Work Text:
───── ACT ONE: THE FIRST PROFANATION
Celestial and demonic trials often dance in arduous times.
This was the phrase spoken by his mother upon seeing her beloved son, Otto Hightower tremble and shudder amid the storms and afflictions around him. She used to offer shelter in her arms, but she was no longer present; she was under the mantle of the Stranger — death had claimed her life not long ago — leaving her most attached son, Otto, in tatters due to the absence of the woman who most resembled the Mother Goddess herself.
The act of fury within him was grief. Dealing with his mother’s death caused a rupture inside him, his solid and moral structures shattering. Somewhat apathetic, he forced himself to fulfill his routine duties; his refuge in books, as the learned man he was, his mind wandered between the lines, the moments of affection with his mother.
His frustration began the moment he opened his eyes. Being the second son of a House like the Hightowers was no easy task; standing out required ambition and determination, and more than that, adequate influence. Living in the shadow of his brother, Lord Hightower, as a mere knight irritated him, but he fought against the yearning to want more — he should not let such sin corrode him from the inside out. He had his wife by his side, a domestic love.
An arranged but relatively happy marriage; he had learned to love the woman, recently wed to her. The tragedy of his mother’s passing shook part of him, due to Otto’s troubled state and affected mood. As if that were not enough, there was her: the image that unsettled him, the woman who visited his dreams, tormented him, tempting him night after night in profanation or making him witness his own decadence.
His first action upon opening his eyes: to beg for forgiveness, on his knees. He had committed every sin in his dreams, for which he would be killed, disgraced, and condemned to destruction in the seven hells. Each time he saw her in his dreams, he woke with greater ambition, the desire to immerse himself in the excruciating game of power, to satiate the small flame in his guts for dominance.
Otto condemned himself for the mere thought. An Otto nearing his thirty-third year of age received a letter from King’s Landing, an invitation to join the annual Ball of the Seven — the seven-day religious celebration in honor of the gods — as a Hightower, attending was the bare minimum, even if his grief told him otherwise.
His wife told him to attend, but his sixth sense, intuition — or mere hesitation — indicated that he should not dare leave Oldtown for the dirty city that was King’s Landing.
“It won’t do any harm, my lord husband can distract himself,” were the affectionate words of his wife.
Otto Hightower knew himself.
He knew that if he began playing in political schemes, he would not emerge due to his own desires; his corrupted nature wanted to consume. The absence of his mother, the moral pillar for most of his life, lay with the Stranger; there was nothing else holding him back.
Perfectly suited to be tempted by the Devil.
He decided to attend, accompanied by his older brother, Lord Hightower, sealing his fate. His wife mysteriously woke with aggravated health, a sign for him not to leave his residence — Otto thought — but he ended up going. During the journey, the silver image of the Father God that he usually carried with him bent, becoming trapped between the carriage.
An ill omen, he heard his brother’s wife, Hilda, mutter.
The Ball of the Seven used to be a pompous tradition. King Jaehaerys granted him minutes of attention while he was by his brother’s side. Otto ended up exchanging a few words with Prince Viserys — he found him more volatile for a decent conversation — dealing with the man’s temperament among all the nobles seemed more pleasant. Although Hobert insisted that he make an effort to speak with his father, Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Hightower preferred to remain cautious.
His eyes were scanning the surroundings, distracting himself after a long conversation among nobles from various houses, which Otto was forced to ally with at his brother’s request and for his own benefit. It took only a mere fraction of a second, when he turned slightly, when his brother seemed to be accompanied by Queen Alysanne Targaryen, for his eyes to collide with hers.
“Oh, of course, allow me to introduce my dear friend…” Queen Alysanne showed her teeth in a gentle and enthusiastic smile. Otto’s attention lingered on the brunette who curtsied in a subtle gesture of respect, with her almond-shaped and seductive eyes: “Lady Vallerya Celtigar.”
It was her.
Every part of Otto froze upon seeing the woman who pierced his dreams, his most profane longings. Somewhat disturbed, that was how he felt, dreaming of the woman since his mother’s death. Not enough, he had never heard of the woman, but everyone around him acted, including his brother, as if she had always existed.
Vallerya Celtigar, an enchanting name for a Lady who overflowed not merely seduction; she hypnotized them, like a siren in an enchantment. Or rather, him. Otto had never felt so affected in his entire existence. Besides being disturbed by the notable beauty before him, vividly dreaming for weeks of an unknown woman — who apparently was a noble he had never crossed paths with — unnerved him.
One of Lord Celtigar’s only daughters, even though Otto believed he only had one five-day-old daughter, his brother mentioned that Vallerya was the eldest. Widow of Ragnar of Ashenfell — a man of immeasurable wealth from Asshai — interested in exploring, known for her knowledge, courted by nobles due to her lineage and equally the rumors of being untouched by her husband, who died on their wedding day.
His eyes did not stray from hers. Otto felt deeply drawn. He had never experienced such pain in his life while dealing with his own thoughts. He exchanged a discreet conversation with her about faith, morality, and — in the most ironic way possible — around court customs, giving her the good news that Vallerya had been distant for many moons.
