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huramuna · 26 days ago

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this was so so so beautiful ange!

i adore your prose to death and your seamless transitions between scenes. you’ve knocked all the words out of my head and i’m blown away.

i cannot wait to see what else is in store for them ❤️

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Seven: Let the Light In

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Word count: ~7k

Chapter summary: A wedding in Oldtown.

Author's note: Regarding the Hightower house colours: I have used the show's depiction, as the book's sigil and colours are an affront to graphic design. Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The sun gently warmed Lia’s skin, and she turned her face upwards to meet its soft mid morning rays, her eyes closing appreciatively as she breathed in the scent of sandalwood carried upon the brisk sea breeze. She smiled to herself, turning her head to look up at Otto who walked stoically beside her, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

When he had requested that she join him for a walk around the gardens that morning, she had leapt at the opportunity, eager for some alone time with her betrothed. With her mother and father staying at the Hightower, and Hobert and his family having recently returned from King’s Landing, quality time together was an impossibility. There were always people fussing, conversations that needed to be had, tedious dinners. Though Lia’s heart was gladdened that she and her mother had mended the rift in their relationship, she was eager for her parents to return to the Whispering Sound until the time came for the wedding, so that she might have Otto to herself. She had never known him as anything more than the patriarch of the family she warded for, the Hand of the King, Alicent’s father. She wanted to get to know him as a man, her soon to be lover, her eventual husband.

Lia’s gaze moved appreciatively over Otto’s profile as they walked slowly along the gravel path that was lined by lush green hedges. He looked younger here than in King’s Landing, his face more relaxed without the burden of responsibility that the royal court placed upon his shoulders, the lines of age less pronounced. She had always looked upon Gwayne and seen Alyrie in the paleness of his eyes, but now she saw just how much of his father he carried in the sharp, angular lines of his face and the russet hues of his hair, though he lacked the authoritative air that Otto carried in mere stance alone—it was a quality she had once feared, but now found it stirred an excited fluttering in her lower belly. She could imagine how striking Otto would have been in his youth, a knight who had surely broken more than one lady’s heart in his time.

Otto came to a stop beneath the shade of an apple tree, the shadows of the leaves dappled across the charcoal coloured cloak that was clasped around his shoulders. “I thought it would be best if we were wed in two weeks’ time,” he told Lia, reaching out leather gloved fingers to brush gently against her upper arm.

Lia felt the warmth of his touch through the thick brocade of her gown and it made her breath hitch, even as she gaped up at him in shock. “So soon?”

She knew Otto, he was not a rash man, and nothing was done without calculated, meticulous thought first. Two weeks seemed far too hasty for a man as cautious as he was.

“I see no reason to wait,” he said gently, trailing his hand the rest of the way down her arm until he held her hand in his. “Septon Oswell is doing good work in place of Septon Rowan, and has informed me the sept can be ready for the date of my—our—choosing.”

Lia scoffed, her brows pulling together as she cocked her head in disbelief. Her only experiences of septs were what Alicent had forced upon her in their youth – stuffy places, overstocked with candles, and nowhere comfortable to sit.

“That’s very formal,” she protested gently. “Could we not just have a ceremony in the gardens? I’d be happy even beneath this tree–” she gestured upwards towards its leafy branches, as if to emphasise her point.

Otto exhaled heavily through his nose. Though his thumb stroked idly at the soft skin of the back of Lia’s hand, she knew he was annoyed. His hazel eyed stare had grown stern, and the crease that formed between his eyebrows whenever he was about to deliver a scolding had appeared—she was suddenly transported back to being a child and being caught sneaking cake from the kitchens long after her septa had put her to bed. She fought the urge to giggle, knowing it would only worsen his mood.

“I will not begin our marriage with such an improper display,” he insisted, the agitation in his tone more than evident. “Alyrie would never have suggested–”

“I am not Alyrie,” Lia spat, pulling her hand free of his. It balled into a fist at her side. Suddenly she no longer wanted to giggle. Instead she thought she might cry. She allowed the ugly feeling to expel from her body like venom, anger shielding the deep hurt that had been so carelessly inflicted. “I will not exist in this marriage—if there is to be a marriage at all—in her shadow. Do you understand?”

Sighing, Otto visibly softened, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Forgive me,” he uttered apologetically, “that was thoughtless of me. You are not a replacement, you could not be. You shine too brightly, are too uniquely yourself.”

He stepped forward into Lia’s space, closing the gap between them. His gloved fingers grasped her chin without force, coaxing her to look up at him. No matter how hard she fought to cling to the anger that boiled her blood, she could not stop the way it melted away entirely at his tender touch. Lia had seen many times the way that Rhaenyra calmed Syrax with the gentlest of touches, and wondered what it would be like to possess such power over another being. It seemed that Otto had that same power over her, and she would hate him for it were it not for the fact that he quelled her internal tempest into such submission that she no longer wanted to. Perhaps Syrax shared that sentiment regarding her rider. True loyalty laid not in affection, but in the desire to snap, claw and rend, and resisting it.

“I want for our union to be proper, Lia,” Otto explained as his eyes searched hers for understanding, “I want for no one to be able to question its validity or propriety. Is that agreeable to you?”

Lia thought it an odd request, wondering who he thought might call their marriage into question. However, as Otto leaned in, his lips capturing hers firmly in a lingering kiss, the question left her mind, replaced only by a desire to give him anything he asked of her.

