i can't remember who the real enemy is...

chase was now entirely back to full health, the hives long gone and her life completely back to its usual teenage rhythm.

she was currently fast asleep in her second bedroom across the city, completely safe. the crisis was long over and yet unfortunately the shift it had caused inside you hadn't settled a single inch since.

the terror of that night had receded from the house, but it remained firmly lodged under your ribs, a heavy, jagged stone that refused to dissolve.

daniel was saying something soft against your neck—something sweet, no doubt—his breathing shallow and patient as he tried to coax you into the rhythm of a moment you had actively initiated.

he was trying so hard.

he always tried.

his lips pressed against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his touch light and undemanding, offering a steady, gentle warmth that should have been comforting.

you had your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers gripping his shoulders, consciously forcing yourself to stay present.

be here, you commanded your brain, the words repeating like a desperate, frantic mantra behind your eyelids. be here with the man who actually belongs in your life now. look at him. appreciate him. choose him.

but your mind was an absolute traitor.

every time daniel's hands shifted over your hips, your skin instinctively remembered a completely different, slightly heavier grip.

your nerves didn't fire instead they misfired, translating the gentle pressure into an agonizing phantom sensation of calloused hands that used trace your skin.

when daniel kissed your jaw, your chest didn't tighten or ache instead it remained completely flat.

but you weren't in your bedroom. well not mentally at least.

smells that you only associated with hospitals rushed back into your nose. you kept seeing the terrifying, deep rumble of jack's chest.

the way his frame had effortlessly shielded you from the chaos of the hospital lobby, the sheeer, unyielding force of his voice telling you i've got her, i won't let anything happen to her.

you remembered how the absolute terror of losing your daughter had been met by the immovable, terrifyingly solid wall of jack's presence.

he had been a force of nature that night, holding you together with nothing but the sheer weight of his grip, and breathing life back into a room that felt like it was running out of oxygen.

now daniel shifted, his weight pressing down on you, his lips finding yours. it was a good kiss. it was supposed to be intimate, a needed reassurance after a frantic, terrifying month.

it was the kind of kiss that belonged in a stable, healthy relationship.

but you felt entirely hollowed out, like a detached spectator in your own bedroom, watching your own body go through the motions from somewhere near the ceiling.

you were reaching for a feeling that simply wasn't there, desperately trying to project jack's sharp, intense gravity onto daniel's quiet, undeserving kindness.

you tried to force the spark, but failed instantly.

you were lying beneath a good man, wishing he was a completely different one.

when it was over, daniel rolled to the side, pulling the sheet over both of you and drawing you into his side.

he kissed the top of your head, his arm heavy but lax across your waist.

within minutes, he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully against his shoulder, entirely unaware of the wreckage occurring inches away from him.

you stared up at the dark ceiling for hours, the guilt pooling heavy, toxic, and hot in your stomach.

it wasn't fair to daniel, who loved you with a quiet, uncomplicated devotion, and the absolute weight of it was driving you insane.

you didn't want to want jack.

you had spent months building a meticulous fortress to keep him out, brick by agonizing brick, reinforcing the walls with logic, memory of your old fights, and the desperate need for peace.

and a single thursday night with an allergy scare had leveled it entirely to the ground.

a few hours in jack's orbit, and the fortress was nothing but dust.

you were irritable and furious that your own heart refused to cooperate, angry that months of progress could be obliterated by the simple memory of a man's hand on your back.

so three days later, you broke up with daniel.

it happened in the living room on a quiet sunday afternoon.

it was quiet, gentle, and devastatingly polite—which somehow made you find the whole situation even more infuriating.

he didn't yell or even demand any answers.

he just looked at you with a sad, knowing understanding in his eyes that made you feel like a monster.

he packed his small duffel bag, kissed your cheek, and walked out.

there was no closure in it, only the profound, hollow ache of failing at something that should have been simple.

you were officially alone again, and you were completely pissed off about it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the subsequent three weeks were an exercise in absolute exhaustion. you usually found solace in the rigid structure of your job in academia.

you usually graded papers and delivered lectures in ways that kept you grounded. instead, you found yourself staring blankly at student essays, the words blurring into a meaningless haze as twenty-one days of isolation slowly began to wear on your sanity.

max held out a paper cup of tea. behind him priya slipped into your cramped campus office, quietly closing the door and dropping a bakery bag onto your desk.

"croissants," priya announced gently. "because we know you haven't eaten a real meal since sunday. how are you holding up?"

you leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing your temples. "i'm fine. just... adjusting. it's been nearly a month, and the house is still entirely too quiet."

"it's quiet because you did the right thing, even if it feels awful," priya said, sitting on the edge of your desk. "daniel is a wonderful guy, but if the spark isn't there, keeping him around would have been cruel. you spared him a lot of long-term heartache."

"i still feel like a terrible person," you admitted, your voice dropping, the residual guilt of the breakup heavy in your chest. "he didn't do anything wrong. he was steady. he was exactly what i thought i wanted. and the guilt with chase is just killing me. i swore to myself that i wouldn't be that parent—the one introducing random men into her life only for them to turn out to be temporary fixtures. she liked him. she deserved stability, and i just disrupted her world again."

"how did she actually take it?" max asked softly.

"that's the weirdest part. she seemed... completely fine with it, surprisingly," you muttered, shaking your head in confusion.

"when i told her daniel and i were parting ways, she just nodded, gave me a hug, and went back to her homework. no questions. i thought she would be devastated, but she barely blinked."

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly see from inside your own blind spot—was that chase wasn't indifferent at all.

deep down, your teenage daughter was actively, desperately rooting for her parents to get back together.

she knew it was stupid to think so. she remembered the slamming doors from years ago, and she knew the statistics on divorced parents.

but chase was also the one who watched the two of you from the stairs and when you interacted behind closed doors when you thought she wasn't paying attention.

she knew that even when you and jack were being completely distant, cold, or fiercely closed off with each other, the room still practically hummed with electricity.

she saw the heavy, unsaid weight that hung in the air between her mother and her father every time they were in the same room.

daniel had been nice, but to chase, daniel had been a ghost in a house that still belonged to a storm.

"intensity isn't always a flaw," priya offered gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand, bringing you back to the present. "sometimes it just means the fire never actually went out. you spent a while trying to convince yourself that a quiet life was the same thing as a happy one. it's okay to admit that jack still holds the keys to the castle."

you couldn't answer.

the truth of priya's words felt like a physical weight in your chest, a truth you weren't ready to face, let alone voice aloud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

to make matters more stressful, the house was about to get even quieter.

chase had been scheduled for an end-of-year school trip which was a three-day camping and hiking excursion.

you had been entirely reluctant to let her go. with the cashew allergy debacle still fresh in your mind, the thought of your daughter being hours away from the nearest hospital, surrounded by wilderness, made your stomach twist into violent knots.

you had nearly canceled her registration three times.

but you knew you couldn't keep her locked inside forever.

she was a growing teenager, yearning for independence, and jack had gently reminded you over a brief, strained phone call that "you can't wrap her in bubble wrap, as much as we both want to."

so, with a heavy heart and a backpack stuffed with four epipens, you had dropped her off at the school bus that morning.

the anxiety had settled into the empty house by midafternoon, wrapping around your throat until you were practically climbing the walls.

a sudden, sharp craving hit you out of nowhere—a desperate, phantom itch for a cigarette. you hadn't smoked in seven years.

back during the worst, most turbulent years of your marriage, you used to keep a secret pack hidden in the back of the pantry, slipping out into the dark of the back garden to smoke when jack wasn't looking, just to catch a single breath of artificial calm.

but jack had found out.

he hadn't yelled which you had kind of expected him to.

he had looked at you with this fiercely protective, agonizingly gentle worry, talking you out of it by quietly listing the health risks and gently pulling the lighter from your hand.

the memory made you scoff out loud in the empty kitchen, a wave of bitter irritation washing over you.

it was infuriating.

even your old, hidden vices were completely tangled up in him.

you couldn't even crave a bad habit without his memory standing there, blocking the doorway.

which made the events of the afternoon all the more confusing.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the thunder rumbled low in the distance, a dark purple wall of bruised clouds rolling over the horizon, but the air remained heavy with pre-storm humidity.

inside the house, the atmosphere felt just as pressurized, the walls closing in on you as the afternoon light prematurely died.

you were in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a dish that was already perfectly clean, just to have something to do with the restless, angry energy vibrating violently under your skin.

the sponge rasped against the porcelain, the water running scalding hot over your hands, but nothing could distract you.

suddenly, the roar of a small, sputtering engine flared to life in your front yard, cutting through the quiet house like a chainsaw.

you froze, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the linoleum.

your chest instantly tightening, you threw the dish towel onto the counter and marched to the front window, ripping the blinds back with a sharp snap.

there was jack.

the sight of him hit you like a physical blow to the sternum.

he was wearing a faded, grey t-shirt that clung to the broad span of his back, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders.

his greying curls were already damp with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck as he pushed your old, temperamental lawnmower across the overgrown grass.

he moved with efficiency, his forearms flexing with every turn.

he wasn't supposed to be here.

chase was away.

it wasn't his weekend, he hadn't texted, and he certainly hadn't asked for permission.

he had simply showed up, an uninvited storm inside an already broken perimeter.

you yanked the front door open, stepping out onto the porch just as the first massive, heavy drops of rain began to slam violently into the dry dirt.

"jack!" you yelled over the deafening rumble of the engine, the wind picking up, whipping your hair across your face.

he didn't look up.

he just turned the mower around at the edge of the fence, his jaw set in a stubborn, rigid line that you knew all too well.

he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, his frame leaning into the machine as if he could outrun the weather through sheer force of will.

"jack, stop!" you marched down the porch steps, the summer rain immediately soaking through your thin shirt, cold and sudden against your hot skin, plastering your hair to your forehead.

the storm was unleashing now, a wall of water descending on the neighborhood, but you didn't care.

you stopped right in front of the mower, crossing your arms and forcing him to either kill the engine or physically run you over.

jack clamped down on the safety lever, pulling the machine to a halt inches from your sneakers.

the motor sputtered and died with a heavy, mechanical shudder, leaving only the loud, rushing sound of the downpour beginning to unleash around you.

"what the hell are you doing?" you snapped, your voice sharp, laced with all the venom and irritation that had been building like a pressure cooker for weeks.

you were soaking wet, shivering despite the slight heat, and absolutely vibrating with a rage that had very little to do with the grass.

jack wiped a mix of sweat and rain from his eyes with the back of his forearm.

his gaze locked onto yours—dark and entirely unyielding.

"your grass was a foot high," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated beneath the sound of the rain. "the storm's gonna turn it into a swamp, and then it will take you a month to clear it with this piece of shit mower."

"i didn't ask you to do it!" you shouted back, the rain coming down harder now, bouncing violently off the hot metal of the mower between you, sending up small plumes of steam. "i don't need your help, jack. i don't want you here. leave the damn mower and just go home."

"i'm half-way done," he argued, his hands tightening on the rubber grip of the handle until his knuckles turned white, the veins in his forearms standing out in sharp relief. "go back inside before you freeze."

"it's eighty-five degrees out here, i'm not going to freeze. leave it now."

when he wouldn't listen frustration boiled over, hot and blinding.

you stepped around the machine, reaching down and grabbing his wet, solid wrist to physically pull him away from the handle.

the moment your fingers wrapped around his bare skin, the tension snapped. it was like touching a live wire.

jack exploded.

he yanked his arm back violently, dropping the mower handle entirely and grabbing your upper arms instead. his grip was firm, massive, but careful—never enough to hurt, but completely unmovable—as he pulled you a step closer, twisting his body to use his broad frame to physically shield your body from the driving, icy wind.

"i'm finishing the lawn." he still argued with you, his face inches from yours, his hot breath mixing with the cold rain that pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. "stop fighting me on every single thing i do."

"i am fighting you because you don't belong here." you screamed back, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth, your voice breaking against the sheets of water cascading around you.

jack stared at you, the rain streaming down the sharp, rugged angles of his face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping from his chin.

his eyes were burning with a raw, angry frustration that mirrored your own agony, a look that said he knew exactly how much of a lie that was.

for three agonizing seconds, neither of you moved, the heat radiating between your bodies thick enough to choke on despite the deluge.

then, the sky completely opened up in a blinding sheet of white water, a violent, deafening crack of lightning splitting the air directly overhead and rattling the windows of the house.

jack swore loudly under his breath, letting go of your arms only to catch your hand—his palm rough, scorching hot, and completely soaking wet—and yanked you toward the porch.

you didn't fight him this time. you couldn't.

you stumbled up the wooden steps, your wet sneakers slipping slightly before jack caught your waist, guiding you with an aggressive urgency. he kicked the front door open with the heel of his heavy boot, shoving you into the dry interior before slamming the heavy wood shut behind him, cutting off the roaring chaos of the storm in a single, definitive thud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the sudden silence of the house was suffocating.

the only sound was the frantic, heavy breathing of two people trapped in a space entirely too small for the energy between them.

you stood in the entryway, water pooling rapidly around your sneakers onto the hardwood floor, your clothes sticking translucent and heavy against your skin.

jack was a foot away, his back against the door, breathing hard.

his wet t-shirt was completely molded to his chest and abdomen, showing every ridge, every scar, every line of a body you used to know better than your own.

"you're a lunatic," you breathed, shaking your head as you tried to wring out the hem of your shirt, your fingers trembling with a mix of chill and sheer, unadulterated aggravation. "you're tracking mud everywhere. why can't you just leave things alone? why do you have to force your way into everything?"

"because you wouldn't have done it." jack snapped, tossing his wet truck keys onto the entryway table with a loud, aggressive clack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet house. "you let everything pile up until you're drowning, and god forbid anyone tries to take a single thing off your plate."

"i was doing just fine. i've been doing fine without you playing the hero."

"yeah? is that why you broke up with the boyfriend?"

jack stepped directly into your space, the sudden movement cutting off your exit, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous frequency that made every single nerve ending in your body snap awake.

the sheer pheromonal weight of him pressed down on you. "because you're doing so great? i'm not blind, and i'm not stupid. lena told me you called the trauma desk asking about chase's follow-up paperwork three separate times when you could have just texted me. you're losing your mind, and you're taking it out on me."

"i am taking it out on you because you are the entire problem." you yelled, the dam inside you finally bursting, all the weeks of performance, all the hidden longing, all the sleepless nights turning into pure, unadulterated rage.

you stepped right up into his chest, your hands coming up to aggressively push against his shoulders. "you show up when whether i tell you to or not, you look at me like you still own me, you say things you shouldn't say—"

"i say things i mean." jack said, his hands coming up like lightning to catch your wrists mid-air.

he didn't push you away.

he pulled.

the collision was total.

your chest slammed hard against his, the raw heat radiating off his skin instantly cutting through the damp chill of your wet clothes.

the impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs, and before you could even draw a breath to argue, jack's mouth descended onto yours.

it wasn't a gentle kiss. it was a dam breaking after months of agonizing, suffocating pressure.

but as the initial shock faded, the desperation shifted into something devastatingly intimate.

his lips softened just enough to mold perfectly against yours, a familiar, agonizingly sweet fit that rushed through your memory like a flood.

this was the man who used to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning.

this was the mouth that had whispered promises in the dark before the world got too heavy and complicated for the two of you to carry.

the familiar scent of him swirled around you, pulling you back to a time when his touch was your anchor, not your undoing.

you let out a soft, broken sigh against his mouth, and jack groaned, taking the invitation.

his tongue slid past your teeth, deep, fluid, and fiercely possessive, yet carrying a profound, aching tenderness that made your knees instantly turn to water.

your hands, which had been meant to push him away, completely betrayed you.

they slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart, before tangling deep into his wet curls to pull him down harder, destroying any semblance of regret or restraint.

jack's hands left your wrists, one wrapping securely around the back of your waist, his massive palm anchoring against your lower back to hoist you up against him, lifting you nearly off your feet.

his other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone, holding you perfectly still for him as if he were trying to memorize the very shape of your soul through his fingertips.

he bit your lower lip before soothing the ache with his tongue, his kisses moving frantically from your mouth, dragging down the rigid line of your jaw, to the sensitive, pulsing skin right beneath your ear.

you arched into him, a soft, broken whimper escaping you as his heavy stubble scraped ruthlessly against your neck.

every single inch of your body was on fire.

this was what you had been starving for. this was the gravity you couldn't escape, the terrifyingly intense friction that made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could.

jack dragged his mouth back to yours, his kisses turning thicker, slower, and heavy with a desire that had been locked away, fermenting in the dark for over a year.

he pinned you ruthlessly against the hallway wall, the plaster cold against your back while he was nothing but pure, unadulterated heat.

his thigh forced its way between yours, anchoring your hips against the wall, tilting your pelvis up into his.

you could feel the rigid, hard line of him pressing directly against you through the damp fabric of your clothes, the sheer, overwhelming physical size of him completely consuming your senses.

your hands tore at the fabric of his wet shirt, gripping his shoulders, wanting skin, wanting the burning touch that used to be your everyday life.

you pulled your head back just an inch, both of you panting heavily, the air between you thick and scorching.

your lips were swollen, dark red, and wet, your chests heaving violently against one another in the dim light.

a massive, surging crest of adrenaline completely swallowed up any residual guilt.

your nerve endings were screaming, your brain short-circuiting under the sheer velocity of the moment.

you couldn't think about the past or the future; you just needed the friction to continue.

you needed to drown out the suffocating quiet of the last three weeks in the only safe harbor you had ever truly known.

