🦉

Whispers follow you as you wander around, sidestepping a servant just in time as she rushes past you. The sound of the servants running around the keep has been a constant one since your impromptu visit to King’s Landing.

You suppose it is to be expected — Now is not exactly an ideal time to visit, considering the ongoing succession crisis. Still, who would you be if not extra?

There is an awkward clear of a throat behind you. You turn to see a servant. “My lady,” he bows his head in acknowledgement. “Welcome.”

You give the boy a polite smile. “Thank you. Will you take me to the Lord Hand?” You ask. The boy looks from side to side, as if willing for someone or something to come save him at this moment, swallowing audibly before he nods.

He takes you to the never-ending spiral of the Tower of the Hand. You are mildly out of breath the moment you reach the double doors of the Hand’s chambers. “My lady,” The servant excuses himself, scurrying off to gods knows where. The Raven’s Teeth stationed by the entrance nod in acknowledgement, granting you entry.

The heavy doors creak with your entry, slamming shut behind you with a heavy thud. “Good day,” you greet, making yourself known. Not that it is necessary, he always knows it is you.

Brynden has his back turned towards you. He is busy at something, you find. No matter, you will just make yourself at home. You take a seat across from his desk, making do with what you are offered.

You stare at him from where you’re seated. He is wiping down his blade, erasing the guts, or evidence, of Aenys Blackfyre’s demise.

He is handsome, you think. Even in his older years, you think that roughness has its own charm. Your visit to King’s Landing was meant as an attempt to surprise him, but he’s never once been surprised in his life, probably. Well, it’s nothing you haven’t done before.

“You are staring.” He says, and you jump at the sudden sound in the comforting silence. You clear your throat, leaning your chin on your fist. “I am.” You reply, with full confidence.

“Is there something of interest on my person?” He asks dryly, sheathing the sword. Throwing the blood and gunk stained cloth aside haphazardly, he turns to look at you. You continue admiring him shamelessly.

His eyebrows are stuck in a permanent furrow, and there are a pretty pair of crows feet around his eyes. His forehead creases every time his expression shifts, and you find it quite endearing.

You stand, the chair screeching against the stone as you approach him. There is subtle amusement in his singular eye — amusement at your audacity, perhaps. “Are you not just overjoyed to see me?”

Brynden huffs a dry laugh. You smile in return, a rather cheeky one at that. “Have you always been so audacious?” He quips. He can be so stuck-up sometimes, but you like him best when he entertains your antics. “I can hardly remember you acting like this when you were but a girl child.”

You tilt your head to the side in faux thought, mimicking one of his minute, few and far between habits. “Hmm, perhaps your mind fails you, old man. I’ve not been a girl in a long while, my Lord.”

“I am not so old, you bold girl.” He flicks your forehead, pulling a string of protests from you as you hold your forehead. “Haven’t you?” He questions, arching a polished brow. You grin, letting your hands fall as you sway from side to side. “No, my Lord. Far from. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

You don’t allow him the luxury of an answer, your sly fingers toying with the laces of his doublet as you tip-toe to reach him, your lips pressing flush against his.

He expects it, of course. He tastes of what he must’ve had for breakfast earlier and an undertone of spiced wine. One hand finds the small of your back to balance your weight, already predicting your clumsy trip on your own feet. Your clumsiness leads to you breaking the kiss, a lewd string of saliva connecting your mouths.

“I don’t recall educating you on such things, either.” He quips, his free hand cupping your face, calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone. You give him your prettiest, most innocent smile “I did learn eventually, from the best, of course.”

Brynden snorts. “Cheeky girl.” He leans down to capture your lips again, your tongues falling into a natural rhythm.

The only noise that breaks the silence in his solar is the lewd exchange of spit and tongue between the both of you. You’ve since been seated on the desk, your palm sliding over the obvious tent in his breeches. You fingers toy idly with the laces, a mere implication of what’s to come.

His hand catches your wrist just as he allows you to breathe, for once. You are both panting, though him, not as much. “Quite the sticky pair of hands on you, hmm?” He arches a brow, bringing your knuckles level with his mouth. He presses a slow trail of raspberries over your knuckles, lips still slick from a mixture of your shared saliva.

You open your mouth to retort, but your neck is quickly attacked by his own lips, making you squeal instead. “I— Hmmmfgh !” He noses along the jut of your jawline, inhaling your scent. He seems to enjoy it, while you are anything but.

“Seven hells, you reek of blood and guts. Would it hurt you so much as to change?” Your nose scrunches up, blinking down at him when he props his chin up to look at you. “That is to be expected after beheading a person.” He answers in a deadpan manner. “You did not exactly give me the time to do so when you barged in, little one.”

You roll your eyes, your hands cupping his face. “You are infuriating,” You tell him. “So I’ve heard.” He quips. “Quiet.” You effectively silence him with another all-consuming and smoldering kiss.

His hands bunch your skirts up, exposing the smooth skin beneath. He is ravenous with you, savouring the feeling of your skin beneath his touch.

