quinn65
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Posting in one long segment:
The Interrogation of Brienne
The torchlight in the Dreadfort’s Great Hall pulsed like a living thing, casting jagged shadows that clawed at the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood, sweat, and something darker—anticipation, the metallic tang of cruelty. Brienne’s breath came in shallow, controlled bursts, her chest rising and falling with the discipline of a warrior who had spent a lifetime mastering her body. But this was different. This was not the battlefield. This was not honor.
This was humiliation.
She had fought being bound—one guard would never walk again, another's neck had snapped in her hands—but still they'd subdued her, their numbers too great. The device that now held her was diabolical in its simplicity and effectiveness. Her leverage gone, her great strength useless, all she could do was buck and thrash like a wild animal caught in a trap, her muscles straining in futile rage.
She was sure her captors would savor her struggles, but for now, panic was having its way with her.
A squarish frame of rough-hewn wood and metal held her fast, suspended, its surfaces worn smooth by generations of struggling bodies. Her torso was pinned between two iron bars, one passing beneath her breasts and the other across her back below her shoulder blades. Her arms had been forced around the bar at her back, and her wrists manacled to the bar in front. A short open space before her ended with a heavy plank to which her lower legs were now tightly bound, parted, turns of rope coiling around her shins and ankles. In the gap between her breasts and knees, her thighs and torso hung suspended in a narrow V, swaying helplessly in the open air.
She had been carried palanquin-like into the throne room by four of the surviving guards who’d bound her, twisting, writhing, and spitting curses, much to the delight of the crowd. Her bearers passed into a circle of warming braziers and placed the heavy bondage frame atop four sturdy posts over a sumptuous sunken area filled with cushions, stools, benches, and chests, leaving her hips dangling into what appeared every inch a pleasure pit transported from a King’s Landing brothel.
She was naked. It wasn’t lost on Brienne that as the frame was locked into place, the most intimate parts of her hung open and exposed, a helpless offering to whoever occupied the pleasure pit laid out beneath her.
Flickering torchlight licked over her struggling body, tracing the powerful curve of her shoulders, the rigid planes of her abdomen, the soft thatch of dark blonde hair between her thighs. Her breasts, full but firm from years of wielding a sword, rose and fell over the restraining bar with each ragged breath, her nipples already tight from the chill and something far more insidious—shame. Her large, calloused hands were shackled near her ribs, fingers flexing uselessly against the restraints. Her bare feet, large and strong from a lifetime of marching and riding, yet still handsomely feminine, dangled just off the edge of the platform where they were tied, her toes curling involuntarily as she twisted her ankles, testing the unyielding ropes.
A ripple of murmurs, dark chuckles, and whispered wagers passed through the room like a current. Nobles in fine velvet leaned forward in their seats, their jewels glinting as they craned their necks for a better view. Further back, soldiers, their faces grimed with dirt and old grease, nudged each other, their rough laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Even the torches seemed to flicker faster, as if eager to illuminate every inch of her.
A few noblewomen bit their lower lips as they strained for a view, their fingers twitching as if they sought to touch, or be touched.
Brienne’s jaw was set, her teeth grinding so hard her molars ached. She would not look at them. She would not give them that.
Ramsay Bolton sat upon his throne of blackened oak, his slender frame draped in velvet the color of dried blood. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, his brown eyes were sharp as flint, reflecting the torchlight like a predator’s in the dark. He watched her with the detached curiosity of a man examining a specimen pinned beneath glass. There was no malice in his expression—just cold, calculating interest.
“Brienne of Tarth,” he said, his voice smooth as oil, slipping into the silence like a dagger between ribs. “Welcome to my hall. Tell me. What remains of your army’s strength?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. She knew what he wanted. Numbers. Positions. Weaknesses. The kind of information that would let him crush what little resistance remained against his rule. Her loyalty to Sansa—no, to Lady Stark—burned in her chest like a brand. She would not betray her. She would not betray herself.
Her voice, when it came, was steady, proud, unbroken. “I will not speak.”
Ramsay’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, the corners of his mouth curling just a fraction more. “Such devotion,” he murmured. “Admirable, really. But devotion is a luxury, Brienne. And luxuries have a way of being… stripped away.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Brienne’s fingers curled into fists, her manacles rattling with the movement. The heat from the braziers was growing oppressive, making her skin prickle. She could feel the sweat now, trickling down her spine, dripping on the cushions below. Her breath came just a little faster. She refused to let it show, her glare defiant.
Ramsay snapped his fingers.
The sound was sharp, precise. A command.
From the shadows behind him, four women emerged. They moved like smoke, their bare feet silent against the stone, their soft, lithe bodies draped in sheer silk that clung to every curve. Beautiful, young, confident. Decadent.
Their eyes were bright, hungry, their smiles knowing.
Brienne’s stomach twisted. Like any soldier, she knew the stories and rumors surrounding the Dreadfort’s deadly attendants. Both courtesans and torturers, Ramsey was known to set them against high lords and ladies, maesters, members of the clergy—anyone who held their pride and purity dear.
Their bodies were weapons, their carnal knowledge unmatched, their touches designed to unravel even the strongest will. And they were coming for her.