"jack," you choked out, your hands gripping his soaking shoulders, your body moving on pure, unbridled impulse. "jack, just... come upstairs. let's just do this. let's get it out of our systems. please."

jack froze.

the sudden, rigid stillness in his posture was louder than the thunder crashing outside. it was a physical deceleration so violent it felt like a car crash.

his eyes, dark and heavy with a blatant, agonizing lust, stared down at yours. his chest was heaving, his muscles trembling under your fingers, and it was glaringly, terrifyingly obvious how badly he wanted to pick you up and carry you up those stairs. as he had so many times before even though you would tell him to think of the pressure he was putting on his leg.

he was practically vibrating with the urge to succumb.

but his hands slowly, agonizingly dropped from your waist.

his fingers uncurled from your hair, the wet strands falling back against your cheeks.

he took a heavy step back, then another, creating a cold, gaping void between your bodies in the narrow hallway.

the absence of his heat made you shiver instantly.

he looked down at you, his chest still rolling with heavy, jagged breaths, but the raw, unbridled heat in his eyes had instantly hardened into something sharp, fractured, and incredibly dark.

"get it out of our systems?" jack repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, ragged whisper that cut deeper than any shout he had leveled at you in the yard.

"jack, we're losing our minds—"

"no," he cut you off, his jaw tight, a sharp muscle leaping violently in his cheek.

he looked at you with an overwhelming amount of respect, a gaze that was heavy with a protective, fierce care that extended even to protecting you from yourself.

"you don't get to do that to me. and i'm sure as hell not doing that to you. i know it's been three weeks, but you still just walked away from a relationship. you're exhausted, you're stressed out of your mind, and you are hurting."

"that's not what i meant," you whispered, the sudden shift freezing the blood in your veins.

you reached out a trembling hand for him, desperate to pull the warmth back, but he stepped back again, completely out of your reach, his back hitting the front door.

"that's exactly what you meant," jack said, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing vulnerability that made your throat close up with tears.

he shook his head, his eyes glassy under the dim entryway light, staring at you with a profound, exhausting sadness. "if i go up those stairs with you tonight... if i touch you like that again, i'm all in. i don't know how to do it halfway with you. i never did. i would be yours completely, by tomorrow morning. i would be right back to where i was, completely at your mercy."

he took a sharp, shaky breath, his shoulders collapsing inward just a fraction as he looked at you, utterly defeated by his own honesty.

"and if we do it just to 'get it out of our systems,' tomorrow morning you're going to wake up, regret it, remember why we broke up, and build those walls right back up. i'd lose you all over again."

jack looked down at the floor, his voice dropping so low it was almost entirely swallowed by the sound of the rain punishing the house outside. "i barely survived losing you the first time. i can't afford to do it twice."

before you could say a single word, before you could even process the devastating, heavy weight of what he had just admitted, jack turned around.

he snatched his keys from the table, pulled the heavy front door open, and walked straight back out into the pouring rain, leaving you entirely alone, shivering in your quiet hallway.

Across the hall, you are a vision of practiced innocence.

You stand near Aemond Targaryen, speaking to him as though the world has neatly arranged itself into polite conversation and harmless courtesy. Your posture is composed, your voice soft enough to be lost in the music when you choose for it to be.

And yet your eyes betray you.

You look up at Aemond through fluttering lashes, slow, deliberate, almost angelic in their timing and then you smile, the kind of smile that suggests you are listening closely, but perhaps thinking of something else entirely.

Aemond’s expression remains unreadable, as ever, but he tilts his head slightly toward you as you speak, acknowledging your words with that precise, measured attention he gives to everything. His focus is steady, almost unsettling in its calmness.

Across the hall, Ormund’s grip tightens imperceptibly around his goblet.

He sees it all.

The tilt of your head, the soft curve of your mouth, the way you angle yourself just slightly toward the prince, as if the rest of the feast has faded into something unimportant.

A lord beside Ormund continues speaking, unaware that he is talking to a man who is no longer listening.

Ormund’s gaze does not leave you.

It sharpens instead.

When your eyes flick back toward him for the briefest moment, as if you can feel the weight of his attention even from across the hall, you meet something far less patient than before.

Only the quiet promise in his stare:

I am still watching.

And when you turn back to Aemond, smiling once more as if nothing has changed, Ormund finally exhales, slow, controlled, and dangerously restrained, like a man deciding exactly how much mercy he intends to grant you later.

You had been insufferably smug all evening, offering him knowing smiles from across the table, brushing your fingers against his sleeve whenever you passed, then pretending complete innocence whenever his gaze sharpened.

By the time the feast wanes, he catches your wrist with quiet confidence, drawing you just close enough that only you can hear him.

“You are either remarkably fearless,” Ormund murmurs at your side, his smile pleasant enough to fool the hall, “or spectacularly determined to test the patience of the man you're meant to marry. Tell me, sweetling, which is it?” His gaze slides to yours, sharp with warning. “Keep provoking me through this feast, and I may have to remind you that wit is best wielded with caution... especially against a Hightower who is just as capable of giving it back.”

But Ormund does not stop there.

“I am a faithful man. I am a patient man,” he murmurs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But my little sweetling, you are temptation made flesh. So do not test my restraint further, lest I decide to remind you precisely why you are my betrothed.”

His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, possessive without causing a scene.

“You delight in making me jealous,” he says, amusement and warning woven together. “At a feast, of all places. You tilt your head, smile that innocent smile, and somehow expect me to believe you do not know exactly what you are doing.”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, though there is a dangerous warmth behind it.

“Very well, enjoy your victory while the musicians still play.” His eyes meet yours, unwavering. “You delight in testing my patience as you shall have all of my attention and I suspect you will discover that provoking a Hightower is a game best played with care.”

Then, with effortless composure, Ormund releases your hand, returns to the feast as though nothing had happened, and leaves you wondering whether you have won the exchange at all.

“He seems quite protective over you,” Aemond murmurs quietly beside you, “makes a man want to work harder.”

And that's when you make the mistake, one simple, single mistake that makes Ormund Hightower forget every fucking oath he has ever made.

You laugh, throw your head back and fucking blush, “He is to be my husband, Your Grace, I would think any man would be protective.”

The hall doesn’t seem to notice the shift at first, music still spilling from the musicians’ corner, laughter still skating across polished stone, but something changes anyway, subtle as a blade turning in light.

Ormund hears you and that’s the mistake.

Your words land clean and careless, dressed in innocence, wrapped in that soft little laugh as you tilt your head back, a blush still warm on your cheeks as though you’ve said nothing more dangerous than a passing compliment.

For a heartbeat, Ormund doesn’t move.

Not because he hasn’t heard you, but because he has, too clearly and the goblet in his hand stills mid-air. The laughter in his chest dies before it ever becomes sound. And whatever oath he has been carefully, painfully living under, courtesy, restraint, duty, reason fractures in a way that is almost silent.

His gaze finds you across the hall like it’s been pulled there by force rather than choice.

Possessive in a way that has nothing to do with courtly expectation and everything to do with the fact that you are smiling like that, like you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

The court goes on breathing around him, oblivious, but Ormund Hightower doesn’t, because in that moment, the idea of “any man being protective” stops being a polite sentiment and becomes an insult he suddenly cannot tolerate.

His jaw tightens once, controlled. Once more, less controlled.

And when he finally sets his goblet down, it is not gentle.

Across the hall, his attention never leaves you and this time, it isn’t restraint holding him there.

Ormund moves with the intention of a man bordering on making a decision he knows he'll soon regret. “Your Grace,” he murmurs as he bows his head towards Prince Aemond, “I hope my bethroted hasn't been dull company but it appears she has indulged in too much wine so if you'll excuse us, I'll bid you a good night.”

You frown, lips parting in quiet protest as you glance between the two men. Heat still lingers in your cheeks from the wine, but your mind is far clearer than Ormund seems willing to believe.

“I have had two cups,” you say, smoothing an imaginary crease from your skirts with exaggerated dignity. “Hardly enough to render me incapable of conversation.”

Your eyes lift to Ormund's, narrowing just enough for him to recognize the familiar spark of mischief that always seems to find him.

“You make me sound as though I am moments away from climbing onto the banquet table to sing for the court.”

A faint murmur of amusement ripples from those close enough to overhear.

You fold your hands sweetly before you, all innocence despite the challenge gleaming in your gaze.

“If you simply wished to steal me away, my lord,” you murmur, smiling with infuriating softness, “you needn't blame the wine. I would have followed you regardless.”

The words are gentle, almost affectionate but you know exactly what you've done.

You've exposed him.

Not to ridicule, but to everyone with eyes enough to see that Ormund Hightower was not rescuing an inebriated betrothed.

He was claiming what was his.

“I intend to make you scream my name, later, my sweetling.” Ormund’s voice was a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to echo in the very marrow of your bones as he guides you away from the hall.

Ormund didn't wait for a response. His hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his grip possessive and unyielding as he steered you away from the lingering eyes of the court. The transition from the bright, echoing expanse of the hall to the dim, narrow corridor was abrupt, mirroring the sudden shift in his energy. He wasn't just walking you, he was claiming you, his stride long and purposeful, pulling you along with an intensity that left you breathless.

The moment the heavy oak doors of your chambers swung shut, the silence of the room was shattered. Ormund didn't waste a second. He slammed the door closed with a resounding thud and shoved you back against the wood. The impact wasn't violent, but it was commanding, pinning you between the hard surface of the door and the heat of his massive frame.

He loomed over you, his presence suffocating in the best way possible. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched your face, tracing the flush on your cheeks and the frantic beat of the pulse in your throat. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, that low rumble returning as he spoke, his voice now a dangerous growl.

“You've spent the entire evening playing a game, sweetling,” he murmured, his lips grazing your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. “Testing my patience. Pushing me to the very edge.”

One of his hands slid from the door to your throat, not squeezing, but cupping your neck with a firm, dominant pressure that forced you to tilt your head back. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, while his other hand descended, gripping your hip and hauling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing through his trousers, straining against the fabric, demanding entrance.

“The teasing ends now,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. He crashed his lips onto yours in a bruising, hungry kiss, his tongue forcing its way inside to claim your mouth with an aggressive passion. It wasn't a request, it was a takeover.

He tasted of wine and raw longing, his kiss mirroring the intensity of his grip as he sought to devour you right there against the door, but knowing you deserved better, Ormund guided you further into the room, devouring every gasp that tumbled from your lips.

The patience he had worn like a cloak for so long finally snapped, replaced by a raw, hungry desperation.

“You are fucking mine,” Ormund murmured as he pushed you down unto the bed, fingers bunching up the skirts of your dress as he sank to his knees, his eyes never left yours, burning with a possessive fire that promised both devotion and total ruin.

He didn't waste another second as his large hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin to hoist your hips upward, spreading you wide and exposing your dripping heat to the cool air.

He let out a sharp, guttural groan at the sight of your swollen folds, glistening and ready for him.

“My sweet, beautiful temptation,” he murmured against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers racing up your spine as he pulled aside your smallclothes, and then, he lunged. His tongue lashed out, a thick, muscular muscle that found your clit with unerring precision. He didn't start gently, he flicked his tongue upward in a rapid, rhythmic motion, sucking the sensitive nub deep into his mouth.

The sensation was an electric shock, forcing a loud, jagged moan from your throat as your back arched off the surface beneath you. “Fuck, Ormund!”

Ormund was relentless. He used his tongue to part your lips, diving deep inside you, licking your walls with long, sweeping strokes that mimicked the motion of a cock. He slurped at your juices, drinking you in as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you in place so he could continue his assault.

He shifted his focus, swirling his tongue around your clit in tight, agonizingly perfect circles before suddenly sucking it hard, creating a vacuum that sent waves of white-hot pleasure crashing through your pelvis. You began to shake, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Yes, break for me,” he growled, his voice muffled against your pussy. “Come undone for your husband.”

Gods, he's already speaking like he's already yours and the promise of marriage, spoken in the heat of the moment, only fueled the fire. He increased the pace, his tongue vibrating against your clit while his fingers slid inside you, stretching you open and pumping in sync with his mouth. The friction was overwhelming. You felt the tension coil tight in your gut, a pressure building that demanded release.

“You are mine, my sweetling, and by the gods I will make sure everyone knows just exactly who is fucking his tongue into your tight little cunt.”

Just as you reached the precipice, Ormund looked up at you, his face smeared with your cream, a predatory smirk on his lips. “Remember this feeling, my love. Because once I have you as my wife, I will spend every night making sure you cannot walk. I will fuck you until you forget your own name.”

With one final, powerful suction on your clit and a deep thrust of his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. You screamed, your internal muscles clamping down hard around his fingers as a violent orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered uncontrollably, your vision blurring as you came in great, pulsing waves, completely undone beneath the tongue of the man who had finally run out of patience.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm continued to ripple through your thighs, leaving you breathless and trembling, you looked up at Ormund. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, the scent of musk and arousal radiating off him in waves.

Driven by a sudden, primal urge to taste him, you reached down and gripped his thick, throbbing cock, through his breeches, “Fuck, what the fuck are you doing?”

You cocked your head, still breathless, “Isn't it obvious, sweet boy? I wish to make you rethink every decision you have ever made,” you murmured as you tugged, Ormund letting out a sharp, guttural gasp as you guided the head of his length to your lips. You didn't hesitate, swirling your tongue around the leaking tip before sliding your mouth over him, sucking him deep into your throat.

Ormund froze for a split second, his fingers digging into the mattress beside your head. A loud, strangled moan ripped from his throat as you worked him, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked the head of his cock with a greedy intensity. The sensation of your warm, wet mouth was almost too much for him to bear.

"Fuck... fuck!" he swore, his voice a raw, jagged rasp. His fingers twisted deeper into your hair, not to pull you away, but to pin you there, his hips twitching in frantic, involuntary jerks. "Gods, you little tease... you're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

But you didn't stop. You sank lower, taking his shaft to the root, nose brushing the coarse curls at his groin. Your throat stretched around the fat head, muscles rippling as you swallowed him whole.

Your tongue lapped at the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed against your palate, while your cheeks hollowed with each deliberate, wet suck. You pulled back just enough to let his cock pop free, glistening and slick with your saliva, then plunged down again, faster, harder, taking him deeper than before.

A broken groan tore from his chest. His thighs tensed, the muscles cording under his trousers as he fought to hold still. His grip in your hair tightened to the point of pain, but you welcomed it, let the sting anchor you as you worked his length, your jaw aching, your throat burning with the need to please.

He bucked.

A wild, unguarded thrust that buried himself to the hilt. His balls drew up tight against your chin, and you felt the first hot spasm rocket through his cock. A thick, salty flood erupted straight down your throat, pulse after pulse of heavy, creamy cum, each one painting your tongue and coating your gullet.

You swallowed greedily, throat working in rhythmic gulps, never breaking the seal of your lips around his base. His hips ground against your face, grinding out every last drop while you milked him dry, your fingers digging into his thighs to steady him.

