The Red Keep of King’s Landing was nothing but a collection of half-faded memories. The faces of your lady mother, Queen Alicent, and your other siblings—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—were remembered only in fleeting glimpses, through a sort of thick and hazy mist. You knew they all much resembled yourself in looks, with the same pale eyes and silver-gold locks.

But they were distant princes and princesses of a court you barely knew.

The only other person who resembled you so closely, but one whom you knew all too well and held dear to your heart, was your twin brother, Daeron.

The maesters at the Citadel loved to recount the tale of your quickening to the young acolytes. It was said that when he came wailing into the world from Alicent’s blood-slicked womb, the Grand Maester had no idea there was another.

The old man had wiped his brow, thinking the labor done, and only when he saw the Queen’s birthing was still taking place, her screams echoing through the chamber anew, did he realize a second babe lay within.

Alas, you were no less welcome, appreciated, or celebrated than your brother.

So when the time came for Daeron to be sent south to the Honeywine to serve as a squire for your mother’s family, the Hightowers, it had been decided that it would be best if you went along too.

That is how, for most of your life, even as a princess of the Crown, you have called Oldtown your home, raised amidst the scent of salt, tar, and the tolling of the bells from the Starry Sept.

“It is so beautiful, my princess,” Miriam spoke softly, her voice hushed with the reverence usually reserved for the Mother’s altar. She gently carded the bejeweled golden comb through the long strands of your hair. “Like pale moonlight on the water, or the morning mists on the morrow…”

Through the silvered mirror, you could see her eyes wide in awe, and you could feel the extreme caution of her touch. Her fingers did their work ever so gently—not daring to snag a single knot or cause the slightest pain to the princess.

“Thank you, Miriam,” you replied with a gentle, practiced smile. You were much used to being showered in compliments by the household, and equally used to replying to them with the appropriate courtly courtesy.

“Which dress, princess?” another of your maids, Cathy, chirped up. The other girls helped her hold up two different garments, their faces eager for your choice.

Your eyes followed the trail of the first; a gorgeous, sweeping gown made of quality red silk from the Free Cities, flowing like fresh-spilled blood and intricately embroidered with black thread along the bodice.

The other was a gown of Hightower green, fashioned from the softest Myrish wool, its collar carefully decorated with seven-pointed stars stitched in silver thread.

It was a silent, but obviously heavy choice—the colors of your father’s house against the colors of your mother’s kin.

Before you could make your choice or offer a reply, two rapid, thudding knocks sounded on the door. Before any of your maids could bid entrance, the heavy oak thing was creaking violently on its iron hinges, banging hard against the dressed stone wall as it all but flew open.

The girls around you instinctively flocked closer to one another, forming a kind of protective half-circle with their bodies, their eyes cast down toward the rushes on the floor. One of the household servants entered first, his eyes fixed stiffly ahead of him, not daring to spare any of the women the slightest glance.

“The Lord Hightower, my princess,” he announced, his voice tight with formality.

Before you could catch your footing, find a robe, or even question what was happening, your uncle was already stepping foot inside your private chambers.

You were wearing nothing but your thin linen shift, and the maids seemed to notice your state of undress as they nervously began jittering their fingers, shifting from foot to foot.

Ormund stepped into your room as he stepped into any other room in the city—like he owned the very stones beneath his boots (because in truth he did).

He was wearing a simple but finely cut doublet of dark green velvet, the color he preferred frequenting the most, slashed with silver satin. His sharp grey gaze swept across the flock of trembling girls once before settling entirely on you.

“Uncle—” you began, straightening your back and lifting your chin, attempting to summon the dignity of a Crown princess while clad only in your night-smock. Miriam took a hasty step backward from your side.

“Leave us.” he commanded the maids, his voice a low, resonant baritone that left absolutely no room for disobedience.

You could see almost all of them squirming under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and strong, unyielding jawline inspired absolute reverence and fear in many a young maiden in Oldtown. Alas, you were not just one of many; you were blood of the dragon.

Your jaw tightened quietly. “Your princess commands you to stay.” you firmly countered, your voice ringing clear against the stone walls.

The girls seemed paralyzed. Entirely confused, frozen in place, caught in a web of divided loyalties. They looked between their princess and their Lord, not entirely certain whose orders they should be following.

You thought Ormund’s eyes would flash with fury at the defiance, but instead, what you found on his face was a dark amusement. A sly, mocking grin threatened to spread across his features at your antics.

“Your Lord commands you to leave us at once.” he repeated. His voice carried a tone of absolute authority, carrying no hint of the amusement that danced in his eyes.

At the sheer severity of his command, the girls finally broke. They scampered out of the door one by one like frightened mice, nodding their heads in hurried acknowledgment and leaving you alone with your uncle.

A sharp sense of quiet betrayal began to unfurl within your chest.

These are my girls, you thought bitterly. They should be loyal to me. They should be listening to my commands, not his.

The only comfort, the only thing you would look upon later with a touch of gratitude, was Miriam.

Just before stepping foot through the heavy oak door, the girl looked back, her ashamed eyes searching yours for an answer, a silent plea for forgiveness. You nodded ever so slightly, letting her know she was dismissed, and the girl quickly took her leave. At least someone in this castle still recognized your royal authority.

The door creaked shut behind them as a household guard pulled it closed from the hallway, and the servant stepped outside, leaving a heavy silence in the room.

You turned your back on your uncle, returning to your vanity.

It was a magnificent piece imported from Lannisport, a gorgeous bone-white wood crafted with intricate star designs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

It had been a gift for your fifth nameday, and you had been in love with it ever since, even if for the first five years it had been far too grand for a child to use.

Your fingers picked up the bone brush Miriam had dropped and continued the work; alas, your movements were far less gentle and much more forceful than the maid's. You yanked the bristles through your silver-white hair, your eyes fiercely refusing to meet Ormund’s in the reflection.

Once again, you could hear him shuffle his boots against the rushes, and a soft air of laughter escaped him at your stubborn antics.

“Is this how you greet the Lord of Oldtown?” he began, stepping closer to where you sat in front of your vanity, his shadow falling over your shoulder. You still refused to meet his gaze or give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“Have I not raised you with better manners, niece? A princess of the crown should know how to behave appropriately in front of Great Lords. Hm, tell me, what would your lady mother say to this?”

“I would not know, my Lord,” you countered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every syllable. “I have not exactly been privy to my lady mother’s thoughts or her presence. After all, I was raised here in Oldtown.”

His thick eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Yet still… she is the Queen… and you her daughter, a princess of the royal blood.”

“A toothless princess, or so it would seem,” you muttered bitterly. “When not even my own handmaidens seem to follow my commands.”

Ormund let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He stepped directly behind you, placing a firm, calloused hand upon your bare shoulder, his fingers slowly caressing the pale skin.

A sudden prickle of goosebumps rose along your flesh at the unbidden contact. He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips pressed against the delicate, pale shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine.

You watched it all through the silvered glass of the vanity—his sharp, predatory gaze watching you like a deer through the reflection.

“Ormund.” you began, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the bone hairbrush tighter.

“Uncle.” he corrected softly, his voice a low, commanding murmur against your skin.

He shifted his lips down to the crook of your neck, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into the hollow there.

“What are you—” You tensed, attempting to wrench yourself around to break free from his suffocating proximity, but his hands on your shoulders kept you firmly locked in place.

“Is it true that Tessarion has mated with Starfyre?” he questioned suddenly, as if to catch you off guard, an accusatory glint entering his grey eyes as he spoke of your magnificent beast.

Starfyre had been your very own hatchling, born from a precious clutch laid by Dreamfyre herself. He was a breathtaking vision, clad in shimmering silver-white scales that caught the light like polished armor, with wings that glittered like crushed diamonds when he took to the sky.

Though he was already considerably larger than Tessarion, Starfyre carried himself with a fierce, regal majesty— his long, serpentine neck beautifully akin to Prince Daemon’s dread mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.

“What—” Your brows furrowed in sheer bewilderment. “What? Yes, it is true… they are dragons, Uncle. They nested together in the outer pits—what did you expect them to do?”

He shushed you quietly, raising a sharp finger to cut off any word or attempt to speak. Not that you had any defense to offer… nor any way to justify the ways of your beast. Dragons were creatures born of fire and blood, and you possessed no true, godlike power over them, despite the grand illusions of Targaryen superiority that the smallfolk and highborn alike reverently believed in.

“The most concerning of… rumors have reached my ears, sweet niece… and this unfortunate discovery has only sharpened them.” He announced, straightening his spine, before reaching down and taking a single lock of your snow-white hair between his thick, calloused fingers and slowly coiling it around his digit like a pale ribbon.

“Rumors…” You parroted, attempting to turn your head to face him. But his heavy hand tightened upon your shoulders, staying your movement. His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath your thin linen shift, but you bit down the wince threatening to escape you. You swallowed hard instead, forcing your voice to remain level. “Words are wind, uncle.”

“Words are wind. Indeed.” he hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes remaining locked onto the strand of pale hair wrapped around his finger. “Alas— even the foulest wind carries a scent. And the most rumors have at least a crumb of truth buried within them. Or would you care to differ?”

“I—I do not know what you mean.” You stammered. A cold sweat began to break across your brow then, even as goosebumps rose along your arms.

It was a queer, conflicting sensation—the dragon blood in your veins made your core feel flush and hot with ancestral fire, yet Ormund's unexpected intrusion left you shivering with an icy dread.

“Oh, stop playing the fool!” He snapped at last and the suddenness of it made you physically recoil from his touch. His voice boomed against the high, vaulted stone ceiling of the chamber like a heavy war drum. It was a sound thick with agitation, sharp and aggressive.

“Ormund—” You pushed yourself to your feet, standing up to face him. Your voice shook—far shakier than a princess of the blood royal should ever sound—and you hated yourself for the weakness of it.

You needed to be strong. You needed the iron will of your house. Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would never waver or tremble before a man's anger, you thought.

“You will stay silent and listen to me.” Ormund jabbed a thick thumb toward his own chest, his gesture sharp, almost manic. The raw authority in his command left you with little choice but to obey.

Your knees felt weak, and you sank back down with a dull thud onto your wooden stool.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a long, slow breath as if mentally gathering his patience before exhaling it into the quiet room. When he spoke again, his voice came out far steadier, though the quiet malice in it sent a renewed chill down your spine.

