h. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mirrorwitches) wrote2024-04-19 12:55 pm
mirrorwitches) wrote2024-04-19 12:55 pm
(hotd) postulant chapter one
POSTULANT CHAPTER ONE
🐉masterpost🐉
“My princess,” Alicent says, hands clasped in front of her stomach, head bowed before the desk where Rhaenyra applies herself to being heir to the Seven Kingdoms. “With your leave, I intend to take vows as a septa, and then take up residence at the motherhouse in Oldtown.”
Rhaenyra breaks into wild peals of laughter. That is as expected. What follows is so unexpected that Alicent’s head jerks up and her mouth gapes open stupidly. “Oh, very well. As you like.”
“Princess?”
This isn’t what Rhaenyra was supposed to say. She was supposed to say: As your princess, as your future queen, as the one who controls your destiny, I forbid it. Or: absolutely fucking not.
She was supposed to make it explicit. She was supposed to be honest about it. She was supposed to have at least that much dignity.
Instead she smirks. She leans back in her chair. “Leave granted! And when will you be departing?”
She was supposed to be furious. She was supposed to drag Alicent back to her bedchamber by her hair and lock her in. Rhaenyra was supposed to send Daemon in to spank her to tears for her impudence, or if she was feeling generous, tell her if she stripped naked and had her legs open and pussy waiting for her when she got done then maybe they could let this nonsense go. She was supposed to make it very, very clear that Alicent has no choice.
Dread curdles in her stomach as Alicent realizes what this means. If she is to leave, Rhaenyra will make her do it. She will have to choose to do it. Of course, Rhaenyra wouldn’t really let her leave. Would she? It is a cruel mockery, a taunt. Alicent would not actually be permitted to mount her horse and exit through the Red Keep’s gates accompanied by Hightower retainers sent by her uncle from Oldtown to escort her home. She would be stopped.
Alicent licks her lips. “Come spring. Winter floods have made the roads bad, I hear.”
“So we hear. And it’s best to be sure, isn’t it? Once you’re in the motherhouse, it’s my understanding that it’s quite hard to get out again. Even great-aunt Saera had a time of it.”
“I am sure.”
Rhaenyra simply nods, picks up her pen, and resumes scratching away at the paper before her. “What,” she says when Alicent makes no move to leave, “did you expect to make a stir with this announcement? I’ve been expecting one such since you insisted on naming the babe after your mother.”
The late Lady Hightower had been born a Redwyne. Leyla Redwyne had honorably married Otto Hightower in the Starry Sept. Alicent had called the bastard daughter Daemon Targaryen got on her Laela Flowers.
“What of my child?”
“The one you tell me you plan on abandoning before she even reaches a year in this vale of sin? I suppose that’s what this is about. You wish to expiate the perceived stain of her birth by a life of prayer and atonement and this is a greater act of motherly love than your presence. Well, you can take such worry about her tiny immortal soul knowing her lovely mortal frame and future fine mind is nurtured and cherished. I told you. I consider her as my own daughter and she will be raised honorably with her brothers and whatever other children I might bear.”
“I go precisely to prevent breeding any more such unfortunate children.”
“Oh, sweetling, I never intended to let you bear more than one. I need to make House Targaryen strong with many heirs at whatever cost to my body, but you shall keep your beautiful figure. This will be true for Septa Alicent as well, to be sure, but hardly necessary.”
Rhaenyra flicks her eyes up and rakes them proprietarily down Alicent’s body, from coiffured, diademed crown to velvet-slippered toe, her gaze giving a firm, fondling caress to every inch of perfumed clinging silks in between. She is dressed exactly like what she is. A royal whore. “It won’t be true. I won’t have a body. I will have a mortal frame whose loveliness or lack thereof is of no consequence, merely being a vessel my soul inhabits, to house the spirit that matters for it dedicates itself to the gods even while it is condemned to the flesh.”
“It may be hidden in grey sackcloth, but you’ll still have a body.” Rhaenyra continues scribbling away. Alicent doubts it’s actually the business of the realm. Probably one of the doodles of cocks that adorn every inch of parchment she marks not entered into official record. Wasteful, ridiculous, and tasteless. “Well,” she demands when Alicent still doesn’t remove herself from her presence, “Anything else?”
“You’re the one who summoned me,” Alicent snaps.
“And you know very well why.” Again Rhaenyra glances up at Alicent but this time focuses her attention explicitly on the places that are wet for her: the aching peaks of the swollen nipples she can feel leaking against the flame-colored Qartheen silk—far more obscene clothing both her breasts than even the way the women of that city wore it with one bare, Alicent decently covered only so the fabric can be dampened and turned near translucent with sweetly cloying stains—that had started to flow the instant the princess’ summons came, as had her immediately flooding cunt, fortunately better concealed by the seductive swing of her skirts. “But clearly sometime between this morning and now your conscience has asserted itself. I will hardly insult you or the gods by demanding you override it now you have expressed your intention to commit yourself to them.”