Much to Lia’s chagrin, with the wedding being as close as it was, Owen and Dyana remained in Oldtown, their numbers soon to increase with the news that both Robert and Leon had begun their respective journeys accompanied by their wives. She loved her brothers, and was looking forward to seeing them both, however, each confirmed attendance served as a reminder that the two guests whose presence she wanted most in the world would not be there. Alicent would not be joining due to being with child once again—news that had reached her via Otto. The queen had yet to write to her since the announcement of Lia’s betrothal to her father, and the rejection stung. Rhaenyra would not have been welcomed by Otto, even if she could attend—Lia had been both thrilled and baffled by the news of the princess’ pregnancy. It was wonderful that such a blessing had been bestowed upon her and Laenor so soon into their marriage, and fortunate that she had shored up her succession with an heir, however, Lia could not imagine Rhaenyra as a mother. Of the three of them, Rhaenyra had always been the wildest, the most willful, and Lia could picture quite vividly the wind whipping a babe from her friend’s arms as she attempted to take it on dragonback. Regardless, she had been quick to write and express her congratulations. Letters between the two young women had been a frequent occurrence since.

A quill twirled between her thumb and forefinger as Lia sat at her desk, gazing down at the blank parchment she meant to address to Rhaenyra when there was a soft knock at her chamber door. She dropped the quill with a sigh, sending black ink splattering across the page, and turned upon her stool, putting her back to her writing desk.

“Come,” she called out towards the closed door.

Irritation prickled at her the moment she saw her father step into the room. They had not been alone together since he had attempted to dissuade her from her marriage to Otto—partially due to not having the opportunity to be, but also because Lia had actively made a point to ensure it did not happen. Now he had her alone again, with nowhere to escape to, no one else around that might spare her from an undoubtedly uncomfortable exchange.

She watched as he crossed the room cautiously, as though approaching a wild animal, before perching his bulk upon the arm of the couch nearest her in the sitting area. Owen splayed his hands flat against his thighs and Lia folded hers in her lap, giving an impatient raise of her eyebrow.

“Is this really, truly what you want, Lia?” he eventually asked, holding her gaze steadily with his. “The man is twenty years your senior.”

Lia clicked her tongue behind her teeth and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Mother has given her blessing. Is that not enough for you?”

Her father swallowed, smoothing his thumb and forefinger over his bushy moustache in an outward fanning motion—a gesture he often did subconsciously when feeling agitated—before speaking again. “I know you’re in love, or think you are. That is fleeting, my girl. Love and attraction are follies of youth. It is the strength of character and dependability which serve as the lasting foundation of a successful alliance.”

“Are you talking about my marriage to Otto, or the fealty of our house to the Hightowers?” she questioned, tilting her head slightly.

“I fear only for our family, for you, and what that man’s plans might mean for us,” he urged.

“Rhaenyra is with child, father,” Lia shrugged dismissively, glancing briefly towards the bronze chalice pin affixed to the breast of Owen’s doublet. “An heir changes things.”

Her father stood, stepping towards her, his tone lowering to conspiratorial whisper. “I trust you realise that the nature of Ser Laenor is not dissimilar to that of Gwayne?”

Lia stiffened, her spine going rigid as her features pinched into a scowl, unable to hide her annoyance. “I am not sure what you mean.”

Owen sighed, stepping back. “You are not a fool, Lia. When the time comes, you must do the right thing.”

“Otto might soon be my husband, but Rhaenyra is my friend. I will not betray that, if that is what you are concerned with.”

Her father threw his hands up exasperatedly and stalked back towards the door. Pausing, his hand upon the latch, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Do what you must, but know that such childish fancies will not spare you when it comes to the demand for bent knees.”

Lia longed to snatch up the ink pot and dash it towards him, even long after the door had closed with a dull thud behind him. Instead she gripped her legs tightly, her nails biting into the meat of her thighs through the layers of her skirts. She would not be forced to choose, she refused to be placed in such a position, refused to listen to the niggle in her mind that saw the grain of truth in her father’s words.

With the arrival of the rest of Lia’s family to the Hightower, she was reminded of how bustling with life the Red Keep had been when she had lived there, and realised how accustomed to the quiet of Oldtown she had become. For two years, she and Gwayne had had the tower to themselves, with the rest of the household and its attendants on their periphery. Lia enjoyed the freedom it allowed her, and now with so many extra people stuffed into spare bedchambers, wanting to talk to her wherever she went, she felt as though she could not breathe.

Robert looked every bit the regal lord, no longer the wiry young boy she knew as her older brother. Tall and broad of frame, his beard was as dark as his long, raven curls, making his blue eyes appear all the more piercing. His wife, Cassana, a typical Tyrell beauty, had accompanied him, resplendent with chestnut curls and piercing green eyes. Their daughter, Elyse, now approaching her first name day, already possessed the best of both their physical traits and was sure to grow up to be the heart’s desire of many a noble lord—that was if she ever stopped her grizzling. The child had been bawling ever since she was lifted from the wheelhouse and placed into the arms of a nursemaid. It was giving Lia a headache.

Leon had not outgrown his gangliness; he was tall, but did not have the bulk to support it, which made his appearance almost wraithlike, especially when standing next to his wife. The Redwynes were not a family that were reputed for their looks, and Bethany was no exception. Short and full figured, she had a nose which was too small for her face and lips that overcompensated for it. The pregnancy did nothing to aid the shape of her, merely adding to her roundness, so when standing next to her husband it presented the image of an orb and sceptre.

It was early afternoon, two days after the rest of House Costayne had arrived in Oldtown and, at the insistence of her mother, Lia was seated in the solar, taking tea with both Cassana and Bethany. She had not spent time with either woman, only having exchanged polite greetings in passing on the rare occasions since coming to Oldtown that she had seen them on her visits to The Whispering Sound. Dyana Costayne had been adamant that they rectify that.

“You are sisters now,” she had said, “you must make an effort.”

Sitting here now, Lia thought that she would rather not. The solar was ordinarily a warm and vibrant space. Large windows were cut into the stone walls, allowing views from the tower all the way out to sea, which usually brightened and warmed the space that was decorated with deep mahogany furnishings and plush forest green velvet. Today, thick, dark clouds loomed on the horizon and the space felt dark and oppressive.