When the last tremor faded, he slumped back against the wall, chest heaving, his cock softening but still held captive in your mouth. You lapped at the sensitive head, cleaning him with tender strokes, until he finally eased his grip, stroking your hair with a trembling hand.

He suddenly pulled back, breathless and shaking, his cock glistening with saliva and pre-cum. He looked down at you, his expression a volatile mix of absolute devotion and raw, animalistic lust.

But Ormund was a man of discipline and tradition, and the weight of his devotion to you acted as a tether. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted the sanctity of the wedding night to be the moment he truly claimed you, marking you as his in every sense of the word.

“I want to fuck you so bad I can taste it,” he groaned, leaning down to press a hard, bruising kiss to your lips, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. “I want to stretch you open, fill you to the brim, and hear you scream my name while I drive myself into your gut. But I'm going to wait. I'm going to do this right.”

He shifted, his hard length brushing against your soaking wet pussy, teasing the entrance but refusing to enter. He looked into your eyes, his gaze burning.

“A fucking week, just one more week and when the doors are closed and the vows are spoken, I am going to fuck you proper. I'm going to spend hours breaking you down, exploring every inch of you, and making sure you know exactly who you belong to. You won't be able to walk for a week when I'm finished with you.”

He gave your clit one last, teasing flick with his finger, leaving you aching and desperate for the very thing he was denying you until the ceremony. “Gods, please, Ormund.”

The hour was late, and the Hightower was silent save for the distant, rhythmic tolling of the bells marking the midnight hour. You had been lying in bed for what felt like an eternity, staring at the canopy overhead, listening to the empty space beside you where your husband should have been.

The bed was too large without him. That was the simple, undeniable truth of it. The mattress was vast and feather-soft, piled with furs and quilts, but none of them could replace the warmth of his body beside yours. You had tried everything, curling on your side, stretching out on your stomach, burying your face in his pillow to catch the fading scent of him. Nothing worked. The sheets were cool against your skin, and the silence pressed in around you like a physical weight, and you missed him with an ache that settled deep in your chest and refused to be dislodged.

Worse than the loneliness was the restlessness. You had watched him at supper, watched his hands as he cut his meat, watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed his wine, watched the dark intensity of his eyes when he glanced at you across the table. He had not touched you during the meal, not really, just the occasional brush of his knee against yours beneath the table, but it had been enough. It had been more than enough. By the time the servants cleared the last course, you were already aching for him, your skin too sensitive, your breath too shallow, your mind filled with images of what you wanted him to do to you, and then he had kissed your forehead and told you he had work to finish and sent you to bed alone.

You had lain there for hours, waiting. Hoping. Growing increasingly frustrated as the bells tolled and the fire burned down and the door remained stubbornly closed. You had tried to take matters into your own hands—literally—slipping your fingers beneath your smallclothes, like he had taught you, trying to find some relief. But it was not the same. It was never the same. You wanted his hands. His mouth. His weight pressing you into the mattress. You wanted him.

The thought of him made your stomach clench with want. You imagined walking in and finding him bent over his desk, absorbed in his work, oblivious to your need. You imagined what he might do if you interrupted him. If you told him, in your shyest, softest voice, that you could not sleep without him. 

Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. Enough. You could not lie here any longer.

You slipped out from beneath the covers. The stone floor was cold against your bare feet, a sharp shock that made you draw in a quick breath, but you did not reach for your slippers. You did not reach for a robe either, though the night air was cool on your skin. Your nightgown was a pretty thing of pale ivory silk, delicate and soft, one of the Lyseni pieces your mother had sent that Ormund had not objected to because it was only worn in the privacy of your chambers. The fabric was so fine it felt like water against your skin, clinging to every curve and hollow of your body, shimmering faintly in the dying firelight. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts, the hem brushing just past your knees. Beneath it, you wore nothing at all.

The corridors of the Hightower were dark and empty at this hour, the walk felt endless. Every step made you more aware of your own body, the slide of silk against your bare skin, the cool air on your exposed collarbones, the growing ache between your thighs. You were already wet. You had been wet for hours, lying in that empty bed, thinking about him. You could feel it as you walked, the slickness against your inner thighs, the empty, hollow ache that demanded to be filled.

His solar was at the end of the long corridor. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm golden light spilling into the darkness, you pushed it open gently and slipped inside, the solar was warm and golden, lit by a half-dozen candles that had burned down to stubs and a merry fire crackling in the hearth. The room smelled of ink and parchment and old leather, with an undertone of the pine-scented oil he used to polish his desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with ledgers and histories and treatises on military strategy. Maps were pinned to every available surface.

And there, in the center of it all, sat your husband, he was hunched over his great oak desk, surrounded by teetering stacks of parchment and leather-bound ledgers. His doublet was draped over the back of a nearby chair. His linen shirt was unlaced at the throat, the collar falling open to reveal the strong column of his neck and the faint dusting of dark hair on his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, baring his forearms—those thick, corded forearms that you loved to feel wrapped around you, pinning you down, holding you in place.

Your mouth went dry.

He did not look up when you entered. His quill continued its steady scratch across the page, and his brow was furrowed in concentration. He had no idea you were there. No idea that his wife was standing in his doorway in nothing but a whisper of silk, aching and wet and desperate for him.

"My love," you said softly.

His head came up and his quill stilled. His eyes found you in the doorway, and for a long, suspended moment, he simply stared. Then his expression changed. The furrow of concentration smoothed away, replaced by something hungrier. His gaze traveled over you with excruciating slowness—from your bare feet to your bare shoulders, from the curve of your hips to the shadow between your thighs visible through the thin silk, from the hard points of your nipples pressing against the fabric to the flush already spreading across your chest and throat.

"What is this?" he said, setting down his quill with deliberate care. His voice was low, rough at the edges. "A midnight visitor?"

"I could not sleep." You clasped your hands in front of you, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. "The bed felt empty without you."

"Empty." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving you. "And cold, I imagine. And lonely."

"Yes."

"And so you decided to wander through the castle in nothing but your nightgown." His gaze dropped deliberately to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples clearly visible through the silk. "Barefoot. Barely dressed. Seeking me out."

"I wanted my husband." Your voice came out breathier than you intended. "I have been waiting for hours."

"Hours." He clicked his tongue, a soft sound of sympathy that was not sympathetic at all. "Poor little wife. Lying all alone in that big, cold bed. Waiting and waiting. Did you touch yourself while you waited?"

Your face flushed hot. "I—"

"Did you?" His eyes were dark, intent. "Did you slide your fingers between your legs and think of me? Did you try to find your pleasure without me?"

"Yes," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "But it was not enough. It is never enough without you."

Something flared in his eyes. Satisfaction. "Come here," he said.

You crossed the room on trembling legs, your bare feet soft on the woven rug. When you reached his desk, he pushed his chair back slightly and held out his hand. You placed your fingers in his, and he pulled you gently toward him until you were standing between his knees. This close, you could smell the faint trace of his cologne beneath the ink and parchment, could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You are trembling," he observed. His free hand came to rest on your hip, his thumb tracing the curve of the bone through the silk. "Are you cold?"

"No."

"Are you nervous?"

"No." You swallowed hard. "I am... I am..."

"Say it." His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you a fraction closer. "Tell me what you are."

"I am aching," you whispered. "I am aching for you. I have been aching for hours. I could not stop thinking about you—about your hands, your mouth, the weight of you on top of me. I tried to wait, but I could not. I need you. Please, Ormund. Please."

The words spilled out of you in a rush, shameless and desperate, and you saw his eyes darken with each one. His hand on your hip tightened almost to the point of pain. "My needy little wife," he murmured. "So desperate for me that you cannot even wait until morning. So desperate that you wander through the castle half-naked, dripping wet, begging for my cock."

The crude word made you shiver. "Yes."

"Then come here." He tugged on your hand, guiding you down onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your arm draping around his shoulders, your head finding its familiar place against his neck. His left arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. "There," he said against your hair. "Is that better?"

"Yes." But it was not better. It was worse. The position pressed your thighs together, and the ache between them intensified. Your core was throbbing, empty and desperate, and he was so close—his body warm and solid beneath you, his scent filling your senses, his hand resting on your hip just inches from where you needed him most.

"Good. Now keep me company while I finish this last letter. It will not take long."

You blinked. "What?"

"I have one more letter to write." His right hand reached for his quill again, calm and unhurried. "Stay still and let me finish. Then I will take you to bed."

"But—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Be patient. Good things come to those who wait."

You could not believe it. You were sitting in his lap, trembling and aching and wet, and he was going back to his letter as if nothing had happened. You opened your mouth to protest, but his hand tightened on your hip in warning.

"Still," he reminded you. "And quiet. Can you do that for me?"

You swallowed your protests. "Yes."

"Good girl."

His quill began to move again. The scratch of the nib on parchment filled the silence, steady and unhurried. You sat in his lap, your body burning, your core throbbing, and tried to be patient. Tried to be good.

But his hand was still on your hip, the slow stroke of his thumb, tracing the curve of your hip bone through the silk. Then his fingers splayed wider, spanning the small of your back, his palm warm and heavy. Your breath hitched, his quill kept moving, then his hand slid lower. The silk of your nightgown whispered against your skin as his fingers found the hem—just below your knee—and began to toy with the edge of the fabric. A slow, teasing brush of his fingertips against your bare calf. A feather-light stroke along the sensitive skin behind your knee. A gentle squeeze of your thigh.

Your hips shifted involuntarily, pressing down against his lap, seeking friction. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you still.

"I said stay still," he murmured against your ear.

"You are making it very difficult."

"Am I?" His fingers traced higher, pushing the hem of your nightgown up past your knee. "I am only working. You are the one squirming in my lap."

His hand slid higher. The nightgown was bunched around your thighs now, and his fingers found the bare skin of your inner thigh—so close to where you needed him, so agonizingly close. He traced patterns on your sensitive flesh, back and forth, back and forth, never quite touching the place where your ache was centered. You bit your lip hard, trying to stay still, trying to stay quiet. A soft, desperate whimper escaped you anyway.

"Shh," he said.

His fingers traced higher. They brushed against the junction of your thigh and hip, feather-light, and you jerked in his lap. His arm tightened again.

"Still," he commanded. "I am almost finished."

"You are torturing me."

"Yes," he agreed, utterly unrepentant. "I am."

His fingers found your smallclothes, but you were not wearing any. There was nothing between his hand and your slick, aching flesh except a few inches of cool air. He made a low sound of approval.

"No smallclothes," he observed. "You really were desperate, weren't you?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Please, Ormund. Please touch me."

"In a moment." His fingers traced the crease of your thigh, maddeningly close to your center but not quite touching. "I have one more paragraph to write."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to grab his hand and push it where you needed it. You wanted to grind down against his lap and take your pleasure whether he allowed it or not. But you did none of those things. You sat still—or as still as you could manage, trembling and aching, your breath coming in short, desperate pants—while his quill scratched across the page and his fingers traced idle patterns on your inner thigh.

Then, finally, his fingers moved higher, the first touch against your slick, swollen folds made you cry out—a sharp, broken sound that you could not stifle. His fingers glided through your wetness, spreading it, exploring you with slow, deliberate strokes that made your hips buck against his hand. He clicked his tongue.

"What did I say about staying still?"

"I cannot—I cannot stay still when you—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his fingers found your entrance, circling it, teasing it, never quite pushing inside. "Please. Please, Ormund. I need you inside me. I need—"

"I know what you need." His voice was calm, controlled, utterly unhurried. "But I am not finished with my letter. And you are going to be patient. You are going to sit here, on my lap, and let me touch you however I want, and you are not going to move. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I understand."

"Good girl."

His fingers continued their slow, torturous exploration. They circled your entrance, dipped just barely inside, then retreated. They stroked your slick folds, spreading your wetness, finding every sensitive spot except the one that would give you release. His thumb brushed against the tight bud at the apex of your sex, and you cried out, your hips jerking, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Still," he reminded you. "I am writing."

His quill scratched across the page. His fingers circled your clit with maddening slowness. You were so close—right on the edge, teetering, desperate—and he would not let you fall. Every time the pleasure began to crest, he would pull his fingers away, leaving you empty and aching and sobbing with frustration.

"Please," you begged. "Please, I need to—I need to come. Please let me come."

"Not yet." He dipped one finger inside you, just barely, and you clenched around it, trying to draw him deeper. He pulled it out again. "So eager. So desperate. You are dripping down my hand, do you know that? You are making a mess of my breeches."

"I do not care. I do not care about your breeches. I need you. Please."

"One more moment." His quill moved—slower now, his handwriting less precise. You could tell he was losing his own control, that his breathing was becoming as ragged as yours. "There," he said finally, setting down the quill with a decisive click. "Finished."

Then his hands were on you, he lifted you easily, repositioning you so that you were straddling his lap, facing him. Your nightgown was rucked up around your waist, your bare thighs spread wide across his hips. His breeches were already unlaced—you did not know when he had done that—and his cock sprang free, thick and hard and already glistening at the tip.

"Take what you want," he said, his voice rough. "You have been so patient. So good. Now take it."

You did not need to be told twice. You sank down onto him in one desperate, fluid motion, taking him to the hilt, and the feeling of being filled—finally, finally filled—made you cry out so loudly you were sure the guards in the courtyard must have heard. He groaned, his head falling back, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

"There," he breathed. "There. Is that what you needed?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, yes—"

"Then ride me." His hips bucked up into you, driving himself deeper. "Ride me like you have been wanting to all night. Take your pleasure. Show me how much you missed me."

You did. You braced your hands on his shoulders and began to move, rolling your hips in a rhythm that made stars burst behind your eyes. He filled you so perfectly, so completely, stretching you in a way that was almost too much and yet exactly enough. Every downward stroke pressed him against that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision go white, and every upward stroke dragged his length along your sensitive walls until you were trembling and gasping and clinging to him like a drowning woman.

"That is it," he growled, his hands guiding your hips, setting a pace that was punishing and perfect. "That is my good girl. Taking what she needs. You were so empty without me, weren't you? So lonely. So desperate."

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I was—I needed you—I always need you—"

"Then come for me." His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, circling roughly. "Come on my cock. Now."

The command was all you needed. The pleasure that had been building all evening, that he had been stoking and denying and drawing out, finally crested. You shattered around him with a scream, your inner muscles clenching and pulsing, your whole body shaking with the force of your release. He followed moments later, burying himself deep and groaning your name against your throat as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You sat there, tangled together in the great oak chair, your bodies still joined, your breathing ragged and uneven. Your nightgown was a crumpled mess around your waist. His shirt was damp with sweat where you had been clinging to it. The fire had burned down to embers, and the candles had guttered in their holders.

He was the first to speak. "You," he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "are the most distracting woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

You laughed—a breathless utterly satisfied laugh. "You are the one who kept working while your wife was dripping in your lap."

"I was being diligent." He nipped at your earlobe, making you shiver. "And you were being very, very patient. Very good. I am proud of you."

"Next time," you said, "I will not be so patient. Next time, I will bend over your desk and present myself and you will have to choose between your letter and your wife."

His hands tightened on your hips. "Do not make promises you cannot keep, my love."

"I never do." You kissed him, slow and deep, feeling him stir inside you again. "Now take me to bed. The real bed. I am not finished with you yet."

He laughed, low and warm, and lifted you in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all.

A small leather-bound journal, soft from handling, smelling faintly of jasmine and something warmer beneath.

Your scent. He knew it the way he knew prayer.

He pulled the journal free and the spine fell open in his palm, as though it had been waiting for him. The pages were filled in your looping, impatient hand, you had never taken to the septa's lessons on penmanship, and he meant only to close it, to set it back, to forget he had ever held it.

Then he read the first line his eyes found.

I dreamt again of his hands. Not the careful ones he offers me at table, not the ones that brush my cheek like I might break. The others. The ones he keeps locked away when he thinks I am not looking.

His breath stopped in his chest.

He read on. He could not have stopped if the library had caught fire around him.

Tonight at supper he did not look at me once. Not once. He spoke of tariffs and the harvest and whether the new maester would arrive before winter, and I sat across from him and wanted him to push the plates aside and take me across the table like a man takes what is his. I wanted the wine to spill. I wanted to feel the wood against my back and his weight pressing me into it until I could not breathe for wanting him.

The words blurred. He blinked, and the ink sharpened again, merciless.