The first woman—a dusky blonde with curled lips and quick, intelligent eyes—descended into the pit and laid a soft hand over the top of Brienne’s bound foot. Her gaze raked over the warrior’s body with the slow, deliberate assessment of a butcher eyeing a cut of meat.
“My lord Ramsay,” she purred, her voice a velvet blade, “shall we begin?”
Ramsay’s smile was a thing of razor edges. “By all means.”
The blonde’s fingers trailed along the edge of the bondage frame, light as a spider’s touch, as she ducked underneath to settle herself into an ornate chair facing Brienne's bare legs. Brienne’s muscles tensed, her breath hitching despite herself. She would not react. She would not—
The first touch came without warning.
Fingertips brushed the undersides of her thighs, starting just behind the knees, tracing a path downward with agonizing slowness. The contact was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through Brienne’s body like a bolt of lightning. Her skin was inured to the punishment of martial contact, not gentle caresses. Her body jerked, rattling the shackles, and a low, involuntary sound escaped her throat—a growl, a warning.
“Has no one stroked your thighs before, Lady Brienne?” Ramsay taunted. The crowd laughed.
The blonde’s lips curved. “So strong, and such fire,” she mused, almost to herself. “And fire can be… stoked.”
Another set of hands joined the first. The second woman—a willowy brunette—pressed her palms against Brienne’s ribs from behind, her thumbs circling the undersides of her trapped breasts. Brienne’s breath hitched, her nipples tightening despite her will, their traitorous peaks hardening under the woman’s teasing touch. Another growl built in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She would not give them the satisfaction.
The third woman—an impish, spirited redhead with knowing eyes—sank to the floor beneath Brienne on a thick cushion, her fingers finding the curve of the warrior’s ass. She squeezed gently, voicing a soft Mmmm, her touch firm but not cruel, before sliding her fingers inward, tracing the cleft between Brienne’s cheeks, nails sketching a slow, teasing line toward her helpless tight hole. Brienne’s muscles locked, her body instinctively tensing but unable to protect her opening. The tickling grew unbearable as the nails drew near her asshole, and her panic flared.
“No, Gods no, no please not there! Yiii!!!”
Brienne bucked, and the four courtesans chuckled as applause suffused the crowd.
“You’ve given us a ticklish one, my Lord,” came an amused voice from below.
“She’s never made a sound so ladylike!” Ramsay roared, and the crowd howled its approval as Brienne’s face flushed crimson. A shudder ran through her, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
“Look at her,” Ramsay’s voice cut through the noise, amused and clinical. “A warrior, reduced to this. Tell me, Brienne, does it ache? The need to resist? The struggle to hold your dignity? All you need do is answer my questions.”
Brienne’s eyes burned with defiance as her body helplessly tensed and squirmed.
The fourth woman arrived at the platform’s far end, messy black curls artfully tangled around her head, her breath warm against the soles of Brienne's feet. “You’re so tense,” she whispered. “This will help you unwind.” She lifted a small metal pot from beside a nearby brazier and poured warm, almost hot oil over Brienne’s toes and the tops of her feet. The thick fluid clung to Brienne’s skin as it dripped, and the curly-haired girl began kneading it into Brienne's soles with her strong, nimble thumbs.
Immediately Brienne flinched, trying to pull her feet away as her eyes flashed wide and her mouth opened in smiling surprise. “No, STOP!”
“Ticklish feet as well,” curly hair teased, skittering her nails for effect as Brienne flinched and squealed in panic. She resumed her massage.
The hands moved in unison now, their touches coordinated, relentless. The blonde’s fingers finally reached Brienne’s center, parting her folds with excruciating slowness. The air hit her wetness, cool against the heat of her helpless arousal. She was soaked, her body responding despite her fury, her hips twitching involuntarily as the courtesan’s skilled fingertips circled her clit without quite touching it.
Brienne's mouth fell open and she let slip a moan of pleasure. “No…FUCK,” she growled, the word torn from her throat.
The crowd erupted into laughter, their voices a jeering wave.
Ramsay’s smile was a blade. “Such language, Brienne. And here I thought you were a lady!”
Suddenly warm oil was everywhere, and the women’s touches grew bolder. The hands from behind her cupped her glistening breasts, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger, while from below, oily fingers slipped between her cheeks, teasing the edges of her asshole with just enough pressure to make her gasp. The blonde began squeezing her clit, then rubbing in slow, maddening circles. Brienne’s hips jerked, rattling the frame as she fought against the restraints. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her body arching into the touches despite her will.
“Please—” The word escaped before she could stop it, her voice rough with need.
Ramsay’s laughter was a dark chime. “Please what, Brienne? Begging already?”
She clenched her jaw, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. The women’s touches were everywhere now, their fingers sliding over her skin, their mouths pressing kisses to her collarbone, her thighs, her toes. The blonde’s fingers worked her clit with practiced precision, her other hand slipping inside Brienne’s pussy, curling to stroke a spot that made her vision blur with pleasure.
“Ah—! Fuck—!” Brienne’s head fell back, her muscles straining against the restraints. Her body was on fire, her skin too tight, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The women’s low laughter was a sweet, cruel melody in her ears, their touches pushing her higher, closer to the edge.
