Weekly Poll #3 - OC / Daenerys Targaryen (Game of Thrones) {Story 5 - Patreon Exlusive} (Patreon)

Weekly Poll #3 - OC / Daenerys Targaryen (Game of Thrones) {Story 5}

Doc- https://docs.google.com/document/d/1L1wl8Y_8JIHTGT-6uqGh3UbXfPZBZw39Xtjw5ua0NZ4/edit?usp=sharing . Also, the Word, PDF, and EPUB files are attached below. Thank you for the Support!

The throne room in the Great Pyramid of Meereen was a furnace of silent judgment. Sunlight, thick and golden, poured through the high windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air like tiny, restless spirits. Daenerys sat upon the bench of polished ebony, her back ramrod straight, the weight of the crown feeling less like an honor and more like a millstone around her temples. The day had already been a trial of fire. Fennesz, a man she had freed, had wept and begged to be returned to his chains, his freedom a burden he could not bear. His desperation had been a raw, open wound, and her refusal had felt like cruelty, no matter how she framed it as liberation.

Then had come the shepherd. His grief was a physical thing, a stench of loss that clung to his simple, dusty robes. He had held out the blackened, scorched bones of his three-year-old daughter. Daenerys had stared at the small, pathetic remains, her heart turning to ice in the sweltering heat. Through Missandei’s calm, steady translation, the man’s accusation had echoed in the vast chamber: Dracarys. Her dragon. Her child. A monster. The memory of Viserion’s roar, of the glint of flame in his pale-gold eyes, was a brand on her soul. Chaining them in the dark beneath the pyramid had been an act of self-preservation, but it felt like a betrayal. She had locked away her own children to appease the people she had come to save. The taste of ash and failure was bitter in her mouth.

“Next,” she said, her voice thinner than she would have liked.

The heavy doors groaned open, and a man stepped forward. He moved with a liquid grace that was at odds with his sheer size. He was tall, easily six and a half feet, with the lean, hard musculature of a man built for sin, not war. His skin was the sun-kissed olive of Dorne, and his hair was a cascade of jet-black curls that fell to his shoulders. He wore only a simple pair of loose, white linen trousers, his chest and feet bare. But it was his face that held her. It was not the face of a warrior or a king. It was serene, almost beatific, with high cheekbones and full lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. His eyes, the color of warm amber, held no fear, no deference, only a profound and unnerving calm.

He stopped before the dais and sank to one knee, bowing his head. The motion was fluid, practiced, utterly devoid of the stiffness of a soldier.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice a low, melodic baritone that seemed to resonate in the bones. It was the Common Tongue, but spoken with the languid, musical lilt of a Meereenee noble.

Daenerys exchanged a glance with Missandei, who stood by her side, ever-present. Barristan Selmy, a silent sentinel of steel by the pillar, shifted his weight ever so slightly, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword.

“You may rise,” Daenerys managed, her curiosity warring with her exhaustion. “What is your name, and what is your petition?”

He rose, his movements as smooth as his descent. “My name is Gregor Barrin, Your Grace. And my petition is… unusual.”

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. He was not a supplicant begging for food or justice. He was an offering.

“I was a slave,” he began, his voice steady. “For twenty-eight years, I have known no other life. I was born into the household of Yezzan zo Qaggaz, though I was not his blood. I was… an acquisition. A gift to his sister, the Great Master Elara zo Qaggaz.”

He said the title ‘Great Master’ without rancor, as if stating a simple fact of nature, like the sun rising in the east.

“From the moment I could walk, I was trained for one purpose. To please my mistress. And to please the women of her circle.” A faint, almost wistful smile touched his lips. “I was Elara’s favorite. Her most cherished possession.”

Daenerys felt a knot of disgust tighten in her stomach. Another story of the depravity of the Masters. Another reason for her crusade. She prepared herself for a tale of abuse, of suffering, of a spirit crying out for the freedom she now offered.

“I am… gifted,” Gregor continued, his amber eyes meeting hers with disarming openness. “In stature.” He gestured to his height. “And in other ways. It was my mistress’s greatest pride. My life was one of ease. I wanted for nothing. The finest foods, the richest wines. I was clothed in silk, though I often preferred to be without it.” He said it without shame, as a man might comment on preferring clear skies to rain. “And women. Any woman I desired, so long as she was not forbidden by blood or title to another, was mine to share a bed with. Threesomes, foursomes… orgies that would last until dawn. They called me a god in the chamber. A god of women.”

He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “It was a god’s life, Your Grace. I knew nothing else. I did not want to know anything else.”

The silence in the hall was absolute. Daenerys could hear the frantic beating of her own heart. This was not the plea she had expected. This was a eulogy for a life she had fought to destroy.

