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“Tread Lightly Here,” proclaim the house words of Footly of Tumbleton. And you’ve made your life by doing just that. It used to be simple, if a little dull.
You, Syrene Flowers, are the product of a dalliance from Lord Footly's careless youth. You are not close to your father, but your relationship is amiable and you are very appreciative to be part of the household. Lady Sharis has grown tolerant if not fond of you over the years as you have always made yourself useful around Footly Hall and have always made it a point to show her due deference. You are quite skilled at stitching and embroidery and you mend and embellish the lady’s garments as well as other cloths and woven items. Tapestries, cushions, bedclothes, and table linens keep your hands busy through the days. You yourself have good quality clothes (modestly decorated by your own hand), a simple but comfortable bedchamber, and reliable meals. The maester has even given you some instruction in letters, allowing you to read books in his library. It’s been a perfectly fine life, and you’re generally grateful to be in such a position.
The only thing for which you’ve lacked lately is real pleasure in the arms of a man.
While you must be careful not to make trouble or cause a spectacle around your noble father and the lady and their esteemed guests, it has been possible for you to discreetly take lovers on occasion. Not being a strong match for a marriage has given you a sort of freedom in this way.
However, your bedmates have had a truly unfortunate tendency to bore you. At best, there is some novelty in the beginning, as the excitement of a new mouth, chest, cock, arouses you. But so quickly you find them all lacking. They seem to only think of thrusting and spending their seed. A few have bothered to consider a bit more about your pleasure and offer kisses, sweet words, maybe even a lick on your slit. While you appreciate the effort, even this feels underwhelming. You sometimes wonder if anything could really thrill you, take you to the gown-ripping heights of ecstasy you’ve heard of from bawdy songs. For a long while you’ve simply been uninterested – why put effort in only to be left unsatisfied?
There are unfortunately more pressing issues to worry about just now. The dragons have been warring for some time. There can be no calm or ease while such behemoths are restless, even since the true heir Queen Rhaenyra had taken her place in King’s Landing. The Footlys, among other noble houses in this corner of the Reach, had feared since the start that the deadly dance would sweep this way. Most unfortunately, it has - in disastrous fashion. The Hightower host has come in and taken over the town. Soldiers quarter in the comfortable homes of merchants and traders, unwanted guests at best and typically worse than that. The tension is palpable across Tumbleton.
Worst of all, Ormund Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown himself, has occupied Footly Hall with his personal retinue. Lord Ormund has made himself quite at home (despite apparent grumblings about luxuries he feels are lacking here) and occupied the Lord’s chambers himself. He hardly allows Lord and Lady Footly to leave the heavily guarded chambers he’s moved them into, and when they do, they are watched closely. He is temperamental and prone to fits of anger. He is volatile even at his sweet, obedient young squire. The household of the keep have learned to move fast when he makes a demand. You find out from chatter among them that he is a man uniquely devoted to cleanliness, and is deeply repelled by messes and unpleasant smells. An unlucky few servants and cupbearers have learned the hard way that spills or soils infuriate him violently. You wonder how a warrior accustomed to the dirt and gore of the battlefield could be so fussy.
In any case, you simply hope to stay well out of his way. You only see him in passing and you scurry past as unobtrusively as possible. As hard as you try to be invisible, you feel his eyes on you. You hope he finds you unremarkable. You hope his clothes do not need mending.
Days pass with mundane chores including many fixes to the clothes of the Hightower’s fighting men but soon the dreaded moment arrives. Lord Ormund’s favorite padded gambeson has a tear, wearing through near a spot where his breastplate sits heavy against it. He demands that it be mended, and his standards for such repairs is surely high. He will not even send it to you via another servant. He commands that you come to him so he can give you his own specific instruction on the matter.
Your fellow servants and maintainers from the household look at you with pity in their eyes. You sigh deeply, trying to brace yourself. You long to go back to when your greatest trouble was the fruitless search for a decent lover.