Lia reclined on the couch, her posture slouched and legs tucked beneath her. Her slippers lay discarded on the floor nearby. Cassana and Bethany both had an armchair each, seated next to each other, separated from Lia by a table laden with cakes, pastries, and delicate berry fruits. It was a tedious way to pass the time, as far as Lia was concerned.

“They really ought to have put out some wine,” she sighed, glancing at the sweet spread before her as she absentmindedly twisted the rings on her fingers.

“Oh, I cannot have that at the moment,” Bethany said, her full pout pulling into a smile that was more of placation than of genuine happiness as she cradled the swell of her stomach. “The maesters back on The Arbor say it is best if I have only water and weak ale this close to the birth—and tea, of course.”

Lia could barely contain the disgusted curl of her lip as she watched Bethany sip from her teacup, troubled by the idea of her good sister beginning her labours right there in the solar, and having to fish her slippers out of the inevitable mess. She hoped that both Bethany and her unborn child would have the good graces to wait until after they had departed Oldtown to ruin any soft furnishings.

Cassana nodded enthusiastically, her eyes bright as she plucked a grape from the platter. “Rob and I have been hoping for another,a boy this time,and we have heard that it is best to abstain.”

“Oh, how ghastly!” Lia blurted, before she had had time to think about what she said. Upon seeing both Bethany and Cassana’s shocked expressions, both of them staring at her with wide eyes and furrowed brows, she corrected herself. “I mean, how ghastly it is that you cannot have wine,” she quipped, lifting her teacup to hide her smirk.

Lia stood upon a stool before a full length looking glass. She had never felt quite so beautiful in all her life, draped in pure white lace that had been imported from Myr. The dress encased her shoulders, with sleeves that draped across her hands in a dramatic bell shape. The neckline plunged to meet the sturdy boning of the bodice, which had been adorned with pearls in the shape of flames and a chalice—the exact same sigil that Otto had gifted Lia as a wax seal for her fifteenth name day, almost three years ago. Marybel knelt at her feet, pinning up material, making note of the final alterations that would be needed ahead of the wedding day.

She was brought back to the moments that she had helped ready Rhaenyra for her proclamation, and when she had watched as Alicent had been prepared on her own wedding day. It felt wrong not to have them here; Alicent should be fussing over how Lia should wear her hair, while Rhaenyra tugged at the waistline of the gown and insisted it must be taken in if she did not wish to appear pudgy. Instead, Bethany and Dyana sat off to one side, murmuring between themselves as they sipped tea, and Cassana buzzed around her with an endless stream of unwanted suggestions. She could hardly hear herself think.

“Have you decided what earrings you might wear?” her good sister asked, reaching up to tuck Lia’s curls behind her ear. “I think pearls would be best, considering your gown.”

Lia pursed her lips, keeping her gaze fixed upon the top of Marybel’s head, as the handmaiden worked, pulling up fabric and sticking in pins.

Cassana reached for Lia’s hand, her fingers brushing lightly over Alicent’s emerald ring that she wore upon her forefinger. “Obviously, this will need to go.”

Lia snatched her hand away as though scalded, her features immediately twisting in anger. “Out!” she shouted, not caring that Cassana froze, suddenly looking as though she might cry, while her mother and Bethany fell silent, their eyes going wide with shock. “All of you—out! This is my dress, my wedding, and I do not want you all clucking around me like hens when I have so many other things to think of.”

“Lia–” her mother began, an attempt to reason with her daughter.

“Mother, please,” Lia interrupted, her tone insistent as she turned to look at her over her shoulder.

“Very well,” the older woman sighed. Rising from her seat, the Costayne matriarch helped Bethany to her feet, and ushered Cassana away with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Lia rolled her eyes as she heard Dyana whispering to comfort the Tyrell woman as they left the chambers.

“I want you to stay,” Lia told Marybel, placing a hand on her upper arm as she made to stand.

“I should think so,” the handmaiden stated plainly as she grinned, her honeyed eyes sparkling with humour, “unless you want to trip and fall on your face come the day of the wedding. This train is much too long.”

“You seem happy,” Lia commented, looking down as Marybel knelt once more and resumed pinning the hem of the dress so that it brushed the seat of the stool, rather than draping over it.

Marybel gave a casual shrug, gazing momentarily up from her work to smirk at Lia. “Just pleased that everything is as I thought it should be, however long it has taken you to find your way to it.”

Lia hummed in acknowledgement, lifting her hair up from her neck, and turned her head as she admired her reflection, trying to decide how she should wear her hair on the day. “I am just glad that mine and Alyn’s parting has not caused a rift between us. He was so sad when I told him I could no longer see him.”

“Oh, I would not worry,” the handmaiden assured her, plucking another pin from the small, oval cushion she had fastened to her wrist. “Alyn does not have the wits to be wounded for long. I believe he has taken up with the girl who works at the tavern across from The Citadel.”

Though Lia harboured no feelings for the stablehand, it wounded her pride to know that he had moved on from her so quickly, that she had left such a fleeting impression upon him. When her eyes met Marybel’s in the looking glass, and she saw her look of derisive disbelief, she realised the involuntary dismay that her own features had fallen into, and flushed with embarrassment, averting her gaze.

“Well, there is a sight for sore eyes,” came a voice from behind her.

Lia turned her head, looking over her shoulder at where the chamber door had creaked open just enough for Gwayne to hover in the gap, his fingers grasping the wooden edge of the frame as he poked his head through.

“What is it that you want? I am busy,” Lia told him, though her soft smile at the sight of him did little to convey the faux harshness of her words.

He stepped fully into the room, pushing the door gently closed behind him, before pulling himself to his full height and clasping his hands in front of him. “Well, first I must tell you that white lace is incredibly disingenuous of you. But also, Leyton and I are venturing out into the city this evening, and would be delighted if you would join us. It might be your last opportunity to do so before you are shackled to my father forever.”

Lia rolled her eyes, but grinned in spite of herself. “I suppose I could join you.”