“Oldtown is the seat of the Faith, niece, as all the folk in the Seven Kingdom know. It is no place for unholy and sinful people.” He began, his tone unyielding. “The mere fact that you carry the blood of the dragon does not exempt you from the laws of gods and men, nor does it shield you from the judgment of the Seven. Not you nor your brother.”

What in the names of the gods was he talking about? Your mind raced. Desperately searching for meaning, but you could simply not fathom his intent. Still… you had learned your lesson well enough this morning; you knew better than to speak back and stoke his fury.

“You think the eyes of the Hightower do not see?” He finally spat, a look of pure disgust twisting his features. “You think I and everyone else in this castle do not see how you and Daeron look at each other? How you touch one another?”

At those words, you felt your heart drop like a stone into a well.

Daeron was your twin. He was your other half, the right part of your own soul. He understood you as no lord, lady, or maester ever could. You had shared a womb; you had been cradled together in the same nursery. It was only natural that you felt entirely comfortable in his presence. That you laughed at his jests and relished the warmth of his embrace. He was your brother, by the grace of the Seven.

“He is my brother.” You stated, standing your ground. You were proud of the sudden firmness and steadiness that returned to your voice.

Finally, the blood of the dragon was answering, and you were gaining back your footing.

“Your brother, yes…” Ormund spoke the words with a soft, mocking sneer. “And the lot of you—my royal cousin’s kin—have notoriously queer customs indeed. The abominations of Old Valyria may fly about free in King’s Landing, but Oldtown and the Faith do not tolerate such queerness.”

A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “You are out of your mind, uncle.” Through the silver looking glass, you watched as another dark storm of fury began to coil behind his eyes at the audacity.

“Out of my mind, she says.” Ormund sneered, a strange, ugly twist curling his lips. Before you could gather your senses or summon your dragon-pride, his hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around your forearm like an iron manacle, gripping the flesh so fiercely that a sharp gasp of pain caught in your throat. By sheer, unyielding strength, he dragged you to your feet, jerking you forward until you stood scarce an inch from his chest.

“Yet it is you, and your whore of a half-sister with her bastards, and your rogue of an uncle who bring abomination into the realm.” He hissed, his breath hot against your face. “And my own cousin is no better… wedding her two children to one another like beasts in a paddock.”

Any other man would have lost his head for such words. It was high treason, spoken aloud in the light of day, but here in the Hightower, Ormund was king in all but name. What defense did you have? Who would believe the word of a lonely princess over the Lord of Oldtown?

“She brings nothing but shame to the Seven and the name of House Hightower.” He spat.

You writhed against his grasp, trying to twist your arm free, but his hold only tightened, his fingers bruising the pale skin. “You are hurting me!” You cried out, squirming in his grip.

Ormund merely cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes with a cold, mocking amusement, as if your protests were nothing more than the theatrics of a spoiled child.

“Come,” he said, pulling at you. But you dug your heels into the rushes, your body locking in place. He let out a dark, raspy snort. “Move your feet, niece, or by the Smith, you will make me drag you across the stone.”

You opened your mouth to scream, to protest, but he was already hauling you toward the far end of the chamber. Your bare feet stumbled clumsily over the floorboards, tangling together as his iron grip remained locked upon your forearm. He pushed you roughly into the secluded alcove of the solar, where the handmaidens had prepared your morning bath.

It was meant to be your sanctuary before the day's dressing, a quiet ritual interrupted by his brute intrusion.

The great tub was fashioned from fine, polished oak. Wide and deep, its rim decorated with simple, carved waves. When first poured, the water had been scalding hot—a heat that would leave any ordinary mortal blistered and weeping, but to the ancient blood of Old Valyria, it was a comfort.

Now, however, the thick blankets of steam had faded into the high ceiling. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as he shoved you toward the lip of the tub, finally releasing his bruising hold on your arm.

“Undress.” He commanded.

Your head whipped around with sudden, fierce indignation. “What?” The word stumbled from your lips, breathless and broken.

Ormund sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, deeply displeased at having to repeat himself. “I said,” he began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register, “undress.”

He nodded toward the water, his grey eyes fixed on you as you stood frozen, refusing to comply. “You reek of dragon.” He spat. “I assume you went riding at first light?”

“Last evening.” You clarified, your teeth chattering slightly despite the heat of the room.

He hummed, a low, rumbling sound. “And you did not think to bathe afterward?”

“I did.” you said defensively.

“And yet you still smell of those… wretched beasts.” He spat the word beasts with a charring venom, as if the very thought of the dragons fouled his tongue. “Why must you be so difficult at every turn?”

With a heavy sigh, he whirled you around. Before you could leap away, his thick fingers caught the collar of your linen shift. With one brutal downward jerk, he pulled the sheer material down your arms. You reached towards the garment, desperately trying to catch the fabric, but his hands were too strong, his movements too practiced and unyielding.

You felt the linen slip from your body, pooling around your thighs and ankles in a breathless rush. The cool morning air hit the bare skin of your belly like a sudden winter storm. Instantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, curling inward in a desperate attempt to shield your nakedness from his searching eyes.

“No… no…” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick. He reached down, catching your wrists and pulling your arms away from your body by force. “You will not deny me this, sweet niece.”

You turned your head away in profound shame, your cheeks burning. Under the chill of the solar, the rosy points of your breasts hardened, and a fresh wave of goosebumps broke across your skin.

Ormund stepped closer, entering your space until the heavy green velvet of his doublet brushed against your bare flesh.

He brought a rough hand up to your face, his fingers cupping your chin with a firm, unescapable grip, forcing your head back up. You hated the treacherous instinct of your own body—how you naturally leaned into the warmth of his hand for a fleeting second—but you hated what came next even more. Through the coarse cloth of his breeches, you felt the rigid, swelling hardness of his manhood pressing aggressively into the soft flesh of your thigh.

“You must understand,” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of sweet wine and incense as he leaned over you. “I do not blame you for what you cannot control. You cannot help it, poor child. This savageness… it is bred into your very bones. It is in the blood of the dragon. You are stained by it. Dirty. It is a disease.”

A hot liquid welled in your eye, spilling over your lashes. You felt stripped of all your royal dignity—embarrassed, ashamed, and consumed by a helpless, raging fury. Your teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ticked.

“But do not fret, sweet niece,” he murmured. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wet track on your cheek, tasting the salt of your tear. “I will cure you of it. I will be your guiding light, and free you from this monstrous burden.” A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face.

“Now. Get into the water.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle, yet it carried the absolute weight of a battlefield command. Once a general, always a general.

With no stones left to throw and no shields to raise, you had no choice but to comply.

Lifting one trembling leg and then the other over the rim of the wooden tub, you descended into the water. Most of the vapor had long since vanished, and the water had cooled to a dull, bearable warmth. As the ripples closed around your chest, you were only glad for the dark water, fore it did something to shield your naked form from his hungry, predatory gaze.

Ormund hummed in low contentment. For a single, fleeting moment, as he turned his back to you, your heart unclenched. A desperate, foolish hope flickered in your chest that he might finally leave you to your privacy.

He did not.

Instead, he marched with heavy, deliberate steps over to the cedar cabinet where your handmaidens stored the various scented waters, crushed herbs, and rare oils meant for the bath.

He pulled the drawer open with a forceful, impatient tug that made the wood groan. Instinctively, you drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight ball within the water, trying to minimize what he could see.

From the safety of the tub, you could only see his broad back and the dark chestnut curls of his hair as he bent his head over the drawer, examining the glass phials nestled inside.

“Which one shall it be…” you heard him murmur under his breath.

He lifted a slender glass tube to his nose, pulling the stopper to sniff the contents. A low hum of approval escaped him. “They received the new Lyseni order I made for you. Good.”

You sank deeper into the water, until it lapped just beneath your chin, wishing the oak tub would swallow you whole.

He rummaged through the collection for a few moments more. In the quiet clinking of glass, you almost found a strange, twisted peace inside the intimacy of the act. Then, his fingers closed around his prize.

“Aha.”

When he turned back around, he held a glass phial filled with a thick, pinkish-orange liquid that gleamed like a captured sunset in his large hand. He slammed the wooden drawer shut with his free hand, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.

“This will do perfectly.” he murmured.

As he walked back to the edge of the tub, you could see the dark dilation of his pupils, the tight clenching of his free fist at his side. You knew that look. This was not the first time he had looked at you so, nor was it the first time he had forced his way into your sacred spaces. Far from it.

You and Ormund had done things in the shadows of the Hightower that the Seven would make you repent for every single day for the rest of your lives. The septons would call it an abomination, a wicked stain upon your soul. Yet, staring up at him, a treacherous warmth began to bloom in your belly. You hated how much you wanted him in these quiet hours. You lusted for his touch, desired his strength, and craved the very danger he represented.

The worst part of it—the part you loathed most of all—was how quickly the guilt began to evaporate once the lust settled into your blood. The betraying slickness between your thighs had been there from the very moment his iron grip had clamped onto your forearm.

Let him think you are afraid, the dragon blood whispered inside you. You were far too proud, far too much a princess of the realm, to ever admit how much his rough handling truly pleased you.

“A special Lyseni bathing oil,” Ormund explained, kneeling down upon the heavy stone floor beside the wooden tub. Even on his knees, his towering frame loomed over you, leaving him almost a head taller than your sunken form in the bath. “It is exceptionally strong, but it leaves behind a pleasant, gentle aroma. Rosemary and sharp lemon—concocted from a special batch originally meant for a wealthy Magister’s wife.”

You merely hummed in quiet acknowledgment of his words, your eyes tracking his movements. With a sharp pop, he loosened the cork stopper with his teeth, tilting the glass phial so the oily, sunset-colored liquid began to drip lazily into the water around you.

The scent hit the air instantly, thick and intoxicating. The sharp, bright aroma of lemons mixed with the earthy, pine-like fragrance of the rosemary herbs, completely overtaking your senses.

Ormund closed his eyes, inhaling the rising steam deeply. The harsh lines of his brow finally unfurled in pure pleasure. “There now.” he whispered, his eyes opening to pin you with a heavy gaze. “This will rid you of that dreadful dragon stench.”

