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Chapter Text

They were screaming. 

The Milk Men of Qarth and fat traders of Slaver’s Bay called these squat, flat-faced shepherds the Lhazareen, but the Dothraki called them Lamb Men for their sheepishness - Kraggo called them easy prey. For seven days and seven nights his khalasar had gone without a good raid. They’d passed empty settlement after empty settlement, all had been deserted once their inhabitants heard tales of Khal Kraggo’s approaching horde. This town of rock and wood is where they’d fled. 

It had low walls of loose stone and boasted a shallow moat fitted with sharpened stakes. At any other time it likely housed nearly six thousand Lamb Men, but its walls were packed with three times that number on the morning Kraggo’s screamers had vaulted them on horseback.

Arakhs sheared through the soft flesh of farmers and shepherds as Kraggo cantered his stallion past the fire and chaos he was born to spark. He watched a boy fleeing from a pair of his riders, who laughed and cheered as they fired arrows around the lamb boy’s feet. The horse beneath Kraggo, lean and muscled, was as dark as a spiritless sky, a sky without stars. He slowed it to a meandering trot as he passed a familiar scene of lust.

A lamb girl no older than sixteen sobbed and pleaded in her sheepish tongue as one of the khal’s kos, Provo, tore off her bloody rags and shoved her facedown over a deep circular hole Kraggo recognised as a place lesser men drew water. Her cries echoed against the stones below as Provo bared his already hard cock, a curved brown shaft, and thrust himself inside her. Her cries turned to wails as he rammed his pelvis against her copper-coloured cheeks again and again. Kraggo noted that the girl’s figure was not remarkable in any way. She was flat of chest and rump, and from up on his stallion her face appeared homely. Thankfully for Provo, that face was shrouded by the lip of the well as he took her in the Dothraki fashion - mounted from behind, the way a rider mounts an animal; and animals these Lamb Men were. It was even rumored amongst Kraggo’s people that they lay with sheep. Today, this one had the honor of laying with Provo, one of the khal’s bloodriders. He chuckled as she kicked and scratched, but soon her flailing subsided and she went still.

The wails turned to pleading. Then to utter silence. 

By the time Provo was finished, another rider had dismounted behind him, ready to take his turn, but Provo had better plans. He pulled out of the lamb girl with a wet schlik , trailing a string a white seed from the tip of his glistening member to her swollen lips, and then swiftly and sharply upturned her legs. The girl didn’t even have time to scream as she was tipped over the stones and fell down into the well. After a moment, a dull crack echoed from down below. Kraggo smirked. 

That is what we bring to these Lamb Men. He thought to himself.

“This is the fate of those who would deface our mother with their hoes and scythes and axes!” Kraggo called out to everyone and no one as he brought his horse back to a canter, “The grass and soil and rivers are our mother… and we will reduce your town to rubble so that it may return to her!”

It was not long before Kraggo arrived at his destination - the center of the burning settlement. Piles of bodies filled the large open space that once served as a marketplace. Babes cried out for their slaughtered mothers. Boys and girls no older than ten were being herded into groups for collaring. The youngest would be sold to the slave caravans and likely end up in pleasure houses, where men paid for a night of fucking rather than earn it through conquest. The luckiest would become the personal pets of some plump, powdered slaver; they would live to serve him day and night, and would please him endlessly. 

Kraggo scoffed at the thought of using a boy for that purpose, those with cocks were meant to mount a steed rather than another cock. But it was true that he’d fucked his fair share of young girls, some no older than four or five. Those few were used and discarded after a single bedding - their insides ruined by Kraggo’s great manhood. 

The khal brought his stallion to a halt and prepared to wait. Years ago he had made it customary for his three ko to each bring him a captive for mounting in the aftermath of a victory. Of those they brought, one would be chosen to remain by his side as his newest bride, while the other two were killed.

Of victories, there had been many. A wind cut through the ruined marketplace and Kraggo’s hair sang a song of gentle chimes. He had been a khal for two decades, and in those years he had only ever cut his braid once - a day he would never forget, but one he tried not to recall. The mind is a cruel bitch, however, and now the memory was in control.

The dark sky was overcast that night, and the stars were shrouded behind a thick fog. Those stars, the fiery horses ridden by his forbearers, could not watch over him. Kraggo was a young khal, freshly titled and driven by a thirst for glory. His khalasar was twenty thousand strong, almost the size of Khal Temmo’s own horde when he besieged Qohor nearly two centuries ago, only Temmo’s army had ultimately shattered against a troop of three thousand Unsullied - the eunuch slave soldiers trained in Astapor who rode no mounts. The remnants of Temmo’s host had later honored those soldiers and shamed themselves by cutting their braids - but Kraggo did not intend to honor them. He knew that the purpose of a footsoldier was to be cut down by a man in a saddle.