The Hightower kept enough distance. He followed her eyes, but the tension was there. In polite words, sharp courtesies, deep breaths. Otto blamed himself, like never before in his life, averting his gaze, forcing himself to control his own body, his thoughts. Seeing her smile faintly, losing himself in her beautiful face. Before he realized it, he distracted himself the entire first day of the Ball of the Seven around the woman, slightly fascinated by what came from her lips, by her knowledge.
Catching himself close to such a profane sin, he decided to pull away. A brief farewell, one last look at her beautiful lips, which he condemned himself for staring at.
He left the ill sheets before he could sin, stain them with lust, with the purest yearning, but Otto Hightower committed in his heart the sin that pursued him: greed.
Vhagar conquered the first profanation. It would be a matter of time until the mortal sins consumed him from the inside out. Deep down, Otto Hightower knew it.
───── ACT TWO: THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT
The tree of sin rustled, its fruits came crashing down: crimson apples, red as the blood coveted by gods, appetizing to the palate of the ambitious, to those of putrefied core, bargaining as they rolled around the garden of innocent souls, craving a martyr, a sufferer to poison themselves with malevolent knowledge — more than that, to manipulate it.
Upon the ultraviolent winds of darkness, that which fed itself from the depths of the heavens, few stars shook loose, gleaming amidst the impending storm. In roots of annihilation, an atrocious offering forged itself at the feet of Otto Hightower.
In the confines of chaos's flames, arrested in the resolution of consciousness, in splendid cradle, in the arms of repose, the knight sank — drowning upon the stillness.
The ancients murmur of the calm before the storm.
His intense green eyes open, the air in his lungs erupts. He — Ser Otto Hightower, a mere knight and second son — opened his eyes. Upon a throne he sat, his body sprawled and nestled. And there before him was the being who haunted his dreams, his nightmares, his warm and libidinous thoughts, filled with perversions: Lady Vallerya Celtigar.
A demonic spiral deepened. The heat emanating from her skin vibrated against his dermis, calloused his mind, distorted his flesh. Keeper of his insanity, Vallerya sat upon his lap, one arm draped over his neck, her pleasant and unmistakable scent impregnating his skin.
He should leave — desperately. He considered escaping in that very instant, rising to his feet, but she settled further into his lap, and Vallerya turned to face him. Otto felt his insides burn, like fire erupting through his veins — with fervor and violence — devoured like carrion by the ravens of malice.
— Use your sapience toward conquest — Vallerya, her voice sweet as honey, poured into his ears, spilling through them.
Lifting his head, he made eye contact. Watching her lean toward him, seduction dripped from her, the nuances of her body inclining over his lap, lifting him with fruits. In her hands, a cluster of white grapes, which she placed in his mouth, the delicious flavor inciting his gluttony.
— What are you talking about? — distrustful, his mind clouded. The woman upon his lap was stripping him of his sanity, his order, of how utterly wrong her presence there was.
There were numerous incomprehensible details beneath the reins of the situation in which he found himself. He would say he was in dire straits — upon a throne in a location vaguely reminiscent of the Iron Throne — seeming suspended in time, save for the fatal woman and himself. Around them, members of his own House, the Hightowers appeared to bow, static, their proud gazes permeated by envy, emulating every harsh fraction of the true feelings stirred by another's victory.
Victory? Was that the flavor upon Otto's tongue?
— You can have everything you desire. Do you not wish for glory at your feet? — Vallerya lowered her hands toward him, those wicked hands that would incite him to the sin of flesh.
Otto moistened his lips. Two steps from yielding, arrested and more than exhausted from fighting against his yearnings — but there was a flash, an instant: he, a mere mortal, stared into her face, catching the excruciating trap into which he was being drawn.
Little by little, furrowing his brow, he began to perceive that this was a temptation, a hallucination — perhaps a dream — torturing him for the thousandth time. He was a prisoner of his own mind, of his transgressions. He disentangled himself from the feminine body, rising from the throne. The moment he did, he plummeted meters away, seized by a sudden current of air, thrown against the ground, an excruciating pain as though his bones were being broken. He grunted in discontent and pain, and found himself upon his knees — raising his gaze, catching his own shattered and decadent image.
— A future stripped of glory and triumph is reserved for the weak, too cowardly to pursue their greatness, their ambitions.
He heard the velvety voice upon his ears, warm and tingling. He turned by reflex, only to look forward again, into a different scene, catching himself from an angle of power: he stood beside King Jaehaerys in his vestments, the Hand of the King brooch, and what appeared to be a child — a girl resembling his wife — at his side, bearing nothing but a look of pride, becoming the representation of his House, more than a mere knight.
At his side, he caught the feminine silhouette, which he recognized, seemingly admiring the scene. He rose, assuming his posture. He wished to see the face that had guided him into madness, into the farthest reaches. Seeing Vallerya turn her face toward him numbed him. The mere presence of the woman, her captivating aura seized him — every small feature before him scratched at his mind, despite all his efforts to escape.
