A Life in Westeros Ch.7 [Game of Thrones] (Patreon)

A Life in Westeros

Chapter 7

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The Tourney of the Hand was a cacophony of color and noise, a desperate, gaudy pageant designed to drown out the stench of the rebellion and the lingering madness of the Mad King. Banners of crimson and gold snapped in the wind, filling the lists with the roar of the crowd, the clash of steel, and the triumphant cries of knights who had never seen a battlefield. Adian Frey moved through the revelry like a ghost, his grey doublet a dull shadow against the riotous Lannister crimson. He watched the jousting with detached amusement, his mind already a thousand leagues away in the quiet, opulent rooms of the Ryswell townhouse where the real game was being played.

For seven days, Adian had not left Barbrey Dustin’s side. The tourney was merely a backdrop to the grander spectacle occurring behind closed doors. The "courtship" was a lie, a convenient fiction to explain their constant, furtive disappearances into alcoves, wine cellars, and private chambers. But the reality was far more primal, far more brutal. It was a siege of flesh.

Day Two began with the absurdity of public civility. They attended the morning jousting, seated at a table with the Tyrells, their hands resting lightly on the table, but their bodies inches apart, pressed together by the crowded bench. While Mace Tyrell regaled them with tales of Ser Tybolt’s prowess—boasting of Ser Tybolt of the Torrentine and his “mountains of muscle and steely resolve”—Adian’s hand had drifted beneath the heavy fabric of Barbrey’s gown, his fingers sliding into the damp heat of her cunt.

"That’s my boy! Ser Tybolt! Look at him, the Torrentine’s pride. A mountain of muscle and steel," Mace boomed, gesturing to a knight in bright yellow, his face flushed with wine and pride. "Strong enough to crush a lance like a twig. And sturdy enough to take a woman all night long."

"He is a mountain," Adian agreed, his voice a low, smooth purr that seemed to vibrate right against Barbrey’s ear. His thumb pressed hard against her swollen clit, circling in a slow, maddening rhythm. "But a mountain is cold. And a mountain doesn't stretch."

Barbrey had to bite her lip so hard she tasted copper to suppress a moan. Her eyes darted to his, searching for the cruelty she knew lived there, but finding only a dark, predatory amusement. "He is... adequate," she whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain a polite mask. "He has a nice… presence. A sturdy frame."

"A sturdy frame?" His other hand moved to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her dark hair, a silent command for her to look at him. "Suitable for a chair, maybe. For a man to lean on. But we are not talking about furniture, my lady. We are talking about the act."

"It’s about the filling. The stretching."

Barbrey swallowed hard, her breath hitching as his fingers curled inside her, pumping slowly, deliberately. "I suppose you would know," she retorted, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding instead breathless and needy. "You seem to have a fondness for... stretching things."

"I know exactly what is required to make a woman sing," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

Suddenly, a deafening roar erupted from the stands as a knight shattered a lance. The shockwave rattled the table. Alerie Tyrell, sitting next to Barbrey, jumped slightly, her hand instinctively coming to cover her chest. She glanced at her husband, who was shouting in triumph, then turned her gaze to the woman beside her.

Barbrey’s face was flushed a deep crimson, her mouth half-open as if she had been about to gasp. Her hand, which had been resting on the table, was gripping her goblet with such force her knuckles were white. But the strangest thing was the look in her eyes—distant, unfocused, as if she were seeing something Adian alone could show her.

Alerie’s gaze slid down to Adian. He was sitting with his legs apart, his posture relaxed, his chin resting on his fist as he watched the tournament with bored interest. Yet, the table beneath the cloth was vibrating with a subtle, rhythmic tremor.

Impossible, Alerie thought, her heart fluttering with a sudden, illicit heat. They couldn't be... not here?

The air between them felt thick, charged with a secret that Alerie was only beginning to suspect. She looked back at Barbrey. The Northern widow was biting her lip so hard her teeth showed, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk against the space between her legs. It was a movement so small, so involuntary, that Alerie almost missed it.

But she hadn't. Alerie felt a flush rise up her own neck, a traitorous warmth spreading between her thighs. Here? she thought, her mind racing with the image.

The absurdity of it was intoxicating. Alerie shifted in her seat, her skirts rustling, and felt a dampness bloom in her crotch. She glanced at Adian again. His eyes were locked on her now, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips. He hadn't broken eye contact, yet Alerie felt as though he was reading her mind, cataloging her doubt and her arousal.

Barbrey’s body went rigid. Her eyes squeezed shut, her head snapping back to rest against the wooden back of the bench. With a soft, choked sob that she barely managed to stifle behind her hand, she shattered. Her hips bucked upward, pressing desperately into Adian's unseen hand, her inner muscles clamping down rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, leaving her trembling and breathless.