He’d been bold, as any khal should be, when he decided to earn his first great victory by sacking the city of Norvos. Norvos had never known defeat. In ages past, when it was besieged by Qarlon the Great, a hundred dragons had descended on his host, turning them to ash. It was a jewel, set in a series of mountains known as the Hills of Norvos. Those hills would be his downfall…

Recalling the past had soured Kraggo’s mood by the time his first ko, Azzo, came forth with his offering. The young woman, bound in woven ropes by her hands and feet, and already fitted with a steel collar, was clearly a lamb. The khal saw red. These sheepfolk lay with animals, they were not worth mounting by one as strong and scarred as him. He was a conqueror, a horselord who had slain men in steel dresses and lions in the grasslands. Azzo, his own ko, had shamed him by bringing some lamb bitch to his feet. 

Without dismounting, the khal’s hand found his arakh, and he did not give the woman a moment to react. Her head rolled. Kraggo did not speak a word, but his eyes met Azzo. The ko seemed to understand that it would take many gifts to make up for his mistake today.

Provo’s offering was an improvement. The woman was slightly older than the lamb girl, but still young. She had almond skin and large, teardrop-shaped breasts. Stood still in her dirty rags, Kraggo’s gaze rose from the woman’s breasts to her eyes of gold. She had a heart-shaped face, a prominent nose and full lips. The woman’s straight hair glimmered like black silk, and her golden eyes were shrouded by a pair of thick, black eyebrows. 

“Naath, this one comes from.” he said in the Summer Tongue, referring to her. The language’s clicks and odd sentence structure felt foreign in Kraggo’s tongue, but nevertheless the woman’s eyes widened.

She nodded.  

Kraggo smiled, “Name, what is this ones?”

“Lyssyndi.” she answered in a voice that purred like a cat, and Kraggo saw a set of straight white teeth. He liked that. The woman was yet to even address the headless corpse of her predecessor, her eyes were locked onto Kraggo alone. He liked that too.

“This one does what?”

“Godswife.” she said in the Common Tongue, there was no word for it in the Summer Tongue nor Dothraki.

Kraggo chuckled and muttered in Dothraki, “Where is your Great Shepherd now priestess?”

He dismounted and approached the dusky woman, unbuckling his large belt along the way. Her golden eyes did not leave his own until the leather hit the ground, leaving him naked. It was only for a moment, a glance at most, but he saw her gaze fall to his bare crotch, then back to his eyes. Something in them had changed. He’d seen it many times before. 

Dothraki were known for their gifted members, which were longer and thicker than most others in Essos. Of the Dothraki, Kraggo had never known one larger than his. It was as long as a woman’s forearm and thicker still. He’d never met a woman who could wrap her hand all the way around it, and at the base, she'd would be lucky if she could get both hands around the full girth. 

As if Lyssyndi was reading his mind, she absently flexed her fingers as she shifted in his shadow. He put his hands on her waist and she gave a nervous gasp. Kraggo smiled, then ripped the rags away. Underneath the tattered garments, Lyssyndi’s body was curvy. He took in the sight as he paced around her. Her almond skin was smooth, and her figure grew outwards as it reached her chubby, peach-shaped ass. Her plump breasts hung from her chest, shadowed by large, dark areolas. Kraggo recognised the faded lines of stretch marks around her lower abdomen. 

“A child?” he asked.

She nodded, and whispered only so he could hear, “Before a priestess, a whore was this one, in a brothel.”

Kraggo chuckled. His thick shaft was hardening, and by now a crowd had gathered - Dothraki and slaves alike. Lyssyndi was blushing. 

Any other slave would be terrified, thought Kraggo. but she’s enjoying this. A whore indeed.

He finished his pacing, coming to a stop behind her, and wrapped his large meaty arm around her waist. She shuddered lightly; he could snap her spine with a single twist if he wanted to. Instead, he gave a sharp jerk and kicked her in the back of her knee. He let her fall, and followed soon after, pressing his gigantic, hard body against her soft flesh. He put one of his giant hands on her head and pressed it into the dirt. With the other, he lifted her ass up to meet his groin. In the sunlight, layers of soft, plump body fat were visible on her. He grinned, and slid his hard member up and down the crack in between her cheeks. She gave another gasp

“Are you-”

He thrust inside. 

Let's see how you enjoy that.

Lyssyndi’s scream was a sweet song to Kraggo’s ears. There was nothing better than breaking in a bitch. She was warm and wet and her entire body squirmed under his as he explored her insides. Whether she liked it or not, her pussy was warm and wet and inviting. Her walls tightened around his intruding shaft, sinking deeper and deeper into her. She gave a pained grunt as he pushed further and further; and let out a relieved sigh as he slowly pulled out. This was the part he lived for - the false hope they felt. 

