosi men. Either would likely take you far from home and had no guarantee that your situation would improve. Perhaps –

“Why did he bring you here?” Lord Hightower said suddenly. When you lifted your head to face him, he was again looking not at you but at Gryff. His face betrayed nothing, but a dark gleam in his eyes sent a chill through your blood and yet… made you feel safe. Protected. Like you could tell him the truth.

A foolish feeling. You could tell no one the truth. Telling the truth meant leaving Highpoint – leaving Locke – and that was something you would not do.

“He brought me for the wedding,” you lied. “He thought it might cheer me.”

It was the worst lie you had ever told, though you’d never been very good at them. Though this one was particularly bad. Not only had you not been particularly convincing in your delivery – your voice wavered, and your smile was too tight to be sincere – but Lord Hightower had been at Gryff’s petition to send you away. According to your father, Gryff had been in fine, horrible form. So, Lord Hightower knew better than most that your good brother would never do anything for your sake.

And the fact that you were pretending he would apparently made Lord Hightower very, very angry. It seemed as though the shadows of the alcove itself swirled around him and darkened his eyes. Still, you felt safe with him. You knew instinctively that his anger was not directed at you.

Yet you did shrink away slightly when he turned that dark gaze on you. “The King expressly forbade him from forcing you to marry.” His voice had taken on a low, sharp quality, which you were reasonably certain had often made Lords and Generals quake in their boots. Indeed, you were sure you would do whatever he wanted, so long as he asked it in that voice. “Has he disobeyed this? Did he bring you here to find a husband against your will?”

It was hard to meet his eyes. “He…” you swallowed, summoning every bit of your will to not tell him the truth. But even if you did somehow manage to lie convincingly, you did not doubt that Lord Hightower would nevertheless be able to see right through you. This was a political mind at work, the keenest in the realm. He likely knew the answer before he ever asked the question. Which meant…

What he was actually asking was something different. Something he dare not speak aloud in the presence of others? No, not that. He was the Hand of the King, and this was the Red Keep – his territory. You doubted there was anything he would fear to say here, save open treason.

What was it?

If this was a political move, he must want something from you. Locke had once told you when you were alone in your chambers sharing a bottle of wine after one of his taxing journeys to Winterfell, that amongst lords and kings, nothing was ever free. There was no charity.

And yet, you could not think of a single thing Lord Hightower would want from you. You had no wealth of your own, nor did your father in any meaningful way, and Gryff would not part with a single sliver of copper. You held no alliances of your own outside of the crannogmen, and you doubted they would ever be of any help to him or the King. That left only… yourself.

He could not possibly want you. Yes, he was a widower, but his loss had also been recent. He told you himself how much it had pained him.

Even if he was in the market for a new wife, he would not want some penniless widow from the Neck. With his family name, position, and new status as the Queen’s father, he could choose any woman he wanted to wife. Though if he was looking for a distraction rather than a marriage… you did not let yourself consider it. He had made no advance on you, and his eyes held no sign of lust. You had seen lust in Locke’s eyes, burning like silver flames. There was no such flame in Lord Hightower’s eyes, only pity and concern. And something gentle, almost like hope.

Was it possible that his daughter’s wedding had made him feel charitable? That he had seen a sad young widow and decided that it was in the spirit of the day to help someone in need?

Help.

That is what he was asking – if you wanted his help. If you said ‘no’ right now, even knowing what he knew, he would walk away.

But if you said yes – if you asked for his help?

The Hand of the King was a powerful ally, the father of the Queen even better. If someone who could as easily grant Gryff the wealth and reputation he so craved as he could ensure it never came to be offered his support and protection, you didn’t know what would happen. But perhaps it would be better.

“Yes,” you whispered. The word could either save or damn you, but you said it either way. “He wants rid of the responsibility of me, so much that he’s willing to give me to anyone who shows interest.”

His dark expression was interrupted by a brief flash of confusion. Before you could inquire about what had disturbed him, he leaned down towards you. A strategic move. Anyone looking at you would merely see a man attempting to charm one of the last women remaining at the end of the celebration.

“Forgive me for my forwardness, my lady,” he paused to look you over again, “but I admit I find it hard to believe that no man has shown you interest.”

Another veiled question. This one easier to decipher.

You ensured you were positioned so that Gryff could not see your face before answering, for you knew you could not hide your smug smile. “The mourning clothes help with that,” you admitted, “as do carefully timed tears.”

Lord Hightower seemed to relax at that and smirked at you conspiratorially. “I imagine the prospect of a permanent association with your good brother is the most effective deterrent.”

It was not a deception for Gryff’s benefit when you began to laugh together. You had not laughed with someone in so long nor felt as comfortable around another person since Locke died. Not even with your good mother. She tried, but she could not separate you from her grief for her son, so laughing with her was a sheer impossibility.

The realization sobered you instantly. This moment was a gift, yes. But the very fact that a moment of laughter with a stranger was the happiest you had been in more than a year and would likely remain so for some time. You would be returning to the North soon, back to a life with very little joy.

It was as though Lord Hightower could read the thoughts in your eyes. His own smile fell, and he again took your hand. “When do you leave the capital, my lady?

“We will remain several days more,” you answered, the words tasting like bitter wine. “Gryff is eager to make alliances and raise his standing.”

“Hmm,” Lord Hightower hummed as he absentmindedly stroked the back of your hand with his thumb. From how his eyes darted back and forth ever so slightly, you knew that brilliant mind was formulating some kind of plan.

Unfortunately, it seemed he would not share that plan with you.

He simply raised your hand to his mouth to kiss it as a proper gentleman does, the hairs of his beard tickling your skin, before looking at you once more. “You may tell Lord Whitehill that I was thoroughly charmed by you.” Something about the way the corner of his mouth quirked up made you think it was not entirely a fiction. “I suspect that will satisfy him well enough that he will be less… overbearing, at least for a while. In the meantime, I shall endeavor to find a more pleasant solution to your woes.”

Your heart quickened with anticipation and hope, something you had not felt in a long time. While your instinct was to ensnare him in a tight embrace and perhaps even kiss his cheek, you forced yourself to remain civilized, simply squeezing his hand tightly in thanks before letting go and curtsying to him again.

“My Lord Hand, I cannot find words to express my gratitude,” you said breathlessly. “I have known such kindness very little of late.”

He smiled and reached for you before folding his hand behind his back again. “That, my lady, is a tragedy in itself. Once that I swear I will do everything in my power to end as swiftly as possible.”

“Thank you. I…” words failed you entirely. “Thank you so much.”

“It would perhaps be wise to save the majority of your thanks until after I have discovered a solution,” he jokingly chided. For a long moment, he simply held your gaze. “Now, as much as I hate to do so, I believe it is time to return to your family. I have much work to do.”

“Of course,” you said with another curtsy. There was more you wanted to say, but it was too much to sort through in only a moment. So, you gave him another smile and turned away.

As you walked back toward Gryff – who was looking sinisterly pleased – you were amazed to find that, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading tomorrow.

Otto left the Great Hall immediately, though it pained him to do so. But he had not wanted to tell her – raise her hopes too soon – that he was fairly certain he had already found a solution. Perhaps the perfect solution.

But he wanted to pray on it first.

It was too late to call a wheelhouse to take him to the Great Sept. Besides, the servants deserved the night to celebrate, as well. So, he made his way instead to the Royal Sept, which had the added benefit of being close to his own chambers.

The Sept was empty, thankfully. It was quick work to light a prayer candle and to place it on an altar Otto had not knelt at for years – the Maiden’s.

“I come to ask your guidance, Holy Maiden,” he prayed aloud. “There is a young widow who needs my help. Very desperately. I believe I can aid her – I know I can aid her. But I must be sure that I am acting rightly.”

He sighed, staring at the gently flickering flame of the candle. “When I first considered her plight, an answer came to me almost instantly, as if it were an instinct. But I worry… I worry that if I choose to enact it, I will be acting not out of charity and generosity but selfishness.

“She is young and very beautiful, and I believe she has a keen mind. And she understands! She knows what it is like to lose a great love – a true love. She is like me; she does not want to marry again. But it seems for both of us that there is no other option. Would it not then… would it not be right for us to marry?

“We can fulfill the desires and expectations of those around us while remaining devoted to our lost loves. I would expect her to fulfill no wifely duties, nor would she expect me to perform mine as a true husband. We would be… companions to each other. Someone with which we can share a life of contentment without feeling as though we have betrayed those who are gone.”

Otto sat back on his knees and looked up at the face of the Maiden. “Would doing so be a sin? Marriage is supposed to be the true joining of souls in holy and eternal love. That is what I had with Madelyn and what I believe she and the late Lord Whitehill had. Would it not betray the very idea of our past marriages to seek the same again?”

He sighed and dropped his head. “I would, of course, not force her hand. If I propose the plan and she refuses, I will dedicate myself to helping her some other way. But I cannot deny that this seems like fate, that the two of us would find each other. So please, Holy Maiden. Please, tell me if I am right.”

For what felt like the entire night, Otto sat on the floor of the Sept, watching the candlelight dance across the marble floor.

Then the dancing stopped.

Bewildered, he looked immediately at the candle. It was still lit, but the flame did not waver. Instead, it was perfectly still and seemed to grow taller and taller.

As if a cool hand lifted his chin, Otto turned his gaze up to the Maiden’s face. Somehow, she seemed to be smiling. A trick of the light, perhaps. But if the light itself was something impossible… Otto snuffed the flame with his fingers, which did not singe as they touched the fire.

He had never received a more explicit answer from the Gods.

#A Companion #otto hightower #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower finfic #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower x you #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd otto #house of the dragon otto #rhys ifans

[adarkandmagicalforest]

An Irritation p. 2

pairing: Otto Hightower/Targaryen Reader (twin to Daemon)

tags: explicit sexual content, hate fucking, mentions of incest, otto hightower talking about sin

She had not thought to do it again.

But then, Daemon had been expelled from his short term as Master of Laws and had been in an especially instigative mood since then. He'd dragged her from her bath, complaining all the while, demanding they fly together.

When she refused, as it was Winter and a storm was pouring rain over Kings Landing outside, he prodded her, viciously trying to get her to rise up to his fire. But Daemon was poor company when in such a mood, so his pushing only served to make her furious. She'd bit out some response and dressed in a mere robe before leaving through one of Maegor's tunnels, her brother glaring after her as she left.

She ended up at the Tower of the Hand soon enough.

But to her utter disappointment, Otto Hightower was nowhere to be found in his chambers.

But never one to suffer disappointment for long, the Princess began to help herself. He had not been here to stop her after all, and what did it matter if she wished to ruffle around in his things? He was their servant after all, it should have pleased him that his possessions could entertain her for a time, she mused as she explored the chest of drawers against the wall, the nightstand that held a pair of gloves and the desk with his papers. She even exchanged her robe for a pair of his trousers, loose and far too long for her much shorter legs, but an interesting sight nonetheless. She wished she could have found his pin, but the blasted man seemed to never take it off.

She had begun humming when she went through the rest of his clothes, the stale mass of dark grey, black and emerald green uninspiring until she found a pair of thick, woven ties inside. 

They were clearly meant for holding, perhaps to fasten against his belt or some other mundane purpose, but she as a dragonrider thought them to be rather similar to reins .

And so the Princess took them, laying herself back on the Hand's neat belt, hoping dearly she would not need to wait long. 

She counted near a half hour before her ears caught the sound of doors opening beyond the bedroom. 

Pleased, her pale hand rose up and pushed her half-dry, ivory curls up in an artful array and arranged herself into a more comfortable position on her stomach, though the mix of his trousers, her long hair and the dark green ties that were idly wrapped around her wrists like bracelets was an odd one, but she liked the way it felt.

Minutes were all it took then for the door to creak open - it halted of course, halfway upon opening. The Princess ignored it, instead twirling the fabric about as her heart thudded in her chest, curious to see if Otto would play.

More heartbeats followed, but words were not uttered. 

She could only hear his footsteps, stepping over the floor and to the rug beneath his large bed. 

"I did not think I would receive a visit from you, Princess. I did not receive a missive nor warning of it." Otto finally said, not as negative as he could have been. For the past week, the Lord Hand had been thoroughly avoiding her, which was an interesting development, especially with Daemon's horrible attitude of late. Normally the old man would've started lashing criticisms of her and Daemon both, no matter which twin had earned his ire, always lumping the two together. But even with her brother wrecking havoc, she hadn't heard Viserys grousing once about hearing of her from his Hand.

So the dragon turned onto her back, her pale hair covering her breasts but hardly as a fine act of modesty, what with the curve of her small breasts and her soft pink nipples being well on display. 

The movement caused the Hand's breath to hitch, just slightly, which made her lips turn up into a pleased grin. That would surely bother Otto, who's immediate twitch of his brow told her that his action had been an accidental one. "I thought you were a servant of my House, Otto - I did not think a servant required prior warning before I had need of him." She replied, lifting herself up onto her arms, peering up at him expectantly.

"Of course. Yet it would only be polite. Then, I should have expected that to be something that was beyond your worries, Princess." He said then, drifting closer now and placing his hands on the sturdy wooden footboard of his bed. He always kept such neat hands, she noticed blithely. Clean hands with clean fingers and clean fingernails. Only days ago, those fingers had been rubbing at her cunt til she came. Daemon would have taken this man apart piece by piece, slowly feeding each limb to Caraxes if he ever found out. 

"Mmm. The worries of a Princess are more important than such things." She agreed. She squirmed slightly then, rubbing her thighs together. The texture of the trousers that she was wearing was rubbing against her, heat looming within her at the motion.

This action caught the Hand's attention instantly. "It seems though, you've been here for sometime." He said darkly, finally approaching her properly, now looking down at her as if he could frighten her. 

"I have." 

Finally, Otto reached for her, looking rather frustrated but also aroused in her opinion, especially as his hand smoothed over her pale stomach. His fingers pushed her loose hair out of the way of his path as his touch traversed her torso, moving carefully along her delicate ribcage and then up the curve of her pale breast, the warmth of his hand pleasant, especially as his thumb moved over her nipple. The Princess moved slightly, pressing herself up against this touch, encouraging him to stroke and pet her. Cannibal liked the same. 

"You've been going through my possessions." He stated, disgruntled and yet still touching her. He was still roaming over her flesh, but now his hand was touching the trousers she'd stolen, perhaps noting after ducking them down an inch, that she wore nothing beneath them.

"I was bored." 

This, he didn't like, because then his fingers began digging into her, his nails raking over her until she gasped and red marks raised up through her soft skin. She was soaking through his trousers, she knew, and was tempted to grab at his wrist and escort it down between her legs - but she was fascinated where he was going with this. How odd it was to think him an interesting lover. 