Two more pinpricks of wet: Alicent’s eyes as the tears spring to them. Rhaenyra cannot be so cruel. It is she who has made Alicent into this, trained her body into the needy, weeping thing that most pleases her. Rhaenyra cannot deny her for all the long months of the winter rains. This is why Alicent must go. She must put as much distance between herself and the Red Keep as possible, to Oldtown to pray repentance over her father's tomb. She cannot stay in Rhaenyra’s proximity and bear it. She'll go out of her mind. She is not that strong. She is weak, damnably weak, and her father knew this, that is why he guarded her so vigilantly, and now he is dead and she is utterly lost.
“Rhaenyra…” Alicent whispers.
Her mistress puts down her pen and clucks, “Oh, poor lamb, you're aching, aren't you? I did call you for my afternoon feeding. I bet you're so full. I suppose…” Rhaenyra trails off tauntingly, but then says, “Oh, don’t cry,” and beckons Alicent forward to stand at her side behind the desk. Her tormentor plants her elbow right in the middle of an inked cock and then plops her chin on the fist at the end of the lower arm that blooms from it and grins up at her victim. “As I was saying, I suppose if you look at the thing in the proper light, your sweet titties would just be doing what they were made for, wouldn't they? The Mother herself has filled them with nourishment to feed your babes. But I could be wrong. I have no knowledge of theology or what the maesters say is natural or unnatural for woman, as you know. I do think it is quite a different thing from me feeding your hungry little cunt in return. That even I’m quite certain about.”
With this the princess flips up her own skirt to reveal the cock strapped to her thighs, springing up once freed from its own restraining cover. Alicent’s cunt clenches. She dribbles down her inner thigh.
The only audible response Alicent can make to this infuriating speech is pained whimpers, so full of the sore tightness in her breasts and the responding slime between her legs her brain is emptied of all human thought. She’s the Targaryens’ bitch but as Rhaenyra wraps Alicent’s skirt around her fist to reel her in and Alicent lifts her arms to begin unfastening her gown so she can bare herself to the waist to let Rhaenyra suckle, fingers clumsy as her cunt sucks emptily at nothing—bitches only go into heat twice a year, and never at the same they nurse their young—Alicent is condemned to not know what she pants for more: to whine as her engorged nipple is sucked between demanding lips or to whine as she bends and presents her slick inflamed cunt to be mounted.
Rhaenyra pauses in manhandling Alicent but she takes a step closer anyway, and now the fist at her hip holds her still, and she’s already whining, ceases to fumble with buttons at her neck to paw at the grip on her skirts to try to secure her release. Through a humid haze that seems to obscure her vision she watches Rhaenyra’s nose—the tip adorably, innocently pink in the winter chill of the study—twitch. “Fuck,” she breathes, “I can smell you.”
Alicent clasps her thighs tighter together, as if that will help matters. So quickly her head would spin—if it wasn’t already, if she could attend to anything beyond the momentary reprieve of her throbbing clit ground between her slippery, squeezed together lower lips and against a twist of her skirt formed into a ephemerally firm knot trapped at her groin, provided by her shaking legs tangling her up and nearly stumbling her to her knees as her body is maneuvered without her will, would if she wasn't moved by another force that does not will her to fall—Rhaenyra has Alicent pinned by the hips to the desk, the sinuous dragon carvings adorning its edge biting into her buttocks.
The moan that breaks across her lips at that one instant of succor far outlasts the pleasure that spawned it, as the scriptures teach—as Alicent only too late knows the visceral truth of; for only a few scant heartbeats of satiation had planted her daughter within her womb and now a whole life condemned to the sinful flesh must play out in consequence and she was cursed to love that life—but also it goes on, an on, and on, there is always more of this loathsome bliss, her moan does not die, a new one is not birthed by Rhaenyra’s steadier hands finally freeing her fevered flesh to the cool air, a flash of relief followed by its fitting punishment as her nipples stiffen and redouble their pulsing ache, her cunt sympathetically tightening so hard it's painful.
Rhaenyra gazes at her in satisfaction, eyes closed as she inhales. Which scent she savors brings that beatific smile to her lips, which could Ser Criston smell on her as he escorted her to the princess’ study, which was strongest or did they sickly mingle, twine around each other in an untangleable snarl in the heady fug she carried with her, wafting in her wake through the halls of the Keep: the drowsy, sweet-sour milky essence of the nursery or the decadent briny-sour tang of the brothel? Did her effusions render the priceless fragrances dabbed daily by her maidservant at her wrists and throat and inside her elbows and behind her ears worthless?