You feel it prudent to bathe and take a short soak in one of the tubs set aside for the use of the servants. You have a very small bottle of fragrant oil from Tyrosh that one of your sometime paramours brought you, and this feels like an important occasion to ensure your scent is pleasant. The oil has notes of sweet night blooming flowers and a hint of something fresh and herbal you cannot place. You dab a small amount behind each ear and at your collarbone.
You take a deep breath as you approach the door to the Lord’s chambers. Ser Jon Roxton waits at the door.
“You are the seamstress?” he asks.
“Yes, I am here to see to Lord Hightower’s mending as requested,” you reply.
He takes a step towards you and you freeze instinctively.
“I mean you no harm,” he says. “But I am to ensure you do not offend my lord.” He leans in a little closer and takes a long whiff of you. You wonder if you will pass the test.
He steps back, nods, and opens the door with little expression. You enter Lord Footly’s chambers, and Roxton closes the door behind you. Your stomach drops a bit as you’d hoped to avoid being alone with Lord Ormund. You wonder if it is too late to run away.
A fire crackles in the hearth and you notice a scent of cedar and incense lightly infuses the room. Lord Ormund Hightower sits, imperious, in the great oak and velvet chair above the table in the room’s center. You sense he has positioned himself very deliberately. He is dressed in his fine green leathers, impeccable and imposing in perfectly aligned straps and buckles. You take a deep breath.
“My Lord,” you say, curtsying. “It is my understanding that one of your garments needs repair. If you would be so good as to bring it to me and show me what must needs done, I will do my best to fix it to your satisfaction.”
He says nothing for a moment and smiles, tenting his fingers. This only serves to make you nervous. You know he goes from comely smile to explosive rage with little warning.
“Ah, Castle Footly’s seamstress has finally come to me. What are you called?”
“I am Syrene Flowers, if it please my Lord.”
He stares, studying you, still smiling.
“Ah, a bastard daughter of Lord Footly? In truth I would not have guessed that dull man could have such indiscretions but perhaps when he was young he had a bit more… vigor.”
Though it rankles you a bit, you say nothing to this. It seems prudent to only speak what is absolutely necessary and to end this interaction as soon as possible. He studies your face and seems a little disappointed at your silence. He gets up and moves towards the table where the gambeson is folded along with a pair of hose with holes in the heels. He picks up the doublet and moves next to you. He leans in close, and you know he is taking in your scent. Your breath catches, you fight the urge to move away. He pulls away slightly, apparently satisfied. He points at an area on the shoulder of the garment where the green fabric has gone threadbare from friction.
“Were I in my own castle I would simply have another made, but in these mean circumstances I will have to settle for having this repaired. Do not simply patch it as if it were a rude peasant’s rags. I would have it as close to pristine as can be managed. Keep it safe from anything staining and away from other garments or anything at all that may imbue it with… odor. Can you do that, seamstress?”
“I suppose I could use a darning loom to re-weave it where it has gone thin,” you say, thinking aloud. “I will do my best to match the color and pattern.”
His eyebrows rise.
“You suppose. That you will do your best?” he mocks. “Ugh, what a curse to be trapped in this keep with such incompetent help. And a bastard, no less.”
Your lip curls. Now you must do your best to bite your retort back.
“My Lord, I am the most skilled stitcher in Tumbleton, but if you prefer I am happy to seek out another seamstress who is less offensive to your sensibilities.”
To your horror he closes the small gap between you. He leans in close and breathes in deeply.
“No,” he says quietly. “You will have to do.”
He grips your arm firmly and pulls you to him. In your panic you react unthinking. You spit at him, and it lands right on his cheek.
The fear hits you like a rock from a trebuchet and you take a few steps back. What have you done? Your mind races. You are about to suffer for certain. He may well kill you.