Your muscles gradually uncoiled as the sweet, sharp vapors of the Lyseni oil worked their way into your senses, eliciting a soft, involuntary sound of contentment from your throat.

Through hooded eyes, you saw a surge of possessive satisfaction cross Ormund’s dark gaze. He rolled the heavy velvet sleeves of his doublet up past his thick, hair-darkened forearms, reaching for a dry linen washcloth before dipping it into the scented water.

He wrung the cloth once with his thick, powerful fingers. You watched the warm water cascade down his digits, back into the tub in heavy droplets, hating how effortlessly your mind trailed to darker, more treasonous thoughts about those very hands.

Beneath the opaque, oil-slicked surface of the bath, your thighs squeezed together. You breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the dark water that shielded your body's betrayal from his sight; you knew precisely how smug he would be if he caught even a glimpse of the effect he still held over you.

He brought the wet linen to your skin, tracing your collarbones with a strange, quiet reverence. He began to scrub away the nonexistent dirt and the invisible scent of the dragon, working with a meticulous precision.

He handled you as though you were his most prized treasure—like a man polishing a sacred family heirloom, or the dark, rippled edges of Vigilance— the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Hightower.

The only other time you had ever witnessed your uncle display such haunting gentleness was when he cleaned that very blade.

You remembered the story Daeron had told you, fresh from the courtyard. Ormund had just taken a rebel lord's head, the steel dripping with crimson, and your twin brother had been too young, too trembling, to know how to properly wipe the Valyrian steel clean. Despite Daeron's high position as his squire, Ormund had not cursed him. Instead, he had taken the oil and the rag, showing the boy personally.

“A squire does not serve because the knight is incapable,” Ormund had told your twin that day, his voice steady over the dead man's blood. “He assists so the knight may look to the horizon, where the heavier duties lie.”

Now, those same hands traced the pale skin of your arms, sliding over your shoulders and down your back. Gently, silently, his knuckles nudged your knees apart, smoothing the cloth over your chest.

In the heavy, lemon-scented silence of the alcove, your mind drifted to forbidden shores.

You found yourself imagining a world where the two of you were wed in the Starry Sept, a world where you would legally become the Lady of Oldtown. You imagined your belly swelling with his highborn seed, envisioning a dozen children—some with the dark chestnut curls of the Hightowers, others with the striking silver-white hair of the dragon—running and shrieking through the echoing corridors of the castle.

But even as the thought bloomed, a bitter taste rose in your mouth. You knew it was nothing more than a fool's dream. An ugly, poisonous fruit that presented itself as sweet, only to choke you the moment you bit into its flesh.

Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would sooner see Oldtown reduced to ash before allowing such a scandalous match. And Ormund, for all his dark lusts, would never disgrace his house or his standing in the eyes of the realm by taking his royal niece to wife.

And besides, the Lord of the Hightower already had three trueborn children of his own to secure his lineage.

With a low hum of approval, finally pleased with his work, Ormund tossed the sodden rag onto the floor. It hit the dark stone with a heavy, wet squelch, the spilled water staining the grey masonry an even deeper, bruised shade of black.

He leaned closer, his shadow completely consuming you.

His bare hand, still damp from the water, caressed your collarbone before trailing down, down, down…

His fingertips tracing the curve of your breast and the slope of your waist, until finally they settled over your sweet mound. Your breath hitched as he gripped your cunt. You hated how instinctively your hips arched into his palm, the bathwater sloshing softly against the wooden tub.

He began to trace his fingers along the sensitive folds of your cunt. He was teasing you—deliberately rolling the tender flesh between his fingertips, his thumb pinching and applying a slow, agonizing pressure to the bud of it.

“Do you let him touch you like this?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “Do you let him look at you, hm? Do you give him this right?”

You shook your head blindly, your silver hair dragging wetly across your shoulders.

“Words, niece,” he commanded softly, his grip tightening just enough to demand total submission. “I require words.”

“No.” you managed to choke out, the syllable catching in your throat.

“I need to hear it plain.” Ormund murmured, his eyes flashing with a savage, predatory glint as he watched the burning crimson rush to your cheeks. “Do you let Daeron into your bed? Into your cunt?”

The shame of it washed over you in a suffocating wave. To be pinned beneath his hold, naked and defenseless in the water, while he spoke the name of your twin brother—it felt entirely depraved, a twisted game born of the dark shadows in his mind.

Yet, beneath all the humiliation, that treacherous lust in your blood stirred, confusing your senses until the line between fury and desire blurred entirely.

“No—I do not let Daeron touch me,” you managed to whisper, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sheer intensity of his fingers working you apart overwhelmed you. “Only… only you.”

He laughed at that—a genuine, unrestrained bark of amusement leaving him, though the tension between you was anything but light. Pressing deeper, he joined two more fingers with the first, curling them inside your slick heat in a heavy, beckoning motion.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs parting wider as your head thudded back against the rim of the wooden basin.

“Maybe you are not so unmanageable after all,” he hummed, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of your chest. “Spoiled, without a doubt. But not entirely beyond locking into place.”

Your chest tightened at his words, a strange, hollow warmth blooming inside you despite the insult. You bit your lip so hard the taste of copper threatened to burst forth, your knuckles turning white as your hand gripped the edge of the tub for dear life.

Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your straining fingers. With his free hand, he reached out, interlocking his thick, calloused digits with your own, anchoring you to him.

He brought your laced hands up to his lips, pressing a cold, lingering kiss onto the back of your hand, all while his gaze remained locked onto yours. He searched your violet eyes for any sign of true distress or displeasure. He found none.

For a time, the chamber held only the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers moving within you, slightly muffled by the water, the gentle sloshing of the bath, and occasionally your own heavy, breathless heavy sighs.

The damp white baby hairs clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and the rising mist of the bath, the bottom of your locks completely drenched.

Unable to bear the distance any longer, you leaned forward blindly, catching his lips with your own.

He groaned as your lips crashed with his own, his wine-laced breath mingling with your own. His free hand tangling into your silver locks tils your head, pulling you flush against the wood of the basin until you were facing him entirely within the cramped confines of the tub.

Your mouths clashed in a desperate rhythm as your tongue intruded past his mouth, beneath the water his fingers quickened. He moved faster, driving deeper as your inner walls constricted around his hand, your pleasure threatening to spill over the precipice.

Ormund always knew when you were reaching your peak. Your body grew restless, shifting against his touch and you became squirmy, your hand blindly clamping down on the wrist that wrought such havoc upon you.

“Yield to it, niece.” he whispered against your bruised lips, his voice a commanding growl that left no room for retreat. “Let me see it.”

With a breathless, unrestrained cry, you obeyed his command and let go, the world spinning away into a blinding haze of colors as he held you through the wave.

Only when the tremors finally subsided and he deemed the deed finished did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving you to slump back weakly against the curved wood of the basin, completely undone.

Ormund rose to his feet, exhaling a heavy breath as his hands moved down to adjust the tight laces of his breeches. But before he could take a single step away from the water, three rapid, echoing knocks thudded against the heavy oak door.

He froze, a dark groan of frustration escaping him, as the blood in your veins instantly turned to ice.

If anyone were to find you in this scandalous compromise with the Lord of Oldtown, you would be absolutely doomed.

A princess of the Blood Royal caught in such a depraved state would bring ruin to the realm and shame to the High Tower. Yet, to your absolute horror, Ormund did not falter. He did not hide. Instead, he cleared his throat and called out to the door with a booming, careless command:

“Come in!”

“Ormund!” you hissed in a frantic, terrified whisper.

You scrambled to stand up in the oak tub, desperately looking around for a linen robe or a dry sheet to cover your nakedness, for there was no denying he was inside your private chambers.

But the bottom of the basin was slick with the Lyseni oils. Your foot slipped on the smooth wood, and you stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as you barely caught yourself on the damp rim of the tub. The water sloshed dangerously against the sides.

Ormund marched with long, confident strides to the other end of the solar.

With a rough, heavy yank, he pulled the thick brocade privacy curtain shut, cutting off the alcove from the rest of the room. Thank the Gods, you thought, pressing your back against the wood. He was reckless, but he was not utterly insane.

You heard the heavy oak door creak open at that exact same moment, followed by the soft shuffle of boots upon the floor rushes. You caught your breath, freezing like a hunted doe, trying to keep the water completely still so it wouldn't make a single sound.

Your blood ran instantly cold when you heard the first word spoken from the solar.

“Uncle.” It was Daeron’s voice.

You all but shrank into the water, wishing you could disappear into the copper depths. Your naked form left you feeling utterly vulnerable, stripped of every ounce of your royal dignity.

“Nephew.” Ormund acknowledged curtly. You heard the heavy thud of his boots as he shifted closer to the doorway to block the boy's path.

Daeron cleared his throat. You could not see him through the heavy curtain, but you could picture him perfectly: clad in the deep green fabrics of your mother's house, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen worked in silver thread upon his leather belt. His pale brows would be creaked in confusion, his young face puzzled as to why the Lord of Oldtown was standing in his sister’s private solar. Alone. The reality of it stung like a whip.

“I wish not to… intrude, my Lord,” Daeron said, his voice carrying the polite, practiced cadence of a well-bred squire. “But the Septon has been awaiting your presence at the Starry Sept for almost the entire morning.”

He had easily slipped into the dutiful role expected of him, and you hated how natural it sounded.

“Ah,” Ormund managed, his tone dripping with a feigned nonchalance, as if the holy matters of the city had completely slipped his mind. “Indeed. The hours slip away far too treacherously.”

“I kept him company in the courtyard and assured him that you had urgent, pressing matters of the estate to attend to.” Daeron explained, trying to look out for his master.

Ormund cut him off by placing a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.

It was a hand that was still completely drenched in the bathwater—slick with the sweet, musk-scented evidence of your recent release. You heard the distinct, wet slap of his palm against the fine velvet of Daeron's doublet.

The droplets clung to the fabric, immediately soaking into the cloth and staining his squire's garment with the very nectar Ormund had coaxed from your body only moments before.

You burned red with a sickening, paralyzing embarrassment. Gods, you thought, closing your eyes in agony. Your own twin brother was standing a mere few feet away, unwittingly bearing the scent of your sin upon his clothes.