The urge to surrender rose like floodwater, threatening to drag her under. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, tasting copper, using the sharp bloom of pain to ground her, to remind her of the world outside this velveted furnace of sensation. She fixed her gaze on the worn edge of the heavy plank where her legs were lashed, anchoring her mind there, just a foot away, and started counting the grains, tracing the dark whorls and knots, one after another, slow and stubborn as a prayer recited under duress. She would not give in. Let them touch her, prod her, milk and knead and part her. Her body was nothing but a sack of muscle and bone, her need a distant, unacknowledged animal. She would not come for them.
The blonde’s fingers worked her with knowing, pitiless rhythm, but Brienne focused past the heat and the slick, rolling pressure. She stared Ramsay in the face, locked on his eyes, and held herself rigid as the convulsion subsided.
Brienne found Ramsay’s eyes, taking no small satisfaction in his look of surprise. She lifted her chin, a thread of iron in her voice as it echoed through the hall. “Do you think this is the worst that’s been done to me? I’ve marched through battlefields where the ground was slick with the blood of men twice your caliber. I’ve held dying comrades in my arms and risen again to face the swords that cut them down. I’ve stood against raiders, oath breakers, and creatures far darker than anything that skulks in your halls.
“I’ve survived betrayal, starvation, storms that shattered stone keeps, and the scorn of every coward who mistook honor for weakness. I’ve kept my word when others bartered theirs for safety. And you”—she spits the word—“you imagine that a pampered tyrant with hired bullies can do what armies and nightmares could not? Break me?”
Ramsay's smirk cracked at the edges.
"You're nothing but a frightened boy hiding behind your father's name," Brienne continued, her voice steady despite her position. "I've faced death. I've faced worse than death. This?" Her eyes swept the room. "This is merely tedious."
The hall's revelry died as every eye fixed on Ramsay. His jaw worked silently before snapping shut, his gaze darkening as it slid toward the dusky blonde courtesan.
"Lyanna..." The name slithered from his lips like a threat.
The woman bowed her head slightly. "Her will is formidable, my Lord. Breaking her requires... different methods."
Ramsay's lips curled. "If you prove incapable, perhaps you'd prefer entertaining my hounds. They haven't been fed today."
The four courtesans exchanged glances, their circle tightening to include Brienne. The knight's expression remained stone.
Curly hair leaned toward Lyanna with lips barely moving. "We could tickle her," she whispered. "You saw how she flinched."
Brienne's muscles went rigid. "You could what!?"
The redhead studied Brienne's face. "It’s true, for all her warrior's strength, she startles like a fawn. Let's see her try to maintain that iron will when she’s laughing like a lunatic."
Lyanna's gaze slid back to Brienne, whose expression had shifted from defiance to alarm. "What's this?” she asked. “The great knight fears a little tickle?"
Ramsay's voice sliced through the quiet. "I’m getting bored, Lyanna, and you do not want me bored."
"We have something special in mind, my Lord," Lyanna assured him, then turned back to her companions. "Sera, take the oil and the phallus for her ass. Fill her completely and hold her. I'll work between her legs with my fingers and mouth if needs be. Marethe, those breasts need your attention." Her eyes finally settled on curly hair. "And Elira—stay down at the end. Whenever she tries to hold herself calm, tickle her feet. Make her laugh. Don’t let her concentrate."
Brienne’s eyes went wide. “Listen to me,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this. You hear me? Don’t. Give me pain, let me fight, have a shred of honor. I am a warrior, not a blushing girl. Use your tools, do your worst. I will scream, but I will not break. I will give you your show.” She thrashed hard in her bonds. “But by the Gods, don’t tickle me, not bound like this. Don’t humiliate me. Leave me some dignity.”
Lyanna fixed her with a level look. “You should have begged when you still could. You should have come easily, screaming in pleasure. But no, you chose to make your speech. You’ll break now, lady knight, however we choose to break you, and tonight we’ll be curled in Ramsay’s bed instead of bleeding in his kennels. You’ll get no mercy from us.”
“No, please!!!” Brienne flexed and bucked in the restraints, growing frantic as the women repositioned around her.
“Whatever you’ve decided,” Ramsay called out, “I like it already!” Laughter and applause rippled through the crowd. Brienne's panic was intoxicating.
Lyanna favored the struggling knight with a look that was almost compassionate before returning to her seat below. The others shifted into place, a ballet of bodies, each with a role. Sera retrieved a tin of oil from a nearby brazier, and a huge wooden phallus from one of the chests. The shaft was carved into a series of expanding spheres, the smallest at the end the size of a lady’s fingertip, the largest near the handle the size of a small fist.
Sera held the tool where Brienne could see, and drizzled its length with hot oil as the ladies watched.
“No, no, oh Gods, no…” Brienne muttered, squirming. But her voice was small and quiet.
Sera knelt on the cushion directly beneath Brienne and drizzled more oil on her fingertips, lifting them toward the muscled but helpless cheeks above her. Her hands were precise: one finger, slick and insistent, breached Brienne’s asshole. Brienne’s hips jerked at the suddenness of it as she bit back a yelp, a full-bodied shudder wracking her frame.