I have been his wife for two years and he has never—not once—

“Fuck,” a single line remained below, and he did not finish reading it.

He closed the journal.

He set it on the table with a care that surprised him, given the way his hands were shaking, given the way the blood had gone from his face and returned somewhere lower and altogether more dangerous. He stood very still for a moment, the way a man stands before he does something he cannot undo and then he let out a breathless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face.

“You fucking little minx.”

Then he went to find you.

You were in the solar, as he had known you would be. The afternoon light came through the narrow windows and caught in your hair, and you were bent over some needlework you did not care about, your needle moving in that restless, impatient way that meant your mind was elsewhere. You did not hear him come in. You did not hear him cross the room.

You heard nothing until his hand closed in your hair, not gently, because that was not what you wanted, “You are a rather good pretender, my little sweetling.”

You gasped as the needlework fell, and your head was snapped back with a violent jerk, forcing your spine to arch and your throat to expose itself to the harsh afternoon light. A sharp cry of shock escaped your lips, but it was quickly stifled as he tightened his grip, winding the strands of your hair around his fist to ensure you couldn't pull away.

He leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of iron and leather against your ear. He didn't speak, as the silence of the room was now filled only by your ragged, panicked breathing and the soft thud of the embroidery hoop rolling across the stone floor.

With a sudden, cruel tug, he pulled you further back, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes were wide, shimmering with a mixture of terror and a dark, forbidden thrill that you couldn't suppress. He stared down at you, his expression cold and possessive, his eyes scanning your trembling form. “Do you have any fucking idea what you have just done to me?”

Without warning, he shifted his weight, slamming you forward against the heavy wooden table. The impact knocked the wind out of you, and the scattered threads of your needlework clung to your skin like webs. He didn't let go of your hair, using it as a handle to keep your face pressed hard against the wood.

His other hand moved with predatory speed, gripping your hip and bruising the flesh as he hauled your backside up and back, pinning your chest to the table.

“Ormund!”

The rough fabric of your gown bunched up around your waist, leaving you vulnerable. He pressed his hard, demanding heat against the curve of your ass, letting you feel the rigid length of his cock through your clothes, marking you as his before a single garment had even been removed.

He bent lower, burying his face against the curve of your throat where the pulse hammered wild and frantic. He inhaled, deep, deliberate, the way a man drinks when he has been dying of thirst and the scent of you flooded him.

Jasmine and the faint salt of fear-sweat, because beneath it, the unmistakable honeyed musk of your arousal, already blooming between your thighs because of what he had done to you.

“Filthy,” he breathed against your throat. The word was almost a prayer. “You filthy little whore.”

You made a sound, half sob, half something else entirely and he felt your body shudder beneath his hands.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin that spread across his face was not the grin of the careful husband who brushed your cheek at table. It was something older, something that had been locked away in the same place as the hands you had written about. It was the grin of a man who had found what he was looking for and meant to take it without apology.

He had no intention of being gentle. “Go on, admit it. Tell me that this isn't what you wanted? Tell me that you have not imagined me bending you over a godsdamned desk like some fool desperate to get his cock wet?”

The hand in your hair twisted, wrenching your head to the side so that your cheek ground against the rough grain of the table. You whimpered, a real sound, not one of your careful sighs at supper and he felt something savage and satisfied curl through his chest at the sound of it.

“Two years,” he said, and his voice was low and rough, nothing like the voice he used in the great hall. “Two years you've been writing that you wanted this, and you never once had the courage to say it to my face.”

His free hand found the laces at the back of your gown and pulled, not carefully, not with the patience of a man who yearned for his wife's desperate mewla.

The laces did not give so much as surrender, threads snapping, fabric tearing, the sound obscene in the quiet solar, cool air hit the skin of your back and you arched against it, because at that moment, Ormund didn’t give you a moment to recover.

He reached down, his fingers hooking into the fine silk of your undergarments. With one violent, decisive rip, the fabric tore, the sound echoing like a war horn in the quiet solar. He didn't care for the cost of the lace, he only cared for the access it granted him.

He shoved you further onto the table, sweeping a vase of lilies and a stack of parchment to the floor with a crashing thud. He didn't let go of your hair, keeping your head pinned, your cheek pressed against the polished oak. He could feel you trembling, a fine, rhythmic shudder that told him you were terrified, but the way your hips instinctively tilted back toward him, seeking the friction of his cock, told him you were starving.

“You wanted this,” he snarled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “You sat across from me and fantasized about me breaking you. You wrote it down like a little secret, thinking I would always be the gentle lord.”

He released your hair only to slam his hand down onto the small of your back, pinning you flat. His other hand reached between your legs, his fingers diving deep into your soaking heat. He didn't tease, not now, not when he ached to devour every inch of your skin as he drove two fingers inside you with a brutal thrust that forced a loud, sharp scream from your throat.

He felt the tight clench of your walls around him, the desperate, wet grip of a woman who had been dreaming of this violation for years.

“Look at you,” he hissed, his fingers curling and pumping inside you with a ruthless rhythm, stretching you open. “Dripping for me. You're nothing but a craving, aren't you? A little hole that needs to be filled by a man who doesn't care if he hurts you.”

He withdrew his fingers with a wet pop and moved with a sudden, predatory urgency. He fumbled with his breeches, freeing his cock, thick, pulsing, and engorged to the point of pain. He didn't use any lubricant other than the overflow of your own arousal.

He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, leaving marks that would turn purple by morning. He positioned the head of his cock at your entrance and, without a word of warning, drove himself home in one singular, devastating plunge.

You shrieked, your fingers clawing at the wood of the table, your back arching violently as he bottomed out inside you. The impact was jarring, a collision of flesh and bone that left you breathless. Ormund groaned, a sound of pure, possessive triumph, as he felt your tight heat wrap around him, squeezing him with a desperation that nearly broke his resolve.

He didn't give you time to adjust. He began to fuck you with a savage, unrelenting pace. Each thrust was a claim, a violent punctuation mark to the silence of your marriage.

He slammed his pelvis against your ass, the sound of your bodies colliding—slap, slap, slap—filling the room. He was no longer the husband, but rather now he was the master, and you were the vessel for every dark impulse he had suppressed for two years.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice shaking with lust, his teeth sinking into the soft meat of your shoulder, drawing blood. “Tell me you're my whore. Tell me you want me to ruin you.”

“Yes!” you sobbed, your voice broken and high, your head tossing from side to side. “Please... Ormund, please! Fuck me... break me... yes!”

The admission acted like fuel to a fire. He reached around, his hand finding your clitoris and grinding against it with a cruel, heavy pressure even as he continued to hammer into you from behind. The dual stimulation was too much as you began to peak, your internal muscles pulsing in violent spasms around his shaft.

Ormund felt his own climax rushing toward him, a tidal wave of heat and aggression. He gripped your hair again, pulling your head back so he could see the agony and ecstasy etched onto your face. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and punishing, driving you further and further into the table.

“You're mine,” he growled, his voice thick. “Every inch of this filthy, wanting body is mine.”

With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself as deep as he could go and erupted. He felt the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding you, filling you to the brim, marking you internally just as he had marked your skin.

He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his chest heaving, his weight crushing you into the wood, letting you feel the slow, rhythmic throb of his cock as it began to soften.

He didn't pull out immediately. He leaned down, kissing the back of your neck with a sudden, jarring tenderness that was almost more frightening than the violence.

“I read your journal, my sweetling,” he whispered, his voice returning to that smooth, noble tone, though the edge of cruelty remained. “And I think we shall spend the rest of the evening ensuring every single one of your dreams comes true. Whether you can stand for it or not.”

Ormund didn't let you linger in the afterglow. He withdrew from you with a wet, sliding sound, leaving your legs shaking and your pussy leaking his seed across the polished oak of the table.

Before you could even draw a full breath, he gripped your arm and hauled you to your feet. You stumbled, your ruined gown clinging to your thighs, your body humming with a mixture of exhaustion and desperate, lingering hunger.

The look in his eyes, cold, commanding, and utterly possessive told you that the game had only just begun.

He spun you around and marched you toward the nearest stone wall, his grip on your arm like a shackle. When they reached the cold masonry, he slammed you back against it. The impact jarred your teeth, and you let out a small, startled whimper, your palms flattening against the rough stone for balance.

Ormund stepped into your space, his massive frame blotting out the afternoon light. He didn't touch you with his hands this time, but he pressed his chest against yours, pinning you firmly to the wall, his hard, semi-erect cock rubbing against the damp silk of your dress.

“You’ve spent two years pretending to be the dutiful, delicate lady,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your skin. “And you've spent those same years writing filth about your husband in a leather book. I think it's time we reminded you of exactly what you swore to me before the High Septon.”

He reached up, his hand wrapping around your throat, not to choke you, but to tilt your head back, forcing you to look into his eyes. His thumb pressed firmly against your windpipe, just enough to make you swallow hard.

“The vows,” he commanded. “Every single one. Recite them. Now.”

You trembled, your breath coming in shallow hitches. “Ormund... please...”

He tightened his grip on your throat, his eyes narrowing. “Do not 'please' me. Recite the vows, or I will find a much more painful way to make you remember them.”

Tears of arousal and fear pricked your eyes as you began, your voice shaking. “I... I take you to be my wedded husband...”

“Louder,” he snapped, his other hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hoisting it up and hooking it over his hip, forcing your legs open and exposing your dripping heat to the cool air of the solar.

“I take you to be my wedded husband!” you cried out, your voice cracking.

“And?”

“I... I promise to honor you... to cherish you... in sickness and in health...”

As you spoke the words of devotion, Ormund’s hand moved from your thigh to your center. He didn't use his fingers this time, he used the heel of his hand to grind hard against your clitoris, crushing the sensitive nub against the stone wall. You gasped, your words dissolving into a moan.

“Finish the vow,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“In... in poverty and in wealth!” you sobbed, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand. “Until death do us part!”

“And the vow of obedience,” Ormund reminded you, his voice dropping to a guttural rasp. He released your throat only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them high above your head against the stone. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours, though he didn't kiss you. “The one where you swear your will is my will. Your body is my property. Your pleasure is my gift.”

“... I swear my will is yours,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering shut, your body sagging against him as you surrendered completely to his dominance. “My body... is your property.”

“Good girl,” he breathed.

He shifted his weight, his hand sliding back down to grip your ass, lifting you entirely off the floor. He pinned you against the wall with the sheer force of his body, his cock positioning itself perfectly at your entrance.

“Now,” he growled, “let's see if you can recite the prayers to the Father while I fuck the lies out of you.”

The cold stone bit into your back as he pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of his body searing through the thin fabric still clinging to your skin. You gasped, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips as he lifted you higher, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Your breath hitched at the pressure, at the promise of being filled, claimed, taken.

He didn't push inside, not yet. Instead, he held you there, suspended between the rough wall and his iron grip, his eyes boring into yours. The dark intensity in them made you feel small, worshipful.

“Pray,” he commanded. “The first one. You know it.”

Your mind was hazy, drowning in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache between your legs that pulsed with every heartbeat. You swallowed, your throat dry.

“Oh Father, who watches from the sky...” you started, your voice trembling, barely a whisper.

“Louder,” he snapped, his hand coming down on your ass in a sharp crack that echoed off the stone. You cried out, your body jolting against him, the sting blooming across your flesh like fire.

“Oh Father, who watches from the sky,” you repeated, your voice stronger, steadier, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Guide my hands, guard my heart...”

He thrust into you with one brutal, seamless motion, burying himself to the hilt. Your words dissolved into a moan, your head falling back against the stone as he stretched you, filled you, claimed the deepest parts of your body. He didn't move, just held himself there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.

“And I will walk in Your light,” you gasped, forcing the prayer out through ragged breaths.

“Don't stop,” he growled, his hips beginning to move, slow, devastating with each stroke as his cock dragged against your walls, pulling pleasure and pain in equal measure. His grip on your wrists tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh like brands. “Pray.”

“And I will walk in Your light,” you repeated, your voice breaking as he picked up the pace, fucking you harder now, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the space between your broken verses. “I will kneel... before Your throne... and offer... my devotion—oh, gods, please—”

He slammed into you, cutting off your plea. “Finish it.”

“Offer my devotion... until the stars... fall from the sky,” you sobbed, your body arching into his, your cunt clenching around him as he drove you toward the edge you could feel building, coiling, unbearable.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “The second prayer. Now.”

“Father of storms, Father of steel,” you began, the words scraping out of your throat like glass. “Harden my spirit... make me... unbreakable...”

“Good girl,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering as his own release approached. “One more verse. One more.”

You clung to him, nails raking across his shoulders, your body trembling on the verge of shattering. “And when I fall... let me fall... upon Your mercy...”

He came with a guttural groan, his hips driving deep and holding, his cum flooding you in hot, thick pulses. You shattered, your climax tearing through you like a crack of lightning, your vision white, your scream swallowed by his mouth finally claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.

When he broke the kiss, you were limp in his arms, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Your eyes were glassy, your body slick with sweat and his seed dripping down your thighs.

He pulled out slowly, watching you wince at the loss, and lowered your feet to the ground. You sagged immediately, your knees buckling, but his arm kept you upright, pinned against his chest.

“You will learn,” he said, his voice low and rough, his hand stroking your hair like you were a thing to be soothed. “Every prayer. Every verse. Every word of submission. And you will mean them all.”

You nodded, your lips parted, your mind empty of anything but the taste of him, the feeling of being owned so completely that nothing else in the world mattered.

He tilted his head towards the bed, “Now pray to the Mother for mercy, for I will have none. You little fucking vixen,” Ormund murmurs as he smooths down your hair, tilts your chip up and huffs, “such a good girl, my sweetling. You will never, ever, keep your thoughts from me again, do you fucking understand?”

You nodded, the movement small and unsteady.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Ormund searched your face for the slightest trace of defiance. Finding none, the hard line of his mouth eased, though his gaze remained unwavering. His hand lingered against your cheek for only a heartbeat before he let it fall.

“Good,” he said quietly. “I would sooner have your honesty than your obedience, sweetling. Remember that.”

Your throat tightened. Shame, relief, and something far more complicated tangled together until you could scarcely breathe. You lowered your eyes, unable to bear the weight of his stare.

“I understand.”

“You will not hide from me again?”

“No.”

The answer came without hesitation this time, and he gave a single curt nod, as though the matter had finally been settled. The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer sharpened into a blade.

It was the silence left after a storm had spent itself, leaving only two hearts to reckon with what had been said.

When you lift yourself out of the water, silver hair smooth down your back, you gasp at the sight of your host lingering in your room.

“You could announce yourself,” you huff, laying back against the tub.

“Not even a bath could cleanse you from the stench of that beast,” Ormund grumbles, moving around the room. He collects a vial or two from a cabinet before seating himself at a stool beside the tub, positioning himself behind you. You watch as he dips his hands in the bathwater, grazing your skin before pouring the contents of one glass into his palms. He rubs them together until they foam and then starts his work, massaging his hands into your scalp. You try not to seem like you like it too much but cannot help the soft sigh that escapes your lips, your head lolling into the warm cup of his hands.

“Did anyone see you with it?”

“Mm?”

His fingers tighten in your hair in warning. “The dragon,” Ormund clarifies.

“Her name is Daybreak,” you grumble, peering one eye open at him. “And no. I’m more careful than you think.”

“Hmm. Quite cunning, you are. Mayhaps we use your efforts in the war. Make yourself useful, spy for us.”

“Oh, but who would draw my baths,” you drawl, turning yourself to face him. You rise slightly from the tub, wet hands on his knees, unbothered by your bare chest, your glistening skin.

Ormund licks his lips. There’s something about his gaze. You’re never certain with him, his short temper running hot or cold at any given moment. You were quite perceptible but even now you couldn’t be sure if he would kiss you or shove you down and hold your head under the water.

“Brat,” he bemuses, only some irritation in his voice. “You ought to learn from your brother. He listens.”

“You like that I don’t listen,” you say.

“No,” Ormund murmurs, leaning down now, lips ghosting yours. “I like that tight cunt between your legs. She listens. She takes me well.”

You whimper and tip your chin to kiss him but he pulls his head back, flicking his hands, soap flying from his fingers.

“Finish here,” he commands. “I’ll fuck you once you’re clean.”