“Thank you, Daeron,” Ormund said, and you could hear the smug, insufferable smirk in his voice. “You are a most dutiful squire. You will make a great knight one day, I am certain of it. You might even surpass your uncle Gwayne one day…”

You knew the Lord's arrogance wasn't born from a genuine desire to compliment the boy, but rather from the thrilling, twisted pleasure of the secret he held right behind the curtain.

“Uncle—is everything alright?” Daeron wondered aloud. You heard a slight shift in his footsteps, as if he were tilting his head to peer over Ormund’s broad shoulder, trying to catch sight of your vanity.

But Ormund kept him firmly locked in place, his grip unyielding. “Of course everything is alright, boy. Why would it not be?”

Ormund countered the question without an inch of doubt, lying straight through his teeth while his royal niece sat naked, shivering, and thoroughly ruined just on the other side of the silk hanging.

“Now, be a good squire and ride ahead to tell the Septon I am arriving.” Ormund patted the boy's cheek with an affectionate, patronizing hand, sending him off.

Daeron opened his mouth one last time, squinting a pale brow. His lips formed a shape as if to call out your name, wondering where his sister had vanished to on this morrow, but under the heavy gaze of his Lord, he relented.

“As you command, my Lord.”

The heavy oak door banged shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud.

An invisible weight lifted from your chest, and you finally managed to let your shoulders drop, exhaling a long, shaky breath that you had been holding for what felt like an eternity.

You stood up from the tub, the cooled water cascading down your pale thighs and clinging to your skin as Ormund drew back the privacy curtain.

He stepped into the alcove, his dark eyes sweeping over your dripping form one last time. His gaze was entirely silent, unreadable, and devoid of the warmth that had filled it moments before.

He gave you a single, curt nod of his head, turning on his heel without a word. The heavy door opened and closed once more, leaving you alone in the quiet solar—aching, profoundly confused, and shivering in the sudden cold.

©RHAENYRAS-CROWN: I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

gif credits: @baelcrtargaryen

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You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.

“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.

You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.

And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—

“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”

The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.

However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.

“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”

It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.

“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”

Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.

But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.

“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”

Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.

However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.

. . .

“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”

That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.

“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”

Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”

“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”

Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”

You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”

How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?

“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”

For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”

“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”

“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”

Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.

“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”

He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:

“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”

This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.

But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.

He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.

Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.

He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.

And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—

—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.

One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.

And now—

“Haah...”

The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.

Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.

This was him entirely at your mercy—

You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.

“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”

Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”

“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”

Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.

With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.

The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.

. . .

When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.

Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.

His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.

How is a man well-known for his faith luring you into thinking of sins?

You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.

Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”

“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.

You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.

However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.

You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.

His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.

“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.

“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”

You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.

But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.

“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.

“Must you hate me that much?”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.

“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.

Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.

Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?

It was so fucking unfair.

“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”

Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”

To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.

He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”

Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.

You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.

That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest

You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.

Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.

You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.

Until the turn of the moon, at least.

“My lady... this is strange.”

The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.

“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.

Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”

“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”

“I am pulling, my lady, but...”

Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”

You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.

“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:

“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”

. . .

“We will march for Tumbleton.”

You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.

“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”

His words passed by at first.

“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”

“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”

“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”

It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.

But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.

Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.

“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”

The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.

There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.

“May the Seven guide your path.”

The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.

However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.

“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”

Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.

With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.

And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.

Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.

It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—

“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.

The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.

From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.

“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”

“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”

The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.

Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.

Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”

“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”

You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.

For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.

You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.

“But my lady—!”

“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”

He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”

A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.

Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.

There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.

You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.

The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.

He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the pure and innocent Lady Tyrell.

His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you were too naive, and therefore, unsuitable to be with him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.

The Gods are cruel and just, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.

However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.

You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.

That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.

But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs, as much as he hated to admit it.

. . .

“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”

Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.

However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.

“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”

“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”

Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—

“My lord!”

Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.

She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.

“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”

A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply. “Calm yourself, girl, and speak clearly.”

And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.

“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”

They had taken you to Tumbleton.

The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.

Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.

And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.

“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”

“Then what of us? What of the woman?”

“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”

Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.

“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.

But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.

Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.

I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.

You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.

As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.

He is devilishly handsome and cunning. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.

The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.

Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.

You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:

“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.

The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.

He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.

“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”

His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.

“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.

Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.

Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.

He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.

His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.

“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I... I was—”

“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”

You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.

“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”

“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.

His vivid blue eyes, so warm and tender, crinkled faintly as he brushed a fallen tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.

Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—

Your fingers curl tightly around each other, clutched around the silver seven-pointed star that hangs from your neck. It was a passing gift from your mother, the only fading reminder you have of her before she shipped you and Daeron off to Oldtown. The sharp edges press into your palm, your firm grip baiting it to pierce the skin and let you bleed. You hold it as if it will provide you with sanctity, with answers, as if it carries enough weight to anchor you against the storm inside your own mind.

Prayers leave your lips in whispers, so soft that they may blow away with a gentle breeze, only heard for the Gods above.

The words are so familiar to you that no thought is needed when speaking. The prayers have been woven into you since you were a mere child, your first memories in Oldtown coming from the countless mornings within the grand septs as the watchful eyes and ears of septas linger on your every word.

You recall the nights when sleep refused to come, so alone in your thoughts that your only salvation was the comfort of the Seven who would watch over you. Who would listen to you like no one else would.

"Father above, judge me fairly."

Your voice trembles only slightly, memories of the day’s happenings washing over you like a typhoon that seeks to destroy everything in its path.

"Mother, grant me mercy."

Your eyes remain shut. You do not wish to see yourself reflected in the polished marble before you. The face of a Targaryen, a face that belongs to a family infested with sin and poison.

"Warrior, grant my brother strength."

Your lips curl up as your twin Daeron’s face comes unbidden. Your other half.

The two of you had entered the world together amid an established legacy and fierce politics that were only more ignited with the birth of Rhaenyra’s first bastard mere moons before you.

Daeron was the perfect image of what a prince should be, just and kind and gentle. Raised in Oldtown with the Faith illuminating his path forward.

You found your purpose to be more muddled. Women of your age have already been married off, given away to men for favors, for alliances, for power. Yet when you bring up your future to your Lord Ormund, he dismisses you with a delicate caress of your face and more questions left in the air than answers to fill your mind.

The abrasive huff of Daeron’s dragon interrupts your prayers as your hands tighten around each other. You resist the urge to open your eyes and glare. Perhaps your brother’s only fault was the affection he held too tightly onto for his beast, the unmistakable connection that revealed his roots.

Two dragon eggs had been sent to Oldtown amongst the blankets and cradles of yourself and your brother, a chain that bound you to the impure blood of House Targaryen. Daeron’s egg hatched as he grew, a beast he called Tessarion.

Yours never hatched.

When it was clear your egg was never going to transform into a beast, bearing scales upon the hard shell that remained ice cold despite constant heat from hearths, Lord Ormund had pulled you onto his lap and held you with open affection that you had never witnessed before.

“It is a sign of your purity,” he said to you amidst your tears and confusion, naivety leading you to think something was wrong. You remember the warmth of his hand as it stroked your cheek. “Proof that we can cleanse the wretched blood right out of you.”

His satisfaction was perhaps your only saving grace.

"The Maiden, preserve my innocence."

Your throat tightens and you almost laugh at the irony.

There had never been innocence for those born into House Targaryen with madness flowing through your veins. There was the constant knowledge that one day, your blood would be judged by what your ancestors had done.

And the bloodshed that lies beyond the very doors you have barricaded yourself in is just more proof of it, of the destruction that lies within the bones of those who are cursed to carry their name.

"...the Crone, grant me wisdom."

You lower your head more, blocking out any slivers of light that may pass into your vision.

Wisdom enough to understand, to forgive. Wisdom enough to know whether you are truly different from the monsters history claims your family to be.

Your final prayer catches in your throat. It is a name rarely invoked, but one you have found yourself needing to utter recently.

"The Stranger..."

The words feel heavier than usual. They feel more imminent with every passing second that war rages on around you.

"...when my hour comes, receive me kindly."

You quietly bask in your solitude, save for the beast that has calmed since its earlier destruction, granting you a moment of privacy when none can typically be afforded. No footsteps surrounding you, no whispers full of venom in your ears, no judgement to be cast upon your pious display.

There is only peace.

But peace always yearns to be broken.

The heavy wooden doors of the sept groan beneath the force of an impatient hand.

Your eyes remain closed.

For a moment, you allow yourself to be lulled by the illusion that you did not hear it. That the Gods have granted you one final breath of silence before the world demands you return to it.

But the footsteps that follow are too familiar, ones you’ve heard all your life that ring with careful measure and heavy authority. You do not need to turn around to know who has entered.

“My dear girl.”

Lord Ormund Hightower’s voice echoes through the sept, carrying with it the same weight of control that is flaunted by the banners of Oldtown that now hang over the conquered land of Tumbleton.

His. 

You scold yourself for the way that your heart still recognizes the sound of his voice, stuttering at the familiar smooth tone that brings you familiarity in a strange, war-torn place. You hate that some small, foolish part of you still searches for comfort in it when your mind knows that none can be afforded to you.

You lower your head further, bowing before the Seven that have guided you with structure and discipline instead of the man whose unpredictability has uneased you so.

“Lord Ormund.” You respond barely above a whisper.

You do not call him father, but the word has always lingered at the base of your tongue.

He is the man who raised you, who held you in his arms as an infant and held your hand when delivering you to the sept for your lessons. The man who took you and your brother in when your mother pleaded, desiring children who were raised to be Hightower and not Targaryen despite the curse that she herself had granted upon you.

Yet he is not your father. He is not a man who loves you unconditionally, and what you feel for him is not the love of a child to their father, but what a devotee feels about their object of admiration.

You were raised to be a perfect Hightower daughter, proof that a Targaryen could be cleansed—proof that he could be the one to strip a Targaryen of the poison that flows through their every fiber of being.

And you silently thank the Gods for it.

But still. Every day is a test, every look sent your way with pointed eyes is another way to see if you will fail him, fail his teachings, fail the undeniable proof of his power and influence.

You find the violence of war pushing on the very foundation of what he has enlightened you to, of the Faith that you have had anchored into your soul, into your very way of life. The blood that spills from every death leaves stains behind that taint the very meaning of the Father’s justice, and taints your understanding of Lord Ormund’s piety.

