Darkficslover

It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.

There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.

But these are all assumptions you make.

You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.

Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.

Generous. Oh, kind.

These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.

A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.

For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.

Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.

You wonder how he’s changed.

Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?

You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.

Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.

We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.

You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.

Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.

Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.

Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.

You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.

They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.

Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.

That is for the Gods to decide.

Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.

“Eat,” he commands.

You don’t look up, shaking your head.

“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”

Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.

“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.

You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.

“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.

But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.

“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”

These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.

“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.

Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.

The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.

Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.

They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.

There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.

But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.

All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.

He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.

“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.

You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.

He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.

“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”

Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.

He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.

“Up.”

The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.

“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”

In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.

But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.

You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.

Ormund and his men are alone.

It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.

You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.

You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.

You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.

“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.

They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.

Ormund.

You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—

You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.

“My Lord, I—”

“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.

“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”

“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”

“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”

His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.

Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.

It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.

You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.

The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.

“Keep still.”

You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.

Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—

You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.

“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.

You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.

“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.

“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“

His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.

“You did good.”

—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.

You do.

“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”

You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.

“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.

So close you could kiss him.

Your body goes rigid at the thought.

It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.

“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.

“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”

“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.

“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.

His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”

A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.

Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.

You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.

They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.

Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.

Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.

He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.

“I thought you were trying to sleep?”

You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.

“Hmm?”

You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”

“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.

“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.

“You barely drank the last.”

You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.

You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.

“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.

You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.

Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

“Amused?”

Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”

His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”

You hum, tilting your head to the side.

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.

Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.

“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.

The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.

He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.

You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.

“Breathe.”

You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.

“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”

“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”

“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”

“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.

His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.

“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.

Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.

You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.

What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.

He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.

A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.

Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.

“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.

“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”

He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.

Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.

“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”

“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.

The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.

The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.

“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”

How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.

“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”

Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.

Incestuous savages.

It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.

Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.

Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.

“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”

Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.

The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.

“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.

His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.

“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.

He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”

Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.

“I could save you.”

He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.

You don’t want to die.

“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.

“My girl.”

The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.

You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.

His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.

It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.

He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.

“Let me help you.”

He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.

What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.

Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?

Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?

Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.

You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.

Better to not look. Better not to think.

You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.

He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.

“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”

You shake your head.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”

Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.

“Do you think I want to do this?”

“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”

He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.

“Let’s get this off.”

You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.

You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.

But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.

He was right, he’s always right.

Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.

“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”

Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.

Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.

His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.

It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.

He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.

“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.

“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”

—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.

In. Out.

In and then out.

Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.

“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.

“It feels—”

“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”

You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.

It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.

“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”

“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”

His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.

“Please, what?”

“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Please, sire.”

You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”

“My good girl.”

Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.

—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.

Then relief.

A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.

It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.

“You feel better, don’t you.”

He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.

You nod, and your eyes close for a second.

“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”

And you think that’s it, the end of it.

But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.

“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”

You open your mouth to speak, to protest—

“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”

Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.

Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.

Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.

tags: @sincerelybambii

********************************************

People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.

A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.

You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.

During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.

But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.

Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.

Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.

The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.

Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.

“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”

“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”

“He must have received a letter he did not like.”

“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”

“It is actually quite tame for him.”

You don’t understand it.

Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.

He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.

“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”

“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”

“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”

“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”

A beast. His word choice set you on edge.

It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.

Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.

Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.

That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.

By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.

Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.

Daeron says he’s soft for you.

Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.

Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.

Especially today.

You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.

“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”

“We can visit the Sept.”

He lets out an uninterested grunt.

“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”

Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”

“You know that is not allowed.”

“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”

“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”

He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.

“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”

“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”

“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”

You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”

You place down your book. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”

You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.

“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”

“And what of your foul language?”

“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”

Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”

Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”

“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”

“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”

Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”

“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”

Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”

“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”

“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.

He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”

“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”

You pull your book away.

He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”

Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.

