Moon Lady

Understanding better than to ask about the cause, you set the book aside and allowed him to adjust the skirts around your waist, positioning his body over yours. He unlaced his pants, allowing his thick cock to spring free. In an instant, he plunged deep into your wet, pulsing heat, accompanied by a shuddering exhale that caressed the shell of your ear.

Your walls stretched at the familiarity of his size, fingers pressing into the taut muscles of his shoulder. Yet, instead of moving his hips to seek release, Ormund remained still.

He slowly lowered himself onto you, nestling his face into the crease of your shoulder. A soft hum escaped him as he settled comfortably. "The petitions. Read them for me, please."

With one hand gently tousling his hair, you reached for the stack of letters beside you with the other. Holding the first page up, you began to scan the words for Ormund.

"Lord Redwyne addressed the shipping tariffs in the bay," you began. His body was fully relaxed now, given over entirely to the soothing sound of your voice.

It was an intoxicating feeling. While your voice carried on about the tedious bureaucracy of a Great House, your insides, on the other hand, were wrapped around the hardness of a man who had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

When the letter brought up a dispute over wool shipments, you noticed a slight tightening in his core.

“Did he truly expect a rebate on the harbor fees?” Ormund’s voice vibrated low, a minuscule movement that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your nerves.

“Hmm, he only said that the storms damaged three of his main vessels. Nothing beyond that,” you said, turning your face to catch a better glimpse of his handsome features. He offered no reply, only drawing closer and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent of your oils.

He nudged his hips upward to adjust his position slightly. A slow, grinding pressure that made your toes curl into the velvet upholstery. You could sense a rhythmic throb. The desire to rock on him was overwhelming, but you knew better than to rush him before he cleared his mind.

This was one of the reasons he constantly sought your company. He often expressed that the world demanded he embody the name ‘Hightower’ - to be rigid, cold, and unyielding. But here, in the embrace of the woman he loved, cocooned by your warmth, he was permitted to be soft.

The more you read the flowery prose and the fervent pleas for prestige, the more you felt him relax, shedding every burden of the day.

You turned to the next letter, a petition from a lesser house requesting a marriage alliance, as it mentioned. "This is quite tedious, my dear husband. Are you prepared for this?" you asked with a playful tone.

He responded with a low groan, weary of the endless petitions and demands that came with his role as the Lord of Oldtown. "Just read it. I enjoy the sound of your voice, especially when you're bored.”

As you giggled, the vibration rippled through you before reaching the place where your bodies were connected. Ormund let out a deep growl before nibbling on your neck, causing your breath to catch. “Stop moving,” he pleaded.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you began to feel a pulsating need in your pussy. You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. "The petition asks for a marriage alliance to be considered between—"

"Deny it," he interrupted, cutting you off mid-sentence.

“I haven’t read the rest. Let me finish,” you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"I don't need to hear it to know the sheer absurdity these men are requesting. Utter nonsense." He shifted his weight once more, pinning you securely against him, allowing you to feel the soft brush of his chest hair against your skin. 

The heat between you had escalated to a feverish intensity, a shimmering warmth that made your head spin. You closed your eyes and let the parchment slip from your fingers, fluttering down like a fallen leaf.

Urging him to penetrate deeper, you wrapped your legs around his waist. The abrupt change in pressure caused him to let out a sharp hiss. Ormund froze, his muscles growing tense.

“All good?” you asked. Dampness pooled around your thighs.

“You’re too… mm— warm,” he choked out a reply. The way he clung to you indicated he never wanted to escape the sensation.

But Ormund remained still, teetering on the brink of something, unwilling to break the spell. You knew he craved the tension to build, the slow burn of warmth to ignite into a raging fire.

So you decided to make the first move. Reaching up, you threaded your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his head closer for a kiss. His lips were infused with salt and yearning. His tongue danced with yours before he softly whispered your name into your mouth.

The room seemed to constrict until all that remained was the aroma of oils and the sound of tongue sliding against tongue. Then slowly, he began to move.

“I can't remain still any longer,” Ormund said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, a blend of fatigue and desire.

“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.

He needed no further instruction. Ormund lunged forward, pumping in and out, in and out, completely losing the composure of Lord Hightower. The way he thrust into you revealed a desperation born of hours of pent-up desire; his movements were raw and unrefined.

You matched him stroke for stroke, bodies colliding with a wet slap that echoed in the quiet of the room. It was like a war drum.

His name flowed from your lips sweetly like honey, “Ormund, Ormund, Ormund.”

The climax that arrived felt like a cascading wave. You sensed him shudder intensely, his whole body trembling with the force of his release. His cock twitched as he spilled his seed inside you, while you let out a long, broken sob of relief. Ormund held you close, tightening his grip and drawing out every last bit of tension from his body.

After some time, he turned to face you, smiling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead and showering your damp skin with kisses. His now-soft member remained deep inside you, showing no signs of withdrawing soon.

As your own breathing began to calm, your gaze wandered to the letters strewn across the bed. There were still many that required his attention and decision. "We missed a few. There’s one from the Citadel though."

Ormund let out a rumbling groan and sank back down. Resting his cheek against your chest, he closed his eyes, content to remain enveloped in your warmth until the sun set and the world called its lord back once more.

"Read to me, my darling," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he almost drifted into sleep. "Let me hear your voice."

You reached down to retrieve the crumpled papers and began to read again. Your voice flowed softly in the room, a gentle counterpoint to the raw act that had just happened. Tales of tariffs, Citadel appointments, and the everyday disputes of men filled the silence as you continued, creating a world of words around you both - a cocoon of stories and skin.

Ormund stirred slightly, an instinctive movement that reminded you he was still there, still connected, still yours.

As the candles burned low and darkness enveloped the room, you kissed his shoulder and leaned back into the velvet, gazing up at the ceiling while listening to the distant chime of the tower bell.

The world continued to spin; the politics of the Seven Kingdoms persisted. But in this room, time had come to a standstill.

All that existed was the scent of your skin, the feel of silk, and the enduring, golden warmth of a man who feared that the heat might dissipate if he released his hold on his wife, even for a moment.

Tag requests: @lexie983 @fandomtrela @kiem16 @xcrybaby555x 🤍

"Do not give me hope, I beg of you." You sighed, snipping away another loose curl. 

