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The ceiling of the Grand Sept looms high above Criston’s head, so high up it fades into the shadows of the early morning.
The tall marble statues of the Seven Gods cast dark shadows upon the center of the room. Sun rays slipping in from behind them through tall slit windows and the thick morning fog barely light up the room. If it weren’t for the numerous candles lit on the round center altar, you wouldn’t be able to navigate the wast room. You’d be stuck in the oily, endless darkness with only the silhouettes of the Seven Gods towering over you, casting judgment.
Even with the soft, warm light of the candles lighting his way, there is something to the way the statues are lit, to the way the light cuts their shape out of shadow, to the way they tower over him that sends apprehension through Criston. It’s equal parts dread and reverence. It makes him tense where he stands, makes him want to walk to the nearest specter of One of the Seven, only to fall to his knees and pray. Pray for what? He doesn’t know. A blessing? Salvation? Strength? Comfort? All that and more and none.
Criston closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath, wills the feeling to go away.
The stench of the city is carefully and doggedly drowned out by the sisters who take care of the Grand Sept. The scent of the Sept sinks into his lungs. The smell is earthy and woody, thick and smoky, with that sharp touch of citrus or pine. It’s the smell of myrrh and frankincense and burning candle wicks. It’s a rich and ancient smell, it makes him feel grounded in the moment, tied to his body, but it also makes him feel small and barren, exposed before something greater, makes something clench in his belly.
It doesn’t help him at all. It doesn’t calm him at all.
It just makes everything worse.
That feeling of being insignificant, a single stitch on the tapestry of the world, grows stronger with each breath.
The sound of fabric shifting cuts through the fog of his thoughts, through the thick feeling of being watched and found wanting.
He opens his eyes as the first sharp footstep echoes around the room. His eyes immediately find the only other figure within the Sept.
Queen Alicent slowly walks from the statue of the Warrior to the statue of the Maiden. Her footsteps echo around them, precise and sharp. The thick fabric of her green dress shifts with her, the voluminous skirt flowing around her, masking her steps. It is as if she’s floating. She stops in front of the statue of the Maiden, lighting the first prayer candle at the statue’s feet. The sound of fabric shifting is loud in the quiet, echoing space as the Queen moves her skirts and kneels to pray.
He has been watching her pray for weeks now.
The Queen has always been pious but has grown desperate in her devotion as of late.
Criston had been guarding the Queen on her every visit to the Sept ever since he became her sworn shield. Every seven days at dawn, so early the sky still has an orange tint to it, the Queen makes her way to the Sept for prayer. She had been doing so since before she married the King and became Queen, had been doing it since her mother died, mayhaps even longer still.
For years, Criston has accompanied the Queen to the Sept, following just two steps behind, and then he’d watch her enter the large wooden doors, fading into the dark insides of the building. As soon as the Queen was out of his sight, he’d stand outside by the doors and watch and listen and wait. He’d eye any who entered and carefully listen for any unusual noise.
And so it was for months, for years.
And then the King’s health started visibly and obviously failing him. The Queen still kept her seven-day visit, but she’d now go anytime the burden on her shoulders grew too heavy as well. If the King’s health took a sudden turn, he’d guard the Sept. If some new part of the King rotted and fell off, he’d guard the Sept. If the First Prince’s attitude got worse, he’d guard the Sept. The closer the King’s death crept, the more frequent the Queen’s visits became until three days couldn’t go by without the Queen visiting the Grand Sept.
And then the King died, and the Queen didn’t visit for a long time.
Things became too hectic, and the Queen became too troubled to even think of visiting the Sept. She still prayed, of that, he had no doubts, but it was in the Keep, in her rooms alone.
And then the King was buried, both King Aegon and Rhaenyra were crowned, and Princess Rhaenys almost had Meleys burn them all.
The war for the crown had begun, and the Queen started visiting the Grand Sept almost daily.
And so Criston had stood outside the Sept doors every dawn, guarding the Queen for weeks.
Weeks of tensions rising, weeks of things growing worse and worse, weeks of one tragedy after another, weeks of an ever-shifting balance of power, weeks of him and Alicent growing closer and closer together, weeks of one loss after another, weeks of them finding comfort in each other.