Mace continued his boasting about Ser Tybolt’s "impressive virility," completely oblivious to the tableau unfolding beside him. Adian didn't move his hand, didn't withdraw his fingers. He simply kept pumping her, watching the way the wine in Barbrey's goblet sloshed violently, creating a tiny, rhythmic splash against the glass.

"Did you hear me?" Mace asked, his voice booming. "Ser Tybolt is a giant!"

"We heard you," Adian said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against Barbrey's ear. "And I'm sure everyone’s listening."

Barbrey let out a shuddering breath, her eyes fluttering open, glassy and swimming with tears of release. She looked at Alerie, and for a split second, the Northern widow didn't mask her expression. She looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly used in the most public of places, and she looked at Alerie with a mixture of shame and a dark, shared secret.

Alerie felt the heat between her legs spike, a sudden, sharp ache that had nothing to do with the crowd or the sun. She swallowed hard, her gaze darting to the heavy fabric of the tablecloth, trying to imagine what Adian’s hand was doing down there, how could he make a woman like Barbrey Dustin lose her mind right next to her.

By noon, they had escaped the heat of the hall. They were alone in a private balcony overlooking the lists, a vantage point that offered a clear view of the action but left them hidden in the shadows. The wind whipped through the open stone arches, carrying the smell of horse sweat and roasting meat, but Adian blocked out the world, focusing entirely on the woman in his arms. He had stripped her down to her undergarments, the silk of her chemise torn and stained with his seed from the previous night.

"Take it out," he commanded, his voice a rough growl. "Show me how much you missed it."

Barbrey, emboldened by the height and the risk, knelt before him on the cold stone. She didn't hesitate. She undid his breeches, her movements practiced and eager, her fingers trembling slightly as she freed the beast that waited. His cock sprang free, a thick, veined column of flesh that seemed to throb with a life of its own, the head already glistening with pre-come. She didn't tease. She didn't take her time. She opened her mouth and swallowed him whole, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth, her nose burying itself in the dark hair at the base of his shaft.

"Gods," Adian groaned, his head falling back against the stone pillar. The sounds of the tourny—the cheering crowds, the clash of lances—faded into a dull roar as Barbrey’s head bobbed, her throat working around his shaft, swallowing him down. He gripped her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp, guiding her, setting a punishing rhythm. "That's it. Suck it like a Northern whore. Like a widow who needs a man to remind her she's alive."

She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip, her eyes wide and dark, her cheeks flushed. "You taste like victory, Adian," she whispered, her voice husky and breathless.

"Then drink it," he growled, and he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in her throat. She choked, her eyes watering, but she didn't pull away. She swallowed, her throat contracting around him, milking him for every drop. The gagging sounds were obscene, wet and raw, echoing in the quiet space between them. He held her there, forcing her to take his full length, feeling the flutter of her tongue against his sensitive underside.

"Good girl," he grunted, pulling her back just enough to let her gasp for air. "Look at you. Taking my cock like it's the only thing in the world that matters. Does it feel good, Barbrey? Does it feel good to be used?"

She nodded frantically, her hands gripping his thighs, her nails digging into his skin. "Yes," she choked out. "Yes, Adian."

"Then take it again. Drink it all."

He slammed his hips forward, driving himself deep into her mouth one last time, holding her there as he began to pulse. His cock swelled, a vein throbbing against her tongue, and with a guttural roar, he came. Hot, thick ropes of seed shot directly down her throat, flooding her mouth. She swallowed eagerly, her throat working frantically to consume him, her eyes watering with the effort, but she didn't spill a drop. When he finally pulled out, she gasped for air, her chest heaving, a satisfied, predatory smile on her lips as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a glistening trail of his seed across her skin.

Day Three was a descent into darkness, a deliberate retreat from the gilded cage of the court. They found their way into the wine cellar, a place of damp earth and forgotten barrels that smelled of yeast, rot, and the slow passage of time. It was lit only by a single torch, its flame dancing erratically, casting long, flickering shadows that made the stone walls seem to writhe.

Adian had Barbrey bent over a stack of empty, waterlogged crates, her skirts hiked up to her waist, her silk undergarments torn and discarded somewhere in the dark. The cool air of the cellar bit at her exposed skin, raising gooseflesh, but Adian’s body was a furnace against her back, a heavy, possessive weight that anchored her.

"Remember my cock, Barbrey?" he said, his voice a low, menacing rumble that seemed to vibrate right through the wood of the crate beneath her hands.

He didn't ease in. He didn't apply oil or prepare her. He drove forward, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force, his thumbs pressing into the soft, yielding flesh of her ass cheeks. He breached her asshole with a brutal, single thrust, the sound of tearing fabric and the sharp snap of skin echoing in the small, enclosed space.

She screamed, a high, ragged sound that tore from her throat and echoed off the stone walls, raw and animalistic. Her body trembled violently as she was stretched impossibly wide, the muscles of her ass fighting him, clamping down in a futile attempt to reject the invasion.