“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”

He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”

“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”

“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”

“You will do no such thing.”

You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.

“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”

“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”

“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.

You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”

Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.

“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.

He flips his book around to show you his parchment.

There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.

You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”

He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”

The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.

And it brings you more joy than anything.

When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.

He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.

Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.

It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.

You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.

But the gods had a different plan for you.

It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.

Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.

He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.

“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”

When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”

“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”

In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.

And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.

So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”

He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.

Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”

Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.

Because your brother is here.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.

“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”

You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.

Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”

The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.

Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”

“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.

“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.

You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.

You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”

You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”

“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”

You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”

“She will not harm you, you have my word.”

“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”

“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”

Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.

Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”

“What if she dislikes me-?”

“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”

It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.

He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.

He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”

You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”

“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”

You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.

“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”

“That is very relieving,” you laugh.

“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”

“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”

“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”

“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”

“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”

“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”

As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.

‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.

It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.

Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.

Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.

“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”

He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.

“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”

“And after?” he asks.

You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”

“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.

He was so gentle with the creature.

Daeron was always so gentle, and so kind.

You could not be more proud of him for it.

**********************************************************

A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.

“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”

The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”

The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”

“Deep in prayer,” he insists.

Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”

Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.

You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”

“I am not lazy.”

You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”

Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”

“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”

Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”

“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”

“I am not lazy. Take it back.”

“You were sleeping in the Sept.”

“Exhausted, not lazy.”

You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”

“I do not snore.”

You shrug. “You would not know.”

You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”

“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”

“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”

He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.

When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.

It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.

You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.

“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.

You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”

As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.

The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”

“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”

“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”

You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”

He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”

You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”

“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”

The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”

“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”

Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”

“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”

“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”

The idea warms your heart.

“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”

You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”

“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”

You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.

“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”

“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”

He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”

“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.

Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.

He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.

Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”

Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.

“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”

Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.

He stares.

He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”

Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.

When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.

“My nephew snores?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question.

His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”

“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”

Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.

You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.

He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.

“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”

Ormund continues to wait for your response only.

You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”

“Where did he fall asleep?”

Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.

“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.

You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.

Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.

But Daeron feared it.

Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”

His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”

“Yes-”

“In our most sacred place of prayer?”

His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”

Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”

“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”

“Both hands flat on the table.”

Daeron’s face goes completely pale.

Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.

Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”

He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.

The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”

“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”

“He will not commit the offense again.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”

Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.

You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.

Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”

“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”

Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.

You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.

Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”

You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.

He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.

Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”

A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.

“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”

Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.

“Daeron,” his uncle urges.

Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.

The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.

The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.

“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.

You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.

“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”

He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.

You are left alone with Lord Ormund.

“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.

You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”

“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”

You do not lie. “I would.”

Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”

“I am not.”

His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do, my Lord.”

His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”

His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.

You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”

“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”

You swallow. “I understand.”

Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”

You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.

Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.

“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”

“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”

“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”

You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”

You think he will let go of you, but he does not.

Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.

“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.

“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”

Your answer satisfies him.

Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.

“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”

The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”

“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”

The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”

“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”

“Any perfume?”

“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”

You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.

Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”

His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”

Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.

But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”

“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”

Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”

“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”

He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”

Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”

His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”

“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”

Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.

He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.

“What oils are used for your hair?”

“Roses, my Lord.”

“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”

You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”

His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”

Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”

only in the middle of the night brother!aerion would visit your chamber, would kiss your pretty face and wipe away your tears as he pins your body underneath his. you'd keep quiet out of fear of being ruined if someone saw, out of fear your husband would force you away and your marriage would be annulled and you'd have to marry brother!aerion

brother!aerion would pretend to play matchmaker in you and your husbands marriage. bringing you both together for meals in your shared accommodations, offering you both drinks. only he would slip something in your husband's cup and fuck you right on the table in front of his sleeping frame.