"To think, a woman of your privileges, to be blessed by the Gods to rule - and yet to be damned by such sin." Otto finally said, an edge to him that made her ache. So this is how he wanted to play? Very well, she thought, ecstatic. 

"Oh yes, I forgot how pious you are, Otto. It must have slipped my mind the last time you were wetting your cock with my whorish little cunt." The Princess almost purred back.

That flash of pissed off and starving came over his face, and then he climbed over her in the bed. His hand gruffly moved underneath her hair, grasping at her nape with force as he kissed her. She kissed him back hungrily, her hands reaching for him and yanking at his clothes, fantasizing for a moment about putting on his doublet with the gilded hand of the King pin, perhaps with him putting his mouth to good use at her cunt while she wore it. 

But Otto had another thought, it seemed. 

Because her hands, having been making work of the ties on his doublet, were suddenly seized with an iron grip and roughly pinned above her head. And those ties, which she had been wearing as bracelets, were now her reins - as they were now being tied against the headboard with such swift action that by the time she thought to struggle and wriggle and fight, it was already done. 

She shouted her frustration, wriggling against the ties, but to no avail.

"So much fire and yet two little straps can keep you bound so tightly..." The Hand said, looking down at how she struggled. 

If it wasn't for the fact that he was still touching her, his fingers rubbing over her sides and then up to her breasts, massaging at them near worshipfully, she might have made a stronger effort of it. She could escape, if she so wished.

Otto lowered his head then, kissing at her rib cage slowly. "If you were not born a Targaryen, a girl with your appetites would have been punished by the Seven already." He said, his wiry beard tickling her as he mouthed along her sternum and then up the curve of her breast. His mouth was warm, but the tantalizing thought that he was visiting her body as he might a Sept while also murmuring of punishment could dazzle her mind. "A girl with such a mind - " The Hand continued, kissing one pink nipple while his hand plucked at the other. " - one no better than a slut... If you were named anything else, even just a bastard perhaps, you would have been stripped down and paraded through the streets to atone for the whorish desires within you."

Hot arousal bloomed in her, needy and aching at his words. House Hightower had always been tied to the Faith, but she'd never believed religion to be anything more than lies told to shame children to behave. Now, devilishly, she wondered if she should have learned more of it - if just so she could combat old Otto more properly. 

"And what does that make you, Otto? Touching your slut Princess like this, as I'm sure your dirty old Septons fantasize about too. Some faithful man you are... I wonder, what would your wife think if she could look upon you now, hm?" She mused back, glad to not be so breathless when his fingers began roughly unlacing her from her trousers. The laces rubbed against her flesh so quickly as he pulled them away, as he'd done so with such harshness that they left tiny rope burns on her stomach. The trousers were ripped away just as quickly, and her legs were pushed up, bending them against her chest.

The look on his face was dark and outraged, just as he usually looked whenever her or Daemon's lips ever quirked a smile or pushed the Hand to his limit.

This she was fine with, pleased to see some fire, but instead of receiving a cock, she got a rough hit. Otto's hand spanded over the softest part of her arse, just where her thigh met it, and even over her cunt. The smack stung unbelievably, and the sensation actually made her yelp in pain.

But that didn't stop the Hand's hand, who smacked her again. And again. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. 

Seven times, she realized once her arse was burning hot and stinging painfully. He'd hit her once for each of his stupid gods. Her core was weeping, the contact from his smacks not enough to satisfy, just to torture her. Perhaps he hadn't meant these to arouse her, but the evidence was surely hard to ignore.

"You really are no better than a common whore, aren't you, Princess? Look at you - " Otto opened her cunt lips with his thumb, a wet sound joining it. "Pink, pulsing and soaking wet after I've just struck you. I should bring you to the King and have him look upon you. You would bring shame to him, no matter white hair graces your head or dragon you straddle between your legs that make you believe you are outside of the will of the Gods."

"Oh is that what you desire, Lord Hand? If you wished for an early - well, earlier, death, I could introduce you to my Cannibal. It would be my pleasure." She assured, feeling indeed to her pleasure when the older man took his time stroking her.

The petting she liked, but when he did not add to her neddling, she immediately began to push at him, needing so badly to be ridden.

"Gūrogon aōha jēda sir, Otto? Tolī uēpa naejot qogralbar nyke rhinka?" Taking your time today, Otto? Too old now to fuck me roughly? She murmured coyly, knowing just how to annoy him with her tone and use of High Valyrian, which had never failed her before.

His thumb pressed punishingly upon her clit then, making her hiss and raise her legs up high as if that would make him relent.

"You will cease to speak your foreign language at once if you expect a response." Otto commanded, his voice strict and heady even as his free hand snatched at her leg, placing it high over his shoulder while he forced his fingers inside of her - they slipped inside of her easily, wetly, before beginning to thrust them within her, his speed not enough - she needed him angrier.

"Kostilus istia gūrēñagon ziry pār, ser." Perhaps you should learn it then, ser. She replied, mirth in her voice. And that was enough, she saw, with just a sharp twitch of the Hand's brow.

Her cunt received another sharp smack of his hand, the strike over her clit now, making her yelp. A second came over her wet lips. And then, with no warning, Otto took her by her hips and flipped her onto her belly. His body followed, straddling the back of her thighs as he forced his lips along her back, moving her pale hair out of the way so he might kiss along her neck, even grazing his teeth over her shoulders and then down her spine while his hands roamed her lithe body with a worshipping touch. He was so unlike Daemon or her other past lovers - the dragon princess never quite knew what he would do next, especially as she was under his mercy. What did a would-be jumped-cut second born son want to do with his Princess? He had yet to suckle at her as he did their influence, this she was disappointed she had yet to experience to it's heights. But then, Otto grasped at her rear, spreading her arse so he might run his knuckle along her cunt and even her arsehole. Every part of her came alive as he did, awareness and thrill raising her blood with excitement.

A knock came. 

To any other, this would have been the moment they stopped - almost getting caught the tipping of the glass that would have shattered the moment.

But not to a dragon.

She was Cannibal in a woman's form - and above all, she hungered. Wantonly, selfishly.

"If you do not fuck me right now, Otto Hightower, I will scream for all to hear." She threatened, turning her head to witness his face.

He did not disappoint. Fury crackled through the air, and he very nearly looked to scowl before reaching for the front of his breeches and taking out his cock. "What is it?" He called out coldly to whomever dared to interrupt.

The head of his manhood slipped inside of her, lingering for only a moment before being removed - and then roughly thrust back within her until he was fully sheathed in her, almost making her yelp if not for his hand slapping over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"The Small Council has been called, my Lord Hand, and are awaiting your arrival." A servant replied from behind the door.

Otto slammed his hips against her, his cockhead hitting that place within her cunt that she knew with enough attention would make her peak if he fucked her hard enough. She thrust backwards against him, needing more, but his fingers had dug into her soft hips tightly, forcing her still while he controlled the pace. 

"What topic has the meeting been called for?" He questioned gruffly. The Hand pulled out of her again, lingering with just the head rubbing through her folds, before thrusting within her again.

"I believe it is - Prince Daemon, my Lord." Pain came through her hips then - Otto's fingernails had dug so hard into her flesh that he'd surely drawn up her blood. "He has landed the Blood Wyrm over a tavern in Fleabottom - with the storm this eve, there was much damage to the area, including the death of a local tavern owner." 

There was no more teasing to be had now.

Her brother's Hand had finally begun doing as she wanted most - he'd roughly slammed his cock inside her, as deep as it could go, nearly taking her breath away at the force. 

"I - will be along - shortly." He growled, punctuating each word with a thrust, not even waiting to hear a response for the poor fellow who had given along the message before beginning to fuck her with true earnest.

If she had a mind to, she might've wondered if he would not worry of throwing his back out with this action - but there were no thoughts to be had, let alone a mind left to her as she lowered herself onto her elbows as Otto rammed himself inside her, fury ruling his body as well as his lust as he fucked her. There was a loud, wet noise echoing throughout the room, with their shared grunts and her muffled whimpers joining it. Over and over again, he drove into her body, until she felt him bruising her hips and his cock repeatedly hit upon her cervix. 

His hand suddenly removed itself from her mouth. It reached for her ties and undid them deftly before grasping at her throat. Her body was pulled up until she was pressed solidly against his chest, his cock still deep within her even as his lips brushed along her ear.

"Did you come here as a distraction then, Princess?" Otto inquired dangerously, the rumble of his voice making her shiver with delight. "So your brother might do as he wish through the city?"

She moaned softly, especially as his fingers wracked up her side, the pain whirling with the pleasure. She wanted to finish so badly, she could feel his cock throb within her - the talk of Daemon though had made him violent.

"Daemon does as he pleases whether or not if his twin sister knows or cares." The Princess replied restlessly. She rolled her hips back against him, but his grip was like iron.

"Does he?" He countered, accusation in his voice. 

She shoved herself against his back, enough to free herself. Otto was still in a fury over Daemon's recklessness, and once her feet hit the floor, her hair was captured - and then her lips. 

The kiss was fierce and mean, teeth clashing and his tongue demanding the submissiveness of hers, which he would never receive. She kissed him back hotly, gasping when he pulled her back onto the bed, her scalp stinging as he threw her onto her back.

When he finally did leave her, he did so with his cock still wet, and the dragon wondered idly if her brothers would be able to smell it on him. 

#otto hightower x reader #otto hightower smut #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #smut #fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction

[deny-the-issue]

Rainbow Drabble Challenge

Orange

GIF by gameofthronesdaily

Red <- previous chapter, next chapter -> Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo

Overall Summary: This is a short love story about Otto Hightower being a sexy bastard. There WILL be a happy ending. The reader is mid to late twenties in age.

Chapter Summary: You offer to paint Ser Otto's portrait and he tests you.

AO3 link

Rainbow drabble challenge

[spinster!reader] [Otto Hightower x f!reader] [Masturbation] [fluff] [893 words]

The evening has barely started when you close the heavy book in your lap. The pages slam shut indelicately, interrupting Otto Hightower’s concentration, just as you knew it would. He looks at you with the scorn of a thousand swords but says nothing. 

“My apologies, my lord. My mind is elsewhere.”

“Then perhaps your time is best spent elsewhere,” he replies curtly, every word perfectly enunciated and slowly spoken.

His words have little effect on you. You are accustomed to his cold demeanor by now. He shows no softness with anyone but his daughter, but you suspect he cares for you all the same. Who else would send you a sweet gift of strawberries than the man you spend most evenings with?

“Before I go, may I ask?” You inquire innocently, hands tracing the book’s ornate leather cover gently to soothe your rising nerves. 

Otto’s eyes follow the movement intently before placing his quill neatly on his desk—a silent signal for you to continue. 

“A portrait would compliment a man of your station well, my lord. Yet I see none here.”

“My station is not lofty enough for such frivolous gestures,” his words bite, tone laced with poison. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” you bow your head, knowing silence was the better option but choosing to go on. “Is your name not recorded in the historical texts of Oldtown as the Hand of the King?” 

“It is,” he confirms, tone cooling into indifference but his continued glare makes your skin prickle. 

“I would be honored to paint your portrait, my lord, if you would allow it.”

He scoffs, a cruel smile painting his face in the orange glow of the evening fire. “I would trust only the royal painters to fulfill such a task”

“It is true—I am not recognized in any formal capacity for my arts, but I am quite skilled. I would not shame you, my lord.”

“Show me,” he commands simply, although it is clear from his spiteful tone that he thinks little of your arts. 

You pull a notebook hidden in your dress folds and flip to a clean page, eager to prove yourself. He does not need to know how much you’ve practiced. How many pages did you rip from the binding of this very notebook before coming here today? Hidden under a loose floorboard, now only to be gazed upon when you are overcome with desire. 

Glancing up from your quick beginning lines, you find him scratching away at the letter again, and your shoulders relax. You normally seek his piercing attention, but, at this moment, it would guarantee your failure.  There is no room for nervous hands and fleeting thoughts. 

It has to be perfect. 

Your intense focus renders the world silent; there is only you, the paper, and the most regal man you’ve ever seen, poised in relaxed concentration over his work. 

While you are toiling away, losing yourself in the minute details of his face, time passes unnoticed. 

It is the clearing of Otto Hightower’s throat that rips you from this busy trance. When your gaze finds him, you have to blink the fatigue away. The fire is low, painting the room in an enchanting amber hue. How much time has passed, you wonder? 

Ser Otto’s exhausted face and burnt-out candles say you’ve overstayed your welcome. 

You straighten from your crumpled posture, a blush creeping into your face as you carefully rip the paper from your notebook. Rising slowly on weak legs, your heart pounds in your chest. It takes just two steps to arrive at his desk, yet they seem the length of the throne room. 

You nervously place the sketch in his outstretched hand, breath hitching as his hand brushes yours.  

It was the faintest of touches, yet the most significant in your life, causing the heat in your face to also settle between your thighs, hot as dragon fire. Even so, it fails to distract you from the knife-edge of his approval or disdain. 

After a spell of tense silence, Ser Otto sighs heavily, shifting in his chair as he offers you the paper with a curt nod. You cannot hide the joy blossoming in your heart, and smile warmly when you bid him goodnight. 

Blessed by the man himself, this sketch lives in your nightstand drawer, unlike the others. It lights a fire in your soul, one that keeps you awake far into the night. Your fingertips dance over your nightgown, the temptation of the forbidden too much to bear. 

You’ve come to terms with living the rest of your life alone. It is your wish to live free unless the right match comes along. As the years passed, the hope of dual happiness faded and you set on attaining a full life despite the loneliness. 

You know the ways of pleasure. From sneaking books to traveling hidden passageways to peek into brothels, you learned of the art of sex. There is nothing quite like the euphoric spasming rush that takes over your mind and body–and tonight’s put all others to shame as you cry out Ser Otto’s name through hand-covered lips. 

The following day you spend a hefty sum on the royal paints needed for a painting of this caliber, eager to begin. 

You want only the best for Ser Otto, even if your affections can never be spoken aloud.  

#otto hightower #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower fanfiction #fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #eventual smut #smut #fanfiction #fluff #x reader #drabble #no y/n #rainbowdrabblechallenge

[writingjourney]

Talk to me about Otto, let me hear everything

I was re-watching HotD and got absolutely hit with my Otto feelings, you know I can't resist a smart and cunning old man with sad eyes. I finally plotted a bit further and it's now a vignette-style story that follows you through the eras of your life :)

here's a sneak-peek of the beginning (I know almost none of you are here for this but let me indulge okay, Otto x f!reader):

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. 

#otto hightower x reader #otto hightower fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #asks #wip game #thank you for asking bc i am insane about this

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

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[witchthewriter]

𝑼𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐹𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛.

Personalised story for @leniabranch Pairing: Otto Hightower x Lenia Branch Word Count: 2k Authors Note: If anyone wants a personalised story, here’s my PayPal, send me a message and we can get started!    

