A Life in Westeros
Chapter 10 - Part 2
She looked up at the tower—its new walls rising stark against the grey sky, smoke curling from the chimneys, the distant ring of hammer on anvil, the low murmur of men and women at work—and smiled. Small, sharp, satisfied.
"Home," she echoed.
The yard bustled around them—stableboys leading horses away, workers hauling the last crates from the carriage, a woman calling children back from the docks before they fell in. Rain began to fall again, soft and steady, drumming on the fresh thatch and the iron-banded doors.
Greywater View breathed. It worked. It grew.
And now it had a lord and lady to steer it deeper into the shadows where the real wealth waited.
The men nodded. No questions. No surprise. They had seen enough to know what kind of house this would be.
That night Barbrey bathed in the solar's copper tub while Adian watched from a chair near the hearth. Steam rose in slow, lazy coils around her naked body—already fuller from the pregnancy, hips rounder and softer, breasts heavier and faintly veined beneath the pale skin. Droplets slid down her collarbones like liquid silver, traced the heavy curves of her tits, gathered at her dark, stiff nipples before falling into the water with soft, rhythmic plinks. She soaked for a long time, letting the heat ease the ache of the long ride, eyes half-closed, one hand resting protectively on the faint swell of her belly.
When she finally rose from the tub, water streamed off her in shining sheets, running down the swell of her breasts, over the curve of her stomach, and between her thighs in glistening rivulets. She didn't reach for a towel. Instead she stepped out of the copper basin and walked straight to him across the fresh rushes—bare feet silent, skin flushed pink from the heat, nipples tight and glistening.
"Tomorrow I become your wife in name," she said, voice low and husky as she straddled his lap without preamble. Warm bathwater immediately soaked through his breeches, clinging to his thighs. She settled her weight fully, her slick cunt brushing deliberately against the growing hardness beneath the fabric. "Tonight I remind you why."
She leaned in, full breasts pressing against his chest, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"Tonight I show you exactly what kind of lady Greywater View will have."
She kissed him—slow, deep, tasting of salt and the faint sweetness of the figs she'd eaten earlier. Then she slid down his body with deliberate grace, sinking to her knees between his spread legs. The black velvet of her discarded gown lay forgotten on the floor like spilled ink. Barbrey looked up at him through dark lashes, eyes shining with something between devotion and hunger.
Adian unbuckled his belt slowly, letting the leather slide free. His breeches opened with a soft rustle.
{R-18 Scene Adian x Barbrey Dustin 1323 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
When the last spurt faded, she kept him in her mouth—sucking gently, milking every last bit, tongue cleaning the sensitive head with slow, reverent strokes. Only when he was completely spent did she pull off with a soft, wet pop. A thin string of saliva and cum connected her swollen lips to his cock for a moment before breaking.
She looked up at him—lips shiny, chin glistening, eyes dark with devotion—and licked her lips slowly.
Adian stroked her hair, thumb brushing her cheek.
"Good wife," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "So fucking perfect. You swallowed every drop like the devoted lady you are. Tomorrow you'll stand beside me and take my name in front of the septon and my men. But tonight… you reminded me exactly why I chose you."
He helped her to her feet, pulling her close for a slow, deep kiss—tasting himself on her tongue.
"The rest," he whispered against her lips, "we'll do tomorrow. After you're officially mine. I want you as my wife then I'll fuck you again as your Lord Husband—cunt, ass, mouth—until you can't walk straight."
Barbrey smiled against his mouth, still breathing hard, body flushed and aching with need.
"I can't wait, husband."
***
The wedding was over before the sun reached its peak.
No banners snapped in the wind. No minstrels plucked lutes or sang of love and duty. No guests crowded the hall beyond the five men who already knew too much and said too little. The septon—a thin, nervous man brought up from the nearest village on a borrowed mule—stood before the small seven-sided altar with shoulders hunched against the damp chill. Rain pattered steadily against the tower's new leaded windows, a soft, constant drum that filled the silence between his words. He spoke the ancient vows in a low, hurried monotone, eyes darting to the floor as though afraid to meet anyone's gaze for too long. His thin fingers clutched the worn prayer book so tightly the knuckles showed white, and every time a gust of wind rattled the glass he flinched, as if expecting divine disapproval for the speed and secrecy of this union.
Adian stood in dark wool and leather—simple, unadorned, the kind of garb that let a man move fast and quiet if he had to. The wool was thick and practical, dyed a deep charcoal that blended with the storm-light, the leather of his jerkin supple from years of wear. His hand rested steady on the hilt of the longsword at his hip, thumb brushing the worn grip out of habit, the familiar texture grounding him in the moment. He watched the septon with calm, unreadable eyes, his posture relaxed yet alert, the kind of stillness that came from knowing exactly how quickly things could turn violent in the Riverlands.
Barbrey wore simple black velvet trimmed in grey—no jewels beyond the single ruby at her throat, no embroidery, no heavy brocade. The fabric hugged her fuller figure from the early pregnancy, the deep black making her pale skin glow against the grey trim. The velvet clung to the swell of her breasts, now heavier and rounder, the neckline modest yet unable to fully hide the way they strained against the material. It accentuated the gentle curve of her belly and the wider flare of her hips, the soft, womanly fullness that had begun to show in recent weeks. The single ruby at her throat caught the weak, watery light filtering through the rain-streaked glass and gleamed like a fresh drop of blood against her pale skin, a single spark of color in the otherwise muted ceremony.
