( Every character in this story is a legal adult over the age of 18 )
The Dread Lord of Essos
Chapter 87
One of Harry’s personal ships slipped into the private harbor of Seven Swords just after sunrise. The sky was painted in a smear of pinks, purples, and oranges, and their reflections glimmered off the water’s surface. On the deck, Margaery clung to the rails, laughing at the salt spray and the gulls that wheeled overhead. She wore an emerald-green gown that hugged her figure so tightly it seemed stitched to her bare skin, and the sea breeze plastered the thin silk to every wonderful curve. Alerie Tyrell, her mother, stood behind her in a dress of crimson and black, and her silvery-blonde hair was tied up in one long, fat braid. Her expression was one of practiced serenity. Even so, she kept glancing at the city walls with a half-smile and a sparkle in her eye.
When the ship rattled up to the dock, Harry took Margaery’s hand and guided her down the gangplank. She made sure to tightly cling to his arm, though her feet were sure and her stride unhurried. The dock workers stopped what they were doing to stare at her, and she rewarded them with a dazzling smile. Her mother followed quickly behind them. Her movements were more restrained, but she never once let go of Harry’s arm. She pressed up against him, making sure the entire city could see how familiar she was with him.
The Tyrell women knew Seven Swords was unlike the other Free Cities. That fact was only proven when they craned their necks to get a good look at Harry’s castle. The glimmering white towers were so bright that they seemed to soak up and reflect every bit of sunlight. The city beyond was a sprawl of terraced gardens, marble statues, and villas with red-tiled roofs. And on this particular morning, the castle grounds were filled with people. The word had gone out that Harry’s ship was returning, and a small crowd had gathered to watch the Tyrell women disembark.
There were wealthy merchants in fur-trimmed cloaks, city guards with gleaming breastplates, and a gaggle of highborn ladies who were very open with their jealousy. The crowd’s noise dulled to a murmur as Margaery passed. She relished the attention while tossing her hair and swishing her hips in a way that drew every eye to her slender body. Even Alerie, usually the more dignified of the two, had a faint blush on her cheeks as she surveyed the assembled onlookers. Quite a few of the merchants were eagerly staring at her. No doubt they were hoping to take the place of the recently deceased Mace, and thereby take control of Highgarden. Little did they know that Harry was the only man for her.
They made a slow procession down the dock. Margaery’s laughter was the sweetest thing in the market, and it cut through the morning fog like a blade. Harry led the two women with regal confidence, waving off the city bailiffs and customs men who tried to approach with scrolls and seals. He had no interest in city business today. He was showing off his new arrivals.
At the end of the dock, a brand new carriage with the Tyrell coat of arms on the side sat waiting for them. The symbol of the golden rose on a green shield sparkled in the early morning sunlight. Two magnificent white steeds were lashed in with shiny black leather straps studded with gold. The whole contraption was so grand that Margaery squealed when she saw it. “It’s so lovely!” she cried out and threw her arms around Harry’s neck. She pressed her body to his and kissed him in front of everyone, tongue and all. Onlookers gasped, though none dared to comment. Harry held her for a long moment, then set her down gently.
Alerie took her daughter’s hand, and both women slipped into the carriage. Harry followed, and the driver set off. Harry took them on a tour of the city to show how much it had changed since their last visit. As the carriage moved through the city streets, Margaery drew back the curtains to wave at the people. Some cheered, others bowed, and a few old women shot her an unimpressed look. Apparently, they didn’t approve of her scandalously low-cut dress.
The city was his, and the Tyrell women belonged to him for as long as he wanted. He reveled in the power, but even more in the thrill of parading his conquests for the world to see.
Harry guided the Tyrell women through the King’s Garden, into the Business District, and around the Plaza of the Dawn. The two ladies drew heavy attention with their beauty and undeniable presence. Margaery was having the time of her life, and though she tried not to show it, Harry could tell that Alerie felt the same way.