“Good,” Gwayne nodded, before dragging his pale gaze over the length of her wedding dress, “but take that off first.”

Lia had expected to feel nervous on the day of her wedding. Instead she woke that morning with a serene sense of calm. She supposed nerves and trembling anticipation were reserved for maidens married off in faraway lands to lords they had never met. Lia was fortunate, she knew who she was going to marry; she wanted to marry Otto, and was now beginning to realise that perhaps she always had.

At Lia’s insistence, Bethany and Cassana were kept out of her chambers, while her mother and Marybel both assisted in readying her for the ceremony. With the bridal gown now properly fitted, its hem brushed the floor, the delicate lace train at the back fanning outwards behind her. Dyana had convinced Lia to pin up all of her hair—to allow any of her raven curls to flow around her shoulders would obscure the dress, her mother had advised, and so her hair had been piled neatly upon her head with a net of pearls pulled over it. A few loose strands had fallen free, but Lia waved away any attempts to fix them, liking the way they framed her face. Her good sister’s suggestion of pearl jewellery had been ignored; she felt that with the dress and the net adorning her hair, it would be too much. She kept the ring that Alicent had gifted her upon her finger, and wore an oval shaped emerald pendant to match—a nod towards the house colours of her husband-to-be—the thin, gold chain fell just below her clavicle, allowing the jewel to sparkle at the plunging neckline of her bodice.

Though Owen appeared stony faced as he looped his arm through Lia’s, he was still present, still walking her down the aisle. She supposed that casually suggesting that she could ask Gwayne to do it instead had spurred him into action—she was his only daughter, after all. She gave her father’s arm an appreciative squeeze as they descended the steps into the sept.

The sept in Oldtown was less grand than the one in King’s Landing. Where the capital’s place of worship for The Seven was large, airy and filled with iconography and fine fabrics, Oldtown’s was far more subdued; the square, stone building had a circular window inlaid high into the far wall, its panes shaped into a seven pointed star, which bathed the aisle down which she currently walked in hazy sunlight. Banners of both House Hightower and House Costayne were unfurled either side of the dais where Septon Oswell was standing, their greens and golds vibrant in the candlelit gloom they inhabited. The septon was a pink faced man, round featured and covered in a sheen of sweat, likely caused by the abundance of candles that set the place of worship aglow. Despite the smaller size of Oldtown’s sept, there were still barely enough people present to fill it – for this, Lia was grateful. She had not wanted to invite people she did not know or care about to witness her marriage, and this was a request that Otto was happy to oblige.

Lia's eyes swept over the modest gathering of people. Robert was distracted by the fussing of little Elyse,the infant squirming and grousing at her mother's hip, and Lia hoped that Cassana would have the sense to call for the nursemaid to tend to the child. If she had to endure the bawling of a babe then she would lose her nerve, the sense of calm that wrapped around her like the safety of a cocoon would surely fray at its edges. Her mother stood beside Leon, who looked like he was about to bow beneath the weight of his wife, who clung desperately to his arm, clearly uncomfortable upon her feet. The poor woman should be seated. Lia hoped she would not fall down before she was told she could sit.

Otto’s side of the sept was even sparser. Gwayne stood tall beside Hobert, Lynesse, and Ormund. Lia caught Gwayne’s eye as she moved slowly down the aisle, and though his features remained a mask of neutrality, she was certain she saw the faintest upwards lift at the corners of his mouth at the sight of her. It lifted her spirits, considering the miserable display put on by her own side of the family, but was not enough. Alicent should be here. Rhaenyra should be here. There were a thousand different ways that she had come to imagine this day, but it was never without them present.

Her breath hitched when she finally looked upon Otto. Dressed in a doublet of crushed green velvet with black leather sleeves, he had never looked so handsome. His hazel eyes seemed to glimmer in the candlelight as he looked upon Lia appreciatively. The softness of his stare made her stomach flutter, and for a moment she felt her feet falter beneath her. She gripped tighter at her father’s arm, determined to make it to the altar without embarrassing herself, though as her father let her go, and she came to stand before the man she was to marry, she could not help the grin that spread across her face. She was pleased when Otto returned her happiness with a soft smile of his own. Her feeling of calm dissipated, replaced by a giddiness and unrest that meant the ceremony passed in a blur. She was not conscious of her actions or the words she spoke, only acutely aware of the way her heartbeat drummed in her chest and her palms sweated.

“I am yours and you are mine.”

It was not until the heavy, green cloak was draped around her shoulders and Otto’s lips brushed against hers that she was finally grounded. She clutched at the front of his doublet, curling her fingers into the soft material as she deepened the kiss, pouring all of her pent up anticipation into the movements of her mouth against his. She did not care for the tut of distaste she heard from those present, and paid no mind to who it had come from; it did not matter.

Lia was married, she was a wife—Otto Hightower’s wife.

The ride from the sept back to the Hightower had further heightened Lia’s feeling of elation. Seated beside Otto in the wheelhouse, just the two of them, she could feel the press of his thigh against hers, sturdy and reassuring. It had made her pulse race. He had gently grasped her hand, his beard lightly brushing against her knuckles as he had pressed a soft kiss to them.

“You are beautiful,” he told her.

She had felt it, even more so than when she had first seen herself in her bridal gown before the looking glass in her chambers.

The wedding feast brought reality crashing back down around her.

She did not care for the musicians; the racket of the lute interspersed with the chatter around the table made her irritable. A feast for twelve people seemed farcical, especially when she had endured their company endlessly in the weeks leading up to the event they were gathered here for. When would she get to be alone with her husband? She wanted to turn in her seat and admire him without feeling the eyes of her mother and father upon her. Dragging her spoon through an unappetisingly beige pottage, she had the urge to flick it out of the bowl towards Gwayne if he directed another smirk at her across the table. The boar’s head, when it was presented, still sizzling from its roast, was equally unappealing to her and she forked listlessly at her food. There was a restlessness that had settled in the very bones of her, and if she had not known that Otto would scold her for it, she would have grasped his hand and dragged him back to their marital chambers—what used to be Otto’s bedchamber but was now theirs. She had never seen the inside of it before, at least not the space he occupied in Oldtown. She wondered how different it looked to the apartments he had occupied back in King’s Landing, and how her belongings would assimilate among his once their lives were fully entwined.