Sera added a second finger, twisting and stretching, rolling the tight muscle open until the sensation blurred between burn and pleasure. Brienne was already panting. When Sera swapped her fingers for the warm, blunt tip of the phallus, Brienne nearly bit through her tongue. It slid in, oiled and hot, stretching her wide and filling her. She writhed, but the bonds held. The courtesan’s fingers pinched her rim around the toy, working it with slow, deliberate thrusts. Each time it resisted, she pressed deeper, harder, rolling and twisting, making Brienne’s breath explode from her chest in a series of soft, sharp moans.
At Brienne’s feet, Elira waited for her moment. She placed her own oiled fingertips against Brienne’s arches, just below the balls of her feet, and began to softly tickle.
It was a light, rippling skitter at first, but even that was enough to break Brienne’s composure. “PLEASE!!!” Her large feet jerked back in shock, toes splaying and curling in a desperate attempt to flee. Elira danced her nails along the soft arches, up and down, digging softly under the toes. Brienne’s entire body tensed, her lips pressed into a bloodless line, every muscle straining not to give in. But Elira had the patience of a cat and the cruelty of a torturer. She explored the boundaries of Brienne’s endurance, ratcheting up the speed, doubling back, scrabbling her nails with devilish precision.
Brienne tried to hold out. She thought of the grain in the wood, the faces she’d see if she ever left this place, the promises she'd made. But the sensation was brutal; it was everywhere at once, like being possessed by a demon of laughter. Her jaw trembled. She sucked in air through her nose, her nostrils flaring. A high keening began in the back of her throat. It became a series of short soft barks, until finally, involuntarily, she let out a sharp, girlish scream.
“Ha!” Ramsay barked. “There it is! Again!”
Elira obliged, tickling more forcefully, and Brienne howled—not in pain, not even in terror, but in the abject, soul-flaying agony of laughter. She couldn’t stop. It came out in gasps, in great heaving bursts, in waves that had the whole gallery of nobles roaring with delight.
“Stop it!” she cried, tears streaming down her face, screaming as she fought for breath. “Please, PLEASE, I—I can’t—HAHAHAHHHAHAHAHHHAHAAHA!!!”
Lyanna seized the moment. She slipped two fingers, slick with oil and Brienne’s own wetness, between her legs and inside her, expertly teasing her secret spot. With her other hand, she exposed Brienne’s clit and rubbed it with her thumb, hard and relentless.
Brienne’s mind shattered into splinters. The phallus in her asshole was now pumping in time, the rhythmic thrusts syncing up with the teasing of her **** and brutal tickling of her feet. Marethe, behind, reached around the bar to twist her nipples, pinching and rolling them with expert cruelty.
There was no more wood-grain, no more oaths, only the rolling, tidal surge of sensation. It battered her from every side: pain, pleasure, shame, laughter, helplessness, the sick joy of release, the horror of being watched.
Every time she tried to regain control, Elira redoubled her tickling, and Brienne’s laughter would rise—shrieking, animal, utterly broken. Her body twitched, every muscle spasming with the effort to resist. The crowd was a blur; she knew nothing but her own frantic, traitorous body.
She’d never come in her life. Not truly—at least not with another, and certainly never with so many eyes upon her. The first orgasm crashed through her without warning, a tidal wave that left her limp and gasping, her ass clenching the phallus inside her. She howled, the sound echoing off the vaulted stone. Lyanna didn’t stop. Neither did Elira. The tickling resumed at her feet, more intense, while the hands at her breasts twisted harder, and the pumping between her legs grew more punishing.
She came again, and again, each one more intense, until she could do nothing but sob and convulse, falling through a bottomless well of sensation.
She lost track of time. She lost track of herself.
She didn’t even hear Ramsay’s order to stop; just felt the hands withdraw, the tickling cease, the dildo slide free of her asshole with a wet, shameful pop. She hung limp, panting, the taste of her own sweat and tears hot in her mouth.
She expected jeers, more taunts, but there was only the slow, reverent clapping of Ramsay’s hands as he rose from his throne, his eyes full of the most awful satisfaction.
“Well done, Brienne of Tarth,” he drawled, “perhaps you’re more woman than knight after all.”
She could barely breathe, but the hatred in her eyes was pure and without bottom.
Ramsay circled the pit, inspecting her like a craftsman admiring his own work. “Now, dear Brienne: you may answer my questions, or we begin again. I believe I have more soldiers returning who might like to see.”
Brienne wanted to spit in his face, but she had nothing left to give. Her face burned with humiliation. Her body shook, spent and humiliated. Every inch of her skin tingled, pulsing and sensitive.
“I…will not…break,” she panted. “Ever.”
Ramsay grinned, delighted. “Oh, I do hope that’s true.” He turned to the pit, voice booming. “She’s not ready to talk yet. Reset her. Let’s see how many it takes. I have all night.”
The courtesans set to work. Brienne closed her eyes, bracing herself for the next round, and the next, and the next.
She would hold on. She would not break.
But she would remember every face in this room, and she would feed them to the crows when her time came.