The Dread Lord of Essos
Arianne Martell drew her mare to a halt atop the final, wind-swept rise before the city. Sunspear shimmered in the pale dawn. Its spires and domes rose from the sand like the teeth of some dormant leviathan. In better seasons, the city would have glowed in a cauldron of heat, but now, winter’s touch chilled even the stubborn Dornish air. The breath curled from her lips, and she pulled her furs tight across her chest. Her heavy cloak was trimmed in rabbit fur, and the hood was lined with a deep red silk. Beneath it all, she wore soft silks that tickled her body pleasantly. The chill seeped through the layers, but she would not shiver. She would never allow herself to look weak.
Arianne was twenty-three and had the face and body of a Dornish goddess. Her skin was olive-toned and flawless. She had the kind of skin that drew the hands and eyes of men and women alike. Her hair was as black as volcanic glass, and it tumbled in tight ringlets over her shoulders. Every curl was perfumed with orange blossom oil. Her eyes were large and dark, and she could bend the will of men with just one pouty look. Her lips were full and plush, and the curve of her nose was delicate, but not weak. She had the sharp Martell jawline, but it was softened by the feminine lines of her cheeks and chin.
The rest of her figure was even more dangerous. She was short, barely reaching five feet two, but her body was built for temptation. Her breasts were heavy, round, and high-set, and the thick silk dress strained to contain them. The cold made her nipples stiff as thimbles, and she could feel them poking through her dress, but she liked the attention it drew. Her hips flared, her waist was narrow, and her thighs were strong and smooth. Even in the saddle, she radiated confidence and raw sexuality. She had been taught that beauty was a blade, and she wielded hers with savage skill.
She urged the mare down toward the city, and the wind whipped the ends of her hair into her lips. Sunspear’s outer wall was unmanned, and the gates were flung wide open. As winter set in, the chance of attack slimmed dramatically, so security was relaxed. She slipped through the alleys, and the houses were pressed so close together she could have reached out and trailed her fingers along the windowsills as she rode. A handful of men in threadbare cloaks watched her pass, but none dared step in front of her. They knew who she was, and they knew it was best not to mess with her.
At the harbor, the old, familiar stench of fish and brine hit her, but new smells rode in the wind. She could smell strange spices and fresh, sweet fruits. The harbor was packed. Half the piers were lost under crates, barrels, and bales, and dozens of ships lined the wharves. Some were flying banners she’d never seen before. It was a beautiful, promising chaos. There was opportunity in it, and that made her blood quicken.
She saw her uncle standing at the end of the farthest pier. Oberyn wore a robe of sunburst yellow over black breeches and boots, but even at this distance, she saw how he cut through the crowd. His shoulders were thrown back, his chin was up, and his eyes darted around with interest. There was no mistaking Oberyn Martell for any other man alive.
Arianne left her mare with a stableboy and strode down the pier. The wood was slick with ocean spray, and her boots left perfect, wet prints behind her. She felt the hungry gaze of sailors and dockhands, but ignored them. She’d grown up with their stares, and they had never touched her unless she wished it.
Oberyn looked her up and down, and his mouth twisted into a pleased, wolfish smile. “You look like the last queen of Valyria,” he said, then stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace. His arms were strong, and the warmth of his body cut through the morning chill.
She kissed him on both cheeks and breathed in his scent. She could smell the wine on his lips and the scent of the olive soap he preferred to use. “Uncle,” she said. “You summoned me.”
Oberyn released her and cupped her chin in his hand, turning her head from side to side. “I wanted to see if you survived the night,” he said in a low and teasing voice. “Did you sleep alone?”
Arianne’s lips curled in a smirk. “If I did, it was not for lack of offers.” She glanced past him. Her eyes were drawn by a flash of pale silk among the dockworkers. “What is happening here? The port is overflowing.”
Oberyn gestured with two fingers at the sea. “Look out there,” he said, and she followed the line of his hand.