He returned to orbiting her. She, the woman who had become his obsession, his desire — his cursed fate continued to pursue him in the waking world and in dreams alike. The intrepid currents and tides pushing him toward the impossible yet adequate resolution: Lady Vallerya Celtigar was not human.
He questioned the impractical existence of the woman of unknown nature.
— What are you? — Otto Hightower demanded. His accusatory eyes drew a brilliant smile from her, as though the woman's teeth were gleaming pearls.
Behind the feminine figure, he came upon a colossal stone that blanketed the surroundings. He caught the setting, noting inscriptions in High Valyrian. Symbols that narrated stories devoured by time, consumed in the flames of a decadent Dynasty. Beyond that, dragon eggs scattered around, indicating the divinity before him, her origin.
— Are you a demon from the seven hells? — foolishly, he asked.
She recognized that this was what Otto wished to convince himself. To renounce the greatness before him, which had seized him. One might consider her such: they would call her a false god, with a wounded tongue staining the order in comparison to the Seven, to the good and pure protectors.
Vhagar, the Goddess of Justice, revealed her eyes — those that gleamed through the darkness. A wave of dread and realization crashed against the Hightower's core. Devastating him from head to foot as he heard softly upon his ear, like a song, a callousing whisper:
— You know where I am from, Otto Hightower.
An agonizing grunt escaped his lips. His throat dry, his palate wet with the nefarious acidity of nocturnal tribulation, of the sleep demon. His muscles trembling, his back drenched in sweat, spreading the anguish — every part of his body laid bare to the purest tension. He struggled to regulate his breathing, the air flowing vacillating, his heart colliding as though racing against his stained soul, equally fleeing from the temptations offered.
His hands gripped the sheets. The man shut his eyes with force. He turned his gaze and found his beautiful wife coiled in the blanket, sleeping peacefully.
Heavy raindrops fell outside the window, joined by a wind capable enough to produce horrifying sounds that would frighten an unwitting child — or anyone with an adequate imagination. Even disoriented and slightly breathless, he rose in his ritual of convincing himself it was a fit of insanity born of longing for his mother, a distorted way of processing grief.
His nerves raw, his throat trembling. He rose from the bed, his legs wobbling as he moved forward, the strength spent in seeking sanity through his exhausted mental faculties depleted, compromising the physical. He made for the bathroom, seeking a basin to wash his face, cleansing it with water near one of the mirrors in his residence — and when he raised his gaze, steadying himself, he caught in the reflection a figure behind him: a man with vibrant red eyes and a terrifying smile.
He spun around in desperation. Otto suppressed a sound from his throat, finding only emptiness. There was no one — and yet, the Hightower did not believe he was going mad.
Oh no. Something was there.
To deny the existence of the source of his unease over these past months would be to nullify his suffering — not merely the pain. At the edge of the precipice, this was his state. Two steps from plunging into the catharsis of his destiny, from yielding to impulse, from entangling himself in the profanation of order's destruction.
The Valyrian gods, however, were growing impatient. Caraxes — the God of War — wished to hurl him from the heights into the darkness with his fury, but was bound to respect the imposed rules. Pursuing the wretched soul of Otto Hightower like a famished wolf, teeth bared, salivating behind his frail and ailing prey beneath the light of the moon amused him.
— By the Seven Gods… — Otto muttered, descending into his particular purgatory as he hastily donned his garments, casting a greenish cloak over his shoulders.
If it were necessary — and it presented itself as such — he would face the wretched and merciless rain, a genuine tempest, steeped in storm joined with winds. It would be more appropriate to condemn his wife's security to his nocturnal fit of whim. Or worse, to draw demons to his door.
Otto Hightower was coming apart, ignorant to the obvious: the Devil had penetrated through the crevices of his flawed soul, dissected the cracks of his heart and taken advantage, licking the farthest reaches of his purity — poised to reveal the nefarious vessel he was about to become in the eternal cataclysm of gods.
He decided to go to one of the Great Seven Septs of Oldtown, to the area of the Father's figure — after the Mother, it tended to be the most taciturn sept and fitting for late-night seeking — the structure worthy of soothing his spirit, freeing him from affliction. Or at the very least, such were the certainties entrenched in his gut. Somewhat convinced, he opened the doors of his residence — an act that altered not only his destiny but permitted mortal sins to stain the citadel.
No one would question him being in such a place. That is, if anyone were present. The septons tended to be as withdrawn as the septas. The Great Seven Septs of Oldtown held private wings, numerous chambers, worthy of losing oneself in their vastness, yet adequate for the seclusion and isolation of reflection upon valuable lessons.
His fingers icy, the freezing air pulsed against his skin as he crossed the threshold. He walked with force — nearly marching — the cloak upon his back serving as his mantle. The lightning and thunder produced a tightening in his chest, instilling a deep unease born of the sensation of being followed. He would have glanced over his shoulder, but he dared not.
Once, his mother had told him: look into the dark, the abyssal deep, seeking to find — and you shall find what you least desire, staring back at you.