“When you came, when the city fell… I was freed.” He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “And my world ended. The doors of the manse were thrown open. My mistress was… dealt with. And I was left with nothing but my freedom. I have no skills to speak of. I cannot fight, or farm, or trade. I cannot read or write. I only know how to bring a woman pleasure. It is the only art I have ever mastered. The only purpose I have ever known.”

He took a step closer, his amber eyes burning with an intensity that was almost fanatical.

“So I am here to beg you, Your Grace. Not for my freedom. I have had a taste of it, and it is a bitter, empty wine. I am asking you to take me as your slave. Or, if that is not your will, to facilitate my return to it. Sell me to a new household. A noble lady, a rich merchant’s wife, anyone who would have use for my talents. Let me serve. It is all I am. It is all I want to be.”

Daenerys stared, utterly speechless. The sheer, incomprehensible finality of his request stole the breath from her lungs. He was Fennesz, magnified a thousand times. He was the living embodiment of the poison she had been trying to cure. He didn’t just want to be a slave; he was begging for it, glorifying it.

“Gregor Barrin,” she finally found her voice, it was a strained, horrified whisper. “You are a free man. Freedom is a precious gift. You can learn. You can build a new life. There is a whole world beyond… beyond that. You can find a woman to love, to build a family with, on equal terms. You can explore, travel, be anything you want to be.”

He looked at her, and for the first time, the serene mask cracked. A deep, profound sorrow filled his eyes, a sorrow so vast it seemed to swallow the light in the room. “Your Grace,” he said softly, “you speak of a world I do not know. A world I do not want. You are asking a fish to be happy on dry land. I would rather die in the water I know than suffocate in the air of your freedom.”

His words were a dagger to her heart. “I cannot… I will not own another human being. I will not facilitate the sale of one. It is an abomination.”

“Then you have given me a death sentence,” he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. He looked past her, his gaze fixed on the marble pillar beside the dais. “A life without purpose is a slow death. I would prefer a quicker one.”

Before anyone could react, he moved. It was not the charge of a warrior, but the fluid surge of a predator. In two long strides, he was at the pillar. He slammed his head forward with a sickening, wet crack against the unyielding stone.

A collective gasp went through the room. But before he could pull back for a second, surely fatal, blow, a blur of white and steel intercepted him. Barristan Selmy, moving with a speed that belied his years, had his gauntleted hand wrapped around the back of Gregor’s neck, slamming him bodily against the pillar. The old knight’s face was a mask of grim fury.

“You will not,” Barristan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Gregor sagged in his grip, blood already trickling from a gash on his forehead, his eyes dazed but still fixed on Daenerys. “Let me die,” he rasped.

Daenerys was on her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. The image of his blood on the white marble, the sheer, desperate finality of the act, sent a wave of nausea through her. She couldn’t let him die. But she couldn’t sell him. The thought of creating a contract, of effectively pimping him out to some noblewoman, left a vile taste in her mouth. It was everything she fought against. It was a regression to the very system she was trying to dismantle.

Her mind raced, grasping for any solution. She looked at the tall, beautiful, broken man held fast by her protector. A man whose only skill was in the bedroom. A man who wanted nothing more than to serve a woman in that way.

Her eyes flickered to the side of the room where Daario Naharis often lounged, a smirk on his face, his eyes always promising a pleasure that was as much a performance as a feeling. Her suitors. The Hizdahr zo Loraqs of the world, with their soft hands and political maneuvering. All of them wanted something from her. Her crown, her body, her power.

A wild, reckless thought, born of exhaustion and desperation, began to form. It was a terrible idea. An insane idea. But it was an idea.

She took a deep breath, the scent of blood and sun-baked stone filling her lungs. She met Gregor’s pained, pleading gaze.

“Barristan, release him,” she commanded, her voice ringing with an authority she did not feel.

The knight hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed, stepping back but keeping a wary hand near his sword.

Gregor swayed on his feet, blood matting his dark curls. He looked at her, a flicker of hope in his amber eyes.

Daenerys gritted her teeth, her jaw tight. “I will not sell you. I will not make you a slave. But I will not let you throw your life away against a pillar in my throne room.”

She straightened her spine, the Queen of Meereen making a decision she knew would haunt her.

“Gregor Barrin,” she said, her voice cold and clear. “I will employ you.”

He blinked, confused. “Employ… me, Your Grace?”

“You have one skill, and you claim it is an art,” she continued, her mind racing ahead, justifying the madness. “You wish to serve. Very well. You will serve me. Not in my bed,” she added sharply, seeing the flicker of understanding in his eyes. “You will be a member of my household. Your… services will be available to me, should I ever have a need for them.”