A ship was slipping into the harbor, cutting a path through the crowded water. It was a monster, three times the size of any galley she’d seen. The hull was so dark it drank the sunlight, and the prow was carved in the shape of a woman with her arms outstretched, breasts bare, and mouth open in an erotic scream. The sails were cream-colored, and at their center was a black lion’s head. Each detail was outlined in gold. The deck glittered with inlays of dark wood and polished steel. Even from the shore, it commanded everyone to stare at it.
Arianne felt the hair on her arms rise. “That is not a ship. That is a beast.”
Oberyn grinned. “It is the private ship of the King of Seven Swords. She belongs to Harold Hill.”
Arianne tried not to let her surprise show, but Oberyn saw it and laughed. “You have heard of him.”
“I would have to be deaf and dumb not to,” she replied. She knew the stories. Harold Hill was the bastard who took Essos and bent it to his will. The Dread Lord, they called him. He was the man who ruled by gold and guile and whose appetite for beautiful women was the stuff of legend. There were stories about the women in his bed, about the city he’d built in a handful of years, and about the way he laughed at the old houses of Westeros and shamed them with his every breath. “I did not think you admired him, Uncle.”
“What is there not to admire?” Oberyn said. “He created an empire from nothing, and now the Lords of Westeros will grovel at his feet, begging for his generosity.” He squeezed her shoulder, and Arianne looked at him. “Do you want to meet him?”
Arianne glanced back at the ship, at the bright sails and the beautiful, dangerous prow. She could feel the answer forming in her belly, just below her navel. “Does my father wish it?”
“He does,” Oberyn said. “Prince Doran received an invitation to Seven Swords, along with every lord and lady in the realm who matters. He wants us to go in his place. He is still in poor health and not up for a long trip.”
Arianne always liked the way anticipation made her blood run hot, and the thought of being presented to the infamous Dread Lord of Essos had her insides tightening with forbidden delight. She could already imagine the chamber where they would meet. She could practically see the gold lamps burning low, his lips parted with desire, and her own every movement watched by a man who had seduced a continent of women and broken every rule that mattered. She wondered if he would be like the other lords and knights who were so easily swayed by the promise of her body, and so eager to impress her with their silly swords and titles … only to find themselves doing whatever she willed, and sometimes weeping with gratitude for the privilege of her attention. Would this Harold Hill be something else? Would he see through her, or would he be the first to truly challenge her? She found herself hoping for the latter, and the heat built between her thighs until she almost squirmed on the pier.
She looked back at her uncle with a sly smile and one perfect eyebrow lifted. “I would be delighted to go,” she said. Her voice was low, throaty, and utterly unafraid.
Oberyn’s answering grin was filled with mischief. “I thought you might.” He took her arm in his and steered her back down the pier. “We leave before sunrise. Pack tonight, and I will have your things loaded onto the ship. The journey will be … perilous.” He flourished the word with a little tilt of his head, making clear that the path ahead was neither safe nor simple. “Seven Swords is a city for quick wits and quicker blades. There will be many powerful men and women fighting for the same prizes. You will have to be ready.”
Arianne didn’t hesitate. “I am always ready, uncle.”
He released her arm and let out a bark of laughter that turned every dockworker’s head. “That is what I love about you, my dear. You say you are ready, and the world bends to make it true.”
He stopped at the edge of the wharf and looked her up and down one last time, as if memorizing the way she looked on the cusp of a new adventure. “Your handmaiden will wake you. Be at the eastern gate, and do not bring that mare. There are better horses on the other side of the sea.” With a last squeeze of her shoulder, he vanished into the crowd with his yellow cloak flaring behind him.
Arianne stood in the brilliant morning light. Her heart was pounding excitedly. She was deliciously uncertain whether she wanted to conquer the Dread Lord or be conquered. The thought made her lips part and her breath come quicker. She turned and strode away from the wharves, and every head turned as she passed. She would pack, she would arm herself, and she would plan every word of her first meeting with the most dangerous man in the known world. And if all went well, she would soon be in his bed, writhing in pleasure.
As she mounted her mare, she allowed herself a single wicked grin. The game was afoot, and she had always been happiest when the stakes were at their highest.