The ship swayed as Otto watched the sailors carry on with their duties. Men in loose white shirts hung from ropes and rushed around the deck, securing lines and lowering the sails as they dropped anchor. The Hand’s nose was filled with an array of various smells and not ones he was used to. At first, the salt from the sea was the only thing he could smell, but as he moved around the boat he could smell the urine, sweat and faeces’ from the crew. It didn’t help his churning stomach.

 No one but he, was feeling sickened by the ocean. The constant swaying and spraying of sea water made his stomach stir. The Hand closed his eyes and let himself get lost in thought.

   Lenia. Lenia. Lenia.

His mind brought thoughts of you, your skin, your hair, and eyes. It was worth it. Enduring this would be worth it. He just needed to get to Oldtown.

                                                           -✶-

Your hands flourished in the air, demonstrating to the students how important it was to use the whole body in dance.

  “Lady Branch, I don’t think my arms can be that delicate.” The second youngest daughter of Lord Lyonel Tyrell pouted and dropped her arms by her side.

You chuckled and glided over to her, lifting her arms gently you motioned to her to mimic you.

   “Everyone is able to do what they wish, one way or another,” you said while repeating the motions.

The King had asked you to teach a few dance lessons for the noble children at court. They were mostly made up of girls, but every now and then you taught a class of fifty which included many young, hormonal noble boys. During those big classes, you showed them how to dance at feasts.

With your days so busy, you usually fell asleep as soon as you put your head to the pillow. But the absence of Otto made sleep difficult. You were worried, not just because of the distance but for his safety. Many would risk a chance to take revenge on the Hand of the King.

  So, you often visited Sanah and Ormund for dinner, and drank a few chalices of wine before feeling drowsy and making your way to your chambers.

But tonight, you decided to miss your shared meal and stay in your room. The melancholy was too great, and you knew you couldn’t keep a smile on your face.

  Stepping out of the now lukewarm bath, you pattered over to your calendar and marked off another day.

Only a week until Otto would be home.

                                                            -✶-

Oldtown, one of the most prestigious and well-known cities in Westeros. In its possession is the Citadel, home to the Order of the Maesters.

The Hightower is the tallest building in all of Westeros and serves as not only a lighthouse but represents the city’s power and wealth. If that wasn’t a big enough achievement for the House, the Faith of the Seven also presided in the city too. The Starry Sept, a huge temple dedicated to the Seven, is one of the most remarkable religious buildings in Westeros.

But travelling to Oldtown wasn’t a journey for the King, nor was it for a family visit. Otto had ventured to his home because he needed one single possession. A family heirloom ring that had been passed down through generations of Hightowers.

 Otto’s mother was still alive, but his brother, Hobert, was now the Lord of the Hightowers. And Otto wasn’t sure if he would permit him the heirloom.

                                                             -✶-

You hadn’t seen a lot of Darrick recently, he was too busy creating a name for himself in the art world. His commissioned pieces were becoming more and more popular. Ever since creating a family portrait for the King, all the other nobles thirsted for his talents.

  Lords and Ladies sat idly as he sketched and captured. There weren’t many other artists in the city with social standing. And you liked to remind Darrick of that. So that he understood gratitude, and what wealth brought.

Your family had decided to permanently stay in King’s Landing, and you were overjoyed by it. However, all the Branches except for your father, mother and siblings had left to return home. It was a big decision, one that relied on the information you did not yet know.

 Elrie wasn’t settling in with the other girls as much as your parents wanted. There was a wildness in her that the other little noble girls rarely had. It was only the other day when a servant had come rushing to your mother with the news that Elrie had bitten another child.

 Sanah had laughed when she heard the news.

“Elrie, why would you do such a thing?” Your mother chastised her hands on her hips. Your mother had marched Elrie back to her chambers and did all she could not to slam the door.

       “I was hungry…” she trailed off, slowly looking from the ground into her mother’s eyes. She flinched when she saw the fury in them.

“We’re guests here. The King has asked us to stay, and you go and do something like this.” Onatah slumped into a chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling an oncoming headache.

   “But I don’t like it here!” Elrie whined and copied her mother’s actions.

“Well, neither do I! But I don’t go around biting people!”

     “Maybe you should,” Elrie mumbled and crossed her arms. “It feels too heavy here,” she whispered. And your mother, knowing exactly how your sister felt, silently agreed.

                                                             -✶-

Otto Hightower stood before his brother, who was a foot shorter than he.

   “I’m sorry brother, but our mother will not give it up. Not until she dies,” Hobert motioned for Otto to follow. They slowly made their way through the magnificent tower. The lower levels were open to the public, but those with social or religious standing were able to climb higher.

“I thought you might say that.” Otto looked at his brother was a sort of grim expression, one that was mixed with suspicion.

   “You did, did you? Well you can talk to her yourself. See if you can sway the old woman’s mind.” Otto’s eldest brother wasn’t too hard to figure out. Although he had his moments of manipulation, he was usually caught out sooner or later.

“Hobert, I already know that you’re in possession of the ring. I have not asked you for anything, but I am now,” the stoicism which Otto always exuded seemed to faltered. Only for a few seconds, before Hobert sighed.

    “You gave it to me after your Lady Wife passed, I did not think you would be asking for it back.”

“I understand. It must be frustrating. But arrangements have changed, as I had not thought another wife was in my future.”

A few moments passed between the brothers. Silence from both of them. The noises of Oldtown filled the gap; idle chatter, the sound of horse hooves, someone praying.

   “Do you really love her?”

The question was simple but one that stirred so much emotion that Otto blushed.

“Yes.”

                                                             -✶-

You stood on the docks, waiting for a specific ship to arrive. Every few seconds you craned your neck to see if there was something on the horizon. But to your dismay, nothing was there. Not a blag flag with a red dragon in sight.

  Again, you missed dinner with Sanah and Ormund. Your stomach churning too much for you to be able to eat. Food no longer looked appealing. Not when you didn’t know the status of your Otto. Dead, captured, kidnapped for ransom, you nearly went to the King the next day to ask if he knew anything.

  Instead, you went to Rhaenyra, who was happy to be needed.

   “Of course, I can. Do you want me to go straight to my father or to the head maester?”

Rhaenyra ended up going to both men, and neither of them knew. You were nearly in tears by then, and Rhaenyra took you to your sister.

    “Lenia, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He was due back days ago!” You spluttered, trying to wipe the unending tears.

   “Come here,” Sanah wrapped her arms around you and did her best to soothe you.

The days seemed to blur together. One after the other, your dance lessons were forgotten and you rarely left your bed. Everyone knew this was serious. It wasn’t like you to be this way. Not at all. Usually, there was a smile on your face. Usually, you were the one cheering others up.

                                                           -✶-

It had only taken longer than anticipated for Otto to start his journey back home. Hobert had given him the ring that day after dinner, but the state of his mother made him uneasy.

  He thought his mother was faring well. On some days she forgot little things like the servants names, but on the others, well, it was mayhem.

Oldtown had the very best healers, as the Maester’s headquarters were no more than 20 kilometres from the Hightowers. Salves, medicines and herbs were given to Otto’s mother, but nothing seemed to aid her. Nothing except milk of the poppy, which only put her to sleep.

 And so, the dinner was an uneventful one. Their mother had been given a small amount of the drowsy liquid so that she was awake but not alert. Able to lift her spoon but not enough to yell or question where she was.

 Otto was ready to leave by the next morning. But he felt guilty about leaving his mother. Even though he knew exactly where he wanted to be, he couldn’t leave without saying a proper goodbye. He knew this would be the last time he ever saw his mother.  

                                                           -✶-

“Lenia, Lenia get up!” Sanah said, closing the door behind her and opening your wardrobe.

Your chambers had changed in the years since you first arrived at court. The Branches were given their own wing, where the chambers were larger and looked over the courtyard grounds. It was a beautiful spot, one that was the envy of many nobles. But the King thought so highly of your family that he didn’t care.

  You didn’t answer your sister. You merely rolled over and clutched onto the only piece of clothing you had of Otto’s.

“You have to get up.” She pulled the blanket from atop of you and let it drop to the floor.

     “No I don’t,” you replied back. Your eyes were hard to open, they were red, swollen and dry.

“You do if you want to see the man you’ve been longing for all these years.”

     Your head shot up instantly, “what? Now? He’s here?”

“Get dressed first!” That was all you heard before you jumped out of bed.

                                                                  -✶-

The sunshine glinted off the ocean, making it look like a mass of twinkling white. You stood eagerly, watching with so much built-up anticipation that you thought you would burst. Alicent stood right beside you, her hand clasped in yours.

   “I’ve missed him,” Alicent muttered, squeezing your moist hand.

“Oh gods, me too.”

It seemed like forever, watching his ship drop anchor and the walkway being hauled on top of the docks. Alicent and yourself watched as items from Oldtown were carried down the boardwalk, and then you saw him.

  Slightly dishevelled yet eager.

“There he is!” Alicent pointed in his direction and you nearly burst. You squeezed Alicent’s hand and watched as the love of your life walked down and onto the timber dock.

  Alicent let go of your hand and almost nudged you toward him. A small sign that she understood your feelings, and that you should be the one to greet him first.

“Otto!” You muttered and flung yourself onto him. The Hand of the King buried his face into the crook of your neck and squeezed you tight.

    “My Lenia,” he whispered into your hair, taking in a big breath.

It was a long hug, but for you, it felt too short.

           And then suddenly he let go and stepped back.

     He took something out of his pocket and got down on one knee.

                           “Lenia Branch, will you do the honour of marrying me?”

#otto x lenia #underneath the apple tree #underneath the apple tree oc #underneath the apple tree characters #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower #otto hightower x lenia branch #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower x lenia #lenia branch #sanah branch #elrie branch #witchthewriter #game of thrones #george r.r. martin #witch the writer #king viserys #rhaenyra targaryen

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Stay with me || D. Targaryen x Hightower!reader

GIF by @beaconofthehightower DIVIDERS by @straywords

summary: In which you have been forced into marriage with the Rogue Prince by the King. However, it has been well over a year and the two of you yet to see eye to eye, mostly because of Daemon's dislike towards your father. When you find out that you're expecting, things seem to take a drastic turn.

a/n: no way this was sitting in my drafts since i first opened this acc end of last year🥹

“The bath is ready for you, my Lady.” The handmaiden bowed at your direction as you finish taking off your jewellery. “Thank you, you may go,” You bid her off, “But my Lady-“ She protested, “I am quite capable of bathing myself, thank you.” Meeting the maidens eyes through the mirror, you didn’t mean to sound rude and snap at the poor women—your pent up emotions needed releasing, hence why you called for a bath.

Without uttering another word, you watch as she closes the door with a loud thud. Throwing your necklace across the room to release the built up tension, you inhale deeply whilst leaning your hand against the bed post. Tears threatening to escape, you look up towards the ceiling so that they would not fall.

Finding out that you were with child was a rollercoaster of emotions. You were saddened at the thought of bringing a child into this cruel word. How could you try to make your child’s life happy when both of his/her parents were not with each other?

You thought that you could some how find times in your marriage that you would be happy, but you didn’t, the past 12 months were a nightmare. You barely got to see Daemon, and when you did, he’d be drunk and fall asleep without saying a word to you.

And the whispers and talks of people seeing him visit brothels in silk street were unbearable. You tried ignoring the best you could, but how could you when people didn’t even put any effort into quietening down when walking past you?

Brushing your lingering thoughts away, you walk to the bath that was bearably hot. Removing your thin night gown and letting it pile in a corner, you couldn’t help but stare at your still-flat stomach in the mirror. The thought of a babe growing inside was both amazing and terrifying.

Slipping your body in, a sigh leaves your mouth at the sensation of the hot water against your skin. After nearly 30 minutes, the door to your chambers opened.

There was only ever one person to open that door without bothering to knock, and that was your Husband. Eyes closed, you heard his footsteps until it came to a halt, slowly opening your eyes and sitting up, you turn your head to find Daemon watching you from outside the door that led to the bathroom.

“Husband.” You greeted turning your head back and closing them once again. “Wife.” He replied, taking off his clothes and changing. You were surprised he did not sound drunk like he usually did most nights. The two of you not uttering a single word until you got out of the bath.

You flinch once you realised Daemon was sat on a one of the sofas that faced your bath tub, not that the two of you were foreign to seeing each other naked. After drying up, you slip your night gown on once again before making your way to your dresser.

“Ao nektogon aōha ōghar, nyke ūndegon” His voice made you pause your actions, looking at his sat figure through the mirror. “2 two months ago Daemon.” You reply annoyed as you brush through your hair. “But you would know if you saw me more often.” Muttering under your breath, Daemon replied, “ȳdragon plainly.”(You cut your hair, I see) (Speak plainly)

Closing you eyes and taking a sharp inhale, you turn your body towards him, a cup with what you presume was alcohol in his hand. “What I mean, husband, is if you were here more often instead of spending your nights at the brothel, that you would notice the little things!” Your voice escalates in volume. Daemon throws his head back with a loud sigh. “Are we really doing this?”

“Where do your loyalties reside, husband? It is most certainly not with me! Whom you swore under the seven Gods that you would be there for me!” You were now standing up as you watch Daemon with an unreadable face.

“Ivestragon mirros!”You yell, “Skoro syt issi ao sir mentioning bisa?” He calmly asked. With furrowed eyebrows, you study his face, his gaze set to candles on the table. “Skoros?”(Say something) (Why are you now mentioning this) (What)

“Don’t act stupid y/n,” He scoffed, finally meeting your eyes, “Emi issare married syt mirri jēda, sir ao decide naejot elēni aōha concerns?” (We have been married for some time, now you decide to voice your concerns)

“Ivestragon nyke, skoro syt?” His deep voice questioned. Searching his eyes, and opening your mouth, no words seemed to come out. (Tell me, why)

“Cat got your tongue, my love?” Daemon smirked as you gulped, tears slowly but surely welling up. You found yourself pathetic, truth being the fact that you couldn’t even tell your own husband you were carrying his child.

Without saying another word, you turned around, blowed out all the candles except for the ones beside Daemon’s side of the bed, and slipped under the covers of your bed.

A loud sigh leaves the Prince’s mouth. Deep down, you wanted him to come to bed and engulf you in a hug. Instead, you hear the sound of the doors opening and closing, he left. You cried yourself to sleep that night.

~

Waking up to a cold and empty bed, you felt it slowly but surely making its way up your throat as you place the back of your hand to your mouth. Luckily, Eva, your closest handmaiden, had walked in just in time as you puked into the bucket.

“Perhaps having breakfast will be good for you, my Lady” She kindly smiles at you as you look up at her with a disgusted face at the thought of food at that moment. “I think not” You grumbled before getting up and getting ready.