"Easy," he soothed, though his own hands were shaking with the effort to hold back, to not simply bury himself to the hilt and lose control immediately. "Take it. Let it ruin you. Let it stretch you until you can't take anything else."

He began to move, his hips slamming against her ass with a wet, obscene symphony of flesh meeting flesh. The sound was lewd, a constant slap-slap-slap that filled the silence of the cellar. He was deep, deeper than she thought possible, his cock hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars, a pressure so intense it bordered on pain.

"Look at you," he grunted, his voice strained, laced with the raw exertion of the act. "A Lady of Barrowton, taking a Frey's cock in her ass.  Does your dead husband know?"

"He's dead!" she cried, her voice cracking, the grief and the pleasure warring in her. "I don't care about him! I only care about you!"

"Good," he growled, and he fucked her harder, his rhythm punishing and relentless. He wasn't making love to her; he was conquering her, using her body as a vessel for his dominance. "You're a widow now, Barbrey. A widow who needs a man to remind her she's alive."

He reached around, his hand finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, merciless circles, a counterpoint to the brutal stretching of her backside. "Cum for me. Show me how much you love being used. Show me how much you want this."

She shattered. Her body arched, her back bowing off the crate, her head thrown back as her orgasm ripped through her, a white-hot wave of sensation that left her mind blank. Her inner muscles clamped down on his cock rhythmically, milking him, sucking him in, desperate to keep him there.

The sensation was too much. With a guttural roar that shook the very foundation of the cellar, Adian buried himself to the hilt and came. He held her there, his body tense, emptying himself into her with long, shuddering pulses, filling her with hot, thick seed. He stayed buried deep inside her, his chest heaving against her back, the two of them locked together in the darkness, a perfect, obscene seal.

The fourth day found them retreating to the sanctuary of the walled garden, a place shielded from the prying eyes of the court by high, ancient hedges and the thick, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the stone path where Adian knelt.

He had Barbrey reclined on a stone bench, her head thrown back against the cold stone, her legs spread wide in a display of utter surrender. He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue a relentless, worshipful instrument, a wet, warm lash that lashed at her most sensitive flesh. He didn't just lick; he devoured. He drank from her, his lips and tongue working every fold, every sensitive ridge with a precision that bordered on cruelty, a hunger that was terrifying in its intensity.

She gasped, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer. "Yes," she breathed, her voice breathless and trembling. "Right there."

He didn't stop. He sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, circling it with the flat of his palate. She shattered on the first touch, a sharp, white flash of ecstasy that made her back arch off the bench, her heels digging into the grass. But he didn't let her come down. He rode her through the aftershocks, his tongue working her swollen, sensitive flesh, tasting the salt of her release, driving her higher.

Her second orgasm was a tidal wave, a force of nature that left her trembling and gasping for air, her body slick with sweat and her juices. She lay there, limp and boneless, her eyes wide and unfocused, the world reduced to the sensation of his mouth on her.

Finally, he pulled back. He stood, his face glistening with her essence, his eyes dark and burning. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture of absolute dominance.

"On your hands and knees," he commanded, his voice a low, rough rumble.

She obeyed instantly, her body a testament to his ownership. She shifted on the bench, scrambling into position, her ass raised high, offering herself to him. He positioned himself behind her, his cock slick with her juices and his own pre-come. He didn't enter her cunt. He guided the head to her ass, already stretched and filled from the previous day, the muscle gaping slightly, a dark, inviting target.

"Look at it," he teased, his finger tracing the edge of the hole. "Remember how you looked yesterday? Gaping for me. Waiting for it."

"Please," she begged, pushing back against him, her voice ragged. "Fuck me. Fill me. I need it."

He thrust in. The sensation was electric. He was deep, deeper than she thought possible, his cock sliding effortlessly into the passage he had just claimed. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, her body adjusting to the intrusion, the fullness overwhelming.

He began to fuck her, his hips slapping against her ass, a wet, obscene symphony of flesh meeting flesh. The sound was lewd, echoing in the quiet garden, a testament to the raw, primal act they were committing. "Say it," he commanded, his voice rough, laced with exertion. "Say who owns this ass."

"You!" she cried, her voice a ragged moan, her head thrown back. "You own it! It's yours! Use me!"

"Good," he growled, and he fucked her harder, his cock a piston of flesh and steel, driving into her with relentless force. He reached forward, his hand finding her throat, squeezing gently, restricting her air. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot against her ear.

"Breathe it in, Barbrey," he whispered, his voice a dark, possessive caress. "Breathe it in your new life. You're no longer just a widow. You're my whore. My property. And I'm going to use you until there's nothing left of the woman you were."

