High Septa Alicent
✗cw: Caning? Non-con, F!reader, you give Alicent oral, incorrect use of cane, religious imagery, age gap....but like undefined, not that big, unruly tully reader-because I make shit up This has been on my mind for week and took me forever. Also everyone always does Rhaenrya, but give Alicent an inch in the sept and my girl is gonna be the fucking pope.
Alicent had always prided herself on her loyalty to the gods. It was the one constant—unyielding, uncorrupted. She had given them her girlhood, her tears, her silence. Obedience had been sewn into her marrow. She bled piety before she ever bled as a woman.
And in return, the gods had given her power.
Not the kind men blustered about in court—titles, armies, coin. No, hers was finer, quieter, absolute. The kind that wore silk gloves and struck like steel beneath them. The Sept had become her sanctuary, her kingdom, her cloistered court of women and incense and sharpened discipline. She had made it holy with her will alone.
Until you were sent.
The Tully girl. Lips set in something near a sneer. Sent by your father with a clipped letter and a purse full of shame. Too headstrong to wed. Too wild to tame. His words, not hers. He had hoped the Seven might do what a lifetime of fatherhood could not: reduce you.
Alicent saw you and thought, she does not belong here. You walked the Sept like it was a prison, not a temple. Looked upon her not as a shepherd, but as another stone in the wall. The other septas spoke of your insolence. Your long silences during prayer. The way you stared when you were meant to bow your head. The way you laughed once—laughed—when Sister Marwyn stumbled through her homily.
You were not a lamb. You were teeth beneath a veil. And that was dangerous.
Alicent punished you accordingly. She made you kneel on rice until your knees turned raw. She locked you in the damp tower when your tongue grew too sharp. She struck you herself when you mocked the sacred rites—made you bend over the lap of another sister as she brought the cane down, each lash a hymn. Still, you refused to break.
And gods forgive her, but it excited her.
It was not your body that haunted her—though it should have been. It was the way you moved. The way you bore the pain without flinching. The way your lips curled, not in defiance, but in some quiet, private amusement. You did not fear her. And you should have.
Six months. That was how long you had been under her rule. Six months, and every night she prayed harder, longer, until her knees bruised and her throat went raw. But no amount of piety could wash you from her.
She had passed by your door once, late—past Compline, long after the halls should’ve been silent. The lantern light cast a slice of gold through the crack. She saw you there, bent forward, applying salve to the welt on your spine, the shift hiked up around your hips. The pale slope of your back exposed. Your hand trembling, jaw tight with the effort not to wince. And gods help her—she had stepped inside.
“I’ll do it,” she’d said. Quietly. Firmly. Like a mother. Like a lover. Like something in between.
You hadn’t looked at her. Just nodded, slow. She pressed the ointment to your skin, fingers stiff with restraint. The wound was hot beneath her touch. So was the space between you. Your breath shallow. Your nightgown pooled around your thighs. She had lingered. Longer than she should have.
She had gone to the altar that night and begged forgiveness.
But it was not enough. Today, you failed your exams. And she knew why. You wanted this. You wanted her to summon you. You're standing before her now. Your hands behind your back. Face blank.
“You failed.” Her voice is almost tender, almost. The parchment slides across the desk like a blade across glass. “Maps. Not one landmark in the Riverlands. Your own home—erased.”
The silence hangs too long. She watches the twitch at your jaw, that stubborn knot of rage you wear like armor. How beautiful it is, that anger. How useless. She knows you hate being here. You hate being reminded she is your sister.
“You know what poor marks mean.” Her hands fold together, as though in prayer. “I needn’t remind you.”
She rises slowly. The chair groans, the air seems to bend around her, a storm tightly wrapped in silk.
Her fingers brush the cane resting beside the desk. Not yet.
“You will sit,” she says, each word heavy, deliberate. “You will name each of these places. For every one you forget, I will mark you. Left thigh, or right—your choice. Mercy, when I decide it exists. We will not stop until your homeland returns to you like blood.”
Your lips curl, the defiance flaring again, reckless, ruinous. “And if they don’t?” you spit, leaning into the danger. “What if they never return to me? My homeland cast me out. I was a nuisance, a burden, a curse on its banner. Why would I remember what has already erased me?”
For a moment, the words feel like victory. For a moment.
Then the world splits.