The moment feels impossibly long and agonizing. He stands stock still for a second, and then touches his finger to the wet spot as it slips down his face. He looks at his wet finger and closes his eyes. It’s hard to tell but you think you see a hint of a bulge below his long leather coat. You did not expect this but maybe it provides an outside chance to avoid terrible consequences.
You take a deep breath and and ask him, softly, “My Lord, did you… like that?”
His eyes remain closed as his fingers move away from his cheek, strings of saliva hanging briefly between them before they give.
“How dare you…” he whispers. “Bastard-born bitch. How dare you sully the face of the Lord of Oldtown.” The words are fury but his tone does not match. His eyes open slowly and you wait to see what they hold. Every second has become a tense calculation.
Lord Ormund’s expression looks hungry, almost pleading.
“Would you forgive me? Or is there… something else you might have me do to show you my contrition?” you say, cautiously taking a step towards him. He rubs your spittle between his fingers. He makes no move to strike, so you take another step.
“I… I… You’ve made me dirty.” He seems unsure of the words, struggling to articulate a feeling.
This is your chance, and you think you know what to do. Part of the way you’ve been able to build a good life here is that you can read people well. You possess a keen ability to sense what people want from you.
This certainly seems like an odd tack to take but you feel fairly confident about it. But perhaps it will not even be so unpleasant.
“Would you wish me to clean you? Or,” you pause, “perhaps you might wish to be… dirtied some more?” As the words leave your lips you see him shudder, drawing in breath. Encouraged, you continue and take another step. You have nearly closed the distance between you.
“Perhaps you are weary of the burden of being pristine.” You half-smile, putting on seductive eyes.
You are taken by surprise as he roughly pulls you close, big hands about your waist. His grip is tight and he presses his mouth to your ear. It takes him a moment to get the words out.
“Tell me I am dirty.”
You feel relief that he seems responsive… and you feel an unexpected amount of arousal. Blood suddenly rushes to your groin, unbidden. You feel yourself begin to get wet.
“I don’t have to tell you,” you say. “You clearly already know. The world sees only the powerful and pious Beacon of the South, but the truth is that on the inside you are brutish. Beastly. Filthy.”
He groans and you can feel his quickening pulse where your cheek touches his. You’d expected this to be a chore, a mere transaction to secure your safety. You’ve never spoken to any man this way, much less a highborn one. The thrill is unexpected but so very welcome.
“No,” he weakly protests, “I am the light of the citadel…”
“No, no. How naughty of you. You know what you are. And as high and mighty as you pretend to be, it is all a vile lie. You are a debased, sinful creature. I can smell it on you,” you reply, taking a deliberately strong sniff as you pull away a bit and tug at the collar of his leather gambeson. “These fine clothes themselves are a disguise. You are a soiled sinner, and your noble garments make you a deceiver before the gods. You know what happens to those who offend the gods, don’t you?” You slip a finger under the collar, lightly pushing your fingernail into his skin.
“I do not wish to be damned…” he says softly.
“Do you desire to be redeemed?” you purr.
“Please, yes,” he pleads. “Tell me what I must do to be cleansed of my impurities and I will do as you bid, my lady Syrene.”
You smile wickedly at him and let go of his embrace. You walk to the lord’s seat, a few steps above him, and sit. He watches you go but makes no move, waiting for you to answer him. To command him.
“First, you must dispense with pretending you are high and mighty. You are a beast, and animals do not wear clothes. Remove your garments.”
He hesitates for a moment before starting down the long row of buttons on the leather coat. You can tell he does not usually dress or undress himself, particularly not from his finer clothes. It takes a long time for him to work his way down the opening of his garment. Watching him struggle a bit is quite satisfying, you think. You idly spread your legs and begin to lightly stroke your mound through the fabric of your skirts, looking straight at him. He notices and you see him take in a breath. He works a little faster as he gets to his belts and finally to his undertunic, hose, and boots.
At last, he stands before you naked. You’d guessed from the size of his hands that he might be well-endowed, and you see that you were correct. Not imposingly so, but it will fill you up nicely and the thought of it sends a thrill through your whole body. You can feel the increasing heat of your sex even through your skirts.