He nearly tripped over his own feet, or stumbled into a gully or the muddy ground surrounding the path. Relief settled into the marrow of his soul upon catching sight of the stained-glass windows, bearing the well-known images of his gods — within, yellow candles reflected lights that illuminated the interior and granted the vision of rainbow hues to those who observed from outside.
His inner world quieted as he crossed through the great walls of the sept. He was the only one present, or at least he believed so. The majestic altar dedicated to the Father God stood at the center of the other figures, which were forged in a smaller size — this being a sept devoted to the worship of that particular facet — a great hearth burning to the left of the grand altar.
He made for the warmth, removing the heavy, drenched cloak in one of the corners along with his shoes. The warmth of his feet against the cold floor drew a grumble from him, but it seemed preferable to walking with soiled shoes in a sacred place.
He took his rosary in hand — removing the great, long one that resembled more a necklace, wide with inscriptions of the seven gods, a gift from his devout and departed mother — and made his way toward one of the great figures, one of the altars that resembled more a stone table, used for sacrifices in the name of the gods, an uncommon practice yet reserved for special commemorations. But before he could bring his knees to the ground, a lightning bolt outside the sept split the air — the brutal and violent thunderclap rang through Otto Hightower's hearing.
He suppressed a grimace of distaste at his auditory sensitivity in that instant, closing his eyes — but upon breathing deeply, he noticed the thinning of the volume of falling water, only to catch sight of a figure within the sept.
A feminine figure.
A familiar silhouette.
Hers.
Lady Celtigar. Though Otto was aware — no, she was not the woman, she could not be. Dressed in traditional vestments of the Faith of the Seven. The garments of a septa, a clear exception being how fitted the clothing was, her curves accentuated beneath the vestments of a priestess.
— Show your face! Reveal yourself — through clenched teeth, Otto commanded. Coming upon the beautiful, tempting face of the woman as she drew near the candles — the face that haunted his dreams, that provoked and baited him — smiling in his direction, making him aware that she knew everything.
His stupefied expression seemed delicious to her, the cause of his impending collapse: Vhagar, the Goddess of Justice. Or Vallerya Celtigar — the most delicious false name.
— You are not Lady Vallerya Celtigar — the accusatory tone cloaked itself in unease. Otto stared at her narrowing his gaze, receiving laughter in return — a maddening laugh, one that only gods at the summit of their insanity or superiority would be capable of producing.
Vhagar inflicted upon him the pain of contempt. She tortured him in diverse ways, played with his mind, lashed his spirit, impeded his rest, and amused herself, laughing in delight. The realization enraged him from head to foot. Kissed by the sin of wrath, of fury, he locked his jaw, controlling himself so as not to snarl like an animal, not to grunt in disgust — but he moved toward her in a fit of rage.
He seized her by the throat, with force. He gritted his teeth, altered. Otto wished to kill her, to murder in cold blood, to spill the crimson of her veins — little caring whether he stood before a nonhuman being — all the accumulated suppositions of his misfortunes deposited upon her.
He held her with such force, beginning to fall into the abyss as he disrespected the teachings of his faith by coveting so violently the death, the suffering of the woman before him — who stared back with large, brown eyes.
— You are the guilty one! All of this began to happen since you appeared in my path. — he spat the words, so close. His blazing green eyes burned like embers. His left hand gripping her arms as though he could pierce her skin with his force. — Was it you who caused the death of my mother? What manner of creature are you?!
She laughed again. The grip did not trouble her — in truth, it pleased the goddess. Watching him yield ever more to sin — as his faith termed it — she moistened her lips. Otto followed the gaze, even stained by wrath, followed the lips and the warm breath so close to his own. He caught the slight rise of her throat trembling so she could speak. The details — the mere details of the tension between them both, the eyes meeting, the proximity of their bodies and the devouring perturbation — consumed him.
— Will you reap my life? Will a devout man such as Otto Hightower commit such sacrilege? — calm, overflowing with softness.
Vhagar stared at him, treacherous, playing with his senses. She brought one of her hands to his right — the one upon her throat — a dangerous and warm gesture, exciting. The two had not been so close to one another since their paths had crossed. On countless nights, even lying beside his wife, he had found himself yielding to the sordid thought of being near this woman. She had stripped him of his restraint, the self-awareness of his desires, of how palpable the warm breath was and how Vhagar did not retreat.
On the contrary, she seemed to want — violently.
He had found her, caught her behind her disguise. A calculated act by her own design — yet that had not ceased to excite him, in the most unhealthy manner possible. Otto Hightower, like many repressed aberrations, harbored a peculiar appetite that a ravenous Goddess such as Vhagar would delight in exploring.
— I have seen you. I caught your desires — those which move you, the yearnings that inhabit your flesh… — her hands at his throat descended to his arm, the act causing a burning upon his skin. Otto drove his eyes into hers, watching her moisten her lips, whispering delights with conviction, seduction pouring forth as she completed, in adulation and profanation: — You could be great. The gods know it.
For a fraction of a second, he was transfixed. She was a Goddess. Of origins from fire, profane — yet she was one nonetheless. Telling him the words he had carved into his innermost self.