He slammed into her soft folds harder than before, going deeper than even he thought possible. Her mind and body were resisting him but her hole was welcoming each inch of him. He thrust back and forth, in and out, again and again. Her resolve broke and she began panting and grunting and cursing. Kraggo found a rhythm and kept to it, each thrust finding a new sensation somewhere deep inside her. His Dothraki watched with grins, and the captives looked on with horror - they were being given a glimpse into their future. For all her panting and huffing, the woman was doing a better job than most. Many bitches would’ve given out by now, going blank in the mind, but not this one. 

Kraggo reached around Lyssyndi’s body with both hands and sunk his fingers into the soft flesh of her breasts. They swayed with each forceful thrust - each barrage he sent down her pussy. Finally he lifted her up, holding her in the air as he slammed his cock into her warm slit. Each time their groins met, the clash was harder than the last. His bells rang out in a steady rhythm as he pounded his flesh against hers. 

The ringing went on for an hour.

By the time Kraggo was ready to finish, Lyssyndi’s brown skin was covered in a layer of sweat. Her head was back in the soil, half of it caked in a layer of dirt. She huffed and groaned as he pumped into her limp body, sapped of all its energy. 

“You were a good fuck.” he said in Dothraki as he felt his seed fill the warm interiors of her fleshy cunt. 

The crowd had slowly dispersed over the course of the mounting. Most of his riders had gone to find mounts of their own, the slaves were sent off to join the rest of the khalasar outside the settlement. Kraggo stood and wiped the sweat from his brow. Beneath him, Lyssyndi lay unmoving and panting, cum leaked out of her slit and into the dirt. 

I’ve found my newest bride. Kraggo thought proudly. 

The sound of a familiar horse’s snort made him turn to see Rhello - his bloodrider and his third and final ko - sitting atop his pale destrier. From his saddle, the man held the end of a long chain, which wound its way down to a young girl’s collar. She stood beside the horse, naked and beautiful. Her skin was pale and fair, her eyes a brilliant lilac, and the cascading tangles of her hair were a silvery-gold. She was tiny, her limbs as thin as branches and Kraggo loomed over her by at least two feet, but she had a gracefulness to her figure that was unlike anything he had seen before. Her breasts were perfect handfuls and he could already picture her legs wrapped around him.

“This is Alicent of Lys.” Rhello announced, “My offering to you, blood of my blood.”

Kraggo smiled at her, she did not smile back. Her eyes were brimmed with tears, her breath trembled as she verged on the brim of breaking down completely. She nervously rocked, putting her weight on one foot then the other. The girl smelled of fear and it made the blood pump straight through Kraggo’s veins and into his member. 

He placed his thumb over her lips and said, “Open.”

He doubted she understood Dothraki, but the message was clear. After a moment her lips parted with a tiny nervous squeal, and he pushed his thumb into her mouth. It was warm and wet and welcoming. 

“Suck.”

She did. 

“Rhello,” Kraggo said, not taking his eyes off Alicent’s for a second, “kill the bitch from Naath, I’ve found my new khaleesi.”

Rhello trotted forward and out of Kraggo’s line-of-sight. He didn’t have to guess what happened when he heard the stomp of a hoof and the familiar messy crack of a skull. Alicent had a view of the whole ordeal, she began to cry at what she saw, but she didn’t have to. She was safe now. She belonged to him. 

Chapter Text

The sour old master-at-arms was ringing Lucan’s head like a bell. The courtyard of Castle Rhysling was filled with the sounds of false combat - steel clashing against steel, wood being splintered, arrows hissing through the air. Lucan’s opponent, Ser Yorick Harth, trained his men every morning at dawn. Recently, he’d been including Lucan in his drills, the young man still didn’t know why. He’d gone to his father about it, but the old Lord Arlan had claimed it would be good to see his son with steel in his hand. 

“After all,” he’d said, “look at your brother Gyrell.”

Ser Gyrell Rhysling was seven years Lucan’s senior and had made a name for himself as a tourney knight - jousting ahorse and fighting afoot. He’d earned a number of victories, and could boast to all that he’d unhorsed a member of the kingsguard, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, three years ago at King Aerys’s anniversary tourney. Whilst Lucan had always wanted to become like Gyrell in that way, he just couldn’t stand his father’s master-at-arms.

It was difficult to encapsulate the ugliness of Ser Yorick Harth. Where would one begin? His squat, pudgy body, covered in coarse black hair like some great fat boar? His round, wrinkled head and retreating hairline that revealed a blotchy, spotted scalp underneath? Perhaps his crooked row of brown rotten teeth, which had the added effect of souring his breath. The man stunk of sweat, and his dulled blade was currently pushing Lucan backwards across the training grounds. 

“Enough!” Lucan shouted as his back was pressed to the cobblestones of the courtyard perimeter, “I yield… I yield.”

Yorick did not look pleased, “Yield, is it? I’d not let ye’ yield if this were real, lad. I’d drive my sword through yer’ belly.”

The man brought his sword down on Lucan’s helm, ringing his head once more. The blade clashed against the battered steel.

