V.

ORMUND HIGHTOWER x Targaryen Princess (ward) ─── Ormund’s character “headcanons”

Warnings: age gap (15/20years difference), corruption kink, sexual content, idk dude just mdni :)

Author’s note: If you already know me from wp AO3 or TikTok, then you know I can’t stop yapping about this man, like it’s genuinely concerning at this point. So of course I’ve doubled down by starting a whole new fic about him! Since your girl loves deep character work (canon or otherwise) and plenty of smut, here’s my introduction to Lord Slaytower and the messy moral issues he has with his young ward (and their kinks and way of having sex until they can really have sex and all those things you can expect from me). The princess’s name isn’t mentioned in this piece but it’s meant to be Daena once I publish the story. Major spoilers for their plot ahead as always with me. Anyway, enjoy! Because I certainly do every single time I write about him :))

Ormund Hightower, who is raised as the undisputed golden boy of one of Westeros' wealthiest houses, acutely aware of his position from a young age (which, as everyone knows, always ends up with one entitled little boy growing into one deeply fucked up man)

Ormund Hightower, who enjoys above all the liberties that come with not yet being lord, spending his youth testing the limits of his privilege (being those freedoms the ones that shape the clever, arrogant, and prideful man he will one day become)

Ormund Hightower, who develops an unshakable belief in his own superiority and destiny, holding it as dearly as the Faith itself. Who comes to believe that men like him are tested more harshly by the Gods and rewarded twice over for their devotion and restraint.

Same conviction that leads him to believe that the Seven will always allow him to toy with the edges of sin more freely than lesser men, twisting his sense of righteousness into something self-serving (and leaving him forever caught between crushing guilt and an unwavering conviction that he had somehow earned the right to sin a little)

Ormund Hightower, who is raised alongside his cousin Gwayne in something close to brotherhood.

Left in Oldtown from a young age, motherless and under Hobert's care, Gwayne is both Ormund's closest friend and the boy forever destined to stand in his shadow. Even if their affection is genuine, so too is the cruelty that often flourishes between boys raised together, where one child's ego is too often built at the expense of the other's.

Ormund Hightower, who is in his twenties when the Queen's children are entrusted to Oldtown, and who discovers for the first time what it means to be displaced. The Targaryen twins eclipse him, his infant son and heir, and everyone else in Lord Hobert's eyes.

Oh to be jealous of two kids of only eight years old—kids with the blood of Old Valyria, a dragon of their own, and the fascination of a city and a father that have always belonged entirely to him. 

Ormund Hightower, clever enough to quickly understand that the twins are the future of his House as much as his own blood was (and his future burden political asset, too). Who makes certain to win the young prince's trust and keep him close (only to find himself competing with their uncle Gwayne, whose warmth and charm the children seemed to prefer from the very beginning)

Ormund Hightower, who is the first to oppose Rhaenyra and Alicent's pact to betroth the young princess to Rhaenyra's eldest son, provoking his first clash with his father. Who defended the honor of the girl of twelve, insisting she could never be handed to a bastard whose claim to the Iron Throne was both unlawful and an affront to the Seven (because that birthright belonged by every law to her older brother) Who failed, but at least tried.

Ormund Hightower, who inherits his father's titles when the twins are five and ten, and from that day forward ensures the septas keep a sharper eye on the princess. Who insists upon her education and gives her a place as cupbearer in his council, (determined that if she is to be handed to the enemy, she will go prepared to survive Dragonstone)

Who feeds Daeron the belief that the Blacks (and his childhood bestfriend among them) mean to steal his sister. Who never allows the princess to grow comfortable with the notion of one day becoming queen, making sure she never forgets who is the rightful heir to her father's throne.

Lord Hightower, who finds in the princess’s teenage years the first challenge to his long standing arrogance and prideful certainty.

Because she is neither easily impressed by his status nor intimidated by his authority. Her Targaryen blood mixed with her Hightower pride make her maddeningly resistant to his guidance whenever she chooses to believe otherwise (sometimes it is conviction, other times she simply delights in proving that the Lord of Oldtown can be baited into losing his temper)

Lord Hightower, who finds himself strangely delighted by it.

Lord Hightower, who soon convinces himself that playing house with his sixteen year old ward is perfectly normal and never consideres the long term consequences.

After all, what could possibly be inappropriate about his young ward befriending his children? What is wrong with letting her run his household when she does it so capably? Why should long walks filled with clever conversation be seen as anything but guardianship? Why would staying up until the hour of the owl playing cyvasse be considered strange? Why would their domesticity be wrong, when it feels so natural and comfortable for both? Why remarry, after all, when he already has the princess for himself? 

Lord Hightower, who in his thirties comes to the realization that he is not just being outwitted, but deliberately toyed with by that girl of scarcely eight and ten (who slowly finds out her favorite game is turning debates into spirited arguments, asking "why" with relentless feigned innocence until his patience wears thin, and playing the foolish maiden while slipping in questions she knows will sour his temper for the rest of the day)

"Do you truly believe Prince Jacaerys would make such an unsuitable husband, my lord? I confess, I rather think I shall make an excellent Queen. Better, mayhaps, than my brother would ever make a King."