“Has my husband returned yet?” Your eyes meet with the handmaidens’ through the mirror as you put earrings on. “No, my Lady” She looks down. “Should I even tell him?” You contemplate, fidgeting with your rings.

Before you could get a response, a loud knock comes from your door as you give a confused look to Eva as she quickly opens the door. “My lady, it’s your father.” She calls out before curtsying and leaving the room.

“Father,” You kiss his cheek to greet him. “I think it is best you go to the throne room now” He gives you a blank look. An awkward chuckle leaves your lips, “But why? What’s happening?” Concern spread through your body as Otto doesn’t say anything.

You quickly brush past him and make a beeline to the throne room. Upon entering, you were stopped by a kingsguard. “Who is in there” You question. “I cannot tell you that Lady-“ “I’m only going to ask you once, brother, who is in there?” You send daggers to your younger brother’s way.

“His Grace, Daemon, and-“ Before he could finish his sentence, you push past him and open the door. There sat Viserys on the iron throne with Daemon standing e of him, his back to you. What perplexed you even more was the women on her knees beside Daemon. A handmaiden to be precise. Viserys gives you a pitiful look, It was only when both Daemon and the handmaiden look back to you when you realise.

“I-“ You couldn’t even properly speak as you choked back tears. You felt like screaming at that moment. “Y/n-“ You didn’t even let Daemon utter another word before you closed the door—Gwayne giving you a concerned look—and sped off back to your room.

“Pack my things. I am leaving” You order your handmaidens as tears continuously roll down your cheeks. You were shaking, you felt like you were suffocating. “Are you all right my lady?” Eva places ger hand on your shoulder as you breathe heavily. “I-I need to get out of this dress- a-and breathe for gods sake!” You shout angrily as hands were already untying your dress.

You had about enough of Daemon’s behaviour. You needed to leave. After being dressed in something more comfortable, the doors open as your father walks in. “I assume you’re going back to Old town?” Your father places his hands behind his back as he watches you gather your jewelry.

“I am. If you expect me to stay here any longer with that-that horrid man then-“ “I don’t expect you to, daughter. He was caught in bed with her this morning. I assure you, that handmaiden will get what she deserves. Sleeping with her Lady’s husband, what was she thinking” Otto scoffs as tears blur your eyes.

“Have you even told him yet?” His question catches you off-guard. “No. After what I just found out I don’t think I will. He can find out later on after I’ve left” You say through greeted teeth as the last of your things were packed up.

“The carriage is already out there waiting for you, my Lady” Eva mentions as you nod at her. “Goodbye father, I hope you do come visit” You sadly smile before embracing him in a hug, his hands caressing your hair before you pull back and walk off.

It was pouring outside. You held your skirt up so it wouldn’t get dirty. “Y/n!” His voice booms over the rain as you pause. You quicken your pace but before you could even fully step into the carriage, a rough hand pulls you back.

Before you know it, your hand makes contact with his cheek with a loud slap. The few handmaidens gasp before they look down. He rolls his tongue against his cheek before chuckling, “I deserve that, don’t I?” “Oh you deserve so much worse Daemon.” You darkly chuckle at the man.

“I can’t believed you stooped that low- and with one of my handmaidens? How pathetic can you get, Husband. I have done nothing but been patient with you every day but this? That was the final straw. I’m leaving and you cannot stop me” You say the last bit through greeted teeth. “Were you going to tell me?”

You stop dead in your tracks. You breathe out from your nose, “Tell you what exactly?” Your head turns to him. “That you’re carrying my child. Was I ever going to find out? Or was I going to when I’m on my deathbed.” He shouts angrily as you keep your composure.

“And bring him up with a father who can’t even keep his loyalties to his wife? You’re delusional, truly.” A loud scoff emits your mouth. Not a second later, Daemon drops to his knees infront of you. People around whispering to each other at the sight of the Rogue Prince on his knees to his wife. You gulp as he looked so vulnerable. He looks up to you as he takes ahold of your hands. “Stay with me. Please. That is all I ask of you y/n” He pleads.

“Stay with you? I have stayed with you every day Daemon while you fucked your way through the brothels. I’ve had enough of hoping that you would finally see me as your wife!” Tears were once again pouring down your cheeks as you sniffle. “I can’t stay with you.” Your voice cracks before you pull away from Daemon’s touch and enter the carriage without looking back.

The carriage starts to move as you start sobbing harder. Daemon was still there kneeling as he watched his wife leave. He watched his entire future leave.

#daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #house targaryen #fanfiction #matt smith #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen fanfic #otto hightower #house of the dragon fanfiction #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Masterlist

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

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

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

Act One

Chapter one - coming late April/early May

#otto hightower x ofc #otto hightower x oc #otto hightower #otto hotd #hotd otto #otto hightower smut #otto hightower fan fiction #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower fanfic #otto hightower fan fic #otto hightower angst #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd smut #hotd angst #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #hotd fan fic #hotd fanfic

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

A Companion (Otto Hightower x Reader) - Prologue

I've finally jumped on the Peepaw Hightower writing train, instead of just enjoying the fics of others! What can I say, I love that old man.

So this is gonna be like a mini-series, I think? I don't really have a definite plan, but there's definitely a decent plot planned out.

Without further ado, here's the summary and a little prologue!

Summary: At the suggestion of Princess Rhaenyra, King Viserys Targaryen had commanded that his Hand, Otto Hightower, find a new bride. Preferably at the King's own wedding to Otto's daughter Alicent. While the Princess intended the suggestion as a form of revenge for Otto's machinations which led to the royal engagement, he intends to make the best of it. While he has always known that his late wife, Madelyn, is the great love of his life, he welcomes the idea of finding a tolerable companion. What he doesn't expect is you, a lady widowed far too young, who begins to spark feelings within him he thought long extinguished.

Prologue under the cut!

Prologue

The sight of Princess Rhaenyra in the Small Council chamber came as quite a surprise to Otto Hightower. In the weeks since her father announced his pending marriage, her attendance as the King’s Cupbearer had become sporadic at best. While her presence was surprising, it was nothing unusual enough to prompt any concern.

However, the twinkle of mischief in her eyes as she took the seat across from him began a knot of worry in Otto’s chest.

“Will Lord Strong and the other members of the Small Council not be joining us this afternoon, my King?” he asked as he took his seat.

Viserys smiled, a similar note of mischief in his eyes that Otto had not seen in decades – since they were both young men. “Not today, old friend. I’ve not called you here on any official business.”

“This is a personal matter,” Rhaenyra chimed in, her voice light and airy with glee. Any resemblance between her and her father was long gone. Now, she was undoubtedly Prince Daemon’s niece, much to Otto’s eternal unease and frustration.

Had Alicent also been present, it would have been easy to assume he was called to discuss some detail of the marriage contract. But she was not, and this was starting to feel decidedly like an ambush.

“It has been nearly two years now since Madelyn left us,” Viserys began. “And you have not remarried.”

“Your Grace, that is because I have no reason to remarry,” Otto replied, keeping his voice soft and diplomatic even as he began to feel a wave of anger rising within him. The suggestion in the king’s words was clear. “I have an heir in Gwayne, though what he will inherit is small. And I have no desire for a new wife.”

It was more than true. At Madelyn’s funeral, he had said farewell to the great love of his life. She had been a gift from the gods, a blessing he could never understand why he deserved. Surely to seek to replace her would be an affront to that blessing.

“But you are the Hand of the King,” Rhaenyra looked downright impish now. “For you to remain a widower after so long, when you are still relatively young, projects weakness, does it not? A strategic marriage could strengthen the realm.”

Damn the girl, even if it was treason to think it. Were she not so impulsive and stubborn, he would have no doubts about her one day becoming Queen. But this…? This was childish and petty, to throw his own words back at him. Where had she even heard them?

“And since your duties do not allow you to travel the realm to find a bride,” Rhaenyra continued, “the royal wedding will be the perfect opportunity for you to find a suitable young lady. Don’t you agree, my Lord Hand?”

This was revenge, then, Otto realized, for Alicent. Well, at least she was taking her anger out on him rather than his daughter.

He turned back to Viserys. “What is your opinion on the matter, my King?”

The king, at least, looked at him with enough fondness to quell his rising anger. “Aemma was the love of my life, Otto. But I am fond of Alicent and know she will make me happy. I would wish the same for you.” He looked to Rhaenyra, who was grinning with unabashed triumph, then back again. “I know your children would not wish to see you alone for the rest of your life.”

Otto’s greatest weakness was his affection for his children and king. And Rhaenyra had manipulated it perfectly. He could not deny Viserys this request – not after having guided his hand when it came to Alicent.

And though the thought of replacing Madelyn was abhorrent, when he truly considered it, he could not deny that he had missed the pleasure of… companionship. With Gwayne so often in Oldtown or elsewhere for tourneys and Alicent soon to be busy with her duties as Queen, Otto would be quite alone.

Though he often wished for solitude when his duties threatened to overwhelm him, the thought of being alone, with no one to greet him at the end of the day or to share his meals… was decidedly unpleasant.

So, Otto turned back to Rhaenyra, holding her gaze with the confidence of his determination to not allow this to be revenge but, hopefully, another blessing. At the very least, he would find someone with whom he could have a pleasant life.

“Then, Princess, I believe it is a wonderful idea, and I thank you for its suggestion.”

#otto hightower #otto hightower fanfiction #otto hightower fanfic #otto hightower x reader #otto hightower x you #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fic #rhys ifans #hotd otto #house of the dragon otto #A Companion

[adarkandmagicalforest]

An Irritation

pairing: Otto Hightower/Targaryen reader (twin to Daemon)

warnings: Mildly Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut

contains: Explicit Smut, Hate Sex, BItter Sex, Cunnilingus, Brief Cock Warming

whenever her twin brother ended up inevitably irritating her in some way, she always had the same threat for him

'well, perhaps the lord hand might enjoy my company tonight'

until one day her threat becomes realized

It normally got her what she wanted.

Just the threat alone had always been enough to rankle Daemon, his utter dislike of that cunt Otto Hightower and the thought of her going to him over either of her own brothers enough to bother him into submission, or, more usually, at least into compromise. 

But not today.

Today, her threat was treated with a mere bob of his brows and a daring look. "Do as you will, sister dear." Her twin replied. It seemed that she had used this threat one too many times, to the point that her brother no longer believed her capable of it at all.

But she was a dragon - and she would show him exactly what she could do.

So the ivory-haired princess turned her back on her brother, slamming the door behind her as she stormed off to locate the Hand of the King. She did not look back to see if Daemon had followed her - she knew he hadn't. But he would hear of her exploits soon enough, she would make it quite certain.

The small council chambers were empty, so she went to the Tower of the Hand next.

Sure enough, there were men guarding the door, men who opened the door for her after she demanded to be let inside. 

The Hand's chambers were decorated with emerald curtains and held a tower motif that the princess always thought was rather boring. But then, this did fit Otto to a tee, whom she always saw as an equally boring man whose singular desire was to linger with very powerful people. She and Daemon both found him to be a dour cunt, and had in the past (as well as to this day) made sport of infuriating him, as that was the only time he was interesting to them.

Otto Hightower had a rather dull look to him as well. He was tall, but not mountainous. His features were plain, but not so much as to be called ugly. And yet Viserys kept his uninteresting council and his uninteresting presence about him, despite the opportunities to choose any other. She thought it queer. Daemon thought it an insult.

"Princess." The Hand had been sitting in front of his hearth when she stormed in. He'd stood immediately at the sight of her, and she noticed that even while lounging in supposed relaxation, the man still wore his tight doublet and golden pin. He even still had his boots on. "By what reason do you force your way into my chambers?" He demanded of her, as if he had any authority.

The Princess turned her head to his guards. "Leave." She commanded them. 

They did, albeit with a large amount of hesitation – but she was their Princess, whom were they to argue?

"What is the meaning of this?" Otto repeated himself, quite irritated now and coming closer as if he might take her by her arm and drag her out.

If only he could be so daring, she thought with bemusement.

Instead of answering him, (his voice was a low, grating thing) she merely grabbed hold of the front of his doublet and yanked him down, ignoring his grunt of surprise even while her lips captured his in a silencing kiss.

His shock lasted enough time for her to pull him even more into the embrace, her lips dominating his until her tongue finally enterred his mouth, moving against his own hotly as his wiry beard tickled her. It was surprisingly pleasant, with him tasting of bitter tea and saltwater, the wrongness of it all lighting her lust all ablaze - at least until his hands gripped her biceps and he yanked himself away.

"What," Otto nearly growled, low, fury clashing in his eyes. "Do you think you are doing, Princess?" 

Finding his fury to be rather exciting, the dragon was not deterred. Her hands released his collar and instead went to the garnet-studded belt on her gown, making short work of it. "I'm sure you're familiar with the procedure, Otto." She said impishly, dropping the belt to the rug below them as her hands then went to the laces of her gown, vastly enjoying the way his face grew somewhat panicked as she did so.

"You will stop this!" He hissed, his hands reaching for her arms so as to stop her from dropping the red silk to the floor, but to do so he had to get close to her again, which the princess took full advantage of.

This time, when she kissed him she bit him as well - sinking her teeth into his lower lip, just hard enough to hurt, the boring old Hand nearly snarled back. But then, she had always angered him as Daemon had. It was him who had convinced Viserys to marry their brother off to another woman rather than her. It was Otto who had encouraged Viserys to wait to betroth her to a new man, one of good Valyrian stock. Corlys Velaryon's younger brother had been courting her for what felt like years now, but only from his spit of rock and far from court. But then, Vaemond bored her also. 

Otto's blood leaked from where her teeth had sunk in, like iron and salt, and she hummed with satisfaction at the taste, pressing herself firmly against his body as her hands continued their work on her dress. She'd done the hardest part before she had ever arrived in his chambers, and so when her dress fell, it was her naked body that was revealed, all pale milky flesh and pebbled nipples as the cool air washed over her. The only scraps left to her were her black stockings on her legs, embroidered with roaming red dragons around her thighs. She was an erotic sight, and even Otto Hightower could not deny such a fact. 

She felt the moment she got her way from him. It was in his sneer, in the raise of his lip she felt before suddenly his hands were on her waist, grasping her pretty body roughly as the typically quite boring man became even more interesting to her as he suddenly began devouring her.

The princess moaned as Otto yanked her backwards, towards his bedchamber she presumed, his kisses growing deeper and wetter as he hungrily moved against her. He was pulling her so roughly that her steps stumbled and dragged, and soon, he had all but lifted her up into his arms before carrying her to his bed.

"Is this what you came here for?" Otto demanded of her coarsely after dropping her onto the mattress, his shaking anger blowing out the pupils in his eyes and giving him the look of a mad dog. The princess found it rather an attractive look for him, especially coupled with the aggressive way he knelt over her. "You want to be treated this way? By me?" 