The Dread Lord of Essos
Alerie Tyrell stood in the center of her new chamber, turning a bundle of silk over and over in her hands. The dress was lighter than a feather. It slipped and slithered in her grip like a living thing. The long mirror stood across the room, and Alerie eyed it warily, as if fearing its judgment. She was alone, save for the distant clatter of servants in the hallway beyond.
She took a deep breath, untied her robe, and let it drop from her shoulders. The air in the castle was kept warm by unseen magic, but even so, her nipples puckered in the draft as she stood bare. She wasn’t young, but her body had been shaped by years of fine food, careful discipline, and ruthless competition with every other highborn lady in the Seven Kingdoms. She was tall, long-legged, and elegant, with the proud, pale beauty that had once driven her late husband to madness. Her breasts were full and heavy, and her hips were soft and wide. Even now, after bearing children and enduring every horror the world could throw at her, her belly was flat, and her skin was smooth. She didn’t hate her body, but she also didn't parade it without reason.
She held the dress up to the light. It was dyed a deep emerald, trimmed in the colors of Highgarden, and cut from a silk so fine she could see the shape of her hand through it. Alerie took a breath and stepped into the dress. The silk ran up her thighs, caught for a moment on the fullness of her bottom, and then clung to her as she drew it up over her shoulders. The feeling of it was obscene. It was so soft and smooth, and it felt alive against her skin. She worked the buttons closed, but there were only three, and they barely covered her at all. She tried to adjust the bodice, but the neckline stayed where it pleased, refusing to hide the dark tips of her nipples. The skirt was even worse. It was slit on both sides all the way to her hip, and every step she took threatened to bare everything. She stared at herself in the mirror with her lips pressed tight.
The neckline plunged all the way past her navel, held together by a single line of crystal buttons. When she ran her fingers down the seam, the silk parted at once, exposing the upper slope of her smooth, naked mound. The inside curve of her breasts and the shadowed valley between them were completely on display. She almost laughed at the audacity of it.
It was vulgar. There was no denying that. But there was a strange pleasure in it, too. She let her hair down and shook out the fat, pale braid, and it tumbled past her shoulders in a heavy, glossy curtain. She had never been more aware of her own beauty or her age. She wondered if that was the point of the dress … to make her see herself as others did.
She studied herself with her head tilted and one hand pressed to her stomach. The silk clung to her breasts and belly, and left nothing to the imagination. When she put her hands on her hips, the fabric drew tight across her mound, and she could see the faintest suggestion of her slit. She felt her cheeks flush.
“You’re a true work of art, Lady Tyrell,” said a voice behind her. It was as smooth as honey. She stiffened, then caught his reflection in the mirror and turned. Harold stood in the doorway with his arms folded, and his eyes devouring her from head to toe. He wore only a white silk shirt and black trousers, and he looked utterly at ease in her private rooms.
“Please tell me you gave me this dress as a joke,” she said.
Harry shook his head, grinning cheekily. “I would never joke about something so serious.” He crossed the floor with slow, confident steps and came to stand behind her. He towered over her, and his presence practically filled the room. He gently set his hands on her hips and guided her to face the mirror again. She could see both of them reflected back at her.
“Look at yourself,” he softly said, and lightly kissed her neck. Alerie gasped at the intimacy of it. “You’re magnificent.”
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry. His hands slid up her sides, moving with excruciating slowness. His fingertips traced the curve of her waist, the swell of her ribs, then dipped to the bare skin at her cleavage. He cupped her breasts from behind and weighed them in his palms. The dress was too thin to offer any real resistance, and she felt his thumbs circle her nipples until they stiffened even further under the silk.
Alerie drew a shaky breath and leaned back against him, and her wide ass pressed into his groin. He pressed in harder, and she felt the unmistakable bulge of his arousal. His cock was hard and ready. She bit her lip, fighting to keep her composure.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked intimately, and his breath was warm on her ear. He likely already knew her answer.