Weeks of the visits to the Sept bringing Alicent respite.
Then one day, the Queen had exited the Sept in a hurry; she exited the Sept filled with horror and anguish. She came from her prayer looking shaken. Leaving the Sept in tears.
And just like that, even that small respite was ripped away from her.
The next time they went, Criston took his usual place in front of the Sept doors, but it felt like only moments after that the Queen came back out and approached him. She’d appeared as she always did, dignified and refined… at first glance. Criston knew her well enough to see the truth of it. She stood too stiffly, her face forced to show no expression, her fingers twisting, nails barely staying away from ripping her cuticles.
“Stand on the inside,” she ordered, voice a strained whisper.
He understood at once. He gave a single nod and followed her inside, placing himself in the inner chamber to the right of the entrance from where he could at all times keep an eye on the Queen. And from then on, that is where he stood when he guarded the Queen in the Grand Sept.
Not that it brought her much comfort. The Queen eyed every sister and sept and brother and septon and worshiper that moved in the sept. She tensed every time footsteps echoed. Paused her prayers to stare at anyone who walked too close.
Nothing brought the Queen peace anymore, not the Sept, not the Gods, not even Criston himself.
Which is why he had gone back to the Grand Sept as soon as he was off-duty to talk to the High Septon.
He had talked around the truth as much as he could, hiding Alicent’s unease and fear and pretending it had been his own concerns that brought him discomfort. He reminded the High Septon of how devout the Queen was, how devout she had always been. Reminded the man of how favored the Faith is with her as Queen. Reminded the man of all the times the Queen made time to hear of the High Septon’s troubles. Reminded him of how much help the Queen had always been to him and the Faith.
And then he reminded him that they were at war, that people have already been bought all too easily to do terrible things in a single moment of weakness.
The High Septon was more than happy to curry more favor with the Crown.
And so, as soon as they entered the Grand Sept the next dawn, all the people cleared out. Sisters and brothers gently ushered the few worshipers out before following. Criston locked the doors behind them and then walked in to take his place and watch over the Queen as she prayed.
She had looked dazed with disbelief that first morning. Her eyes had slowly filled with tears. She’d swallowed hard, gave him a single small nod before turning around and starting her prayers.
And so it has been every dawn since.
Criston stands there, in the dark shadows and between towering Gods, and watches as the Queen walks first to the Crone, lights a candle, and then kneels to pray. Once she finishes, she stands up and moves to the next God in the circle. And so she prays before every statue before turning to the center altar, lighting her final candle, and giving her final long prayer.
It’s always the same order.
Candle, kneel, pray.
Crone, Warrior, Maiden, Mother, Father, Smith, Stranger, altar.
Candle, kneel, pray.
Crone, Warrior, Maiden, Mother, Father, Smith, Stranger, altar.
Candle, kneel, pray.
Crone, Warrior, Maiden, Mother, Father, Smith, Stranger, altar.
It brings them both peace.
It’s their only respite.
A small window of time when it’s just the two of them, the shadows, and the Gods. Where all that can be heard are Alicent’s footsteps echoing around them.
It is why the feelings that arise in him every morning feel like such a betrayal.
There had always been something more to the Queen, something divine about Alicent. A certain perfection no other woman could even hope to achieve. She was always poised and dignified, but something about the Sept enhanced those qualities even more. It is to the point where she seems godlike, like the Mother herself. There are moments when she’ll pass through the light, and all he can see is her elegant silhouette, one of the Goddesses, allowing him to catch glimpses.
He has never wanted her more than in those too-early morning hours.
This feeling, this need, it burns him from the inside. It is never so intense, so all-consuming, than here, in the Sept, with the Gods looking down on them.
She never looks so glorious, so tempting.
Sin and salvation wrapped into one being.
His resolve has been chipping away bit by bit for weeks now.
Gods forgive him, but he feels it cracking today.
Gods forgive him, but he is but a mere mortal man.