— What gods know this? — the insolent question, with a dismissive expression, did not match his chaotic interior — and Vhagar knew it.
— The Targaryens believe themselves to be the closest to the gods, but they are so human, mortal, and resolute… — there was mockery, the disdain sheltered in her countenance caused the final realization when Otto Hightower watched her smile with malice.
— Was I chosen or cursed? — Otto narrowed his gaze, so degrading that his hand upon her throat, the threat still intact, seemed to matter little. — My gods will not permit such abomination.
He can be insolent, the Goddess observed, in pure delight. Vhagar had acquired among the Valyrians the reputation for placing mortals in their rightful place: how she would delight in dismantling Otto Hightower.
A smile painted her lips. Otto removed his hands from her throat but did not move a muscle backward — remaining there, inquisitive, demanding answers. The strong and prominent features indicated the height of Otto's physical glory — even in his most delirious mental state — a calculated act by the goddess to take advantage of that face while it had not yet been devoured by age and the ambition the man would come to develop.
— Oh yes, you were chosen… — an exciting laugh. By the Gods, Otto had never known such a thing existed. — The gods are none too pleased. We know that they have conspired for years against the Targaryens, lurking for the opportunity to topple the dynasty, infiltrating it little by little. What the gods give, the gods take away.
Upon her splendor, she took his hand to herself. Otto did not retreat — he watched her, the touch even upon his hands was sinful by virtue of her aura, her eyes, the manner in which he touched her, holding her gaze.
— A knight such as you, a conquest, can reach what he desires — and I can give you more than you could imagine. You will see the future around you open itself in promised glory, bow before you — it seemed a pact, a tempting proposal, as she whispered the things any sane man would want in order to prosper.
He evaluated her. Otto Hightower searched for a lie, for incoherence upon her face.
— I can see the future — she revealed, a wicked smile painting her lips. — You too could fall into misery, into disgrace, and…
His wrists were gripped — he seized them. Silencing her, an action that drew a gasp from the goddess's lips, one she performed deliberately, releasing a plaintive moan audible enough to be heard.
— Beyond that, you appear to be something special. I want you for myself, just as I know you desire me. I know it is mutual… — she whispered, close against the Hightower's lips. Otto pressed his lips shut at the whisper for brief seconds, letting himself be carried by the fervor. He held her — and yet it was he who was being pressed.
Inclining toward the man's ear, warm breath upon it, raising the hairs upon him and stoking the most sinful and perverse side of him with her mere existence.
— If you surrender to me, you will prosper, you will have your soul to offer your own gods — but you must give yourself to me. I want you to yield to the yearnings — Vhagar whispered, playing with his mind, inciting his interior.
She drew back, fixing her eyes upon him, tilting her head to one side, an appetizing smile upon her lips in exultation. — Would you like that, Otto? Would you like to have all you have ever desired? To experience the sensation…
Otto Hightower's senses flared. Overwhelmed by stimuli. The eyes full of lust before him piercing him alongside the pain in his flesh, the perverse desire that devoured him from within like a vigorous disease poisoning him.
He was sick, utterly. She was the bloody antidote. No — she was not the cure. In this case, his cure was lethal death. For that was what such worldly sins were for a devout man: death itself.
His insatiable thirst, the loss of control and violation of his integrity began beneath a grotesque impulse from the man. He seized her in a lapse of desperation, attacking her lips — those that grazed each other, being deflowered as they were stained with fervor.
Her back struck the altar, the marble colliding against her skin, scratching it slightly — but Otto's carnal thirst could not be compared to any other physical sensation present in that instant, even for a goddess such as Vhagar.
He did not think. Otto refused to think. The schemes, the books, every part of his life had incited him to follow rationality — but all he wanted was to drown himself in the bloody lust, in the damned sins that had pursued him throughout his life.
He could not think, did not wish to — because he enjoyed it: the manner in which their lips fit together, how the air in his lungs grew warm, how his flesh burned and he savored it — how a grunt, a moan escaped when they grazed and the kiss extended to the point where he thought he might die without air, allowing himself to devour her lips so carnally.
— You will feel what it is for a dragon to burn… — the words whispered roughly with desire by Vhagar were the reason the man so eagerly hurried to open the pure vestments — but contrary to what she anticipated, rather than merely removing them, he tore them, part of them.
Otto Hightower did not appear to want to see them without these garments upon her. He seemed to relish — more than he should — sinning before everything he held sacred, including the holy vestments. He was mocking his own devotion so genuinely that it pleased Vhagar to the point of wanting to tear the man's clothes off in a single motion, thirsting for more — the sensation of power, of conquering yet another soul.
He gripped her by the hips, squeezed them with force, drawing a grunt from her, lifting her onto the altar. He made her sit upon the great sacred slab, as though she were part of it — as one of its icons, even if she were the devil in the eyes of every believer. Her legs enveloped the man's hips, his shirt removed by the agility of the woman's hands, every breath frantic.
He said nothing. Not a single word.
For the moment, Vhagar preferred it thus. She watched him devote himself to the sensations, to the secret sin whispered.