your lord!husband would be glad of brother!aerion's stay, because now you're pregnant and your marriage seems somewhat fixed. even if he doesn't have any memory of the nights he bedded you. not like a man like him would ever admit it.

it'd be years later, following another blackfyre rebellion that your lord!husband is called to arms to defend the targaryen line. you'd leave with him, your home not safe, to close to enemy waters and you'd meet your family at camp.

there brother!aerion would be waiting, almost two decades that passed, eyes sunken in and dark. still shaven look but with longer hair. he holds you to his chest when you greet him, pushes your hair out of your face and smiles with somewhat genuine affection.

brother!aerion would have your tent right next to his, no doubt about that. would tell you he wants to keep you and your son protected. but you'd wake up in the morning to find him perched on the end of your bed, hand running along your body over the sheets. you'd tell him it's wrong that he can't do this, and he'd shrug his shoulders and just say he doesn't know what you're on about and that he's just checking on his sweet sister.

brother!aerion gets your son armoured up in targaryen gear for the fight, even tells him how proud he is of him.

brother!aerion watches the way you dote over your shared son, tears thick in your eyes as you brush his hair. and the way you have to hold back a sob as you place a kiss on his cheek.

brother!aerion probably asks for a kiss before his departure as well, and to keep him placated you kiss him on the cheek as well, only he tilts his head and smirks and asks for a proper kiss.

brother!aerion forces a wet kiss on your lips, one that the king's guard don't bat an eye at and one even your son knows better to just turn away.

brother!aerion would be a force to be reckoned with on the battle field and in the midst of it he'd find your lord!husband, digging a sword through his chest when the bodies are all swarmed together and no one can know the difference.

brother!aerion would bring you your lord!husband's dead body on the back of his horse. would tell everyone that he died nobaly in battle, only you know better.

you'd go to brother!aerion's tent that night, a dagger hidden in your cloak. he'd be so pleased to see you, naked on his bed, bruises litering his defined body, freshly washed hair stuck to his face.

brother!aerion knows you better than yourself, especially when you crawl over to him and put on a sultry smile. his hand grabs at your wrist before you can place the blade against his skin, and with his sheer strength he manages to take it out your grasp and place it against your neck.

brother!aerion would have one hand wrapped in your hair as he dragged you out the tent and into the camp site at night. would make his guards lead his way to the grave where he buried your husband out of duty. he'd force you to look at it before throwing your body down onto the ground on top of it.

brother!aerion would use the same dagger you brought to kill him to tear your clothes off your body. leave it in rags on the floor till you're naked underneath him, lying on the wet ground.

brother!aerion would force his cock inside of you repeatedly until his seed was leaking out your holes, dripping into the ground below.

brother!aerion would have you back in your rightful place after, his bed, burying his cock in you till your walls are moulded to his shape, whispering how you're meant to be together and you'll give him more children.

first being the first time half-brother!max decides to fuck you. probably decides all the others are just one night stands and he needs something more stable. he's a serial rapist but he can't go back to the same people in risk of being caught. then he sees you...

half-brother!max sees you at a party one day. one his friends invited you too and the awful thing is you guys have an alright relationship. you're with him, having fun and doing drugs. he hugs you, both of you fucked off mdma and you can't even see his intentions. you just want to feel close to him.

half-brother!max kisses you on the cheek and holds you overly long time but that's what people do on mdma so no one bats an eye.

no one even notices half-brother!max giving you another drink. you're so fucked you think it's your own. the next thing you know thinks go unclear and you're desperate for fresh air.

you wake up next to half-brother!max naked with him wrapped around you. it hurts to move and half-brother!max will manipulate you into thinking it was consensual.

eventually you'd realise it wasn't ever consensual because it happens again when half-brother!max decides to slip a roofie in your tea one day when he's particularly horny just so he can have his cock deep inside you.

