or when you offered him your favor at a tournament, and how madly you blushed when he told you his victory was yours entirely.

you had written back and forth throughout the years, but he knew he could never presume himself worthy of your hand. when he wed his first wife, your correspondence stopped entirely.

some time later, you heard she and their firstborn died in the childbed. you prayed very hard to the mother that night, that she might grant all three souls peace.

after a few years had passed, he received word that your sister made off to dragonstone and his uncle was to return as hand of the king.

he began thinking of you again. often.

you had remained unwed and in the capital, the purported whim of dying, foolish king.

viserys failed to see the reality that laid before you, but it was nauseatingly clear to ormund— one in which his family took advantage of your position, or threw you in the black cells, or worse.

so he conspired with his father and uncle.

"were she to be a lady of oldtown, it would bring further greatness to our house, solidifying our blood with dragons and royalty."

truthfully, that was of no concern to him. not in any meaningful way.

"⁠in the name of the mother, i charge you to defend the young and innocent. in the name of the maid, i charge you to protect all women"

those vows are what mattered, and you were the one he desired to prove it to most.

at first, you were unspeakably pleased. he was the charming knight you remembered so fondly, and oldtown was a beautiful city.

but as viserys' health continued to decline, whispers traveled the halls of the tower, stares of disdain weighed heavily upon your heart, and your safety felt less and less assured.

you came to realize you may have been naive.

ormund is in the middle of a meeting with oldtown's most important officials when your handmaiden enters. "begging your pardon, my lord."

she whispers in his ear, taking care not to let anyone else hear. his eyes stay trained on the table before flitting up to the door.

"very well."

he clears his throat before addressing the others in the room with a wave of his hand. "that will be all for today."

he doesn't wait for them to leave before he makes his way to you, long strides carrying him in the direction of your shared chambers.

he finds you out on the balcony, sitting on the stone wall with your legs dangling freely over the far side. your hair is at the mercy of a strong sea breeze, a sure sign that a storm approaches.

he steels himself against the anxiety that arises in his chest. just one wrong move...

"wife."

"husband."

"far be it from me to ruin your amusement, but i must beseech you come down from there."

you sigh. "my last handmaiden understood discretion much more aptly."

"she was simply concerned for your well being."

you let out a laugh, entirely humorless. "a rare concept these days."

"oh? and what of me? have i not proven my care for you?"

of course you have.

but what if it's easier to pretend otherwise? to paint this impending war in black and white (or more appropriately, black and green). after all, his betrayal is inevitable. right?

"deceit is unbecoming of you, husband. you care not for me, but the leverage your hostage grants."

"you and i both know that to be un—"

"besides, i am a dragon. can dragons not fly? such heights are scarcely of consequence." you lean forward and peer down at the earth below.

"scarcely of consequence?" he repeats, dumbfounded.

taking a hurried step in your direction, he stops short, lest he startle you right over the edge.

"please come back here, princess. you will be the death of me, i swear."

"perhaps i should like to see that— my one and only contribution to the war your family insists on waging against my own."

"you do not mean that," he contends definitively.

"no." you look back and meet his eye for the first time. "i suppose i do not."

"join me for a drink, then. won't you?"

he finally approaches you, intent on ensuring your return to safety.

"if you insist."

as you swing your legs over the ledge, his hands find your waist, firm and careful. you bat them away despite yourself. "i am quite capable on my own."

when your feet meet the ground, he follows behind you and pulls out your chair. moving to sit across from you, he tops off your half empty wine glass before pouring one of his own.

his gaze holds yours as he takes his first sip. "now, what has gotten into you?"

you scoff before averting your eyes. "there is little more to do in this prison, than take to drink and stare at the sea."

he raises a brow. "you needn't remain in our chambers. i seem to recall you used to walk the gardens most every day."

"you would have me bear the hateful gaze of those who dwell in this tower, so that i might quell my boredom? i'll spare myself the agitation."

"of what do you speak?" he asks, confused. "has someone treated you unkindly?"

"the suspicious disregard would be poison enough," you answer quietly. "but one hears whispers."

his expression darkens. "what whispers?"

you'd been under the assumption he was aware of the murmurs shared among servants and noblemen alike. cursing yourself, you attempt to downplay the situation. it would be most unfortunate, were he to deem your presence more trouble than it's worth.

"nothing more than cynical folly, i am sure."

he fixes you with a stern expression. "folly would not have you so perturbed. tell me what troubles you."

"i... i cannot speak it."

"please, wife. i must insist."

you study his face, a fine portrait of concern and something too complicated to name.

"t-they say that they feel sorry for you."

"go on."

"for it is only a matter of time... before you... before you must take my head."

the next few moments of ormund's existence are marked by a ringing in his ears and the constricting of his throat. to you, it's as if he's frozen in time.

perhaps that would be best— to stay here forever, alone with him, rather than face the coming war.

then his expression shifts, and all that lies before you is pain.

in the blink of an eye, he appears at your feet, his knees meeting cruelly with stone. "why have you kept this from me?"

"i... i thought you knew. i thought you—"

his pain turns to agony. "no. i... never. i would sooner fall on mine own sword. you must believe that."

panic blooms in his chest when he realizes that you doubt him. "who spoke such unfounded blasphemy?"

you shrug. "the words belong not to one person alone."

he growls in frustration. "if i hear a word of this, i care not from who, i will lay their head at your feet. i swear it."

"should that be, i fear you may find yourself without an army."

he rises to his feet, pulling you with him. calloused hands find your face, holding it gently like one does something priceless.

"you are my wife. mine. i will lay down my life before i let you be taken from me. tell me you know this to be true."

when you don't answer him, your name passes his lips in a quiet plea.

"what of duty to your house? what of honor?" you question.

"protecting you is the most honorable endeavor i should ever hope to undertake." his voice is full of a fierce earnestness that makes you tremble.

he searches your face, and he detests the tears that have sprung in your eyes. detests that he is the cause.

your tone is laced with uncertainty. "ormund..."

"kiss me," he murmurs. "kiss me and then tell me you doubt me still."

you give into him, leaning into his broad frame and allowing yourself to feel the comfort of his warmth.

his lips meet yours in a sorrowful sort of way— wretched and precious all at once.

large hands move to your hips, gripping your flesh and pulling you closer as if he fears it may be the last time he ever has the chance.

a small groan escapes him when he finally feels your body relax in his grasp.

"i love you," he promises against your lips.

"and i you," you return.

he pulls away only an inch or two, and there's an air of resolution about him.

"then put your faith in me, sweet girl. i will take care you, now and always."

you offer him a small nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you against his chest with crushing strength.

burying his face in your hair, he breathes deeply, inhaling your scent. it's faint, floral, and more effective at easing his nerves than any tonic the maesters could brew.

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.