The fifth and sixth days blurred into a feverish haze of stolen moments and public peril. The tourney grounds were a sprawling maze of tents and stands, a labyrinth of shadows where Adian and Barbrey could disappear at will. But the carriage ride to the lists on the sixth day offered a different kind of thrill—a claustrophobic, dangerous intimacy that left them breathless and ruined.

They were traveling with the royal entourage, a procession of velvet-drawn coaches and armored outriders. The interior of the carriage was plush, lined with brocade and smelling of lavender, but Adian had other plans. As the heavy wheels rumbled over the cobblestones of King's Landing, bumping and jolting with a rhythmic thud, he pulled Barbrey from her seat and onto his lap.

"I don't have time," she whispered, her eyes darting to the small window where the shadows of guards passed.

"Good," he growled, his hands already tearing at the heavy silk of her bodice. The fabric gave way with a harsh rip, exposing her breasts to the cool air of the moving carriage. He didn't bother with laces or ceremony. He just pushed her skirts up and entered her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, her heels digging into his flanks.

"Adian!" she gasped, her head falling back against the plush headrest, her mouth open in a silent cry as he drove into her in one brutal stroke.

The motion of the carriage was a cruel lover. Every bump of the road drove him deeper, every turn of the wheel thrusting him harder. The sensation of being filled while the world rushed past outside was maddening. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising, and began to move in time with the rhythm of the wheels.

"You're tight," he grunted, his voice strained, the sound swallowed by the rumble of the iron tires. "Just like that. Take it."

She clawed at his shoulders, her nails sinking into his skin, her body trembling as he fucked her with the speed and violence of a storm. The smell of horses and dust mixed with the scent of her arousal, creating a thick, heady perfume. "Harder," she begged, her voice breathless and desperate. "Faster. I'm cumming!"

"Then cum," he commanded, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing it in hard circles. "Cum in the carriage. Let them hear you."

She shattered. Her back arched, her backside grinding against him, and she cried out, a hoarse, ragged sound that threatened to echo through the wooden walls. Her inner muscles clamped down on his cock, milking him, pulling him in. The sensation was too much. With a guttural roar, Adian buried himself to the hilt and came, filling her with hot, thick seed, the motion of the carriage milking the last drops from him.

They sat in silence for a long moment, their bodies slick with sweat, the carriage rocking gently as it climbed a hill.

The seventh day was the culmination, a grand spectacle in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, where the air was thick with wine and ambition, a heavy, golden fog that clung to the vaulted stone ceilings. The tables groaned under the weight of golden platters and overflowing casks, and the noise was deafening—a chaotic symphony of laughter, shouting, and the clatter of goblets. Adian sat at the a table, his arm draped possessively around Barbrey’s shoulders. She was dressed in a gown of deep blue and grey, her hair pinned up, her face flushed, her eyes dark and hungry, locked entirely on him, a silent language of shared secrets passing between them.

They watched as the royal procession entered, Robert Baratheon in all his glory, his massive frame draped in crimson velvet, his antlered helm under his arm. Beside him walked Cersei Lannister. She was radiant, a queen in the making, her green eyes shining with a cold, haughty pride. She wore a gown of heavy gold and white, the color of the sun, and she moved with the regal grace of a woman who knew she was the prize.

The crowd roared as the kings took their seats. Then, the signal was given. The jousting began.

It was a spectacle of violence and beauty. Knights in shining plate thundered down the lists, lances shattering against shields with the sound of thunder. But the climax belonged to one man.

Ser Jaime Lannister. The golden lion, the youngest Kingsguard in history. He rode a massive white destrier, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, his silver hair flowing in the wind. He was young, barely more than a boy, but he moved with the arrogance of a god.

He faced Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, a giant of a man whose armor was dented and scarred. The clash was deafening. The Mountain's lance shattered against Jaime's shield, but Jaime’s lance drove straight through, striking the Mountain’s chest and unseating him. The crowd went wild.

But Jaime didn't stop. He rode on, a blur of silver and gold, and took the final tilt against Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The duel was a thing of legend, a dance of steel that left the court breathless. When the dust settled, it was Jaime who stood, his lance raised in victory, his chest heaving.

The King stood, his goblet raised. "Ser Jaime! The Champion of the Tourney of the Hand!"

The roar was a physical thing. Cersei smiled, a beautiful, fragile thing, and raised her own glass. She felt a flush of pride that was almost physical. My brother, she thought, her heart swelling. The golden boy. He won it for me.

The herald placed a crown of laurels on Jaime's head. He bowed low, sweeping a dramatic arc. Then, he turned his horse toward the royal box. The crowd fell silent, holding its breath.

He stopped in front of them, his silver hair gleaming, his eyes locking onto Cersei. He didn't bow to the King. He didn't bow to the lords. He bowed only to her.

"For my sister," he said, his voice clear and ringing across the hall. "Cersei of House Lannister. The Queen of Love and Beauty."