And maybe, she thought, a cynical, bitter part of her soul taking hold, having a beautiful, legendary sex god on the payroll will be just the thing to make Daario and all the other vultures start to look elsewhere. It might just be the best political investment I make all week.

She looked at the man before her, a creature of pleasure and pain, and sealed both their fates.

“You will have your food, your wine, your purpose. In return, you will be loyal to me and to me alone. You will be my… attendant. Do you accept my offer, Gregor Barrin?”

The days that followed were a strange, quiet reprieve. Gregor Barrin became a silent, steady presence in her chambers, a shadow of immense calm. His duties, as she’d defined them, were simple. He was an attendant. He poured her wine, drew her baths, and stood by as she read reports on the state of a city that seemed to resent her more with each passing sunrise.

And he gave her massages.

It began with her shoulders. The weight of the crown, of her decisions, of the stares from her councilors, seemed to settle there in granite knots. One evening, as she rubbed her neck with a weary sigh, he had stepped forward. “Your Grace, if I may? I have some skill in this.”

She had been too tired to refuse. His hands were magic. They were strong, sure, and seemed to know exactly where the pain lived without her needing to speak a word. He found the tension along her spine and coaxed it loose with his thumbs, his touch firm yet impossibly gentle. It was not the touch of a lover, but of a master craftsman working with his most prized material. He never overstepped. His hands stayed on her shoulders, her back, her neck. When he was done, she felt lighter, as if a physical burden had been lifted from her soul.

It became a ritual. After a long day of listening to petitions from angry merchants and fearful former slaves, she would sit on a divan in her private chambers, and Gregor would kneel at her feet. He would rub her shoulders, her arms, her hands. But the foot rubs were what undid her completely. He treated her feet with reverence, his thumbs pressing into her arches, his fingers kneading her ankles, melting away the stress of the day until she was a puddle of relaxed muscle on the velvet cushions.

It was the only good thing. The only uncomplicated pleasure in a life that had become a crucible. She was a queen trying to be a savior, a mother who had caged her children, a commander surrounded by allies she trusted as far as she could throw them. The grind was relentless, a slow erosion of her spirit.

Tonight, the dam broke.

It was late. The moon hung high and cold over Meereen. The braziers in her chamber had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. She had spent hours locked in a bitter argument with the Green Grace and the leaders of the Sons of the Harpy, each side demanding concessions she was not sure she could make. She felt frayed, hollowed out, a queen of ash and dust.

She lay on the divan, her eyes closed, as Gregor’s strong hands worked their magic on her bare feet. His touch was a balm, a single point of warmth in a vast, cold ocean. The tension in her body was a coiled spring, wound so tight it was about to snap. Every report of a fresh murder, every whispered warning from Barristan, every sullen look from Missandei, coiled it tighter.

She felt a sob building in her chest, a hot, angry wave of despair. She was failing. She was failing everyone.

And then, something inside her simply… broke.

A reckless, desperate need for something more, for something to shatter the suffocating pressure, seized her. She didn't think. She couldn't. She just acted.

She shifted, drawing her leg up. With a motion that was both clumsy and deliberate, she lifted her foot from his grasp and pressed the sole to his lips.

Gregor froze. His hands, which had been so sure and steady, stilled on her ankle. He didn't pull back. He didn't flinch. For a long, breathless moment, he simply held her there, her foot resting against his mouth. Then his lips parted. His tongue, warm and wet, traced a slow, reverent line along the arch of her foot. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up her leg. He took her toes into his mouth, one by one, suckling them gently, his eyes closing as if in prayer. It was not debasement. It was worship. He was treating her not as a queen, but as a goddess, and the sheer, unadulterated adoration of it was the most potent intoxicant she had ever known.

The coil of tension in her finally snapped, replaced by a spiraling, molten heat.

“Will you make me feel good… please?

Will you give me the kind of pleasure that finally quiets everything screaming inside me?”

He released her foot, his amber eyes opening to meet hers. They were no longer serene. They were burning with a banked fire, a hunger that mirrored her own. He didn’t answer with words. He moved forward, his lips trailing a path of fire up her calf, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin. He kissed the sensitive skin behind her knee, then continued his ascent along the inside of her thigh. Higher and higher, his journey a deliberate, torturous promise.

He paused, his breath hot against the thin silk of her nightgown. He looked up at her, his gaze pinning her in place.

“Yes.

The single word was a vow. He hooked his fingers into the hem of her gown, slowly drawing it up, exposing her to the cool night air and his burning gaze. He settled between her thighs, his broad shoulders parting them, and then his mouth was on her.

It was not a clumsy fumbling or a rushed assault. It was an art form. His tongue was an instrument of pure pleasure, knowing exactly where to flick, where to circle, where to press with firm, unrelenting pressure. He explored her as a cartographer maps a new world, learning every contour, every sensitive hollow, every secret spot that made her gasp and arch her back. He built the pleasure slowly, expertly, a wave rising from a deep ocean, gathering strength and speed until it crashed over her.