You stand and walk to him, smiling with half-lidded eyes. You look him up and down deliberately, slowly. He certainly inspected you – going so far as to have Jon Roxton ensure your smell was suitable for his presence before you even came in. Having him stripped nude and unarmed before you, for you to gaze upon at your leisure, is incredibly arousing. Lord Ormund seems to feel the same, as he is quite erect.
You reach out and brush his collarbone lightly with your fingers. “How amusing, take the rich garments off a mighty lord and he is no better than any foul reprobate from the streets.”
He begins to lean in toward you and reaches for your waist. You lightly slap his hand and step back.
“I didn’t tell you you could touch me, worm. Perhaps instead you would touch yourself. That’s what debauched men like you do, right? A dirty habit. Show me, Ormund,” you say, deliberately leaving out his noble title.
He sighs and shivers with exhilaration. His hand moves to his cock and he begins to stroke it slowly.
“That’s right,” you say. “That’s what you like. I bet you think absolutely filthy things while you debase yourself.”
He sighs, and a drop of liquid appears at the tip of his cock.
“Stop,” you command him. “You unwashed cur! Clean that up. Taste it.”
He wipes his cock with his finger and moves the hand toward his mouth looking unsure.
“Are you a coward as well? I said taste it. Such things should come naturally to such a foul creature.”
Ormund licks his finger slowly, looking straight at you, then sucks it from the base while closing his eyes. You feel your bud quiver at the sight of it. He continues stroking himself with his other hand. You walk around behind him, leaning in close while you press your body into his naked back side.
“Do you like the taste? Do you like it when I treat you like a filthy dog?” you whisper. “Answer me.”
“Yes, my lady. I am a filthy dog,” he breathes. You feel his stroking get faster.
“Dirty, slimy, muddy… maybe you are worse than a dog,” you say. Ormund gasps as he continues to rub himself. He seems close to finishing but you’re not done toying with him yet. “Stop,” you command him, forcefully holding his arm for a moment. He does not struggle, though he whimpers a bit.
“I won’t let you have your pleasure yet. I must have mine, too. If you are a dog, perhaps I will breed you like one,” you say, grinning at him. He whimpers again and you can tell he is burning with desire.
“First, I would have you undress me. Slowly,” you tell him. “Truly this is a job for a servant and you are even lowlier than that, but... you’ll have to do.” You wonder if he notices that you are echoing his words to you from earlier. How the tables have turned, you think with a wicked grin.
“Yes, my lady,” he says as he begins to untie the straps of your apron dress. As the second knot comes out the dress falls from you, pooling around your ankles. Ormund stops a moment to take in your erect nipples, visible through your light undertunic. He begins to lift the undertunic above your head, his hands stroking your sides firmly as he moves the cloth upwards. As it slips off and he tosses it aside, you feel a warm drip on the inside of your thigh. You’ve never been so wet.
“My lady, what would you have of me?” he begs.
You think for a moment, looking at the pile of clothes Ormund discarded on the floor.
“Bring me your belt. The one without your dagger.”
“As you wish,” he replies. He picks up the ornate belt and hands it to you.
You loop it around his neck, leaving it loose, and hold the other end. You pull him to you. He’s so very hard, and now you can feel it throbbing against you.
“You’re panting like a dog, too,” you tease him. “What next? Will you drool upon me? So disgusting.”
He groans a little. “Yes, my lady.”
“Say it. Say, ‘I’m disgusting.’”
“I’m… disgusting.” The second word comes out in a whisper and he bites his lower lip.
You look at the lord’s velvet-cushioned chair upon the dais. You pull him along after you as you approach it.
“Sit, dog,” you say tauntingly, pointing at the chair. He obeys. You straddle his muscular thighs, your warm mound and wet nether lips touching his cock. You shiver as sensation flows through your body. His cock throbs and he groans. He cups your buttocks with his hands, lifting slightly to urge you to take him in.