The applause was thunderous. Cersei felt tears prick her eyes. She was being honored. She was the center of the world. It was a wonderful moment, a moment of absolute perfection, until she looked to her left.

Adian was watching her, but his gaze wasn't on her. It was on the woman at his side.

Barbrey was leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his chest. She was smiling, a secret, intimate smile that belonged only to them. Adian was looking down at her, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, a look of dark, possessive adoration on his face.

Cersei’s smile froze. The wine in her glass turned to ash in her mouth. The room seemed to tilt, the noise of the crowd fading into a dull roar. She saw the way Adian looked at Barbrey—the same way he had looked at her aunt in that storeroom. The same hungry, predatory look.

He's looking at her, she thought, a cold spike of jealousy piercing her heart. He's looking at her like she's his. Like he owns her.

She saw Adian lean in, his lips brushing Barbrey’s ear, and she heard the faint, unmistakable sound of a whisper, low and intimate. Mine.

The moment shattered. Cersei’s hand tightened convulsively on her goblet, her knuckles turning white. The urge to scream, to knock the goblet from his hand, to demand he look at her—to look at her—was a physical weight in her chest. But she forced herself to breathe. She forced herself to sit straight. She was Queen soon. She could not ruin this. She could not show the court the venomous green snake beneath the golden crown.

She swallowed the wine, the liquid burning her throat, and forced a smile back onto her face, though her eyes remained cold and hard. She watched him, seething, as he turned his attention back to the celebration, completely unaware of the storm he had just ignited in her.

***

The news of the quiet engagement spread through the Red Keep like a fever, a whisper that began in the servant’s passages and ended in the solar of the royal family. Lords and ladies, bored with the slow pace of peace, took delight in the scandal of it—a Frey, a cadet branch, marrying a proud dust of the North. The congratulations were polite, the smiles practiced, but the eyes were hungry, watching Adian and Barbrey like hawks circling a fresh kill.

Cersei sat at the high table, her face a mask of porcelain perfection, but her mind was a blank, static-filled void. Engaged, she thought, the word echoing in her skull like a hammer striking stone. Engaged to that widow. To that Northern cow.

She watched Adian and Barbrey slip away from the feast, moving with the practiced ease of conspirators into the shadows of the corridor. The moment their figures disappeared behind a tapestry, Cersei stood. She smoothed her gown, forced a smile onto her lips, and followed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not from fear, but from a dark, coiling heat that had nothing to do with the wine she’d drunk.

They found a secluded alcove near the lower gardens, a place hidden from the main thoroughfares but open to the moonlight. Adian turned to her, his expression a mixture of triumph and predatory hunger.

"Let's celebrate this final day," he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the damp air. 

He didn't wait. He didn't kiss her. He simply shoved her shoulders, forcing her down to her knees on the cold stone. "Open your mouth."

Barbrey didn't hesitate. She obeyed instantly, her face upturned, her lips parted, waiting for the monster.

Adian undid his breeches with a rough jerk, his cock springing free, a thick, veined column of flesh that throbbed with a life of its own. He didn't tease. He gripped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her dark hair, and thrust forward.

She gasped, her eyes widening as the head of his cock breached her lips. He didn't give her time to adjust. He drove in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, the tip hitting the back of her throat with a wet, obscene smack.

"Gods," he groaned, his head falling back as she choked around him. "That's it. Take it. Swallow it."

He began to fuck her face with a rhythm that was relentless and brutal. His hips slammed forward, his heavy balls slapping against her chin with a wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed in the quiet garden. It was a symphony of filth—the sound of lips stretching, the wet gagging noise as she struggled to breathe, the desperate gasps for air that were cut short by his next thrust.

"Look at you," he grunted, his voice strained, laced with dark pleasure. "A Lady of Barrowton, kneeling in the dirt like a common tavern whore. Does your dead husband know you're this desperate for a cock? Does he know you're gagging on a Frey?"

She moaned around him, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through his shaft. Her hands came up to grip his thighs, her nails digging into his skin, pulling him deeper.

"Use your tongue," he commanded, pulling back slightly and then thrusting hard again. "Lick it. You love it. You're starving for it."

Cersei watched from the shadows, her breath hitching in her throat. She had seen him with her aunt Genna, but this was different. This was raw. This was public. She pressed a hand between her legs, her fingers moving frantically against the silk of her gown, seeking relief.

Look at her, she thought, a wave of jealousy so sharp it made her dizzy. She's taking it. She's swallowing it.

She watched as Adian’s cock pistoned in and out of Barbrey’s mouth, a blur of flesh and saliva. The sight was depraved, utterly humiliating, and unbearably arousing. She wished, with a desperate, burning want, that it was her on her knees. She wished Adian was looking at her with that hungry, predatory gaze. She wished she was choking on his monstrous cock, feeling him fill her mouth, owning her the way he owned that Northern widow.