His boots scrape against the stones below him as he approaches, each step slow and deliberate, but with purpose.

“You should not be here.”

Your eyes open, staring straight ahead as you halt your prayers. The dim light from the candle flames around you fill your vision, the scaly snout of Daeron’s beast glowing faintly in the corner of the room. The sept envelopes itself in darkness as the doors close behind your guardian, leaving you at his mercy.

A bitter laugh almost escapes you, and you respond without turning to look at him, perhaps out of the cowardice that would manifest the moment you lay your eyes upon his face. “I should not be in the sept? Where else do I belong while your men plunder the streets like barbarous creatures?”

He sighs, stepping closer until a gentle but firm hand lays itself upon your shoulder. You resist the urge to flinch at the touch. “Do not be smart with me. You know what I mean.”

Your fingers tighten around the seven-pointed star, as if squeezing it tight enough will provide you with an answer you need.

You know exactly what he means.

You should not be near the place where blood was spilled. You should not have seen what happened. You should not question what you witnessed.

You should simply bow your head, find a more acceptable place to pray, and accept that the men with swords and shields donning the symbols of Oldtown know more of righteousness than those forced to kneel before them.

“The Gods hear all prayers,” you whisper.

“They also hear the commands of their chosen servants.” His thumb rubs against the small sliver of skin uncovered from your gown.

You finally crane your neck to look up at him.

The candlelight flickers against his face, illuminating the familiar features that once brought you safety as a child.

You remember climbing into his lap after nightmares, the way his hand rested on your hair as he told you the Seven watched over you, how he watched over you with the same reverence, to look for their guidance and his to light your way forward.

Agitation simmers deep within you.

“You burned him.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

Lord Ormund does not react with words immediately. Instead, his hand stills and he looks at you with the same expression he wore when you were a child confessing some minor mistake.

Disappointment.

“He was a rebel.” His voice hardens as if sensing that defiance that stirs within you.

“He was protecting his wife,” you bite back.

“He committed violence against a Hightower soldier.”

“He was afraid!” Your voice cracks slightly as it raises for the first time. You stand hastily and whip towards Lord Ormund, and he lets you, the hand on your shoulder almost instructing you to move closer to him. “He saw a man who was to harm his wife and he was afraid.”

His jaw tightens. The hand on you tightens, as if telling you to stand down without words.

“Fear does not excuse an act of treason.”

“And does faith excuse your cruelty?”

The question lingers in the air, imposing on propriety and inviting danger to mingle in the tension that has built between the two of you.

It was a question you knew better to ask. One that causes the brief inception of rage to flicker in his eyes, rage of what rebellion you have let inside of your head and make a home out of your purity he has worked so hard to protect.

You know what he sees in you now. A girl who questions. A girl with too much of her father’s blood still flowing through her veins, with too much of her mother’s weak conscience.

A girl who he has not yet finished training.

“You have spent too much time with your brother,” is what he deigns himself to say.

Your stomach twists with the thought of Daeron. Poor Daeron, too just and kind to be thrown into the boughs of merciless war.

“Daeron is good.”

His smile is tight as his thumb resumes brushing against your smooth skin.

“Indeed he is,” he murmurs. “But he is still a Targaryen. And I’m afraid you still are, too.”

The words strike harder than you expect. Even after all these years, all your lessons and prayers, you are still burdened by the name that you carry.

You were still the daughter of a Targaryen, a daughter of dragons, and Lord Ormund never let you forget it.

“I have spent my entire life trying to prove that I am not.” You know you sound pathetic, desperation dripping from your words for some semblance of acknowledgement, of belonging. Of acceptance you have never received since the moment you left the womb a cursed child. His expression dampens, but only slightly. In his features there lies a dangerous kind of softness that has always confused you.

“You should not have to prove anything.” His hand moves again, this time caressing your chin with his thumb and index finger. “Yet time and time again you show me that there is still some of that fire in you that I have worked so hard to snuff out. You still kindle the sparks with these impulses. I only mean to save you from it, my dear.”

You almost believe him. Warmth spreads across you, a feeling you have been longing for since the day a raven delivered the news of his death and Aegon’s ascension.

But that warmth is snuffed out almost as quickly as it had spread, dying out as both of his hands gently lift to your face.

It is a gesture you know all too well.

They are the same hands that have comforted you.

The same hands that wiped your tears when you were young.

(The same hand that caressed your brother’s cheek mere hours earlier and called him a good boy before subjecting him to a savagery that makes a mockery out of the justice and mercy that the Father and the Mother promise to uphold.)

His hands move your head to look at him, his eyes searching yours for something that you cannot name. Repentance? Acceptance?

“You were given a blessing most Targaryens never receive.”

Your body stiffens under his touch.

“Guidance.”

The word is gentle, but you know the meaning behind it is not.

“You were raised among the faithful. You were taught humility. I have protected you from the corruption that has plagued your family for generations.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “You were spared.”

Your breath catches with his words, because that is the cruelest part.

Somewhere deep inside, you have always wondered if he was right. If the Gods truly had spared you.

If your dragon egg remaining cold was a sign that you were good, that you could be saved. That your inability to claim a beast meant you were never supposed to be like them.

And yet you think of Daeron, of his compassion and kindness. Of the way he feels a kinship with his beast, of the way you knew he felt sympathy for the people Oldtown had conquered when others only saw their usefulness.

You think of your mother.

Of the small glimpses you remember from the last time you saw her, before even reaching ten. Of the deep red hair that Daeron had inherited, the plushness of her lips as she kissed your forehead in a fleeting goodbye, the way her trembling hands moved to clutch the seven-pointed star around your neck as she whispered, my girl.

Of the woman who you know deep in your heart loved you enough to send you away despite delivering sin into this world.

And you wonder what your duty is, what the Gods truly have planned for you if not to follow their ways.

“Was it righteous?” you ask quietly.

Lord Ormund’s hands still.

“What do you speak of now, darling?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours as a faint crinkle forms in his brow, perhaps out of concern.

“With what happened today.” The topic feels like stepping onto thin ice, crackling beneath the weight of undiscovered consequence. 

“Was it righteous?” you repeat.

His expression falters for a brief moment. But you catch it, and you see it—the realization that you are not truly asking about the man who was put to death, but of Daeron. Of him.

You are questioning him. His decisions. His teachings. His devotion.

You are questioning the man who raised you to fear the monster within your own veins while slowly showing you that monsters could wear the colors of the Faith.

“You question your brother?” His voice is steady and flat, answering you more with a firm response rather than a question. It feels too harsh coming from the man before you, the root of a warning that threatens to grow into a ferocious weed.

“No.” Your answer comes quickly and you raise your hand to cover his own that still rests upon your cheek, still seeking his tenderness despite it all. Tears sting your eyes and you inhale with a shuddering breath as Lord Ormund pulls you close to his chest at the sight.

“I question myself.”

And that, more than anything, is what seems to wound him. Because Ormund can tolerate hatred and rebellion. He can fix that, mold you back into the good girl he knows you can be. But he cannot tolerate the possibility that you do not see him as your salvation.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.

“You are tired, my dear girl.” His voice lowers as he brings his lips to your ear, stroking your face in a dull pattern that seeks to lull you. “You have seen too much today.”

Perhaps you have, and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you have seen enough to know that the world is not divided as cleanly as the sermons claimed.

Good and evil, faith and sin, purity and impurity, all tangled in the same wretched roots that have been made to sow war and deceit and violence. All trampled among the feet of soldiers fighting battles they do not have answers to.

Perhaps the Gods are not asking you to choose between the blood in your veins and the prayers in your heart. Perhaps they are asking you to understand why both exist.

And yet no answers come. You do not know what they are looking for. Just as you have not known the answer to anything, only knowing the way your knees scrape the stones when you pray for long hours, and the way that the Seven provide comfort when no one else can. 

Somehow the uncertainty frightens you more than the war ever could.

“I need to confess to you, my Lord.”

My Lord. The words sound like pure honey and lavender to his ears, the sweet unease of your voice a gift for him from the Gods themselves. It is what you called him when you were a young little thing, tiny hands clutching onto his doublets, unsure and untaught about the proper rules that a young girl must follow.

It reminds him of when you were good, when you listened to his every word like he was whose name was on your lips every time you knelt and prayed before succumbing to the vulnerabilty of sleep.

“Speak.”

His voice is commanding, shepherding you to a guiding light. To his guiding light.

A shuddering breath leaves your lips, and a tear glides down your cheek from the corner of your eye. Ormund wipes it with his thumb, his touch lingering on the proof of your possible atonement that he may grant you.

“I do not know what I am supposed to be. What you wish me to be.”

The confession is barely audible, so low that if his breath were not mingling with yours, he may have missed it entirely.

In that moment, Ormund does not see you as a symbol, or as a Targaryen. He sees you as a frightened girl pleading before the Seven. Before him. A girl in desperate need of his guidance.

“Dear girl, you are mine.”

The words bring only a small semblance of comfort to you, despite understanding what they mean. You are his possession, his responsibility, his girl.

You are someone that he loves to keep, loves the idea of, and naively, you think that this means he has come to love you.

They are words you have heard before, words that have been uttered when no one else can impede. Words only meant for the two of you to hear. It feels special, somehow, an important secret he has placed his trust in you to keep.

And yet your gaze drops back to the seven-pointed star in your hand, resting upon your chest, of the confliction that still refuses to settle itself inside of you.

"But I belong to the Seven."

Ormund watches you carefully, searching your features for any touch of disobedience.

"And the Seven gave you to me."

You don’t know how to respond. The silence that follows is colder than any winter the North may suffer.

Behind you, Tessarion lets out a faint grunt, a potent reminder of the vileness that Ormund has worked so hard to erase from your very being. The connection of your twin, your other half, that cannot deny the dragon blood that flows through him. The piece of you that Ormund has taught you to deny, to distance yourself from.

His eyes flicker toward the beast with open disdain before returning to you. There is something unsettling in the calm with which he studies your face, as though weighing whether the girl he raised still exists beneath the blood he has spent a lifetime trying to purge.

"Look at me," he says.

You do, without hesitation.