The Interrogation of Brienne
The torchlight in the Dreadfort’s Great Hall pulsed like a living thing, casting jagged shadows that clawed at the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood, sweat, and something darker—anticipation, the metallic tang of cruelty. Brienne’s breath came in shallow, controlled bursts, her chest rising and falling with the discipline of a warrior who had spent a lifetime mastering her body. But this was different. This was not the battlefield. This was not honor.
This was humiliation.
She had fought being bound—one guard would never walk again, another's neck had snapped in her hands—but still they'd subdued her, their numbers too great. The device that now held her was diabolical in its simplicity and effectiveness. Her leverage gone, her great strength useless, all she could do was buck and thrash like a wild animal caught in a trap, her muscles straining in futile rage.
She was sure her captors would savor her struggles, but for now, panic was having its way with her.
A squarish frame of rough-hewn wood and metal held her fast, suspended, its surfaces worn smooth by generations of struggling bodies. Her torso was pinned between two iron bars, one passing beneath her breasts and the other across her back below her shoulder blades. Her arms had been forced around the bar at her back, and her wrists manacled to the bar in front. A short open space before her ended with a heavy plank to which her lower legs were now tightly bound, parted, turns of rope coiling around her shins and ankles. In the gap between her breasts and knees, her thighs and torso hung suspended in a narrow V, swaying helplessly in the open air.
She had been carried palanquin-like into the throne room by four of the surviving guards who’d bound her, twisting, writhing, and spitting curses, much to the delight of the crowd. Her bearers passed into a circle of warming braziers and placed the heavy bondage frame atop four sturdy posts over a sumptuous sunken area filled with cushions, stools, benches, and chests, leaving her hips dangling into what appeared every inch a pleasure pit transported from a King’s Landing brothel.
She was naked. It wasn’t lost on Brienne that as the frame was locked into place, the most intimate parts of her hung open and exposed, a helpless offering to whoever occupied the pleasure pit laid out beneath her.
Flickering torchlight licked over her struggling body, tracing the powerful curve of her shoulders, the rigid planes of her abdomen, the soft thatch of dark blonde hair between her thighs. Her breasts, full but firm from years of wielding a sword, rose and fell over the restraining bar with each ragged breath, her nipples already tight from the chill and something far more insidious—shame. Her large, calloused hands were shackled near her ribs, fingers flexing uselessly against the restraints. Her bare feet, large and strong from a lifetime of marching and riding, yet still handsomely feminine, dangled just off the edge of the platform where they were tied, her toes curling involuntarily as she twisted her ankles, testing the unyielding ropes.
A ripple of murmurs, dark chuckles, and whispered wagers passed through the room like a current. Nobles in fine velvet leaned forward in their seats, their jewels glinting as they craned their necks for a better view. Further back, soldiers, their faces grimed with dirt and old grease, nudged each other, their rough laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Even the torches seemed to flicker faster, as if eager to illuminate every inch of her.
A few noblewomen bit their lower lips as they strained for a view, their fingers twitching as if they sought to touch, or be touched.
Brienne’s jaw was set, her teeth grinding so hard her molars ached. She would not look at them. She would not give them that.
Ramsay Bolton sat upon his throne of blackened oak, his slender frame draped in velvet the color of dried blood. Fingers steepled beneath his chin, his brown eyes were sharp as flint, reflecting the torchlight like a predator’s in the dark. He watched her with the detached curiosity of a man examining a specimen pinned beneath glass. There was no malice in his expression—just cold, calculating interest.
“Brienne of Tarth,” he said, his voice smooth as oil, slipping into the silence like a dagger between ribs. “Welcome to my hall. Tell me. What remains of your army’s strength?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. She knew what he wanted. Numbers. Positions. Weaknesses. The kind of information that would let him crush what little resistance remained against his rule. Her loyalty to Sansa—no, to Lady Stark—burned in her chest like a brand. She would not betray her. She would not betray herself.
Her voice, when it came, was steady, proud, unbroken. “I will not speak.”
Ramsay’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, the corners of his mouth curling just a fraction more. “Such devotion,” he murmured. “Admirable, really. But devotion is a luxury, Brienne. And luxuries have a way of being… stripped away.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Brienne’s fingers curled into fists, her manacles rattling with the movement. The heat from the braziers was growing oppressive, making her skin prickle. She could feel the sweat now, trickling down her spine, dripping on the cushions below. Her breath came just a little faster. She refused to let it show, her glare defiant.
Ramsay snapped his fingers.
The sound was sharp, precise. A command.
From the shadows behind him, four women emerged. They moved like smoke, their bare feet silent against the stone, their soft, lithe bodies draped in sheer silk that clung to every curve. Beautiful, young, confident. Decadent.
Their eyes were bright, hungry, their smiles knowing.
Brienne’s stomach twisted. Like any soldier, she knew the stories and rumors surrounding the Dreadfort’s deadly attendants. Both courtesans and torturers, Ramsey was known to set them against high lords and ladies, maesters, members of the clergy—anyone who held their pride and purity dear.
Their bodies were weapons, their carnal knowledge unmatched, their touches designed to unravel even the strongest will. And they were coming for her.