“We need to bottle that, before you leave for the Reach,” Rhaenyra says as if she's read her thoughts. “I wish I’d had Daemon milk you before all this”—here she brings up a hand and brushes her knuckle with an agonizing lightness across the flushed carmine points that tremble before her beaded by twin pearls of milk—“to get enough to fill a little vial I can hang around my neck and have a whiff whenever I need it…”
The only means Alicent has at her disposal to beg are always the same. The whine. The damp gleam of the speechless plead. She wields them shamelessly: the first to get Rhaenyra to open her eyes so she might apply the second. Alicent whines again at being met with their wicked glint, gut sinking. She won't send Alicent away but she likes to toy with her, lowering her from even bitch to squeaking mouse. Alicent’s breasts are a torment of tenderness, the taut skin straining with the load that fills them to bursting. Her cunt immolates too, tutored to know obscure signs and what they portend.
Hands disappear under Alicent’s skirt, fingertips teasingly graze her knees, but as they do Rhaenyra coos, “Of course you cannot leave until the babe is weaned,” so she knows what her dumb cunt doesn't, that this time the insistent suckle of Rhaenyra’s mouth pulling the milk from Alicent’s breasts into her throat will not be matched by Alicent rubbing her pussy against Rhaenyra's thigh or Rhaenyra's fingers fucking Alicent’s hole wide so she can get all the way within her to grind as deep as she can go—I wish I’d had Daemon milk you, not as deep as that pistoning, wetting churn, but still—to pull forth more of that other nectar, to drench her arm nearly to the elbow.
She wouldn't be satisfied with only a vial. She likes making herself reek of Alicent too much. She will without warning let Alicent’s nipple pop free of her suctioning mouth to spurt its stream onto her face, to trickle down her peachy cheek and drip off that rosy nose and dew on coral lip. Sometimes they'll be talking in Rhaenyra’s chambers and the princess is the one who drops to her knees to push up Alicent’s skirt and bury her face in her cunt, to drag her cheeks and nose and lips across the curls there—she is even fonder of this since Alicent’s pregnancy which caused the hair to grow longer and darker and very soft—not to get her off but only to saturate herself in her scent, to tease she won't wash before she leaves her rooms but let everyone smell the good cunt on her.
That good, stupid cunt doesn't know it will be denied Rhaenyra’s fingers today and flutters uselessly and it's true, Alicent can smell herself as she watches Rhaenyra snuffle the air like Syrax scenting sheep in a meadow miles away for dragons like hounds perceive more by scent than by sight, but dragonsenses aren't even needed here. She hopes the eager workings of the cunt making Alicent sore between her legs even without a single touch are enough to prevent Rhaenyra persecuting her by another favorite strategy: on these frigid winter nights when they share a bed Rhaenyra will tuck her equally frigid hand in the seam of Alicent’s thighs, thread her fingers through the shielding furs there, heated by the blood thrumming at her core beneath the warming pelt. Alicent will shriek and thrash at the icy claws scrabbling at her and then, teeth-chattering, clamp herself snug around her princess’ freezing little hand to warm her right up, and when that job is done Rhaenyra will swap hands, bringing her once again flesh-temperature digits up to her nose and breathing deep, giggling. She will not even need to get that close now, palm fast against Alicent’s slit, but can scratch her nails through the bristly hair that carrying the babe made creep repellently far and back down her thighs to Rhaenyra’s great delight.
Perhaps Rhaenyra would have a change of heart and would dedicate these winter months (this time of hunkering down in dens and nests against the ice, curled up nursing out of season and out of place, Alicent bringing the miraculous offering of the glutted bellies of spring against the howling winds without) to fill a vat with the help of her uncle’s thick cock, longer and fatter than any of the crafted ones he'd brought back from the Free Cities because she likes to watch Daemon pound away at her from behind, milking Alicent as she milks him, as Rhaenyra feeds at her breasts, each thrust making her seize and relax, so his breath comes hard and his thighs tense against the backs of hers, working him until she gushes fit to match the spill from her tits, until the tug of her cunt on him, drawing him into her, drawing his cream forth, makes him spurt and spill into her. Enough to load a cask to the brim, so the Princess Rhaenyra can daub her wrists and throat and inside her elbows and behind her ears with the priceless fragrance of her good cunt.
As is often the case, Alicent is assisted by the same source of all her trials: Rhaenyra’s inability to ever deny herself anything for any sustained length of time. It’s no guarantee as just as frequently Rhaenyra’s deepest desire is to deny Alicent. But now there is a greater want, a vaster need. Her eyes have gone hot and unfocused, locked on to Alicent’s breasts, her hungry mouth as schooled to this daily rhythm as Alicent’s cunt. It parts as her tongue darts out to caress her lip, and Alicent looks at the dark revealed cavern, glistening crimson with an excess of saliva, stirred by the heave of lolling tongue. Rhaenyra waits, open in demand, eyes above them a mean jade, as Alicent’s nipples throb with the longing to be inside her, as she writhes against the desk with the overwhelming urgency to have the immense pressure in her chest eased. This morning…well, first, she'd been awoken on the blue edge of dawn by the head of Daemon’s cock nudging at the entrance to her pussy.