His fingers tighten beneath your chin, leaving no room for you to turn away. The gesture is practiced, almost gentle, but you recognize it for what it is. It is not affection, but direction, a means to instruct your way of being.

Before you can make sense of the look in his eyes, he leans forward.

His lips brush against yours.

The contact is brief. Colder than you could have imagined. It steals the breath from your lungs not because of its tenderness, but because every instinct in your body rebels against the unknown feeling, rebels against your Lord Ormund indulging in weakness, into a dangerous spiral of depravity. You freeze completely, a closed fist against his strong chest, your mind emptying as though the Stranger himself passed a hand over your thoughts.

When he draws back, lips glistening with saliva and new breath filling his lungs, you cannot meet his gaze.

Shame blooms hot beneath your skin, and you feel more stained than the stones covered in the faint red of spilled blood beneath your feet.

Your fingers fly to the seven-pointed star hanging at your throat. The pointed silver bites into your palm as you clutch it desperately, as if the familiar edges might anchor you to something holy.

You silently think of the Mother—of your mother, fleetingly,—and pray for an answer, a means to understand.

Nothing comes, and your mind remains silent, the previous storm settled into an eerie calm.

“My Lord…” you start, but the words you wished to say escape you and shatter into miniscule pieces of uselessness.

Ormund's expression remains composed, almost paternal, almost affectionate, as though nothing improper has occurred. As if he has not made you question your entire livelihood, the true intentions he hid from you in your upbringing.

“Do not look so frightened, my girl,” he says quietly, too intimate for your liking. “You have always sought my guidance. Let us not stray from that now.”

The instinctual feeling of reassurance in your stomach fills you with quiet horror.

His eyes search yours as he lifts your head back to him. He’s looking for your agreement, your submission. A nod.

You nod.

A smirk pulls at his lips as he caresses your face once more.

“Come.” He pulls away, and you curse yourself for chasing after his warmth, the familiarity of his touch. You link your arm into his as he begins walking away.

“Where to?”

His eyes find yours again. “Back to our lodging.” He squeezes your hand that rests on his arm, as if silently anchoring your hold to him. “Your brother needs you.”

You almost ask if it is Daeron that needs you or you that needs Daeron at this moment, but you smartly hold your tongue this time.

Instead you decide to give into your weaknesses, sinking back into the contention that Lord Ormund’s touch brings you, a feeling that you can predict and that you can rely on even if deep down you know you shouldn’t.

Next to you, Ormund smiles as he feels you return back to him, your head resting against his shoulder as he leads you out of the sept, you letting him control your path forward.

His darling girl knows that he will save her from her innate faults. That he will save you from falling into the wickedness that rules over your namesake.

He will continue to show you what you can become. What he can make you.

A girl that he can mold to prove that blood can be overcome from devotion. 

A girl that will worship him as one would a God, who would bring her to her knees and cry out for him, for him to grant her salvation.

His, his, his.

You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.

Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.

That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).

You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.

You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.

“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.

“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.

“I was,” Gwayne nods.

“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”

He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed. 

The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.

Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve. 

“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”

“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.” 

“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”

You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.

“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.

Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”

“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”

“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.

“It feels less and less so these days.”

“They’re only frightened—”

“I’m frightened,” you remind him.

The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud. 

He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”

“No Hightowers?” you add.

“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”

You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”

“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”

“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”

“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”

“They won’t.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”

“So do most men—”

“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”

Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.

“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”

“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.

A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”

“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”

“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”

“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”

Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.

But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.

And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.

ii. OATHS & ASHES

The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself. 

It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”

Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.

Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.

You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask. 

The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.

Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.

“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.

“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.

Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.

“Well, I was going to, of course.”

“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood. 

“…Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”

“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”

“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”

“The king has given orders—”

“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”

Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”

“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”

“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”

“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”

Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you. 

His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.

“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”

“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”

“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”

“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…” 

You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.

“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.

The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.

The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.

“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely. 

“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”

“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”

The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”

Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”

Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”

Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.

“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.

“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”

Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.

He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.

This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.

It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.

The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.

“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there. 

He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.

He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”

You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.

Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.

His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.

Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.

Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”

You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.

 Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.

His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.

“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”

“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.

Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”

“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.

“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.

Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”

iii. CROWNS & CAGES

You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.

Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”

You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.

Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.

You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.

“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”

Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.

“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”

“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”

“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”

“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”

Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”

“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”

“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”

The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle. 

Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.

A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.

Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned. 

A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.

Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map. 

“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone. 

“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”

Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”

“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace. 

His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.

“I expected someone… older.”

His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”

“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”

“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”

You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”

“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”

You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.

Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”

“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”

“For… What purpose?” he laughs.

You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all. 

You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.

“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”

Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude. 

It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.

Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.

The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.

It had been four days since then. 

And you haven’t eaten once in protest.

It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?

On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.

He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it.  The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.

There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow. 

Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless. 

Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.

“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”

Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.

“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”

His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”

You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”

“Eat.”

You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”

“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”

You respond with only a glare.

Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”

You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.

“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.

He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.

“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides.  “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”

“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”

“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”

“When?” you spit.

“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”

A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”

His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?” 

His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.

“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches. 

A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth. 

“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”

Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.

“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”

Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”

“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”

Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.

iv. SILK & SWORDS

You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.

Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.

Your days, however, remained painfully empty.

Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.

The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.

Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.

“Is that a love letter—?”

The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.

“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”

“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.

You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.

His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.

Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”

“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”

“Please, don’t—”

His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.

The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.

His head turns slightly under the blow.

Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.

The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.

“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.

You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.

“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”

“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”

The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.

Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.

You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.

Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.

“My lady…”

You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.

Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.

Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.

Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.

“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”

Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.

v. SANCTUARY & SIN

The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.

For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm. 

Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.

Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.” 

His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.

“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.” 

It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.

Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.

You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.

But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.

Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.

“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."

You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.  

You haven’t left his bed since.

The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.

No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor. 

You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.

You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.

“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders. 

“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.

The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”

“I learned everything from you, did I not?”

When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.

Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”

“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.

“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”

“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”

You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.

His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.

“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.

“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”

You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”

“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."

“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.

“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.

He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you. 

One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.

It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.

You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.

“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.

“Ought what?”

“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”

You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”

Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction. 

“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”

You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”

He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”

“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”

You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.

He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.

Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.

Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.

You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.

“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”

Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”

Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.

Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.

Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.

“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.

“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.

“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”

A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.

“There it is…” he praises.

“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”

The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you. 

His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.

It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins. 

Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.

You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.

He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth. 

He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”

Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”

Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”

“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.

Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”

The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.

“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”

Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit. 

Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.

Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you. 

The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass. 

He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you. 

You aren’t far behind.

He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.

“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”

Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one. 

The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.

“My lord?”

The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.

“My lord—”

“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”

The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”

You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.

Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”

“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”

Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”

After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”

The celebrations for King Viserys's nameday had stretched into their third evening, and the great hall was a cavern of noise and heat and suffocating light. Thousands of candles blazed from iron chandeliers overhead, from silver candelabras on every table, from sconces along the walls, so many flames that the air itself seemed to shimmer with heat. The king sat at the high table, propped up on cushions, his wasted body draped in cloth of gold that could not hide the ravages of his illness. Your mother sat beside him, her face a careful mask of filial devotion, though you knew her well enough to see the grief beneath it.

Aegon had been looking at you all evening, he was seated directly across from you, a position he had maneuvered himself into with the casual entitlement of a prince who had never been told no. Three years your senior but there was something perpetually adolescent about him, something unformed and hungry. His silver hair was disheveled, his tunic rumpled and stained with wine, and his eyes were glassy with drink. He had been watching you since the first course was served, and every time you glanced up, he was already looking at you with that lazy, proprietary smirk that made your skin crawl.

Ormund sat beside you, engaged in conversation with Lord Beesbury about some tedious matter of trade tariffs. His hand rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm.

"Nieeeeece." Aegon's voice cut through the din, slurred and singsong. He leaned forward across the table, his elbow nearly knocking over his wine cup. "You have been avoiding my eyes all evening. I am wounded. Truly. A man could develop a complex."

You forced a small, polite smile. "I was not aware you were seeking my attention, Uncle."

"Always. Perpetually. Eternally." He waved his cup in a grand, sweeping gesture that sloshed wine onto the tablecloth. "You are the prettiest thing in this hall, and I am a connoisseur of pretty things. Ask anyone. Ask my wife." He gestured vaguely toward Helaena, who was seated several places down the table, her eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. She did not appear to be listening. She rarely appeared to be listening.

"I think you have had too much wine, Uncle."

"Nonsense. I have not had nearly enough." He drained his cup and signaled for a servant to refill it, his eyes never leaving your face. "You know, I have been thinking. It really is a tragedy that they married you off to Hightower. No offense, Ormund." He raised his freshly filled cup in a mock toast. "But a Targaryen princess should marry a Targaryen. That is how we do things. That is how we keep the blood pure. Instead, they shipped you off to Oldtown like a bale of wool, and for what?"

You felt Ormund's hand tighten on your knee. A warning. A squeeze that was just short of painful. "I am very happy in my marriage," you said, your voice carefully even. "Lord Ormund is a devoted husband."

"Devoted." Aegon rolled the word around in his mouth as if tasting it. "Is that what they are calling it these days? Devoted? Tell me, sweet niece, does a devoted husband have the stamina to keep up with a wife half his age? Because I have heard—" He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper that was still perfectly audible to everyone within earshot. "—that the older ones sometimes have... difficulty. In certain areas. Performance difficulties. And I would hate to think of you lying there in your marriage bed, all that fire and youth with a husband who cannot—"

"Aegon." Aemond's voice cut through the noise like a blade. He was seated beside his brother, his single eye fixed on Aegon with cold fury. "That is enough."

"What?" Aegon spread his hands in mock innocence. "I am only expressing concern for my niece's happiness. It is a husband's duty to satisfy his wife, is it not? And if he cannot—well, perhaps she needs someone younger. Someone more... vigorous. Someone who shares her blood and her fire." His eyes slid back to you, and his smirk sharpened. "What do you say, sweetling? If your lord husband ever leaves you wanting, you know where my chambers are. I would be more than happy to—"

"Brother." Aemond's voice was ice. "You are drunk and you are embarrassing yourself. Leave our niece alone."