Your lips twitch with indignation as you watch him leave you, still wanting with a warmth in your belly.

Part of you wishes to disobey, to go bathe in the mud with your dragon before coming to find him, but you’ve learned it’s easier to get what you want when you do as you're told. A skill your siblings ought to have learned, otherwise a whole war was like to be avoided, but such was life and beyond your concern. The atrocities were yet to settle in and your priorities still balanced between simple pleasures like hot meals and dragon riding and when your next shipment of dresses from Lys would arrive.

When you enter Ormund’s room you know he’s bare beneath the bedsheet pooled at his waist, lazily stroking himself in his fist.

“That was quick,” he says as you lock the door.

“I was very thorough,” you assure.

“I will see for myself,” Ormund clicks his tongue. “Get over here.”

You move hastily to him, eager to indulge in the warmth of his bed. As the new lord of Old Town he afforded himself the luxuries many men in war would forfeit and you were thankful for it. Plush warm silk enveloped you as you laid beside him, smiling despite yourself at the feel. 

“Spoiled girl,” he teases, as though the bed were not his own. “It is almost as though you are a princess of the crown.”

“Ha,” you feign a dry laugh.

“I wonder,” Ormund says, grabbing at the flesh of your hip to spread your thighs open and look between your legs. “When I win your brother back his crown, what will he reward me with? A castle?” His hand moves up towards your cunt, eyes raking over your skin in careful inspection. “A bride?”

“A bride,” you muse, biting back a laugh. “What a pity for whatever poor girl takes you for a husband. An old man with four children. Cuckholded by his own son.”

His fingers crook up inside you painfully sudden then, and you mewl, your back arching up off the bed as you grip the sheets.

“You are a foul, wicked girl,” Ormund sneers. “I ought to whip you for that.”

“Yes,” you gasp as he fucks you with his fingers at cruel quick pace. 

“Nay. You’d like that too much,” he growls. “One of these days I’ll find a punishment befitting your intemperance.” Pushing into you, out of you, into you again, rubbing so fast and hard in dizzying circles you lose any and all sense to contort a smart reply. All you can do is whimper and cant your hips up against his hand, but he holds you down with the other, forces you to take it. You pant wetly and he takes advantage of your open mouth to degrade you further and hawk a glob of spit down the back of your velvet throat.

Your body trembles and shakes as he moves deeper, adds another finger to the assault inside you. “Has the princess lost her tongue,” he mocks, dropping his mouth to lick the bead of sweat at your temple. His thick digits drag along your walls, bullying into your cunt, and when you clench around him, your orgasm threatening to spill, he pulls his hand out all the way, plunging his fingers instead between the plush lips of your open, waiting mouth.

You writhe beneath him, choking on a gasp and his hand.

“Bad behavior does not get rewarded,” his voice says from somewhere above as he gags you. You’re so dazed, vision blurring from the denial and the pleasure pulled from under you. “Not even for a princess. Do you hear me?”

You ascent a broken, muffled whine in reply.

“Thank you, for bringing this delicate matter to me.” His hands rested over the sword at his hip. Tapping at the hilt like he was considering the matter. You watched his jaw clench before he tilted his head and brow towards you. Now ready for your rebuttal. Your reason as to why the septas claim that you were no longer pure was untrue.

“he spoke to me first.”

“Yet you continue the conversation? Alone wish a man? Have the seven not guided tiu against exactly that?.” He’d accepted you and Daeron years ago, and you knew things were calmer here than in the red keep, you were greatful for Lord Ormunds kindness and guidance. You did not want him thinking you just tossed aside what’s been taught to you here.

“it was but for a moment, Cousin, you must believe me, nothing unseemly transpired.”

“Then you are still a maiden?”

“yes.” Your voice left no room for question. “I swear it to you and I’d swear it in front of the seven.”

“leave us,” his eyes did not move from yours as he addressed the women. “I shall determine what the truth of the matter is.”

“they sensationalize it.” You grumbled when the septas left. this was all ridiculous in your mind.

“then you can prove yourself honest?” He sat back in his cushioned seat and set a ringed hand against the wood of his desk.

“If I must, yes!”

You realized, delayed, how exactly your cousin meant for you to prove your maidenhead was still intact. His thick finger tapped at the wood infront of him.

“sit here, after your gown and everything else is off.”

“Ormund!?” He does not retreat at your appal.

Shame seared through you as you removed all your layers. It was stuck in your throat until you turned to face him and suddenly, just as his eyes cast over you, that ball moved lower…past your chest settling low in your stomach. Where it’s wasn’t shame at all anymore, but roaring need. Your thighs squeezed slightly when you got yourself up on the desk before him.

He waited a beat and then moved to speak again. You slivered your knees open the moment you saw his jaw tense. You knew he did not appreciate repeating himself. He could see just enough to know that the hair between your legs matched that on your head.

“further.” You shifted your hands to brace behind you and lifted time feet up so your heels pressed to the oak and your knees opened fully for him.

You were so warm but this point that the room felt cold against your most private area. Even the air that came though his nose as he leaned closer to examine you made your body clench against itself.

“You are quite aroused.” He remarked, stating his first finding. You were pink and swollen but from what he could tell it was just your body’s natural state, you did not look raw as he knew woman could get after coupling.

“Is that because you let some lord touch you in the hall? Did he kiss at your neck and make promises that you are far to smart to think he would actually keep?”

“no!” Your voice shook and your bottom squirmed a bit. The movement pushing your scent towards him. His eyes closed for a long moment, taking in a deep breath and holding it to soak up all of your scent that he could.

“ I did not let anybody touch me. I wouldn’t.” You gritted out. It was not lost on him that you were sat here now, propriety far from your mind as you let him view you. Your soft breasts and the line of your waist and hipszzzthag there urging him to touch you even to prove that the claims against you were untrue.

Ormund opened his eyes at your pleading and his brow raised. “Eager…like a whore is. Like a woman who knows what being this wet and getting stuffed results in.”

You shook your head in response, worried that any words you spoke would come out to heated. The truth was you did not know, but Lord Ormund would see to it that you understood by the time you left his study.

By the time that your cousins hands settled on your breasts you were breathing so fast it looked as if you’d just sprinted up the entire tower.

His thumb rolled over one of your semi hard nipples. “We all see how you dress when new lord come to visit…how you get your maids to pull the corset tighter so these sit at your neck.” He knew it was natural for a lady to want to be viewed as beautiful but he found it reprehensible that you had opted to flaunt what should be private.

The man’s eyes traced a path down your body for his hand to follow and you let out a shameful whimper when both of his hand stopped squeezing at your chest. You found you wanted more of his attention there.

As his hands trailed up and down your inner thighs, watching little beads of rural spread over your puffy folds be scoffed tk the edge of his chair, making his face quite level. Your heart jumped at how close he was, at how he could see and smell everything.

“I do not wish to be disappointed in you Princess.” He informed, a cheek settling against your inner thigh and his nose nudge into the crevasse between your pelvis and leg.

“you will not be, i swear i-it! His fingers, thick and sure, gliding up your slit made your voice tremble. His finger circling the button at the top of your womanhood made you forget how to even form words!

“you enjoy that?” He hums eyes looking from your lap to your face.

“use your words princess.” Something in the way he said that word. Princess. Made you moan, and it was not held back by your lips.

“yes…yes it feels strange…but good.” You admit as your eyes pool into ormunds as he circles your pearl for a while longer. He wanted to ensure you were quite aroused, incase what you you said was true.

The moment he pushed your leg open a bit more you knew what he was about to do. You knew where your maidenhead was and now that his fingers were aligned with your core you grew nervous.

“it will hurt-“ you worry and he leans forward, to the flattened and he flicks it over your clit to distract you from the forward motion of his finger.

“ahh!” You tense around him and a hand flys down to his shoulder to grip it. He was so lost in the taste of you that he almost let a second finger nuzzle into you.

“Let’s see,” he remembered himself, remembered that this was all suppose to be to check your virtues. He pressed his finger deeper, carefully moving it without you and he felt the soft skin that was still intact within you. Still proof that you’d been honest with him.

“Did you just want my finger in you? Your cunt in my face?” He questioned, retracting his fingers before he could get carried away and cause issue. “Is that why you flounce through the halls with men?”

“no…” you whine because he’s taken back up rubbing your clit and a very strange, strong feeling was building up.

“you enjoy it though…” his hand moving faster and he grabbed your hip to settle your bottom down against the desk. “You are going to cum against my palm aren’t you princess?”

You fall back flat against the desk groaning loudly, legs lifting up slightly unsure where to go because you wanted to close them but he was there, he was expertly dragging your first orgasm to the surface.

“Cousin-I…it’s strange!” He grins at the panic in your voice. The proof that you’d not even been sullied by your own hand.

“settle now…lest the septas to hear.” He warned. Fingers not wavering until you’d put nail marks into his desk as the climax burst through you.

“Oh—” The noise escapes him like a punched-out breath. He falters in the doorway, turning his head and lowering his gaze, as speckles of pink creep up the collar of his green doublet. “I— I didn’t mean to disturb you, my lady.”

“You could never disturb me,” you hum with a tender smile. “Please. Come in.”

Ormund obeys. Ormund always obeys. He commands thousands of knights as leader of his house by day, but the simplest request from you always threatens to unravel him completely. He bends entirely to your will, perhaps more desperate for your approval than The Father’s.

The door clicks shut behind him. The room seems smaller for it, warmer, as the heat of the candlelight grows the moment he’s alone with you. He shifts on his weight like a shy child before you, clasping his pale hands behind his back like a squire awaiting instruction. He was a six-foot, broad-shouldered knight, but a single smile from you makes him want to get on his knees and pray.

“There is a vial on that shelf beside you,” you tell him, lifting your chin slightly to motion to it. “The clear one— If you would?”

His body answers before his mind. Ormund turns, as if every bone in his body was made to be under your control, and skims the shelves with a broad hand until his fingers find a slender bottle. “This one?”

“Yes.”

His boots pad firmly along the cobbles as he crosses the distance between you, towering over your copper tub. The candlelight turns his wild curls a deeper auburn shade of Hightower red; the dancing flames carve out half of his chiseled features in blurred shadow.

Water slips from your arm in clear rivulets as you raise a waiting hand, glittering breasts rising once more from the still water. Ormund clears his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he glances politely elsewhere. “Is this another one of your… miracles?” he wonders aloud, because it felt too ungodly to call them potions.

You uncork the small bottle with a faint pop. You tap your pointer finger against the glass to empty a few drops into the warm bathwater below. “It’s only lavender, I’m afraid,” you confess.

“…Lavender,” he echoes with an owlish blink.

Your eyes gleam with amusement when they flit back up to his. “Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

“No. N-Never,” he stammers with a shake of his head. “I— I quite prefer the smell, actually.”

“I’m aware…” you lilt with a wider smile. “Perhaps, I should lend you a bottle when we march.”

Ormund swallows hard and forgets to speak. His mind reels at the thought of keeping a pomander of your bath water chained to his armor — to inhaling the sweet scent of your musk and bathing oils while in the heart of battle.

“The gods spoke to me in prayer this morning…” you start with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you relax further into the water, with the vial hanging loosely at your fingertips. “The Warrior said, ‘Tonight, you will enjoy your last bath before the war… Make it count.’”

Ormund’s strong brow furrows in a grave sort of look, appearing almost stricken.

Your lip lifts into a smile. “A joke, my lord,” you tell him. “Though not a very good one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Ormund says with an awkward chuckle, as relief crosses his strong features in slow confusion. “Forgive me, my lady— Humor is not my strength, I’m afraid.”

“That’s because most jokes are lies… And you are devoted to the truth.”

He nods once, then frowns thoughtfully. “Well… If they are lies, my lady… Are they not best avoided?”

You tilt your head to your bare shoulder, regarding him with an unmistakable fondness. “Not always… Sometimes, a soul must first be led astray before it can discover the proper road… A trick that leads them to the truth.”

You motion your head towards the shelves across the room.

“Like those bottles…” you tell him and watch as his head swivels in the direction of them almost instantly. “The green one sends a pillar of emerald flame into the heavens if thrown into a fire… The blue one creates a cloud of black smoke that would make the most seasoned knights piss themselves in fear… And that pink one…”

Ormund turns back to you when you trail off, chest tugging at the smile that graces your lips.

“Yes?” he presses.

“If slipped into a man’s wine… Drives him absolutely mad with lust.”

Ormund freezes, breath hitching somewhere in his chest. It feels, for a moment, like he’s finally got an answer for his own insanity — an explanation of why his mind cannot seem to roam anywhere without bumping into thoughts of you.

“Did… did you… Did you use that on me?” he stammers.

That question hangs between you for several long moments. You tilt your head and peer up at him in a thoughtful sort of look. “…Would I have to?” you press with an arched brow.

His face flushes pink to the tips of his ears. His light eyes widen as the answer spills immediately from his lips. “No! N-No. Of— Of course not,” he stammers, lowering himself to his knee beside your bath like a scolded squire, like a pilgrim before an altar. It was instinct almost, to kneel at your feet. “Forgive me, my lady— I exist only to serve you.”

The words leave his mouth as if pulled out by a hand down his throat. It frightens him, how easily his faith has entangled with you — how often his eyes sought yours before the Seven-Pointed Star. He could no longer tell if he worshipped you because of the gods, or if he worshipped the gods because of you.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord, I assure you,” you coo to him, as gentle as The Mother herself, though something mischievous dances in your eyes even still. “But… if you truly wish to serve me… Then serve me.”

Ormund’s breath catches, heart thundering hard behind his ribcage.

Your brows lift in an expectant look. “Take off your clothes.”

The man rises slowly to full height again, towering once more before you. You watch with an unwavering stare as he reaches for the buckles of his doublet, unlatching the golden buttons there with a pair of trembling hands. The emerald jacket falls to the cobbles with a quiet thud. His pale tunic follows, which he unties and then tugs off at the collar.

The canvas of his milky white torso is exposed to you, toned from years of knighthood, and sprinkled with sparse brown hair along the stomach and sternum.

He has to remind himself to breathe as his hands fumble with the button of his trousers, toeing off his boots simultaneously. The fabric falls to his ankles. He steps out of them with two firm steps, a lot more confident than his pounding heart. The cobbles are cool beneath his feet, and damp from the steam of your bath.

Ormund fights the instinctive urge to cover himself as your eyes part finally from his to trail down the length of his lean body. You find his cock hanging heavy between his scruffy thighs, favoring the left one as it curves slightly in that direction. Your head tilts once more to your shoulder in observation. Your eyes dart suddenly back to his face.

“Get in the bath,” you command.

So Ormund gets in the bath.

The water trickles as you shift within its depth to make room for the man. He steps in, one leg at a time, and braces the edge of the copper as he descends into the steam. His thighs spread between both of yours, knees bent to accommodate his taller form.

You set the vial on the edge before inching towards him. Ormund’s hairy chest hitches with an unsure breath when you straddle his waist, delicate hands braced along his broad shoulders. He’s imagined having you like this for so long, on him and all over him, that he can scarcely tell reality from his own boyish dreams.

The velvety skin of your inner thigh brushes his half-hard cock, and he feels half-heretic for it. He hates himself for imagining your cunt as it brushes the tip of length — hates how easily he can picture the petal-like folds parting around him and the way it would feel to pierce them with his manhood. He feels like he should fall to his knees and repent for it.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he says on bated breath, adam’s apple bobbing when he tips his chin to meet your gaze. “It’s— It’s been a while. Forgive me.”

“It’s only flesh, my lord,” you shrug with a tender smile, stiff nipples brushing his bare chest. “It needs what it needs.”

Your fingers twist into the auburn tendrils curling at his temple and smile softly when Ormund leans instinctively into the warmth of your touch.

“There is no act done in service of the gods that could ever be called a sin,” you remind him.

He exhales a held breath. His hands rise from the water to reach for your body at your words, at your permission. They tremble with a strange hesitance he thought he lost in boyhood — yours was certainly not the first he’d ever touched, but perhaps the only one he truly revered. His palms are calloused from decades of training as they smooth up your soft stomach and over your ribs, before cupping the underside of your plush breasts.

“I thank the gods every day for bringing you to me,” he says on bated breath— a confession you can read all over his face every time he looks at you.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you remind him, tipping up his chin with your pointer finger when his lidded eyes lock on your breasts. “Not after I’ve won you this war.”