You could not see his face as you stood behind him, yet you knew a mischievous smile had surely found its way upon his lips.

Baelor had been tasked to attend the tourney at Ashford in a week's time alongside Valarr, Maekar, and his sons. You could not say precisely why, but ever since he had spoken of the journey, a quiet dread had settled upon your heart, tightening around it with each passing day. 

More than once you had tried to persuade him not to go, yet he had insisted it was good for House Targaryen to strengthen its ties with the lesser houses. As much as you wished to object - even if it meant clinging to his boots until he relented - you understood the truth you had accepted long ago.

Baelor belonged to the realm before he ever belonged to you.

So you decided to steal him away from the endless weight of duties and drew the chamber doors closed, determined to grant him a proper trim before his journey south. Fingers wandered gently through his hair, guiding each lock with the comb before the shears followed in a measured pace.

You plucked a single silver strand between your fingers and held it before his eyes. "Hmm. You have grown more of these since the last time I remember." 

One brown eye peeked open. Baelor had grown quite accustomed to your teasing whenever the mood took you. A smile touched his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“So even the blood of dragons must bow before the passing of years.”

"Oh, thanks be to the Seven! Else you Targaryens would never cease boasting." You said, gently turning his head forward and resumed your work.

The silver caught the afternoon light like pale steel woven through black velvet. Yet to your eyes, it only made him handsomer than any youthful knight or lord in all the realm. You would never confess as much. Teasing him was far more enjoyable.

"Are you certain an old prince is fit to ride so far south?" The shears gave another soft snap as more silver strands drifted to the floor. His hair had always been thick, yet it remained surprisingly soft. 

"You could fall from your horse," you pleaded, grasping at one final attempt to sway him from his journey. "Or worse, lose your way in the woods."

Baelor laughed. The sound filled the chamber with the warmth you had long known as home. For a while, he said nothing more, allowing you to finish your work in peace.

"Then perhaps," he said at length, "should this old man meet the Stranger upon the road, my wife may find herself glad enough to wed some younger lord. One with fewer grey hairs."

The words stunned you. Each one found its way to strike somewhere deep within, far deeper than a jest ever should. Has he lost his mind?! Your heart thundered against your ribs as the chamber fell silent. Your lips parted, yet the reply you wished to give refused to come. The shears remained motionless in your hand. You could only stand there, unable to fathom how a few careless words could cut so deeply.

Sensing the silence that had fallen, Baelor turned to look at you. A single tear had already slipped free before you could stop it. You did not even realise you were crying.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by horror as he understood the pain his careless words had caused. "My love, I was only—"

“Have you lost your mind?! I tease you over a few grey hairs and suddenly you are speaking of dying?” You had not meant to raise your voice, but it had carried in your tone all the same. More tears began to pool around your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks.

He reached for your hand immediately to soothe you, but when you stubbornly refused it, he reached for your waist instead, drawing you effortlessly onto his lap despite your indignant protest. You made the faintest attempt to escape before his broad arms settled tightly and securely around you, forcing you to surrender.

“I am so sorry, my love, my heart, my world. It was a poor jest. I am a foolish old man for saying such a thing,” he said, scattering gentle kisses across your damp cheeks while his thumb brushed away the tears that refused to stop.

“That’s very cruel.” Your voice softened, the anger giving way to something far more fragile. “If the Stranger takes you, I will sail to Valyria myself. I will curse every stone of that forsaken land and tear you back from death if I have to.”

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth before he raised his hands to cradle your face. “Listen to me,” he whispered.

“Nothing shall part us. Not fair ladies, nor younger lords, nor servants, nor duty, nor any burden this realm may lay upon me." 

He pressed his lips to yours in solemn promise. “And when the Stranger comes, he will find me arguing with him over the hour. Not even death shall hasten me from you.”

The matter of his grey hairs no longer seemed amusing. You almost cursed yourself for having brought it up in the first place, and so you reached up with gentle hands to smooth the silver at his temple. “Do you swear it?” you asked softly.

“I swear it with the whole realm as my witness.” He planted a kiss on the tip of your nose.

You both remained like that for a while, held in each other’s arms, until at last you summoned the composure and grace befitting the future Queen and rose from his lap. “Right, husband. Now let me finish making you look handsome before your journey to Ashford.”

Standing behind him once more, you studied the silver strands you had always loved. Each pale strand was a testament to the years he had spent labouring and sacrificing -  striving to become the prince the realm needed rather than the one it had merely expected him to be.

You wondered if any soul within the Kingdom had ever truly seen the grey upon Baelor’s head and understood the burdens that had brought it there, or if they saw only a prince who had begun to age. Your fingers lingered for a final moment around the silver before carefully evening the hair above his ear.

“What would you have from the south, my dear?” Baelor asked, breaking the silence that stretched. 

“You. Just for you to return safely to me.” The words came simply, though your mind was already haunted by the thought of being left alone in this great castle without his presence for a month.

“Consider it done,” he said. And you believed him, for Baelor had never once broken a promise he had made. There was hope and happiness in those words, enough to make you forget the fear of his leaving.

When at last the trimming was complete, you brushed the stray strands from his shoulders before taking a step back to admire your work with a pleased smile. “There. Now you look every bit the prince you were meant to be.”

You leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the back of his head, heart swelling with love and pride for the man you got to call husband. One day, a crown shall rest upon this very head, you thought. And the realm shall be blessed to have such a man upon the throne.

Baelor turned towards you, smiling widely as he always did whenever you fussed over him. Taking your hands in his, he pressed a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

“Thank you, my love. Now I have greater confidence that the South will remember me properly.”

You found yourself wondering what it would be like to sit next to him at a long table after supper and hear him speak of battles the way old soldiers do. You want to be the one to wipe the blood from his lip after a hard spar. You want to turn his hand over and press your thumb to the ridge of scar across his knuckles. You rehearse it sometimes, in the moments before sleep. The thought shames you a little. 

What a fool's errand, to have given your heart to a man already sworn. He belongs to his vow the way a sword belongs to its scabbard. You have heard every warning the septas and septons could offer, yet none of it stills the wanting in your chest whenever his boots echo across the stone at midnight.

Naive girl, you tell yourself, to fall for a sworn knight twice your age. No song will make a man like him look at a girl like you. The thought visits you every night before sleep, and every night it fails to take hold.