"I am not embarrassing myself. I am being generous." Aegon's gaze dropped to the neckline of your gown, lingering there with open, undisguised hunger. "Gods, but you are beautiful. All that form, wasted on an old man. Tell me, does he even know what to do with you? Does he make you scream? Does he make you beg? Or does he just grunt and roll over while you stare at the ceiling and wonder what all the fuss is about?"

Your face was burning, you could feel the eyes of the other guests on you, curious, pitying, amused. You could feel Ormund's hand on your knee, tightening, tightening, his knuckles going white.

"I think," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "that I would like to be excused."

"Oh, do not run away." Aegon reached across the table and caught your wrist, his grip damp and warm. "I am only teasing. Can you not take a joke? The Targaryens used to be able to take a joke. We used to be fun. Before we all became so dreadfully serious about everything."

"Let go of me, Uncle."

"Or what? You will call your husband to defend your honor?" He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Do you think he would? Do you think he would risk offending the king's son for the sake of a blushing bride? He knows which side his bread is buttered on. He will sit there and take it, just like he takes everything else. Just like you take—"

"I believe," Ormund said, and his voice was perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, the voice of a man discussing the weather, "that my wife asked you to release her." Aegon looked at him. For a long, suspended moment, no one spoke. Then Aegon laughed again but it was a different laugh this time, a nervous laugh, and he released your wrist and leaned back in his chair.

"Of course," he said. "Of course. No offense intended. Only a jest between family. You understand."

"I understand perfectly," Ormund said. His hand withdrew from your knee. "Come, my love. The hour is late, and you look tired. Let us retire."

He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, your fingers trembling, and let him pull you to your feet. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor as Ormund led you through the crowded hall, past the tables of laughing guests and the servants bearing platters and the guards standing impassive at the doors. The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter. The torches burned low in their brackets, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. Ormund did not speak. He did not look at you. His grip on your hand was tight enough to grind the bones together, and his strides were so long you had to half-jog to keep up.

"Ormund," you said, your voice small in the empty corridor. "Ormund, please slow down. You are hurting my hand."

He did not slow down nor did he speak until you reached your chambers, he opened the door, pulled you inside, and closed it behind you with a soft click that was somehow more terrifying than a slam would have been.

Then he let go of your hand, you stood in the center of the room, your heart hammering, your wrist throbbing where Aegon had grabbed it and your fingers aching where Ormund had squeezed them. The chamber was large and luxurious, draped in Targaryen crimson and gold, with a fire crackling in the hearth and a massive bed against the far wall. But it did not feel like home. It felt like a cage.

Ormund walked to the window and stood with his back to you, his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders rigid.

"Would you care to explain," he said, his voice low and cold, "what that was?"

"What what was?" Your voice came out thin and breathless. "I did not do anything. Aegon was the one who—"

He turned. The expression on his face made the words die in your throat.

"Do not lie to me." He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, each footstep echoing on the stone floor. "Do not stand there and pretend you were an innocent bystander. I saw you. I saw the way you looked at him. I saw the way you blushed and simpered and bit your lip like a cheap tavern wench."

"I did not—I was not—" You stumbled backward, your shoulders hitting the wall. "I was uncomfortable. I was embarrassed. I did not know what to do—"

"You did nothing." He was close now, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint trace of his sweat beneath the expensive scent of his cologne. "You sat there and let him speak to you like a common whore. You let him touch you. You let him discuss our marriage bed as if it were a subject for public entertainment. And you did nothing."

"I tried to leave." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. "I asked to be excused. I told him to let go of me—"

"You whispered it. You murmured it like a frightened mouse while he pawed at you and made jokes about whether I could still get my cock hard." The crude word hit you like a slap, and you flinched. "Do you have any idea how that looked? Do you have any idea what everyone in that hall is saying about me right now? About us? The Lord of Oldtown, cuckolded at the dinner table by a drunken prince while his wife sits there and blushes and does nothing to stop it."

"It was not my fault." The tears spilled over, tracking hot down your cheeks. "It was not my fault, Ormund. I did not ask for his attention. I did not want it. I hate the way he looks at me. I hate it. But what was I supposed to do? He is my uncle. If I had made a scene, it would have reflected badly on my mother, on my family, on—"

"On your family." He laughed, and the sound was ugly and sharp. "Always your family. Always your mother. What about reflecting badly on me? What about reflecting badly on your husband, the man you vowed to honor and obey? Does that matter so little to you?"

"That is not fair."

"Fair?" He slammed his hand against the wall beside your head, and you flinched so violently that your teeth clacked together. "You want to talk about fair? What is fair about a wife who lets another man put his hands on her? What is fair about a wife who sits there looking like a doe in heat while her own uncle propositions her at the dinner table? What is fair about any of this?"

"I did not—I was not—" You were sobbing now, the words catching in your throat. "Please, Ormund, please. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not mean to embarrass you. I did not know what to do. I never know what to do."

"Of course you do not." He stepped back, his lip curling. "Because you are a child. A stupid, naive child who was never taught how to be a wife. Your mother filled your head with stories and poems and let you run wild, and now you are my responsibility, and I am the one who has to deal with the consequences of her failures."

"Do not speak of my mother—"

"I will speak of her however I wish." His eyes were cold, utterly without warmth. "She is the reason you are like this. She coddled you. She sheltered you. She never taught you discipline or duty or sacrifice. She let you fly your dragon and wear your pretty dresses and do whatever you pleased, and now you are a woman grown with the spine of a jellyfish and the judgment of a child. And I am supposed to fix you. I am supposed to make you into a proper wife. But how can I do that when you cannot even sit through a dinner without letting your uncle fondle you in front of half the court?"

"He did not fondle me—"

"He touched you." Ormund's voice was ice. "He touched your wrist and you let him. You did not slap him. You did not scream. You did not do anything except sit there and look pretty and wait for me to rescue you. Again."

You were shaking now, your whole body trembling, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to sink through the floor and vanish. You wanted to be anywhere else, anywhere but here, with this man who looked at you like you were something disgusting he had found on the bottom of his shoe.

"I want my mother," you whispered. The words came out broken, childlike. "I want to go to her chambers. Please, Ormund. Please let me go."

He could not let that happen. "No," he said, but his voice had changed. The ice was gone, replaced by something softer. Something almost gentle. "No, my love. You do not need to run to your mother. You do not need to run anywhere. I am here. I am right here."

He reached for you, and you flinched away, but he was faster, gentler now, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "I am sorry," he said, and his voice was thick with what sounded like genuine remorse. "I am so sorry. I should not have shouted at you. I should not have said those things. It is not your fault. None of this is your fault."

You stared at him through blurry eyes, uncomprehending. "But you said—"

"I know what I said." He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, one hand cradling the back of your head. "I was angry. I was so angry, and I took it out on you. That was wrong of me. That was deeply, terribly wrong. Can you forgive me?"

"I—" Your voice caught. "I do not understand. You were so angry. You said I was—you said—"

"I said things I did not mean." He stroked your hair, slow and soothing. "I was angry at Aegon. Furious. The way he spoke to you, the way he touched you—I wanted to kill him. I wanted to reach across that table and break his jaw. But I could not. He is the king's son. If I had raised a hand to him, I would have been executed for treason. And so I had to sit there and swallow my rage and pretend everything was fine. And then, when we were alone, I took that rage out on you. The one person who did not deserve it. The one person I should be protecting."

You were crying again, but differently now. Quietly. Your face pressed against his chest, your hands clutching at his tunic.

"It was Aegon's fault," Ormund continued, his voice low and earnest. "All of it. He is a disgrace. A drunken, lecherous disgrace who does not know how to behave in the presence of a lady. And I failed you tonight. I should have spoken up sooner. I should have stopped him before it went as far as it did. I should have protected you. That is my duty as your husband, and I failed."

"You did not fail," you whispered. "You told him to stop. At the end, you—"

"Too late. I acted too late, and you suffered for it. And then I made you suffer more." He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with such regret, such tenderness, that your heart ached. "Can you ever forgive me? Can you give me another chance to be the husband you deserve?"

You looked up at him. His eyes were warm now, earnest, full of love. The monster from a moment ago was gone, vanished as if he had never existed. This was your husband. This was the man who had courted you, who had written you letters, who had made you feel cherished and desired. This was the real him.

Wasn't it?

"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."

"Thank you." He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there. "Thank you, my love. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I am grateful for it. More grateful than you know."

He held you for a long moment, rocking you slightly, murmuring soft words against your hair. You let yourself be held. You let yourself be comforted. It was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering the things he had said, the way he had looked at you, the contempt in his voice when he called you a child.

"I will make this right," he said finally, pulling back to look at you. "I will speak to the king himself if I must. I will make sure Aegon never speaks to you that way again. I will make sure he knows that if he so much as looks at my wife, there will be consequences. I will protect you. I will always protect you. Do you believe me?"

"I believe you," you said.

"Good." He kissed you, a kiss of apology and devotion. "Now come to bed. You are exhausted. You need to rest. Tomorrow, I will fix everything. Tomorrow, Aegon will learn that he cannot disrespect my wife without answering to me."

He led you to the bed, his hand gentle on the small of your back. He helped you out of your gown, his touch careful, almost reverent. He pulled back the covers and eased you into the mattress, and then he climbed in beside you and gathered you into his arms. "Sleep, my love," he murmured against your hair. "I am here. I will always be here. No one will ever hurt you again."

—

The morning after Ormund dressed himself without summoning a servant, pulling on his training leathers with deliberate, methodical movements. He had learned, over the course of his long life, that there were many ways to deal with a man who had insulted you. Some were public and bloody, leading to trials and executions and the kind of political chaos that served no one. Others were quieter, accidents, properly staged, that left no traces and invited no retaliation.

He had not decided which approach to take when he left his chambers, but by the time he reached the training grounds, the decision had made itself.

The yard was already busy when he arrived, filled with the clash of steel and the shouts of men at practice. Knights of the Kingsguard drilled with their squires. Gold Cloaks ran through formations under the watchful eye of their captains. And there, in the far corner of the yard, he saw exactly what he had hoped to see.

Aemond Targaryen was putting his brother through a series of drills.

