targaryen!hollis x fem!reader
set in the universe of A Knight Of The Seven
EVERY TIME A TARGARYEN IS
BORN, THE GODS TOSS A COIN
DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOOD FOR
MIMICKING ME IS A FUCKING BORE
IN MY DIAMONDS AND PEARLS.”
- ‘FUCKED MY WAY TO THE TOP’ , LANA DEL REY.
The youngest line of Targaryen Princelings had arrived in Ashford just as the sky had began to turn a milky lilac, signalling the plunge of the sun - and the rise of the moon, the last before the morrow’s joust.
The majority of them, for the most part.
Daeron (drunken, and considerably late, but still present), Aemon, Aegon, and-
“Where the fuck are The Twins?” Daeron uttered, stumbling across the cobblestones of Ashford’s square, intoxicated and disgruntled.
“I’m fucking late by hours, and they still haven’t shown their faces? Surely they must be the least-favourites now, Father - what a lousy impression.”
Daeron continued to jest and ramble, a wobble in his step that made the kings’ guard lurch forward, anticipating that whenever the drunken Targaryen swayed a little too sharply left, he’d topple over.
Prince Maekar winced at the sight of his eldest, dismissing his behaviour and signalling with a wrist-flick to the guardsmen to haul the murmuring, rambunctious princeling to his temporary chambers within the castle.
He then turned to Baelor, a curl to his lip - his tone was levelled, but pointed - a father who had dealt with the unruliness of his spawn aplenty, and who had yet to control it.
“I must locate my sons.” He grits, yet somehow maintaining his curt expression, “It seems they have gone awry along the way. Again.”
Baelor snorts, leaning in to level to his younger brothers’ ear.
“Check the local whorehouses.” He chuckles at his brothers’ dilemma, “-Thy sons be cursed with fleshly desires, brother - for they are only two and zero.”
Maekar sneers, before beckoning the reigns of his palfrey be handed back to him - pardoning himself as he remounts the horse, internally promising himself to clout both of his sons’ round their proud ears for this diminishing first impression towards the Ashfords.
You ignore the first call of your name, for you had just lined your Cupid’s bow intricately in deep red lacquer, and you were determined to apply the same precision to the bottom.
“Locket!” Another shrill beckoning, to which the rise in shrillness and urgency makes you flinch - a blur of red now across your chin like a dribbling rivulet of flesh blood.
You looked like you’d been pelted in the teeth.
For the sun had not fully set yet; the sky only just beginning to turn from a dusty pale lavender into a deep, velvety bruising of deep purple - it was not nightfall. Your shift had not yet started, so why were you being called for?
“Gods, Marge! You’ve corrupted my visage!” You whine, now frantically trying to scrub the staining lacquer off of your chin, to no avail.
“- I look like a drunken crone most foully!”
Marge - The Bawd; brothel keeper alongside her husband - the bastards that took sixty percent of your earnings and fed you stale bread and corked wine, but happened to be the only brothel owners in miles - burst in, all flouncing skirts and greying hair curled into ringlets like sausages.
Her eyes crinkled deeper at your bewildered expression towards her flurrying urgency - for the business wasn’t to resume for the evening for at least half the hour.
“You have not heard?” She gawked, swiftly licking a finger - similarly to how a toad would dart out its lengthly tongue to swat a swamp fly - and pinching your stained chin between her fingers.
“The Dragon Princelings,” she began, roughly rubbing with her saliva-dampened, calloused pad of her thumb at the stubborn lacquer remnants on your skin, “They’re in Ashford.”
“Targaryens? In Ashford?” You chuckle, amidst trying to shimmy away from the Bawd’s grasp, “What business do they have here? Drought of cider, maybe?”
“The Jousting, silly girl!” Margie reprimanded, managing to somewhat scrub off the cosmetic stain from your flesh, and the contact felt as if she were near searing your skin off.
Pleased with her work against your face, she stepped away from you, now squirming at your vanity, clasping her clammy, aged hands over her skirts.
You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, tickled by this newfound realisation.
“The Targaryen princes dabble in the whorehouses of Ashford?” You grin, resuming your application, “Who would’ve thought. I deemed that family to be full of vice - disdainful toward women that aren’t their sisters, cousins, or daughters of lords.”
A stinging clip to the shell of your ear elicits a sudden whelp from you, a warm ache pulsating there. You pivot, glaring.