But what you do not know is that, across the garden, behind a face trained never to betray a thought, Ser Donnel keeps watch over doors and thinks of you all the same, until every threshold begins to feel like the edge of a precipice.

He knows his vows like a catechism. To be steel. To be silent. To stand between a blade and the royal throat. Yet in the quiet hours, he cannot help but reckon with every reason he is unworthy of you.

Pathetic old man. What could he offer a young lady of the court? A pauldron for a pillow? A worn name whose shine comes from another man’s crown? His hands are good for holding shields and nothing delicate. He is twice your age in all the ways that matter, and bound besides. But it is not just the age that weighs on him. 

A Kingsguard’s vow does not end at thirty, or fifty, or whenever a man grows tired of it. It ends only with his death. There is no retiring from it.

Still, when your laughter splashes across the garden’s shell fountain and he hears the faint ring of a spoon against a saucer, his head turns before he can stop it. He knows your walk by sound alone. He knows which step along the western corridor makes you hesitate, where you pause before a tapestry of stags beneath winter snow. He learns the rhythm of your humming as you pass him on the stairs.

Once, after a joust, he sat on his horse at the end of the run and looked toward the gallery and caught your wandering face. A foolish thought arrived at him like a splinter. If the day had gone differently, if he were a different man in a different life unbuckled from his vow, he would have ridden to your end of the gallery.

I would win, he thought, and lift the crown, and set it on your head in front of every lord and fool in the capital. My Queen of Love and Beauty.

He thinks of the Rebellion sometimes. The crossing at Redgrass Field, the screaming of horses, the brother-knights beside him who did not ride home. He had not feared death there. He had done his accounting and found it balanced: no wife, no children, no unfinished thing. A life given cleanly to a cause. He had been glad of the cleanliness.

Now when he thinks of that field he finds your name on the far side of it.

If there were another war, he thought. If the dice fell wrong again, and I were to lie in some trampled field with my face to a sky going grey, I would want to go with the thought of you, my lady. Not of vows kept or crowns defended. But you, with your book in your lap, and your eyes doing that thing where they find me and go very still before you look away.

When the night of the king’s feast arrives, it is all sugared and sharp, the hall a river of candlelight, diamonds trembling in the ladies’ hair like drops upon a chandelier. The king is in a good temper. The prince moves as though lit from within. The press of voices stirs both courage and folly in equal measure. Music unspools from lute and reed pipe, and in Ser Donnel something gives way.

So he crosses the floor, his years gathered about him like a cloak, and bows before you without clatter. He cannot remember the last time he bowed like this, not to a monarch but to a hope. He says your name like a prayer he fears will end, and asks for your hand beneath the bright, noisy splendor of the hall. Your hand finds his at once.

Dancing is never his trade, yet he moves as though the steps are familiar paths leading to a well he has drawn from all his life. Your palm rests upon his shoulder. His hand settles at your waist with such care it might be devotion given form. The world narrows to a hum threaded with your breath. Your lashes lift, and every careful barrier you have kept over your longing falls away. He does not look away.

He thinks, recklessly, that vows might yet allow this as an exception. That holding you close is not breaking but bearing, keeping you within the reach of his arm as something sovereign ought to be kept. Your cheek tips toward his knuckles as they brush, and the hall’s thousand eyes blur into lantern-smears.

The song becomes a golden cord binding him to you, strand after strand unspooling between you. In the hidden place within duty where a boy still survives, he swears to keep you here, even as he knows such a vow cannot hold.

You are thinking of the pattern of his breath, the faint nick on his thumb, the way he chose you in a room that has never chosen gently. The words gather behind your teeth, hot and bright. I want you, Ser Donnel. Take me where vows become softer things, not chains but silk.

But the words do not leave you. They turn inward instead, circling the mind, never crossing into speech.

When the songs end, the final note skims away like a swan lifting from water. A young lord with a polished grin and a future draped across his shoulders steps forward and bows. “My lady, may I?” he says, all practicing sweetness. Donnel’s fingers tighten around yours.

“Of course,” you hear yourself say, courtly and composed. It is not what you mean. What you mean would still the musicians and send the king’s gaze rising like a banner. But you dip and turn. Your palm slips from the place you had longed to hold for far too long.

Ser Donnel lets you go as though he has been burned. He folds his hands behind his back so he does not reach for you. He has never wanted anything so fiercely as to cross that distance and keep you near him, within reach of his touch and his vow both. He moves to the edge of the hall where duty waits, patient as a hound, and takes his place among stone and shadow.

You dance with the young lord and hear none of the music. You pivot and perform and think with every turn: I will not let this become a mistake. I will not let him disappear into corridors filled with unspoken things. Your smile fools no one who matters. Donnel sees the fracture at its corner and takes it as both a blessing he does not deserve and a torment he has earned.

The night ends with stars spilled across the courtyard slate. The king retires. Crown princes laugh somewhere down a corridor you do not follow. Servants douse the flames until the hall smells faintly of smoke and beeswax. Your ladies drift away in pairs like petals on the wind. You stand for a long moment in a doorway dividing music from moonlight and try to decide which world is kinder.

His boots sound behind you and stop. “My lady,” he says.

His voice is that space between a blade and a throat again. He is all line and shadow, lamplight tracing the edge of his jaw. Up close, you see the fine threads of gray like frost on a hedge before dawn. He has never looked more like a gate you wish to pass through.

“Ser Donnel,” you answer, and his name trembles on your tongue. 

“The west garden is where I am posted,” he says, the words measured like steps along a wall walk. “The training yard at first light is quiet, saved for fools and men who cannot sleep.”

He does not speak plainly, yet nothing in him is idle. Each word is set with care, each pause carrying weight beyond sound, a message shaped in restraint rather than speech.

“And I happen to think the statues are prettiest there,” you reply.

You step back into moonlight, and he watches you go not like a guard watching a passage, but like a man left standing at the edge of a road he cannot cross and will not abandon.

When dawn breaks, the yard wears a pale shroud. He is there already, rubbing at an old ache in his shoulder, breath snapping through drills that make younger men curse. You arrive with your cloak drawn tight at your throat and courage too quiet for ballads. The air hangs cold and still around you.

“You are up early, my lady,” he says. His voice is even, a blade kept sheathed yet ready.