The younger prince moved with the lethal grace of a man who had dedicated his entire life to the sword. He was tall and lean and utterly focused, his single eye tracking every movement, his blade flashing in the grey morning light. Aegon, by contrast, looked like a man who would rather be anywhere else in the world. His form was sloppy, his footwork lazy, his sword arm drooping with every passing minute. He was clearly hungover, his face was pale and sheened with sweat, and he winced every time Aemond barked a correction.

Ormund smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. He made his way across the yard at a leisurely pace, stopping to exchange pleasantries with Ser Arriet and to compliment Lord Celsir on his new squire. He was in no hurry. Hurry suggested purpose, and purpose suggested intent, and intent was the last thing he wanted anyone to see.

By the time he reached the corner where the princes were training, Aegon had collapsed onto a bench, his practice sword discarded on the ground beside him. "I am finished," Aegon was saying, his voice hoarse and petulant. "I am done. You cannot make me do another round, Aemond. I am the firstborn. I outrank you."

"You are a disgrace," Aemond replied flatly. "And you will pick up your sword and continue, or I will tell Mother about your behavior at the feast last night. I am sure she would be very interested to hear about the things you said to our niece." Aegon's face flushed. "You would not."

"Try me."

"Good morning, my princes." Ormund's voice cut through their argument, warm and affable. He approached with the easy confidence of a man who had nothing to hide, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. "A fine morning for training, is it not? Though I must say, Prince Aegon, you look a bit worse for wear. Too much wine at the feast?"

Aegon looked up at him, and something flickered in his eyes—wariness, perhaps, or the first stirrings of unease. "Lord Hightower. I did not expect to see you here."

"Did you not? I am a soldier at heart, my prince. Old habits die hard." Ormund smiled genially. "When I am at court, I like to keep my skills sharp. One never knows when they might be needed."

Aemond studied him with his single eye, his expression unreadable. "You are welcome to join us, my lord. I was just attempting to persuade my brother to continue his drills, but he seems to have lost his enthusiasm."

"I have lost my will to live," Aegon muttered. "There is a difference."

Ormund laughed, an easy sound that did not reach his eyes. "Perhaps I can help. A spar, perhaps? Just one round. I am an old man, Prince Aegon. It will be quick. I merely want to stretch my muscles before the day's duties begin."

Aegon looked at him with open suspicion. "You want to spar. With me."

"Unless you are afraid." Ormund shrugged, his tone light, almost dismissive. "I understand. You are tired. Hungover. It would not be a fair match. Perhaps another time."

The bait landed perfectly. Aegon's jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked to Aemond, who was watching with a faint, sardonic smile. "I am not afraid," Aegon said, rising from the bench. "I am the blood of the dragon. I am not afraid of some old man from Oldtown."

"Of course not." Ormund's smile did not waver. "Shall we?"

They took their positions in the center of the yard. Aegon drew his blunted practice sword with a flourish that was more theatrical than practical. Ormund chose his weapon with care, a heavy longsword, well-worn, its edge dulled but its weight familiar in his hand. They faced each other across the packed dirt, and a small crowd began to gather. Squires paused in their duties. Knights turned to watch. Even Aemond stepped back, his arms crossed over his chest, his single eye gleaming with interest.

Ormund let Aegon make the first move. The young prince lunged forward with more enthusiasm than skill, his blade sweeping in a wide arc that would have left him open even if he had been sober. Ormund sidestepped easily, letting the sword whistle past his shoulder, and responded with a light tap to Aegon's ribs.

"Point," he said mildly. "You overextend, my prince. Your footwork needs attention."

Aegon's face reddened. He attacked again, faster this time, a series of strikes that Ormund parried with minimal effort. The old lord moved with the economy of motion that came from decades of real combat, no wasted energy, he let Aegon tire himself out, let the younger man's frustration mount, let the audience see exactly what was happening.

"Another point," Ormund said, tapping Aegon's shoulder. "You drop your guard when you strike. Prince Aemond must have told you that a hundred times."

"Shut up," Aegon snarled.

He lunged again, and this time Ormund did not step aside. He caught Aegon's blade on his own, twisted his wrist, and sent the practice sword spinning across the yard. Aegon stumbled backward, his arms flailing, and Ormund moved in.

What happened next was very fast. Later, the witnesses would disagree about the details. Some would say that Aegon tripped over his own feet. Others would say that Ormund's follow through was simply too powerful to stop. A few—the ones who understood what they were really seeing—would say nothing at all.

Ormund's sword came down in a controlled arc that should have stopped short of contact. Instead, the heavy blunted edge connected with Aegon's right forearm with a sound like a dry branch snapping.

Aegon screamed, he fell to his knees in the dirt, clutching his arm to his chest, his face gone white with shock and pain. The bone had broken cleanly—Ormund could tell by the angle of the forearm, the unnatural bend just above the wrist. A clean break. It would heal, in time. But it would hurt like hell, and it would remind Aegon every day for the next several months exactly who he had insulted.

The yard erupted into chaos. Squires ran for the maester. Knights shouted conflicting orders. Aemond was at his brother's side in an instant, his hand on Aegon's shoulder, his cold voice cutting through the noise.

"Get the maester. Now. And someone inform the Queen."

Ormund stepped back, his sword hanging loose at his side. He arranged his features into an expression of deep, genuine concern. "Gods above. Prince Aegon, I am so sorry. You slipped—I could not pull back in time. Are you all right?"

Aegon could not answer. He was sobbing, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his broken arm cradled against his chest like a wounded animal.

Aemond looked up at Ormund, and there was something in his eye that suggested he understood exactly what had just happened. But he said nothing. What could he say? It had been a fair spar, witnessed by half the yard. Aegon had agreed to it. Aegon had been the one to press the attack. If anything, Ormund had been defending himself.

"I am so very sorry," Ormund repeated, his voice dripping with false concern. "Please, let me know if there is anything I can do. Anything at all. I will pray for his swift recovery."

He handed his sword to a nearby squire and walked away from the training yard, his expression still carefully composed. It was not until he was back inside the castle, climbing the stairs toward his chambers, that he allowed himself to smile.

—

Later, when the maesters had set Aegon's arm and dosed him with milk of the poppy, when the initial shock had faded and the whispers had begun to spread through the Red Keep like cracks through ice, Alicent Hightower summoned her cousin to her solar.

She was waiting for him when he arrived, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her face pale and drawn. Ser Criston Cole stood behind her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression dark.

"You broke my son's arm," Alicent said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it. "You broke his arm in a training spar. Explain yourself."

Ormund closed the door behind him and faced his cousin calmly. "It was an accident. Aegon overextended. I was defending myself. It happens."

"An accident." Alicent's voice dripped with disbelief. "You expect me to believe that was an accident? Half the court is saying you deliberately—"

"Half the court does not matter." Ormund's voice was quiet, but it cut through hers like a blade. "What matters is what can be proven. And nothing can be proven. Aegon agreed to the spar. There were witnesses. He attacked me, I defended myself, and he was injured. That is the story. That is the only story."

Alicent stared at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, tears of anger or frustration or grief, he could not tell and did not care. "He is your family. He is your blood."

"He is a drunken lout who humiliated my wife in front of the entire court." Ormund's voice hardened. "He made comments about my marriage bed. He touched her. He offered to service her, as if she were a common whore. And I am supposed to let that pass? Because he is your son? Because he is a prince?"

"He was drunk. He did not know what he was saying—"

"That is not an excuse. It is never an excuse." Ormund stepped closer, his eyes cold. "You have coddled him his entire life. You have made excuses for his behavior, covered up his indiscretions, protected him from the consequences of his own actions. And this is the result—a grown man who thinks he can say and do whatever he pleases without repercussion. Well, there was a repercussion today. And if he ever speaks to my wife again, there will be another."

Alicent's face had gone very white. "Are you threatening my son?"

"I am making a promise." Ormund's voice was calm, almost pleasant. "Aegon will stay away from my wife. He will not speak to her. He will not look at her. If he does, I will know. And I will respond. That is not a threat, cousin. That is a statement of fact."

Ser Criston stepped forward, his hand tightening on his sword. "You forget yourself, Lord Hightower. You are speaking to the queen."

"The queen consort," Ormund corrected, not looking at him. "And I forget nothing. I know exactly who I am speaking to. I am speaking to my cousin, who depends on my support to keep her faction from crumbling. I am speaking to the woman whose son's claim to the throne rests on the swords and gold of Oldtown. I am speaking to someone who should be thanking me for not doing worse."

"Thanking you?" Alicent's voice rose, trembling with fury. "You want me to thank you for breaking my son's arm?"

"I want you to understand the situation." Ormund's voice did not waver. "Without House Hightower, you have nothing. Otto is the architect of your cause, but I am its foundation. My soldiers, my ships, my gold—without them, you cannot hold King's Landing, let alone the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaenyra has the Velaryon fleet. She has more dragons than you do. The only reason you have a chance at all is because Oldtown stands behind you. And Oldtown stands behind you because I command it."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"If you try to punish me for this—if you try to arrest me, or execute me, or strip me of my titles—I will withdraw my support. I will take my soldiers and my gold and my ships and go home. And then you will face Rhaenyra alone. How long do you think you would last? A week? A month? How long before Daemon Targaryen lands on your doorstep with Caraxes and burns this city to the ground?"

Alicent said nothing. Her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

"I thought so." Ormund inclined his head, a gesture of respect that was not respectful at all. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my wife. She has been distressed since last night's... incident. I wish to check on her."

He turned toward the door. "Ormund." Alicent's voice stopped him. He paused but did not turn around. "If you ever harm my son again, I will not care about politics. I will not care about support or gold or soldiers. I will see you destroyed. Do you understand?"

Ormund smiled. "Perfectly," he said. "Good day, cousin."

He opened the door and walked out, leaving Alicent and Ser Criston standing in silence behind him. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, steady and unhurried, the footsteps of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted, and when he returned to his chambers, when he found you sitting by the window with a book in your lap and a question in your eyes, he crossed the room and cupped your face in his hands and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"It is done," he said softly. "Aegon will not bother you again. I made sure of it."

You looked up at him, your brow furrowed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing that was not deserved." He stroked your hair, his touch tender. "Nothing that was not necessary. You are my wife. Your honor is my honor. And I will not allow anyone—prince or king or anyone else—to disrespect you. Do you understand?"

You nodded slowly, uncertainty flickering in your eyes. But you did not ask again. You had learned not to ask too many questions.