The cane arcs, cracks across your face—fast, brutal. Pain explodes white-hot across your cheek. You stagger, clutching at your skin, feel warmth seeping between your fingers. Blood. Shame. The hood of your habit collapses forward, merciful only in the way it hides your pitiful trembling.
Her hand catches your chin, jerks your head up. Her fingers are iron. “I am merciful only to those who understand mercy is given.” Her breath ghosts across your face—sharp, acrid, unholy. Wine? Rot? The stench of someone who prays while drinking.
A nail presses into the cut she’s made. The cane traces your stomach like a threat restrained. Her eyes—doe-soft and terrible—fix on you, then on the blood she smears from your cheek, dragging it down as though painting a ritual line. “You think yourself above the gods,” she whispers, voice trembling with hunger.
You don’t answer. That silence is enough. It pleases her. You can see it—the dark pulse in her throat, the twitch at the corner of her mouth. The part of her she buries in prayer at night has risen now, alive, unashamed.
“But you bleed like me,” she murmurs, her fingers wet with your blood. She drags them over your mouth, presses against your lips until the taste of iron coats your tongue. “Heathen. You bleed just like me.”
The cane falls. She climbs into your lap with the inevitability of scripture, pressing her weight down, smothering any space to resist. You try to speak, but her hand forces its way between your lips, her fingers gagging you, choking you with the intimacy of it.
“Shut up,” she hisses. “I don’t want your voice. Not here. Here, I am the gods. Do you understand?” She rips the hood from your head, exposing you, stripping you bare in silence and blood.
“You beckon me,” she breathes, low, frantic. “I kept holy until you walked through that door. You brought ruin with you.” Her fingers drive deeper, her eyes black with lust and fury as your strangled breaths fog the air between you. Tears streak red through the blood on your cheek.
“I should have given you to the septons,” she murmurs, almost tender again. “They begged for you, and I refused them. I spared you. And still… still you deny me the mercy I have granted.”
Her blood-stained fingers linger at your lips, then drift to your cheek, stroking with an almost maternal cruelty. “They wanted you so badly,” she murmurs, voice soft as confession. “The septons… they are crueler than I. They take the girls they dislike and break them, piece by piece, until nothing of the soul remains.”
The words sink like lead into your chest. Panic coils in your lungs—you cannot breathe, not with her hand filling your mouth, pressing against the roof until your gagged whimpers rattle against her knuckles. Your nails claw at her wrists, weak scratches that sting her skin but mean nothing.
Then she wrenches her hand free. You collapse, gasping, but there is no reprieve—her shove knocks you from the chair, the hard floor meeting you with a crack. Before you can rise, she is already atop you, pinning you down. For all her delicate frame, her grip is iron, honed by years of denial and control.
“Listen to me,” she hisses, her hair falling across your face like a veil. “If you scream, even once, I will see to it that you swear a vow of silence. You will never speak again.”
The threat scalds through you. You cough raggedly, choking on the breath you’ve only just reclaimed. Your eyes blaze at her, hatred and fear tangled into one raw glare.
It pleases her.
Her hand reaches blindly, unerringly, for the cane. You see it tilt into view, a cruel shadow over you as you squirm, trembling against her weight.
“You will pay your penalty,” she breathes, shaking you hard enough that the hood slips from her head. Her face is revealed—pale, fevered, radiant with unholy conviction. “For making me feel this… this unholy.”
The cane’s tip lowers, pressing to your chest, just above the frantic rise and fall of your ribs. She leans closer, whispering as though the gods themselves are listening. “I am the Grand Septa. The great sister. Do you think I will be dragged into filth by some stupid little girl?”
“I think your resolve is weak,” you rasp, your voice ragged but unyielding. “If I am the one to drag you down.”
Her anger flares, quick and vicious, like a match catching flame. Fingers knot into your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force.
“Insolent devil,” she spits, venom threading through her voice in a way that startles even her. “You will pay for this.”
Your skull cracks against the floor as she slams you down, your wounded cheek grinding against the wood. Pain surges, sharp and unrelenting. You hiss through your teeth.
Then—fabric tearing. The sound shreds the silence, prophetic, like the ripping of a sacred veil. She drags her hands down the front of your habit, not to free you, but to expose. Only the trembling hollow of your sternum, the quake of your belly. Nothing more—only what she chooses.