"Swallow it," Adian growled, his voice dropping to a low, guttural rumble. "You're a good little wife. A good little cocksleeve. Take it all."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came. He held her head still, his cock pulsing violently, emptying himself into her throat. She choked, her eyes watering, her body trembling, but she swallowed, every drop, the thick, hot seed coating her tongue and sliding down her throat.

He pulled back slowly, his cock glistening with a string of saliva and cum connecting her lips to the tip. He looked down at her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and satisfied.

Barbrey looked up at him, her mouth full, her lips swollen and red. She swallowed the last of him, then leaned forward, pressing her lips against his cock, licking the remaining drops from the head. She pulled back, a look of utter devotion on her face, and opened her mouth to show him the evidence of her submission.

"See?" she whispered, her voice husky and breathless, filled with a desperate, self-loathing pride. "I'm a good wife, Adian. I do what I'm told. I take your cock. I swallow your seed. I'm yours. I'm your whore. Just like you want me."

She reached up, her hand trembling, and stroked his thighs. "Use me. Fill me. Break me. I'm yours."

Adian released her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands one last time before he hauled her up to her feet. He didn't give her a moment to breathe, to compose herself, to wipe the spit from her chin. He spun her around with a rough grip on her arm, forcing her to face away from him, and shoved her forward until her hands met the cold stone of the garden wall.

"Bend over," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And put your hands behind your back."

Barbrey didn't hesitate. She obeyed instantly, her body arching as she pressed her palms together behind her spine, a position of utter submission that forced her chest out and her ass high. Adian stepped between her legs, his boots scuffing the dirt, and she felt the heavy, undeniable presence of his cock against her ass.

"Spread your legs," he growled.

She widened her stance, trembling with anticipation. He didn't tease. He grabbed his shaft, guiding the swollen head to her entrance, and thrust in. The angle was brutal, hitting her deep, and the restriction of her arms forced her to arch her back even further, offering herself up to him like a sacrifice.

"Look at you," Adian grunted, his hands finding her wrists and pulling them back, forcing her head back and her chest to thrust forward. "A Lady of Barrowton, bent over a garden wall, your hands tied behind your back like a common slut. Does this feel familiar, Barbrey? Does this feel like the only thing you're good for?"

"Yes!" she cried out, her voice breathless and desperate. "Use me! Take me! I'm yours!"

"Good," he said, and he began to fuck her. He pulled his hips back and slammed forward, his cock a piston of flesh and steel, the sound of their bodies meeting wet and obscene. The friction was intense, the angle punishing.

With just a few thrusts, the dam broke. Barbrey shattered, her body seizing up, her inner muscles clamping down on him so hard he groaned. "Yes! Yes! Adian! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!"

But Adian didn't stop. He didn't let her come down. He kept fucking her, harder and faster, his hips slapping against her ass with a rhythmic, wet slap-slap-slap that echoed in the quiet garden. Her breasts, freed from the confines of her gown, swung violently with every thrust, heavy and pale, bouncing against her chest in a mesmerizing, hypnotic rhythm.

"Look at them," he taunted, reaching around to squeeze one of her nipples, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. "Swaying for me. Just like they did when you were riding me on that bench. You're a dirty little whore, Barbrey. A Northern slut who loves being used."

"Please," she whimpered, her head falling back, her voice cracking. "I'm a whore. I'm your whore. Use me. Fill me. Break me."

"I know you are," he growled, his voice strained with exertion. "You're my property. And I'm going to use every inch of you until there's nothing left."

The sight was a drug, and Cersei was an addict. She watched from the shadows, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her hand a blur between her legs. She could see every detail—the way Barbrey’s back arched, the way her breasts bounced, the way Adian’s muscles corded as he thrust. She could hear the wet, obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the desperate cries of pleasure.

Look at her, Cersei thought, her eyes wide, her mind going blank with envy. She's being used. She's being filled. And he's looking at her like she's the only woman in the world.

She rubbed herself frantically, her fingers moving in a frantic rhythm, matching the pace of Adian's thrusts. The sight was so depraved, so utterly humiliating, that it sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to her core. She wished, with every fiber of her being, that it was her on the wall, her breasts bouncing for him, her body being ruined by his monstrous cock.

"Say it," Adian commanded, his voice rough. "Say who you are."

"I'm your whore!" Barbrey screamed, her voice shrill with pleasure. "I'm a dirty cunt! I'm nothing but a hole for your cock! Please, Adian! Fuck me! Fuck me hard! I want to feel you cumming inside me!"

"Then take it," he growled, and he began to pound into her, his cock a blur of motion, driving into her with relentless force.

The second orgasm hit her harder than the first. It ripped through her, a blinding wave of ecstasy that left her screaming, her body convulsing, her inner muscles milking him, pulling him in, demanding more.

"Good girl," Adian groaned, his voice a dark, possessive rumble. "You're mine. You're always going to be mine."

