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Torgen Oakheart awaits in his pavilion as the sun sets over the vast camp of Poor Fellows and their supporters. He fidgets beneath his long cloak of dark green, wondering if his guest will arrive. If half the rumors are true about the man he’s thrown the might of all Old Oak’s men behind, he may be busying himself granting any number of maids, old and unwed and freshly flowered alike, the gift of his blessed, life-giving seed. He needn’t have worried. As the aunt finally sets and the only light left is that of his lantern, the doors of his pavilion part to admit the man: Septon Moon, the self-proclaimed sinner then Poor Fellows have raised up as their own High Septon.
The two men study one another for several moments, before Lord Oakheart speaks. “My good Septon Moon, I hear rumors about you. Among pot boys and kitchen maids. Among the squires and men-at-arms and even mine own vassal lords. They whisper that… that your seed is blessed by the Father and Mother themselves. That it may make even a barren womb fecund. Is this true, Your Holiness?”
Septon Moon appraises Lord Oakheart carefully, with one bushy eyebrow raised. The man is burly and broad, powerfully muscled despite a pot belly, and he towers over the slight and slim Lord Oakheart. “You can be sure of it, Lord Oakheart.”
Hope flutters in his stomach. “If it’s all true then… it shames me to admit, but I have been joined with my lady wife for nigh on a decade, without any child of our blood. We have been true to each other. Neither she nor I have ever bedded another, as would surely please the Seven, but there are…. Problems that cannot be overcome by faith alone.”
Moon smirks. “Impotent? There is no shame in that, good man. I have helped many a man in giving their wives what they themselves could not.”
“No, not impotent. It’s… it’s a different problem. Perhaps it will be better if I just show you.”
Lord Oakheart pulls out the silver oak leaf brooch at his throat and lets his cloak fall away, pooling in deep green folds around his body. His very naked body. He blushes fiercely and resists the urge to close his eyes or clap his hands over his groin. Torgen Oakheart has never once been naked before any man, nor any woman save his lawfully wedded wife. Ever since he was small, his father always warned him: he was not like the other boys. Nobody must ever see the pussy that nestled between his legs where other boys had a cock and balls. He kept faithfully to his father’s guidance all these years.
This guidance served Lord Oakheart well except in one matter: that of an heir. With no cock between them, he and his lady wife had no hope of conceiving a child. Though both made countless prayers to the Seven in hopes of a miracle, their wombs remained stubbornly empty. Finding a well-made man to take into their bed and help solve their problem was inconceivable, an affront to the gods, both he and his wife agreed.
And so they lived their lives, devoid of a solution and devoid of an heir. That is, until the whispers about Septon Moon—the true High Septon, bravely speaking in defiance of that High Lickspittle of Oldtown—and his god-touched cock started. They say to lie with him is no act of wanton lust, but an act of worship to the gods, and a child of his seed is no bastard, but as trueborn as any made in the marriage bed.
The septon stares at him, dark eyes fixed firmly between his legs, where soft, pink flesh peeks shyly out from dark curls. “By the Seven, you’re truly not made like other men. You don’t wish me to fuck a babe into your wife like all the rest. You want me to fuck a babe into you.”
The Lord of Oakheart flushes, but doesn’t look away. “As you say, Septon Moon. Will you help me?”
Septon Moon lauds, loud, booming, and joyous. “Indeed I will, my Lord of Oakheart. I just have one question for you.”
“…yes?”
“Have you ever…?”
“Ever what?”
“Lain with a man before, of course.”
Lord Oakheart frowns. “I told you, I’ve only ever bedded my wife.”
Septon Moon’s face breaks out in a wide grin. “You are a holy one! And a maiden. That is good. The offering of a virgin’s maidenhead pleases the Seven. They’ll be more like to bless your womb and let my seed take root.”
Without any further preamble, Septon Moon pulls his roughspun septon’s robe over his head to reveal his fully nude body. He has a broad, barrel-like chest with thick, powerfully muscled limbs. A great, tangled salt and pepper beard covers much of his face and torso. And between his legs is his cock, already fully erect. Oakheart gasps at the size of it—huge, like the rest of him, with purplish veins running along its length and pre-cum dripping from the flushed pink head. His balls hang hot and heavy, ready to plant his magical seed.