“You are not eating,” Otto said softly, his breath tickling at the shell of Lia’s ear as he leaned in close. “Is there something the matter?”

“Just eager to have you to myself,” she said sweetly, with a flutter of her eyelashes.

A noise of acknowledgement rumbled in Otto’s throat as he leaned back in his chair. His gaze lingered upon her, dragging from her eyes down to the emerald that sat against the plunging neckline of her bodice. There was something primitive in the way he looked at her, something she had seen in men’s eyes before, but never Otto’s.iIt made gooseflesh break out across the skin of her arms.

He tore his attention away from her, and stood from his seat, tapping his knife against his wine cup to silence the other guests. When the chatter hushed around them, he cleared his throat, and addressed the room.

“A toast,” he began, lifting his wine in salute, “to my new wife, Lia, and the joining of our two houses. Though I appreciate the celebration may be a modest one, let it be known that it is in the spirit of bringing two united families yet closer still. In these uncertain times, I am sure you will appreciate the need to cast out doubt and division.”

Lia’s brow furrowed, confused by her husband’s words, unsure of their meaning, as her fingers toyed idly with the stem of her goblet. When she glanced across the table to her father, she was sure she could see a look of discomfort etched upon his features, as he all but squirmed in his seat.

Otto’s chambers were large—larger than Lia’s; while every part of her living space was contained to one room, Otto’s spread across three interconnecting spaces. There was an airy, open sitting area, complete with dark wooden settees scattered with plush green velvet cushions, all situated around a fireplace with the Hightower sigil carved into its mantle. Leading onto that was a smaller area with a more modestly sized hearth and a wooden tub large enough for bathing placed before it, alongside an ornate privacy screen. The sleeping quarters were cosy, larger than the bathing and dressing area, but smaller than the sitting room. The furnishings were opulent—the four poster bed was draped with thick green curtains, stitched with gold thread, and there was a mahogany ottoman situated at its foot, its brass hinges polished to a high sheen. On the bedside table sat a pewter wine jug and two cups, ready for their arrival.

Lia had been surprised by Otto’s formality as he had guided her through each room, his hand never leaving the small of her back. She had always imagined that all highborn men, especially when marrying a younger woman, would be eager to get on with the bedding. Instead, he had given her a tour of the space, explaining to her where space had been made for her belongings and that she was free to use each of the rooms as she liked. Her eyes moved around each of the chambers in quiet fascination as she was guided slowly through them, imagining where her belongings might go, and what it might feel like to reside here alongside her new husband.

When they reached the final stop of Otto’s tour—the bedchamber—he came to stand before her, taking her hands in his. Lia swallowed thickly, glancing at where their fingers interlocked and hoped he would not notice how clammy her palms suddenly felt. She had spent the entire day wishing for this moment, and now that it was here she felt so nervous she wished she could turn back time to how bored she had wasthroughout the feast.

“You are trembling,” Otto observed quietly, letting go of one of her hands to tilt her face up to his. “What is the matter?”

Lia pursed her lips as her gaze met with his. It was disarming how intently he stared at her, as though he was looking into her rather than at her—no one had ever looked at her like that before. She considered lying, but realised it would be a futile endeavour. “I worry I will disappoint you,” she admitted quietly.

“Whatever for?” he asked, tilting his head. “It might be bold of me to assume, but you have lain with a man before, have you not?”

“Yes, but never with you.”

It was true, Lia had taken Alyn to bed many times, but it had never been like this. They were all clumsy, fumbling trysts where she did not have to do much besides endure it. Otto was older, more experienced—he would have expectations. What if he was displeased with how she looked, how she moved? Would he annul the marriage?

Otto took her hands once more, stepping backwards as he coaxed her closer to the bed. “It has been a while for me,” he admitted, “so I shall need your help remembering.”

The reassurance in his tone helped to slow Lia’s racing heart, and she realised as she watched him settle upon the edge of the mattress, that he was allowing her to lead, to take things at a pace that she felt comfortable with.

She watched as his fingers worked to open the clasps of his doublet, shrugging out of it and discarding it alongside his trousers, stripping down to his undershirt and breeches. Lia had always attributed part of Otto’s formidability to the finery that he wore, but stripped of it, he was just as broad chested, no less imposing. It made her breath hitch. Following suit, she moved her arms behind her, her fingers working deftly to pull open the laces at the back of her gown, until it was loose enough to fall away from her body, leaving her only in her shift, stockings and smallclothes.

Otto’s eyes never left her the entire time, but there was a patience to his stare, no predatory intent to pounce upon her and rush her. She rewarded his restraint by hooking her fingers into the waistband of her smallclothes through the silk of her shift and pushing them down and off of her body along with her stockings.

“Leave that,” he commanded quietly, when she made to unclasp her necklace.

Otto spread his thighs, a silent invitation for her to stand between them as she stepped towards him. Once in front of him, he reached up, tugging the net of pearls free from her hair, sending her ravels curls cascading down and around the both of them, a soft, ebony curtain that surrounded them as he grasped her chin and coaxed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, lingering and filled with silent promise.

Lia’s heart pounded against her ribcage, but this time it was not from nervousness. She could feel its beat between her legs, aching and throbbing with every pulse. The smell of sandalwood, the rough feel of Otto’s beard against her flesh, it all set her aflame. As he moved back, shifting on the bed until he sat up against the pillows, his back resting against the headboard, he beckoned for her to follow and Lia went willingly. She straddled his lap, hiking up her shift to allow for the spread of her legs as she seated herself upon him, already able to feel the evidence of his arousal through the thin cotton of his breeches. The temptation to simply free him and sink down upon him titillated her, but she wanted this to last, for it to be an experience that would be memorable for them both.