"Who else would I be, Otto?"  She asked with a toothy grin, propping herself up by her arms, spreading her pale thighs open to him as if she was a lovely dessert. From what she'd heard, she was one. 

Oh he was pissed beyond all belief, she thought with thrilled delight. She could feel the neediness spread within her, arousal making her cunt wet, so wet that she knew he could see it.

And when he had? 

That was the moment she saw his resolve truly break. The very sight was a fascinating one. 

And so, the previously quite boring man (and hers and Daemons largest detractor) knelt forward onto the bed and yanked her harshly by the back of her knees, spreading her legs wide and a bit painfully before he delved his face there. The touch felt punishing and delicious. His tongue was strong and forceful, though too unpracticed, but that was no matter when she gripped at his hair and began grinding against his mouth - his gruff moan made her gasp with pleasure as she felt it through her cunt.

Otto was better at serving as a tool than a practitioner of the craft. She knew how she wanted to be touched more intimately than he did, and she moved him by his hair in the way that she’d learned years ago that she liked most. A few times from Daemon, when she could stand his company. Once from Otto’s own son. Those memories made her soaking wet upon the Hand’s tongue, more erotic than they should have been while this man was between her legs. What would he think if he was to learn that his son had been where he was now, licking and sucking at her cunt? 

She could not help but moan breathlessly at the thought.

But it seemed he only had a certain amount of patience from her grip on his hair - soon enough, he was ripping himself away from her again, kissing her of his own volition now, the flavor of her core on his tongue, tart like wine. 

His urgency made her laugh - but that only seemed to anger him, as if her giggle was an insult. 

"Cease that at once," Otto demanded against her lips, his hands beginning to roam her again, their course grasping and painful and intense, only softening when they reached her breasts, though the way his thumb rubbed purposefully at her pink nipple made her arch her back and sigh with pleasure. "Do you enjoy that?" He asked gruffly, capturing her nipple between his knuckles, pulling at them. 

"I'd enjoy it far more if you kept on." She breathed, unable to keep her smirk away as his eyes flashed again. He was still fully dressed, but this did not bother her. She almost preferred it, rather enjoying the look of her naked body against his dark clothes and layers of fine wool. The fabric of his trousers rubbing against her inner thighs almost like the coarse body of Cannibal when she rode him.

Otto's hand kneaded at her small breasts, until her nipples were stiff and sensitive. "Pretty," He murmured quietly, the comment somehow sounding unkind. She wished he would have put his lips back to good work – she needed more from him. 

For once serving her eldest brother's comment of he being a fine and thoughtful servant (though if Viserys saw them now, this comment would be never spoken again – at best, Otto Hightower would lose his position and at worse, she’d be married off to him) the older man lodged his leg between her thighs, giving her something firm to grind against while he lowered himself to kiss her again, gentler than she expected, while his free hand reaching up to grasp her by the back of her neck. But soon his kiss was beginning to grow more hungry, especially when she grew tired of his softness and pushed herself forward demandingly, wanting him rough, wanting him cruel. 

The Hand did not fail her in this - his kiss soon broke away, moving against her neck where his coarse beard rubbed against her sensitive skin, his teeth joining against her flesh when she incessantly yanked on his body, looking for more. 

Soon, his hands were punishing, his thigh rocking against her cunt until she ached, her eagerness soaking through the fabric until she was sure it would stain. 

And then he bit her. A proper bite, not the grazing of his teeth against her neck as he had been. No, he bit her, hard, on her shoulder, as if to leave proof of their coupling marred on her skin - this made her gasp loudly and then for her laugh of surprised delight to follow. 

Then, the princess had enough. 

She was a dragon at heart, and if Otto wanted to ride her, then he would have to give an appropriate fight for it. 

It only took a single shove to put the Hand off course and a single push to put him on his back. And so she straddled him as she had once straddled Cannibal, her hands batting his away as she went for his trousers, undoing the laces with skilled fingers as she took in his enraged expression. But by the time he had thought to grasp for her again, she had already taken his cock in hand - not quite a tower, but long enough for her use. The Princess lifted herself up, rubbing the blunt head of his member against her before sinking down upon him in one strong motion. 

"Fuck fuck!" Otto grunted, an amusing thing from such a man who so rarely cursed. The last time she remembered, she had just broken one of her suitors fingers. The suitor had been too familiar and grabby, what did it matter if he was some fancy lord from Highgarden? If one wanted to ride a dragon, they had to be prepared to suffer what would happen to them should they fail. Otto had gruffly cursed her, accusing her of the same mercurial violence that Daemon had, not listening to a single word she said until Viserys had forced him to listen to the truth. And now here he was, between her thighs as she grasped at his hands, leading one between her legs, where she had his cock deep inside of her. 

"Do you know how I claimed Cannibal, Otto?" The princess asked him suddenly, her voice airy with pleasure as she moved, pressing his hand against her so she might grind her clit against it, the ecstasy dazzling. 

"I - no, princess." The older man seemed to be having trouble paying much attention to her words, his eyes were traveling sharply from where the base of his cock was being revealed, soaking wet, whenever his princess lifted her hips as she moved - and then to her face, as was polite when speaking to a member of the royal family, whom Otto had always desired to suck at the teat of. 

"I was naught but a young girl at the time." She explained, moving herself faster now, leaning forward and putting her hand against his shoulder to brace herself as she spread her knees. This gave her more power to fuck herself on his cock, a thing that made Otto's hand reach up to grasp her by her nape, as if he could keep her locked in place. "At Dragonstone, he was the most vicious of dragons. The most hungry - and the flesh he craved most of all was that of other dragons." A moan stopped her then, as she found that spot inside herself, that deep rooted ache that she knew would send her to her peak.

"A dangerous, violent creature. He is well suited to you, princess." Otto commented with no lack of difficulty as he thrust upwards to her, attempting to fuck her rather than be fucked himself. His voice was dark and heady, a well-suited change in her opinion, but she would not allow him the pleasure of riding her, not yet. She hadn't finished her story.

"I went to the caves of the volcano f-first." She breathed, stuttering when the Hand's hand decided to make her story as hard to tell as it was for him to listen to, his deft thumb rubbing harshly over her delicate folds, toying with her clit until he found a motion that pleasured her to the point of trembling. She must give this to Otto Hightower - once he found something that worked, he did not cease nor change his tune. "I... I went with a wheelbarrow full of meat, goats,  cattle and little cakes from the castle kitchens... I even burnt them first." 

She had to close her eyes then, her hand forming a fist against his doublet as she felt herself grow closer and closer to a peak. "And then he came from behind me.. I hadn't noticed him, he was a fright." 

"And he chose you." Otto said, his voice regaining some decorum even balls deep in her, as she'd stopped rocking now. His cock was merely being kept nice and warm inside her cunt while his fingers made her burn hot and wet. 

"By the time I had climbed upon his back, the wheelbarrow was empty and my Cannibal had a new rider... Nyke ivestretan zirȳla naejot dohaeragon issa, naejot rȳbagon naejot issa se ziry gōntan. Issa merbugon valonqar iksos nēdenka, sīr olvie sīr bona ziry daor sagon ōregion isse se zaldrīzes ripo. Jāhor ao dohaeragon se rȳbagon naejot issa hae issa zaldrīzes, Otto?" I told him to serve me, to listen to me and he did. My Cannibal is fierce, so much so that he cannot be held in the Dragon pit. Will you serve and listen to me as my dragon has, Otto?

Her use of High Valyrian fell upon non-understanding ears, but her coy rumble of the foreign language appeared to create a fierce desire in Otto.

As suddenly, he had enough toying - he hated Valyrian. Hated that the royal family could converse in a way that he could not know, even in the same room as he was. That they were above him, that they were more than a common people as he was. Their language was another way they became otherworldly. And the Hand craved this otherworldliness, craved their power, craved their dragons and fire - and now, it seemed he had a craving for her too, as much as he also resented her.

Because then as she had done to him, Otto grabbed onto her hips roughly, his fingers digging into her in a way that would surely leave bruises upon her flesh, and he shoved his cock inside of her again with a single motion - her legs wrapped around his waist, her black stocking-covered limbs digging deeply into his thighs to encourage his action. His kisses returned, harsh and hungry and yet worshiping over her lips, her neck, her chest as he thrust forcefully inside of her. He fucked her like she was the power he craved, the motion making her gasp and grab at him, pulling on his trousers so he was moving as hard as he possibly could - they would both ache in the morning, hopefully. It would please her to no end to still feel what he had done to her while sitting in both of her brothers company at breakfast. 

"Lo - Lo ao keligon, kesan ipradagon ao glaesagon!" If you stop, I'll eat you alive. She threatened weakly, desperately, her head falling back as he forced her peak to come over her, the pleasure making her moan loudly as she came over his cock, especially when he grasped at the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her white hair as he forced her to look up into his angry eyes while he too took his pleasure of her. The princess felt him inside her, filling her with his spend as he grunted another, "Fuck," into her ear.

Satisfaction weighed her limbs like stones as Otto pulled himself from her, his cock pulling from her full cunt with an amusing squelching noise, making her giggle with a bit of a drunken daze to her. 

The Hand didn't appear as bothered at her laughter as he had been earlier as he laid himself beside her, his chest still heaving from the effort it took for him to fuck her. He was hardly a young man, especially compared to her mere three-and-twenty, but at least their fuck had been a rather interesting one. 

"Se hembar jēda ao vēdros nyke sīr, kostan emagon naejot emagon iā tȳne urnēptre, ñuha āeksio." I may require another show the next time i am infuriated with you. The princess murmured softly, turning to use his arm as a cushion, not caring that his cum was leaking out of her and onto his bedclothes, the Valyrian easier to speak for her just then than the Common Tongue. 

"Do you often revert to High Valyrian while intimate, Princess?" Otto finally said, making her smirk into his doublet. His irritation was back and palpable, even as his right arm moved up and draped around her waist, his long fingers smoothing over her hip and down her backside. In an almost delightfully dirty move, his digits ducked between her arsecheeks and down to the petals of her cunt, where his seed was dripping down her thigh. He was annoyed with her for not making motion to avoid making a mess on his bed. She didn't care. 

" Mirri jēdi. " Sometimes.

His hand gripped her arse. His claws dug into her flesh as he lifted her cheek. His left hand brought over a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped over her cunt, rubbing through her sensitive flesh until she was clean, the action less courteous than it was the action of a disgruntled servant.

This thought, the princess enjoyed, and she wiggled her hips slightly, enjoying a brief fantasy of making another mess that he might have to tidy. 

But for this, she received a sharp swat on her bottom. 

"You are an irritation." Otto Hightower accused humorlessly, putting his soiled handkerchief away before lying himself back. She returned to using him as a cushion, and he did not argue against this usage. He was a servant to House Targaryen, after all. 

#Otto Hightower Smut #Otto Hightower Fanfiction #House of the Dragon #HOTD #ASOIAF #A Song of Ice and Fire #otto hightower x reader #otto hightowerXreader #otto hightower X original targaryen reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #fanfiction

[thewriterwithnoplan]

THE HIGHEST TOWER (1/2)

Summary: As a Princess of the Realm the chance to escape political marriage and abscond with your Promised was beyond anything you could wish for. When the time is right, your dragon will lead you to them and your mother will support your union. In return, you must do all you can to protect her claim, even if you must do so from within the very heart of the Greens.

Soulmate AU: Your animal familiar leads you to your soulmate.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader (eventual), Aemond Targaryen x Reader (mentioned)

Word Count: 4296

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, just general character awfulness, some espionage, canon divergence, my first time writing for hotd.

Masterlist

You had lived the better part of eight and ten years in the Red Keep. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen handed off to the Queen like some paltry trinket. The King’s first and final word on the matter of his granddaughter. Thrust carelessly into Alicent’s care at the fresh age of ten, a peace offering and a trade for Lucerys’ life. You scarcely remembered life beyond the borders of the castle. Only that one moment your brother's life had been under threat and the next yours was all but forfeit.

Your mother had clasped the back of your neck, pulled you toward her and begged her father for mercy. You who had not even been in the room when Aemond had lost his eye, lost to your own midnight flight atop dragon back. And then the curtain of Rhaneyra’s hair parted, and from over her shoulder Daemon met your eyes. For a single poignant moment, he stared and then a smirk broke across his face as if he knew.

Knew that you were not the innocent that your mother would have the King believe you to be. Knew that your midnight rendezvous with your dragon at the exact moment of Vhagar’s claiming was not mere coincidence. Your intentions had been innocent at first. A trip to the kitchen for a cup of milk which you would warm on the stove – a feat the late Sir Harwin Strong had taught you. Past your brothers’ room, your mother’s room, the servants' quarters and a balcony overlooking the beach. And then you had seen him. Aemond scaling your cousin’s dragon. And that just wouldn’t do.

Targaryens – true Targaryens who did not cower under the cover of darkness – needed their dragons if they had any hope of finding their Promised. Your cousin, Baela who always shared her sweets and let you borrow her wooden sword, deserved the chance to meet her Promised in the wake of her mother’s death. The man or woman that Vhagar would lead her to when the Old Gods saw fit. In the game of thrones when Targearyens already found so few chances for happiness, how could Aemond strip his cousin of her chance at true love? True, as an eldest daughter Baela’s future husband was most certainly decided – likely one of your brothers. But you were certain that Jacaerys or Lucerys would be understanding and gracious when the time came for Baela to claim her Promised, as she would be when the time came for her Lord-Husband. Such was the way of things. At least for the lucky.

Imagining your dragon, Laesuvion, claimed by another and leaving you with no guide to your Gods-given Promised made you feel ill. And so, you set out on bare, hurried feet to find and mount Laesuvion. You were a Targaryen born of the blood of dragons, of true Valyrian features. Vhagar was your cousin’s dragon by right and it was your duty to protect that claim. She was a formidable, indomitable beast but shackled with a new rider on his first flight. If you had one chance to disrupt the yet fragile bond being formed by dragon and rider, it was to dislodge the green boy and send him toppling toward the sea.

Laesuvion had hatched for you in your cradle. He was much younger and smaller than Vhagar but all the faster. It would be no trouble to fell your traitorous cousin. The difficulty became disguising the shock of white scales along the elongated arch of Laesuvion’s neck whilst searching for Vhagar’s camouflaged breadth.

“Aderī Laesuvion. Dokimarvose.” (Quickly Laesuvion. Focus.) You urged him.

Despite your efforts, you only caught sight of them twice. Once among the clouds, though you were sure Aemond got a greater view of you than you did him. And again, as Vhagar was returning to land Driftmark. Your hunt had been unsuccessful. But you had been sure no one would suspect you of such vengeful intent toward your uncle. Except perhaps Daemon.

“It is a fair price, Rhaenyra,” Daemon’s smirk was cunning, “They will not harm her.”