They'd made Alicent their whore and she insisted they have the honesty to use her like one. When the Commander of the City Watch’s blood was up after a night’s shift there was no need to wake his wife, who needed every possible second of sleep to be well-rested for her many responsibilities. Alicent tensed instinctively then consciously willed her muscles loose when her mind caught up. It didn't require anything of her. Daemon was simply using her hole to attend to a cock hardened from the blood of the enemies of the king’s peace he'd shed in the king’s name. She was able to drift back to sleep until he growled with the delayed orgasm her merely serviceable hole cursed him with and he had to hike her hips back to drill into her rapidly, knees to her chest and face smushed into the pillow so she struggled to breathe as he got tired and stilled, his own breathing picking up, dragging her cunt back onto his cock with grunts of frustration until he came inside her. He'd moved off her instantly and with a friendly slap on her ass when she made no similar move to rise told her to get up and bathe before it was time to wake her princess. She could nap later, anytime she wanted, she had no duties other than princess and consort, Alicent could attend to her little studies and sleep as she liked in all the hours Rhaenyra spent learning to rule.
Then she'd really begun her morning, gone to Rhaenyra’s chambers, traversing the halls so early only the serving folk walked them with her, with only an embroidered robe thrown on over a nightgown that laced at the chest so when Alicent slid beneath the covers beside her lady who rolled over to her with her eyes not even open and pawed at the neckline—like the blind newborn puppies searching for the test amidst straw that they’d once observed in a stable as children, standing on overturned feed buckets to see over the stall door—it is nothing to part the cloth and pop out one breast and offer it it up with a hand for Rhaenyra’s sightless but unerring seeking. In that sleepy, sweet state Alicent only ached for a single moment before the princess satisfied herself, latching on with a whuffing sigh, lashes beating slowly against the skin of Alicent’s breast in the restless stirrings of clinging dreams, cold nose pressed hard into the pillowy swell, cold hand burying itself in Alicent’s armpit. She loved Rhaenyra like this, demanding yet somehow pliant, pathetic and precious, her puppy. Alicent stroked her hair and wriggled in delicious discomfort at the twitch of her fingers against the sensitive skin of her armpit with every swallow, her entire body flooding with a tingling warmth radiating out from the firm, relentless furnace of Rhaenyra’s mouth. Her cunt slicked over the sore steady pulse of its earlier use, and as dawn turned from blue to gold it was Rhaenyra’s body’s turn to wriggle and cunt to slicken, so she must release the teat, lips slack and swollen and slick too, to roll over and bare her pale belly round and taut-tight with milk in order for her bitch to lick her clean between her slippery, sticky pink puppy cunt, nosing at her for the bud Alicent can suckle just as hungrily until it yields up its own offering.
The doom was foretold there. Now in the white glare of winter sun off snow Alicent guides herself into Rhaenyra’s mouth with a moan. Rhaenyra makes her choose. She will always choose it, and so she must leave. She should have known as she knelt by the foot of the bed this morning and applied her tongue to Rhaenyra’s cunt and did not slide her hand down her body to play with her own clit but put her hand to her slack breast and moaned then, too, into the cunt she licked, at just one light tug at her raw nipple. It sang through her entire frame. She had clenched her cunt rhythmically, rubbed her thighs together, but mostly it was wringing the last drops of milk from the sore tip that made her come, draining herself dry with one hand with the other pinning Rhaenyra to the mattress with a palm on her velvety distended belly. Now she is burning, even Rhaenyra’s searing, suctioning mouth soothes, that dark damp inside almost cool. She throws her head back and desperately claws at her own skirts, to attend to her cunt and come that way but Rhaenyra’s hands flash out to secure hers to the desk by her wrists. Rhaenyra crowds closer, between her spread thighs, so she can’t even clamp them together. She writhes, trying to resist it. It surges within her as the milk pulses out of her onto Rhaenyra’s caressing tongue, as she’s emptied. She had not known she must escape until she was summoned by Rhaenyra for this latest round of unbearable bliss and now her clit jerks on nothing, not the slightest touch, as she cries out, and her whole body melts from her nipples down to her sex, shivering so her teeth chatter but not from cold, she only wishes Rhaenyra’s hands like brands at her wrists were cold.
Alicent had been in the nursery. She has never nursed her own daughter, never will. Her milk was for Rhaenyra, for Daemon; sometimes both of them suckled, one to each side. She glanced up from the book she read—she had all the books she could ever want, rare volumes of songs and romances and history and philosophy that left the Citadel for the first time in hundreds of years to travel under guard to the capital at the request of the Princess Rhaenyra, sent from keep libraries the length and breadth of the realms as gifts for the bookish mistress of the prince consort, acquired from rare book merchants from all the Free Cities and beyond by agents of the crown, and nothing to do but read them—the wetnurse feed Laela. The girl sang a lullaby and rocked Alicent’s daughter in her arms, wincing in pain at a particularly vigorous suck, at the babe grabbing at her hair and tugging hard. Alicent would never do that. Her body would not do what it was made for. It would not bear legitimate children; it would not be tired and bored suckling them. She got wet even before Westerling knocked at the door and knew she must go.