“Hush! You darest speak treason within these vaults? Fie upon it, they may overhear!” Margie fumed, plump cheeks swollen with fury at your apparent blasphemy.
“Your foul words be treason most dire.”
You bite your tongue, jumping muscles clenched between teeth as you bit back your petty venom, for Margie was right - it was definite suicide, speaking the way you were now knowing that descendants of Dragons were in your vicinity.
You slowly turn away again - fingers dipping into another cosmetic ointment, lavender elixir that softened the flesh of your face.
You ignored the gentle burning sensation that you’d grown familiar to, as the subtle blush it elicited upon your cheeks was the desired look.
“They beseech fair maidens. ‘Tis early, yet you must tend to them.” The Bawd continued, now pressed to your back, fingers raking roughly through your auburn curls, knotting them - to which you try to lean away.
“I shall attend unto them when I be in a state for it.” You respond cooly now, undoing her damage to your hair by patting it down.
“Hear me now. You shall not keep them waiting - depart.”
She orders, and you scowl - raising from your vanity stool, rickety Oakwood legs scraping against splintering floors.
Margie follows you out of the room and towards one of the private, curtained-off lounge areas - a hand resting on your exposed slope between your neck and shoulder.
“Verily. They shall mint for us coins of great weight!” She excites, eager for the weight of aplenty royal currency to weigh her dirty pockets down.
“I am told one of the Twins hath a peculiar fondness for maidens of fair complexion and tresses of flame.”
“- I shall grant him most righteous satisfaction, then.” You deadpan, descending the stairs - swallowing the bile that rose upon hearing of the Dragon Princelings’ combined reputations, and how you were to be their pliant fantasy for the night.
“Your Graces,” Margie announced once you’d reached the landing, you on her arm like some sort of impressive cattle to auction, “- One of my finest girls.”
Against the plain plastered walls of the brothel, the Twins were almost fluorescent, expecting.
Stark against the dreary wooden beams and the unadorned stone, they were like some seraphic premonition - fine, leather-sheathed, platinum-haired fallen angels, with demeanours that deceived, and undeniable features that deceived even further.
It were like you’d been struck fatally around the skull - been stroked by death momentarily and visited by heaven’s prophets - and in a suffocating haze, you saw doubles of a beautiful creature, so striking in appearance they could easily pass as being sculpted by the gods firsthand.
Their main difference that kept you firmly grounded that you were not hallucinating seemingly impossible beauty in a double of a young man being the drastic lengths of their hair.
Immediately upon bestowing their sight upon you, one, of a slighter height and of shorter hair upon observation, lightly elbowed the other in the ribs through their dark dressing.
Followed by a velvety murmur of something along the lines of,
A sharp nudge in your own side snapped you back to reality from your absorbing trance - from Margie, who was silently urging you to address the two Princes of the Blood properly.
You curtsy, and internally curse at yourself at the slight tremor in your form.
“Your Graces.” You greet, eyes adhered to the ground, as the thought of meeting theirs nauseated you - the jesting confidence you’d flaunted so proudly earlier as you snickered at their mention had dissipated. You may as well be a ruddy puddle at their boots now.
On the right was Aerion Targaryen. Appearing slim, but you knew not to be deceived by this - you’d heard of his combatting skills, the aggression in his hands.
Average height, but nonetheless stunning. Cropped short was his hair, spun like glass that was almost an iridescent silver, like liquid moonlight, or liquidised coin.
It were styled like scales, tufts styled in little outlets that stuck out slightly, like bristling dragon scales. How fitting.
His eyes were of a dark violet, like those of the tart berries you’d find deep in the forest, tangled amongst thorns. Set in silken, pale unblemished skin like freshly-set snow.
His face was sculpted and imperious - a high brow, defined cheekbones, and a straight nose.
Contrary to the rumours that circulated the man’s’ flamboyant sense of fashion, he seemed to have toned himself down - to keep his lustful endeavours more subtle, unseen in the night.
He were dressed in a shrouding black cloak, lined with what appeared to be a deep red satin lining, long dragging sleeves, clasped with silver joiners, in the shape of claws.
His Twin, to the left - the one who Aerion had nudged for his alleged, assumed fondness toward wenches of your appearance, was Hollis.
He appeared equally as Targaryen, as beautiful - but his name was unlike. You could’ve questioned it, but that thought was of no value to you, and could cost you your tongue.