“So are you, Ser Donnel.”

“I am paid to be.”

“And I am not,” you answer. “So one of us is a fool.”

A faint smile touches his mouth before he reins it in. “Aye,” he replies. “One of us is.”

You stand together overlooking the yard, the raked dirt still dark with dew, the torches along the wall burning pale beneath a sky not yet committed to morning. It is not comfortable, exactly. But it is not the silence of strangers either. It is the silence of two people who have circled the same fire long enough that sitting beside it feels less like a choice than an admission.

You could still hide your longing in pretty lies. Instead, you reach for the truth like a blade at his belt.

“Last night, during the dance,” you say. Your voice is steady, but it betrays you all the same. “I did not want to let go.” 

You pause, and the next words come slower, like they cost you something to spend. “I do not say this lightly, and I may regret saying it at all. But I am tired of carrying this alone, not knowing if I carry it for nothing.”

For an instant he is surprised, the years slipped clean from his shoulders. Then he gathers them back because he must.

“My lady,” he begins, and the words come heavy with caution. He means to lay them before you plainly, the truth made gentle by being named. But instead they turn inward on him, sharp as steel drawn too close to flesh, and something in his chest tightens like a struck thing.

If only you knew how long I have wanted you, too. But I cannot.

I am sworn. I am a man made for oaths and heraldry, with little else to offer. Your life holds rooms I was never meant to enter without breaking something holy. The world is cruel, and I had long since made my peace with that.

Until you.

“You do not carry it for nothing.” His voice roughens on the words, like they were not built for use. “I would not have you think that. Not for one day longer.”

“I know your vows,” you cut in gently. 

“I know their shape. I do not ask you to break them. Only, if there is a way to stand near without shattering, I would stand there. With you.”

Silence takes measure of you both. A moth flutters against hot glass. He looks at you like the first sunrise he remembers after a long winter watch.

At the edge of the yard, where stones have cracked and been left to crack, a thin stalk of chicory has pushed through the gap, blue and stubborn against the cold. He crouches and snaps it free before holding it out to you.

"Chicory," he says. "It grows where nothing else cares to. I have always admired a thing that holds on without being asked to.” 

You take the little blue flower from him and watch him go. The yard fills in around the space he leaves behind. Only the flower remains in your hand, and a heart behaving very badly.

The next morning you find another on the bench in the garden. The same pale blue, freshly cut, laid at the center of the stone. He had come before the rest of the world stirred. He places it there and walks away without waiting to see. You stand over it longer than intended. Then you lift it and tuck it into your braid, feeling it brush your cheek all morning like a whisper.

That noon, the corridor outside the great hall is crowded with the restless tide of court life, pages darting between nobles, servants bearing platters and pitchers, ladies trailing silk and conversation in their wake. Amid all of it, there is the flower. Worn above your ear, tucked carefully into your braid. 

When you walk past him in the hallway, his pace never falters. When he draws level with you, his gaze finds the chicory for the briefest instant before lifting to your eyes. They catch the light at the sight of you.

“My lady.” The same two words he gives every lady in this hall, worn smooth from years of use. But he has never once said them and meant only you. This time, he does.

“Ser,” you answer, a smile breaking through, reserved only for the knight who has long stolen your heart. By the time anyone might think to notice, you are already several paces apart, the crowd folding between you like water closing over a stone.

Only then do you understand what he has been trying to say. Men like Ser Donnel build their confessions from smaller things. A place remembered. A path crossed at the same hour each day. Care given shape and set quietly into the world, asking for nothing in return.

After that, the language only deepens. It lives in glances that linger a moment too long before duty pulls you both away. In routines neither of you admits to keeping. A glimpse of him across the courtyard is enough to carry you through an afternoon. Your laughter drifting from an open gallery is enough to walk him through a night watch.

Neither of you names what is between you. To name it would be dangerous. To deny it would be impossible. So it stays there, woven through gardens and corridors and chance meetings in the halls. Nearness, day after day, with the one true thing left unsaid.

And it is, for now, the only kingdom either of you needs.

Ormund had often confessed that your own fragrance haunted him no less cruelly, lingering in his thoughts amidst the ceaseless misery of the campaign. So you had made ready. You filled  the crystal perfume jars with the very essence he had always favored, that when at last the long-awaited hour arrived, you might anoint your skin with the scent he so dearly coveted.

That hour came at last. The bells of Oldtown rang bright under the shadow of Oldtown. Their joyful peals carried across the city as horns sounded from the walls to herald the return of its lord and his men. You stood before the great gates of the castle, eyes searching the endless column of riders until it found him at their head.

Ormund drew rein before you and swung himself down from the saddle. Seven save you, had there been no watchful eyes upon the courtyard, you would have spirited him away to the privacy of your chambers without a second thought. Yet the burdens of Lord and Lady Hightower had ever demanded restraint, denying you both the luxury of reckless affection.

"Welcome home, husband," you greeted softly, unable to keep the warmth from your voice. 

"And my congratulations. May this victory bring an end to the madness that has so long afflicted the realm."

Whether Ormund had read the yearning plainly written upon your face, or whether the fragrance lingering about your skin had reached him upon the breeze, the corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile. There was certainty within that expression, the silent promise that your long separation was at an end.

Bath has been drawed, candles have been burned and the door oak has been shut, leaving only you and Ormund alone in the shared bedchambers. You had sent away the servant so you could strip him off the armour yourself. He smelled of the road - iron, horse sweat, and the acrid tang of old campfire smoke. 

His eyes fell upon you, only for the perfume you had chosen to welcome him home to steal the rest of his attention. He drew a slow breath through his nose.

"Take this ruddy armor off me, wife," he murmured, his voice roughened by travel and longing alike. "I need to touch you."

A smile found your lips as your fingers reached for the clasp upon his shoulder. You lingered over the fastening just long enough to test his patience, savoring the simple privilege of touching him again. The heavy cloak slipped from his broad frame and crumpled upon the stone with a muted thud, carrying with it the dust of the road and the weariness of war.

"This thing grows heavier with every campaign," you murmured, smoothing an idle hand across the thick wool. "I do not know how you endure wearing it for so long."

“The cloak is the least of my burdens,” Ormund said, one eye half-lidded as he turned a pointed glance your way. “It is your perfume that proves the greater torment. Seven save me, woman, you know full well what it does to me. Must you tempt me whilst I am still imprisoned in iron?”