The first woman—a dusky blonde with curled lips and quick, intelligent eyes—descended into the pit and laid a soft hand over the top of Brienne’s bound foot. Her gaze raked over the warrior’s body with the slow, deliberate assessment of a butcher eyeing a cut of meat.
“My lord Ramsay,” she purred, her voice a velvet blade, “shall we begin?”
Ramsay’s smile was a thing of razor edges. “By all means.”
The blonde’s fingers trailed along the edge of the bondage frame, light as a spider’s touch, as she ducked underneath to settle herself into an ornate chair facing Brienne's bare legs. Brienne’s muscles tensed, her breath hitching despite herself. She would not react. She would not—
The first touch came without warning.
Fingertips brushed the undersides of her thighs, starting just behind the knees, tracing a path downward with agonizing slowness. The contact was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through Brienne’s body like a bolt of lightning. Her skin was inured to the punishment of martial contact, not gentle caresses. Her body jerked, rattling the shackles, and a low, involuntary sound escaped her throat—a growl, a warning.
“Has no one stroked your thighs before, Lady Brienne?” Ramsay taunted. The crowd laughed.
The blonde’s lips curved. “So strong, and such fire,” she mused, almost to herself. “And fire can be… stoked.”
Another set of hands joined the first. The second woman—a willowy brunette—pressed her palms against Brienne’s ribs from behind, her thumbs circling the undersides of her trapped breasts. Brienne’s breath hitched, her nipples tightening despite her will, their traitorous peaks hardening under the woman’s teasing touch. Another growl built in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She would not give them the satisfaction.
The third woman—an impish, spirited redhead with knowing eyes—sank to the floor beneath Brienne on a thick cushion, her fingers finding the curve of the warrior’s ass. She squeezed gently, voicing a soft Mmmm, her touch firm but not cruel, before sliding her fingers inward, tracing the cleft between Brienne’s cheeks, nails sketching a slow, teasing line toward her helpless tight hole. Brienne’s muscles locked, her body instinctively tensing but unable to protect her opening. The tickling grew unbearable as the nails drew near her asshole, and her panic flared.
“No, Gods no, no please not there! Yiii!!!”
Brienne bucked, and the four courtesans chuckled as applause suffused the crowd.
“You’ve given us a ticklish one, my Lord,” came an amused voice from below.
“She’s never made a sound so ladylike!” Ramsay roared, and the crowd howled its approval as Brienne’s face flushed crimson. A shudder ran through her, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
“Look at her,” Ramsay’s voice cut through the noise, amused and clinical. “A warrior, reduced to this. Tell me, Brienne, does it ache? The need to resist? The struggle to hold your dignity? All you need do is answer my questions.”
Brienne’s eyes burned with defiance as her body helplessly tensed and squirmed.
The fourth woman arrived at the platform’s far end, messy black curls artfully tangled around her head, her breath warm against the soles of Brienne's feet. “You’re so tense,” she whispered. “This will help you unwind.” She lifted a small metal pot from beside a nearby brazier and poured warm, almost hot oil over Brienne’s toes and the tops of her feet. The thick fluid clung to Brienne’s skin as it dripped, and the curly-haired girl began kneading it into Brienne's soles with her strong, nimble thumbs.
Immediately Brienne flinched, trying to pull her feet away as her eyes flashed wide and her mouth opened in smiling surprise. “No, STOP!”
“Ticklish feet as well,” curly hair teased, skittering her nails for effect as Brienne flinched and squealed in panic. She resumed her massage.
The hands moved in unison now, their touches coordinated, relentless. The blonde’s fingers finally reached Brienne’s center, parting her folds with excruciating slowness. The air hit her wetness, cool against the heat of her helpless arousal. She was soaked, her body responding despite her fury, her hips twitching involuntarily as the courtesan’s skilled fingertips circled her clit without quite touching it.
Brienne's mouth fell open and she let slip a moan of pleasure. “No…FUCK,” she growled, the word torn from her throat.
The crowd erupted into laughter, their voices a jeering wave.
Ramsay’s smile was a blade. “Such language, Brienne. And here I thought you were a lady!”
Suddenly warm oil was everywhere, and the women’s touches grew bolder. The hands from behind her cupped her glistening breasts, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger, while from below, oily fingers slipped between her cheeks, teasing the edges of her asshole with just enough pressure to make her gasp. The blonde began squeezing her clit, then rubbing in slow, maddening circles. Brienne’s hips jerked, rattling the frame as she fought against the restraints. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her body arching into the touches despite her will.
“Please—” The word escaped before she could stop it, her voice rough with need.
Ramsay’s laughter was a dark chime. “Please what, Brienne? Begging already?”
She clenched her jaw, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. The women’s touches were everywhere now, their fingers sliding over her skin, their mouths pressing kisses to her collarbone, her thighs, her toes. The blonde’s fingers worked her clit with practiced precision, her other hand slipping inside Brienne’s pussy, curling to stroke a spot that made her vision blur with pleasure.
“Ah—! Fuck—!” Brienne’s head fell back, her muscles straining against the restraints. Her body was on fire, her skin too tight, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The women’s low laughter was a sweet, cruel melody in her ears, their touches pushing her higher, closer to the edge.