He was taller, but built similarly. Slender, yet you knew he was of to be of similar temperament and physical strength of his boisterous counterpart. Not to be underestimated, as if Targaryens were ever to be.
His eyes were of paler violet, though - similar to the milky, dewy lavender skies during a newborn sundown. Like rows of tender, delicate violets from the most fertile soil.
Crystalline locks that were almost a trademark to their name, unlike his brothers, were lengthly; draped across his chest - pin-straight, obviously styled, the front, face-framing strands appearing to be braided back, emphasising his features in the candlelight.
He appeared far more androgynous than his twin in that way, a regal elegance to him that was softer when side-by-side to his prickly brother.
The more you gaped like some entranced commoner, you discovered more and more slight differences between the two.
An aquiline nose he had, compared to Aerion’s button-esque, straight one, yet their defined high-set cheekbones were the same.
Skin of ivory perfection, like a chiselled slab of marble that you swore, like most of their attributes, captured and absorbed any near light source, an ethereal glow to them that you were sure made yourself appear blemished and dull.
A fae look he held himself, to which Aerion’s constrained - he were more like a dragon, of course. You’d heard he believed he thought were one stuck in a humanoid form.
His attire consisted of the same cloak, except his lining was a silken onyx, like beneath his clothing were a stolen fraction of a shimmering, summer-nights sky - clasped by gold, instead of his brothers’ silver adornments.
A little more humble compared to Aerion’s adornment choices, if that were even possible for a Targaryen to achieve - maybe an insulting term, but it were true.
The following interactions were swift; transactional.
The sound of jingling, aplenty coin being tossed into the hands of one of the brothel owners beside you, and a jolt to your spine as you are ushered toward the paying brother, who’d staked his claim on you for the evening.
“Locket, see The Prince to the chambers.”
And so you did, still avoiding either of their watchful gazes as you bowed, heart beating in your throat like some hunted hare - pupils dilating with a concoction of newfound fear, and adrenaline at what was to come.
You’d entertained drunken bastards, low-lords, snaking husbands and the odd traveller that was easy on the eye, but never a Prince - and you could feel the scrutinising glares of your Bawds’ expectations weighing heavily on your shoulders.
Upon your ascent back up the stairs to your designated quarters, The Prince was following after immediately - he kept his distance, at least five steps behind you, but his presence was hefty, and you felt as if you were to trip and tumble with every step upwards.
You hadn’t dare peer over your shoulder.
“Have fun, brother.” You heard Aerion whistle at the bottom of the stairs playfully, “Play nice. Gods know I shall not.”
There was no response, and you were unsure whether that was to be of further concern, or not.
Your chambers were large, and plainly common. Devoid of any luxurious decoration or any shred of personality, solely meant to contain only one thing - the most extravagant aspect being the guaranteed clean bed linens.
The door groaned closed behind the two of you - followed by the grating clunk of the metal latch being closed, sealing your fate with the Dragon’s spawn, confined like cornered prey between four bland walls.
A singular candle on the windowsill illuminated the room, thin canopy curtains rippling gently in the nighttime breeze through the barely-open window.
He spoke first, which had shocked you initially - usually, these transactions are wordless. Straightforward. Verbal foreplay is rare, and had unnecessary sentiment - usually, you’d be thrown onto the bed by now, and put to work by man’s overwhelming greed.
“Locket? That is your name?”
His voice were of low octave, slightly mocking - you were not of enough significance to be taken seriously, obviously.
You slowly turn now, arms curling behind yourself to begin to loosen the ribbons of your dress, saving time.
You nod timidly, and it took almost all of your composure and willpower to hold his eye - irises like bouquets of fresh lavender, like the ointment you’d massaged into your flesh earlier, minus the delicate connotations associated with the flower - for Targaryens were anything but.
His lips parted, as if he were to ask Why, for he had that jurisdiction - the privilege, the ability to question, tracing you.
His curiosity was satiated when his eyes settled on your breastbone - the silver pendant that rested there between your shoulder blades, on a thin chain. Locket.
Instinctively, your hand raised, fingers cupping and curling over the warmed metal resting against your flesh as if it were your only way to defend yourself - for it felt as if he were reading past the metal jewellery, and straight into your soul.
You cleared your throat. He hadn’t followed with anything else, just watched - like he were playing with his food, or figuring out how to prepare it.