The betrayal on your mother's face heated your blood. How dare he tell her what to do? Your mother, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne. This man who was no one, husband of no one, Prince of nowhere, heir of nothing. Who was he to command your mother? And now, to step toward you and attempt to pry you away from her. So close you could almost-

Almost hear the two of them whispering. To each other. To you.

“Think.” Daemon hissed, “They will demand her for Aemond sooner or later.”

“She is my only daughter.”

“She will still be your daughter in the Red Keep.” He kept up the pretence of fighting your mother, despite her arms having gone lax around you. “Not a bastard. Not a bargaining chip. Your daughter. At the heart of the greens.”

“She is a child.”

“A Targaryen child.”

“She is my child.”

“Then let her prove it.”

“Mother,” You warbled. “I don’t want to go.”

“Tala.” Daemon shifted, and his eyes met yours again as if you should know this word. You did not. “You will go. Make your mother proud. Learn at court. Find those who support her claim and those who will side with the Hightowers. You are weak and a girl, they will not suspect you. When the time comes you will be our most valuable weapon.”

“But I want to go home, Kepa.” (Father or paternal uncle)

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Rhaenyra held your face and brushed away your tears. “You will.”

“’Nyra.” Daemon warned.

“But not today.” She kissed each of your cheeks. “Today you must be strong for me. You must be strong for your brothers. You must do as Daemon says, we must keep them happy.”

And then your mother pulled you toward her firmly, pressed her lips to your ear and whispered a promise. A reward should you embark on this mission. Beyond sweets and silk dresses and extra time on Laesuvion. Beyond anything you had ever been promised or ever dreamed of asking for. Do this for your mother and she would exempt you from the chains of political marriage that would shackle each of your brothers. There was no guarantee you would be lucky like your brothers, married to one who would understand. But do this and you could have your Promised under the eyes of the Seven, the Old Gods, and the traditions of old Valyria itself. Even at 10, you knew that for a Princess and a second-born, there was no greater boon.

So, you did what you had to do for your one shot to truly be with your Promised. You squared your shoulders, kissed your mother's cheek, and stumbled toward Queen Alicent. She gripped you by the shoulder, tucked you into the folds of her skirt, and stared cruelly down her nose at your mother.

“Now I will have no more fighting.” Said the King and having satisfied his wife for the first time in their long marriage, he ambled off to bed.

As the crowd dispersed, Sir Criston Cole flanked the Queen and as a unit, the three of you marched from the room. Your mother, scarcely held together in Daemon’s embrace, gave one last warbling cry as you passed the threshold and disappeared, not to be seen again for nine long years.

You were kept that night in the Queen’s own quarters to thwart rescue or escape. Behind a bolted door and no less than three kings’ guards. And yet, that morning, upon waking with puffy eyes from silent tears and aching limbs from the harsh sitting room sofa, you found something that had not been there before.

A gift from Daemond, most assuredly, tucked under the pillow you had slept on. The handle was perhaps an inch too long for your small age, but the blade was curved and wicked sharp and would require little finesse to cause harm. Inlaid in the pommel was a single ruby, the size of your thumb and wonderfully smooth. Carved into the cross-guard flowing Valyrian script read valar morghūlis. (All men must die.)

You would call the dagger gaomilaksir, duty. You would carry it as a reminder of the promises you and your mother had made one another. One day, as Daemon had said, you would become her greatest weapon.

There had been few bright spots in your life as the Queen’s ward. So, few in fact, that you could count them on one hand.

One.

You could not fly. Such a thing would only encourage escape back to Dragonstone and your mother. But you could visit Laesuvion and watch him sweep through the clouds. He had grown much in your teenage years. Still lithe in build and elegant in frame, but more angular like an arrow strung tight. He did not take to Kings Landing, not in all your years trapped there. So used to the comfort of Dragonstone and your family’s own dragons, he often abandoned the Dragonpit entirely. Kept tethered to the Keep by your presence alone.

“Where is Laesuvion?” You were just shy of ten and two when you approached the Dragonkeeper Acolyte.

“Hunting, my lady.” He knocked his quarterstaff against the ground. “He flew north not three hours ago.”

“Do you not offer him food?”

The keeper lowered his head, “He refuses it, my lady.”

“Offer him better.”

“We give him our very best, lady. He is a magnificent but stubborn creature.”

“He is a dragon, not a creature.” You conjured up a playful grin. “And I am a princess, not a lady.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” The Acolyte blustered, “Shall I inform you upon his return?”

“That won’t be necessary,” You strode to his side and plunked yourself down to lean against the stone entrance. “I shall wait for his return here.”

And so, you did. Silently, for the better part of twenty minutes as the Acolyte threw furtive glances your way.

Until finally, “Truly, my lady. Your Highness. He could be hours still.”

Wonderful. You thought and cast a dazzling grin up at him. “Perhaps you ought to keep me better company then.”

And so, you began your mission. You charm the Dragonkeepers – Acolyte and Elder, all seventy-seven of them – who knew the princes and their dragons, their strengths and weaknesses. You befriend the maids, the scullery, the wet nurses, and the servants they bunk with. Piece by piece, inch by inch, you win back your mother's share of Kings Landing.

Two.

Strange though she was, your Aunt Heleana always welcomed you into her chambers. In your shared youth, she always had a critter clutched between her hands as if it were the most precious thing she owned. You are four and ten, a year younger than your aunt when she is forced to split her time between her menagerie of insects and the chubby masses of her twin babes.

“The young prince has lungs,” You smiled at Heleana as the wet nurse rocked a wailing Jaehaerys. “He will make glorious speeches when he is grown.”

“Only one.” She examined the creature in her hands. Today she favoured a centipede, passing Jaehaera onto you.

You had long since learned to ignore her ramblings, “The sweet Princess must be the wordsmith, then.”

“The fourth in an age.” Heleana startled as if only just noticing your presence. “Apologies, Hāedar. You wished to speak?” (Younger female sibling or cousin)

“No apologies necessary, Mandia.” (Older female sibling or cousin). The Valyrian word tasted foul. You had your own siblings on Dragonstone, those whom you had been stolen from and those whom you had yet to meet. But Heleana liked it when you pretended that you were not a prisoner, that you were her mother’s daughter and not her forcibly attained ward. And so you swallowed it with a smile, “Might we talk privately?”

Heleana startled again as she turned to the wet nurse. “Take the children to the nursery, Bria.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Bria gave an awkward curtsy, shuffled the still-wailing Jaehaerys to one side and received Jaehaera from your arms. Heleana turned to you expectantly as the trio disappeared through a side door.

“It is a sensitive matter I am afraid,” You eyed the centipede as it escaped her hands and crawled across her skirts. “I do not wish to cause offence.”

Heleana’s eyes pinched at the corners, “It is not such a terrible burden – to be a wife. Mostly he ignores you.”

“You misunderstand me,” You hurried. “I only wished to speak of your grandfather.”

“Not my brother?”

“Do you wish to speak of your husband?”

“No,” Heleana gave you a quizzical look. “I speak of Aemond, who will be your husband.”

“Aemond?” Your uncle who’s selfishness had trapped you here. One of Alicent’s precious children married to her living doll. The thought would have been hysterical were it not so frightening. Surely not.

“It is the natural progression of things. I was given to Aegon and now you to Aemond.” Heleana’s attention returned to the centipede. “One pairing to strengthen our house, another to mend its bonds. So says grandfather.”

“Oh Mandia. I am entrusted to your mother. There need be no marriage to bring me into the fold. We are family.” 

“Yes. So says mother.” Heleana stared. Not so blind as she seemed. “But grandfather always gets what he wants.”

And so, you are four years into your mission, having sat patiently by the Queen's side. Having listened and learned and noted those your mother can count on. Four years in and the time to begin quietly making moves had arrived with a head start from your oblivious Aunt.

But then you see the centipede crawl from her hands again and writhe across her skirt. And you think maybe Heleana’s warnings have more to do with where the critter is trying to lead her than it has to do with you.

Three.

It took you longer than you would like to admit to worm your way into Otto Hightower’s confidences – if there were such a thing.

You had quickly learned in your first year at the Keep that Alicent feared her father, distrustful of his greed and power lust. Not much unlike yourself, she had been sent into the greedy hands of a different house in pursuit of the Iron Throne. Were Otto not so blinded by his ambitions you might have begun to worry that Daemon’s strategy might ring familiar. But Lord Hightower’s strength was also his greatest weakness. So careful in his scheming, gently coaxing his will unto others, moving his pawns about the board, sacrificing all but himself, he could not see his tactics turned against him. Beyond your connection to Rhaenyra, you barely registered as a piece in the game.

Daemon had been right. Weak and a girl and not a threat. Not yet.

So, you worked tirelessly to endear yourself to Alicent. Just as you learned from her, you began to teach in turn. When you are in the room Otto Hightower dares not spin his lies about succession. When you appear around corners in search of your Queen-mother talk of hastening the king's condition ceases. When you are near, Alicent is safe. She begins to wear you like the expensive accessory you are, a decorative shield.

Hours trailing your Queen-mother to and from meetings of the small council, waiting patiently at her side as she sat in place of the King. Serving wine to fat and foolish lords.

And then finally, on the eve of your ten and fifth nameday, the Queen brings you along to the Hand's Tower.

“Father.” She greets.

“Alicent,” Otto brings you to his office, where a tea set for two lays steaming. “I see you have brought your shadow.”

The Queen barely glances your way as you serve her tea and then her father’s, before retreating to stand at her shoulder. She glares across her father’s desk, “This does concern her.”

“She is approaching her fifteenth year, two since her first blood. Time has well arrived for her to marry,” He stares directly at you then, “Have you any fondness for your uncle, Princess?”

“My lord, the Princes and I are often kept busy by our duties.” Your friends among the servants have divulged their schedules. You stay firmly away from drunken Aegon and selfish Aemond, remaining civil only with young Daeron.

“You must see reason.” Alicent implores her father. “They hold no affection for one another. Aegon and Heleana have already wed in the name of strengthening our family. To marry her would serve only to anger Rhaenyra.”

“And to bind her eldest daughter to us.” Interesting that he would say so openly in front of you. Perhaps you have been more effective in playing a Green than you had thought. “Aemond will be a good husband to her.”

“I have no doubt,” Alicent says and as silence stretches you suspect she is losing conviction; you have not saved her this time.

You clear your throat delicately, “If I may?”

“Of course, sweet pet.” Alicent reaches out to fuss with your hair. She likes it long and keeps its length to your hip despite how cumbersome it can be. Short hair is unbecoming, she claims.

You look to Otto in false deference, “My lord?”

“Very well.”

“I think,” You begin carefully. “Aemond and I may be of better use to you.”

“And how might that be?” He is condescending but you have his attention.

“When the time comes that grandsire passes on, I suspect the lords of the realm will need cause to back a claim to the Iron Throne. My Septa says that peace such as we have seen under his rule may bring unrest. I do not doubt that Aemond will make a fine and just husband. All I mean is that mayhaps it would be wise to keep us unwed until we may serve a greater purpose.”

No mention of your mother nor their ill-begotten plan for Aegon. Hightower's methods played against him.

“And when the time comes you will do this?” He demands.

“It is my duty to my house.”

He tilts his head as a predatory bird might. “You must swear it, to myself and to your Queen, upon your young brothers.”

To pause would mislay your ruse. To hesitate would be to sign your life away to Aemond Targaryen.

“I swear it, upon the lives of my brothers.”

He considered you for a moment, and then his daughter.

“You have done well with her, Alicent.” Your Queen-mother sighs as Otto Hightower stands. “Enjoy your tea, I have matters to attend to elsewhere. Perhaps you will be of more use than we originally suspected, Princess.”

Your first true victory. You will not be shackled to the Keep; you will be kept safe until your mother comes for you. Until such a time that you and Laesuvion can seek out your Promised.

Four.

The Queen held a strange fondness for you. Platinum-haired and purple-eyed, the spitting image of the Realm’s delight and perhaps the only trueborn among your siblings. She took pains to brush and braid your hair, dress you in green and flout you at court. Her perfect tamed Targaryen. Who would eat from her hand, take tea by her side, sit prim and silent as her Queen-mother decorated her. You were her walking-talking glimmering triumph over Rhaenyra.

At ten, Alicent’s obsession stole you from your mother. At ten and four, it protected you from a hasty marriage. And now, at ten and eight, it was your path to freedom.

“Mother?”

Oh, how Alicent loved it when you called her that. One more thing ripped from Rhaenyra’s thieving hands. Alicent pushed into your room with a tired facsimile of a smile and took the seat across from you by the roaring hearth.  

“My sweet pet.” She was dressed head to toe in full regalia. “I am so sorry to have missed you today.”

You tucked a piece of scrap paper into the book you had been reading, buying yourself time to school your features into innocent confusion. “As am I. My door has been locked. I am sorry I could not come to you.”

“A precaution – one that I fought.” Alicent reached for your hair, running her fingers through its length. “But we cannot trust you to betray your mother. Regardless of the years you have spent in our care.”

“I do not understand, mother.” But you do.

“Your grandsire is dead.”

You close your eyes, “Aegon is king.”

“Yes.”

“You did not wish for this.”

“I wish Viserys were still a living corpse. That he would outlive us all so that none could claim his cursed throne. Not Aegon. Not Rhaenyra. Not my father.”

“That is not a solution.”

She tugs at your hair harshly, “Foolish pet, there is none.”

You blink harshly. Your eyes scarcely holding back tears. For the first time since you left your mother's embrace, you are truly scared. No longer are you the meek girl who walks in the Queen’s shadow. Given liberties and protection in a twisted echo of her love for Rhaenyra. You are a living embodiment of what House Targaryen will be to House Hightower. A pretty little puppet kept from your dragon, cloistered away like some trophy, scrambling for a scrap of power to delude yourself that you have some control.

“What is to become of our house?” You whisper.

“Your mother and Prince Daemon remain on Dragonstone. No blood has yet been shed.” Alicent brushed your hair softly behind one ear. “We have sent Aemond to Storm’s End to do as you once suggested. To offer himself to one of the Baratheon girls, that Lord Borros might see reason and acknowledge Aegon as rightful King.”

Good, there were those beyond the Keep who remained steadfast and loyal. It was time to return to your mother, then. To tell her all you had learned these last eight years. To name her allies and set Daemon loose upon her foes. Now was the time.

“What of my brothers?”

Alicent leant back, “Scouts have spotted Vermax flying north likely as an envoy to rally support among the lords.”

“How could they have mobilized so quickly? Was Aegon not crowned mere hours ago?”

“He was, indeed.” Alicent’s gazed into the fire. “The Lady Rhaenys was not so welcoming of solitude as you have been.”

“She has gone to Dragonstone?”

“She has.”

“And no one has come for me?”

“They have not.”

For a moment you each stared listlessly into the hearth. When Alicent shifts back to face you, she has a letter clutched in her hand. It is crisp and of fine quality but most strikingly, stamped with the King’s seal.

