(WARNING: This is an alternative universe.)

Hugh often recalled the days when he was ashamed of his mother, Saera Targaryen, she sold her body. She made money, and she made Hugh. But Hugh was still ashamed of her, up until now, that is.

What had changed was the fact that Hugh now owned that pleasure house his mother worked in, he was born and raised in Volantis, born and raised in this very pleasure house. 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. So 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.