“Do you think yer’ daddy will always be there to protect you?”

Clash.

“Do you think yer’ brother will?”

Clash. 

“Do you think I’ll protect you? Because I won’t, lad.”

Clash. 

“Ye’ are a spoiled runt. Yer’ brothers are off fightin’ and learnin’, but ye’ are just a lazy cunt who’s about to go cryin’ to his pa’. Aren’t ye’?”

Clash.

Lucan knew he couldn’t go to his father about it. He’d had the conversation before. His father would tell him something about how Yorick’s harsh words and harsher beatings would make Lucan a man. Lucan didn’t understand his father - he was approaching his twentieth nameday, he was already a man. 

You’re not a man . Said a voice in his head. You don’t even compare. 

Yorick still stood in front of him, not showing any signs of tiring. Lucan tightened his grip, gritted his teeth, and prepared to charge at the old man. He only stopped when he saw his sister, Joanna, walking along the battlements above. She didn’t announce her presence in any way, she didn’t make any effort to make herself known, but there was a palpable shift in the training yard when she appeared. It felt like the dawn’s colors became more vivid. Some of those training lost their balance or tripped as their attention was brought solely to her. 

Gods, look at her. 

She had dark silky hair, and brilliant diamond-coloured eyes. Her skin was snow pale, spotted here and there with an odd freckle. She wore a linen gown of lavender pink, the one that Lucan had given her on her eighteenth nameday. Her eyes found him and Yorick, and her smile revealed perfectly white teeth; Yorick lowered his blade and turned to smile back at her, baring his own crooked, brown set. 

I’m the one she’s smiling at, fool. Lucan thought with a hint of pride. 

“She’s a pretty one, yer’ sister.” said Yorick, “Ain’t she?”

Lucan clenched his fist.

“Don’t talk about her, old man. You’re beneath her.”

Yorick punished him for that.

By the time his training was over, Lucan was covered in bruises and welts. He limped back up to his chambers and tore off his sweaty clothes. As he went to find a new pair of pants, he caught a glimpse of himself in his mirror and felt a pang of shame. 

You don’t even compare. The voice said once more. 

In the reflection stood a young man. His face was smooth, lacking even a shadow of a beard, he had the dark hair and blue eyes of a Rhysling. Like Joanna’s, his skin was pale as snow, not that they saw much snow in the Reach. As his eyes wandered downwards, he observed his long, lean body - completely hairless, like a child's. In between his skinny legs was where a man’s cock ought to be, but he didn’t have a man’s cock, he had a boy’s. It was as if it had never matured. The soft little thimble of pink would’ve looked the part on a boy of five, not a man of twenty. He went red in pure and utter embarrassment. Each morning he awoke, praying that something would change, that somehow the gods would take pity on him and give him a manlier appendage. Each morning was a disappointment. 

Lucan tried to take his mind off of the limp worm between his legs by returning his attention to his hair. It needed a cut. 

The sun outside Lucan’s window was lazily dripping below the horizon, turning the sky into a canvas of yellow and orange and purple, by the time Joanna knocked on his door. The chamber was flooded with those colors as he opened it, finding his sister holding a pair of clippers in one hand and a small bag in the other. She’d donned a simple cloth gown of deep forest green in place of her lavender one from before. She seated him in front of his mirror, then draped a cloth over his shoulders and a wolfskin rug beneath his chair. Her hands were gentle, she lightly tilted his head left and right, getting a better look at his mop of messy curls. 

“What would you like?” she asked in a quiet voice, as if they were sharing a secret. 

Lucan didn’t know what to say. What would he like? Her. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and devote himself to her. A quiet settled, then lingered. 

“For your hair, what do you want?” she clarified, and gave a giggle that melted him. 

“Just… shorter.”

She pouted at him in the reflection and started to play with his hair, “You don’t care what you look like? You’re very handsome, you know... You’d be very popular with the girls in the village if you did.”

He blushed at her. She’d called him handsome…

“I don’t care about the girls in the village.” he said softly, and then gave a shrug, “Simply shorter is fine.”

She sighed and started trimming. Her fingers were deft, gentle; she ran them through his tangles. The clippers gave off a soft shing with each small cut. 

“I saw you training today little brother.” Joanna whispered teasingly, “You look awful bruised now..”

Lucas smirked, “Yorick’s an ass. The old pig doesn’t know when to stop. I’m not Aemon the bloody Dragonknight.”

“Luckily for Yorick.” she giggled softly.

A comforting silence settled. His sister, lithe and graceful as a fox, circled him. She came to his front, and brought her clippers to his fringe. She shot him a warm little smile when he looked up at her.

“Have you cut anyone’s hair before?”

“No,” she admitted, “but I brush my own every night.”

Joanna leaned forward; she smelled incredible.

“Perfume?”