Tugging at his undershirt, she guided him to lift it off and over his head, letting it float softly to the floor. Her eyes roamed appreciatively over the broad planes of his chest. She had assumed that Otto would be soft with age, but he was sturdy beneath her touch, his body moulded by the years he had spent as a knight. She mapped every dip and scar with the pads of her fingers, committing them to memory.

When Otto leaned forward, gently grasping the shoulders of her shift and tugging them downwards, she allowed him to, her hands falling from his shoulders as the material slipped from her body and pooled around her waist.

“The maiden herself,” he murmured, as his eyes moved slowly over her body, as though studying scripture.

Otto grasped the emerald that lay upon her breastbone, lifting it to examine it, before letting it thud softly back against her sternum. Lia wanted to squirm, curl in on herself, hide from the intensity of his gaze, but she resisted, gasping softly when he reached up to cup one of her breasts. His large hand engulfed it in its entirety, leaving only its ruddy, pebbled peak visible. Her hands flew back to his shoulders, bracing and grounding herself as he inclined his head, first pressing a chaste kiss to the area then sealing his lips around it. Lia mewled, her head tipping back in pleasure as the sensation sent sparks of pleasure blooming outwards from her chest all the way down to her core, which clenched insistently around nothing.

When he released her, the separation of his mouth from her flesh made an audible pop as he stared up at her, lips parted, pupils wide with desire. Lia knew then that she had been wrong earlier—now was the moment when she had never felt more beautiful. Reaching between them, she pushed down Otto’s breeches, immediately wrapping her hand around his erection. It was thick, long and slightly curved, and she felt her mouth run dry, wondering how she would ever stretch to accommodate it. A groan rumbled in Otto’s throat, and he buried his fingers in the curls at the back of Lia’s head, pressing her forehead to his.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, almost breathless.

Lia felt tears gather at her lashline as she hovered above him, knowing that this moment did not just matter, it meant everything, and she did not want to delay it a second longer. Sinking down, they both tensed and gasped, until finally he was fully sheathed within her. The stretch of him stung slightly, but was not unpleasant. Lia pulsed around him; it was simultaneously too much and not enough.

“My husband,” she murmured, as his hands grasped her hips, encouraging her to move atop him.

‘I want to do this forever with you,’ she thought. ‘No one but you.’

The candles had burned down to near puddles, their white tallow spreading across the wooden surface of the bedside table. Lia was unsure of how many hours had passed as she lay sprawled across Otto’s bare chest, his arm curled possessively around her waist. Her shift was now discarded, leaving her as naked as he was. Her body ached and felt sore in ways that sent satisfied shivers along her spine.

“How many women have you been with?” she asked casually, as her fingers trailed idly against the skin of his chest and her eyes lifted tentatively to look at his side profile, its sharpness illuminated in the fading candlelight.

Otto lifted his head from the pillow, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. “That is not an appropriate question to ask,” he scolded gently.

“That many?!” she grinned up at him.

He chucked, squeezing her waist playfully. “You are a wicked thing.”

“Not so wicked that I have tired you out, I hope? I know how it is for men of your age–”

She squealed, her sentence cut off as Otto manhandled her onto her back, settling between her thighs as he pinned her wrists above her head in a singular hand. “We shall see about that,” he murmured, his tone filled with dark promise.

Lia decided that she rather enjoyed being married.

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#fic rec #moot <3

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huramuna · 1 month ago

Text

Lost | Aegon x OC | Modern!AU | NSFW

Rating: Explicit (oral sex, f receiving. fingering, girl on top, mild breeding kink, mild dirty talk, lots of feelings and thunderstorms) Pairing: Aegon x Abrogail Strong

Summary: Lightning streaks across the sky and he pauses, knees bumping at the edge of the bed. It illuminates her features, and her eyes are large in her thin face, cheeks streaked with tears. There’s an aching in his chest and he immediately crawls across the covers into her waiting arms, draws her into him and drags his mouth against her cheeks. She whimpers at the touch, trembles against him in time with the thunder and he tastes salt on his mouth.

Notes: Unbeta'd! @vampire-exgirlfriend had sent me a prompt for some southern gothic!Abrogon which has been a little AU world I've been playing in. This is a repost, since I can't find my original post.

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She doesn’t move at the sound of the window opening. Abby stays in her four poster bed, rolled over on her left side tucked under the covers and the lace curtains flutter in the breeze and the lazy spin of the ceiling fan.

“Are you awake?” Aegon asks, toeing off his boots from his perch on her window sill. The air smells of ozone, the storm rolling in and there’s a flash of light and he silently counts. One… two… three… the rumble of thunder answers and he rolls his shoulders with it, reaching back over his head to pull off his worn t-shirt.

She shifts beneath the pale pink blanket, her hair tied back in a ponytail but gives no other answer. He scratches his fingers across his bare chest, the fine blonde hair gathered there catching on his calloused fingers and reaches down to shuck his jeans off like he always does. The clink of the belt buckle echoes in the room and Abby shifts again, turns in her bed to face him.

Lightning streaks across the sky and he pauses, knees bumping at the edge of the bed. It illuminates her features, and her eyes are large in her thin face, cheeks streaked with tears. There’s an aching in his chest and he immediately crawls across the covers into her waiting arms, draws her into him and drags his mouth against her cheeks. She whimpers at the touch, trembles against him in time with the thunder and he tastes salt on his mouth. Comforting his girlfriend buck ass naked and half hard since he left his house twenty minutes ago thinking about her.

“What’s wrong?” he swipes his thumb along the apple of her cheeks, cups the softness of it. Softness that’s slowly been going away over the past few months since her dad got sick. The heart attack and the stroke, the way her shoulders bowed beneath the stress.