Who would have thought, Lord Hightower, that your wifeward would start to think like a wife in other senses, after years of treating her as such in all but the bed.

Who would have thought that your wardwife, with all her little issues, would misinterpret the boundaries you had long since forgotten yourself, and start giving you fuck me eyes across the Council Chamber, because she so desperately needs you to fuck her, Lord Hightower!

Lord Hightower, who occasionally slips and call her "girl" whenever she pushes him one argument too far, only to immediately correct himself to "princess" (because manners, unlike his patience, were not to be abandoned) 

Who finds himself in a daily struggle between propriety, the urge to remind her who holds authority in the room, and an even stronger determination not to reward her insolence with the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper (a man used to commanding the greatest respect wherever he stood should never have found himself praying so often for the Warrior's patience)

Lord Hightower, who soon finds himself uncomfortably aware of the beauty and cunning mind parading through his halls. Who rediscovers the meaning of true restraint when his entitled instincts from youth whispers that what is under his protection is, technically, his (who added restraint and mercy to his prayers, asking the Warrior for too much this time)

Lord Hightower, who starts begging nightly for strength, confessing vague "impure thoughts" about someone he has no right to imagine in such ways.

Lord Hightower, who begins repenting through fasting and grows more short-tempered

Nothing tests a man’s faith and spirits like the need to fuck the one person he is honor bound to protect. No one would have blamed him for taking himself in hand in the privacy of his chambers to relieve that torture, but Ormund Hightower blamed himself harshly, every day.

Lord Hightower, who begins correcting Prince Daeron whenever the boy calls him "uncle" in front of his sister.

He was not their uncle, he was their lord, their mother's cousin at most (a fascinating hill to die on for a man who loudly condemns incest and the Targaryens' customs, and who finds himself determined to believe that his desires somehow exist outside those same abominations)

Lord Hightower, who for all his pretense of being a good man, a pious man, and an honorable one, is simply a freak and a pervert who has spent years telling himself it is not incest or grooming if he never lays a hand on the girl (only to end up knuckles deep inside her three days before her wedding)

Lord Hightower, who fingerfucks the princess in his charge to “ease her fears of the marital bed” (all while telling himself that that is still noble somehow)

Lord Hightower, who punishes her attitude by edging her, overstimulating her until she is shaking and sobbing, delighting in every plea that leaves her lips.

Lord Hightower, who may not have been strong enough to keep from touching her, but still possesses enough restraint not to take her maidenhead even as she begs him to (thank the Seven for how honourable he is. Fuck the Seven for it, actually)

Lord Hightower, who presses his forehead to hers and whispers “forgive me” against her lips as she keeps begging for him to claim her. Who will force her to kneel beside him in prayer for the sins they had just committed, keeping his aching cock untouched as some kind of repentance.

Lord Hightower, who will break again the very next day and teach the princess how to take a man into her mouth (feeding his corruption kink as she acts naive and submissive, and calls him “my lord” knowing what that does to him)

Lord Hightower, who always tells her “this is the last time” and “we must stop this madness” while she is on her knees beneath his desk during the day, sucking him with devotion.

Then he spends the nights on his knees in the sept, begging the Seven for forgiveness once again.

Lord Hightower, who becomes a nightmare to everyone around him the moment they tear his precious girl away to give her to a boy (a boy who will claim the maidenhead he has so kindly preserved)

Lord Hightower, who sees his prayers answered soon enough after that damned wedding (reaffirming to himself that perhaps the gods do not find his sins so terrible after all, if they so eagerly give her back to him)

Lord Hightower, who leads the greatest host of the Greens as the Dance erupts in full, only to end up fucking the King’s own sister in his command tent. Who delights in covering her mouth so her twin brother does not hear her cries (and because he comes harder when she bites down on his hand) Who adores the power play, the risk, and the thrill of his authority over her.

Lord Hightower, who knows the best way to end a long day on the march is taking care of his darling girl, still flushed and buzzing with adrenaline from dragonback. Who thanks her for her aid by dropping to his knees like a man possessed, devouring her until she shakes and cries out, then seizes what little energy she has left and makes her ride him slow and deep.

“You’ve been riding that beast of yours all day, my poor princess. You must be so, so tired. Let me take care of you, darling. You just have to sit on my cock and ride me gently, I’ll hold you and do the rest.”

afterward, they share a long bath together (“you still reek of dragon, wretched girl” “maybe you should stop fucking me before I wash, my lord”) then he holds her against his chest until she falls asleep, exhausted again.

Lord Hightower, who knows better than to risk it, who tries so hard to be responsible, often growling “not inside” right before he is about to come, only for her legs to lock around him or for her to giggle at the pathetic attempt, making him lose control completely and fill her anyway.

Lord Hightower, who can barely meet Daeron’s eyes anymore, knowing exactly what he is doing to the boy’s twin sister behind his back.

Lord Hightower, who keeps a piece of her favor tucked inside his armor during battles (a scrap of cloth always carrying her scent, his most precious token, kept close to his heart)