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There was no shame in what was transpiring, at least that is what she told herself as she clutched her linen wrapped pillow tightly to her chest, savoring the heat pressed up into her thinly covered back before a feverish grip also clasped around her hip.
Perhaps a typical maiden should be aghast and shriek in an indignant protest for a guard, a servant, a septa, her father...but she was not Lady Sansa Stark after all, just the bastard Alayne, and bastards always succumbed to the temptations of the flesh.
Without shame.
“You were beautiful tonight.”
His words mean nothing as it is an empty and common compliment. It is not anything he speaks that interests her so much, at least not after a night of revelries, but then again when does Harry Hardyng ever say anything meaningful? It had become tiring to feign interest in his ramblings when they were together until the time she could turn the tables and make him her captive audience, which she did as only a (in his words) beautiful girl could. She wished he would see her for her mind and heart but for now, just for now, her face and body served a purpose. She could not fault him for his carnal desires, because she was just as complicit when she looked upon him. Harry with his lips parted only for kissing was a pleasing vision. No one would deny he cut a handsome profile and had he not had the disposition of a petulant, spoiled brat when things did not go his way, she could find him most favorable.
She knows why Harry has lodging at the Eyrie, and it was not the official excuses Littlefinger - no, Father - offered to everyone. It was not to apprentice, not out of concern for the near-to-death Robin, not for anything other than this. Father knows human nature better than anyone she has ever met and he knew Harry would take chances for late-night seduction opportunities to present themselves. An easily bribed guard here, an idea planted there, and Harry could think he was the sneakiest young man in all of Westeros, if not the most eloquent.
Remaining silent, she lies on her side as his body scoots closer, and though there is now no space between them she feels miles apart from him. Or maybe it is miles ahead of him, so far beyond his reach in this silly seduction game that he and Father seem to want her to play. But as his hand presses into her hip, she thinks at least her body may not mind losing. Yet her mind and heart is sharp and determined, and the game must be won at any cost.
His hand leaves her hip to clasp at her shoulder and she turns obediently to lie supine on her back, hoping her rich brown hair fans her pillow just right to make her more alluring in her simple white shift. She flutters her eyes open in a feminine surprise and she turns her head slightly to look up into his blue eyes that seem to snap and sparkle against the flickering of the dimming candlelight. His golden hair wisps around his face as he flashes a cocky grin and his hand finds its way to her face, brushing strands of hair away.
“You are more beautiful like this than dressed in any finery, Alayne,” he whispered low.
Of course she could return the compliment, with him lounging in just a simple white linen shirt and breeches the color of mud. The color of her dyed hair. Harry thrived on flattery and she did not feel the calculated need to shower him with such silliness when he was already allowed to take the liberty of creeping into her bed in the middle of the night.
“Did you come for a late night talk, Ser Harrold?” She murmured it teasingly and found some satisfaction in the uncertainty of his expression. “Did you risk getting caught just to tell me I look terrible in jewels and velvet?”
“No, I - I don’t even know why I came, or why I came last night, or the night before that. You do nothing but goad me, after all, send me off with a few kisses and touches that you think can last me through the night.” His charming compliment and attempt at an early seduction fell by the wayside. He instead exposed himself as the unsure suitor as his face fell a little in disappointment that she did not fawn over him calling her beautiful, like most girls would.
Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her, or maybe it was the way his voice seemed so deep when he whispered, or possibly it was the sight of his shirt untied and rumpled, exposing his smooth chest with a hint of hair, but she impulsively leaned up to pull him in for a kiss, nothing too exotic but not so chaste either, and his full lips willingly met with hers for a moment. Of course he kissed well - she was sure he had plenty of practice on Cissy and Saffron and gods knew who else - and she could not deny she rather enjoyed it.
Always, always she must control him, but it was for her own selfish reasons that she let him push her gently back onto the bed and gave in to the increasing demands of his kisses, his tongue, his hands roaming over her body but deliberately avoiding the area she wanted his hands the most. It wasn’t long before his breath became laboured and the lines of his body became taut with desire. There was pride in it, the knowledge she had built up his need for her since their first picnic alone with a discreet chaperone who was there only for show. Everyone always wants what they can’t have, and Harry is no exception.