“I am under no delusions,” Alicent says softly, mournfully. “You can no more contest your mother's claim than I can Aegon’s. We are matching pieces in this game, I think.”

Your fear swells, “Mother.”

“Please, my sweet girl.” She smooths the hair atop your head. “You must do me one last favour as my ward.”

“I don’t understand.”

She presses the letter into your hands. “Jacaerys will fly first to the Vale, to treat with House Arryn and then to Winterfell. You will take this and beat him there. You will do as you swore to do those years ago.”

“I ca–”

“Listen!” She jerked you by your shoulders. “You must listen. You will wed Lord Stark. He is as fine a match as any. The north is loyal to Rhaenyra and will remain steadfast, you will be well treated. You must go, with this missive from the King, his final wish to send you north to snow and safety. In return for your hand, they will take no part in the fighting, they will protect you as their own, until such a time that the victor is crowned. Do you understand me, pet?”

“The King never cared for me.” You said foolishly.

“And yet, with his dying breath, he spoke of you and of Aegon. That you would carry his legacy, that you would see out his dream to the North. That Prince Aegon was Promised to this kingdom. You must believe me. You must do this for your grandsire.”

“I do believe you mother.” She was deluded. “I will do what must be done.”

Alicent has offered you one gilded cage for another. You will not be fool enough to fall into this one. You will find Laesuvion and be gone in the dead of night. You tuck the King’s missive into your book and smile at the Queen.

“Shall we call for tea, mother? You have much to tell me. I hear I have missed a coronation.”

Five.

You shape your fifth and final joy as the Queen Alicent’s Ward whilst escaping her clutches. You take three sharp detours on your path to the Dragonpit. First, to the chamber of the small council where you snatch the King's ball of quartz, you will make a gift of this to your mother. Then to the creche where the Keeper’s turned a blind eye as you pilfered three precious Dragon eggs. Finally, you find yourself ascending the steps of the Lord Hand’s Tower. To take the Dowager Queen from the Greens would be the greatest gift to your mother and her cause. But Alicent, despite her many faults, had been as kind to you as one might be toward a favourite pet. And so you do as a pet would – you do not bite the hand that fed you. Instead, you do both your Queen-mother and the woman that birthed you, a favour. You find Otto Hightower asleep in his study and you pass onto him your final gift from Daemon Targaryen.

You leave gaomilaksir in the heart of Hightower as you flee north, your duty complete.

(Part 2 : The Winter Keep)

#cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #queen alicent #alicent hightower #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #otto hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen

[deny-the-issue]

Rainbow Drabble Challenge

Red

Next Chapter -> Orange, Yellow

Overall Summary: This is a short love story about Otto Hightower being a sexy bastard. There WILL be a happy ending. The reader is mid to late twenties in age.

Chapter Summary: Otto Hightower contemplates your company.

beta read by @juniper-sunny <3

AO3 link

Rainbow drabble challenge

[spinster!reader] [Otto Hightower x f!reader] [Masturbation] [450 words]

If there is one thing everyone can say about Otto Hightower, is that he is careful in all aspects of the word. Careful of who to keep company with, what to eat, what to say. Everything is measured, prim, and precise. There is no room for distractions when you’re the Hand of the king.

Except, there you are, filling his chambers with a comforting presence he had only felt with his late wife before. Holding one of the many books from his private library, leaning over the arm of the decadent chair, he can’t help but take in the beauty of your youth illuminated by the vibrant red sky of the dying sun. 

A spinster, by technicality, but that made you all the more alluring. Why have you not been wed? Is it by choice or circumstance? The answers hold no real sway over his life, but his inquisitive mind yearns to know your truth. 

He knows the facts: you’re a daughter of a lower house taken in as a ward by one of the lords within the Red Keep. 

But you never left, did you? You lingered and learned. Read every book in the royal library until you had to come to Otto Hightower himself with your thirst for knowledge. And he indulges your curiosity, often much later in the day than would be deemed proper. 

How easy it would be to latch the door. To lock them inside this scarlet-painted paradise. His hand over your mouth to preserve their secret. Your body pressed against his. The ruby light a perfect complement to the blush on your cheeks. 

The soft clink of his pen against his desk rouses your attention, he watches with well-practiced indifference as you blink the fatigue away from your reading-strained eyes. Your soft smile stokes the fire in his soul, and the way you trail your hand down the length of the page pushes him to the edge of a poor decision. 

“The hour is late, my lady.”

The words, well practiced, come easily. He is no stranger to denying himself the pleasures of life, however hard it may be. You are a distraction; something he cannot afford. 

Does this stop him from palming his growing desire after you leave? From fantasizing about the curve of your body, the shape of your breasts, the feeling of your lips against his?  He grips the desk’s edge with white knuckles, urging, praying, to resist. But it is all for naught; there is only so much he can deny before breaking. There in the last tones of the setting sun, he takes you against his ornate desk in his mind’s eye and finishes in his hand at the thought.

#otto hightower #otto hightower x you #otto hightower x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #otto hightower fanfiction #fanfic #smut #otto hightower smut #no y/n #rainbowdrabblechallenge

[slavicdelight]

The Hight Tower and the Dragon's Heir

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x male!Targ!reader

Summary: Lady Alicent Hightower was the closest friend of Princess Rhaenyra, yet she couldn't help but fall for her older brother, Y/N.

Warnings: none, following canon divergence

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Alicent Hightower gracefully strolled the corridors of the illustrious Red Keep, her morning lessons with her inseparable companion, Princess Rhaenyra, having just concluded. The echoes of footsteps accompanied her every stride as she made her way towards the luncheon appointment with her father, Ser Otto Hightower, the King's Hand. The castle bursted with vibrant activity—servants hurriedly carried out their duties, knights stood in vigilant postures, and nobles engaged in animated conversations, exchanging the latest court gossip.

As she ascended a majestic staircase, the voice of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Westerling, reached her ears. With a soft smile, Alicent reciprocated the courteous greeting. The anticipation of her father's chambers lingered in the air as she approached, each step echoing with the weight of her familial responsibilities.

However, the routine of her morning took an unexpected turn when, just before she reached the sanctum of her father, a sudden force collided with her, threatening to send her sprawling. A gasp escaped her lips, but before the cold stone floor could meet her, strong and reassuring hands prevented her from falling. These hands belonged to none other than Y/N Targaryen, the eldest son of the reigning monarch, King Viserys.

In that fleeting moment of unexpected encounter, the bustling ambiance of the Red Keep faded into the background. Alicent found herself lost in his gaze. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, and as Y/N steadied her with an effortless strength, Alicent's heart quickened, realizing that even in the most predictable corridors, destiny had an uncanny way of intertwining lives in an unexpected matter.

"Oh my, Lady Alicent. I'm so sorry; I didn't notice you," the young Prince expressed with a charming smile, nearly as enchanting as the prince himself. His gaze held a hypnotic quality that left Alicent momentarily flustered. Deep down, she possessed an immense fondness for him, but the fear of rejection and the potential repercussions from his younger sister stopped her from ever expressing them.

"No, my Prince. It was I who should've been more careful," Alicent nervously replied, her voice betraying a subtle hint of admiration. The unspoken tension between them lingered in the air. Her father's disapproval of the prince added a layer of complexity to the situation. Otto Hightower believed him to be the same as his uncle, Prince Daemon, hence the mutual hostility.

"Were you heading to your father, perhaps?" the prince inquired, his curiosity evident. Alicent hesitated, aware of the strained relationship between her father, Ser Otto Hightower, and the prince. Otto's opinions about Y/N's fitness for becoming king often clashed with the prince's aspirations.

"Yes, my prince," Alicent replied cautiously, choosing her words with care. The prince graciously took a step back, allowing her to continue her journey towards her father's chambers.

"Then do not let me stop you," he said with a small, understanding smile, his gaze lingering for a moment before gracefully descending the stairs, resuming his own path through the corridors of the Red Keep. That brief encounter, had left Lady Alicent soft in her knees.

Entering the Hand's chambers, Alicent immediately noticed her father seated at the table, a large variety of dishes laid out. She greeted him respectfully and took her place on the opposite side. "Alicent," he acknowledged with a nod, his eyes shining with a mix of sternness and affection. "How was your morning?" he inquired, motioning her to being eating.

"It was fine. I studied with the Princess the whole morning after breaking fast with her and Queen Aemma," Alicent replied, offering a light summary of her activities. The mention of encountering Prince Y/N on her way to her father's chambers prompted a subtle change in his demeanor. His brow lifted, and a stern look accompanied his response. "Prince Y/N is not a good influence. I advise you to avoid him," he coldly said, his voice carrying a weight of disapproval as Alicent cast her gaze downward. "Very well, father," she agreed, and the remainder of their lunch unfolded in a heavy silence.

As Alicent's thoughts drifted back to the violet-eyed prince, she couldn't comprehend her father's disdain for him. In her eyes, he was gallant and the epitome of a perfect prince. The unspoken tension between father and daughter lingered, leaving Alicent with a sense of conflict between her loyalty to her father and a growing curiosity about Y/N.

A fortnight later, the joyous occasion of a tournament took place in order to celebrate the King's anticipated new heir gripped the Red Keep. Nobles from far and wide were invited, marking the event as a grand affair. Queen Aemma, began her labours early in the morning, enduring the suffering alone, as King Viserys presided over the jousting festivities. Prince Daemon, displaying exceptional skills, unseated Alicent's brother Gwayne from his horse.

Victorious, the Prince then diverted his attention towards the stands where Alicent sat. With a charming smile, he asked for her favor, stating, "Lady Alicent, I'm sure your favor would ensure my victory today." Casting a fleeting glance at her father, Alicent handed Daemon her favor. Unbeknownst to her, a certain prince of the crown observed the exchange with a glare and a clenched jaw.

The joy of the tournament swiftly gave way to a somber hush when a messenger arrived bearing the tragic news of Queen Aemma's death. The atmosphere within the Red Keep became grim, mournful mood reigned for weeks. The funeral, held on a distant hill, marked a solemn occasion where the lifeless forms of the Queen and the young Prince lay upon the pyre, awaiting the embrace of dragonfire from Syrax and Shadowspine, the loyal companions of the Queen's surviving children.

Following the ceremony, Alicent found herself once again in her father's chambers, the weight of grief hanging heavily in the air. "How is Rhaenyra?" her father inquired, slight concern etched across his face. Alicent, her fingers idly picking at her fingers, replied, "She just lost her mother." The sorrow that lingered in her words mirrored the collective grief that shrouded the entire Keep.

Not being one to hide his ambitions, her father suggested, "Perhaps you would like to offer the King some comfort. Losing a wife is a terrible thing. He would surely rejoice in a visit." Alicent reluctantly agreed to undertake this solemn task, driven by her desire to please her father. As she turned to leave, she overheard her father's additional instruction, his voice low and laden with subtle implication—indicating that she should dress herself in one of her late mother's gowns.

Rather than heading to the King's chambers as initially intended, Alicent found herself standing before the doors that guarded Prince Y/N's residence. A guard announced her presence, and she entered, greeted by a scene of disarray. The room resembled the aftermath of a storm—furniture upended, decorations scattered in chaotic way. Amidst the disorder, she discovered her prince, seated on the floor, his back against the bed stand, his once-silky hair now tangled, and his eyes holding a haunted look. The scent of alcohol lingered in the air.

Taking a seat beside the prince, Alicent met his gaze, prompting him to question her presence with a strained voice, revealing the results of earlier screams. "I came here to see how you're holding up, my Prince," she replied calmly, her eyes scanning the wreckage around them. He only scoffed in response.

Drawing on her own experiences, Alicent shared, "When my own mother died, people looked at me with pity. I didn't want it. All I wanted was to hear they were sorry." Her empathetic words hung in the air, and she continued, "I'm so sorry for your loss, my Prince," concluding her condolences with a soft look, her eyes reflecting genuine compassion. Y/N stared at her in silence, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, as he began to unveil the weight of his heartache.

"My father's quest for a second son is to blame for this tragedy. He never considered me worthy of the throne," he confessed, his voice full of bitterness and sorrow. "He wished for another son, a better son. One he could put on the throne after himself. I was never enough. Rhaenyra wasn't enough. He killed my mother for a new heir. And now, my brother is also dead," he uttered.

Alicent's heart ached for him, the immensity of his suffering echoing through the confessions. Despite already bearing the responsibilities of being the Heir, this added layer of tragedy made the burden almost unbearable. In her earnest attempt to offer solace, she stood by both Y/N and Princess Rhaenyra, a pillar of support during these dark times.

As Y/N was officially declared Heir before the realm, Alicent stood steadfastly by his side, witnessing the unfolding of destiny. She remained present during the uncomfortable prospect of their father's remarriage, understanding the siblings hesitation. The more time they spent together, the threads of friendship between Alicent and Y/N began to intertwine with the delicate threads of love.

When the time came for the Prince to choose a wife, he declared his intent to marry Lady Alicent, much to Rhaenyra's dismay. While Viserys rejoiced in the prospect, Otto, though reluctantly, agreed to the union. Though not a fervent supporter of the Prince, Otto recognized the strategic significance—marrying his daughter to the future king ensured the placement of his bloodline on the throne.

The union of Alicent and Y/N was immortalized in what became known as the White Wedding. It was a testament to the pure and evident love that bound the newlyweds. The ceremony resonated with the harmonious union of two souls, their vows exchanged amidst the sacred walls of the Sept.

Shorty after their nuptials, the arrival of Aegon Targaryen marked a new chapter in the royal family. The beautiful boy, with the coloring of his father and the distinctive facial structure of his mother, embodied the perfect mix of the royal couple. Aegon, the newest Prince, became a living testament to the love that flourished within the Targaryen lineage.

As Alicent carried the weight of their second child, King Viserys sought to hold a celebratory hunt on his grandson Aegon's second name day. The relationships within the Targaryen family began to mend, albeit slowly, and the noticeable favoritism towards Rhaenyra, perhaps due to her resemblance to her late mother, didn't escape Y/N's notice. Despite the slight discomfort, he chose to focus on his growing family, diverting his attention away from the nuances of favoritism and concentrating on the joyous moments that bound them together.

The grand hunt orchestrated by King Viserys brought a sense of delight to Otto Hightower, who relished the opportunity for both entertainment and strategic alliances. The men, engaged in the pursuit of a White Hart—a symbolic creature representing royalty—set out with purpose, leaving the women to find solace within the safety of the camp.

As Alicent sat beside her husband, Y/N, who held their young son Aegon in his lap, an unexpected intrusion disrupted the peace inside the tent. Rhaenyra, the spirited Princess, burst in with determination, her grievances clear. Viserys, in his pursuit to secure her a suitable match, had orchestrated a connection with Jason Lannister, much to Rhaenyra's vocal displeasure. The fiery Princess asserted her autonomy, rejecting the notion of being treated as a prize to be sold to the highest bidder.