He watches as she stands up, gives the Maiden one final look before walking towards the Mother, her shadow moves across him, her silhouette moving towards the Mother with her open arms.
Gods forgive him, but he feels it breaking.
He doesn’t mean to move, but he is leaning forward, towards her, and his leg takes that single first step to ruin. The way his armor clicks and clacks with that single small step is jarring; it is sharp and startling. She halts in her steps, head immediately turning to him.
“Ser,” her voice is soft, barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife. He cannot see her expression, not with the light right behind her shrouding her in shadows.
He swallows… and takes one more step.
Each step is easier to take than the last. Where the first one felt like sin, like a statue being forced into motion, the last one he takes to stand in front of her is light; it feels like he’s floating, as if he’s being drawn to her by a higher force. It feels like salvation.
Finally, he can see her expression, the pure confusion, and hints of fear. Her eyes dart around searching for the threat, for who disturbs their peace.
Unfortunately, it is Criston who is the villain here.
“Alicent,” he says her name softly, reverently, a prayer, a plea.
Her eyes are on him, twin sparks of green fire. A moment of confusion and then… her posture falls, shoulders drooping, her head tips toward her right shoulder. Her eyes search him, and he wonders if she can see the raw need in him, the sinful, miserable desire. She shakes her head softly, lips falling apart as she breaths out, they seem redder, inviting, begging for a kiss.
“Criston,” she says, a soft reprimand, a whisper, “we cannot,” she breathes the words out, afraid to give them life.
“Alicent, please,” he says, breathing out in the same quiet tone. He fears startling her, fears talking too loudly, fears breaking this spell. His hand raises, fingertips grazing the fabric covering her waist, so desperate for that first touch.
“We are in a sept,” she reprimands, but she does not move away; no, her body sways into his touch. “We cannot. It is a sin.”
“I have been feeling like this, craving you right here, for weeks now, Alicent. If it were a sin, the Gods would have punished me by now,” he says and almost believes his own words. He is leaning towards her, twisting his head to the side, breathing in her air, her scent. Roses and honey, soft and gentle and warm.
“Criston,” her eyes are darting between his eyes and his lips.
He can see her leaning towards him, only to hold herself back. ‘Does she feel the same burning need?’
“We cannot, not in front of the Gods,” her lips brush against his as she speaks.
“The Gods are always watching,” he tells her. “Please, Alicent, allow me this prayer.”
She closes the distance, and his eyes slip closed.
She tastes of mint and sunlight. The kiss sends sparks through his whole body. It feels like lazy days of basking in the sun and the final moments before battle. It is a gentle rush, consuming his every thought. He pushes into her, his arms curling around her and pulling her firmly against him. He curses the armor he’s wearing; the need to feel her body against his own feels overwhelming. It would be too much work to strip every piece off, he knows it, he does, but the temptation is so delicious, so hard to resist, and Criston has already failed once today.
Her hands slip up from where they rested on his chest, on the cold armor, up to where his neck is exposed. Fingertips tease his skin, a feather-light touch he can barely feel, and yet it sends shivers down his spine. He leans more into her, pushing his lips firmly against hers, tongue darting out for a taste, teasing out the softest of moans out of her.
His fingers slip into her loose hair; it will be twisted and braided and pinned as soon as they go back to the Red Keep, and every time Criston mourns it. Her hair is the softest thing he has ever touched, slipping through his fingers like strands of silk, ticklish in how light it is. He loves watching it in the early mornings, on their walk to the Sept, when the early sunlight catches it just right, the red shine of it shifting as every curl bounces and shifts with her.
He glides his fingers across her scalp, drawing out a sweet, soft gasp from Alicent that he greedily swallows with another kiss. He then makes a fist, gripping her locks tightly but painlessly. She bites at his lips, hips shifting against him, her palms curling around the back of his neck and head, fingernails biting in as she pulls him closer.
He uses his hold on her to gently guide her back, to herd her towards the statue of the Mother. Once there, he pushes her down slowly, makes her sit down at the base of the statue, and pushes her back so she leans against it. And then he pulls back, breaking the kiss.