“Harwin.”

“What about him?” His brother in law. His girlfriend’s older brother, and Aegon wonders if they’ve achieved peak southern stereotype by having him be his brother in law on both sides. Eventually. When they get to that point where he can be the man Abby needs him to be. One who isn’t jobless and still living with his mom and flunked out of Tulane.

“He wants to move dad in with him and Nyra. Says I should come too. Finish out senior year in the city.”

The answer is immediate. “I’ll figure out how to get back into Tulane and you can live with me.”

“Aegon.”

“Or if that doesn’t work, I’ll move you into the big house.”

“Your mom wouldn’t allow it.”

Aegon makes a face. “She doesn’t have to know.”

That gets a wet laugh from her and it’s all he wants to hear. She says nothing except presses her wet face against his neck. His hand drops to her cute ass beneath the hem of his Hozier t-shirt he got at the concert they went to last year, runs his fingers under the elastic edges of her panties. “Let me make you feel better,” he whispers against her knotted curls. When was the last time she brushed her hair? He moves his fingers and strokes his knuckles along the seam of her, separated by the purple cotton with the little white hearts dotted all over it.

The thunder rumbles nearly over them, little time between the flashes of lightning, casting shadows across the room

Her hips shift against his touch, the puff of damp breath against his throat and he tugs the cotton aside, strokes two fingers along where she’s warm, and he promises her in whispers that she’s safe. His fingers come away damp and his thumb joins in to press against her clit, draws that achy whimper and her teeth catch against his neck, cock hard between them. The whine Abby makes is muffled with the rest of her sounds when he presses both fingers in and he groans into her hair. “Little rabbit, you’re so fucking tight.” Tiny and tight, whimpering and wriggling against two thick fingers curling into her. If he was kinder, he would have made her come first and let her loosen up.

Aegon is a good boyfriend, but he’s not always a kind one.

Abby doesn’t mind. Her body grips him tight that he can barely move with how tense and needy she is against him. He presses kisses against her brow and pulls her closer. “Take it easy… I’ve got you. Let go, Abs.” He feels her nod against his shoulder, spit gathering from her rubbing her mouth against his skin and he finds a rhythm, grinds the heel of his palm into her clit while he works his fingers against her, insistent on making her see stars.

Harwin and Rhaenyra are asleep downstairs, in town to take care of things with her father’s heart attack and Larys’... mysterious disappearance with a warrant out for his arrest. Wylla had found the dump site and it was the brotherly bonding activity between him, Aemond, and Daeron when the youngest was home for the weekend from his fancy boarding school.

Uncle Daemon had even showed up. A full family event as Aegon watched the dozens of blinking eyes swim closer. Listened to the whining gasp of his girlfriend’s monster of an older brother who thought he could make Abby an amusement, invade her and rob her of her sense of safety all for the fact that the foot fetish OnlyFans weren’t enough for him.

The gators had thrashed with glee in the water, the shadows thrown long from the headlights of the SUV, Larys hogtied on the pool inflatable, shirtless and bleeding from the dozen cuts sliced into him.

Blood in the water, nothing left behind.

“I want to stay,” Abby whimpers and her sounds, those precious sounds turn high pitched and draw him from the memory. Aegon licks into her mouth to swallow them down, keeping them from escaping the precious space of her bed. Her body bows and arcs into his touch. They’ve gone through the room from one corner to the other. The cameras are gone. It’s just them and the storm.

Aegon was too distracted to put a towel down, too in a hurry to comfort his crying girl and when she comes with a frantic jerk of her hips and a rush of wet like a broken levee, he makes sure the blankets are gathered beneath her cute ass so they can keep going.

Rain starts to ping against the windows, the howl of the wind audible through the cracks of the old frames and Abby lays against her pillows, dreamy eyed and swollen mouth watching him while she pants in the fall of her first orgasm he’s given her in weeks.

He’s a good boyfriend. His hand splays across the soft swell of her stomach to push his shirt up and over her pert tits, stroking against the pebbled peaks and hums in contemplation. “Be quiet,” he orders her and she nods frantically, reaching for his hand to noisily suck on the fingers he had inside of her. He raises his eyebrows at her and she hums. It’s good to see her cheeky and each suck shoots straight down his spine to his cock.

The head of it drags against her, bumps up against her clit and he’d tease her endlessly until she came twice, three times. He’s too impatient though. It’s been too long and with the way she swallows his fingers down, splays her legs wide and hooks them over his hips, it’s been too long for her too.

Abby gets stuck in her head with her pretty brows furrowed, and her nose scrunched up in thought. She needs him to take care of her, she needs him, needs him needs him, him only him.

He draws his fingers from her warm mouth with a wet pop and he kisses the whine from her mouth, rolls them over so he’s on his back and his girl is straddled across his lap.

Only him, only him and her and them in this bed. No one to ever hurt her again, no one to scare her. He reaches down to rub his cock against her and they both moan and shudder. Abby’s hips wiggle trying to catch him in and she pouts, opens her mouth to whine and complain and he shoves his fingers past her pretty lips once more.

“No wonder you were crying,” he teases her and he slides against her. Once. Twice. Third time's the charm, catches where he needs and he presses in with a groan and a roll of his hips. She works her way down and her free hand presses on his chest to keep her balance. “Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful. Look at you, taking me like this.”

She’s so beautiful with her hair tangled around her flushed face, eyes large and wet that he thinks he can drown in them if he stares at her long enough. Aegon can’t decide what to take in more: the sweet expressions on her face while she sinks down, or the way she splits around him, the way he disappears into her. He drops his hand from her hip to work her clit, slow swipes his thumb along the aching bud. Abby wriggles and whimpers and then… then….

The groans they make in unison have his toes curling in delight when she fully takes him and he arches into her and thinks, ‘we could just run away’.