The repercussions of this confrontation left Alicent aware of the strain in her once-unbreakable bond with Rhaenyra. The princess, fueled by a desire to ascend to the throne, resented the twist of fate that seemingly diverted Y/N's affections toward Alicent, who had become the new Princess consort.

In the next years, Rhaenyra's fate took a turn as she was forced into a marriage with her cousin, Ser Laenor Velaryon, because of previous liaison with her uncle Daemon in a pleasure house that added further complexity to the situation. The marriage, arranged against her will, led to the birth of bastards, whom she attempted to pass as legitimate—a move not lost on the eyes of the court.

Despite Viserys's blindness, the court recognized the discrepancy in the children's Valyrian features. Whispers spread, hinting at a connection with Ser Harwing Strong, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks, who served closely under the Princess.

These choices made by Rhaenyra made Alicent bitter. The apparent disregard for duty exhibited by Rhaenyra, coupled with the ability to evade consequences, fueled Alicent's resentment. Yet, in the face of this, the legitimacy of the children born to Y/N and Alicent remained unquestionable. The unmistakable resemblance of each child to their father nullified any potential doubts that might have arisen.

As their children matured, distinct personalities emerged, painting a portrait of the Targaryen legacy. Aegon, the mischievous firstborn, delighted in playing pranks and causing mayhem within the castle. Despite occasional mischief, his loyalty to the family prevailed, a testament to the intricate balance of his character.

Helaena, their only daughter, embodied sweetness and warmth. Though closed off to many, she harbored a great heart, often murmuring riddles that, while dismissed by most, held significance to her parents who recognized her as a dreamer with visions of her own.

Aemond, a mirror image of his father, shared not only physical similarities but also akin personalities. The only distinction lay in Aemond's shyness. His passion for history forged a special bond with King Viserys, who favored the small Prince. Their shared love for learning brought them together in frequent discussions about the boy's recent discoveries.

The youngest, Daeron, charmed all who crossed his path, earning the title of the most popular son among their subjects. His charm and charisma propelled him to Oldtown, serving his mother's uncle as a cupbearer and squire.

Amidst the dynamic growth of their children, Y/N and Alicent's love stood resilient. Any hopes Rhaenyra harbored of a falling out between the couple were in vain; their bond, an indestructible force, continued to strengthen.

The visible strain within the ruling family had spilled beyond the walls of the Red Keep, earning them the titles of "blacks" and "reds" among the common folk and nobility alike. Y/N, recognizing the fractures within his family, attempted reconciliation with his younger sister, but Rhaenyra remained consumed by anger towards him for marrying another and harbored resentment for Alicent, his wife for being said woman. The rift seemed irreparable.

Despite the familial tensions, Y/N maintained a close involvement in the training of his sons, personally overseeing their progress with the assistance of Ser Criston Cole, who had shifted his allegiance from Rhaenyra to the royal family. Aegon and Aemond exhibited remarkable progress, overshadowing their cousins.

During a training session, as Ser Criston instructed the young princes, Y/N was reluctantly pulled away by the demands of his duties as the Heir. King Viserys, observing from the terrace, keenly followed the lesson. The knight, calling upon Aegon, challenged him to a sparring match and taunted, "Let's see if you can touch me. You and your brother." The confident Prince, Aegon, responded with a cocky assurance, "I've won my first bound, Ser Criston. My opponent sues for mercy."

Undeterred, Ser Criston introduced a new challenge, pitting both Aegon and Aemond against him. The two princes advanced, swords in hand, but the seasoned knight skillfully blocked each of their attacks, showcasing his experience and expertise. The training ground became a battleground of skills, the clash of steel echoing the intricate dynamics of power, loyalty, and the indomitable spirit of the Targaryen lineage.

The training ground, alive with the clang of swords and the shuffling of feet, fell into a momentary silence as Ser Harwin approached, offering instructions to the brown-haired princes. His voice redirected Ser Criston's attention toward the younger boys. "It seems like the younger boys could use your attention, Ser," Harwin remarked as he walked closer. A subtle tension hung in the air as Criston questioned, "Are you questioning my method of instruction?"

In response, Criston motioned for Aegon to face Jaecerys, declaring it an "eldest son against eldest son" spar. The white-haired Prince's age and strength became evident as he overpowered the younger Jaecerys. However, as Aegon advanced, he found himself roughly seized by the shoulder and pulled away by Ser Harwin. Aegon, outraged by the intervention, protested loudly, resulting in a reprimand from the King.

Tensions flared further when Criston began questioning the Commander of the Gold Cloaks's interest in the princes' training, suggesting affections that a man might harbor for his children. The insinuation proved too much for Ser Harwin, who snapped and attacked Criston. The incident led to Ser Harwin's banishment from King's Landing, and a few days later, he perished within the walls of Harrenhal along with his father.

More sorrowful news followed swiftly. A raven brought the grim information of Lady Laena Velaryon's death, casting a pall over King's Landing. The weight of Laena's death cast a somber shadow over Y/N, who had considered her another sister growing up. The entire family traveled to Driftmark to pay their respects, attending a funeral marred by Lord Vaemond's continuous accusations directed at Princess Rhaenyra and her bastard sons. Prince Daemon's laughter, strategically employed to deflect attention, added a layer of tension to the already heart-wrenching day.

Once the children retired for the night, Alicent found a moment to speak with her husband. In the quiet confines of their chamber, she gently inquired, "Are you alright, my love?" Y/N, standing by a window overlooking the view of Driftmark, confessed, "She was one of my closest friends, and she died alone. Without her family or friends, because Daemon denied her return. She didn't deserve such a fate."

Alicent, though not as intimately acquainted with Lady Laena, offered words of solace, acknowledging her bravery and kindness. Y/N, appreciating his wife's comforting presence, sighed and turned to look at her. "I'm sure you're right, darling," he said, caressing her face. In that moment, they found solace in each other's embrace, a comforting respite from the sorrow that permeated their hearts.

With a shared understanding, Y/N guided Alicent to bed, where they surrendered to the embrace of sleep, seeking refuge from the weariness that accompanied the emotional journey. Their intertwined forms, nestled in peaceful repose, reflected the enduring strength of their bond in the face of life's inevitable trials.

The tranquility that enveloped Y/N and Alicent was shattered abruptly when a maid, panic-stricken, banged on their door, delivering news of a grave accident involving their son. Swiftly dressing into presentable robes, they rushed towards the hall where their children were present. The sight that awaited them was horrifying—Aemond, their beloved son, was a bloody mess, missing an eye. Alicent's anguished scream pierced the air as she ran towards her injured child.

Demanding answers, Y/N interrogated the Knights, learning that the Prince had been mauled in a brawl with his cousins. The King, arriving on the scene, angrily questioned the guards for allowing such an incident. Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys soon joined, but Y/N's attention shifted to the absence of Princess Rhaenyra. When she finally appeared, followed by Prince Daemon, their disheveled appearance hinted at a liaison that further fueled Y/N's anger. How could they disrespect Lady Laena's memory like this?

Amid the chaos, Rhaenyra declared the incident a "regrettable accident," but Alicent argued it was a planned attack. Rhaenyra defended her sons, claiming they were being attacked with vile insults against their legitimacy "Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned on where he heard such slanders". Y/N's anger flared; his sister intended to torture his gravely wounded son over a truth that was evident.

Rhaenyra's attempt to extract information from Prince Aemond, who had heard the alleged slanders, only heightened tensions. Y/N, protective of his son, forbade any harm to befell Aemond. As the King sought apologies and forgiveness, Alicent snapped, demanding justice and ordering the eye of Lucerys Velaryon to conduct it. Chaos ensued as Alicent, fueled by rage, advanced towards Rhaenyra with a knife. Y/N noticed his uncle making way to two women to undoubtedly aid Rhaenyra, which he couldn't let happen and stopped him before Daemon could reach her.

The struggle between Alicent and Rhaenyra unfolded, the room becoming a battleground of emotions and grievances. In the midst of the chaos, Aemond, now with one eye, offered comfort to his mother, stating "Don't mourn me mother. I might've lost an eye but I gained a dragon". Y/N joined the embrace, and as his father declared the matter over, the fractured family clung to the remnants of peace amidst the aftermath of pain and turmoil.

As the years unfolded, the Targaryen family found solace and unity in each other's company. Every meal became a cherished time for discussion, laughter, and shared moments, further strengthening the familial bonds that had weathered storms and emerged resilient.

Aegon and Helaena's marriage flourished, blessed with their two beautiful children, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Aegon transformed into a caring and attentive husband, shedding his earlier tendencies to become the perfect Prince fit to one day ascend the throne. Aemond, despite the challenges posed by his limited vision, emerged as a formidable warrior under his father's tutelage. Determined not to be hindered by his condition, he trained with unparalleled dedication, surpassing many in skill and prowess.

Y/N and Alicent, beaming with pride, reveled in the achievements of their children. However, their joy was tempered by the somber responsibility that befell them. With King Viserys succumbing to sickness, he lay bedridden, casting a long shadow over the realm. The inevitable reality loomed—the time was approaching when a new monarch would ascend the throne.

Amidst the bittersweet echoes of Viserys's declining health, the Targaryen family stood united, ready to face the challenges that awaited them. The transition of power loomed on the horizon, and the legacy of House Targaryen stood at the threshold of a new chapter in the annals of Westeros.

The arrival of a raven bearing Ser Vaemond Velaryon's challenging petition for the Driftwood Throne thrust the Red Keep into a state of heightened anxiety. The assertion that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children would return to the heart of the realm brought a cloud of unease over the castle, especially given the recent mysterious death of Laenor Velaryon.

In the midst of the commotion, Alicent navigated through the corridors toward the King's chamber, where she knew Rhaenyra and Daemon would be discussing the pressing matter of King Viserys's condition. Upon entering, she greeted them with courtesy, acknowledging the lapse of time since their last encounter. Daemon responded with a nonchalant hum, while Rhaenyra inquired about the authority overseeing the trial of her son.

A new voice cut through the tension as Y/N entered, a smirk playing on his lips. He revealed himself as the authority presiding over the trial, promising a fair judgment even as he acknowledged the accusations thrown at his wife. The room held its breath, and Alicent, standing beside her husband, added, "We have pressing matters to attend to, but please, make yourself at home." With that, the married couple walked away, leaving the guests to navigate the looming trial and the shadows of familial discord that cast their pall over the Red Keep.

The throne room buzzed with tension as the petitions unfolded, each speaker presenting their case before Y/N, who sat on the throne in his father's stead. The weight of judgment rested heavily on his shoulders. Lord Vaemond Velaryon was the first to address the court, delivering a lengthy discourse on bloodlines and the survival of House Velaryon.

However, the proceedings took an unexpected turn when, during Rhaenyra's turn to present her defense, the door opened, and in walked King Viserys. Ready to defend his favorite child, the ailing monarch cast a shadow over the proceedings. The air thickened with anticipation as the confrontation unfolded.

In a swift and brutal turn of events, Vaemond found himself condemned for openly declaring the princess's sons as bastards. The throne room, once filled with the echoes of legal arguments, now bore witness to the irrevocable consequences of familial discord and political maneuvering. As the lifeblood of House Velaryon spilled in pursuit of power and legitimacy, the court faced the stark reality that the struggle for succession and survival could exact a heavy toll on those entangled in the webs of Westerosi politics.

The atmosphere in the dining hall was thick with tension, mirroring the strained relationships within the Targaryen family. Viserys, lying in his seat of honor, served as the symbolic divide between two estranged siblings, Rhaenyra and Y/N, as the air was charged with unspoken grievances.

Jace and Luke, Baela and Rhaena, each engaged in their own conversations, while Aegon and Helaena shared a tender moment, the Prince gently rubbing his wife's hand. Aemond and Daemon, ever vigilant, sat observing, their tension a reflection of the underlying conflicts.

As King Viserys was carried in, the room stood in a display of respect. The king began his speech, adressing his family. “It’s good to see you all together. My heart aches when I see the faces dearest to me so full of envy and drifting apart form each other. House of the Dragon must be united, so let us forget all and stay strong. If not for the realm, the for this old man, who loves you all dearly.“ But the damage had been done, and the fractures within the family ran too deep to be easily mended.

Rhaenyra's toast, seemingly a gesture of reconciliation, momentarily shifted the mood. Alicent responded gracefully, highlighting the common ground between them as mothers, but the facade of harmony was shattered by a seemingly innocent gesture—a pig brought before Prince Aemond, triggering memories of the Pink Dread incident.

Aemond's explosive reaction disrupted the fragile peace. The room fell into an uneasy silence as he stood, expressing a "final tribute" to the health of his nephews, ending the speech with an insult towards the boys calling them "Strong". Chaos erupted as the young princes clashed, and the adults scrambled to intervene. The disastrous dinner culminated in Princess Rhaenyra's decision to retreat to Dragonstone, leaving behind a shattered illusion of family unity. The scars of the past ran too deep, and the once-grand gesture of a family dinner had unraveled into a painful reminder of the irreparable divisions within House Targaryen.

The dimly lit corridors echoed with quiet footsteps as Y/N made his way to his father's chamber. Upon entering, a solemn atmosphere enveloped the room, and Y/N approached King Viserys. As he assisted the ailing monarch in preparing for sleep, Viserys muttered incoherent phrases, and amidst the confusion, Y/N discerned a recurring theme—Aegon's prophecy.

In the hushed moments of their interaction, the weight of impending succession hung in the air. Viserys, in his final moments, seemed to impart a significant task to his son, urging him to fulfill the prophecy. The murmurings faded as the night unfolded, and King Viserys the Peaceful drew his last breath.

As dawn approached, the realm awaited the news of a new leader who would step forward to succeed the late monarch. The corridors, once traversed by Y/N in anticipation, now held the echoes of transition and the uncertainty that accompanied the changing tides of leadership within House Targaryen.

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A/N: This one is slightly longer, but I couldn't help but give Alicent and her kids the husband and father they deserved. We all could agree that Viserys absolutely sucked in these roles. Thank you for all the support and it would mean the world to me if you checked out my other works ♡

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[wackyharpy]

Just have an urge to point out:

Since the moment of the trailers' release, I've already met people who are arguing and humiliating others who don't like the characters they do, or who aren't at the side of the team they like. I understand that you may tend to be more at the side of team black or green, but let's not forget that this is a show, and the characters are fictional. Any person can have fav characters, whoever they like and that's incredible, that's what the show is created for. So, please, you may cheer and support anyone, but don't forget to be respectful and mind others' business. Eventually, I don't think we should be divided, we are all the fans of the same show, we are all united here by one story. So, let's enjoy this adventure together.

Thank you for your attention

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