Alicent tries to follow, tries to prolong the kiss. But as he continues to pull further away, her eyes flutter open. She looks first at him and then up above. Her gaze snaps back down to him, eyes wide and outraged.
“Criston,” she hisses, “we cannot! Not right here!” She yells as quietly as she can.
“Worry not, Alicent, I will take full responsibility and take this sin upon my shoulders and my shoulders only,” he says with a teasing grin as he shifts further down her body, palms gliding down her curves, wishing so desperately he could see her in full, right here.
It would be a divine image.
“Criston,” she warns.
He takes her right hand gently around the wrist. As he pulls it closer, his palm slips under hers, holding it up as he lays a gentle kiss on her knuckles, a devout knight swearing a solemn oath to his lady love.
“Will you pray for me, my lady? Will you sing my praises right here for the Gods to hear?” He asks her with a gentle, loving grin.
“Criston,” she says, a reprimand, a plea, a promise, all rolled into one.
He turns her hand and presses a kiss to the middle of her palm. “Pray for me, Alicent,” he says into her palm. He says it to tease her… but he does mean it. The gaze of the Gods feels heavy on his back as he slips further down her body.
His hands wrap around her ankles, squeezing gently as he glances up at her, begging for permission. She stares down at him, emerald eyes gleaming in the rising Sun. Her breaths are heavy, her whole chest expanding and collapsing, collarbones standing out starkly with each exhale. Slowly, hesitantly, she puts her hands together, fingers interlacing as she slowly clasps her hands for prayer.
That is all the permission he needs.
His palms glide up her legs, up the silk socks that cover her, all the way up to the middle of her thighs. He pulls her skirts up as he goes, pausing only once he can feel bare soft skin under his palms. He then scoots forward on his knees, armor clinking together loudly, greaves scraping the stone. He gathers her skirts and pushes them up to lie on her waist.
He kisses his way up her thighs, from where the silk socks end, and skin begins. He’s careful not to leave marks, to only gently press his lips into her skin, to teasingly scrape his teeth across her trembling skin, and then run his tongue over it in apology. He switches thighs at the midway point, one hand holding the other leg close as it twitches and jerks.
Alicent only lets out harsh breaths. He has not earned her prayer yet.
His eyes glance up when he reaches the bottom edge of her chemise, he stares into her eyes as she stares back and then… he looks further up to where the Mother towers over them both, hands open wide, head tilted down almost as if she’s staring right at them.
It makes his cock throb where it’s trapped.
He pushes the white chemise up, finally revealing the dark red curls covering her pubic bone, and right below, already wet and glistening, lies her cunt.
Criston doesn’t even hesitate.
He dives right in, tongue gathering that wet sweetness, savoring it for a moment before swallowing. He’s rewarded with his first moan, the first sung prayer, a whisper in the air.
He already knows Alicent, already knows how to play her body to get the highest notes, so he doesn’t waste any time.
One of his hands curls around her thigh, pulling it in over his shoulder, the other slips under his chin, pointer and middle fingers gliding up, one on each side of her pussy. He presses his fingers firmly against her, squeezing them together to push her lips together. He runs his tongue over where they are puckered up. Alicent’s thigh jerks in his grip as another moan slips out.
He wastes no more time and glides both his fingers and tongue up to her clit. His fingers slip between her inner and outer lips, perfectly framing the bud for his tongue. He runs his tongue over it, fast and teasing. Criston digs his fingers into Alicent’s thigh as her moans grow louder, as his licks grow faster, as his tongue presses more firmly against her.
He glances up just as she throws her head back with a loud moan.
“Criston,” she breathes, begs, moans out his name. The most beautiful of prayers.
He knows what she wants, knows what he’s doing isn’t enough. The pressure of just his tongue has only ever been a sinful tease. It truly is a shame they don’t have time, that they have to do this in a hurry. There’s nothing he loves more than keeping the Queen right on the edge.
He slips his fingers away, trailing them down between her lips, gathering the sweet juices flowing out of her. He gives her one final lick, from her hole to her clit, before wrapping his lips around it, pillowing his tongue under it, and then sucking.