A laugh threatened to escape you, though you smothered it before it could reach your lips. Now that he was safely home beneath your roof once more, there was no need for haste; you meant to savor every lingering moment before duty and desire could once again claim their hold. “I had thought the war might have taught you patience, husband.”

“I possess enough patience for soldiers,” he answered with an exaggerated sigh. “For my own wife? None whatsoever.”

You made no reply, only circling behind him, your hair slipping over one shoulder as you moved. The motion stirred the perfume beneath your ears, sending its fragrance through the quiet of the chamber. Ormund closed his eyes and released a low, strained groan.

"Please, my love," he pleaded. "What is this cruel slowness? Must you truly torture me so?"

"Stand still, Ormund," you chided gently, unable to conceal the smile tugging at your lips. "I cannot undress you if you insist upon fidgeting like an impatient squire."

Your fingers worked leisurely at the buckles of his gauntlets before easing the worn steel from his large, calloused hands. The weight of the metal struck against your rings with a sharp clang that rang throughout the chamber before you carefully set the pieces aside.

Next came the pauldrons, ever the most troublesome part of his harness. Ormund's shoulders were broad enough that the catches often refused to yield under your gentler hands, forcing you to work each fastening loose with patient determination. By now your perfume had thoroughly enveloped him, and the restraint upon his face had begun to crack. Hunger flashed openly across his features, transforming the disciplined lord into something far more dangerous.

"Get these off me," he growled, his voice emerging rougher than he intended.

The sudden command sent a startled shiver through you. His breastplate still held fast across his chest, refusing to surrender. "Ormund, I swear, if you do not—"

He answered only with a frustrated curse. Stepping away from your hands, he seized the breastplate himself, fingers curling beneath the steel with little regard for the straps you had been carefully loosening. Buckles snapped free under the force of his strength before the armor crashed upon the stone floor with a deafening thunder that seemed loud enough for all Oldtown to hear.

The final layer followed moments later. He shrugged the padded gambeson from his shoulders and cast it aside, revealing a broad chest of hard muscle and pale skin, crossed by silver scars earned through years of battle, with newer wounds still flushed an angry shade of red. 

"Ormund," you breathed, eyes widening. "You have returned from war with all the manners of a starving beast."

“Can you truly blame me?” he answered hoarsely. His hands, usually so measured in every task they performed, had abandoned all patience. “You’re moving too fucking slow, wife.” 

Before you had so much as drawn another breath, he caught your arms and pulled you firmly against him with a strength that left your heart stumbling within your breast. His fingers fumbled with the silken ties of your gown before pulling the fabric free. 

In a blink of an eye, the cream-colored slipped from your shoulders and gathered in soft folds about your feet. You stood naked before him, the last trace of your perfume clinging softly to your skin. Your wits were too slow to grasp all that had unfolded.

"I have been parted from you for far too long," his voice was little more than a strained confession. "I do not wish to spend another heartbeat away from you."

He began to kiss you with an urgent, ravenous fervor. The force of his lips made you gasp and arch your back. You could feel the rigid outline of his cock pressing against your abdomen, straining against his pants.

"Ormund," you moaned. His name leaves a sweetness around your tongue that you haven’t tasted in months. 

Ignoring your plea, his mouth migrates from your neck to your jawline, finally capturing your lips again in a powerful kiss. It tasted of sweat and desire. His tongue slipped past your teeth, swirling with yours in a rhythmic exchange of saliva and warmth. He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder.

"I can smell it everywhere," his breath was hot against your skin. "I can’t think of anything in that damn cold tent. I can't breathe anything but you. I’ve missed you."

He pressed his face into the gentle valley between your breasts. His tongue, long and warm, began to savor the oil on your skin, tracing the elegant curve of your breast. He circled your nipple, the tip of his tongue teasing the hardened peak until you let out a soft whimper, your fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. 

Each time he paused to breathe, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring with desire. Heat unfurled within you as though your body had remembered him before your mind could catch up. 

Gradually, he sank to his knees, kissing the delicate skin of your stomach, his lips igniting a trail of warmth as they descended. He lingered at the gentle dip of your navel, swirling his tongue there before venturing lower. As he neared the junction of your thighs, the scent transformed. The floral notes of the perfume blended with the natural, musky aroma of your arousal, creating an intoxicatingly primal essence.

So you lifted him by the wrist and guided him to the bed that had grown cold since his departure. You lay on your back, exposing yourself fully to your lord husband for him to devour you as he pleased, as he wished. "Take me, Ormund, please."

Kneeling once more between your legs, he leaned in and pressed his tongue directly against your clit. Moving strokes after strokes that caused your knees to weaken and your mind to go blank. His eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He inhaled deeply, his entire being trembling with the effort to hold back.

"You put it in here, too, didn’t you?" he asked, glancing up to meet your eyes. 

You could only nod in response, for no words seemed fit to leave your lips. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed this too much.” Groaning low, Ormund plunged his tongue back in, savoring you with an intensity that bordered on ferocity. His tongue moved in rhythmic, swirling patterns, lapping at the oil and cream of your arousal. He drew your clitoris into his mouth, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you. “You taste and smell as divine as I remember.” 

You moaned and sighed as his tongue danced around you. With your eyes tightly shut, you surrendered to his care, fully aware that Ormund would relish teasing you while nestled between your thighs. You surrendered to him, knowing that your lord husband craved this too, just as much as you did.

The first round of sex was messy and unrefined. At one point, his thrust was so overzealous, so driven by primal hunger, that he completely slipped out due to the overwhelming wetness between you. 

For a brief instant, there was a void, a sudden absence that felt like a loss. Then, he forcefully reentered, the air escaping from your folds with a loud sound that sent shivers down your spine. 

The second time he took you, he flipped you over so you were on your hands and knees, your ass arched high in the air. The cool air caressed your damp folds, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body behind you. He did not take his time. Gripping your hips firmly, he thrust into you with a single, powerful motion. 

The third and final round unfolded in a manner unlike any other. It was a complete surrender, a heartfelt reunion filled with love and longing, intertwined with the fear of losing each other during his time away at war. He savored every moment, tracing the contours of your body with his lips and tongue. An entire hour was devoted solely to kissing, leaving tender marks on the delicate skin of your collarbone, before he began to tease the entrance to your core with the tip of his manhood. 