🐉masterpost🐉
“My princess,” Alicent says, hands clasped in front of her stomach, head bowed before the desk where Rhaenyra applies herself to being heir to the Seven Kingdoms. “With your leave, I intend to take vows as a septa, and then take up residence at the motherhouse in Oldtown.”
Rhaenyra breaks into wild peals of laughter. That is as expected. What follows is so unexpected that Alicent’s head jerks up and her mouth gapes open stupidly. “Oh, very well. As you like.”
“Princess?”
This isn’t what Rhaenyra was supposed to say. She was supposed to say: As your princess, as your future queen, as the one who controls your destiny, I forbid it. Or: absolutely fucking not.
She was supposed to make it explicit. She was supposed to be honest about it. She was supposed to have at least that much dignity.
Instead she smirks. She leans back in her chair. “Leave granted! And when will you be departing?”
She was supposed to be furious. She was supposed to drag Alicent back to her bedchamber by her hair and lock her in. Rhaenyra was supposed to send Daemon in to spank her to tears for her impudence, or if she was feeling generous, tell her if she stripped naked and had her legs open and pussy waiting for her when she got done then maybe they could let this nonsense go. She was supposed to make it very, very clear that Alicent has no choice.
Dread curdles in her stomach as Alicent realizes what this means. If she is to leave, Rhaenyra will make her do it. She will have to choose to do it. Of course, Rhaenyra wouldn’t really let her leave. Would she? It is a cruel mockery, a taunt. Alicent would not actually be permitted to mount her horse and exit through the Red Keep’s gates accompanied by Hightower retainers sent by her uncle from Oldtown to escort her home. She would be stopped.
Alicent licks her lips. “Come spring. Winter floods have made the roads bad, I hear.”
“So we hear. And it’s best to be sure, isn’t it? Once you’re in the motherhouse, it’s my understanding that it’s quite hard to get out again. Even great-aunt Saera had a time of it.”
“I am sure.”
Rhaenyra simply nods, picks up her pen, and resumes scratching away at the paper before her. “What,” she says when Alicent makes no move to leave, “did you expect to make a stir with this announcement? I’ve been expecting one such since you insisted on naming the babe after your mother.”
The late Lady Hightower had been born a Redwyne. Leyla Redwyne had honorably married Otto Hightower in the Starry Sept. Alicent had called the bastard daughter Daemon Targaryen got on her Laela Flowers.
“What of my child?”
“The one you tell me you plan on abandoning before she even reaches a year in this vale of sin? I suppose that’s what this is about. You wish to expiate the perceived stain of her birth by a life of prayer and atonement and this is a greater act of motherly love than your presence. Well, you can take such worry about her tiny immortal soul knowing her lovely mortal frame and future fine mind is nurtured and cherished. I told you. I consider her as my own daughter and she will be raised honorably with her brothers and whatever other children I might bear.”
“I go precisely to prevent breeding any more such unfortunate children.”
“Oh, sweetling, I never intended to let you bear more than one. I need to make House Targaryen strong with many heirs at whatever cost to my body, but you shall keep your beautiful figure. This will be true for Septa Alicent as well, to be sure, but hardly necessary.”
Rhaenyra flicks her eyes up and rakes them proprietarily down Alicent’s body, from coiffured, diademed crown to velvet-slippered toe, her gaze giving a firm, fondling caress to every inch of perfumed clinging silks in between. She is dressed exactly like what she is. A royal whore. “It won’t be true. I won’t have a body. I will have a mortal frame whose loveliness or lack thereof is of no consequence, merely being a vessel my soul inhabits, to house the spirit that matters for it dedicates itself to the gods even while it is condemned to the flesh.”
“It may be hidden in grey sackcloth, but you’ll still have a body.” Rhaenyra continues scribbling away. Alicent doubts it’s actually the business of the realm. Probably one of the doodles of cocks that adorn every inch of parchment she marks not entered into official record. Wasteful, ridiculous, and tasteless. “Well,” she demands when Alicent still doesn’t remove herself from her presence, “Anything else?”
“You’re the one who summoned me,” Alicent snaps.
“And you know very well why.” Again Rhaenyra glances up at Alicent but this time focuses her attention explicitly on the places that are wet for her: the aching peaks of the swollen nipples she can feel leaking against the flame-colored Qartheen silk—far more obscene clothing both her breasts than even the way the women of that city wore it with one bare, Alicent decently covered only so the fabric can be dampened and turned near translucent with sweetly cloying stains—that had started to flow the instant the princess’ summons came, as had her immediately flooding cunt, fortunately better concealed by the seductive swing of her skirts. “But clearly sometime between this morning and now your conscience has asserted itself. I will hardly insult you or the gods by demanding you override it now you have expressed your intention to commit yourself to them.”