The candle flickered and sputtered, casting dancing shadows across the expanse of the room, amber lowlight licking at his features, haloing you as you had your back to it.
“What service may I render thee, my Grace?”
You speak wearily, trying to stick to your script. You’d done this a thousand times before with men of similar intimidation - of denser frame and muscle, but the breed of blood than ran through his veins and bled through his features diseased you with an untameable shiver.
His brow heavies, for a moment - creasing his pale skin, and even the thoughtful contortion of his features did not detract from his effervescent, celestial beauty.
And then, it had began to play out just as any other night of work. It were back on its rails, and you felt as if you had recovered some sense of direction in the situation.
“Get on the bed, onto your back.”
Letting go of your protective hold upon your necklace where you’d harvested your whoring alias and resuming to remove your articles of clothing as you approached the bed.
Until, the ribbon had bunched and tangled mid-removal - and you faltered, your fingers now desperately trying to untangle the material, growing more panicked by the second.
The Prince watched, deft fingers working at the clasps of his cloak - you reprimanded yourself for not offering to take it from him the second he’d stepped through the door, but he didn’t seem bothered.
He hadn’t even glanced down at the material to make sure his fingers were in the right direction to unclasp each glinting golden adornment.
For he was undoing them with such ease, such blasé that reinstated your confidence in the fact that the Targaryen Twins most definitely dabbled in lustful misdemeanours late at night as plenty as the rumours they had carried across the villages.
The exorbitantly-calibered fabric fell around him with a hefty clunk, most likely the metal clasps colliding with the hardwood floor - in the stillness of the air, you jumped at the sudden noise.
He stepped over the pool of dense, rippling fabric that you were sure cost the equivalent of your yearly coin intake like it were a pile of horseshit - heavy boot against wood, slow, methodical. Towards you.
You let him impede towards you with an almost alarming lack of urgency, like he were amused by the fact that each step he took closer, your demeanour fractured - like a trembling skeletal leaf in a bitter winter wind.
He is mere inches from you now, when he motions with a dismissive nod for you to turn, your back facing him.
Based off of what you’d heard, if he were anything of similar nature to his twin, this would be where he were to probably impale you with some dagger - indulge in some masochistic urge the bloodline seemed to carry like it were some amusing accessory, wreaking carnage.
“You are trembling.” He observed, a decorated smugness to his tone, like it were something he were used to experiencing in his wake, amused at your unease, “Does a chill seize you?”
He jests, and suddenly a gentle tug jolts you backwards, almost stumbling backwards into his chest - he is undoing your dresses, untangling your messes for you, presumably with the same ease as he did his own cloak.
Amidst doing so, he lowers his lips to your ear.
“- Or are you wracked by fear?”
Your own lips part to defend yourself, to conjure an excuse to your cowardice when you were being paid to offer a professional service.
It was then where you feel him place a kiss behind your ear - taunting, chaste.
He follows by slotting a hand around the nape of your neck, lifting it to guide your coiled auburn hair away from its obstruction over the back of your corset, letting it fall over your shoulder.
“Do you tremble at the thought of what I might do to you?” He queries, although he already knows the answer.
He lulls the searing jolt of adrenaline mixed with the deep-set dread within you that his provoking rhetorical questions evoked from you by licking at the same stripe of skin he’d kissed prior, skin now fully exposed there after tidying your hair away to the other shoulder.
You were practically vibrating at the expense of his words beneath his tongue, to which he laughs - short, and expectant.
Like this were a sadistic ritual he partook in to fill the void of boredom that came with being a waiting heir, with plenty of time to waste.
Another pretty thing disintegrating in the crosshairs of royalty built upon unmistakeable beauty and unrelenting cruelty, unravelling.
And he, like the rest of his predecessors, revelled in your unravelling - wrapping the fibres of you around his fingers like some pliant thread to weave into an intricate tapestry - a consequence of power and influence that bought him a level of gratification that left him lightheaded, similar to being on the battlefield.
He were to experience this with the jousting tournament on the morrow, and he were to experience it with you, right now, until he deemed himself satisfied - and you, spent.
He withdrew, continuing to unlace you - painfully slow, deliberately dragged out - like he were watching a dove flapping frantically within the confines of a cage, and he had the power to release you, and was in no hurry.
“I am not like my brother.” He attempts to reassure, although the statement is still somewhat ominous, “I seek no gratification through grievous harm like he.”