He gently rocked in and out, whispering promises and soothing you as you sobbed with pleasure that overtook your body. Every now and then, he would pause to inhale the scent that was still ghosting around your throat and the back of your ear. 

When you reached your end, your fingers tightened upon the sheets, as pleasure began to swell within you, akin to a tide gently rising on a serene shore. Both you and Ormund clung to each other, bodies fused, the scent of roses and sweat lingering in the air long after the candles had burned down to stubs. 

“I miss you,” he said, the words simple and heavy with truth. 

“I miss you, Lord Hightower.” 

An hour earlier, the two of you had sat side by side in a quiet nook of the library. As your focus began to wane and the text blurred before your eyes, he pulled you between his legs. His broad thighs penned you in, leaving little choice but to continue the lesson.

"Again," he said from behind you.

Before you could protest, one large hand settled at the base of your neck. A soft sigh escaped you.

His thumb pressed slowly into the tense muscle there, working in small circles. The pressure was firm enough to ease the ache that had gathered from hunching over old books all evening.

You felt your shoulders loosen almost immediately. "Baelor..."

His hand moved lower. "Read, my love."

The broad span of his palm slid across your shoulder, kneading carefully through the stiffness he found there. The lesson was quickly losing its battle for your attention.

You sighed in surrender. "Perzysss—" The word died on your lips once more.

"The s is not to be pressed, my dear." His voice settled warmly against your back. "Valyrian is not a force. The sound comes from lower."

Two fingers came to rest against the hollow of your throat. "Here."

You swallowed at the touch, but it lingered for only a moment before he withdrew.

Then his hand slipped into your hair. Slowly, he spread the strands apart, untangling each knot. His fingertips skimmed your scalp as he worked, never pulling when he met resistance. Instead, he separated each tangle until your hair slipped like silk through his hands.

When a loose curl escaped beside your ear, he caught it immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek before guiding it back into place and folding it neatly into the plait.

Those scarred hands, marked by countless years in the yard and large enough to encircle a man's throat, moved through your hair with astonishing gentleness.

After a while, he smoothed your hair down your back and divided it into three sections. One strand crossed over another, then the third, and the braid slowly began to take shape.

You tried to focus on the page before you, but every gentle pass made the words blur a little further.

"It's almost supper, Baelor," you sighed. "Can we go now?"

“Almost.” He paid your words no mind, working in silence. With each movement, his hands continued lower as the braid formed, gentle pulls following every weave as he crossed and wove the strands into place.

He worked the braid to its end, fastening the final twists before reaching for the silk ribbon upon the desk. He tied it off and let it cascade over your shoulder.

"There you go." His lips brushed against your ear. "Gevie," he whispered.

At the word, you turned slightly. He was close enough that you could count the dark lashes framing his mismatched eyes.

"I know that one. It means beautiful."

A smile softened his features. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. "Now read, ñuha gevie dāria. Then we'll head to supper."

The wedding night had been your masterpiece. You still remembered the weight of crimson silk and the scent of crushed roses. He approached you with a reverence bordering on the sacred. His hands trembling as he unbound your laces.

You had let him get so close, the heat of his skin searing against yours, the ragged edge of his breath brushing your neck, all before you pushed him away. Using his own words against him: “Stop me if you are not ready.” So you did, though entirely for your own amusement.

As the days followed, coming up with more excuses and distractions became as easy as the maids kneading bread. Seeing him tremble beneath your whims had become your favourite pastime. It wasn't out of malice, but from a hunger to see how far his devotion would stretch before it finally snapped.

When your father’s scribes demanded signatures on a mountain of land grants, you saw your opening. You visited him at the Tower of the Hand, pressing your chest firmly against the crook of his arm, the warmth of your breasts moulding against his sleeve. You felt his entire body stiffen, breath hitching in a way that sent a thrill through your veins before you slipped from his touch once more.

At night, you would wear the thinnest silk nightgowns you owned, with nothing beneath them, pretending to sleep whenever your husband entered the room after a long day buried in papers and quills. The tension he had hoped to find release from crackled in the air between you.

But now, it seemed the air had left your victory entirely. Four days ago, you had seen him guiding the daughter of a Reach lord toward the shade of a weirwood tree, his fingers brushing her forearm in a way that felt far too familiar. The next day, he offered to pour tea for one of the wives of the lords he hosted, his voice warm and attentive as though she alone occupied the room. 

Then, during court that very evening, you watched him lean down to murmur something into the ear of a young noblewoman, his lips curving into a smile so soft and effortless that it made your stomach knot. You began to feel a strange twitch around your heart, something you could not quite put into words.

The feeling only grew stronger when, just last night, he had missed your usual supper, leaving you cold and alone in your shared chambers. When you sent a servant to fetch him, he replied that you should eat without him, as he would be spending the night finishing his tasks. For the first time since your wedding nearly a moon ago, your bed felt unbearably empty without his presence.

And this morning, it seemed the tension had finally begun to unravel when you saw Baelor standing in the gardens, surrounded by a flock of ladies-in-waiting and noble daughters. He wasn't standing with his usual reserved posture. He was leaning in, his shoulder brushing against the silk sleeve of Lady Alerie. He whispered something into her ear, and she erupted into a fit of giggles. The gesture was so intimate that it sent a jolt of ice through your veins.

You had never seen this side of him. Baelor was the paragon of propriety, the man who before the betrothal had even taken place, had asked permission to touch your hand. Yet there he was, his laughter ringing across the courtyard with other ladies, while he cast not a single glance toward where you stood above.

Was this the price you had to pay for pulling his strings? For treating his devotion like something endlessly bendable beneath your fingertips?

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, you were pacing the length of your shared chamber. The room was dim, lit only by a few flickering wall sconces that cast shadows across the stone floor. When the heavy oak door finally groaned open, you stopped mid-stride.

Baelor entered with a calmness that unsettled you. He did not rush to your side, nor greet you with the soft smile you had grown used to. Instead, he shut the heavy oak door behind him and unclasped his cloak, tossing it over a nearby chair. The leather of his sword belt creaked softly as he loosened it from his hips and set it atop the carved table with a muted thud.