The urge to surrender rose like floodwater, threatening to drag her under. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, tasting copper, using the sharp bloom of pain to ground her, to remind her of the world outside this velveted furnace of sensation. She fixed her gaze on the worn edge of the heavy plank where her legs were lashed, anchoring her mind there, just a foot away, and started counting the grains, tracing the dark whorls and knots, one after another, slow and stubborn as a prayer recited under duress. She would not give in. Let them touch her, prod her, milk and knead and part her. Her body was nothing but a sack of muscle and bone, her need a distant, unacknowledged animal. She would not come for them.
The blonde’s fingers worked her with knowing, pitiless rhythm, but Brienne focused past the heat and the slick, rolling pressure. She stared Ramsay in the face, locked on his eyes, and held herself rigid as the convulsion subsided.
Brienne found Ramsay’s eyes, taking no small satisfaction in his look of surprise. She lifted her chin, a thread of iron in her voice as it echoed through the hall. “Do you think this is the worst that’s been done to me? I’ve marched through battlefields where the ground was slick with the blood of men twice your caliber. I’ve held dying comrades in my arms and risen again to face the swords that cut them down. I’ve stood against raiders, oath breakers, and creatures far darker than anything that skulks in your halls.
“I’ve survived betrayal, starvation, storms that shattered stone keeps, and the scorn of every coward who mistook honor for weakness. I’ve kept my word when others bartered theirs for safety. And you”—she spits the word—“you imagine that a pampered tyrant with hired bullies can do what armies and nightmares could not? Break me?”
Ramsay's smirk cracked at the edges.
"You're nothing but a frightened boy hiding behind your father's name," Brienne continued, her voice steady despite her position. "I've faced death. I've faced worse than death. This?" Her eyes swept the room. "This is merely tedious."
The hall's revelry died as every eye fixed on Ramsay. His jaw worked silently before snapping shut, his gaze darkening as it slid toward the dusky blonde courtesan.
"Lyanna..." The name slithered from his lips like a threat.
The woman bowed her head slightly. "Her will is formidable, my Lord. Breaking her requires... different methods."
Ramsay's lips curled. "If you prove incapable, perhaps you'd prefer entertaining my hounds. They haven't been fed today."
The four courtesans exchanged glances, their circle tightening to include Brienne. The knight's expression remained stone.
Curly hair leaned toward Lyanna with lips barely moving. "We could tickle her," she whispered. "You saw how she flinched."
Brienne's muscles went rigid. "You could what!?"
The redhead studied Brienne's face. "It’s true, for all her warrior's strength, she startles like a fawn. Let's see her try to maintain that iron will when she’s laughing like a lunatic."
Lyanna's gaze slid back to Brienne, whose expression had shifted from defiance to alarm. "What's this?” she asked. “The great knight fears a little tickle?"
Ramsay's voice sliced through the quiet. "I’m getting bored, Lyanna, and you do not want me bored."
"We have something special in mind, my Lord," Lyanna assured him, then turned back to her companions. "Sera, take the oil and the phallus for her ass. Fill her completely and hold her. I'll work between her legs with my fingers and mouth if needs be. Marethe, those breasts need your attention." Her eyes finally settled on curly hair. "And Elira—stay down at the end. Whenever she tries to hold herself calm, tickle her feet. Make her laugh. Don’t let her concentrate."
Brienne’s eyes went wide. “Listen to me,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this. You hear me? Don’t. Give me pain, let me fight, have a shred of honor. I am a warrior, not a blushing girl. Use your tools, do your worst. I will scream, but I will not break. I will give you your show.” She thrashed hard in her bonds. “But by the Gods, don’t tickle me, not bound like this. Don’t humiliate me. Leave me some dignity.”
Lyanna fixed her with a level look. “You should have begged when you still could. You should have come easily, screaming in pleasure. But no, you chose to make your speech. You’ll break now, lady knight, however we choose to break you, and tonight we’ll be curled in Ramsay’s bed instead of bleeding in his kennels. You’ll get no mercy from us.”
“No, please!!!” Brienne flexed and bucked in the restraints, growing frantic as the women repositioned around her.
“Whatever you’ve decided,” Ramsay called out, “I like it already!” Laughter and applause rippled through the crowd. Brienne's panic was intoxicating.
Lyanna favored the struggling knight with a look that was almost compassionate before returning to her seat below. The others shifted into place, a ballet of bodies, each with a role. Sera retrieved a tin of oil from a nearby brazier, and a huge wooden phallus from one of the chests. The shaft was carved into a series of expanding spheres, the smallest at the end the size of a lady’s fingertip, the largest near the handle the size of a small fist.
Sera held the tool where Brienne could see, and drizzled its length with hot oil as the ladies watched.
“No, no, oh Gods, no…” Brienne muttered, squirming. But her voice was small and quiet.
Sera knelt on the cushion directly beneath Brienne and drizzled more oil on her fingertips, lifting them toward the muscled but helpless cheeks above her. Her hands were precise: one finger, slick and insistent, breached Brienne’s asshole. Brienne’s hips jerked at the suddenness of it as she bit back a yelp, a full-bodied shudder wracking her frame.