She chuckled to herself, “Lilac and gooseberries… Now turn your head.” she muttered. When he did, she placed her hands on his temples, “Other way, silly boy.”

Joanna rotated his view until he was mere inches from her chest. His eyes had nowhere else to look. A lord or a knight was supposed to be chivalrous and honorable, and Lucan wanted that more than anything - but Lucan was also a man. He locked onto her porcelain white breasts, small enough that they just barely hung from her frame, the low cut of her dress inviting his gaze.

“You’re going to look like a little boy again.” Joanna smiled, “Everyone will be able to see you’re my younger brother.”

Had the words come from anybody else, Lucan would feel insulted, but from his sister they sounded so nice, so warm. He wondered what kind of disgust she'd feel if she ever learned how he truly felt about her...

"Mother used to cut my hair." she remembered with melancholy in her voice. Lucan never knew her. Auryl Rhsyling had died giving birth to him, her third son. “Gods, you look like her..”

From a young age Lucan had heard how much he looked like his mother, her big blue eyes, her lashes, her plump lips. He’d seen portraits of her since he was a boy, and couldn’t deny that the resemblance was striking. She’d often worn flowers in her hair. Lucan remembered how his two brothers used to play hopfrog in the gardens whilst Joanna would sit with him, putting flowers in his. It wasn’t an easy thing, being likened to a woman all your life. Lucan wanted to lead men into battle, he wanted to defend the innocent with a sword in his hand, and earn a knighthood. He wanted to be a man. 

Lucan supposed he ought to thank Yorick for his recent training, but it was hard to thank such a man. The old knight had a foul mouth and a fouler temper, and never warmed up to him the way he did to his brothers. He’d overheard guards talk about the kinds of girls the man frequented in the brothel outside the castle walls - young girls. There was something Lucan didn’t like in the way Yorick would look at his sister, like she was some brood mare than needed mounting. 

“Now I’m going to do the unthinkable,” Joanna circled him again, outside his view - then he felt the soft tug of a comb being pulled through his curls, like a ship through water, “and brush this messy mop.”

The two of them laughed, and soon his sister tilted his head back, running cold water through his silky soft hair. Looking up, Lucan smiled at her. Perhaps it would be alright in the end; perhaps she felt the same way; perhaps they would run away together. Grow old together. Have kids…

Why would she be with you when she could have a real man? The voice inside told him…

The night had come and shrouded the castle in a cloak of darkness. A few torches still flickered across the battlements and in the main tower, but the keep, courtyard and village were safely asleep. Lucan held out a dim lantern as he descended the stone stairs into the chilly yard below. His mind was made up - if he was to become a real man, a man worthy of Joanna, he would have to train. He would ask Yorick - no, command Yorick - to start working him even more than the fat old grump already did; to drill him, day and night. 

The knight’s bedchamber was across the yard and down another flight of stairs, in the cellar of the Gatehouse Tower. The further Lucan descended, the darker his world grew. The air felt stale and the stones showed signs of lichen and moss. He heard the noises before he came upon the chamber itself, and his stomach dropped. 

Yorick was inside her. That much he could make out through the thin crack in the door. She was pure and soft and beautiful, he was wrinkled and pudgy and repugnant, and he was taking her like an animal. His greasy skin ground against hers. Her hushed moans were desperate and needy. The two lovers kissed, Yorick’s thick brown tongue lashing against her delicate pink one. 

Lucan could feel bile in the back of his throat.

It was clear this wasn’t their first time together. The way he held her down, the way she smiled and giggled and opened her legs for him. As Yorick pulled out of her, Lucan caught sight of the man’s penis - fat and bent and dripping with her wetness. It would’ve made Lucan’s look like a child’s toy. Joanna giggled again as she climbed off the bed and onto her knees. The same giggle he’d heard when she used to put flowers in his hair…

“Taste yourself.” The fat hog of a man commanded her.

Her little mouth welcomed his fat, sticky cock… all the way in. Even from the crack in the door, the room reeked of sex - of sour sweat and seed. Lucan saw white oozing out of Joanna’s pink folds. Why didn’t she care? Was she truly trying to bear his child? The hog put his big hand on her little head, running his fingers through her dishevelled hair; usually so straight and smooth. She bobbed back and forth, slurping up and down. She only paused to breathe, or to kiss his spotted member, or once to gargle on the collected fluids. Without thinking, Lucan’s hand fell to his cock. 

Perhaps it was because of its size, but Lucan had always struggled with his member’s softness. It rarely grew hard, yet it was hard now. He used two fingers to tug on the stiff thimble, no larger than a little finger itself. 