Two more pinpricks of wet: Alicent’s eyes as the tears spring to them. Rhaenyra cannot be so cruel. It is she who has made Alicent into this, trained her body into the needy, weeping thing that most pleases her. Rhaenyra cannot deny her for all the long months of the winter rains. This is why Alicent must go. She must put as much distance between herself and the Red Keep as possible, to Oldtown to pray repentance over her father's tomb. She cannot stay in Rhaenyra’s proximity and bear it. She'll go out of her mind. She is not that strong. She is weak, damnably weak, and her father knew this, that is why he guarded her so vigilantly, and now he is dead and she is utterly lost.
“Rhaenyra…” Alicent whispers.
Her mistress puts down her pen and clucks, “Oh, poor lamb, you're aching, aren't you? I did call you for my afternoon feeding. I bet you're so full. I suppose…” Rhaenyra trails off tauntingly, but then says, “Oh, don’t cry,” and beckons Alicent forward to stand at her side behind the desk. Her tormentor plants her elbow right in the middle of an inked cock and then plops her chin on the fist at the end of the lower arm that blooms from it and grins up at her victim. “As I was saying, I suppose if you look at the thing in the proper light, your sweet titties would just be doing what they were made for, wouldn't they? The Mother herself has filled them with nourishment to feed your babes. But I could be wrong. I have no knowledge of theology or what the maesters say is natural or unnatural for woman, as you know. I do think it is quite a different thing from me feeding your hungry little cunt in return. That even I’m quite certain about.”
With this the princess flips up her own skirt to reveal the cock strapped to her thighs, springing up once freed from its own restraining cover. Alicent’s cunt clenches. She dribbles down her inner thigh.
The only audible response Alicent can make to this infuriating speech is pained whimpers, so full of the sore tightness in her breasts and the responding slime between her legs her brain is emptied of all human thought. She’s the Targaryens’ bitch but as Rhaenyra wraps Alicent’s skirt around her fist to reel her in and Alicent lifts her arms to begin unfastening her gown so she can bare herself to the waist to let Rhaenyra suckle, fingers clumsy as her cunt sucks emptily at nothing—bitches only go into heat twice a year, and never at the same they nurse their young—Alicent is condemned to not know what she pants for more: to whine as her engorged nipple is sucked between demanding lips or to whine as she bends and presents her slick inflamed cunt to be mounted.
Rhaenyra pauses in manhandling Alicent but she takes a step closer anyway, and now the fist at her hip holds her still, and she’s already whining, ceases to fumble with buttons at her neck to paw at the grip on her skirts to try to secure her release. Through a humid haze that seems to obscure her vision she watches Rhaenyra’s nose—the tip adorably, innocently pink in the winter chill of the study—twitch. “Fuck,” she breathes, “I can smell you.”
Alicent clasps her thighs tighter together, as if that will help matters. So quickly her head would spin—if it wasn’t already, if she could attend to anything beyond the momentary reprieve of her throbbing clit ground between her slippery, squeezed together lower lips and against a twist of her skirt formed into a ephemerally firm knot trapped at her groin, provided by her shaking legs tangling her up and nearly stumbling her to her knees as her body is maneuvered without her will, would if she wasn't moved by another force that does not will her to fall—Rhaenyra has Alicent pinned by the hips to the desk, the sinuous dragon carvings adorning its edge biting into her buttocks.
The moan that breaks across her lips at that one instant of succor far outlasts the pleasure that spawned it, as the scriptures teach—as Alicent only too late knows the visceral truth of; for only a few scant heartbeats of satiation had planted her daughter within her womb and now a whole life condemned to the sinful flesh must play out in consequence and she was cursed to love that life—but also it goes on, an on, and on, there is always more of this loathsome bliss, her moan does not die, a new one is not birthed by Rhaenyra’s steadier hands finally freeing her fevered flesh to the cool air, a flash of relief followed by its fitting punishment as her nipples stiffen and redouble their pulsing ache, her cunt sympathetically tightening so hard it's painful.
Rhaenyra gazes at her in satisfaction, eyes closed as she inhales. Which scent she savors brings that beatific smile to her lips, which could Ser Criston smell on her as he escorted her to the princess’ study, which was strongest or did they sickly mingle, twine around each other in an untangleable snarl in the heady fug she carried with her, wafting in her wake through the halls of the Keep: the drowsy, sweet-sour milky essence of the nursery or the decadent briny-sour tang of the brothel? Did her effusions render the priceless fragrances dabbed daily by her maidservant at her wrists and throat and inside her elbows and behind her ears worthless?
“We need to bottle that, before you leave for the Reach,” Rhaenyra says as if she's read her thoughts. “I wish I’d had Daemon milk you before all this”—here she brings up a hand and brushes her knuckle with an agonizing lightness across the flushed carmine points that tremble before her beaded by twin pearls of milk—“to get enough to fill a little vial I can hang around my neck and have a whiff whenever I need it…”
The only means Alicent has at her disposal to beg are always the same. The whine. The damp gleam of the speechless plead. She wields them shamelessly: the first to get Rhaenyra to open her eyes so she might apply the second. Alicent whines again at being met with their wicked glint, gut sinking. She won't send Alicent away but she likes to toy with her, lowering her from even bitch to squeaking mouse. Alicent’s breasts are a torment of tenderness, the taut skin straining with the load that fills them to bursting. Her cunt immolates too, tutored to know obscure signs and what they portend.