1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!

2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm

3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm

4. pottery! @ 6pm

5. watch the sunrise @ ???

6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm

7. herb garden creation @ 9am

8. farmers market @ 11am

Summer hall was never a quiet place, especially when the prince and his beautiful lady wife are home.

The day had been a battlefield of sharp words and stolen glares between Maekar and his wife. Like feral cats and snarling dogs, they clashed over the smallest slights, each barb laced with a heat that simmered just beneath the surface.

“Must every fucking door in this cursed place be left open? I swear the wind carries half my business down the hall.” Maekar grumbles, stomping into the library to find his wife running through the ledgers.

“The doors are open because your armor stinks of sweat and iron and carries soil, If you’d remove it before stalking through the halls the wind would not be needed.” She replied simply not looking up from her work, her tone even, goading him.


“It is armor, not a lady’s perfume.” Maekar grumbles sliding next her taking the ledger out her hand to look himself.


“And yet it offends the senses all the same.” She snips, snapping the paper back from him.

“I am reading that” he gruffly states, trying to grab it back as she walks off with the ledger “Do not turn your back on me when I am speaking.” He warns.


“Then choose better moments to speak.” She challenges, turning to face hime.


“You test my patience.” His voice carrying an undertone of danger, eyes darkening.


“You have so little to spare.” She meets, keeping his gaze despite the heat blossoming in her chest.

The maids and servants steadfastly avoided the prince and his lady wife when they were like this, whispering and giggling in the halls, undoubtedly knowing how the night will end. Like it always did.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

By the time the sun dipped low and darkness settled over the rooms, the air between them crackled with unspoken need. Their chambers, lit only by a flickering candles, it suddenly felt too small for storm brewing.

The maids scurried from the room having dressed their lady for bed, leaving her at her dressing table. Maekar stormed into the their chambers, pulling off his shirt with a growl, his broad chest heaving from the day's frustrations. “You think you can bark at me all day and I'll roll over like some fucking pup?” he snarled, tossing the garment aside.

She spun around in her chair to face him, her face flushed in rage, the thin fabric of her nightgown whispering against her skin as she slammed her brush down on the wooden surface. “And you? Waltzing around like you have a hot poker up your arse, ignoring every word I say” she growled eyes flashing, but her nipples hardened against the sheer material, betraying what she truly craved

He closed the distance in two strides, grabbing her wrists, pulling her up to stand, “I've had enough of your mouth, woman. Time to put it to better use.” His voice dropped to a gravelly rumble, lips crashing down on hers in a bruising kiss. She fought for a second, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss, before melting into him. Her tongue battling his with the same ferocity they'd shared all day .

“Fuck you, Maekar,” she gasped when they broke apart, but her legs parted instinctively as he pressed his hardening cock against her thigh through his trousers. He ground into her, the friction sending sparks up her spine. “Oh, I plan to, my wicked temptress. I’ve been waiting to bury myself in that tight cunt day.' His free hand tore at the straps of her nightdress, the silk ripping with a satisfying tear. Fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare and exposed, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath.

She shoved him back toward the bed, nails raking down his chest, catching the little sliver hairs and leaving red trails that made him groan. “Then do it, you brute. Stop talking and fuck me” She yanked at the laces of the breeches, freeing his thick cock, which sprang out heavy and throbbing. Her fingers wrapped around it, stroking roughly as she pushed him onto the mattress. The bed creaked under his weight, but she didn't give him a moment to recover, straddling him, she guided his length to her slick entrance, letting out a whimper as she sank down, the tight heat of her walls taking his thick manhood, stilling as she bottomed out.

Maekar's hands gripped her hips, bruising the soft flesh as he bucked up into her. “Ride me, take your dragon” The words spilled out filthy and raw, with a hint of desperation, fuelling her frenzy.

Her head fell back, moans escaping as she bounced on him, slapping against him with wet, obscene sounds. The headboard banged against the wall. She slowed her pace teasing him as he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise as she looked down at her husband, panting and breathless beneath her, his eyes locked on her like she hung heavens above. Her hands found purchase on his hard chest as bent down kiss up his neck, his sliver beard scratching deliciously, across her cheeks, before she moved up meeting his lips in an almost reverent kiss. “Please” he groaned, as she moved and almost glacial pace, the sound of his whimpers was like music to her ears.

“Please what, my prince?” she whispered against his lips teasing, hands moving up his chest, as she continued her slow grind. Pushing him to the edge.

He growled in frustration, flipping them over without warning, pinning her beneath him “My turn, my love” Driving into her pussy with punishing strokes, he captured a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard while his fingers dug into her ass, spreading her cheeks as he pulled her harder against him with each deep thrust. She arched, clawing at his back, with a scream “harder Maekar” Sweat slicked their bodies, the sheets twisting and tearing, her hands, their moans filling the air.

Maekar pulled out abruptly, she almost sobbed at the loss, before he flipped her onto her stomach. He pulled her up onto her knees, slappjng her ass cheek, the sting making her yelp, before he thrust back in, fucking her from behind with relentless force. Pulling her back flush, to his chest as he drove into her. Her hips moving in tandem with his.

‘You're so wet for me” he pants kissing up her neck, nipping and sucking, intending to leave marks

‘You drive me to madness” she moaned, reaching behind her to pull his face to hers, kissing him deeply .

His hand snaked around to rub her clit, circles rough and fast, pushing her toward the edge. “Come for me, my love” he growled against her lips, his thrusts becoming frantic.

Her vision blurred at the edges, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she pulsed around his cock, a guttural cry tearing from her throat. 'Yes, fuck, Maekar, yes!' as her orgasm crashed over her without mercy. 'Oh gods, Maekar, ahh, fuck!' Her body bucked wildly, pushing back to take him fully, every pulse of her climax dragging her deeper into the bliss, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest.

The sensation of her orgasm triggered Maekar's own release, her tight, pulsing walls clamping down on him like a fist. Pleasure exploded behind his eyes, raw and electric, as he roared her name thrusting erratically as rope after rope of his seed pumped out, the warmth spreading inside her while his body shuddered, “Fuck ahh, me love’ he groaned kissing her neck as he came down from his high, muscles burning from the strain.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the mattress sagging, sheets ripped and sweaty.

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

The morning after, he would not let you leave the room.

You woke to find him already dressed, standing by the window with his back to you, his silhouette sharp and rigid against the pale grey light. The bed beside you was cold, he had not held you last night, not after what happened. You had slept alone on your side of the mattress, still trembling, still aching, still smelling the smoke from your burning dress even though the fire had long since died.

You sat up slowly, the blanket clutched to your chest. Your shift was thin and worn, the same one you had been wearing yesterday when he tore the dress from your body. You had not bothered to change it. You had not had the energy.

"Ormund?" Your voice came out small. Hesitant.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry, your eyes still swollen from crying. "You—you did not—"

He did not turn around. "I have been standing here for an hour," he said quietly. "Thinking. Trying to understand how we got here. Trying to understand what I did wrong."

"I did." He turned then, and his face was not angry. That was almost worse. He looked tired. Sad. Disappointed. The face of a man who had been let down by someone he loved. "I have been too lenient with you. I see that now. I trusted you to know how to behave, and you proved that you cannot be trusted. That is my fault. Not yours."

You stared at him, something cold settling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. When he reached the bed, he did not sit beside you. He stood over you, looking down, his expression full of what looked like genuine sorrow.

"I mean that I have failed you as a husband," he said. "I should have been clearer. I should have set firmer boundaries. Instead, I let you run wild, and yesterday happened. You embarrassed yourself. You embarrassed me. You paraded through my city dressed like a common—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "I will not say the word. I promised myself I would not say it again. But you know what I mean."

Your face burned. The memory of the guards staring, the squire dropping his sword, the servants whispering, it all came rushing back. At the time, you had felt beautiful. Now you just felt foolish and cheap.

"I did not mean to embarrass you," you whispered.

"I know you did not." His voice softened, and he finally sat down on the edge of the bed. He took your hand in his, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles. "I know you did not mean to. That is what makes this so difficult. You are not malicious, my love. You are not cruel or calculating. You are just… young. Naive. You do not understand the way the world works."

"I understand—"

"No." He squeezed your hand, cutting you off gently. "No, you do not. If you understood, you would never have worn that dress. If you understood, you would know that men do not look at a woman dressed like that and think about her wit or her kindness or her gentle heart. They think about one thing, and one thing only. And the thought of anyone thinking about my wife that way—" His jaw tightened. "It makes me sick. It makes me want to kill someone."

You flinched, he noticed.

"I am not going to hurt you," he said quickly, his voice softening again. "I would never hurt you. You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do to protect you. Even when it seems harsh. Even when it seems cruel. It is all for your own good."

You nodded slowly. You did not know what else to do.

"But I cannot protect you if you will not let me," he continued. "I cannot protect you if you insist on making choices that put you in danger. And so I have to take steps. Difficult steps. Steps that hurt me more than they hurt you, I promise."

Your heart began to beat faster. "What steps?"

He sighed heavily, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "I cannot let you leave our chambers today. Not until I have gone out and… repaired the damage."

"Repaired the damage?" Your voice rose, sharp with confusion and fear. "What damage? What are you talking about?"

"The damage you did yesterday." He said it patiently, like a tutor explaining a difficult concept to a slow student. "Half the city saw you in that dress. The guards, the servants, the merchants in the streets. They saw my wife—the Lady of Oldtown—dressed like a woman of ill repute. They are talking about it right now. Whispering about it. About you."

Your stomach dropped. "They are not—"

"They are." He looked at you with such pity, such genuine concern, that you felt your certainty crumble. "I know you do not want to believe it. I know you want to think the best of people. But I have lived in this city my whole life. I know how people talk. I know what they say about women who dress the way you dressed yesterday. And I cannot—I will not—let them say those things about my wife."

You felt tears prick at your eyes again. You had not thought about that. You had not considered what people might be saying. You had just been happy to feel like yourself again.

"I have to go out there," Ormund said, his voice heavy with duty. "I have to speak to the guards who saw you. I have to make sure they understand that what they saw was an aberration, a mistake, a lapse in judgment from a young bride who does not yet know our ways. I have to repair your reputation before it is too damaged to salvage. Do you understand how difficult that is for me?"

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

"It is humiliating," he continued. "To have to go out there and make excuses for my own wife. To have to look men in the eye and pretend that everything is fine, that my wife is a respectable woman, when half of them saw her dressed like a—" He stopped again, pressing his lips together. "But I will do it. Because I love you. Because you are my wife, and your honor is my honor, and I will not let anyone drag your name through the mud. Even if it means swallowing my pride. Even if it means humiliating myself to protect you."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, but he saw.

"Do not cry," he said softly, reaching up to brush the tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I am not angry with you. I am disappointed, yes. I am hurt. But I am not angry. I know you did not mean to cause this mess. I know you were just being thoughtless, not malicious. But thoughtlessness has consequences, my love. And now I have to clean up those consequences."

"I am sorry," you whispered. The words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I did not think—I did not realize—"

"I know you did not." He cupped your face in both hands, tilting your chin up so that you had to look at him. "That is the problem, my love. You did not think. And until I can trust you to think before you act, until I can trust you to consider the consequences of your choices, I have to keep you safe. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though some part of you was screaming that this was wrong. That you were a princess, a dragonrider, a woman grown. That you should not need permission to leave your own chambers.

But that part of you was quiet. Muffled. Drowned out by the shame burning in your chest and the guilt churning in your stomach.

"So I cannot leave?" you asked. Your voice was very small.

"Not today." He stroked your hair gently, tenderly, as if he were comforting a child. "Today, I need you to stay here. I need you to reflect on what happened. I need you to think about the choices you made and how they affected both of us. And while you are doing that, I will be out there, cleaning up this mess. I will be talking to the guards, reassuring the servants, making sure that everyone understands that my wife is a good woman who made a foolish mistake. I will be restoring your reputation. Protecting your honor. Doing the things that a husband must do when his wife cannot be trusted to protect herself."

The words hit you like blows. Cannot be trusted. Foolish mistake. Cleaning up this mess. You felt yourself shrinking under the weight of them, your shoulders curling inward, your eyes dropping to your lap.

"I will make this right," he promised, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I will fix everything. But I need you to do your part. I need you to stay here, and reflect, and think about how you can be better. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded. You did not trust yourself to speak.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead. "I know this is hard. Believe me, it is harder for me than it is for you. Do you think I want to leave you here alone? Do you think I want to go out there and have those conversations? It is humiliating. It is exhausting. But I do it because I love you. Because your honor is more important to me than my own comfort."

He rose from the bed, adjusting his tunic, smoothing down his sleeves. He looked every inch the Lord of Oldtown—commanding, dignified, in control. And you—you were still in your thin shift, your hair a mess, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You had never felt so small.

"I will send up a tray for you," he said, pausing at the door. "And I will check on you when I return. We will talk more then, about how we move forward. About how we rebuild trust between us."

He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at you with an expression of such deep, sorrowful love that your heart clenched.

"I do love you," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do because I love you. I just need you to be the wife I know you can be. The wife you were always meant to be. And I am going to help you get there. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it is. I am not giving up on you."

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. Alone in the cold stone room, with nothing but your guilt and your shame and the faint, lingering smell of smoke from the fireplace.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the door. Thinking. Reflecting, just as he had asked.

Your face burned with shame. You pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, trying to disappear into its grey folds. He was right. He was right about all of it. You had been thoughtless. Naive. You had not considered the consequences of your actions, and now he was out there, cleaning up your mess. Defending your honor. Protecting your reputation. And all you had to do was sit here and reflect.

It was humiliating. But it was what you deserved.

You had embarrassed him. You had embarrassed yourself. And he was still willing to forgive you. He was still willing to fight for you. He was still willing to love you, despite everything.

You did not deserve him. You really, truly did not.

The hours passed slowly. A servant brought a tray of bread and cheese and watered wine, and you ate mechanically, barely tasting it. You tried to read, but the words blurred on the page. You tried to pray, but the words felt hollow and meaningless. Mostly, you just sat by the window and watched the clouds move across the sky and thought about all the ways you had failed.

When Ormund finally returned, the sun was low in the sky, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You heard his footsteps in the corridor and straightened immediately, smoothing your hair, wiping your face, trying to look like a wife he could be proud of.

The door opened, and he stepped inside. He looked tired—worn, even—and your heart clenched with guilt. You had done this to him. You had exhausted him with your thoughtlessness.

"How did it go?" you asked quietly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It was difficult. Humiliating. But I think I managed to smooth things over. I spoke to the guards. I spoke to the steward. I made it clear that what happened yesterday was a mistake, a moment of poor judgment from a young bride who is still adjusting to our ways. I think they understood."

"Thank you," you whispered. The words felt pathetically inadequate. "Thank you for… for doing that."

"I did it for you." He crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth. "I did it because I love you. Because I cannot bear the thought of anyone speaking ill of you."

You rose from the window seat and crossed to him, kneeling at his feet. It felt right. It felt like penance. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I am so sorry for everything. I will be better. I promise. I will be the wife you need me to be."

He looked down at you, his expression softening. He reached out and stroked your hair, his touch gentle. "I know you will. I believe in you. I just need you to prove it to me. I need you to earn back my trust."

"How?" You looked up at him, desperate. "Tell me how. I will do anything."

He considered for a moment. "For now, I think it is best if you do not leave our chambers without me. Just for a little while. Just until I can be sure that you understand what is expected of you. That you understand how a Lady of Oldtown should dress, should behave, should carry herself."

You nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever you think is best."

"It is not what I think is best for me," he said, his voice gentle and sad. "It is what I think is best for you. I am doing this to protect you, my love. Not to punish you. Do you understand the difference?"

"I understand." And you did. You really did. He was not being cruel. He was being careful. He was protecting you from yourself, from your own naivety, from the judgment of a world you did not fully understand.

"Good girl." He cupped your face in his hands and leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Good girl. I knew you would understand eventually. I knew you would come around."

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch. His hands were warm, his voice was gentle, and he loved you. He loved you so much he was willing to humiliate himself to protect you. How could you not be grateful? How could you not love him back?

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he said. "More than you know. And I am going to take care of you. I am going to teach you. I am going to help you become the woman you were always meant to be. You just have to trust me."