With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and came. He held her there, his body tense, emptying himself into her with long, shuddering pulses, filling her completely. He stayed inside her, his chest heaving against her back, the two of them locked together in the quiet garden, a perfect, obscene seal.

Barbrey went limp, her body turning to jelly in the aftermath of the brutal climax. Adian didn't catch her this time. He let her fall forward, her face hitting the soft grass, her body splayed out in a vulnerable display of spent flesh. Her ass remained up, high and trembling, a target painted in the moonlight.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the earth, and brought his hand down hard. Smack.

Barbrey cried out, her body jerking, but she didn't move to cover herself. "Yes!" she gasped, her voice breathless and broken. "Hit me! Mark me! Make me remember who owns this body!"

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"Does this hurt?" he taunted, his hand leaving a bright red handprint on her pale skin. "Does it sting, you filthy Northern slut? You're nothing but a collection of holes for me to use. A cunt, an ass, a mouth. That's all you are."

"I'm nothing!" she shrieked, her hips bucking back against his hand. "I'm a whore! I'm a Frey's whore! Use me! Break me! I don't care anymore! Just fuck me!"

Adian chuckled darkly, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "I know one hole that's still waiting to get used. One hole that's still waiting to be stretched."

He gripped his cock, slick with her juices and his own cum, and guided the head to the tight, pink ring of her anus. He didn't push in. He teased. He rubbed the swollen head against her, coating himself in her excitement, and circled the entrance, spreading her open.

"Please," she begged, her voice trembling, her face buried in the dirt. "Adian. Please. I need it. I need you to take it. Fuck my ass. Fill me. Rearrange my guts. Just do it."

"Ask for it like a good little whore," he growled.

"Please!" she screamed, tears of desperation streaming down her face. "Fuck my ass! Use my ass! I'm yours! I'm yours!"

With a final, brutal thrust, he drove forward. The resistance was immense, the muscle fighting him, but he didn't stop. He pushed past the ring, the head popping inside, and began to feed her his cock inch by inch.

"Ah!" she cried out, her body arching. "Too big! It's too big!"

"Take it," he commanded, his hands on her hips, holding her steady as he buried himself to the hilt. "You wanted this. Now take it."

He began to fuck her, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed in the quiet garden. It was deep, a hammer driving into the center of her. He reached down and placed his foot on her face, pressing the sole flat against her cheek, forcing her head to the side, her mouth open in a silent gasp.

"Look at this," he grunted, his foot digging into her skin. "Look at how you take my cock."

He fucked her harder, his cock rearranging her insides, turning her insides to mush. The sight was too much for Cersei, watching from the shadows. She was on her knees, her hand a blur between her legs, her eyes locked on the depraved scene. She saw the foot on her face, the roughness of the fucking, the sheer domination.

Yes, she thought, her mind shattering. That's what I want. That's what I need.

With a cry, Cersei came, her body shuddering, her pleasure mirroring the raw, violent act happening just feet away.

Barbrey was close to the edge again, her body trembling, her muscles clenching around him. "I'm cumming!" she screamed, her voice muffled by the grass. "I'm cumming! Adian! I'm cumming! Ah! Ah! Ah!"

"Then cum!" he roared, his own control snapping. "Cum for me! Drain my balls!"

The orgasm hit them simultaneously. Barbrey screamed, her body arching, her inner muscles milking him, pulling him in, demanding his seed. Adian buried himself to the hilt and came, a hot, thick flood of his seed filling her ass, a final, possessive mark.

He held himself there, his body tense, emptying himself into her until he was spent. The garden fell silent, save for their ragged breathing.

Barbrey's eyes rolled back in her head. The pleasure was too much, the intensity too great. She went limp, her body going boneless, her mind shutting down from the sheer overload. She passed out cold, her face pressed into the dirt, her ass still up, a mess of sweat, seed, and bruises.

Adian pulled out slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound. He looked down at her, a dark, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. 

Adian stood over the unconscious form of Barbrey Dustin, her body a tangled mess of sweat and spent passion, her face pressed into the cool grass. His eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows of the garden. He knew she was there. He could smell the musk of her arousal, a thick, sweet scent that clung to the air even over the smell of sex and night-blooming flowers.

"Cersei," he called out, his voice cutting through the silence, low and dangerous. "The Queen of Love and Beauty. I see you've been a very good little voyeur."

From the darkness, a figure emerged. Queen Cersei Lannister. Her gown was slightly disheveled, her hair a wild tangle around her face, and her eyes were wide, dark pools of unfocused lust. She stood there for a moment, trembling, her hand pressed hard against her crotch, her body betraying her regal composure. She looked at Adian, then down at the unconscious woman at his feet, and then back at him, her lips parted in a breathless gasp.