Hands disappear under Alicent’s skirt, fingertips teasingly graze her knees, but as they do Rhaenyra coos, “Of course you cannot leave until the babe is weaned,” so she knows what her dumb cunt doesn't, that this time the insistent suckle of Rhaenyra’s mouth pulling the milk from Alicent’s breasts into her throat will not be matched by Alicent rubbing her pussy against Rhaenyra's thigh or Rhaenyra's fingers fucking Alicent’s hole wide so she can get all the way within her to grind as deep as she can go—I wish I’d had Daemon milk you, not as deep as that pistoning, wetting churn, but still—to pull forth more of that other nectar, to drench her arm nearly to the elbow.
She wouldn't be satisfied with only a vial. She likes making herself reek of Alicent too much. She will without warning let Alicent’s nipple pop free of her suctioning mouth to spurt its stream onto her face, to trickle down her peachy cheek and drip off that rosy nose and dew on coral lip. Sometimes they'll be talking in Rhaenyra’s chambers and the princess is the one who drops to her knees to push up Alicent’s skirt and bury her face in her cunt, to drag her cheeks and nose and lips across the curls there—she is even fonder of this since Alicent’s pregnancy which caused the hair to grow longer and darker and very soft—not to get her off but only to saturate herself in her scent, to tease she won't wash before she leaves her rooms but let everyone smell the good cunt on her.
That good, stupid cunt doesn't know it will be denied Rhaenyra’s fingers today and flutters uselessly and it's true, Alicent can smell herself as she watches Rhaenyra snuffle the air like Syrax scenting sheep in a meadow miles away for dragons like hounds perceive more by scent than by sight, but dragonsenses aren't even needed here. She hopes the eager workings of the cunt making Alicent sore between her legs even without a single touch are enough to prevent Rhaenyra persecuting her by another favorite strategy: on these frigid winter nights when they share a bed Rhaenyra will tuck her equally frigid hand in the seam of Alicent’s thighs, thread her fingers through the shielding furs there, heated by the blood thrumming at her core beneath the warming pelt. Alicent will shriek and thrash at the icy claws scrabbling at her and then, teeth-chattering, clamp herself snug around her princess’ freezing little hand to warm her right up, and when that job is done Rhaenyra will swap hands, bringing her once again flesh-temperature digits up to her nose and breathing deep, giggling. She will not even need to get that close now, palm fast against Alicent’s slit, but can scratch her nails through the bristly hair that carrying the babe made creep repellently far and back down her thighs to Rhaenyra’s great delight.
Perhaps Rhaenyra would have a change of heart and would dedicate these winter months (this time of hunkering down in dens and nests against the ice, curled up nursing out of season and out of place, Alicent bringing the miraculous offering of the glutted bellies of spring against the howling winds without) to fill a vat with the help of her uncle’s thick cock, longer and fatter than any of the crafted ones he'd brought back from the Free Cities because she likes to watch Daemon pound away at her from behind, milking Alicent as she milks him, as Rhaenyra feeds at her breasts, each thrust making her seize and relax, so his breath comes hard and his thighs tense against the backs of hers, working him until she gushes fit to match the spill from her tits, until the tug of her cunt on him, drawing him into her, drawing his cream forth, makes him spurt and spill into her. Enough to load a cask to the brim, so the Princess Rhaenyra can daub her wrists and throat and inside her elbows and behind her ears with the priceless fragrance of her good cunt.
As is often the case, Alicent is assisted by the same source of all her trials: Rhaenyra’s inability to ever deny herself anything for any sustained length of time. It’s no guarantee as just as frequently Rhaenyra’s deepest desire is to deny Alicent. But now there is a greater want, a vaster need. Her eyes have gone hot and unfocused, locked on to Alicent’s breasts, her hungry mouth as schooled to this daily rhythm as Alicent’s cunt. It parts as her tongue darts out to caress her lip, and Alicent looks at the dark revealed cavern, glistening crimson with an excess of saliva, stirred by the heave of lolling tongue. Rhaenyra waits, open in demand, eyes above them a mean jade, as Alicent’s nipples throb with the longing to be inside her, as she writhes against the desk with the overwhelming urgency to have the immense pressure in her chest eased. This morning…well, first, she'd been awoken on the blue edge of dawn by the head of Daemon’s cock nudging at the entrance to her pussy.