you'd wake up to him fucking you. he only gave you a small dose, you're soaked and when you'd cry and question him, he'd be honest about it because what's the point in lying. your body is enjoying it, your soaking the sheets of his bed, aren't you?

forces you to sleep next to him after.

next part i obsess over is him just constantly wanting you near.

it's built on fear and he defo doesn't want you to open your mouth near anyone. if max is around you stay quiet.

and yes, he'd roofie you in plain sight because no one is paying attention and you're too scared to speak out.

so half-brother!max giving you a roofie so he can put you in a room at his friend's house where he can freely fuck you becomes a habit for him. not too much of a habit. but a big one at parties and occasional at sleepovers with his friends.

half-brother!max just can't stop thinking about how you're up there waiting for him to bury his cock deep in you. it's like having a real life sex doll in a room for him at his disposal. he would have to excuse himself so many times in the night to check up on you, spend a good five minutes thrusting as quickly as he can inside of you and then go back downstairs again.

at night he'd stay in the same room because he doesn't want you choking on your vomit on your sleep.

how about both...

it's always going to be cowboy!valarr's idea. while both of them have a kind and almost gentle exterior at first glance, cowboy!valarr is cunning and manipulative. he knows what that by playing into this role he gets you to like him.

you meet cowboy!valarr due to your older brother getting himself into some messy business. they turn up at your house at unexpected hours, hover around town and seem to conspire with your brother in the dark of the night.

it's not completely unexpected from you for your brother to turn to them. both parents dead, the family property on the line and in the midst of a war, he's young and foolish and doesn't have anywhere else to turn to. the law isn't helping him and everyone in town pities on the both of you.

cowboy!daeron is always so kind to you when they come to meet with your brother, offering you a drink even though you don't partake in that and talking with you. he's all too sweet.

cowboy!valarr is more reserved and it takes a while before you even have any interaction with him. it's not till a hot day travelling from one town to another just to sell some cattle, that you pass out and valarr ends up finding you and returning you home.

from then on you look forward to their visits. young and naive. you don't see the danger.

it's not till your brother sees the light, a righteous man showing him back to the way of God that things take a drastic change. he stops offering them accommodations, secrets and other dealings. you seem to do fine without the money, even if cowboy!valarr seems to be sure your brother will come running back.

things start to happen. your fields being set on fire, destroying all your crops. cattle being driven to cliff edges for you to chase. barns being ransacked in the night. it drives you both to the brink, leaving nothing left for you both to do but pray for mercy.

mercy doesn't come, cowboy!daeron does. all full of apologies, and money to tide you over. only for you to kick and scream at him, upset and angry telling him to keep his money.

cowboy!valarr doesn't like that, doesn't enjoy the way you toss his cousin to the side after all the help they've offered to you.

cowboy!valarr finds you late at night in town, sneaks up on you in the dark and pushes you up against the back of the sheriff's office. pins you against it, and tells you this is what you get for not playing nice.

cowboy!daeron is behind, tears thick in his eyes. he doesn't want to do this, he has to. especially when you've been so cruel to him. spat back in his face after everything they've given you.

you're stripped out of your dress and corset by the time the local county department find you, both men being scared away. they leave you lying on the floor in nothing but your undergarments, hair out of the confines of it's updo, bits of grass in it and bruised skin.

they leave you for now.

but they come back for you at night, cowboy!daeron being the one forced to go up to your rooms to grab you. gag your mouth with a piece of cloth and tie your hands behind your back with a noose. he'd place you on the back of his horse where cowboy!valarr is waiting.

they'd leave as silently as they came and before even taking you back to their home, they'd probably stop in the middle of the desert.

cowboy!valarr would probably make cowboy!daeron deal out the punishment, make sure he gave you a good spanking that left your ass cheeks red and raw, your breasts too, until you're crying and begging for some release.

cowboy!valarr would hate the way cowboy!daeron is overly nice to you and would make him watch while he fucked you rough. one hand knitted into your hair as he breathed about how you were going to become their personal fuck toy.