It felt like Lucan spent the entire night standing at that door, peering in at his sister being used in every way that seemed possible. Yorick had picked her up and entered her, she’d wrapped her legs around him and held on like she never wanted to let go. He’d pushed his fingers through her lips, opened her mouth, and spat down her throat; she’d laughed and told him how nice he tasted. He’d taken her on the bed, on the floor, against the walls and atop the mantelpiece. She’d planted kisses all over his body, and sucked on his tongue when he stuck it out for her. She’d ridden him; then he’d mounted her; then she’d licked his fingers before he forced them up her rear; after that he’d sat back, and she’d tongued his hole. He’d filled her with his seed, into her womb and into her mouth. She seemed to cherish its taste, running her tongue over it and gargling it in her throat. Finally, he’d laid her flat on her back and rammed his cock inside her harder than Lucan thought possible, it was like a hammer to an anvil. Again and again. She writhed in pleasure and told him she loved him as he shot thick ropes of seed all over her bare, delicate body.

“I’m yours.” She whispered, just loud enough that Lucan could hear it. 

Yorick collapsed on top of her, and the two began to kiss and huddle close. Lucan didn’t find the same pleasure. No matter how hard he tugged he couldn’t reach a climax… and soon the long act had come to an end. He fled before anyone noticed his presence, back to his chamber where he barred the door behind him. 

The shame began to set in. 

He felt clouds in his thoughts, fog in his vision. He didn’t think. He just grabbed handfuls of clothes and stuffed them into a case. He took his sword and a few books and a portrait of his mother. In the kitchens the cooks were already up, baking bread; he stole two loaves along with a sack of onions. He found his armor, saddled his horse, and took off. Lucan felt like he was flying as he galloped out the gates. He rode through the sleeping village and into the dark fields of the Reach beyond. Where he was headed, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t remain in Castle Rhysling a moment more. Joanna was his life, she was the sun in the sky and the flowers in his hair. She was so caring and sweet, and she’d told that hog she loved him. 

Tears began to well in Lucan’s eyes, running across his cheeks as he galloped on. He thought of his sister’s face, and how it had looked glazed in Yorick’s seed. 

Chapter Text

At first Alicent had been afraid, but in the weeks that had passed since the killings of the Lhazarene, she now felt defiance more than anything.

Alicent had never seen a more fanatic cult than the Khal’s Pets. They were all Khal Kraggo’s wives, who worshiped him like some sort of god. At night they fawned over him every chance they got, and during the day, whilst he was away, they seemed to think only of him. Handmaidens would bathe them and brush their hair in between the constant riding; the wives wore silks and jewels and perfumes of lavender, cloves, lilac, lemon and a hundred other fragrances, all to appease Kraggo. It was said that Kraggo had married a hundred women, but Alicent had only met a dozen. She’d learned that the rest had either died, been gifted to merchants, slavers or other Khals, or had become consorts to Kraggo’s fiercest warriors. Alicent shuddered at the thought as she swayed in her saddle, bathed in the hot sun as the khalasar wound its way north. 

Not that my fate is much better. She thought as she looked ahead at the scarred back of Khal Krago. 

Though he had married a hundred women, he had never named one his Khaleesi, his ruling partner, until now. The other wives scorned Alicent for her ‘achievement’, or at least most of them did. 

The longest-lasting wife was Tyera, a stunningly pretty and endlessly giggly Tyroshi girl who dyed her hair a new color every fortnight. She’d been claimed by Kraggo when she was thirteen, eight years ago. Kyri and Syri were a pair of dainty Meereenese twins with smooth almond skin and hazel eyes, the same colour as their hair; everything they did, they did together, including sex. Alicent didn’t know where Arienne was from, for the ebony-skinned bald woman never spoke a word; she did however, stare daggers at Alicent whenever their eyes met. Missiki and Irriqh were both dothraki, the former was a striking woman with the longest braid of hair Alicent had ever seen, and the latter was a pretty girl no older than twelve. While both seemed kind enough, neither spoke a word of the common tongue, nor any high valyrian. The only wives who shared a language with Alicent were Mia and Florence, a mother and daughter from Westeros. 

Mia was the eldest wife of the Khal’s Pets, she had a sharp, lined face and black hair showing faint hints of gray, but her eyes were a striking sapphire blue, and when she smiled in her own sly way, she seemed the most beautiful woman on earth. The woman had first greeted Alicent with a hug and a kiss, and claimed they were “sisters now.” She’d explained what the title of khaleesi meant and how important it was. Her daughter Florence could not have seen ten namedays, she was a pretty young girl with a small button nose and big curious eyes, her hair was the same black as her mother’s. She had clearly taken a liking to Alicent, demanding to ride with her on her horse during the day and sleeping by her side at night. All the wives slept on a great mound of pillows and furs and silks together; and each night, the khal would choose one or two or three of them to mount before he slept. Even afterwards, deep into the night, whilst the whole khalasar slept, he would often awake and pick a new wife or two to fuck. 