The sound of delicate ribbon slinking and whipping through eyelets in its undoing, of fingers brushing against satin, bumping against the structural boning.
“- Nor do I desire to leave you in dread, or bereft of spirit.”
With this, your dress corset loosens and gapes loosely around your torso, to where he uncases it from around you - letting it drop to the floor, your skirts now loose also, draping low on your hips - begging to be drawn down also.
You deliberately wore little undergarments - as in your line of work, they were considered inconvenient, time-wasting obstacles that obstructed paying customers from what they wanted. Time wasters.
So you were bare before him now, as your thin linen underdress had slipped off of your shoulders and been gently tugged away with your corset.
His fingers dip, tracing the groove of your spine that ended between the dimples of your lower back.
“Yet, if you’d grant me leave..”
He continued silkily, hands raising to rest on either of your collarbones - lightly massaging, rolling slowly back and forth, rolling faint bone beneath flesh against his palm like he were tenderising you for his usage - running them slowly along the slopes of your shoulders, and settling each hand to cup your glenohumural joints.
You’d anticipated his sentence, heart like a jackhammer beneath your skin - but the close never followed.
Maybe he’d decided it be more amusing to keep you in the dark regarding his intentions - to keep you oblivious and trembling at his expense.
You face him now, cheeks flushed, lashes heavy as you still evade his gaze - tend to his watchful violets, and through a dry throat, you utter;
“- You say you are not cruel..” You begin, and your eyes are immediately forced to meet his own as you follow your wrist that was now victim to his grasp.
He raised it to his lips like it were some bountiful chalice of fine wine, licking at the pulse point there as if he were finding the most lewd, obscene ways to study your heart rate.
The gently sucks at the fragile skin there, tongue tracing the rivets where veins pulsated beneath the film of flesh - and you go lightheaded, a small gasp leaping from you.
“… But I have heard of the shamefalle deeds you and your brother have committed in saundry realms.”
The licking suction then turns into a testing, soft scraping bite of teeth snagging against skin - dull nipping as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.
“Have you now?” Hollis chuckles darkly, “- How do these “deeds” pertain unto my manner of behaving towards women in their privy chambers?”
You break away from him; for a second, forgetting that he is a prince - of royalty, where everything and everyone is expected to break and bend under his will if it was what he wanted.
But it was too late, you’d already withdrawn - instead, you use your brief escape as a way to make over to the bed, pulling down the remainder of your clothes - now entirely bare.
“The ferocity does not solely reside in thy outward acts and pastimes, my Prince.” In an attempt to save face, you purr the last part - in the same way that would make any man paying for your services melt, “ ‘Tis in thine very blood.”
You follow his initial orders now, easing yourself down onto the mattress - stale linen rough against your skin as you shimmy upwards, exposed and on your back.
You sit up on your forearms when you reach your desired position, and slowly - just as he were moving, you parted your legs for him, as he stood at the foot of the bed.
He looks now as if he were a starved man after a pilgrimage with the duration of many relentless moons at the sight of a banquet the size of a kings’ celebratory feast.
“You speak with such assurance of my temperament as if you are acquainted with my ancestors; not rumours.”
The sound of boots being unlaced, and thudding against the floor. Then, you watch as his fingers - while he is still un-looking, pull his over shirt, then his chemise off of his torso - discarding them.
He circled the bed now, settling at the side of the mattress - a dexterous hand now hooking over your knee, caressing the skin of your inner thigh.
He looked shirtless how you’d expected - lean, polished flesh that rippled with aplenty muscle, a fine dusting of white-blonde hair that looked like shredded glass sprinkled atop powder-white complexion.
Whenever the candlelight caught him, it was like his body refracted the light - shimmering the way morning dew would off of the smooth, waxy leaves of wildflowers in the nearby meadows.
Most of his torso was concealed to you as of right now, though - as his trailing hair cut off just past his ribs, cascading snowdrifts of braids and - with the damp air of the ran-down brothel, gradual waves, not so pin-straight and maintained as it were styled to be before.
As he craned over you, his platinum locks - with their waves, now reminding you of the gushing lake whenever it would freeze over and glaciate in the harsh Ashford winters - brushed against your bare thighs, tickling the skin.
Absentmindedly, he tucked the escaping braids that had loosened from the gathering at the back of his hair behind his ears - a gesture he surely did a thousand times a day as his hairstyle wore away with daily wear, but that made you entrap your bottom lip between your teeth.