“Naughty, naughty,” you say, mocking, lightly slapping one of his hands. “I thought you were a consummate warrior, the image of perfect discipline and order. You cannot even control yourself! But… no need to worry. You’ll be a good dog by the time we’re through.”
“Yes, please. I promise I will, my lady Syrene.”
“You are so exceptionally sinful and impure. I think you like being this way, Ormund,” you say, pulling lightly at the belt. You bring him in for a kiss. He eagerly returns it, lightly sucking your lower lip and pushing his tongue gently into your mouth. You start to move your hips in a light rocking motion, the feeling of his erection against your slippery cunt lighting up your senses. His breath quickens, you can feel it as his lips press against yours and he bites your lower lip lightly. After a few moments you break the kiss.
“Do you want me, Ormund? Do you want to put that big cock inside me? I am so very wet, you’ll get my juices all over you. It will be so messy. But I think that’s what you want…”
“Please…” he pleads. The desperation in his voice is delicious.
“I will consider it,” you purr, squeezing his torso with your thighs and sliding yourself up against his cock a little harder. “But you’ll have to do some contrition. You must confess to me.”
“Anything, my lady. I will tell you anything. I will do anything you desire.”
You smile at him again, still holding the end of the belt. “Tell me, dirty boy, when was the last time you touched yourself?”
He groans in reply, “Yesterday evening, my lady.”
“In the dark, in the lord’s bed? How foul.”
“Yes,” he replies, “A filthy habit.”
“Indeed, it is good that you understand that. And, when you tug your cock, do you tell yourself a little story? Something to help you reach your peak?”
“Yes, my lady.”
You move your hips upward and finally slide yourself down slowly upon his pulsing cock. You’re so slippery it goes in without any pain, but you feel it stretch you and fill you. Ormund writhes beneath you, moaning as he begins to pump. For a moment you forget the game and words fail you. You cry out a little as the friction builds a warm spark at your core.
“You feel so good,” he breathes. “So tight, so very wet.”
“This is what you want, isn’t it? Being hilt-deep in dripping wet bastard pussy. The Lord of Oldtown no better than a common unwashed peasant. Surely, we are about to leave an awful mess upon this chair.”
“Such a mess,” he says, thrusting into you faster, kissing your neck.
“Tell me, have you thought of me when you sinfully pull your cock?”
“Yes,” he whispers breathlessly.
“Tell me what you thought about.”
“Unghhh… I imagined you naked, spread wide beneath me, begging for me to fuck you…”
“Begging you? How pathetic. You’re the one begging now, worm. Go on.”
“I rolled you over, and fucked you from behind, telling you you were mine. You cried out with pleasure, telling me how much you craved my cock. I spent myself into you, it filled you up and still I was erupting. It spilled all over your buttocks and thighs, all over the bed, ” He groans as you flex your muscles, tightening on him as he throbs.
“My goodness how wicked. How perverse. When you thought of this unholy act, did you finish?”
He only groans in answer. You go on.
“I bet you got your bed so sticky and messy. You’re no godly lord, you’re just a bad, dirty, naughty cur.” Hearing your words, feeling you tug on the looped belt around his neck, he utters a moan and bucks beneath you. You can feel him pulsing warmly inside you. He is close but you sense him holding back.
You smirk and breathe hot into his ear as you say, “Are you going to spill your seed in me now, you dog? Ugh, you’re going to make me so wet and sticky! If I’d wanted such a filthy, mannerless brute to dirty my cunt I should have gone to the sty and fucked the pig boy.”
With those words he moans intensely and his muscles go taut. He shudders as he fills you. It feels hot and thick and endless. After a long moment his throbs slow as he melts against you, panting as his cock softens.
“You vile creature, you’ve sullied me,” you hiss, smiling as you draw his face to look at yours. He looks wide-eyed but his manhood has begun to harden anew at your insult.