Your eyes scan the solar when he frees himself of your kisses, laser-focused on undressing you. There are a few crows or two resting on their perches, staring right at the both of you.

“Are the birds a willing audience?” You question out loud. They are all observing you silently, seemingly interested in you. Brynden answers without looking up. “Indeed. You are a work of art, little one. It is only fair to admire you at all angles.”

You scoff, hiding your smile as your cheeks begin to redden. “How romantic. I must say, the most romantic thing you could do is take me to your bed, my Lord.” You twirl a rogue strand of his pale hair between your fingers.

He fixes you with a mere glance. “Greed is below you, my dear.”

A shuddering breath leaves you as he lifts your chemise along with your skirts. He knocks your legs apart, exposing you to the cool air. You shiver, seizing up when the ice-cold tips of his fingers trace the outline of your labia. Your hips keen up into his palm, but he deprives you of his touch just as quickly as he had given it to you.

“Hurry,” you huff, reaching for the laces of his breeches. He tuts at you, shaking his head. “Patience, little one.”

He allows you to loosen the fabric anyway, exposing his cock. It springs out with vigour, pale, thin and long, curving to the left ever so slightly. The engorged tip is the same shade of crimson as his eye. By the Seven, you cannot wait to have that inside of you. You grasp the monstrous thing, twisting your wrist as it bobs to life.

That is it, and you cannot wait any longer. You shift on the desk, your legs dangling off the edge as you guide the tip towards your drooling cunt. You gasp in unison the moment he slides all the way home, your free hand clutching at his doublet for life.

He rocks his hips against yours, pulling a strained noise from the depths of your throat. You rest your forehead against his, barely able to keep eye contact with him. It must be something he gets off on, you think. You are not surprised — that is his gimmick, after all.

One hand holds your leg up against his waist, the angle making you see the starry night behind your eyelids. Only the lewd noises of your eloping and your sweet, soft moans echo aloud in the silence of his solar.

You desperately capture his lips again, drool sliding down your chin as your tongue laps at his mouth. Each nudge at your sweet spot has you squealing, almost embarrassingly so. Your toes curl at how deep he is inside of you, to the point that you feel him bullying at your cervix when his pelvis is all the way flush against yours.

He shifts your position, bringing you closer to the edge in both ways. Your eyes roll back at this new angle, his cock reaching places inside of you that you don’t think have even been documented before.

He has taken quite a liking to nosing at your jaw, inhaling your scent like a madman. He peppers specks of blue and purple across your collarbones, the subtle delicious ache of the blooming bruises adding onto your pleasure.

Each time his hips are flush against yours do you feel so full. You can’t even breathe — all you can smell, see and feel is him. It is morbidly romantic, you think. That is the kind of romance you are into.

“W-wait,” you gasp, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. You tighten up around him, a plethora of noises falling from your slack jaw. “I— I, I’mgoing’t’come,” you ramble on, gasping out loud when his calloused thumb finds your clit. He makes a sound in approval.

Your hips keen against his, meeting him halfway as you chase your high. Tears are beading at your lash line, threatening to fall and add further beauty to your already gorgeous visage.

Your orgasm pulls a loud, squeamish noise from your throat as you come, seizing up completely. Brynden fucks you through it, a white ring of cream appearing at the base of his cock. Pale tufts of hair dusted across his pelvis have been soaked completely in your juices, in which you honestly cannot bring yourself to be embarrassed off.

Your body slackens when you are finished riding your high. You do not have anything else left within you to remain upright, so you resign to letting yourself be used as a whore would be.

Brynden follows along with you not long after. His orgasm pulls a throaty groan from him, his hips stilling against you as he spills his seed inside of you. You are both panting like hounds, and a satisfying ache settles within your thighs.

He pulls out of you with a lewd pop, silently tucking himself back into his breeches. You give him a look, and he returns it. “I am not as young as I used to be, little one.” Is all he gives you before he steps away momentarily to do gods knows what, leaving you seated on the desk as you catch your breath. That might as well be the best sex you’ve had in your entire life.

Brynden returns with a cloth in hand, leaning down with a grunt and a few pops of his knees as he cleans off the excess fluids around your legs, including his seed that was already leaking out and staining your skin and the desk.

He rises with a breath, discarding the soiled cloth. He gracefully closes your legs and flips your chemise down, followed by your skirts. It’s like nothing ever happened, aside from your would-be wobbly stance.

“Go relieve yourself before you leave,” he tells you. Just as you are about to answer, you are interrupted by the entry of a Raven’s Teeth. Why is it that you are always interrupted?

“My Lord, there has be—“ He splutters on his sentence when he receives a good look at the both of you. Judging by your disheveled look, the obvious barrage of blue and purple around your neck and collarbone and the unmistakable stench of sex in the air, the poor knight rightfully excuses himself. “My apologies, my Lord.”

You and Brynden share a look. Well, that was not the brightest idea ever.