The goddess's soft hands traversed his broad shoulders, inclining over his body as kisses were sealed upon his lips, descending to his neck. Otto closed his eyes, immersed and so motionless, pulling her closer, his jaw half-clenching, gripping her by the cheeks, squeezing her slightly as he watched her lean forward, throwing her hips against his.
She delighted in it. She wished to laugh at every nuance emanating from the mortal. The pleasure of Otto burned within her a thousand times greater, shining more brightly still — she could feel him surrendering and corrupting his morals — having induced him to mortal sins that would reduce him to dust incited her core in complete satisfaction. She would relish her victory in having him there, serving and entertaining her — no god would deny a carnal sacrifice, even disguised as a desperate offering for victory, a pious lie for the most perfect ends.
The masculine hands ascended to her breasts, the right one pressed by Otto's left. He touched her with need, gratifying himself at the sight of the goddess's expression. Watching her make eye contact, drawing ever closer from there. With fervor, he touched her as though she might vanish. Kissing her neck, the woman's knee grazed against his member — he who, dressed only in his trousers, was impeded from acting, gripping her thigh, lightly striking it.
— Open your legs. Now — he did not ask, his voice resonated rough. He closed his eyes — this time not meeting her gaze — recovering his breath. Otto was in a state of intense euphoria, as though acting guided by impulse for the first time in his life.
— As you wish — she returned the command, in satisfaction. Her legs opened further. Yet when she would have removed part of the upper garment — that which had been torn, allowing her breasts to be exposed — she was abruptly interrupted as he watched him quickly moisten his lips. — You want me clothed?
A relapse of guilt — but desire flared across his face. Otto knows it is wrong, understands it — but that did not prevent him from compulsively wanting since adolescence to bed a septa, or from entertaining the possibility in a wet dream — the kind of sin that was common yet certainly not involving a member of the clergy. But the absence of judgment, replaced by malice in Vhagar's face, seemed motivation enough to reveal how sinful the devout man could become under her corruption.
— Do you desire something else? — before her hands descended from his waist to his thighs, she inquired, reading between the lines of a depraved mind upon seeing the hesitation linger across Otto's face. The goddess's right hand went to his nape, caressing it: — You know you want it. Tell me — just between us two, no one shall know, shall they? Let me serve as your delight.
The Hightower removed from his own neck a sort of rosary bearing the seven gods — his late mother's gift, wide enough — and made her join her own hands, binding them with the rosary. The insignia of the seven gods very nearly drew a moan of delight from Vhagar.
He wanted her defenseless? Otto was disarming himself.
Otto's hands went to her thighs, gripping them — the inner part — he caressed them in a notable provocation, bringing his lips to the goddess's. They made eye contact, the moment in which Otto's rigid, long and slender fingers dared to touch her intimacy, rubbing against a sensitive point before she could be slick enough. He kissed her lips once more, the act so close — he emitted a low grunt upon watching her contract in his arms.
— Make a little sacrifice for me — he asked, wishing to watch her grind. This time, he did not order. Their lips close to one another. Throwing his hips forward in a repetitive motion, Otto entered with two fingers into her intimacy — the goddess closed her eyes slightly upon feeling it. — Open your eyes. I want you to look at me while we desecrate.
A grunt, a languid gasp dissolved from the goddess's lips. Her long hair cascaded over herself. Her hands bound, preventing her from acting properly. The small insignia of the seven scraping against her hands. Throwing her head back, legs parted, she could barely react properly bound, and with a mortal consuming her as though she were bread at a supper — but he would not divide her; he was selfish enough to want entirely her attention, her sin, in that instant.
The Hightower fixed his eyes upon the brown ones, upon the manner in which Vhagar wore the sacred vestments, how wrong it was, the grotesque sin, how impure — to the point of him knowing he could die and be condemned to the seven hells for having wasted his entire life upon a demonic temptation — this stoked him. His member throbbed, thrusting the two fingers with greater force, more brutal and with greater precision. Her legs pressed together, but Otto held them apart at the midpoint of her body, striking once more.
A hoarse, cruel laugh poured from his lips, gratified.
He was abominable, in the most perverse sense of the word. A monster who managed to hide quite adequately behind an attractive face while young.
The thought of freeing an abomination, of making him transform into his true self and doing justice to the insignificance of his existence as a beast — her pawn for the game — collided with Otto deepening himself within her in an uncommon motion while squeezing her intimacy in the process.
Every part throbbed. Vhagar trembled, in delight, as she came undone — the liquid from her intimacy dampening her. Somewhat satisfied, their lips grazed, no kiss — yet her lips parted before Otto's, a presumptuous act as they made eye contact.
— Do you want to feel like a god? — she inquired, sucking his lower lip, fixing her eyes upon the green ones in conspicuous sin.
Aware that Otto Hightower found himself so desperate with impulses toward her body that he would lose himself with the very air in his lungs. Everything blazed for him. Otto felt his ego inflated, inflamed by the whispered words of an actual goddess.