Her hand rises, cane like an angel. Falls.
The strike lands square on your sternum. Pain blooms bright, unbearable—you cry out, your back arching from the floor. A thin ribbon of blood rises to the surface, trembling in the dip of your chest. Instinctively, you clutch at her habit, like a child seeking comfort—exactly how she wants you.
Her breath catches, a low, involuntary gasp. Something in her belly coils tight, unspeakable, unholy.
“It isn’t difficult, is it?” she whispers, her fingers trembling as they trace the wound before striking you again. Another cry tears itself from you, raw, holy in its misery. She drinks it in like scripture, then leans down, sealing her mouth over yours.
Her lips crush yours, swallowing the sound of your sobs. Her tongue presses cruelly against your teeth, your gums, claiming even the taste of your pain. Her hands pin your shoulders to the floor, steady and merciless.
She pulls back only to press your cheek down hard against the boards, her breath burning at your ear.
“To be silent,” she hisses. “To be an honest girl.” Her words slither into you, soft and sharp all at once. “Doesn’t it hurt, to be bad?”
Her lips hover at your ear, her whisper a prayer and a threat. “It is easy to be good, sister.”
“How can you call this good?” you screech, voice breaking.
A mistake.
Her palm slams over your mouth, heel pressing hard against your teeth, cutting the sound off in your throat. You thrash beneath her, hands clawing at her wrist, twisting, pulling—useless resistance. The halves of your habit sag open, torn and spilling like a split pomegranate. Two thin crimson lines streak your sternum, branching like veins. Beneath them, the trembling swell of your breasts, the soft quiver of your belly—exposed, unwanted, inescapable.
The more you fight, the more it feeds her. Denial has starved her for too long; now your struggle only sharpens her hunger.
“You are very lucky, sister,” she says at last, her voice honeyed, almost tender, “that your tongue serves other purposes.”
Her fingers coil around your wrists, pinning them flat to the boards as her body leans forward, heavy, inescapable. The thick folds of her skirts trap you beneath her, her warmth pressing into your thighs.
With a single, deliberate movement, she shoves a strip of the torn habit between your lips. Fabric muffles your cries, sopping up the blood and spit, silencing you into obedience.
Only once you choke on it does she lower her head.
Her stomach lurches—she shudders as though from some fever—then her mouth finds the wound she carved into your chest. Her tongue drags slow, savoring. The sting sears; you jolt, whimpering, but she does not relent.
Like an animal, she licks the blood from you, tending the wound as though care and cruelty were the same thing. The iron taste fills her, heavy and sacrilegious.
To her, there are no gates in heaven. Only this: your body, your blood, your whimpers, the taste of your humanity on her tongue.
This is what men call victory.
"Pathetic,” she breathes against your skin, her voice threaded with scorn and something close to reverence. “Your defiance dissolves in my sanctity.” You can hardly see through the sting in your eyes, your hands scrabbling uselessly at her arms, always too weak, always too slow.
She rips away what’s left of the habit, baring you completely. Only then does she let go of your wrists—just to watch you squirm, more exposed than ever. She pauses, eyes lingering on the dark hair at your center. Her breath drags rough in her chest. You watch, helpless, as she hikes her own habit up, careless, revealing flashes of skin and the raw wetness between her thighs.
Shame and hunger twist inside you. You want to spit, to curse her name, but all you can do is tremble, undone by the sight of her—by the brutal want she stirs in you.
She shivers, hips pressing down, grinding against the softness of your belly, slickness marking your skin. Her hands pin your shoulders. You make a sound—half whimper, half plea—lost and muffled under her weight.
“This is the reverence I demand,” she hisses, voice ragged, “to be worshipped, to be served—just as the gods decreed.”
Alicent slides lower, intent, relentless, resting on your thigh. She means to take everything.
“Look how you open for me,” she whispers, voice thick with delight. Her fingers trace downward—slow, merciless—drawing a gasp from your throat, your back arching in desperate, involuntary surrender. You clamp your teeth, fighting not to sob her name, not to show her how you fracture.
Then she reaches for the cane. Your stomach knots. She tears the gag from your mouth and presses the cane’s tip to your lips. “Show me your devotion, sister,” she purrs, voice like velvet over steel. “Wet it. Be good.”
You obey, because you have no choice—because you are burning, breaking, coming undone under the weight of her holiness and her cruelty, all at once.