It was cruel of the Gods to manufacture generational vessels of evil and make its casings so sickeningly-pretty.
Maybe as an apology, to ease the impact of the carnage they wreak upon the people - to justify their rotten cores, sweeten their corruption.
Or, maybe it was to further mock you, and everyone else.
Maybe these people truly were given the upper hand undeservingly, and their desire to take and take and take and rarely provide had somehow earned them the rights to look the way they did, too - why not let them obtain every form of power, including that of ultimate beauty?
For you could only imagine being crumpled at the hands of a Targaryen, and having their faces be the last image of reality looming over you before you die - a blessing to bestow firsthand, but a burning curse that’d haunt you in the afterlife, knowing you died at the hands of the house that had everything, and still did whatever they could to obtain more.
“You did quake with fear on my account,” He recalls, chin now resting upon your knee, hand roaming closer towards your core, “- And now, you are suddenly.. bolder and more profane.”
You hum at the sensation of his advances, watching his hands pinch and scrape and caress your flesh, tendering to an inclining intensity as he travelled further.
“- Mayhap this does dwell within your blood too, as my.. “cruelty” does?”
He speaks coherent, confident sentences, although his expression is distant now - distracted, eyes transfixed between your legs as he peers over.
Even a somewhat-human, Targaryen Prince is easily susceptible to lust - just as you, and any other common-man is.
That is something, that in this moment, certified his humanity, and in a twisted way, comforted you. For now, he had the same raw, informal urge eclipsing his eyes as any man did when he were paying to be between your legs.
He was still in his braies and chausses, you’d noticed.
“Shall we see if we can taste it?” He invites, and before you can respond, he’s already between your legs now - silver-white locks stark, pearly against even the clean, fresh bed linens, in silken pools like spilling, honeyed milk.
You yelped, as he’d yanked you down to the edge of the bed - he’d somehow settled at the foot of it, knees on the hardwood floor, unbothered - arms hooked behind your calves like he were reigning in a rowdy animal.
Lips latch to your inner thigh - and he bites.
It feels like punishment for your words, each inclining nip a little firmer and sharper than the last - canines puncturing skin, and you wonder if the Targaryens have some special set of teeth as yet another semblance to the Dragon they spend their existence priding themselves to.
Maybe, if he took your breathy snipes to heart as his hot-headed brother surely would, you’d find yourself strung up and hung on the morrow before the jousting even were to begin.
“What temerity do you harbour in your veins.. that has you speaking like this to a Dragon Prince?” He whispers, “Does valour weigh heavy in your blood, as malice does mine?”
At the immense attention to your ever-growing sensitive area close to your core, your back cranes upward, and you reach for anchor - which, when your body decides that clawing at the mattress isn’t enough, you grasp at his hair.
And Gods, he fucking groans.
Long and gravelly, his strokes on your skin immediately slowing, mellowing - you’d satiated the Dragon princeling working between your legs momentarily, stunning it briefly with the incapacitation of fuelled touch.
Who knew Targaryens liked hair-pulling? Bratty - actually, very in character.
You came to at the sound, immediately raising your hand as if to withdraw and profusely apologise - maybe even plead for forgiveness to keep your head, to promise to never touch the assets of something, someone you are so direly inferior to that an unwarranted touch could be an act of high treason in itself.
But, it spurred him on, instead of offending him - as this seemed to jolt him into action properly, mouth now working on your core.
Between laps of you - one hand firmly on your thigh, keeping your legs parted for his insertion, the other grasping for your hand that wasn’t in his hair,
He secures your hand in his own, bringing it down to his mouth, the motion alone single-handedly straightening you out, forcing you to sit up so it could reach his mouth that sat low between your legs.
“You said you didn’t want to cause me harm..” You gasp out, fingers curling into his hair, braids wrapped around your fingers like the finest, softest rope confining you to him, “yet you speak of bloodshed.”
“I ask to sample thy most rightful blood,” He defends innocently, and his words muffle and vibrate through you between laps of his tongue, “- Thou may deny me, though.”
Who are you to deny a Targaryen? His sex-drunken words must be some sort of trap, and maybe your severed limbs were this goal from the start.
You let out a damning whine at the sensation of him latched onto you - tongue working almost as intricately and with direct intention as their fiery attitudes and quick wit.