"I trust you," you said.

And you meant it.

The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.

You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.

You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.

It did not matter. The days were all the same now.

You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.

You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.

It was beautiful. It was not home.

You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.

Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.

"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.

You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."

A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.

"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.

You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.

"Very well," you said quietly.

Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.

You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.

Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.

You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.

"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."

"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.

They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.

And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.

The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.

He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.

Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."

But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.

And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.

You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.

You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.

You had been so stupid.

The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."

It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.

"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."

Your heart stopped.

"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"

"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."

"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.

"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.

You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.

The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.

"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"

"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."

The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"

"Please."

You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.

When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.

Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.

These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.

And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.

The silver-grey gown.

You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.

It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.

You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.

"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"

You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.

"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.

"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."

You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—

You gasped.

You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.

And then the knock came.

"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."

You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.

Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"

Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"

"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."

The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.

And people noticed.

Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.

—

Ormund found you in the solar.

It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.

You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."

He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.

"Where did you get that dress?"

His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.

"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"

"Stand up."

You blinked. "What?"

"Stand. Up."

You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.

"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"

He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.

"You will come with me," he said. "Now."

"Ormund, you are hurting me—"

"Now."

He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.

He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.

Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.

"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"

You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"

"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."

The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—

"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."

"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"

"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"

Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"

"I lied."

The words stopped you cold.

"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."

He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.

"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."

"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"

"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."

"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"

"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"

You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.

"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."

"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."

"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"

"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."

You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.

"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"

"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."

"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."

"I am not—"

"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."

"Let go of me."

You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.

He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.

"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."

"You are hurting me."

"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"Take. It. Off."

You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"

"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."

You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—

His patience ran out.

He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.

The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.

"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"

"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."

"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"

He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.

"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."

That was when you slapped him.

You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—

His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.

"You should not have done that," he said quietly.

And then he reached for the rest of the dress.

You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.

He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.

Then he walked to the fireplace.

"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."

He threw it into the flames.

You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.

You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.

And then he was there.

He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.

"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"

You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.

"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."

You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."

"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."

"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.

"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."

You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?

"Say you are sorry," he said.

"I—"

"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."

You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.

"I am sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."

He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.

"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."

You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.

"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"

You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.

"Say it."

"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.

"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."

He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.

"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."

He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.

And you did not pull away.

Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."

The afternoon was quiet and golden, the kind of afternoon that seemed to exist outside of time.

You were curled up in your favorite chair by the window, your legs tucked beneath you, a heavy book resting in your lap. It was a history of Old Valyria, borrowed from the Citadel's vast library at Ormund's request, he had written to the archmaesters on your behalf, knowing how you loved to read about your ancestral homeland. You had been reading for the better part of an hour, lost in tales of dragonlords and sorcerers and the Doom that had ended them all, when a strange, sweet smell pulled you back to the present.

You looked up, Ormund was sitting at his desk across the solar, but he was not working. The ledgers and letters that usually consumed his attention had been pushed aside, and in their place was a small wooden box, its lid open, and a collection of items that you did not recognize. There was a small ceramic bowl, a thin-bladed knife, and a bundle of dried leaves that looked almost like the tea your mother sometimes drank, but darker. More fragrant. The sweet, herbal scent you had noticed was coming from them.

He was focused on his task, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving with practiced precision. You watched him for a moment, curiosity stirring. You had never seen him do anything quite like this before.

"What are you doing?" you asked, closing your book and setting it aside.

He glanced up, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing that should interrupt your reading, my love. Go back to your dragons and your doom."

"You have interrupted my reading already." You uncurled yourself from the chair and crossed the room toward him, your bare feet silent on the thick Myrish carpet. "What is that smell? It is sweet. Like flowers, but… different."

He leaned back in his chair as you approached, making no move to hide what he was doing. As you drew closer, you could see the items on his desk more clearly. The dried leaves were a deep green, almost brown, and they had been crushed into small, even pieces. The ceramic bowl was shallow, and beside it lay what looked like a thin wooden pipe, ornately carved with patterns you did not recognize.

"Herbs," he said simply. "From Lys."

"From Lys?" You stopped beside his chair, peering down at the strange collection. "What kind of herbs?"

He picked up one of the dried leaves and held it out to you. You took it carefully, turning it over between your fingers. It was light and brittle, and the sweet scent clung to your skin. "I have never seen anything like this before," you admitted. "What is it for?"

"It helps me relax." He took the leaf back from you and dropped it into the ceramic bowl. "Calms the mind. Eases tension. When the duties of ruling become… particularly heavy, sometimes a man needs assistance letting go of them."

You watched as he began to pack the crushed leaves into the bowl of the wooden pipe, his movements slow and deliberate. "I have never seen you use it before," you said. "Not once. In all the months we have been married."

"Because I rarely use it." He glanced up at you, and his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners. "It is very strong. Too strong for daily use. I only take it when I know I have a free day ahead of me—no meetings, no audiences, no duties that require a clear head. It is not the kind of thing one indulges in lightly."

"And today?" You rested your hand on the back of his chair, leaning slightly closer. "Do you have a free day?"

"Today," he said, "I have cleared my schedule entirely. No meetings. No letters. No interruptions." He reached up and caught your hand, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. "I thought I might spend the day with my wife. If she is not too busy reading about the Doom of Valyria."

You felt a flush of pleasure at his words. "You cleared your whole day? For me?"

"For us." He released your hand and returned to his task. "You have been patient with me lately. I have been too busy, too distracted. I thought we deserved a day with nothing to do but enjoy each other's company."

"That is very sweet," you said, and meant it.

"But now I have been caught." He smiled, a self-deprecating expression. "You were supposed to be engrossed in your book. I was going to step onto the balcony, have my little indulgence, and return before you even noticed I was gone."

"I would have noticed." You settled onto the arm of his chair, your hip pressing against his shoulder. "I always notice when you are gone."

"I know you do." His hand found your knee, warm and familiar through the silk of your gown. "You are very observant, my love. It is one of your many excellent qualities."

You watched as he finished packing the pipe and lifted it to his lips. He struck a flint and lit the herbs, and the sweet smell intensified, filling the air around you. He inhaled slowly, his eyes closing, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. When he exhaled, the smoke curled upward in a thin, pale ribbon, dissipating into the golden afternoon light.

"There," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "That is better."

You were fascinated. You had never seen anything like this, your mother had never used such things, nor anyone else at court that you could remember. The scent was intoxicating, sweet and earthy and somehow familiar, though you could not place why. "What does it feel like?" you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

He opened his eyes and looked at you. His gaze was slightly softer now, slightly more relaxed. "It feels like letting go of a weight you did not realize you were carrying. The sharp edges of the world smooth themselves away." He took another slow inhale, then offered the pipe to you. "Would you like to try?"

You blinked, surprised. "Me?"

"You." He smiled at your expression. "You look very curious, my love. And there is no harm in it. It is not dangerous—just relaxing. Very, very relaxing."

"I have never…" You hesitated, looking at the pipe. "I do not know how."

"Then I will teach you." He set the pipe down in the ceramic bowl and reached for your hand. "Come here."

He guided you off the arm of the chair and onto his lap, settling you sideways across his thighs. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you comfortably against him, and you let yourself lean into his warmth. This was familiar territory—sitting in his lap, being held by him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Whatever nervousness you had felt about the strange herbs began to fade.

"There," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "Comfortable?"

"Yes," you admitted.

"Good. Now." He picked up the pipe and held it to his own lips, inhaling deeply. But instead of exhaling, he turned your face toward his with a gentle finger under your chin.

"Open your mouth," he said softly. "Just a little."

Your eyes widened, but you obeyed. He leaned close and pressed his lips to yours, and instead of a kiss, he breathed the smoke into your mouth. It was warm and sweet, and you inhaled instinctively, drawing it into your lungs. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, and when he pulled back, you found yourself blinking in surprise.

"There," he said, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "That was not so difficult, was it?"

"That is not how I thought you would do it," you said, your voice slightly breathless.

He laughed, low and warm. "There are other ways. But I find this one to be far more enjoyable. Shall we try again?"

You nodded, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks. This time, when he inhaled and leaned toward you, you were ready. Your lips met his halfway, and the smoke passed between you like a secret. You inhaled more deeply this time, holding it in your lungs for a moment before letting it out in a soft, shaky exhale.

"Good girl," he murmured, and his voice was like honey. "You are a natural."

The world was beginning to feel different. The golden afternoon light seemed to glow more brightly, and the sweet scent of the herbs wrapped around you like a blanket. You felt your muscles relaxing, your thoughts slowing, the constant low hum of anxiety that you had not even realized you were carrying beginning to fade away.

"I feel strange," you said, and your voice sounded distant to your own ears. "But… in a good way. A very good way."

"That is the herbs." His hand was stroking your back now, slow and soothing, tracing the line of your spine through your gown. "They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. Tell me what you feel."

You considered the question, letting your head rest against his shoulder. "I feel… soft. Like everything is soft. The light, the air, your voice. All of it. And I feel very warm. Very comfortable. I feel like I could stay here forever and never move again."

"That sounds lovely." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips lingered there for a long moment. "What else?"

"I feel…" You opened your eyes and looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and in the golden light, he looked almost like a painting. The lines around his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he was looking at you with such tenderness—it all seemed more vivid than usual. More beautiful. "I feel very aware of you," you admitted, and your voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate. "Of your hands. Your heartbeat. The way you smell. Everything about you."

"Is that so?" His smile deepened, and his hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently. The pressure of his fingers sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

"It is," you said, and the words came out more earnestly than you intended. "I am always aware of you, but right now it is… more. Much more. I can feel every place your body is touching mine. I can feel your breath on my skin. I can feel—" You stopped, your cheeks flushing.

"Can feel what?" His voice was a low murmur now, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The sensation made you shiver again, a full body tremor that you could not suppress.

"I can feel how much I love you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is like it is filling me up. Like there is no room for anything else."

"You are going to make me weep, wife. And I am supposed to be the one taking care of you."

"You are taking care of me," you said. "You are always taking care of me."

He kissed you then, slow and deep and full of feeling, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His hand came up to cup your face, tilting your head to the perfect angle, and you melted into him completely. The herbs had made everything softer, more vivid, more intense, and his kiss felt like drowning and flying all at once.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing harder. Your lips felt swollen, your heart was racing, and a warmth had begun to pool low in your belly, spreading outward like ripples in still water.

"I think," he said, his forehead resting against yours, "that these herbs affect you even more strongly than they affect me."

"Perhaps," you agreed, but your voice came out breathless and uneven. "Or perhaps it is just you."

His eyes darkened at that, and his hand tightened on your hip. "Flatterer," he murmured, but there was nothing teasing in his voice now. Only heat.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers tangling in your hair. You clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the intensity of it, the taste of him, the scent of the herbs still lingering in the air, the way his body felt solid and warm beneath your hands. Every nerve in your body felt heightened, electrified. The brush of his thumb against your cheekbone sent sparks cascading down your spine. The pressure of his lips on yours made your toes curl.

When he pulled back this time, you let out a small, involuntary sound of protest. He smiled, slow and knowing, and his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip.

"What was that?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Nothing," you said quickly, your face burning. "I did not say anything."

"You made a sound." His hand slid from your face down to your throat, feather-light, barely touching. "A very pretty sound. Did you want something, my love?"

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. Your hips shifted on his lap, pressing closer to him without your permission, and you felt his hand tighten on your waist in response.

"Are you certain?" He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. Each kiss was light, teasing, maddeningly gentle. "Because it seems to me that you are feeling something. Something more than just relaxed."

"Ormund," you breathed, and his name came out like a plea.

"Yes, my love?" His mouth was on your neck now, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His beard scraped lightly against your skin, a delicious friction that made you gasp. "Tell me what you want. I am listening."

You could not think. You could barely breathe. His lips were on your collarbone now, and his hand had slipped beneath the hem of your gown, his palm warm against your bare calf. He stroked upward slowly, achingly slowly, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made you tremble.

"I want…" You swallowed hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "I want you to keep touching me."

"I am touching you," he murmured against your throat. His hand had reached your knee now, and his thumb was tracing slow circles on the sensitive skin at the back of your leg. "Is this not enough?"

"No," you admitted, your voice breaking on the word. "I want more. I want—"

He lifted his head and looked at you. His eyes were dark, heav lidded, full of desire and something tender and possessive all at once. "You want more," he repeated. "More of what? Be specific, my love. I want to hear you say it."

Your face was burning. The herbs had loosened your inhibitions, but not enough to make this easy. "I want your hands on me," you whispered. "Everywhere. I want you to touch me the way you touch me at night, when we are alone. I want—"

You could not finish. The words were too bold, too shameless. You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by your own boldness.

He laughed softly, and the sound vibrated through his chest. "My shy little wife," he murmured, his hand sliding higher up your leg. "The herbs have made you brave, haven't they? You would never say such things to me without them."

"I might," you protested, your voice muffled against his shirt.

"You might," he agreed, but his tone was teasing. "But I am enjoying this very much. You, sitting in my lap, trembling for me. Telling me exactly what you want. It is very… enticing."

His hand reached the top of your thigh and stopped, his fingers resting just below the edge of your smallclothes. You held your breath, waiting, wanting, your whole body taut with anticipation.

"Look at me," he said.

You raised your head from his shoulder and met his eyes. His expression was intense, focused, utterly consuming.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now. Tell me again. What do you want?"

"Your hands," you said, your voice steadier now. "Your mouth. All of you. I want you to make me feel the way you always make me feel."

"And how is that?"

"Wanted." The word came out on a sigh. "Cherished. Desired. Like I am the only woman in the world."

"You are the only woman in the world," he said, and his voice was rough with sincerity. "You are the only woman who has ever mattered. The only woman I have ever loved like this."

He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing teasing about it. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that made your head spin, and his hands were everywhere at once, in your hair, on your back, sliding up your thigh, cupping your breast through the silk of your gown. You arched into his touch, little sounds escaping your throat that you could not control, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, his neck, his hair.

"Ormund," you gasped against his mouth. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please—"

But you could not finish. His hand had found the laces of your gown, and he was tugging them loose with practiced fingers, and the silk was sliding off your shoulders, and his mouth was following the fabric downward, kissing every inch of newly bared skin. Your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your waist. You were trembling uncontrollably now, your head falling back, your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "So beautiful. Do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?"

"I—" You could not form words. His mouth had found your nipple, and his tongue was tracing slow circles around the sensitive peak, and coherent thought had become impossible.

"I love the sounds you make," he said, his voice a low rumble against your breast. "I love the way you tremble. I love the way you say my name, like a prayer, like a plea, like I am the only thing in the world that matters to you."

"You are," you breathed. "You are."

He lifted his head and looked at you, and his expression was so full of love that it made your heart ache. "And you are everything to me. Everything."

He kissed you again, slow and deep, and his hands continued their exploration of your body—touching, stroking, teasing, learning you all over again. The herbs had made everything more intense, more vivid, more overwhelming. Every touch felt like fire. Every kiss felt like a promise.

"Come," he murmured against your lips. "Let us go to bed. I want to take my time with you. I want to make you feel so good you forget your own name."

"I do not think I can walk," you admitted, your legs feeling weak and unsteady.

"Then I will carry you." He stood, lifting you in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. You wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face against his shoulder, your body still trembling with unfulfilled desire.

"I love you," you whispered against his skin.

Shimmer circled the stronghold, her pearlescent scales glittering in the dim light as the sun set in the sky. You were not meant to be flying out on her after dark, but you were never one for following the rules, Much to Ormund's ire. Hobert had given you a longer leash, spoiling you as your grandfather had in the Red Keep before you and Daeron were sent to ward in Oldtown. You tested Ormund's patience more than your dear sweet twin, Daeron. You liked to believe the Targaryen blood pumped hotter through your veins. She swooped down on your command, landing on the blackstones, alerting the guards to your arrival. You slipped down her wing, landing gracefully on your feet before striding with ease and confidence into the base of the Hightower.

"You reek of that beast," Ormund scowled the moment you set foot inside, peering down at you from the balcony. He removed the silver pomander from his doublet and inhaled the citrus and clove scent of the tightly packed satchel nestled inside.