She studies you, her eyes alight with a hunger that’s almost clinical. She slides the cane into your mouth, tipping it against the roof until you gag around the intrusion, your hands clawing at her habit in blind desperation. “Is it too much?” she taunts, watching your vision swim with tears. Her smile is knife-sharp. “This—” she thrusts in, “is how much—” out, “you tried to test me.”
She wrenches the cane free, and you’re left gulping for breath that won’t come, chest heaving, throat raw. There’s no reprieve. She presses the handle to your slick entrance, teasing the sensitive flesh, dragging it slow, deliberate, up to the swollen ache at your center.
Your hips jolt, a broken sound tearing from your lips, need and humiliation tangling until you think you might fracture from it. “You’re much prettier like this.” Her words cut through the haze, low and thick as she pushes the cane inside you, watching the way your body clamps down around the intrusion.
You go rigid, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks, breath leaving you in harsh, shuddering bursts. “I knew you’d like it. Just like a dog—hungry for whatever I give.”
She’s breathing harder now, hand driving the cane deeper, your spine bowing as heat coils, molten and desperate, in your belly. You can’t stop the moan that escapes, can’t control the way your leg jerks open, offering her everything. She grinds down, chasing her own relief, the pressure relentless against her own swollen need.
She pulls out, then thrusts it back in, hard enough to make you see stars. You writhe, crying out sharp enough to split the air, the sound echoing between your bodies. “So much sweeter like this,” she spits, working the cane in and out, obscene wetness filling the room. Every sound from your lips is high, keening—unrecognizable, as if someone else is begging in your place.
“Al—Alicent—” you choke, voice ragged. “Please, gods, it…it—” You haven’t lasted long. She hasn’t let you. Already, your body is winding tight, pleasure and shame burning through you, every muscle tensed, clutching at her for something to anchor you.
“It what, sister?” she taunts, grinding herself on your thigh, eyes wild. “Does it feel good?” And just as your back arches, just as the world blurs with the oncoming wave, she rips the cane free—leaving you empty, gasping, lost on the edge.
“This is penance, remember?” she scolds, voice cold as she watches your eyes fly open, the desperate plea dying before it can form. She shifts, sliding up your body, her slick heat pressing down onto your lips. The taste is sharp, overwhelming—your breath catches, drowning in her.
Alicent moans, fingers twisting in your hair, yanking your head back. “Lick, sister. Obey.” The command is broken, needy, and you do as you’re told—tentative, kitten-soft licks at first. She tugs harder, hips rolling against your mouth.
“Like you mean it.” Her voice is a guttural hiss, and you press your tongue deeper, clumsy but eager, desperate to please. She shudders, grinding herself against your tongue, her praise coming in ragged gasps. “Good, good girl,” she pants, her whole body trembling, “Do right by your high mother.”
Her thighs are searing, clamped tight around your ears, muffling the world to nothing but her. Blood thrums in your skull as you keep your mouth on her, lips and tongue working desperately while her hips grind, restless and wild, above you. One hand vanishes beneath her habit, squeezing her breast; the other knots viciously in your hair, holding you right where she wants you.
Your fingers scrabble for purchase, digging crescents into the soft skin of her thighs, leaving your mark, as if you could anchor yourself against the storm of her.
She’s heavy on your mouth, her cunt slick and insistent, the swollen nub catching on your teeth as she shudders. Her grip in your hair tightens, yanking your head closer. “Yes…yes, just like that,” she gasps, her body convulsing, thighs trembling and closing in, threatening to drown you in her.
You can barely breathe, smothered by her, as wave after wave wracks her frame. Her pleasure pours over you, sticky and hot, soaking your cheeks—burning over the stinging welt she left earlier. "Forgiven, your forgiven-" her breath catches, as her cunt pulls taut for the last time. "Oh—oh…good girl,” she pants, her voice shattered and reverent, the words spilling down on you like benediction as she finally lets go.
Then she simply rises to her feet, legs shaking.
Your left on the floor, trembling, needy, eyes dilated.
"I have another habit, in the top drawer of my desk." She pants out, fixing her habit, skirts back over her wet cunt.
"Get dressed. Go to bed." A sort of sick smile spreads across her lips "I will see you at mass in the morning."
And your left there, bathing in your own desperation as she walks away, clicking the door behind you.