“You’re not done. You will clean me up with your mouth. You will lick every drop of your filthy seed out of me like the dog you are.”
“As you command, my lady.” His expression turns to hapless arousal, nearly drooling.
His cock continues to stiffen as you stand and it slips slowly out of you. Some of his spend leaks from you onto his thigh. He looks at it for a moment, then uses two fingers to scoop it up. He looks so hesitant but brings it to his mouth and slurps it in, eyes closed, savoring it. The sight of it makes you shudder. It is so delicious to bring this man low. You never could have guessed such an ecstasy was possible.
Ormund Hightower gets down to his knees as you sit upon the lord’s chair, letting go of the end of the belt. You spread your legs wide and he leans in close, taking in your scent for a moment first. He pushes his face into your sex with abandon, holding your thighs as he laps and sucks at your wet slit. He slurps his seed from you hungrily as you grip his auburn hair. It feels incredible, so much better than a polite lick or kiss. This lord, this warrior, is helpless as you debase him. His haughty nobility is nothing in this moment. He is as clay in your hands. You feel the beginning of your climax’s bright tingle.
“You vile beast, I am going to succumb!” you gasp. “I’ll be even wetter and it’s going to get All. Over. Your. Face.” He looks up for a second and the sight of him sends you over the edge. His countenance is already so slick with sticky fluid, it covers his shapely chin and lips and even his lordly nose. He continues enthusiastically licking and you release a scream involuntarily and your hips buck against his face. He puts his large hand over your mouth to muffle it but keeps licking your cunt. You sink your teeth into his palm just a bit as waves of pleasure rip through you. You finally have to push him away as it becomes too intense.
As you sit, panting and still throbbing, Ormund pulls himself upward and kisses you. His face is still wet and his mouth is still filled with your mingled fluids. It fills your mouth and drips out down both your chins and necks as your lips and tongue entangle with his. He holds the side of your face firmly but tenderly with his hand. You taste the mild salty tang of his seed and your juices and find that you savor it.
He finally pulls away and looks you in the eyes. He unloops the belt from his neck and it slides to the floor. His expression changes gradually, eyes losing their warmth, and in the end he gazes at you as if you are some kind of puzzle that vexes him. The seriousness of his eyes is an odd mismatch for the comical amount of liquid on his face but you know better than to smirk or taunt him now that his mood has shifted. For a second you feel a twinge of foreboding, unsure how this is about to play out.
He steps down to the room’s main table and takes a piece of linen from beneath a bowl of fruit. He wipes his face, neck, and cock. He tosses the soiled cloth at you.
“Clean yourself. Quickly.”
He has transformed back into the Lord of the Hightower. He is again a commander of men, a scion of an ancient and wealthy house, a paragon of gentility, piousness, cleanliness. You could believe that another man had worn his skin just a few moments ago. You immediately do as he asks.
“Now dress yourself and go,” he growls, haughty coldness returned to his voice.
You do not dally. You get your layers on as quickly as possible and turn to leave, pausing only for a moment to grab the basket containing his gambeson and hose and now the piece of linen stiff with the leavings of lovemaking. You start for the door.
You only go a few steps before Lord Ormund catches you and grabs you forcefully by the waist from behind, his grip so fierce you wonder if he is about to tear your dress from your body. He leans close to your ear, the sharp angle of his jaw brushing your neck.
“You will tell no one of this.”
“My lord, it will be our dirty secret,” you whisper back. You feel his grip tighten as he shudders involuntarily. He goes stiff again and it pushes against you, pulsing hotly into your lower back.
“Off with you,” he says brusquely. He lets go, pushing you forward a bit. You waste no time, this is not the moment to test whether you have earned even a bit of favor. As you rush from the room you hear him call loudly to the manservant outside the main door.
“Bring my tub and fill it with hot water forthwith! A scrub brush as well. The coarsest you can find…”