Tonight his ardour seems more desperate, more insistent, and she wonders if it is due to her other handsome dance partners of her choosing during the banquet; or if it’s the frustration of the continuous unconsummated want of her. Harry is always used to getting his girl, getting his way and tumbling them. He isn’t used to a chase, not accustomed to a girl who wants to challenge him and deny him at the same time. He has stormed off many a time with her, only to come back contrite and as humble as the lowliest of servants, and each time seemed more delicious to her than the last.
Just as it was intoxicating to entice from him very restrained kisses that she could maneuver into unbridled passion.
She coaxes his tongue with hers, meeting him kiss for kiss, giving as fiercely as she was receiving, and it is exhilarating.
She keeps him wrapped around her tiny finger but sometimes lying alone awake at night she wishes she could wrap her legs around him instead.
Scandalous thoughts, dangerous wants. She could never give in.
At least, not completely.
Tonight is different. She wants more, borne out of all the teasing and relentless but restrictive seduction games she plays with him. But, as always, it must seem that Harry is the one who commandeers the intimacy of the relationship while she discreetly pulls his puppet strings that she is told to pull by Father. She needs a marriage from him and already her bastard status has her at a disadvantage. Losing her virtue or her sense of morality would be a death knell to the alliance. He would not hesitate to marry Lady Sansa Stark but the bastard Alayne Stone must fight for his approval, his affections, his devotion. She is growing tired of the games and a new thought has already crossed her mind. When will she be allowed to have her own pleasures? When will she be able to be herself? Then again, Alayne could have what she wanted; after all, she can accept a sneaking Harry into her bed where Sansa Stark would never, ever, ever entertain any thoughts other than dreamy kisses in the moonlight. Certainly she would never be only in her shift letting a boy kiss her, especially not on the -
“Ah!” She gasps softly, dragged out of her thoughts by lips encircling her nipple. The fabric dampens instantly and she can feel his mouth as if there was nothing there at all. This is new, exciting, and she feels it resonating between her legs. She senses his hesitation but her hands grasp his hair and he continues on. This is also Harry learning pause, learning to beg for her favors where she was sure he took like a swaggering braggart. He was truly struggling against his whole being, his whole upbringing of having anything he could want handed to him. No doubt his conquests fell into his arms with little to no coercion due to not only his family lineage but his fair good looks and their little clandestine late night meetings had made her even more bold every time he pleaded for more.
No guilt was to be had when he squirmed flush up against her and she could feel his hardness. Perhaps Sansa Stark would have shrank away, but not the bewitching Alayne. She had no fear of Harry, other than the worry he would refuse to marry her. And that fear was ever-present.
A deep tickling in her belly made her shiver in abject pleasure and she bit her lip to prevent a moan from escaping as her other nipple was lavished with equal enthusiasm. It would do her no good to let him hear how much she was enjoying this, to give him that knowledge. Better to keep him doubting and striving to do better, more; so much more, just like how he was skimming his hand down her leg to crumple the hem of her nightgown in his shaking hand.
“Will you finally let me see that pretty little cunt of yours?”
Before she knew it he pulled the cotton up to bunch around her waist before his fingers deftly sought to pull down her smallclothes. His boldness coupled with his so very naughty words made her even more wet and wanting, if that was even possible. In a breathless haze she nearly let him do as he would but another thought - oh, always the thoughts - flooded her with true fear.
She could not let him see the thatch of auburn hair.
“My Lord Harry, you are too bold,” she tried to sound firm even as her voice trembled while grasping his hand to move it away. “ I must protest.”
“You drive me to madness,” he huffed against her breasts before jerking his head up to look down at her. “Always giving me a taste but never letting me truly enjoy it.”
“You do not enjoy it?” Playfully, she nudges his erection with her knee. It elicits a wry smile from him and she could see him thinking of a retort. Battle of japes, she always won at that game as well.
“Aye, maybe. But so do you.”
To prove his point, his hand slid down underneath her smallclothes before she could blink; his warm hand skimming down past her equally warm mound to her already wet opening. Instinctively she presses her thighs together but she does not move away. It feels too good to deny it and why should she? A hand is not a cock, she had nothing to feel trepidation over, and she was tired of always feeling scared, tired of fretting and being told how to act, think, look, talk. Still she must make a play for what is needed, and what she thinks she might truly want. So she firmly removes his hand but keeps it in her grasp. Her eyes soften to plead with him while her words are stark.