Alicent bucks into him, grinding her pelvis against his face, as she lets out a sharp cry of pleasure. Her other thigh presses against the side of his head, keeping him in place.
As if he’d want to be anywhere else.
As he continues to suck, occasionally letting go to give her tiny teasing kitten licks, his fingers slip down her lips, gathering her wetness until he deems them wet enough. He slips both fingers into her, gentle and slow. He continues to slowly fuck her with his fingers, pressing them down every time she relaxes and letting up whenever she clenches around them.
The longer this goes on, the louder Alicent gets, more and more softly sung moans given as prayers to the Gods slipping from her lips. Her thighs continue to clench around his head whenever he licks her just right, hips bucking against his face faster and faster. Her body gives small, delicious shivers and jerks when he hits a nerve just right. Her hands are still clasped in prayer, but her head is thrown back, exposing the long expanse of her neck to him.
Through it all, Criston remains firm and steady.
Through it all, the gaze of the Gods grows heavier and heavier on his back.
Alicent’s head snaps forward, eyes snapping open. She stares down at him, over her clasped hands, over the green sea of her dress. He gazes right back up at her, and up above her to the Mother.
“Criston,” she whimpers, and he knows she is close. “Please, Criston, I need you, need you inside,” she says between whimpers and moans, her lips bitten red and glossy with spit.
Criston had wanted her to cum on his face, had wanted to be right here, gazing up at his Queen and up at the Mother as Alicent sang the highest prayer just for him and the Gods. But he is so weak for her, for her pleas, under her gaze.
His resolve has crumbled to dust once already.
Why would it stand any better to her gentle pleas when just her shadow had been enough to break him?
He opens his mouth and lets go, drawing a desperate groan out of her. Quickly and clumsily, he pushes his arming doublet open and tugs his cock out. Neither of them is going to last, he knows that much. Alicent has been riding his face for too long, and Criston has been desperately leaking into his britches from the moment he tasted her.
He moves forward awkwardly, greaves loudly scraping against the stone, armor clinking together. He doesn’t care. They are both so close, so desperate, that being caught is a distant thought not even worth remembering.
Alicent spreads her legs wide for him. Her fingers start to unravel, and he hurries to grasp her hands with one of his, leaning over her, hovering so close his cock slips against her pubic mound.
“Wh-“
“Keep praying, your Grace,” he says before letting go of her hands. Criston leans forward, kissing her softly and pressing her clasped hands into her chest. “Keep praying for me, Alicent.”
“Cris-“
He doesn’t let her finish. He slips into her softly but firmly, forcing loud moans out of them both. She is so sinfully tight around him, clenching around him as her hips jerk against him in her desperation.
“I fear I will not last my Queen,” he tells her as he starts moving, short and quick jerks of his hips, desperate to get them both off.
Their movements grow more desperate, moans growing louder. He thinks he can feel their heartbeats synchronize, breaths mingling. Her eyes seem to glow as she stares up at him with her lips parted. He gets lost in her gaze, hips pumping desperately as his mind loses itself.
Her eyes snap closed as she throws her head back, back arching against him, legs locking around him as her cunt clenches around him and tries to milk him while Alicent loses herself to her orgasm, her mouth falling open with the sweetest prayer she can offer.
It does him in as well, his own orgasm crashing into him, blinding him. He closes his eyes and curls around her, clutching her close as he fills her. His forehead falls to her chest, and he desperately pants into her gown.
Slowly, oh so painfully slowly, they come down from their high. Alicent collapses boneless to the ground, fingers unwinding as her arms finally pull apart to fall beside her. Criston himself struggles to keep himself up, to stop himself from crushing her with his own weight. The armor continues to be a curse.
Only once he catches his breath does he look up at her. Her eyes are closed, and her face is full of bliss. She looks peaceful, peaceful for the first time in a while.
Criston glances further up, feels the pressure against his back increase, and he looks up at the statue of the Mother. For the first time, he thinks she looks displeased by what she sees.
His eyes fall back down to Alicent, Alicent who is smiling softly and gently, who looks loved and blissful.
‘Yes,’ he thinks, ‘this sin is more than worth bearing for her.’