Sera added a second finger, twisting and stretching, rolling the tight muscle open until the sensation blurred between burn and pleasure. Brienne was already panting. When Sera swapped her fingers for the warm, blunt tip of the phallus, Brienne nearly bit through her tongue. It slid in, oiled and hot, stretching her wide and filling her. She writhed, but the bonds held. The courtesan’s fingers pinched her rim around the toy, working it with slow, deliberate thrusts. Each time it resisted, she pressed deeper, harder, rolling and twisting, making Brienne’s breath explode from her chest in a series of soft, sharp moans.
At Brienne’s feet, Elira waited for her moment. She placed her own oiled fingertips against Brienne’s arches, just below the balls of her feet, and began to softly tickle.
It was a light, rippling skitter at first, but even that was enough to break Brienne’s composure. “PLEASE!!!” Her large feet jerked back in shock, toes splaying and curling in a desperate attempt to flee. Elira danced her nails along the soft arches, up and down, digging softly under the toes. Brienne’s entire body tensed, her lips pressed into a bloodless line, every muscle straining not to give in. But Elira had the patience of a cat and the cruelty of a torturer. She explored the boundaries of Brienne’s endurance, ratcheting up the speed, doubling back, scrabbling her nails with devilish precision.
Brienne tried to hold out. She thought of the grain in the wood, the faces she’d see if she ever left this place, the promises she'd made. But the sensation was brutal; it was everywhere at once, like being possessed by a demon of laughter. Her jaw trembled. She sucked in air through her nose, her nostrils flaring. A high keening began in the back of her throat. It became a series of short soft barks, until finally, involuntarily, she let out a sharp, girlish scream.
“Ha!” Ramsay barked. “There it is! Again!”
Elira obliged, tickling more forcefully, and Brienne howled—not in pain, not even in terror, but in the abject, soul-flaying agony of laughter. She couldn’t stop. It came out in gasps, in great heaving bursts, in waves that had the whole gallery of nobles roaring with delight.
“Stop it!” she cried, tears streaming down her face, screaming as she fought for breath. “Please, PLEASE, I—I can’t—HAHAHAHHHAHAHAHHHAHAAHA!!!”
Lyanna seized the moment. She slipped two fingers, slick with oil and Brienne’s own wetness, between her legs and inside her, expertly teasing her secret spot. With her other hand, she exposed Brienne’s clit and rubbed it with her thumb, hard and relentless.
Brienne’s mind shattered into splinters. The phallus in her asshole was now pumping in time, the rhythmic thrusts syncing up with the teasing of her **** and brutal tickling of her feet. Marethe, behind, reached around the bar to twist her nipples, pinching and rolling them with expert cruelty.
There was no more wood-grain, no more oaths, only the rolling, tidal surge of sensation. It battered her from every side: pain, pleasure, shame, laughter, helplessness, the sick joy of release, the horror of being watched.
Every time she tried to regain control, Elira redoubled her tickling, and Brienne’s laughter would rise—shrieking, animal, utterly broken. Her body twitched, every muscle spasming with the effort to resist. The crowd was a blur; she knew nothing but her own frantic, traitorous body.
She’d never come in her life. Not truly—at least not with another, and certainly never with so many eyes upon her. The first orgasm crashed through her without warning, a tidal wave that left her limp and gasping, her ass clenching the phallus inside her. She howled, the sound echoing off the vaulted stone. Lyanna didn’t stop. Neither did Elira. The tickling resumed at her feet, more intense, while the hands at her breasts twisted harder, and the pumping between her legs grew more punishing.
She came again, and again, each one more intense, until she could do nothing but sob and convulse, falling through a bottomless well of sensation.
She lost track of time. She lost track of herself.
She didn’t even hear Ramsay’s order to stop; just felt the hands withdraw, the tickling cease, the dildo slide free of her asshole with a wet, shameful pop. She hung limp, panting, the taste of her own sweat and tears hot in her mouth.
She expected jeers, more taunts, but there was only the slow, reverent clapping of Ramsay’s hands as he rose from his throne, his eyes full of the most awful satisfaction.
“Well done, Brienne of Tarth,” he drawled, “perhaps you’re more woman than knight after all.”
She could barely breathe, but the hatred in her eyes was pure and without bottom.
Ramsay circled the pit, inspecting her like a craftsman admiring his own work. “Now, dear Brienne: you may answer my questions, or we begin again. I believe I have more soldiers returning who might like to see.”
Brienne wanted to spit in his face, but she had nothing left to give. Her face burned with humiliation. Her body shook, spent and humiliated. Every inch of her skin tingled, pulsing and sensitive.
“I…will not…break,” she panted. “Ever.”
Ramsay grinned, delighted. “Oh, I do hope that’s true.” He turned to the pit, voice booming. “She’s not ready to talk yet. Reset her. Let’s see how many it takes. I have all night.”
The courtesans set to work. Brienne closed her eyes, bracing herself for the next round, and the next, and the next.
She would hold on. She would not break.
But she would remember every face in this room, and she would feed them to the crows when her time came.
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