"Look at you," Adian said, stepping closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Voluptuous. Sinful. Your body is heavy with the promise of life, ripe for breeding, ripe for being taken." He

gestured to the damp spot on her silk skirts. "And look at this. Dripping. You've been watching us and you've been touching yourself, haven't you? You're hungry, Cersei. Hungry for a cock that can actually satisfy you."

He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't give her a chance to compose herself. He pointed a finger at the dirt at his feet.

"Crawl," he commanded.

Cersei’s eyes widened, but she didn't hesitate. The Future Queen of Westeros, the woman who would soon be married to a king, dropped to her hands and knees and crawled across the grass toward him. The sight was degrading, a stark contrast to the haughty queen she pretended to be, but she did it willingly, driven by a desperate, primal need.

She reached him and looked up, her face flushed, her eyes pleading. "Yes, Adian," she whispered. "Use me."

Adian grabbed his cock, still glistening with the evidence of his time with Barbrey. He held it out to her, the head heavy and purple. "Clean it," he ordered, his voice rough. "Lick the taste of that Northern slut off my cock. Taste her ass. Taste her filth."

Cersei leaned forward, her tongue darting out to touch the tip. The taste was shocking—salty, musky, and distinctly anal. But she didn't pull away. She opened her mouth and took him in, her lips wrapping around the shaft, her tongue working to clean every drop. She sucked him greedily, her head bobbing, her throat working to swallow the remnants of Barbrey's essence mixed with his own seed.

"Good," he groaned, his hand tangling in her golden hair, forcing her head back. "That's it. You're a good little bitch, aren't you? Licking another woman's filth off my cock."

As she cleaned him, Adian began to degrade her, his words cutting through the fog of her lust. "Look at you, Cersei. You're about to marry Robert. A pig. A drunk. He's already whoring around, isn't he? I hear he makes the women roleplay as Lyanna Stark. He wants to fuck the ghost of a dead girl while he's inside a living one. How does that make you feel? Enraged? Jealous?"

Cersei pulled back, gasping for air, her eyes filled with tears of humiliation and rage. "He's a fool," she spat, her voice trembling. "He doesn't deserve me. He doesn't deserve a queen."

"And your brother?" Adian continued, his thumb rubbing against her cheek. "Jaime. The Kingslayer. He's a pretty boy. He's a knight. But he can't give you what I can. He can't break you. I'm the only one who can truly satisfy you. The only one who can make you feel full.”

"I've seen you with my aunt Genna countless times," she whispered, her hand reaching out to stroke his thigh. "I've seen you with other women. Do they even matter? I don’t care. I want to be bred by you, Adian. I want you to fill me with your seed until I’m round with your bastard."

"I want that," she whispered, her hand reaching out to stroke his thigh. "I want your children. I want to be yours. Please, Adian. Breed me."

She looked up at him with desperate, hungry eyes. "I don't care about Robert. I don't care about Jaime. I care about you. You're the only one who truly sees me. The only one who can handle me."

She opened her mouth wider, her tongue darting out to worship the monstrous cock that had just ruined another woman. "I worship this," she whispered, her voice thick with adoration. "This dirty, magnificent thing. It's the only thing I want inside me."

After she cleaned him thoroughly, she pulled back, her lips swollen and red. She looked at him, her body trembling with anticipation. She turned around, presenting her ass to him, her back arched, her cheeks spread. "Please," she begged. "Take me. Take this. My ass. My body. It's yours. Ripe for breeding. Ripe for being taken."

Adian didn't even look at her. He didn't move toward her. Instead, he turned his attention back to the unconscious Barbrey. He reached down and scooped her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly. He looked down at Cersei, his expression cold and indifferent.

"Maybe another time," he said, his voice flat. "She's the prize tonight. She's the one I chose."

Cersei’s heart sank. She felt a wave of frustration and heartbreak. She was standing there, offering herself, and he was ignoring her. She wanted to scream, to demand his attention, but she held back, the humiliation burning through her.

Then, Adian spoke again. "But tomorrow, Cersei. Tomorrow morning."

He turned and walked away, carrying Barbrey toward the townhouse, leaving Cersei alone in the garden.

"Tomorrow morning," he called back over his shoulder, his voice carrying on the wind. "Wear your wedding dress. Come to my chambers. Offer yourself up to me."

Cersei stood frozen for a moment, her heart shattering, then piecing itself back together. She felt a strange, electric thrill course through her veins. He had chosen her. He had set aside tonight, but he had marked her for tomorrow.

She looked down at her dripping pussy, the heat between her legs intensifying. She was heartbroken that her worship wasn't enough to get fucked right now, but she beamed at the idea. She was determined to be bred by him. She was going to be the mother of Adian's children, regardless of who she married or who she was queen to. She watched him walk away, her eyes locked on his retreating figure, and she knew, with absolute certainty, that she would be there tomorrow, waiting for him to take her.