She shook her head. She reached up and guided his hands more firmly around her breasts. She wanted him to squeeze, to knead, and to make her forget every insecurity and every scrap of hesitation she still had. He smirked and rolled her nipples between his fingers, and she let out a sound that was almost a whimper.
Harry smiled at her reflection and kissed the top of her head. His hands moved in slow, expert circles, with one cupping the weight of her breast while the other thumbed and teased her nipple through the silk. Her knees almost buckled, and she braced herself against the mirror’s heavy frame.
He leaned in and nipped her earlobe. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the city,” he whispered. “And you’re mine.”
Alerie closed her eyes and melted into him. The dress might have been scandalous, but in his arms, she felt like a goddess. She tilted her head, exposed her throat, and waited for his next move. He did not disappoint.
He slid one hand down, pushing the silk aside until his palm rested against her bare mound. He could feel the heat of her arousal, and he gently stroked her. Then he parted her lips with just his fingertips. She gasped as he pressed his fingers between her folds. She was wet, and he knew it, but he made no sign of rushing her. Instead, he nibbled her neck, whispered sweet things into her ear, and let his hand do its slow, torturous work. With every circle of his fingers, her body shuddered.
She tried to speak, but the words came out as moans. “Yes … don’t stop …” was all she could say. She pushed back against him, grinding her ass into his crotch. He slid his hand deeper and curled his fingers to find the spot that made her gasp the loudest. Her wet lips clung to his fingers, desperate to keep him inside. She arched her back and rocked her hips in time with his touch.
“You’re so warm and wet,” he teased her, and his words made her shudder.
He worked her gently, watching her in the mirror. She writhed under his hand, and every movement and sound was magnified by the sight of her own surrender. He pushed the dress off her shoulders, and it slithered down her arms. She stepped out of it and let it puddle at her feet. She stood naked, flushed, and trembling in his arms.
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, and her jaw. With his free hand, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes in the glass mirror. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded softly.
She did not hesitate. “I want you.”
He smiled, and his fingers moved faster. Alerie gasped, and her hands clawed at the mirror’s frame. It was an exquisite torture. He brought her to the brink and held her there, but the sound of her wet pussy squelching around his fingers was too much to handle. She came with a breathless moan, shuddering against him, and he held her tight as the pleasure rolled through her.
When her legs could support her again, she twisted in his arms and kissed him hard and desperately. She reached down, unfastened his belt, and slid her hand into his trousers. His cock was already hard and hot, and she stroked him as she kissed him. He grunted, nipped her lip, and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing.
He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and spread her legs with both hands. She pulled him down on top of her, locking her ankles behind his back. He drove into her with one long, slow thrust, and she cried out while her fingernails dug into his shoulders. He fucked her with deep, steady thrusts, and all Alerie could do was whimper and moan.
Alerie moved together with him, finding a rhythm that was hungry and urgent, but also full of something sweeter. She felt the joy of being wanted, of being seen, admired, and possessed. He whispered erotic things in her ear, praised her, and coaxed her to ever greater heights of pleasure. She surrendered to his words, and to him, and let the waves of pleasure crash over her.
When he finally came, he buried his face in her neck and groaned, holding her so tight she could barely breathe. She clung to him, loving the weight of his body and the warmth of his skin. She whimpered as her pussy fluttered around him, and desperately clung to his invading shaft. She felt him spill his seed inside her, and she mewled and ground herself against him, intent on milking every last drop.
When at last she opened her eyes, Harry was propped on one elbow, gazing down at her with that lazy, handsome smile she loved so much. He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, and Alerie nuzzled his palm with her warm cheek.
“You should wear that dress to the opening of the Pleasure District,” he said.
She laughed, and her throat was raw from moaning. “If I wore that in public, half the lords and ladies of Westeros would faint or die of shock.”
“Let them faint,” he said, and kissed her again. “I want everyone to know you belong to me.”
She smiled, closed her eyes, and let herself drift. For the first time in years, Alerie Tyrell felt like herself again. She felt bold, beautiful, and utterly shameless. It was a feeling she intended to hold on to.