They stared at one another and the man understood her intentions upon watching her lower her gaze to the point between his trousers. Otto surveyed the surroundings for an instant, wicked ideas traversing his mind. Not releasing the bind from her hands, he left her captive, bringing her to the floor — to her knees. Beneath his feet, beneath the stretch of stone upon which they stood, an illustration of the Maiden in her purity. In practice, it was he who knelt before her — licking the ground of the Valyrian gods with the act.
Before him — who stood undressed, his member in her view — malice stamped upon his face. At the very least, Vhagar would understand: he would have beautiful, healthy and vigorous children. Moistening her lips in an act of provocation, she raised her gaze from a position so submissive and contrasting to the goddess she was.
— Pray for me — a portion of amusement struck Otto with the realization: her hands bound, she could not act freely. Rather than removing them, he did not — placing her in a distorted yet agreeable situation to his eyes, throbbing at every instant. — Let me assist you. Use your Valyrian tongue.
Oh, she acted. Vhagar moistening her lips stimulated him. Her lips upon his member, the libidinous acts, the throat filled, the movements worthy of making Otto's eyes roll back — the low and hoarse grunts, his body inclined, bound, being held by the Hightower so degradingly.
Having her hair held, raised, having a frontal view of the devout mortal being devoured by sin — by her. There, she parted her lips, swallowing the member, sucking the damned marrow of Otto's transgressions with pleasure and exultation.
Between repetitions, the man pushing his hips slightly forward, gripping her by the hair. Coming undone upon her mouth, dazzling Otto's senses for instants before he opened his eyes, directing himself toward the goddess who held her pearlescent and brown orbs curved in his direction.
— What did you do with… — Otto barely had time to continue upon watching her part her lips, blowing softly upon his member — a mischievous act by the goddess, given the sensitivity present. Otto swallowed, tensing the muscles of his face. — Hm…
He wanted more, bringing his hands to hers, still bound by the rosary.
— Let me see them — Otto whispered, and the goddess caught how he enjoyed seeing her hands marked and maltreated by the tightening, how it excited him. He caught the impurity of his desires, the torn vestments, and how he seemed obsessed with the sight — even seeing her thus for the first time. — That is a vision.
Having them unbound provoked a bold act from the goddess as she rose, gripping the man's thighs upon being so close — her breasts grazing across his bare body, and a smile worthy of a treacherous siren infused itself.
— You dragged me into this, more than you should have — he turned her, close to the altar table, her body curving slightly, her hips striking against the masculine member. Otto held her from behind, their bodies pressed together, his hands roaming her thighs, gripping the lower region.
A kiss deposited upon the neck, raising the hairs of her senses. Vhagar genuinely delighted in having fully corrupted him, a consummate smile upon her face upon hearing him declare with malice: — I will make you swallow my sins, having watched them so attentively. I believe you would enjoy this more than you intended.
Her lubricated intimacy grew slick when Otto's hands touched her. The Hightower inhaled the scent of her neck — the feminine fragrance, soft, sweet and faintly nostalgic, stoking him. Her right thigh raised upon the surface, she could feel him introduce his member into her intimacy — the act that scratched a gasp from her.
The feminine legs upon the great icy surface, in contrast with how heated the temperature of their damaged bodies was — the thermal shock combined with the sensation of being filled pleased her. The human thrusted, deepening, thirsting.
He held her from behind with such force that the vestments tore entirely — but that did not prevent him from continuing, deepening the member which was warmed by the intimacy — hot and pulsing, they could feel their interiors throbbing.
Otto Hightower had never experienced such pleasure in his life. His calloused hands aching — yet he did not stop, not in the slightest. The air in his lungs beating against his ribcage. The thin layer of perspiration beginning to form upon the complexion of his face. The grip upon her waist, the bodies united, essentially laid over the feminine body, the friction becoming ever more moist.
He dared to glance over his shoulder, catching the expression of delight, of pure lasciviousness. He was in a frenzy of pleasure — and upon seeing her with the demonic smile, he pulled her with such force that her intimacy contracted.
— You must look at me — offerings are made thus — Vhagar declared, yet treacherously when he did so, making her sit upon the surface. The goddess once more placed the rosary around the neck of the sinner.
The Seven Gods burned in distaste. That did not prevent her from pulling him by the rosary — the burning at his neck drew a grunt from him, leaning in her direction. Amid her legs, he kissed her. He entered her intimacy once more — this time making eye contact with greater intensity, his green eyes burning. Otto treated her as though she were one of his ambitions in that moment, as though he desperately needed her, having feigned for years being integral enough not to risk everything — including his soul — in the process. She threw her head back, satisfied.
She had set a monster free.
Vhagar brought one of his hands to her left breast, as he pressed her closer, the friction combined with such pressure upon their bodies — colliding, united and intimate — as though they were animals. Otto had never felt so primal, like some damned pagan ritual. It seemed a catharsis, his mouth half-open, the manner in which she pulled him by the sacred object.
— Are you thirsty? — he inquired, amid all of it. He caught a flicker of amusement in her countenance, which stoked her, confirming it. — Hold onto me.