his hips slamming down onto your ass cheeks, dick forcing your walls open. your hymen breaking all over him, and he'd tell you that he would have been kinder if you were a good girl.

cowboy!daeron would have to treat you nice after, kissing your face all over and using your already stretched out pussy in a delicate way.

neither would be enjoyable for you at that moment...

it's not till days on back at their camp, squeezed inbetween them that you start getting pleasure from it. cowboy!daeron is always wrapped over you, face buried into your neck. he probably spends his time when he's meant to be taking care of business playing with you. i mean mouth around your nipples, fingers just fiddling with your cunt. till you're panting and leaking all of the blankets in the tent.

cowboy!valarr would find you on numerous occasions, shake his head but join in. he defo enjoys using your mouth, training you to worship his cock. all while you're sucking off valarr, daeron is underneath you eating you out.

neither of them would let you see your family again but cowboy!daeron would at least let you know small comforts, checking in on your brother and gifting you letters in his hand writing. which you'd both keep from cowboy!valarr.

it probably gets him favours from you though, playing with his hair when he's eating you out or telling him how much of a good boy he is.

older brothers valarr and matarys are such bullies

valarr is sat on his bed, back to the headboard with your back pressed against his chest. he's got you trapped, an arm wrapped around your head while his legs sit in between yours, keeping your thighs parted.

your skirts have been pulled up by matarys, panties pushed to the side all so they can get the wet sight of your bare pussy.

they're not even playing with it, just fingers prodding with their fingers at different parts, laughing between them at the way you try to shove them away.

all you can do is pathetically whine at them and plead with them to stop.

imagine they all being wealthy have going to private all boy / all girl schools. and so now even after studies, they’ve been forced to stay away from other people so they’re all a bit sheltered.

but valarr and matarys have been watching porn together, and now want to try out new things they’ve seen on you. because there are no other girls… (there are the maids and other staff in the house but they go to you instead because they’re gross)

you buck your hips when matarys shoves a finger inside, and try to kick him away but valarr spanks your inner thigh and when you squeal they both laugh.

seeing your nipples pebble up, valarr would start pinching them and fiddling with them. matarys would follow his older brother’s lead and start licking them and sucking them.

they probably wouldn’t even make you cum, there’d be so many occasions one of them or the both of them would find you and start just sexually teasing you. play fighting that turns into them grinding their dick against you, water fights in the kitchen where one of them would deliberately soak your top just to see it go see through.

matarys pinning you down while valarr shoves his dick on your face. not even getting you to suck it, just slapping you with it.

could imagine movie nights where matarys is so needy and forces you to cuddle with him. his hand deep in your panties, fingers just fiddling with your clit until you’ve come three times and you’re crying into his shoulder begging him to stop.

he’d honestly be confused because he didn’t even think about it and might even be nice by letting you sleep with him that night.

valarr would start forcing you to suck his cock, he’d have you sat between his thighs while he played video games or watched movies. and if matarys came in, you’d have to switch between them. can’t forget to drink all of their cum either.

matarys would be a pervert and would peep on you changing. and just rubbing his dick on you to show you how hard he is.

valarr would be a pervert in the way he always would grope you, so casually too. ass at breakfast because you’re showing it and titties when he felt like it because they looked nice. he’d shrug like it’s no big deal.

valarr would tell you one day he needs to learn out how to properly eat out a girl for future practice and so you need to take it. just have your legs hooked over his shoulder as he watches a video and tries to recreate the action. does this until your legs are shaking and you’re dripping on his face and cumming. even then he’d probably want to see what else can work or show his brother what he’s learnt.

matarys would tie you up so valarr could fuck you. he’s the oldest and matarys been promised your asshole anyway.

could just imagine both of them getting you to cock warm them during gaming sessions and things like that.