Her first orgasm was a violent, convulsive thing, tearing a cry from her throat. Her back bowed off the divan, her hands fisting in the velvet as the pleasure blinded her, stole her breath, and left her trembling in its wake. But he didn't stop. He gave her no time to recover, his mouth never leaving her, his tongue coaxing her, demanding more. The second orgasm came faster, a tidal wave on top of the first, leaving her a whimpering, boneless mess. And still, he continued. The third was a different beast entirely, a deep, rolling pleasure that seemed to go on forever, a complete and total unraveling of her senses until she was nothing but a puddle of nerve endings and raw feeling, a mindless, reeling vessel for ecstasy.

When he finally lifted his head, his face glistening, she was limp, her body feeling like it was no longer her own. She was jelly, a warm, sated puddle on the divan, her mind a blissful blank.

But he was not finished.

He began to move up her body, kissing a slow, deliberate path. He kissed the soft skin of her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel, making her shudder. He kissed her ribs, her collarbone. She whimpered, her oversensitized body protesting even as it craved more. He reached her chest, his mouth closing over one taut peak, his tongue swirling in a way that made her gasp. He moved to the other, giving it the same worshipful attention, before his lips found the sensitive skin of her nape, then the delicate shell of her ear.

He hovered there, his body a warm, heavy weight over hers, his voice a low, rumbling whisper that vibrated through her very bones.

“Ride me, Your Highness. Ride your dragon.”

The words sent a fresh jolt of fire through her. It was a challenge, an invitation, a command wrapped in silk. A new strength, born of pure, unadulterated need, flooded her limbs. She pushed against his chest, and he rolled over onto his back, his movements fluid and powerful. She straddled him, her thighs trembling, and looked down.

And then she saw it.

His cock was monstrous. It lay against his stomach, thick and heavy, a thing of impossible proportions. It was thicker than her forearm, longer than any man she had ever seen, a pillar of tanned flesh rising from a nest of dark curls. The sheer scale of it was intimidating, a primal, breathtaking sight.

A flicker of fear, of genuine doubt, cut through the haze of pleasure. “That… that thing,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It could never possibly fit.”

He reached up, his hands stroking her thighs, his touch reassuring. “Ride your dragon, Your Highness,” he urged, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. “You have survived being burned. You can survive the burn that your dragon will give you.”

His words were a spark to the tinder of her courage. She was the Mother of Dragons. She had walked through fire and been reborn. She would not be cowed by this.

She steeled herself, her jaw setting with a familiar, stubborn resolve. She rose up over him, positioning herself, her hand guiding the blunt, massive head to her slick, swollen entrance. She took a breath and began to lower herself.

The stretch was incredible, a slow, intense burn that stole her breath. It was a pressure, a fullness so complete it bordered on pain, but it was a glorious pain, a pleasurable ache. She sank down slowly, her body adjusting to the sheer, overwhelming size of him, inch by agonizing, glorious inch. It felt like she was being impaled, reshaped, claimed in a way she had never known.

She took him all, her hips finally resting against his, the feeling of being so utterly, completely full sending a fresh wave of arousal through her. She experimentally ground her hips, a small, circular motion, and a bolt of pure pleasure shot through her, so intense it was almost painful. She did it again, and another orgasm hits her, sharp and sudden, seized her. It was a revelation. Just the act of grinding against him was enough to send her over the edge.

Emboldened, she began to ride him in earnest. She rose and fell, her movements growing from tentative to confident, then to desperate. She rode him hard, her hands braced on his chest, her hips grinding, circling, slamming down. He met her gaze, his eyes burning with encouragement, his hands on her hips guiding her, urging her on. His monstrous cock was pistoning into her, reshaping her, claiming every inch of her, hitting a place deep inside her that she never knew existed. The pleasure was a blinding, all-consuming fire, the most intense, most profound sensation she had ever felt in her life.

She could feel another orgasm building, a colossal wave that promised to obliterate her completely. Gregor’s breathing was ragged now, his hips beginning to thrust upward to meet her, his control finally fraying. He was close, too. The rhythm became frantic, a desperate, primal dance as they both chased the peak.

The pleasure reached its zenith, a supernova of white-hot sensation. It ripped through her, and her entire body convulsed. At the same moment, she felt him surge upwards, a deep guttural groan tearing from his throat as he found his own release, his heat flooding her.

The world dissolved into a blinding, ecstatic white. The pleasure was so absolute, so overwhelming, that her consciousness simply… fled. Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, Mother of Dragons, slumped forward, her body going limp, and passed out completely atop her dragon.