"I've grown used to it; it does not bother me," you replied with a shrug of your shoulders, a long silver braid falling down your back. Those eyes remained on you like a hawk. While you thought only Targaryen blood rushed through your veins, he saw the Hightower breaking through. The Blood of the First Men. Mayhaps that's why he favored you and Daeron so. Mayhaps he wished to remove Aegon and Aemond from the succession and crown Daeron instead.

"I've had a bath prepared for you," he stated, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger as he descended the winding staircase to meet you halfway.

"How kind of you, Uncle," you said sweetly, peering up at him. He wasn't, not truly, but you preferred to call him that over cousin. Especially since the term got under his skin so easily. He grasped your chin firmly once you were close enough.

"We have talked about this. I do not want you flying alone, unprotected," he lectured, a disapproving look etched across his face.

"Shimmer may look pretty, but she is fearsome. She bit the finger off my nursemaid when she hatched."

"Only you would brag of such brutal behavior." However, his lips twitched in amusement in remembrance of the Hightower guard who grabbed your arms and sequentially lost his to the jaws of your pearly beast. Not even he could deny the thrill he got when you obeyed his orders to lay dragonfire to traitors of the crown. Mayhaps the one time he could stand the smell of burnt flesh.

You huffed. "If anything, I learned the art of brutality from you."

"You are a wicked girl. You should go to the sept and repent for your sins."

"Or you could correct my ways, Uncle."

"That is a dangerous game. We agreed to stop."

"Mayhaps I was too hasty in my agreement to that. I have missed it, I have missed you. Gods know I need a firm hand to guide lest I turn into a feral dragon myself," you whispered, peering up at him through your lashes.

"I should take my belt to you," he warned, fingers digging into the flesh of your jaw. He had never once struck you in your younger years and never dared to lay a finger upon your precious twin.

"While I kneel in front of the altar? Leaving welts over my skin for atonement?" You truly were a wicked little thing, and Gods, he would follow you straight into the Seven Hells.

A shiver ran through him, briefly closing his eyes as he imagined you prostrate on the hard stones in front of the blazing altar as his cane struck your tender backside. Welts blooming over your skin as he thrashed your dragonhide, seeing if he could make you break. He abhorred yet welcomed a challenge. His hand fell away from your jaw, and he clenched your upper arms, shaking you gently.

"Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, little niece," he groaned. What mortal man could resist your temptation?

You smiled, arousal gathering between your thighs, and suddenly your riding leathers felt awfully restrictive.

"Shall you punish me before or after my bath?" you teased.

"I suppose I can bear that wretched stench a bit longer." He hauled you off, one hand furled tight around your bicep as he dragged you down the halls and into your chambers, barking at the handmaidens to leave. He stood nearly a head taller than you, and it made your knees weak. You never cared for silly boys; you yearned for a man. When you had turned eight and ten, you tested the waters with him. He had been widowed two years before and had not taken a second wife yet. His children were more suitable to be your companions than he was. Yet that stopped neither of you from toppling into the forbidden. More taboo for him than you. Targaryens had long made a practice of incent.

You glanced over at the tub filled to the brim, steaming billows from it, and the retracted partition resting at the lip. It was decorated with numerous dragons in flight over blooming orchards with trees filled with ripe fruit. You loved it. It had been a gift from Ormund on your previous nameday. He rewarded as much as he disciplined. You could smell the scent of roses. He preferred you sweet to counteract your surliness. Your muscles ached for the warm waters, always enjoying a long soak after riding your mount.

Ormund wasted no time in ripping your riding coat open. It was made of green wool, lined with black silk, and kept fastened with golden buttons shaped like the Hightower. The sweat and smell of burnt meat were pungent on your clothing.

"Now what was that pretty dragon of yours burning?" he hummed, working your green tunic over your head, leaving your top half bare to his ravenous eyes. At least you and Daeron had been blessed with pretty dragons, well kept and gleaming, and not some of these rank beasts, like the one Aemond flew. Ormund detested the hoary bitch.

"She grows hungry during a flight," you replied simply.

"Answer the question. Have you been pilfering the livestock again?"

"A sheep, a pig. Though she longs for an aurochs."

"I'm hardly surprised. She has the same spoiled taste as her rider." He pushed you into the chair and knelt to remove your boots, wrinkling his nose at the mud and what was most likely dung clinging to them. The gag he let out was so dramatic that you had to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter. He placed them outside your doors and ordered one of the handmaidens to clean them thoroughly. When he returned to the spot in front of you, he removed his ornate doublet and rolled the sleeves of his undertunic up his strong forearms. Veins prominent, and your teeth yearned to sink into him. To feel his blood fill your mouth and seep into yours.

You squeaked as he yanked your breeches off with such force that you had to dig your hands into the arms of the chair to keep from toppling out. He yanked you onto your feet, taking seat before yanking you over his lap. Your hardened nipples scraped over the fabric of his breeches as his palm rested on your upturned rump, gently kneading your flesh. The first crack felt like dragonfire searing your skin. A strained gasp toppled from your lips. You had goaded him into it after all.

Each smack lighted a fresh fire over your exposed skin. You gritted your teeth, doing your best to control yourself. Though you suspected he enjoyed it when you caused a fuss. Handprints blazed on your skin, and you nearly sighed with relief when his hand stilled. Shimmer's roar could be heard, shaking the walls as she mirrored your pain.

"Fetch me your hairbrush," he ordered, stroking the back of your thighs.

"N…no, Uncle, please," you begged, not sure you could take much more, even though moments earlier you were encouraging him to strike you with his belt.

"I want you to feel this on the morrow when you are in the saddle," he growled, squeezing your abused backside. "I want to bruise you."

Heat lapped in your lower belly, a twitch making your pearl ache. Slowly, you pushed yourself up with your hands braced against his strong thigh, retrieved the silver brush from your vanity, and watched his large hand wrap around the handle. Your knees nearly gave out. You hated it, yet you craved it. He was everything you needed. Everything you wanted; the full attention of a man who could control you when you needed it. He was your rider, and you were his dragon.

The strikes against your flesh cracked through the room, salty tears spilling from your eyes as your Uncle tenderized your flesh, cutting through that thick dragonhide of yours. It was divine.

"There, there, sweet niece," he cooed, stroking your abused flesh before gathering you in his arms and letting you sob into his chest. Yearning to crawl inside his skin, to dig your talons in. Despite the pain and humiliation, arousal clung to your thighs, and the smell beckoned him. Tangy and sharp, like a plum.

He carried you over to the bath, carefully lowering you into the balmy waters. Pink rose petals floated around you. You hissed softly as your sore arse grew used to the temperature before the pain began to subside slowly. He unbraided your hair, untangling it with the brush he had used to spank you with before having you close your eyes as he poured the water jug over your scalp. There was a mixture made of plant lye he preferred to use to clean your hair, gently lathering it up with his skilled fingers. After he rinsed it, he applied a thin lotion made from boiled goat's milk and jasmine to soften your hair.

His brow knitted together as he made you stand, before methodically scrubbing every inch of your body. The dip of the sponge between your thighs made you shiver. Ormund breathed in deeply, a soft smile crossing his face as the dragon stench disappeared from your skin. Your freshly scrubbed skin was glowing, and your hair gleamed like molten silver. Tenderly, he dried you off, skimming his fingertips over your abused bottom. Bruises were already forming, and he felt satisfied with his work.

He moved you in front of the mirror, turning you slightly so you could see the marks he had seared on your skin. You groaned, peering over your shoulder and knowing riding tomorrow would be painful. You took hold of his wrist, lifting his palm to your mouth and kissing the rough skin that had struck you moments earlier.

"Thank you, Uncle," you murmured.

His fingers tangled in your wet hair, pulling you close and crashing his mouth against yours. The air left your lungs, head spinning.

"You have me under a spell, niece. Sent by the Gods to torment me."

"I could think of worse punishments," you teased, panting softly.

"I no longer wish to sully you. I will take you to wife," he whispered, gazing into your eyes.

"Truly?"

"The least I can do is make you an honorable woman. I cannot bear the thought of another man putting his hands on you. You are mine." His fingers dug painfully into your sore skin. Mayhaps if he wed you, the Gods would forgive him for all his sins. To save a young maiden from toppling further down the path of ruin.

"I have always been yours, Uncle."

He lifted you into his arms, your strong thighs looping around his waist as he carried you toward the bed. You were placed on your belly, his mouth pressing soft, eager kisses down your shoulders and back, then over your reddened backside, a smattering of violet bruises decorating the areas he struck the hardest. His face lowered against the curve of your arse, nose nudging against your cunt, before he pulled away to remove his clothing. The fresh, clean scent of your skin made his cock stiff. How delicious and pure you smelled. His little dragon now a soft, docile lamb for him to ravage. He rolled you onto your back, pulling you close to him as his cock nudged against your opening.

"We will repent together in the morning, side by side, sweet niece. On our knees, begging for forgiveness," he whispered before plunging deep inside you.

"Yes, Uncle," you purred.

He set a steady pace, each thrust making the pressure in your belly build until finally it released. His cock glistened with your wetness as he spilled his seed onto the floor. He had sinned enough for one day; he would save that for when you became his wife, and he would fill you with many babes. Ormund held you in his lap once more, kneading your breasts and pinching your nipples until you had a second release with his fingers buried deep inside. Your nectar coated his skin, and there was a brief moment he wished to bottle the scent. To unscrew the lid and breathe in his niece's sweet ambrosia, fresh from her cunt. After, he dressed you in a silk nightgown and brushed your hair before tucking you into bed.

"It will be cold tonight, snuggle up. Pleasant dreams, sweet niece," he whispered in your ear, his voice making your flesh tingle as he tucked the soft fur around you.

The next morning, you dressed demurely in a pale pink gown with pearls around your wrists, dangling from your ears, and clinging to the hollow of your throat. You appeared as an innocent maiden, silver hair tightly braided around your head, covered with a netted pearl snood, as you knelt beside your Uncle and lit a candle, then snuffed out the match with a soft breath. You clasped your hands tightly together, bowing your head in reverence.

"May the Maiden forgive me for my lustful desires," you whispered. "May she protect me from them until I am married."

A smirk curved over Ormund's face, but he kept his eyes closed, head bowed thoughtfully in his own prayers.

"May the Father guide me onto a more righteous path and send proper punishment to correct me when needed," you murmured sweetly.

One hand furled tightly around your throat, squeezing pleasantly and forcing you to peer into your Uncle's blue eyes. "Again, until you mean it." He pressed your hands against the altar, bending you forward and rolling your dress up around your waist.

“Thank you, for bringing this delicate matter to me.” His hands rested over the sword at his hip. Tapping at the hilt like he was considering the matter. You watched his jaw clench before he tilted his head and brow towards you. Now ready for your rebuttal. Your reason as to why the septas claim that you were no longer pure was untrue.

“he spoke to me first.”

“Yet you continue the conversation? Alone wish a man? Have the seven not guided tiu against exactly that?.” He’d accepted you and Daeron years ago, and you knew things were calmer here than in the red keep, you were greatful for Lord Ormunds kindness and guidance. You did not want him thinking you just tossed aside what’s been taught to you here.

“it was but for a moment, Cousin, you must believe me, nothing unseemly transpired.”

“Then you are still a maiden?”

“yes.” Your voice left no room for question. “I swear it to you and I’d swear it in front of the seven.”

“leave us,” his eyes did not move from yours as he addressed the women. “I shall determine what the truth of the matter is.”

“they sensationalize it.” You grumbled when the septas left. this was all ridiculous in your mind.

“then you can prove yourself honest?” He sat back in his cushioned seat and set a ringed hand against the wood of his desk.

“If I must, yes!”

You realized, delayed, how exactly your cousin meant for you to prove your maidenhead was still intact. His thick finger tapped at the wood infront of him.

“sit here, after your gown and everything else is off.”

“Ormund!?” He does not retreat at your appal.

Shame seared through you as you removed all your layers. It was stuck in your throat until you turned to face him and suddenly, just as his eyes cast over you, that ball moved lower…past your chest settling low in your stomach. Where it’s wasn’t shame at all anymore, but roaring need. Your thighs squeezed slightly when you got yourself up on the desk before him.

He waited a beat and then moved to speak again. You slivered your knees open the moment you saw his jaw tense. You knew he did not appreciate repeating himself. He could see just enough to know that the hair between your legs matched that on your head.

“further.” You shifted your hands to brace behind you and lifted time feet up so your heels pressed to the oak and your knees opened fully for him.

You were so warm but this point that the room felt cold against your most private area. Even the air that came though his nose as he leaned closer to examine you made your body clench against itself.

“You are quite aroused.” He remarked, stating his first finding. You were pink and swollen but from what he could tell it was just your body’s natural state, you did not look raw as he knew woman could get after coupling.

“Is that because you let some lord touch you in the hall? Did he kiss at your neck and make promises that you are far to smart to think he would actually keep?”

“no!” Your voice shook and your bottom squirmed a bit. The movement pushing your scent towards him. His eyes closed for a long moment, taking in a deep breath and holding it to soak up all of your scent that he could.

“ I did not let anybody touch me. I wouldn’t.” You gritted out. It was not lost on him that you were sat here now, propriety far from your mind as you let him view you. Your soft breasts and the line of your waist and hipszzzthag there urging him to touch you even to prove that the claims against you were untrue.

Ormund opened his eyes at your pleading and his brow raised. “Eager…like a whore is. Like a woman who knows what being this wet and getting stuffed results in.”

You shook your head in response, worried that any words you spoke would come out to heated. The truth was you did not know, but Lord Ormund would see to it that you understood by the time you left his study.

By the time that your cousins hands settled on your breasts you were breathing so fast it looked as if you’d just sprinted up the entire tower.

His thumb rolled over one of your semi hard nipples. “We all see how you dress when new lord come to visit…how you get your maids to pull the corset tighter so these sit at your neck.” He knew it was natural for a lady to want to be viewed as beautiful but he found it reprehensible that you had opted to flaunt what should be private.

The man’s eyes traced a path down your body for his hand to follow and you let out a shameful whimper when both of his hand stopped squeezing at your chest. You found you wanted more of his attention there.

As his hands trailed up and down your inner thighs, watching little beads of rural spread over your puffy folds be scoffed tk the edge of his chair, making his face quite level. Your heart jumped at how close he was, at how he could see and smell everything.

“I do not wish to be disappointed in you Princess.” He informed, a cheek settling against your inner thigh and his nose nudge into the crevasse between your pelvis and leg.

“you will not be, i swear i-it! His fingers, thick and sure, gliding up your slit made your voice tremble. His finger circling the button at the top of your womanhood made you forget how to even form words!

“you enjoy that?” He hums eyes looking from your lap to your face.

“use your words princess.” Something in the way he said that word. Princess. Made you moan, and it was not held back by your lips.

“yes…yes it feels strange…but good.” You admit as your eyes pool into ormunds as he circles your pearl for a while longer. He wanted to ensure you were quite aroused, incase what you you said was true.

The moment he pushed your leg open a bit more you knew what he was about to do. You knew where your maidenhead was and now that his fingers were aligned with your core you grew nervous.

“it will hurt-“ you worry and he leans forward, to the flattened and he flicks it over your clit to distract you from the forward motion of his finger.

“ahh!” You tense around him and a hand flys down to his shoulder to grip it. He was so lost in the taste of you that he almost let a second finger nuzzle into you.

“Let’s see,” he remembered himself, remembered that this was all suppose to be to check your virtues. He pressed his finger deeper, carefully moving it without you and he felt the soft skin that was still intact within you. Still proof that you’d been honest with him.

“Did you just want my finger in you? Your cunt in my face?” He questioned, retracting his fingers before he could get carried away and cause issue. “Is that why you flounce through the halls with men?”

“no…” you whine because he’s taken back up rubbing your clit and a very strange, strong feeling was building up.

“you enjoy it though…” his hand moving faster and he grabbed your hip to settle your bottom down against the desk. “You are going to cum against my palm aren’t you princess?”

You fall back flat against the desk groaning loudly, legs lifting up slightly unsure where to go because you wanted to close them but he was there, he was expertly dragging your first orgasm to the surface.

“Cousin-I…it’s strange!” He grins at the panic in your voice. The proof that you’d not even been sullied by your own hand.

“settle now…lest the septas to hear.” He warned. Fingers not wavering until you’d put nail marks into his desk as the climax burst through you.