Hollis took your lack of retort as a need to proceed, briefly detaching himself from you to lick at your fingers.
You should’ve anticipated that the Targaryen Princelings would be skilled with their sharp tongues - you’d seen them, pouty and spitting venom at past jousts you’d been touring around to pleasure the attendees.
Dragons are described as to have long, forked tongues designed to “taste” the air, hiss menacingly, and channel their fire.
- And it sure felt as if that is another reptilian attribute Hollis Targaryen possessed.
Taking your middle and pointer fingers into his mouth, slickened by you - he lapped at them, tongue twisting between the two digits, teeth snagging every now and then.
His other hand had snaked from around your calf to work on your core in the others’ absence, even slightly inserting the tip inside of you, to which you cried out, even at the minimal feeling.
Too distracted now by his fingers coaxing slowly into you, you were unsuspecting - until a sharp pain pierced through the tip of your own finger, similar to when you’d accidentally impale yourself with an embroidery needle.
He’d impaled your fingertip within his mouth with his canine - you wouldn’t be surprised if he were also bearing impeccably sharp, curved, blade-like teeth for tearing flesh as their reptilian counterparts had.
He said he did not mean to cause grievous harm, but he never denied not being cruel.
Either way, you valued your tongue, and you did not protest when aggression eventually had made its way into the chamber.
You’d suspected it, and he had fulfilled - you just would’ve assumed he’d taken to you with a dagger, rather than his teeth.
But Targaryens are animalistic, and you should’ve known.
Play nice, brother. Gods know I won’t.
Aerion’s warning rattled off the walls of your skull as you welcomed the burning, dulling pain in your fingers, that his circling tongue was easing - dare you say, like an apology, though you knew that was unlike.
You wondered which one of the poor whores had landed herself with the arguably more-madden twinned prince a few rooms down - what horrors he were unleashing onto her.
Maybe, you were grateful that this was the extent of the violence for now - that he wasn’t pushy, and that you were enjoying it.
His mouth released your fingers with an explicit, wet sound - and as anticipated, a small crimson bead had angrily headed the afflicted tip of your finger.
Pleased with his work, Hollis lowered your own, now bleeding hand to your heat.
“Touch yourself, dove.” He purred now, and you did - circling your most sensitive area with the exact finger he’d mildly mutilated, smearing your gore all over yourself, for his pleasure.
“Hollis..” You whined, attempting to keep up with the pace he was pleasuring you with - hips stuttering, you hadn’t even computed you’d referred to the Princeling as his first name.
Comedically on queue, outside of Hollis’ pleased noises and your own moans, you’d heard a muffled “Aerion!” From down the hall.
Even during bedding, the twins seemed to compete.
His princely impatience was evident now, as he’d grown tired of merely watching you smear your blood all over yourself - swatting your hands away and out of his way so he could taste this new mixture of your slick and your gore himself.
Fingers now hooking inside you, he lowered himself to taste.
“Fuck,” He breathes out, drinking you and your bleeding fluids in like it were the heaviest liquor, the sweetest cider after a parching summers’ day, “You’re sweet, so fucking sweet.”
Your fist was still full of his soft, ribboning silver mane - woven around your fingers, keeping it from draping over and into his face.
The first, and definitely last time you were to ever touch the hair of a Targaryen. A privilege that only a scarce amount of people were ever able to boast, all while keeping all of their dignity and limbs.
You were sure to finish soon, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Feeling you clench around his digits desperately, back arching, tugs at his hair becoming more erratic, he stopped.
Standing, he raised from the edge of the bed, stepping onto the mattress to kneel over you.
The Targaryens loved trophies. Whether it were in battle from conquest, or in the bedroom - they wanted to take their ruin in, indulge in their damage.
You, disappointed at the loss, were basically squirming beneath him like a dove clipped of its wings - eyes screwed shut, chest hollowing, your body tremors with pending release.
Your fiery auburn locks were splayed beneath you now, coiling inferno nesting your pretty head - stuck out in all directions like a blur of flame, skin hot to the touch.
This was why he loved red hair. Anything resembling fire, he adored - especially if it involved a fair woman, for a halo of silken hair resembling it, mussed and fierce at his ruin paired with supple, soft skin - it made Hollis carnal.
He drank you in, pale violet eyes feasting upon you - glaciated over like he’d been fighting sword to steel all day, and been told he’d won.