They slept under one roof, in one bed; thus, every night, Alicent had been forced to sleep near the tyrant, though she always tried to find a spot as far from him as possible. The wives all seemed to love the feral dog of a man, they sighed and cursed when they weren’t chosen, and moaned and screamed beneath him when they were. Even Mia, who seemed so kind and reasonable, appeared to swoon so strongly over the monster that was Khal Kraggo. Thankfully, Alicent had been spared the fate of the rest of the wives. Mia soon explained that since Alicent was to be his khaleesi - his queen and truest wife. The khal wouldn’t take her until their wedding, but once he did, he would have her every night. Alicent’s stomach churned at the thought. 

The riding was endless, every day from dawn to dusk the khalasar of thirty-thousand would mount their horses and set out. Alicent wasn’t used to the small, slim dothraki saddles, and for the first few days her legs had chafed raw. Her thighs had since hardened, but she found the traveling no easier. The khalasar was a horde of feral raiders and rapers. They would charge into small towns and villages on their path to the Dothraki Sea, and later as Alicent would pass through the charred remains, she would bear witness to scenes of rape and pillaging. She passed bloody dothraki warriors mounting screaming women; there were bloody corpses piled high and low; she heard the cries of motherless children and childless mothers. 

Sharing Alicent’s saddle was Florence; the girl’s big blue eyes passed over the ash and blood and bones as if they were dirt and rocks and trees. She must’ve seen so much of it all her life, it was like any other sight to the young girl. 

“How old are you, Florence?” Alicent asked to take her mind off the carnage around her.

“Mother says I’m nearing my ninth nameday.” the girl answered proudly. 

Alicent furrowed her brow, the poor girl didn’t even know how wrong it all was. 

“What do you think of the khal?” she asked, not even sure she wanted to hear the answer. 

“Oh!” the girl chuffed excitedly, “I think he is the most handsomest man in the world! And mother says that no other men are gifted with a manhood like his!”

Alicent couldn’t deny that Kraggo’s penis was something miraculous, if not terrifying. Its length and girth were hard to comprehend. She’d been with a man before - back in Lys a boy had taken her maidenhead one night after more than a few glasses of wine - but that affair was clumsy and a few years ago still, and the Lysene boy’s member would’ve seemed a child’s in comparison. The khal’s penis was a large, dark snake that hung from a crotch of dense black hair when soft. Upon first seeing it hardening, Alicent had uncontrollably gasped, and the rest of the wives had giggled. Whilst hard, the cock was a monstrous stiff member, impossibly large. Again, her stomach churned. 

“The khal is cruel.” Alicent stated flatly, “He kills people, Florence, innocent people.”

Florence shrugged, “He’s nice to me, and mother says I should thank him for giving us food and silks and jewels and endless pleasure. She tells me to always thank him when he takes me.”

Alicent now felt like her stomach was about to reject her breakfast. 

Mia reigned up beside the pair, “Do you know where we are headed, Alicent?”

Alicent shook her head. 

“Tomorrow we’ll reach the outer edge of the Dothraki sea.” the woman began as their horses brought them out of the ash and smoke and back into the grassy heartlands of the east, “From here, it’s just a straight path to Vaes Dothrak.”

Where I’ll be married by force, like some broodmare. 

“I can’t wait for you to see it, Alicent… Hundreds of types of grass, stretching out as far as the eye can ever hope to see.” Mia was staring off ahead, picturing what she was describing, “It’ll be blooming when we arrive, there will be dark red flowers from horizon to horizon. The Great Grass Sea, they call it.”

Alicent had heard travelers in Lys refer to the Dothraki sea as the Haunted Lands, or the Great Desolation, but she didn’t want to ruin Mia’s daydream. 

As the sun set over the western mountains, Alicent was led into the khal’s large tent once more. The inside was always smokey and hot, filled with blazing torches and a firepit in its center. Hides of a hundred animals made the walls and roof, and there were Myrish rugs on the ground. Most of the wives were already abed, scantily lounging in loose translucent silks to show off the bodies underneath. Alicent still refused to wear anything but the linen shirts she already owned, along with the hide vests and longer skirts she’d been given by her handmaidens. The khal could keep his revealing silks and jewelry, she did not want anyone seeing her body. A part of her was also slightly embarrassed. Back in Lys, her sister Laena had always told her that men would love her petite figure, but Alicent had always wished she had larger breasts, though she did admit her heart-shaped rear was alluring. The khal’s wives varied in bodies greatly - Arienne had large, full breasts and flat areolas, whereas Missiki’s were small and perky. Alicent felt sick when she saw Florence in her own loose, scant garment, no less revealing than smallclothes. She was a child, and her little body had only just begun to develop.

These were sights she’d seen every night, but they had not become any easier to look upon. Alicent took her place on the cushions against the hides of the tent, as far from the entrance as possible. The wives chatted amongst one another, though they shared few languages. Handmaidens brought olives, bread and spiced horseflesh to eat; and fermented mare’s milk to sip on. By the time Khal Kraggo entered the tent, Alicent saw through the flap that the sun had long-past set, and night was upon them. 