They'd made Alicent their whore and she insisted they have the honesty to use her like one. When the Commander of the City Watch’s blood was up after a night’s shift there was no need to wake his wife, who needed every possible second of sleep to be well-rested for her many responsibilities. Alicent tensed instinctively then consciously willed her muscles loose when her mind caught up. It didn't require anything of her. Daemon was simply using her hole to attend to a cock hardened from the blood of the enemies of the king’s peace he'd shed in the king’s name. She was able to drift back to sleep until he growled with the delayed orgasm her merely serviceable hole cursed him with and he had to hike her hips back to drill into her rapidly, knees to her chest and face smushed into the pillow so she struggled to breathe as he got tired and stilled, his own breathing picking up, dragging her cunt back onto his cock with grunts of frustration until he came inside her. He'd moved off her instantly and with a friendly slap on her ass when she made no similar move to rise told her to get up and bathe before it was time to wake her princess. She could nap later, anytime she wanted, she had no duties other than princess and consort, Alicent could attend to her little studies and sleep as she liked in all the hours Rhaenyra spent learning to rule.
Then she'd really begun her morning, gone to Rhaenyra’s chambers, traversing the halls so early only the serving folk walked them with her, with only an embroidered robe thrown on over a nightgown that laced at the chest so when Alicent slid beneath the covers beside her lady who rolled over to her with her eyes not even open and pawed at the neckline—like the blind newborn puppies searching for the test amidst straw that they’d once observed in a stable as children, standing on overturned feed buckets to see over the stall door—it is nothing to part the cloth and pop out one breast and offer it it up with a hand for Rhaenyra’s sightless but unerring seeking. In that sleepy, sweet state Alicent only ached for a single moment before the princess satisfied herself, latching on with a whuffing sigh, lashes beating slowly against the skin of Alicent’s breast in the restless stirrings of clinging dreams, cold nose pressed hard into the pillowy swell, cold hand burying itself in Alicent’s armpit. She loved Rhaenyra like this, demanding yet somehow pliant, pathetic and precious, her puppy. Alicent stroked her hair and wriggled in delicious discomfort at the twitch of her fingers against the sensitive skin of her armpit with every swallow, her entire body flooding with a tingling warmth radiating out from the firm, relentless furnace of Rhaenyra’s mouth. Her cunt slicked over the sore steady pulse of its earlier use, and as dawn turned from blue to gold it was Rhaenyra’s body’s turn to wriggle and cunt to slicken, so she must release the teat, lips slack and swollen and slick too, to roll over and bare her pale belly round and taut-tight with milk in order for her bitch to lick her clean between her slippery, sticky pink puppy cunt, nosing at her for the bud Alicent can suckle just as hungrily until it yields up its own offering.
The doom was foretold there. Now in the white glare of winter sun off snow Alicent guides herself into Rhaenyra’s mouth with a moan. Rhaenyra makes her choose. She will always choose it, and so she must leave. She should have known as she knelt by the foot of the bed this morning and applied her tongue to Rhaenyra’s cunt and did not slide her hand down her body to play with her own clit but put her hand to her slack breast and moaned then, too, into the cunt she licked, at just one light tug at her raw nipple. It sang through her entire frame. She had clenched her cunt rhythmically, rubbed her thighs together, but mostly it was wringing the last drops of milk from the sore tip that made her come, draining herself dry with one hand with the other pinning Rhaenyra to the mattress with a palm on her velvety distended belly. Now she is burning, even Rhaenyra’s searing, suctioning mouth soothes, that dark damp inside almost cool. She throws her head back and desperately claws at her own skirts, to attend to her cunt and come that way but Rhaenyra’s hands flash out to secure hers to the desk by her wrists. Rhaenyra crowds closer, between her spread thighs, so she can’t even clamp them together. She writhes, trying to resist it. It surges within her as the milk pulses out of her onto Rhaenyra’s caressing tongue, as she’s emptied. She had not known she must escape until she was summoned by Rhaenyra for this latest round of unbearable bliss and now her clit jerks on nothing, not the slightest touch, as she cries out, and her whole body melts from her nipples down to her sex, shivering so her teeth chatter but not from cold, she only wishes Rhaenyra’s hands like brands at her wrists were cold.
Alicent had been in the nursery. She has never nursed her own daughter, never will. Her milk was for Rhaenyra, for Daemon; sometimes both of them suckled, one to each side. She glanced up from the book she read—she had all the books she could ever want, rare volumes of songs and romances and history and philosophy that left the Citadel for the first time in hundreds of years to travel under guard to the capital at the request of the Princess Rhaenyra, sent from keep libraries the length and breadth of the realms as gifts for the bookish mistress of the prince consort, acquired from rare book merchants from all the Free Cities and beyond by agents of the crown, and nothing to do but read them—the wetnurse feed Laela. The girl sang a lullaby and rocked Alicent’s daughter in her arms, wincing in pain at a particularly vigorous suck, at the babe grabbing at her hair and tugging hard. Alicent would never do that. Her body would not do what it was made for. It would not bear legitimate children; it would not be tired and bored suckling them. She got wet even before Westerling knocked at the door and knew she must go.