“Nũhor nyke perzys.” He whispered, finger lifting to push gently at the plush of your bottom lip, your mouth agape as you heaved in need below him.
High Valyrian - a tongue of which your blood was not supreme enough to speak, that you could never learn; nor comprehend.
You watched as he withdrew his hand, now unbuckling himself, beginning to free himself - the fine, barely-there hair that trailed from his abdomen to below his belt - the way his abdominal muscles flexed beneath the spitting candlelight, hair brushing your raised knees as you braced for him.
How, when you’d managed to muster the strength to open your eyes and let your pupils refocus, you saw the slight reddened tinge to his lips - your blood, to which he darted out his tongue and lapped it away, momentarily glancing to your pricked finger and back down to your heat - as if to debate asking you to conjure up more of you for him to consume.
“Aerion, fuck!” The same shrill female voice wailed from the end of the hall - and then, a clatter of objects sounded, maybe a bed leg breaking or a stool toppling over - to which both yourself and Hollis both grinned.
The brief flicker of amusement you felt quickly dissipated though, when you watched him paw himself slowly through the strain of his garments, teasing his release.
Holy shit, you were about to ride a Dragon. Seriously.
Hollis were about to lower himself down to meet you once more - hover his blood-smeared lips over your own, to join your lips for the first time tonight - a different level of burning intimacy he’d yet to allow you, but you so desperately wanted to experience.
A masculine, aged voice belted through the halls - to which the Princeling cursed to himself, stilling - detaching away from you.
An older man burst through the door - knocking the rickety piece of wood off of its latch and hinges as if it took the same low level of energy as flipping the page of a book.
He had the same hair as Hollis and Aerion, dressed in the same finery, the same eyes - just a tad more indigo, more stern and syrupy under the lowlight, boring through wrinkled skin - equally as fierce.
He bared his teeth at the sight.
On queue, a shirtless, rather disgruntled-looking Aerion sauntered in behind the older man, looking as smug as ever, even parading around half-decent.
At the realisation of what was happening, you attempt to raised a forearm over your exposed breasts to cover yourself before the Princes - plural - as if your job title, your manner upon this bed, beneath the Prince alone hadn’t stripped you of enough dignity.
Hollis - despite being chastised publicly by his furious father, without looking at you, still managed to swat away your arm over your chest, a faint smile strung across his mouth, that you could only see the corner of.
“Father.” Hollis greeted, wetting his lips, craning his head ever so slightly to glance at you - as if he were making sure you were still there, shivering beneath him.
Prince Maekar looked as if he were about to lurch at his son and drag him out of the brothel by some invisible collar.
And so, he followed - reluctantly.
He didn’t even look twice before leaving you there sprawled across the bed, padding out of the door - still, somehow, looking as untouched and rejuvenated as ever, his hair the only giveaway, as it was slightly more voluminous and unruly than usual.
A rather petrified looking maid then scrambled into the room, giving you another fright - only to quickly gather the scattered clothing left behind from the Prince, not even addressing you before she scurried out of the room with the same haste.
The last thing you heard was several sets of heavy footsteps down the hollow staircase, and Aerion’s boyish laughter.
Gods, you hoped that insolent, fair-faced mutt gets his shit ruined at the Jousting on the morrow - his twin, however, you wished less so.
The fantasy was disappointingly short-lived, and now you were riled-up and left in a cold, empty bed - forced to fill the void by inviting in another most probably less-attractive, less-important customer who’s tongue won’t work half as impressive as the Targaryen Princeling’s.
But that was the type of transaction you were to expect, and ultimately deserved.
But what you didn’t realise what just how long the Targaryens were to be stationed in Ashford, and how the lands limited facilities - including brothels - made you susceptible to playing a heavy hand in the Dragon Prince’s dirty habits.
You’ll be beneath the wings of the Dragon once again, soon - and this time, he’ll finish the job - as no Targaryen leaves a conquest unfinished, unfulfilled, or undefeated.
I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus, for lots of reasons that I’ve spoke about but I don’t want to keep boring you guys by repeating lol.
anyway, been obsessed with bratty little Aerion Targaryen and AKOTSK and wanted to channel that into 2tumblr, because sometimes we need crazy concepts to keep shit alive!
anyway, let me know what u think as always - I hate writing smut, can u tell lol???
enjoy! lots of luv. thank u for ur patience.
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