“You were very popular in the gardens today,” you said, your voice tighter than intended.

“The ladies of the court are exceptionally charming.” His tone remained maddeningly even as he reached for the silver goblet. “I found their company... refreshing.”

The words struck like a slap. You stepped toward him, your silk gown whispering across the stone floor. “Refreshing?” you echoed, the confidence in your voice beginning to waver. 

“Since when do you find the company of other women refreshing, Baelor? You barely even look at them when I am in the room.” A strange chill crept beneath your skin despite the warmth of the chamber.

Baelor let out a short, mirthless laugh. “It is my duty to welcome guests and treat them kindly. I am the prince of the realm.”

“That is utter nonsense,” you snapped, your voice lacking its usual sharpness. “You were practically draped across Lady Alerie by the fountain!”

This time, silence answered you. When you finally looked up, you found his attention already fixed on yours. Gone were the patient eyes of the gentle prince who had once blushed simply from standing near you.

What stared back at you now was darker, heavier, sharpened by something that made your breath catch in your chest.

“Nonsense?” he said. “Like what you did to me?” The question landed far harder than if he had shouted.

He took a step forward. The distance between you shrank until you could feel the heat rolling from his body.

“Stringing me along for weeks,” he continued. “Touching me only to pull away the moment I reached for you.”

Your breath caught as his gaze dragged slowly over your face. “Leaving me aching beside you on the night we became husband and wife.” He did not stop.

“You made a game of my restraint,” he said, his voice lowering further. “You think my desire existed solely for your amusement?”

You opened your mouth to offer some clever denial, but the words withered before they could leave your lips. The playfulness you had carried for days dissolved all at once, replaced by a sharp, curling rush of adrenaline.

For the first time since marrying Baelor, you sensed a change in balance under you.

“I... I do not know what you mean,” you stammered weakly. The confidence drained from your voice.

“You enjoy tormenting me, don't you?” His voice carried a roughness now, something frayed at the edges. 

You tried to muster another retort, to insist it had only been harmless jest, but the look in his eyes silenced you where you stood. 

“I respected you,” Baelor said, never once looking away from you. “I waited because I believed you were frightened or uncertain. I gave you space, I gave you time, I gave you every ounce of patience I possessed.” A muscle in his jaw tightened.

“But if you truly do not want me...” His voice lost the last traces of warmth. “Then I shall seek comfort elsewhere. I am certain Lady Alerie would gladly fulfil the duties you seem to find so… tedious." The words ripped through you with startling force.

“Would you prefer that?.” He was close enough now that you could feel the brush of his breath against your face, close enough that one more step would press your bodies together entirely. His eyes held you captive, dark and unwavering, leaving nowhere for you to run.

The thought of another woman touching him, of Baelor offering that tenderness, that warmth, to someone else, made something ugly twist painfully inside your chest. You had pushed him to the edge expecting him to break beneath you, only to realise he had stepped willingly into the fire instead. 

“I asked you a question, wife.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “N-no.” Your fingers instinctively curled into the fabric of his tunic before you could stop yourself. “I do not want you to.”

A faint smile touched his lips at the gesture. Then he moved closer still. You instinctively stepped back until the cold stone wall met your spine. Baelor followed without hesitation, one hand rising to cup your chin firmly between his fingers, tilting your face upward until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You have toyed with the heir to the Iron Throne,” he said. “Do you understand there are consequences for those who dare make sport of the crown?” 

Your pulse thundered so loudly you were certain he could hear it. Yet Baelor did not soften. He did not pull you into his arms or soothe away your fear the way he once always had. His eyes flickered briefly toward the hands clutching at his clothes before lifting back to your face again

“You should be on your knees,” he breathed, his voice like dark velvet against your skin, “begging for forgiveness.” 

The command sent a shiver racing down your spine. The shift in his authority was sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. Without another word, you nodded and sank slowly to your knees before him. The cold stone bit against your skin, yet it barely registered the heat unfurling through your body. You looked up at him, breaths uneven and shallow, your eyes fixed on his face with quiet desperation.

Baelor remained still above you, silent and imposing, regarding you as though you were a subject standing before the Iron Throne itself, pleading for mercy. He reached down and gripped your chin between his fingers, tilting your head back until your gaze could no longer escape his.

"You like to see me tremble, don't you?" he murmured. "You like to see me ache." He released your chin and reached for the fastenings of his breeches. The sound of the leather sliding open was loud in the silence of the room.  

When he pushed the fabric down, his cock sprang free, thick and pulsing with a heavy, insistent need. It was a beautiful, daunting sight - the tanned skin stretched tight, a bead of clear pre-cum glistening at the tip, smelling faintly of musk and salt.

“Say it,” he ordered, his voice roughened at the edges. “Tell me how sorry you are for toying with me.”

You leaned forward, the heat from his groin warming your face. You wrapped your lips around the broad head of his cock, the taste of him - salty and potent - filling your senses. You swirled your tongue around the rim, tasting the pre-cum, before sliding your mouth down the length of him.

You pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock. "S-sorry," you whimpered.

“I'm so sorry, Baelor.” You looked up at him as heavy tears began to pool in the back of your eyes. Whether from pain or pleasure, you did not know.

“Again.” He let out a sharp, guttural hiss of breath, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He gripped your hair, not painfully, but with a firm possessiveness that anchored you to him.

You slid back over him, taking him deeper this time, your throat tightening as you pushed yourself to the limit. You focused on the sensation, the velvet texture of his skin, the way he pulsed against your tongue. You used your hand to stroke the base, your thumb rubbing circles into his balls, which were tight and heavy against his perineum.

The sound of your mouth on him filled the room - a wet, rhythmic squelching, the sound of air being pushed out of your lungs as you worked him. You looked up at him through your lashes, seeing his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched in a mixture of agony and ecstasy.

“More”, he groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. “Suck every bit of the frustration you put into me."

You obeyed, your tongue flicking against the frenulum, the most sensitive part of him, while you created a vacuum with your cheeks. The sound was vulgar, a loud, shlicking noise that echoed off the stone walls. You could feel him growing harder, the veins in his cock standing out like cords under the skin.

He began to thrust his hips, a slow rhythm that forced you to move with him. Every time he pushed in, you felt the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag slightly. Instead of pulling away, he pushed harder, demanding your complete submission. 