They spoke their vows in front of the small seven-sided altar—old words, older promises, the language of the Faith rolling off their tongues with quiet weight. Juran, Ando, Dantis, Derrock, and Arrel stood at the back wall like statues, arms crossed over mail and leather, faces blank masks of professional indifference. Rainwater dripped from their cloaks onto the stone floor in small puddles, but none of them shifted or coughed. They simply watched, eyes sharp beneath hooded brows, ready for any sign of trouble even in this most private of moments.
When the septon finally pronounced them man and wife—voice cracking slightly on the last syllable, relief flooding his thin face—Adian didn't kiss her. He simply took her hand, turned it palm-up, and pressed his lips once to her knuckles—brief, deliberate, a seal more than a gesture of affection. The touch was warm, steady, and carried the quiet promise of everything that would come after the ceremony ended.
Then he turned to the men.
"Greywater View has a lady now," he said, voice carrying clear and low through the hall. "And an heir on the way. You protect them both. Anyone who forgets that answers to me."
Five heads dipped in unison—short, sharp, unquestioning. No cheers. No toasts. No ribald jokes or raised cups. Just the quiet certainty of men who understood exactly what kind of house they served now: one built on coin, secrets, ruthless pragmatism, and the kind of loyalty that didn't need songs to hold it together.
The septon left within the hour—paid in silver, mounted on his mule, vanishing into the rain without looking back. The rain kept falling, steady and grey, drumming on the roof like distant fingers. Adian and Barbrey walked the short corridor to the lord's chambers—newly furnished, still smelling faintly of fresh-sawn timber, limewash, and the faint resin of new pine beams. A wide bed waited under heavy furs—dark wolf and bear pelts layered thick. A low fire burned in the hearth, casting shifting orange light across the stone walls. The room was warm, quiet, theirs.
Barbrey closed the door herself. The heavy oak thudded softly into the frame. The bolt slid home with a solid, final clunk.
She turned to face him.
"Husband."
"Wife." Adian stepped closer, boots quiet on the fresh rushes. His fingers brushed the clasp at her throat—small, deft motion—and the ruby came away in his hand. He set it carefully on the side table beside the bed, the gem winking once in the firelight before going still. "Tonight isn't about power plays or secrets. Tonight is about making sure you understand exactly what you married into."
She smiled—small, knowing, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to show teeth.
"I already know."
"Then show me."
She sank to her knees without being told. The black velvet pooled around her like spilled ink, soft folds spreading across the rushes. Adian unbuckled his belt with slow, deliberate movements, let his breeches fall to his ankles.
{R-18 Scene Adian x Barbrey Dustin 3386 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
She came screaming his name—back arching sharply against his chest, cunt spasming wildly around him in fierce, milking pulses. Her walls clamped down hard, fluttering and squeezing as hot slick gushed around his cock, dripping down his balls and thighs in messy rivulets. The orgasm tore through her so intensely her vision blurred, toes curling, thighs trembling violently as she rode it out with broken, gasping cries.
Adian gripped her hips tighter—holding her down, buried to the hilt—and pumped one last thick load deep inside her. Hot spurts flooded her already-full womb, pulse after heavy pulse, until it bubbled out around his shaft in creamy white rivulets and dripped down his balls onto the ruined furs. He groaned low and guttural against her shoulder, grinding up into her to force every drop as deep as it would go.
They collapsed together—sweaty, spent, tangled in ruined furs. Barbrey curled against his chest—limp, sated, breathing in short, shaky gasps—one hand resting protectively on the faint swell of her belly. Adian's arm came around her—heavy, possessive—holding her close while their breathing slowly evened out in the quiet room. The fire crackled low. Rain still tapped steadily against the windows, a constant, soothing rhythm.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
He looked toward the narrow window, watching the water move black and endless under the moon. King's Landing was a memory now—Robert snoring beside a queen whose cunt still dripped with another man's seed, lords playing at thrones while their alliances cracked like old ice.
Here, in this damp corner of the Riverlands, something real was taking root.
A wife. An heir. A house built on coin, secrets, and ruthless fucking pragmatism.
Adian pressed a kiss to Barbrey's damp hair, lips lingering against the dark strands.
While the great game raged on, he was already three moves ahead.
And winning.
***
The Safehouse stood on a quiet canal in Braavos's Purple Harbor district—not ostentatious enough to draw the Sealord's eye, not shabby enough to invite thieves. Four stories of weathered grey stone, narrow windows shuttered with iron lattice, a single arched door painted the same dull green as the water lapping at the quay. From the outside it looked like any other merchant's townhouse: respectable, unremarkable, forgotten. The building blended seamlessly with its neighbors—plain stone facade streaked with salt from the sea air, no gilded signs or lavish carvings, just the faint creak of wooden shutters and the soft slap of canal water against the quay steps. A casual passerby would assume it housed a modest spice trader or a retired scribe, nothing more. Inside it was something else entirely.
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