“Seven Hells,” Lord Oakheart says, unable to tear his eyes away from Moon’s mighty member. “You’re already hard.”
“My good lord, the Cock o’ the Moon is always hard and always ready.” The giant septon takes his cock in one hand and strokes at it with pride. “I am a holy man, and my cock a holy instrument of the gods. It needs must never falter, for there are women in need everywhere. Women, and you.”
“Women, and me,” Lord Oakheart agrees. How shall we go about this?”
“On your knees. Head down, ass up. Bowing before the gods, the holiest of positions, all my Poor Fellows agree.” He stares at the lord with dark, lust-clouded eyes.
“I see…” Lord Oakheart is reluctant, but knows he must agree if he wants his line to continue. This holy man with his holy cock is the only way. As he takes position and presents his pussy to the cool night air, he wrenches his eyes shut, awaiting the septon’s touch.
At first, Septon Moon just settles his large hands on his hips. The touch makes Lord Oakheart shudder. When he realizes the giant septon’s fingers span the entire way around his waist, his cunt throbs with desire. One hand drops from his to probe at his folds. “You’re already wet for me,” the holy man says approvingly. “The gods are pleased, no doubt.”
Next, the great septon makes several passes along Oakheart’s cunt with his mighty cock. As it rubs between his folds and nudges at his swollen clit, heat begins to build in his belly. “Septon Moon. Please. I—I need—“
“I know what you need,” Moon growls, and slams his massive cock into the lord’s tiny hold in a single stroke. That’s all it takes. Lord Oakheart lets out a long wail at the sensation of being stretched, of being filled, of being claimed after so many years of self-denial. He shudders helplessly around the Cock o’ the Moon, hot jets of fluid spurting out with each clench of his insides.
“Just a single stroke and you’ve already come all over my cock like some bitch in heat?” A note of worship creeps into the septon’s deep voice. “Let this be a lesson to you, Lord Oakheart: the gods gave us cocks and cunts so that we may use them. A sin, this wanton lust may be, yet in committing this sin we pay homage to the Seven.”
Sermon over, Septon Moon draws his cock back slowly, pulling so far out that only the head remains to stretch the Lord’s tiny hold. Then, he slams back in. Over and over he draws in and out, setting a brutal rhythm. With every pass of the cock over his sensitive inner walls, Lord Oakheart thinks he’ll lose control again, but somehow he holds out. From his moans—louder and needier than even his lady wife on the times they rub their cunts together—Lord Oakheart is certain the guards outside can discern exactly what he and the Septon are about. He doesn’t care about. All he cares about is the stretch of Moon’s cock and the way his body turns to jelly as it finds all the hidden places within him.
“Septon Moon, please. Your seed. Please. Fuck me. Fill me. Make me a holy vessel of the Seven themselves. Give me a son,” Lord Oakheart chants.
“Let the Seven and my Lord of Oakheart’s will be done,” Septon Moon bellows with one final, brutal thrust, and spills his seed. It is heavy and hot, coming in thick, virile spurts. With the first jet of the septon’s spend, Lord Oakheart comes undone around him, clenching helplessly again and shooting his own release over both their thighs. Their peaks seem to go on forever, Moon planting life in his womb as he shudders around him. When he finally comes down from his high, Lord Torgen Oakheart is dazed and painfully tender where Moon’s cock still splits him open, as erect as ever before.”
“You’re… you’re still hard,” he slurs in wonder.
Moon bellows with delighted laughter. “Of course I am, Lord Oakheart. I told you. The Cock o’ the Moon is always ready, as the gods will. I would spend in you again, but I have surely already given you a son. There are many women yet in need of my care. Good evening, and blessings of the Seven be upon you.”
Septon Moon pulls out, leaving Lord Torgen Oakheart where he lies on the floor of his pavilion, naked and sweating, with the septon’s holy seed dripping from his thoroughly debauched and now woefully empty cunt.
“The line of Oakheart will continue, he murmurs weakly. “The Seven-Faced God and their servant Septon Moon have granted me their blessing.”