He let out a low growl, his hips accelerating. He was no longer the gentle prince; he was a man reclaiming what was his. He pulled you off him abruptly, the sudden release leaving you breathless and glistening.

"Sorry," you managed to moan, the word muffled and wet. "I'm sorry...", tears had already soaked both of your cheeks.

"Enough," he panted. "I want to feel you. All of you." 

He seized your arms and pulled you to your feet in one swift motion, turning you sharply until your back met the solid frame of the bedpost. The force took your breath away. He leaned into you, and you could feel his arousal. This awareness sends a rush of desire through you. All those secret touches and intentional teases had clearly impacted him just as much as you had wished. Perhaps even more.

"You feel that?" He rolled his hips against you, and you whimpered. "That's what you've done to me. Did it amuse you? Did it make you wet knowing I couldn't do anything about it?"

You tried to speak, to form something coherent, but no strength gathered behind your thoughts. The words simply would not come. All you could manage was a faint, breathless hum of hesitation. 

“When a prince asks you a question, my dear… you answer,” the words edged with a cutting mockery. His hand slipped beneath the thin fabric of your gown, palm hot against your bare thigh.

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, it—" You gasped as his fingers traced higher, finding the edge of your small clothes. 

Before you could respond, his mouth claimed yours. There was nothing gentle about it. His lips moved with a desperate hunger, his tongue sliding past your defenses, tasting and taking. A startled moan escaped your throat, swallowed by his kiss. 

Your hands flung his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. You meant to push him away, to maintain the upper hand you had clutched so carefully all week. Instead, you pulled him closer. His fingers found your center instantly. You were drenched, your cunt weeping with a need that had been building for weeks. 

"You've been aching for this, haven't you? While you were laughing at me, you were getting wet for me."

As his middle finger slid inside you, you let out a loud, piercing cry, head snapping back against the wood. He added a second finger, stretching you open, the sound of the interaction a wet, squelching noise that made your toes curl. He began to pump his fingers in and out, a fast, relentless motion that hit your spot with surgical precision. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in hard, fast circles.

"So wet," he whispered, almost to himself. "All those teasing, and this is what you truly wanted. To be taken in hand."

"Baelor, please," you sobbed. Your inner walls clenched around him, desperate for more. 

But he withdrew his hand away, and you protested with a sound that turned into a moan when he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He put you down on the soft mattress, standing over you with flushed cheeks and hungry eyes. 

His hands moved to his pants, and you watched, mouth dry, as he removed them, letting them drop to the floor. His tunic followed, revealing the lean muscles of his chest, with a trail of dark hair leading down to his cock. 

He then reached for the hem of your gown, pulling the fabric over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over your bare skin, lingering on your hard nipples, the curve of your hips, and the glistening liquid that clinging at your core. Now you lay exposed before him, trembling with anticipation and desire. He took you in, his breath uneven. 

"Beautiful," he murmured. "And all mine."

He joined you on the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his mouth found your throat. He kissed and bit a path down to your collarbone, your chest, taking one nipple into his mouth and rolling it with his tongue. You arched into him, fingers tangling in his dark hair.

"You've tormented me long enough," he said against your skin. His hand slid between your bodies, finding your wet heat once more. "Now it's my turn."

He positioned himself perfectly at your entrance, his gaze intensely locked onto yours. You closed your eyes, preparing for what was to come. Yet, an unexpected stillness enveloped the moment. When you opened your eyes, your breath hitched in your throat. It dawned on you what he was silently requesting.

Despite the roughness in his words and the force in his presence, he would not cross that final line without you. He was waiting for your permission.

So dutiful he was. So perfect in his princely restraint.

“Please,” your voice came soft and breathless, hands rose to cradle his face, "I do want you inside me, Baelor."

He shut his eyes and entered you with one slow, excruciatingly careful thrust. You gasped, the sound muffled by the thick curtains of the bed. He was so big, much bigger than you had envisioned in your dreams. He filled you entirely, stretching you to your limits. You felt the tip of him press against your cervix, a deep, blunt sensation that sent flashes of white light through your mind.

He stayed there for a moment, buried deep within you. The silence of the room was replaced by the sound of your synchronized, ragged breathing. 

"Do you still find this funny?", his forehead pressed against yours.

“No.” You drew him closer, arms winding around his neck. “It never was. I’m sorry.”

A smile spread across his handsome face as he began to move, pulling back almost completely before thrusting back in. The sound was raw - the slap of his skin against yours, the squelching of your mingled fluids. The friction was intense, nearly overpowering. Each thrust felt like a mark, burning your insides. He was plunging into you with a need that had built up over weeks of restraint. You could sense how your bodies connected, how your breasts bounced and jiggled against his chest with every thrust.

The whole time Baelor watched your face, studying every flicker of expression as if memorising the effect he had on you. He paused often, leaning in to kiss you before drawing back again. Whispering promises of eternal devotion, his voice a low hum in the quiet of the room.

"Baelor," you cried out, your voice straining. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic, violent spasms. You felt the intense, throbbing pressure of your peaking, sending waves of electricity through your entire frame.

The feeling of your climax triggered his own. "Look at me," he commanded softly. Baelor let out a loud roar, his body stiffening as he delivered several final, deep thrusts. You felt the hot, thick jets of his seeds erupting inside you. 

Slowly, Baelor eased back, yet he remained close, the space between you still and intimate. He looked down at you, his blue and brown eyes softer now, carrying a new confidence that hadn’t been there before. Reaching up, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead.

“I’m not done with you,” his voice regaining its playful edge, now threaded with unmistakable desire. “You owe me a few nights.”

You lifted a brow in mock questions, though your smile gave you away. “I think I might not be done with you either, Your Grace,” you said, voice softened by exhaustion.

“I cannot believe you flirted with Alerie.”

Baelor gave a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. “She does have a lovely laugh. But she hardly compares to you when you are apologising.”

You nipped lightly at his shoulder, a small, playful rebuke. “You are a menace, Prince Baelor.”

“And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Enough with the foolish game." You sensed he was only half-serious. A smile appeared on your lip, knowing this wouldn't be the last of your playful exchanges.

As your breathing steadied and reason slowly returned, you caught the lingering heat still present between you. And so the night continued, neither of you quite willing to yield control to the other.