“My maidenhead is the only thing I truly bring to a marriage bed. I cannot risk disgrace and ruin for a mere tumble with a lord. No amount of Father’s dowry will compensate for it.”
She has said it before, and will continue to say it even though this night it seems so hollow. Harry is usually deterred and sullen, after her small speech; near to pouting and crestfallen, and threatens to go tumble some lowly servant if she would not have him. Which she would reply that if he did at least his next bastard would not be hers. It was always the same game but tonight was different. Instead of being petulant, he licks his lips, so close to her face she can feel his warm, heavy breath.
“I know it well how Littlefinger is pushing me to marry his bastard daughter. No one thinks I know it. Maybe we would be a good match if you were not baseborn or maybe I will have no choice anyway but do as I am bid. You excite me, Alayne, confound me. There has been no other girl but you since we danced our first dance.”
It was as close to an admission that she has ever received from him. The triumph of accomplishment made her head spin and her desire heighten. Her grip on him slackens in lust and her thighs part maybe a little. Harry may be dense in some areas but in this he was not.
“There are other ways to have fun, Alayne, if you want it.” His head ducks down so his lips are able to meet her neck, kissing her just right while his nefarious hand takes the advantage of her weak hold to skim back down into her small clothes. “I don’t have to see it. I can feel it.”
Oh, she can feel it too, her heart hammering madly as fingertips massage into her folds. Her whole body tenses but it is a different feeling; she closes her eyes and whimpers unapologetically while her hands seek out something to grasp, settling on her pillow on one side and a piece of her bedsheet in the other. At least she refuses to hold on to Harry, refuses to rub him where she was sure he also ached the most. She can’t satiate him, she just can’t; he would stop being in her thrall if she gave him relief. But he could give her completion and carry away with him some semblance of victory even as he would only be hungry for more. And maybe she could feel something good. She hasn’t felt something very good in a very long time -
“Just a little, just a little -” Harry mutters a little too feverishly and she feels it, a finger dipping just inside of her, not nearly enough to be a danger of breaching her wall and breaking her maidenhead, but oh, just a little bit indeed, and then it is out again, spreading slick into her little nub and around the folds, the sensation taking her somewhere else, and he does it again - and again, shallow dips, faster rubbing, faster, and her thighs tighten -and she’s climbing to some finish, it’s another game where maybe she thinks she is winning against Harry as always but now, now she is losing her mind. Oh, it feels divine, this tightening of pleasure, and it only takes minutes to instinctively reach that pinnacle, and Harry biting into her neck does it and she turns her head to muffle a little cry into her pillow as everything flashes and ebbs as it all crashes in her senses. It is over too soon and her legs relax as Harry withdraws his hands and pulls down her shift, leaving her heated center to cool quickly.
“Alayne?”
It sounds so strange, Harry rasping out her foisted upon name in uncertainty laced with lust. She doesn’t know if it’s a question for reassurance, praise, permission, or affirmation, and she doesn’t care. She only cares to hear him speak her true name.
“You need to leave, Harry, before you’re caught and I am ruined forever.”
How natural she sounded even as she attempted to regulate her breathing and recover her senses. If he wanted to protest or push her to reciprocate he did not act upon it as she heard him rustle off the bed, his boots softly clunking to the stone floor. Daring to open her eyes to look at him, he cut a nearly dashing figure with his unkempt hair, wrinkled shirt, and awkward pose. He rubs the back of his neck and she wonders if her secretions have dampened his skin there. The glint in his eyes is unmistakable; his infatuation of her has sharpened, as she had surmised.
“Tomorrow night, I could -” he breaks off, running fingers through his golden locks.
“I cannot. Each time you come to me I chance being ruined.” She sits upright, smoothing her hair down, hiding her shyness under the cover of Alayne.
“It would not be a concern once we are married. I could have you up against the stone corridor in front of our servants if you wanted.”
Before she could recover from being blindsided by his comment, he strode out of her solar, uncaring if anyone was passing by the door, although he did not slam it shut like she was waiting for. He had left her shocked and scandalized with his words but she longed for him to come back and make her peak again. It had not only felt wonderful but it was rather nice to have his warmth next to her in bed. It felt almost normal, and she had not been close to normal for such a long time.
“ - once we are married.”
She smiled, biting her lip as his words replay over and over in her head.
A small note tomorrow asking him to a private picnic was in order. She had no doubt he would eagerly agree, and for the first time she found she was quite eager as well.