The Whore Who Would Be Lady

Littlefinger arrives and pours himself a glass of wine, something dark and expensive, then leans against the hearth with that cat-like smile of his.

“Chaos,” he says, “isn’t something to fear. It’s a ladder. And it’s yours, if you want to climb. There is a game being played in King's Landing. I want you to be one of my partners in it.”

You turn him down.

Not rudely. Not rashly. Just firmly.

“I’m flattered,” you tell Littlefinger, sipping wine from a golden goblet shaped like a breast. “But only a fool plays the Game of Thrones willingly.”

He arches a brow, amused. “Some say it’s the only game worth playing.”

You grin. “Then let the ‘some’ die for it.”

He chuckles softly. “So what would you have instead, my lord?”

You set the goblet down and glance at Marei, where she lies sprawled across silk cushions, her naked body glowing in the candlelight. You remember the moans, the sighs, the soft way she said your name. You remember the emptiness in your chest that vanished the moment she curled into your arms, as if she had been made to fit there.

“I want her,” you say. “Not for an hour. Not for a night. I want to buy her.”

Littlefinger goes still.

You don’t flinch.

“I’ll pay well,” you say. “More than she’d earn in a decade on her back. Gold, horses, wine, whatever you want. But I want her to be mine. Fully and properly.”

A long silence.

Then he smiles, slow and sharp. “There will always be more whores,” he says, almost wistfully. “She is yours.”

You shake on it.

That very evening, you bribe a septon and marry Marei.

You bring her with you to your father’s keep in the Reach, a modest holding of little importance, far from any conflict, old stone wrapped in ivy and respectability.

Your lady mother meets you at the door. She looks down her long nose, sees the redhead clinging to your arm in a sheer green gown, and immediately recoils as if you’ve dragged in a wild animal.

“You’re late,” she says.

“This is Marei,” you reply cheerfully. “My wife.”

Her jaw drops like a guillotine.

The dining hall is worse. Your father is already seated, sipping from his wine cup when he sees her.

His face goes pale. Paper-white. Sweat beads on his temple. He recognizes her as the same whore he fucked in Littlefinger’s brothel during his last visit to King’s Landing.

You glance between them. Marei’s eyes twinkle.

“Oh,” she says, her voice a soft purr. “You.” Her smile is sly, lips curling like satin. “I thought I recognized the noble wrinkle. Much firmer now, my lord.”

Your father gulps. His hands tighten around his cup.

“Wife?” he manages to croak.

You grin. “Wedded by a septon before the watchful eyes of the Seven. I wanted to surprise you.”

Your mother makes a **** sound. Your father just nods.

“She is… lovely.”

“And flexible,” Marei adds, resting her hand on your thigh.

You wink at him. “She says I take after your side.”

“But a lot bigger,” Marei chuckles, staring at your father as if she remembers him naked and whimpering, his small wrinkled cock twitching between her fingers.

He chokes on his wine.

The marriage is real. The maesters have recorded it. The gold is paid. And your cock, gods help you, is hard nearly every moment of the day.

You barely leave the bedchamber for a week. Marei welcomes you like a queen welcomes tribute, legs open, lips soft, voice low and sinful. “You’re so much bigger than your lord father. His cock would be limp after coming once, but you’re still going!” You lose yourself in her again and again, spilling your seed in her belly until the sheets are soaked and your body aches.

She swells with child before spring.

Gives birth to a boy with your eyes and her smile. You name him Serwyn. Then a girl comes next, Lyra, then another boy, Rowan. You never stop bedding her. Never stop filling her.

You build a nursery. Your mother shakes her head in shame. Your father avoids eye contact during every meal. A whore whose cunt had squeezed his cock and drained his balls dry is now his daughter-in-law and the mother of his grandchildren. What in the Seven Hells?

Years pass.

You’re up to five children now. Serwyn, bold and clever. Lyra, fierce as a cat. Rowan, quiet but watchful. Garen, with his mother’s grin. Ellyn, the youngest, always giggling. Marei stays beautiful. Somehow, she glows more with each child. Her hips fuller, her smile warmer, her breasts a miracle of the Seven.

You spend your days drinking wine, hunting in the woods, watching your whoresons-turned-little-lords run barefoot through the halls. Every night ends the same way: her legs around your waist, her breath hot in your ear, your seed flooding her all over again.

Then news comes.

King Joffrey? Dead. Poisoned at his own wedding.

Tommen? Fell from a window.

The Sept of Baelor? Gone. Exploded.

White Walkers? Real. Burned through the North. Marched all the way to King's Landing.

Apparently a crippled Stark boy sits on the Iron Throne now. Bran? Bran the Broken? You squint at the raven’s letter and laugh out loud.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

“What in the seven hells,” you mutter.

You toss the parchment into the fire.

Littlefinger? Dead too. Slit throat. One of his own games turned on him.

Most of the players are gone now. Heads on spikes. Burned to ash. Betrayed by lovers, brothers, dragons.

It was bloody. Brutal. Didn’t even make sense in the end.

You? You stayed home. Kept out of it. Made babies with a whore-turned-wife whose laughter fills your halls louder than any court bard. Her moans still echo in your chambers. Her soft body is always ready. The pleasure? Still incredible.

You didn’t play the Game of Thrones.

But somehow, you still won.

The End.