He took her upon his lap, deepening himself — their intimacies intertwined, his member within Vhagar. The Goddess grunted upon being held. The friction, the chest rising and falling, the warm bodies close, the manner in which Otto fixed his gaze upon her — drawing a grunt from him. She understood his intentions upon watching him clumsily reach for a sort of chalice, near a sacred sculpture of the Stranger. She identified it as the offering wine, used for special ceremonies.
It seemed poetic — an abominable contrast. Vhagar steadied her legs upon his hips, pressing her intimacy, the member throbbing within her. But he brought the silver chalice to her lips, watching her drink. The crimson liquid, like blood — the kind that would be shed in the future — the wine fell upon part of her body, staining her skin with the bittersweet flavor.
Otto's eyes followed the trail, motivating him to lick her neck, suckling and tasting the flavor of heresy — it excited him.
— Lie down and contemplate your excommunication — she murmured in High Valyrian, not allowing Otto to comprehend all the words, the archaic accent foreign to current scholars. But he obeyed when she touched his shoulders, whispering for him to lie upon the cold floor, with her atop him.
To be precise — they lay upon a tapestry of mixed coloration, bearing the insignia of the female goddesses: the Crone, the Maiden and the Mother, bearing witness to the sacrilege. A worship of the Valyrian goddess before his own gods, betraying them so coldly and compulsively. Her legs on either side, moving after so much friction drew a grunt — yet completely arrested in the sensation, they might have exploded in pleasure before they could breathe the oxygen in their lungs.
She steadied herself upon the man's chest. Otto brought his hand to her neck, an act appreciated by the goddess upon feeling the grip. She moved with greater intensity and greater aggression.
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the flavor, to the victory — the frenzy of appetite not for justice: for vengeance — her legs trembled. Otto contracted his abdomen, inclining forward, the air in his throat dissolving. Vhagar deepened herself with such temptation that Otto poured his seed — the seed of destruction — within the goddess, fusing as he pulled her closer, inert and delirious.
She leaned forward, curving over the masculine body, her hands upon his shoulders, whispering like a serpent:
— The forbidden fruit of your faith has been consumed. This is not the original sin — tell those who illuminate the path that you have brought the seed of justice. — He opened his eyes to find only emptiness, only the absence, the whispered words, and his own shattered body.
Somewhat trembling, every part of his body devoured. Otto Hightower knew what he had done, bringing his hands to the rosary at his own neck, seeing it broken — split, like the very covenant with his faith: betrayal. That was what he had committed, in every perspective.
He had yielded to sweet temptation.
He would poison himself with mortal sins until his death — that was his burden.
───── ACT THREE: GENESIS OF DESTRUCTION
The seed of destruction planted itself upon the tree of destiny.
A season of peace and tranquility beset the life of Otto Hightower after the incident. Years passed — years in which he conquered and profaned through wayward acts, small crevices permitted by the goddess who made use of his body and fed upon the remnants of the good nature that existed within him, having distorted it by being allowed entry.
Just as promised to him, glory did not seem a distant portrait. But his ambition flourished, growing as never before — and bound to this, the birth of his daughter, Alicent Hightower, quieted his interior, with the objective of having her conquer still more.
A pregnant wife and a small daughter were responsibilities carried by the second brother of Lord Hightower. His influence ascended, gradually, his plans to infiltrate the court at King's Landing growing as he cultivated amicable relations with princes, including King Jaehaerys himself. In his eyes, small acts — but with catastrophic effects.
The promised path awaited him, provided he was capable enough to sacrifice.
Believe it: Otto Hightower, in his corruption, filled himself with the determination that glory would be his — the greed of the man worthy of causing the destruction of an entire dynasty. That, of course, was absolutely agreeable to the gods. They wanted him — for the gods give and take away.
Amidst a night full of storm, much like the one in which Otto had desecrated, abrupt knocking upon his door disturbed his peace. With his daughter upon his lap — Alicent, who seemed entertained in conversation with her beloved father — he was obliged to rise.
— Stay here, dear — Otto commanded. The small Hightower's curious eyes turned toward the door, slipping away, disobeying her father — unseen by virtue of her small size.
The door opened, revealing a familiar figure to the man: his elder brother, Horbert Hightower — or Lord Hightower — with an aggravated expression. Casting him a look of abomination. But Otto's green eyes collided with what lay in his brother's arms: a slightly damp child, much like the Lord himself. The large, brown eyes — which immediately recalled to him his sins — drew from him a slight desperation in his interior: the realization.
Rather than a strident speech, a reprimand, or his brother's fury, he was handed a note — inscribed in Valyrian.
"Vhagar, Goddess of Justice. Behold your trump card."
Raising his eyes, staring at the child — his bastard — he knew he had forged his destiny, his disgrace, his stain. Nothing escaped his lips. He simply closed the door behind him and followed his elder brother, one who would certainly offer a proposal, a solution. Otto had fomented his own downfall — and more than that, he had taken upon himself the seed of destruction.
The mortal sins had transformed into a lethal delight — one that would consume the House of the Dragon from within, until nothing remained but the mercy of fire.