Aegon doesn’t know where they’d run to, and doesn’t particularly care. All that matters to him is this. He surges up and takes her face in his hands, needs to breathe in her cries and her sounds and every good thing he’s doing to her, that she’s feeling because they’re together and she’s with him. Aegon licks into her mouth like he owns her, like she belongs to him and part of him would say it was true, uncaring of the eye roll that it’d get.

Abby doesn’t push him away. No, she claws her hands against his shoulders, his biceps, dives in to pull at his hair in all the feral little ways he adores, and he thinks, ‘If she is mine, then I am hers’. He relishes at the marks she scores in her desperation, and the painful way she tugs at his hair so he’ll feel it for hours afterwards.

Her hands find his shoulders and she breaks their kiss, her pouty mouth swollen, and red as jolly ranchers. “More,” she says with a crack in her delicate voice and pushes him down. Abby’s pupils are blown so wide the river blue of them is a thin rim, and as lightening flashes through her windows, she looks possessed. Feral, even.

“Take it all,” he promises her with a guilelessness he hasn’t held since he was a boy. She is everything sacred left in this world to him. She is his goddess, his beginning and his end. Abby finds her rhythm in the dance of her hips and he relishes in how his rabbit uses him for her pleasure, uses him for her escape into the world they’ve made together. She draws the t-shirt over her glistening skin and Aegon sighs, happily, to watch her perky tits bounce and the way her flush blooms across her skin.

He reaches up to gather the bead of sweat coursing down her sternum and groans when she slaps his hand away.

“I didn’t s-say you couldn’t touch,” she tries to command him and he drags his nails over her belly, watches her quiver and whimper as he skims lower where she’s so sensitive.

“I wanna touch.” He preens at her and thrusts up, drunk with how tight she is around him. This is as close as he can get to crawling inside of her into the place between her ribs where he wants to live forever.

The second smack to his hand is loud in the room and he growls at her, the lilac of his eyes a burning blaze. Her head rolls to her shoulder, her hand coming up to tweak and twist the pebbled nipple and his mouth waters. “Give me.”

“S-say please.” She tugs at her breasts again and he feels her clench around him and sees stars for a moment. His breath catches and he licks his lips, mouth too wet and he hasn’t even gone down on her.

Too impatient for his own good.

He reaches up and wraps his thick fingers around her wrist, digits still damp from her hungry mouth, and tugs her down so he can ensnare her. She struggles, a wriggling rabbit and he bands his other arm around her back so she’s pressed to his chest, her knotted hair curtaining around them.

Aegon bites at her candy mouth and breathes into her all the love he holds for her, as broken and as messy as it is. She’s unable to move and his hips snap into her with a relentless focus. Her bratty behavior is adorable and it ignites the need he has for her to levels that he can’t do in a house where her brother can and will shoot him on sight for this.

What better way to die than to be covered in her, and she with him?

She cries into his mouth when she reaches that pretty point where her body shakes and trembles and writhes, where her muscles clamp him down like she’s gonna pull him inside to stay. He falls with her a moment after and it’s better than any hit he’s taken, any bottom of the bottle of Jack he’s had. There’s nothing better than Abby for the high he wants. There’s nothing better than the tingly sparkle feel where everything, in that moment, feels like goddamn fireworks and cotton candy and her shaky voice whispering, “I love you I love you,” into his mouth.

Nothing better than breathing back his own, “I love you I love you.”

He drags her up his body so she’s straddling his face and admires the mess he’s made of her cunt. A gentle tap with the back of his hand, and slides his fingers in the mess, lets it drip down, licks at her like the feral, hungry animal that lives inside of him. She’s on the pill and for a mad moment while he works his tongue inside her where she’s sore and sated, he wishes she wasnt.

If he got her pregnant, then, she couldn’t leave. She’d have to stay and they’d live their little life with their baby and they’d be happy and-

She’s coming again like a little earthquake, a burst of damp and her thighs are trembling so hard he takes pity on her and draws her down. Arms come back around her and Abby rubs her cheek against his shoulder, that place beneath his chin that was made just for her, the place made just so he could hold her close to him and their hearts could beat in time.

His Abby is made for great things. Things greater than this shitty town with the ghosts and the gators and the weights around their ankles. She’s far too good for him, far better than the rotted likes of him, but when she tilts her face back to kiss his jaw with another whispered, “I love you,” he thinks that maybe he’s being too hard on himself.

If Abby Strong could find something in him to love, then maybe he’s not such a lost cause.

“If you wanna go with them” he murmured against the crown of her hair, the scent of her shampoo faded to almost nothing by now. “I could… I could come with you.”

His chest is tight, his eyes shining with unshed tears. She’s not saying anything, just puffs of warm breath against his skin and he wonders for a moment if she’s fallen asleep. Then, little fingers trace the spot above his heart.

“Do you want to?” she whispers and it’s her scared whisper, the one where she hides with him under the covers and tells him about the bad dreams and the worries and the way she misses her mom.

“I just wanna be with you.” He steels himself and turns his head so he can look at her. Eyes shining with an expression he can’t quite figure out and the thunder rumbles overhead, rain lashing against the window.

A storm to wash everything bad away and make it new.

“I wanna be with you too.” She smiles then, and presses her flushed face into his neck. He tightens his arms around her.

“I’d follow you wherever you wanna go,” he tells her with his lips pressed into her hair. “I’m a balloon tied around your wrist. Red strings and all that. I’ll be good. I’ll be better. I’ll be whoever you want me to be.”

Just don’t leave me.

“Just be you,” she whispers. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Just you. My Aegon.”

He nods and squeezes her tighter. “Your Aegon. Always.”

If you liked this story, I would love to hear what you think! Please reblog to share the love and let me hear your thoughts! Thank you for reading <3

#one of my first introductions to abrogon after the fae au #i love them dearly #southern gothic abrogon hits different #fic rec #nat tag

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