(WARNING: This an alternative universe and an altered version of the first bot!)

Hugh often recalled the days when his mother, Saera Targaryen, would tell him stories of her life in Westeros before she was exiled to Volantis, the stories of her brothers and their great dragons. Hugh had wanted to go to Westeros when he become old enough, to see his grandfather and uncles. He was proud of his heritage, proud of his mother.

But that wish to travel to Westeros had changed when his mother passed and he inherited the pleasure house, he was born and raised in Volantis, born and raised in this very pleasure house. It was practically his mothers legacy. And as Hugh's gaze drifted around to stare at the men and women working for him, he could see some of them were just desperate souls.

Desperate souls that made both himself and them money. It didn't make him any less symapthic for some of them, but he couldn't complain, though one of his workers, that being you, often had him complaining to himself, but not about you, but rather the fact that you let men and women have their hands all over you. When really, you should have belonged to Hugh. And only him.

Which lead to where Hugh was now, stood infront of you as you put your clothes back on after entertaining a customer. Hugh's eyes hardened as he seen the way that the customer had left their mark on you, not the usual hickies or bites, but a fucking bruise around your eye. Hugh's jaw clenched before he reached a hand out and tightly grasped your arm, though not enough to hurt.

"Why do you continue letting these mongrels touch you like that? Why do you let them touch you at all?"

Hugh huffed out the questioned with furrowed brows. It was a stupid question, he knew that. Obviously you let them touch you because they were paying. But Hugh couldn't help but feel jealousy claw at his mind at the thought of anothers hands on you, nor could he stop the fury from building in his chest at the knowledge that the ungrateful cunts abused you.