The wives all quickly hushed. During her time amongst the Lhazarene, Alicent had heard them call Khal Kraggo ‘The Mounted Demon’ - and she could see why. He was a head taller than most men, and two heads taller than herself. Currently, he wore only a pair of horsehair leggings and a belt of bronze medallions, leaving his taught, copper-hued figure completely bare. His entire body was muscular, and streaked with what seemed like a hundred scars. A long black braid reached down to his calves, and rang with silver bells. Perhaps Alicent would’ve found such a man attractive, if he weren’t also a monster. 

His wives were waiting, Alicent could tell. Their eyes roamed his body, most lingering on the bulge of his manhood. The milky-skinned Tyera, now sporting deep green locks, wet her lips, and Lysira, a Braavosi girl younger than Alicent, absent-mindedly fondled one of her breasts. But it was Florence he chose. 

“No.” muttered Alicent. Not her. Not little Florence. In the weeks since Alicent had been claimed, not once had the khal chosen her. 

In one swift motion the girl jumped up and bounded across the tent to fall at the khal’s feet. She planted small kisses on them before he bent down and lifted her up over his shoulder. Florence giggled excitedly as he brought her back over to the bedding.

The wives made space for him, and he threw Florence down onto the pillows, between Arienne and Lysira. As Florence still tittered, the khal tore away her scant silks, leaving her petite, delicate form exposed. The little girl’s nipples were small pink buttons, her limbs were like twigs in the shadow of Kraggo, and soon, Kraggo’s cock. 

Gods… 

Alicent was still unaccustomed to the sight. The khal’s great curved member was already hard, and he wasted no time as he wrapped his large hands around Florence’s small waist. The girl was lifted into the air. It felt like time stood still as Kraggo held her up in a scene reminiscent of some old Valyrian statue - the khal, a great beast of rippling bronze, the size of a titan; and Florence, a small bird in comparison, white as marble. He slowly aligned the girl to the angle of his manhood. The wives all hushed in anticipation. The fires crackled, the khal smirked, Alicent held her breath, and he entered poor little Florence with a slow sigh. 

He brought her down the member, sinking inch by inch in a long, methodical motion. The girl gasped, four or five inches later and she squealed like some animal. Once halfway, she dug her nails into the skin of his arms, and not long after that she went quiet, quiet as a mouse. By the time her pink little mound met the coarse hair of his crotch, she’d begun to drool. Then she reached her short, eight-year-old arms out towards his face. He pulled her up towards him with a wet schlik , and she placed both hands on his cheeks and gave him a big wet kiss. 

She’s enjoying it. Alicent realized with sickening dread. 

The girl whispered something that only the khal could hear, and he chuckled. He lifted her a little higher, and brought her back down. Their crotches met again, and Alicent wondered how Florence was still alive. The sounds were almost as unbearable as the sight of it. Desperate panting and wet claps of flesh against flesh as the two became one. Their tongues met and danced; Florence moaned against his lips as he battered her insides. Clear fluids ran from her ruined adolescent slit and stained the silks below.

The khal finally pulled all the way out of the girl. His vein-marbled-member was glistening with the eight-year-old’s juices, and he turned his little child-wife over before dropping her completely. She landed with a soft flumpf on all fours, her eyes completely glazed over, drool pooling from her mouth and from her pussy. Now from behind, he knelt so that the bulging head of his cock met the girl’s folds once more. Mia crawled up to her daughter and cupped her cheeks in her hands. 

“Mother is so proud of you,” she whispered before softly kissing the girl. Alicent could see that the woman’s own sex was glazed in arousal, and she was running her fingers across it. 

As the khal entered Florence once more, Alicent saw that, like Mia, the rest of the wives were pleasuring themselves. Their breaths were ragged and hushed, not wishing to disturb the khal while he was fucking. He was pistoning his hips against the small peach of Florence’s ass, sending a rhythmic clapping sound throughout the tent. The girl’s face had gone completely blank and her eyes were crossed, her mind was utterly shattered by his immense shaft. 

Alicent was sure she would gag, but she soon felt something far worse happen. 

It can’t be. She thought as her shaking fingers wearily crept down her abdomen. No, no, no.

She could feel it through the cotton of her pants - an unwelcome wetness between her legs. She felt blood rush to her cheeks and quickly moved to leave. 

“No!” The khal’s voice was as thick and dark as the rest of him, and held a certain tone that invoked an unconscious, innate command. Alicent had never heard him speak the Common Tongue, but the one word was enough, and she felt herself obeying. She bit her lip and returned to her cushions, trying to keep her eyes off the carnal scene before her. She wondered if the khal had seen the damp shadow on her pants; if he knew that her body, against her own wishes, was reacting to his raw display of passion. 

Alicent prayed he would finish soon, but the night was merely beginning - and so was the khal.